3: Black Blades by Ginn Hale Read Free Book Online

narrow street to the Gaunsho’im Council building. The building itself was only two stories high and comparatively small. There were no vast wings of suites, no private libraries or magnificent treasuries. Even the dark pines and twisting evergreen trees surrounding it were dwarfed. Their topmost branches barely cleared the walls surrounding the grounds.
    Despite its diminutive size, it was not a building that could be overlooked, not even among so many palaces. Embossed gold gleamed across the domed roof. Detailed bas-relief wound down the marble walls, giving them the appearance of delicate lace. Bands of gold ringed the carved pillars in front of the massive ivory-inlaid doors. Polished golden tiles flashed from the steps leading up to the entry.
    Kahlil rode around the wall, taking in the surrounding land and noting the positions of the armed guards. Their rifles weren’t as powerful as the ones Jath’ibaye’s sentries had carried, but they still looked lethal. The guards watched him from the stone walls as he pedaled past. He waved. None of them responded with anything but a scowl.
    Another three guards were posted at the servants’ gate at the back of the grounds. With their rifles and their gleaming gold-and-indigo uniforms they too presented an intimidating appearance. But Kahlil could see that they were more or less hapless in the midst of the intense activity all around them.
    Streams of hired men hauled cases of fish, casks of wine, entire racks of roast dog, and bushels of southern fruits from waiting wagons. They grunted and heaved their loads through the gates and past the guards. Delivery boys from city shops darted between them with trays of brilliant candies, vases of cut flowers, and towering silver cakes. Staff from the council building, in blue and gold liveries, scurried from one point to another, shouting directions and attempting to check the deliveries and invoices.
    “Lisam runner,” Kahlil told a guard. “Deliveries for the steward.” He pointed to a tissue-wrapped bundle in the basket of his bicycle. It contained his socks.
    The guard just waved him in. Behind him, Kahlil heard tahldi and the creak of wooden wheels. He glanced back to see that several red, rented carriages had arrived. Musicians climbed out, most of them cradling or lugging instruments. Some were fully dressed in their white uniforms, but most still wore their street clothes. Immediatly, an argument started up as to who was responsible for paying the carriage drivers.
    Kahlil caught the guard’s momentary expression of tired exasperation. By the end of the night, the guards would certainly have seen enough men pass between them to forget his face.
    Kahlil simply drifted through the back courtyard. The unyielding weight of his bicycle protected him from too many bumps and shoves. The air in the courtyard rolled over him as he walked. One moment he grimaced in the grasp of fish odors, then he pushed past a clot of delivery men and found himself plunged into scents of mulled wine and spring blossoms. Men shouted questions and orders all around him. Kahlil didn’t think anyone really knew what was directed to whom.
    He reached the racks behind the kitchen. He locked his bicycle next to three other delivery bicycles and then wandered into the council building with his clothes in his arms.                 
    The interior of the building didn’t pale in comparison to the exterior, not even in the back rooms. The trim over the doors was carved with twining ivy. Scattered between the leaves were gilded coins, each bearing the crest of one of the seven gaun’im houses. The Lisam bull glared down from a corner. Across from it, Kahlil recognized the crossed arrows of the Bousim house. Just faintly, above the ivy, Kahlil could see that there had once been another, larger symbol. He squinted up at the vague shadows and then realized that he was looking at the remnants of a Payshmura sun.
    The council building had been