9: The Iron Temple (9 page)

John tried not to feel a bitter anger at Sabir’s delay. It was too late for Laurie, but there were other women who could be saved. At the moment, the thought wasn’t much of a consolation.

“We’ve all but taken Amura’milaun and the people of Amura’lisam threw the city gates open to us,” Ravishan said.

“They threw the city gates open?” Fenn asked in wonder.

“Sabir had the full support of the Lisam gaun’im governing the city,” Ravishan said. “They say they want to be free of the Payshmura tithes as much as the common populace does.”

“Yes, but only so they can demand their own tithes,” Saimura said, frowning. Both Fenn and Pirr’tu seemed troubled by the thought of alliance with the gaun’im. John tried to consider the proposition, but he felt too broken to really care.

“The alliance serves us for now and that’s all that matters,” Lafi’shir said. “Sabir knows what he’s doing.”

Ravishan nodded, though John thought that he looked far less certain than Lafi’shir.

“I should get your report to Ji,” Ravishan said after a brief silence. He stepped closer to John and gripped his hand.

“Take care.” Ravishan squeezed his hand and John returned the gesture.

“Take care, yourself,” John whispered to him.

Despite the other men in the room, Ravishan embraced him. John leaned into Ravishan’s strong body. He hugged Ravishan fiercely.

“You’re all I have left,” John whispered. He fought to keep tears from welling in his eyes again. He refused to cry in front of the other Fai’daum. It was the last thing any of them would want to see. They were depending on him for the coming fight. He couldn’t just fall apart.

John pulled back and Ravishan released him. An instant later Ravishan disappeared into the Gray Space. Saimura studied John curiously but said nothing.

“Well,” Lafi’shir said, “we’ve got work to do.”

They took breakfast downstairs and then split up to travel through the city. Even with the unusual number of travelers in Gisa at the moment Lafi’shir didn’t want to take too many chances. John and Pirr’tu took the back alleys of the Bakers Row up to the address that Lafi’shir had provided.

John expected to arrive at a workhouse or the home of a common laborer. But even from the back John could see that these tall stone houses were the homes of the wealthiest merchants in the city. The walls were exquisitely carved. Large panes of expensive glass glittered from the windows. Expansive gardens and stone pathways spread around the houses, all blanketed with white snow. Dozens of servants’ bicycles were locked behind the gates.

A young man in a quilted silk coat and embroidered pants stood at the back gate of a red stone guardhouse. He escorted John and Pirr’tu through the back kitchen and up to a dining room on the second floor.

Saimura and Fenn had already arrived. Saimura stood by one of the velvet-draped windows. Fenn sat at the wood table with a well-dressed man and woman drinking sweetly perfumed tea. John didn’t recognize the woman, though her long nose and chin seemed familiar. It took John a moment to realize that the man, dressed in silk and soft kid leather, was Tai’yu. Instantly, John knew that the woman had to be his sister; their features were nearly identical.

Pirr’tu joined Tai’yu, his sister, and Fenn at the table. Saimura beckoned John to join him at the window while they all awaited Lafi’shir’s arrival. Saimura pointed out the Payshmura temple and the walls of the city prison.

A few moments later three well-dressed men arrived and seated themselves at the table. Tai’yu’s sister quietly welcomed the men and served them tea. Tai’yu introduced everyone. His sister was called Pash’fai. The men who had joined them were merchants. The one dressed in yellow silk was a goldsmith named Ayal’ji. The other two men were father and son. They owned lumber mills. The father was called Niru’lam and his son was called Niru’tu.

 Both John and Saimura received worried glances when they were introduced as witches. The merchants were far more at ease with Fenn and Pirr’tu. A flow of polite conversation rose around the table as Pirr’tu inquired after the price of wooden casks for transporting taye and white wool. A serving girl brought up steaming cakes, cheese, and preserves.

John guessed that they were all waiting for Lafi’shir. He gazed out the window.

Narrow stone buildings loomed over the streets of the Weavers Row. To the west, the black spire of a Payshmura chapel pierced the skyline. A little further west of the chapel stood the solid stone mass of the Gisa prison. Even at a distance, John felt its weight and the strange, shuddering spells that suffused the masonry. He remembered the same unsettling feeling pervading the deep chambers in Rathal’pesha where the ushiri’im were punished.

“That prison stinks of Payshmura curses,” Saimura remarked.

John nodded. There was no way they could breach the Gisa prison as easily as they’d gotten into the prison in Yah’hali.

John tried not to imagine the terrified faces of the girls in the prison. He fought against the thought of their destinations. Umbhra’ibaye. Knives flaying their flesh. Knives carving their living bones. John remembered the agony of his own bones splitting. Laurie must have screamed. She must have screamed and cried.

John let the curtain fall back over the window.

Tai’yu’s sister, Pash’fai, poured more tea. As she did, the silver chains braided through her black hair and those that linked her fingers clinked like tiny bells.

 “Won’t the two of you join us?” Pash’fai asked John and Saimura.

“It would be an honor.” Saimura went to the table, but John remained where he was. There was something more than the prison that felt wrong to him. There was something deeper beneath the streets. Wood timbers strained under intense pressure. Fine streams of icy water seeped around the bases of the timbers, dislodging pebbles and sand and slowly eating away at the stability of the supports.

“Is there a tunnel under the streets?” John asked. “Near the
chapel?”

One of the merchants nodded. He was an older man with gold vines embroidered across the sleeves of his silk coat. Ayal’ji, the goldsmith, John thought after a moment of racking his memory. He should have paid more attention to their introduction.

“There used to be a series of tunnels between the Weavers Row and the chapel. They allowed women of good families to travel to prayer without being accosted by common men on the street,” Ayal’ji said. “But the tunnels were abandoned and filled in more than thirty years ago. It was feared they would collapse under the weight of the newer houses and the city fountain.”

“Why do you ask?” Tai’yu said.

“I think someone must be digging them out—” John went silent as the door opened. Lafi’shir led an ancient man with a braided white beard into the room. A balding young man dressed in dull blue silk followed them.

“Forgive our lateness.” The balding young man bowed to Tai’yu’s sister. His eyes were dark and heavily shadowed. He sounded tired.

The old man leaned on Lafi’shir.

“No one saw you three together, I hope?” Pash’fai asked.

“No, we only met here at the house.” Lafi’shir helped the old man to a seat. Pash’fai poured him a cup of daru’sira and stirred a generous spoonful of honey into it.

“Has everyone been introduced already?” Lafi’shir asked.

“Yes, but it’s no trouble to exchange names again,” Pash’fai said.

Again Tai’yu introduced all of the Fai’daum members and the merchants. The old man with the braided beard was called Daru’mosh and the young balding man’s name was Kirh’yu. Daru’mosh was Lon’ahma’s great uncle and Kirh’yu was her husband, the man who owned the Gisa train station.

Kirh’yu made a holy sign against his chest when John and Saimura were introduced.

“Real witches.” Kirh’yu shook his head at the two of them. “You are not what I would have expected.”

“Many things are not what you would have expected,” Pash’fai replied, her tone soft and demure.

“True.” Kirh’yu looked at the other merchants and then Tai’yu. “I never would have imagined any of you supported the Fai’daum. Particularly not you, Tai’yu. I may have spoken harshly to you on past occasions. I think I may have misjudged you—”

“It is of little consequence now, Kirh’yu,” Tai’yu said, smiling. “Rest assured, I have gone to some trouble to have this city know me as a wastrel and a buffoon. The reputation serves me well. There is nothing to apologize for.” Tai’yu used the elegant formal speech that always reminded John of Lady Bousim.

“So.” Lafi’shir sat down and accepted a cake from Pash’fai. “It looks like we all have a common cause here. None of us want the Payshmura to get their hands on the ten women in the Gisa prison.”

All of the men at the table nodded their agreement.

“You know that the ushman there has sent for rashan’im to escort the women to Amura’taye?” Ayal’ji asked Kirh’yu.

“I heard as much.” Kirh’yu scowled at the green-glazed teacup in his hands.

“They’re only a day away from what we’ve heard,” Pirr’tu said. “That doesn’t give us much time.”

“I have taken steps to breach the prison,” Kirh’yu said, “but we will need a week before the work will be done.”

John frowned. Distantly, he felt cracks splitting through heavy timbers.

“Are you having the tunnels under the streets dug out?” John asked Kirh’yu.

He blanched at the question but then asked, “How did you know?”

“I can feel them,” John said. “You’re trying to reach the prison, but the ground isn’t stable. The supports are going to collapse.”

“Yasistana timbers will support the weight.” Daru’mosh’s voice trembled with age, but his expression was certain. “We used them when we constructed the fountain. They are stronger than you might think.”

“It’s the water,” John said. “The water in the soil is getting into the timbers. They’re swelling and splitting. The ground beneath them is slipping as well.”

“When will this happen?” Kirh’yu demanded.

“It’s happening now,” John said. “Your tunnel is going to come down any minute.”

The color drained from Kirh’yu’s face. “There are men in there.”

John felt walls of stone shifting, slipping. Lafi’shir seemed to read as much in his expression and turned to Kirh’yu.

“Get your men out right now.” Lafi’shir stood. “Take Jath’ibaye. If anyone can stop the collapse, it will be him. Saimura may be able to treat anyone who is injured. Go now. Our plans here will wait.”

Saimura grabbed his black leather bag. He and John hurried to the door.

“It will not collapse,” Daru’mosh insisted. Kirh’yu looked far from sure.

“We’ll go and make certain,” Kirh’yu said. He bowed quickly to Pash’fai and then led John and Saimura out of the house. They ran down the back alleys of the Weavers Row. As they drew closer, John perceived the tunnel with more clarity. He felt one timber split and crumple. Stone buckled.

They didn’t have time to waste.

John sprinted ahead of Kirh’yu. Sensing the heavy iron trapdoor hidden beneath an empty wagon, John shoved the wagon aside and cracked through the lock on the trap door. He pulled the door open. Utter blackness welled up. John caught the rung of a ladder and climbed down into the tunnel. The instant he touched the stone floor, he raced ahead. Cold streams of water trickled down the rough walls and flowed over the uneven floor.

Through the surrounding darkness John saw the glow of a lamp. Up ahead, three young workmen pulled a small cart full of rubble.

“Get out of here!” John shouted.

The men were startled, peering into the gloom of the tunnel. John realized that they couldn’t see him yet.

“The timbers are coming down! Get out! NOW!” John’s voice echoed loudly. He came up on the men fast and threw them back behind him. A loud crack ricocheted through the tunnel like echoing thunder. More supports collapsed as the weight of the stones shifted onto them. The three workmen scrambled to their feet and bolted toward the exit.

There were more workmen farther down the tunnel. John could feel them. Twenty, at least. He raced ahead. On either side of him, wooden timbers shuddered. The ceiling groaned. A timber burst apart. Splinters of wood speared out. Stone fell. A slab of granite slammed into John’s side. He crumpled beneath the weight. The jagged edge of stone crushed into John’s ribs. Dirt and rubble poured down, pinning John to the ground. A terrible, wet heat poured down his chest, stomach, and face. He struggled for breath, tasting blood in his lungs. Pain welled through him and power surged behind it.

John gripped the edge of the granite and tried his strength against it. He swore at its agonizing weight. It crumbled to ash in his hands. He shoved the rest of the wreckage aside and forced himself back up to his feet.

Dust hung in the air. Shafts of lamplight leaked from behind the walls of the loose earth and smashed wood. John heard someone coughing. The timbers farther down the tunnel groaned and then split with a deafening boom. The entire tunnel was coming down on top of them all.

John reached out and touched the stone wall. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the simple geometric structure that suffused its form. He remembered moving a stone with Ji once before. Now, John reached beyond the stone. He drew the pattern of its strength into the shuddering wooden supports, turning long cellulose fibers to iron cables.

He carefully twisted the masses of rubble that filled the tunnel, pulling them up into pillars. The stone walls branched out, sprouting arches and buttresses, splitting and unfolding like ice crystals. John forced the hard mineral structures into architecture.

Pain gnawed at him. Blood trickled from his scalp into his eyes. His lungs shuddered for breath. Fury lashed inside him like a fire. More than once the stones cracked and crumbled into smoking ash. John fought to control himself. He filled his thoughts with the crystalline forms of snowflakes and the lustrous dendritic masses of coral.

Somewhere at the very back of his senses he felt the bodies of men. They crawled through the web of stone and crystals that now filled the tunnel. They were covered in dirt and many of them were bleeding.

John felt the warmth of their lamps flicker over him, but his thoughts were locked deep in the unfolding forms of stones. A young man whispered Parfir’s name. A warm bare hand touched John’s chest.