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dropped the key into his coat pocket. “If they kill Jath’ibaye, then we still have his followers to contend with. If they fail, then it could be easier or worse. It would depend on how forgiving Jath’ibaye is feeling. In any case, it’s out of my hands.”
    Kahlil supposed that this was true. The Rifter was not a matter to force on Alidas. Nothing in Alidas’ life or training would have prepared him to take responsibility for Parfir’s destroyer incarnation.
    “Will you go?” Alidas’ question interrupted Kahlil’s thoughts. He offered the train ticket.
    “I’d be a fool not to.” Kahlil managed a cocky smile as he took the ticket.
    Alidas said, “I’m sorry that it turned out like this, but perhaps it’s for the best. At least your life is your own now.”
    “Maybe so.” Kahlil slid the ticket into his coat pocket. His life was his again. It was like inheriting a burning house.
    “I should go and pack.” Kahlil’s voice sounded flat, mechanical. Alidas only gave a nod. They had already said goodbye weeks ago. Doing it all again just seemed pointless.
     
    Kahlil let himself out and closed the black door behind him. It was getting late and dark clouds crawled across the pale blue sky. He flicked his fingers apart and stepped into the silent Gray Space.

Chapter Twenty-Four
     
    After weeks of morning frost and evening sleet, the warmth of the following day was surprising. Balmy winds twisted through the soft blue sky and sunlight poured down.
    Street vendors came out in droves. Every corner Kahlil pedaled past burst with the scent of frying dumplings, the brilliance of paper flowers, and the sudden explosion of wings as pigeons took flight before his bicycle. The spring warmth drew crowds of people outdoors. Often, Kahlil had to swerve past some man—a shop clerk, tailor or banker—who had just stopped to stand with his face lifted to the sky, feeling the sun on his skin.
    Clusters of wealthy women, clothed in richly embroidered dresses, emerged from the shelter of their homes as well. They traveled together like schools of fish, younger wives following the lead of the older ones, all of them keeping their children safely between them. Brightly-dyed honey candies flashed in the children’s hands. Silver wedding rings and fine chains glittered across the women’s fingers.
    “Know what’s new!” a young boy selling newspapers shouted. “Lisam runners menace the streets once again!”
    Kahlil glowered at the boy from his bicycle. The boy grinned back at him.
    “Jath’ibaye to attend Bell Dance,” the boy called out. “Gaunsho Tushoya fears for the safety of his daughters!   How safe are yours?”
    Kahlil waited for the man ahead of him to lead his wives across the street and then he sped onward. Behind him, Kahlil heard the paperboy shout, “Lisam runners throw streets into chaos! What will be done? Read the paper and find out!”
    Fensal had probably already bought the paper and clipped the article to add to his collection. He would have been disappointed to see how politely Kahlil waited at the street crossings, and how cautiously he rode around the potholes and mud puddles in the roads. But today Kahlil couldn’t afford to damage the packages bundled up in the basket of his bicycle. He’d spent the entire day collecting each of those little prizes.
    He had pedaled back and forth across the Blackbird Bridge twice. He’d searched through dozens of winding, narrow streets. He’d ferreted his way through storefronts and into the back rooms of tailors, cobblers, and countless laundry services all over the city. It had taken him hours of hunting, haranguing and no end of lies, but at last he had pieced together one of the uniforms that the servants and musicians would be wearing for this year’s Bell Dance.
    The shirt, pants, and jacket were all cut from soft white linen. A fine pattern of silver embroidery edged the jacket’s cuffs and collar. There were also white gloves, socks,