Free 6: Broken Fortress by Ginn Hale

Council that I’m being called before?”
    “You don’t know?” Besh’anya asked.
    “Not yet,” Kahlil replied.
    “They’re an elected council that makes decisions concerning the five districts of Vundomu. Wah’roa represents all of us here in the Fortress District. Tai’yu speaks for the Greenhills District. Hirran represents the Iron Heights in the east and Gin’yu speaks for the Silverlake Islands.”
    “That’s only four,” Kahlil remarked.
    “Litivi supposedly represents the Westcliff District, but really he’s just his mother’s proxy—Gin’yu, I mean.”  
    “Jath’ibaye isn’t a member?” Kahlil asked. He grabbed his leather coat as well as the yasi’halaun, which he strapped across his back.
    “No.” Besh’anya smiled at him in a shy manner that assured Kahlil that he couldn’t be looking all that bad. “Jath’ibaye acts as a representative for the council when he visits the gaun’im in Nurjima.”
    “Really?” Kahlil went to the door and Besh’anya followed him. “I don’t think the gaun’im know that.”
    “No,” Besh’anya replied, “the gaun’im fear Jath’ibaye. So it’s better if he presents the council’s decisions.”
    “And no one is worried that he might just be presenting his own decisions?” Kahlil couldn’t help but ask. He was honestly much more comfortable with the idea of Jath’ibaye as a solitary ruler than as a representative to some council. An elected council could not claim any divinity. Its members were only human and likely to fall prey to the rivalry, bribery, ambition, and short-sightedness of all mortal men.  
    “Of course not. Jath’ibaye is beyond reproach.” Besh’anya gave Kahlil a rebuking look, but then went on, “On the few occasions that Jath’ibaye has gone ahead with a decision without the council’s approval, they have always agreed that it was the right choice afterwards.”
    “Then, when it comes down to it, Jath’ibaye is in charge,” Kahlil said, grinning.  
    Besh’anya studied Kahlil briefly, then hesitantly she nodded. “If Jath’ibaye wished, he could overthrow the council, but he never would.”
    “No,” Kahlil said, “that wouldn’t be like him.” Doubtless, government by an elected council had been Jath’ibaye’s idea in the first place. It was the kind of idealistic system that a native of Nayeshi might implement.
    “Ji says he just doesn’t like to be involved in politicking,” Besh’anya admitted.
    “Why are they meeting in his chambers then?” Kahlil asked.
    “The council originally called on him to discuss the withdrawal of our people from Nurjima. But now—” Besh’anya lowered her voice and said, “—they’re asking about the death of Nanvess Bousim. Ji sounded pretty frustrated when she sent me to get you.”
    “That doesn’t sound too promising,” Kahlil remarked. He had been the one to kill Nanvess, but only he and Jath’ibaye knew that—or perhaps not, if Jath’ibaye really did report to this council. It was difficult for Kahlil to imagine Jath’ibaye reporting anything to anyone. He just wasn’t naturally forthcoming—at least he hadn’t been when Kahlil had known him.
    “Tell me as much about this council as you can, will you?” Kyle asked, and Besh’anya did her best to inform him and keep up with his fast, agitated strides.  
    Outside Jath’ibaye’s apartments, they were greeted by several guards dressed in russet coats with the red Prayerscars of the kahlirash’im marking their brows. To his surprise, Kahlil noticed that two of the five were women. Doubtless, this was another of Jath’ibaye’s progressive ideas.
    Outside the heavy door Kahlil caught the tones of raised voices, but when he and Besh’anya entered the expansive greeting chamber, the crowd of some twenty people gathered around the huge marble table went quiet. All their attention turned to Kahlil.
    He refused to feel intimidated. He’d faced greater audiences than this in far more