he was.
He stared down the row of brick buildings. A hazy gold glow radiated from above as a gas streetlamp ignited. Another lit up, and then another, all the way down the long, winding street.
Jarring noises from carriages, and street hawkers ringing bells and shouting, came at him. He smelled roasting nuts for a moment. Then the strong scent of blood that clung to his body engulfed it.
His right arm hurt, he realized. It hurt badly. The skin was slashed open and scarlet ribbons of cold, congealing blood dripped down from his shoulder to his fingers.
What a mess.
He was sure that seeing his own damaged arm should have horrified him. But oddly, he felt as if he had almost expected it. That struck him as strange until he noticed the knife in his other hand.
There was something decidedly sinister about all of this.
For an instant, he thought that he knew how he had come to be in such a beaten state. Then the thought simply dissolved, leaving him with the knowledge that at one time he had known how this had happened. He had done something.
Or—no! There was something he had to do. Something important.
He had a pack, he realized. Of course he did. He’d known that.
Gingerly he slipped it off. The leather of the pack was tattered and faded. It smelled like dog. Inside he discovered a heavy coat and a pistol in a shoulder holster. There were also bullets—an absurd profusion of bullets.
What had he been doing?
Something wrong. He was suddenly sure. He had done something wrong, and it had made him sick with himself. He’d missed a letter, and someone else had read it. He’d killed thousands of people. He’d killed a dog.
No, he’d saved a dog.
Yes…. He could picture himself patting a yellow dog. She liked him. He had not killed her; he’d saved her life. She’d been in a fire or something. He felt slightly relieved. He didn’t want to be the kind of man who murdered animals. That told him something, didn’t it? That must make him a decent sort of person, right?
He contemplated the pistol and the bullets again.
Maybe he hadn’t killed a dog, but he was sure that he had committed murder. It wasn’t just the knife and the gun that told him so. He felt the certainty of it suffuse him.
Little slivers of memory flicked through him. The wet heat of another man’s blood running down his hand. The feel of resistance as his black knife pierced flesh and scraped bone. It all came back too easily. If he had been a decent man, he would have been repulsed by these things. But he wasn’t. The only emotion he could summon was resignation: he was obliged to perform a duty that no one could know about. Everything he did and everything about him had to be kept secret.
He had lied about his name, his occupation, where he had been, what he had done, how he came in, how he went out. He had lied in two languages and to every person he met. What he liked, what he hated, what he believed, what he desired, every detail had been a fabrication. He had lied enough to create an entire other man. And that man told lies as well.
Of course there had to be two of him, one for each world: Nayeshi and Basawar.
So, where was he now?
He squinted up at the scratchy, chalky sky and then gazed out at the wooden carriages and dull green tahldi pulling them. These were not the images he would have expected to see in Nayeshi alongside the interstates and strip malls.
Then this had to be Basawar. Probably the city of Nurjima.
A repulsed, nauseated feeling welled up in him. He had come home.
Kahlil remembered Nurjima. Or he thought he remembered it. But once he began walking through the streets, he discovered that the city in his memory and the one surrounding him were not the same. They resembled each other, like twin sisters, seemingly identical but subtly different.
Older, narrow streets still spoked out from ancient plazas, marking the obsolete boundaries of the first tiny villages that had since grown into a huge city. Old roads
He stared down the row of brick buildings. A hazy gold glow radiated from above as a gas streetlamp ignited. Another lit up, and then another, all the way down the long, winding street.
Jarring noises from carriages, and street hawkers ringing bells and shouting, came at him. He smelled roasting nuts for a moment. Then the strong scent of blood that clung to his body engulfed it.
His right arm hurt, he realized. It hurt badly. The skin was slashed open and scarlet ribbons of cold, congealing blood dripped down from his shoulder to his fingers.
What a mess.
He was sure that seeing his own damaged arm should have horrified him. But oddly, he felt as if he had almost expected it. That struck him as strange until he noticed the knife in his other hand.
There was something decidedly sinister about all of this.
For an instant, he thought that he knew how he had come to be in such a beaten state. Then the thought simply dissolved, leaving him with the knowledge that at one time he had known how this had happened. He had done something.
Or—no! There was something he had to do. Something important.
He had a pack, he realized. Of course he did. He’d known that.
Gingerly he slipped it off. The leather of the pack was tattered and faded. It smelled like dog. Inside he discovered a heavy coat and a pistol in a shoulder holster. There were also bullets—an absurd profusion of bullets.
What had he been doing?
Something wrong. He was suddenly sure. He had done something wrong, and it had made him sick with himself. He’d missed a letter, and someone else had read it. He’d killed thousands of people. He’d killed a dog.
No, he’d saved a dog.
Yes…. He could picture himself patting a yellow dog. She liked him. He had not killed her; he’d saved her life. She’d been in a fire or something. He felt slightly relieved. He didn’t want to be the kind of man who murdered animals. That told him something, didn’t it? That must make him a decent sort of person, right?
He contemplated the pistol and the bullets again.
Maybe he hadn’t killed a dog, but he was sure that he had committed murder. It wasn’t just the knife and the gun that told him so. He felt the certainty of it suffuse him.
Little slivers of memory flicked through him. The wet heat of another man’s blood running down his hand. The feel of resistance as his black knife pierced flesh and scraped bone. It all came back too easily. If he had been a decent man, he would have been repulsed by these things. But he wasn’t. The only emotion he could summon was resignation: he was obliged to perform a duty that no one could know about. Everything he did and everything about him had to be kept secret.
He had lied about his name, his occupation, where he had been, what he had done, how he came in, how he went out. He had lied in two languages and to every person he met. What he liked, what he hated, what he believed, what he desired, every detail had been a fabrication. He had lied enough to create an entire other man. And that man told lies as well.
Of course there had to be two of him, one for each world: Nayeshi and Basawar.
So, where was he now?
He squinted up at the scratchy, chalky sky and then gazed out at the wooden carriages and dull green tahldi pulling them. These were not the images he would have expected to see in Nayeshi alongside the interstates and strip malls.
Then this had to be Basawar. Probably the city of Nurjima.
A repulsed, nauseated feeling welled up in him. He had come home.
Kahlil remembered Nurjima. Or he thought he remembered it. But once he began walking through the streets, he discovered that the city in his memory and the one surrounding him were not the same. They resembled each other, like twin sisters, seemingly identical but subtly different.
Older, narrow streets still spoked out from ancient plazas, marking the obsolete boundaries of the first tiny villages that had since grown into a huge city. Old roads
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