Free The Shattered Gates by Ginn Hale

coat.
    He had no idea what to do now. Where could he go?
    Then the fingers of his left hand brushed across something soft and rectangular. Frowning, he drew a worn leather wallet from his pocket.
    His memory was bad, but he was sure that he didn’t own a wallet. He was pretty certain that wallets like this didn’t even exist in Basawar. He opened it and found only a torn photograph inside. The young man in the picture wore the expression of someone who thought that his picture had already been taken. The camera’s flash had made his blonde hair look too light and his eyes too dark. His eyes were actually sky blue. He was taller than he appeared in the tiny photo, and his voice was soft and low. This man was important to him. He was the reason Kahlil had come here. He was what Kahlil had done wrong.
    Kahlil had failed to kill this young man. The knowledge simply opened within him. He’d killed many men, but he had let this one escape. He started to crumple the photo, then stopped himself. He didn’t want to crush it. The photograph didn’t show it, but the young man had a kind smile. The thought startled Kahlil. Then came a flood of confused memories.
    He recalled drinking mulled wine with the man, and the two of them smiling like conspirators. He felt the warmth of the man’s living body against a cold winter night, the smell of his skin and hair, the man whispering his name.
     Kahlil felt like he might cry. He wasn’t sure why, and it embarrassed him. He closed his eyes again and waited for the feeling to pass. These weren’t things he had done. They couldn’t be. But they felt as strong and powerful as true memories.
    This just had to be a matter of confusion. Something was wrong with his head. He wasn’t quite himself yet.
    He slipped the photo back into the protection of the leather wallet, tucked it into his pocket, and gazed down over all the roofs of the city. There had to be some place he could go. Not too far to the west, he noticed the blurs and colors of crowds moving through the streets. Many seemed to be filtering into the same buildings. Kahlil squinted and shifted his head slightly to catch a clearer image. At last he made out the shapes of big placards hanging over the doors. Taverns, whorehouses, and public baths. There appeared to be a few cheaply decorated theaters as well. Kahlil guessed from the look of the neighborhood that the actresses probably did little more than remove their costumes for pennies.
    He made his way there as quickly and directly as he could. Without any money, he needed to go where other men did—and where he would blend in, even with his bedraggled appearance. Pausing before a tavern that bore the emblem of a fat, white weasel, he picked up a fistful of snow and washed the blood from his hands and cheek. His heavy coat hid his other injuries. As he rinsed his hands, he frowned. The sight of his clean, bare, left hand particularly disturbed him. The black Prayerscar that should have been there had vanished.
     Inside, the tavern was crowded and dimly lit. The heavy, warm air hung low, weighed down with the smells of men’s bodies, mutton grease, and lamp smoke. The tables were small and crowded around a tiny, raised stage.
    A plump, dark-haired girl, dressed in a few swathes of cheesecloth, stood on the stage singing. She stared out, her face lifted a little higher than any patron’s gaze as if she were not quite aware of their presences. Kahlil didn’t know the song, but it was pleasant. Men made up most of the patrons. Some kept quiet, listening to the singer, but most conversed with each other. Their low voices produced a deep, steady rumble over which the girl’s melody drifted.
     Kahlil found an empty table and crumpled onto a seat like a flour sack slipping from a sure grip. The force of will that had kept him moving through snow and cold evaporated with the relief that came with being inside and sitting down. For a few minutes he leaned on his left elbow, eyes