3: Black Blades Read Free Page B

physicians to ease pain.
    “Should I have Addya bring up more tea?” Saimura asked.
    “No.” Jath’ibaye turned to face them. He focused his attention on Saimura, hardly glancing at Kahlil. “I’m fine.”
    Saimura nodded. “Has Ji spoken to you yet?”
    “No, but I can wait till tomorrow.” Jath’ibaye tied his hair back from his face. As he did, Kahlil noticed that he moved his left arm carefully, guarding himself from pulling a tender spot on the left side of his chest.
    “I thought as much,” Saimura said. “I couldn’t find her anyway.”
    “She’s probably still out digging up the garden.” Jath’ibaye smiled slightly.
    “Probably true.” Saimura shrugged, and then to Kahlil’s surprise, he simply walked away.
    Kahlil wasn’t used to seeing servants, not even house stewards, taking leave of their lords so casually. Jath’ibaye seemed unfazed by Saimura’s presumption. He turned back to the blackwood cupboard and opened a drawer.
    Kahlil waited, nervously watching Jath’ibaye’s back.
    His presence dominated the room. Even now, with his back turned, bent over a drawer, Kahlil could focus on nothing else. Physically, he was intimidating, taller than Kahlil, with a sharp, muscular body. Even pale and poisoned, he seemed like he would be a tough man to take on.
    But he was more than a physical presence. He had destroyed the Payshmura and held back the armies of the gaunsho’im. As one of the rare few who had altered the world to his will, Jath’ibaye both fascinated and frightened Kahlil. Yet he seemed strong, quiet, and perfectly human. And that made him even stranger. Kahlil expected demons and gods to change the world, not mere men.
    “So.” Jath’ibaye straightened. Whatever he had been looking for he had either found or given up on. “You have something to give me?”
    He turned but didn’t look at Kahlil. Instead, he seemed to be taking in the measurements of his room. Again Kahlil noticed how pale and bright his eyes looked. But this time he knew why. It was the brilliance of a fever.
    Kahlil dug the letter and box out of his satchel. He offered Fensal’s seal but Jath’ibaye didn’t seem to care about it. He yanked the small white box and letter from Kahlil’s hands. With angry efficiency, he tore open the envelope and flipped the letter out and read. After a while he crushed the letter and dropped it to the floor. He tossed the box onto his bed, unopened.
    “So,” Jath’ibaye’s voice was almost a growl, “am I supposed to take one look at you, fall to my knees, and hand you the keys to the kingdom? Is that it?”
    Kahlil had no idea how to respond.
    “I...don’t know. I didn’t read the letter,” Kahlil said. What was Jath’ibaye talking about?
    “God,” Jath’ibaye whispered, “even your voice...”
    He rounded on Kahlil, his expression cold and disdainful. “Well then, let’s play our little drama out, shall we? Shouldn’t you tell me your name?”
    Kahlil stepped closer to the door. “Kyle’insira.”
    “Kyle...of course!” Jath’ibaye’s smile was hardly more than a flash of his white teeth. “Very clever. Go on. You have to have more lines than just that.”
    Kahlil stood silent. Until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that when Jath’ibaye had looked at him with recognition, it might have been the crazed expression of familiarity that a fevered man had for his hallucinations.
    “Stage fright?” Jath’ibaye demanded. “Or did Fikiri just tell you to stand there and bat your eyelashes?”
    “Fikiri?” At last Kahlil had some idea of what to say. “No, I’m not with him. I’ve been sent to stop him—to save you.”
    “Nice delivery,” Jath’ibaye replied. “Very believable.”
    “I’m telling you the truth—” Kahlil began, only to be cut off.
    “I could kill you for this,” Jath’ibaye ground out. “I should.”
    “But I’m not who—”
    “Of course you’re not,” Jath’ibaye snapped. “You’re just an innocent