18.03.2015, 19:30pm, Cairo

Random Voice I

Oh, how Lady Irony likes to deal her cards. The beginnings and ends of Michel's story shall stand in front of each other, waving through a mirror, that his own pain had melted into glass from the Sands of Time.

He doesn't know that yet, of course. Has no idea why his feet had dragged him along a familiar path, down the streets of Iunu. No idea why his mind had demanded he returned to First's first coffeehouse.

Can you keep a little secret? There is nothing stories love more, than wrapping a circle around reality, spitting in the face of time and space. After all, it is so much easier for a story to suck people in, twist them, till they fit the mold of their character arcs, if its waves move in circles. A story is a vortex, one that cannot be escaped.

But those are just a disembodied voice's rambles. Please, ignore them. If we pay attention to the story itself, we might change it. Gods forbid, stop it! And a story will do anything to play out in its entirety, even kill the narrator.

'Kiva Han' stood as proud and regal as when the Chief Lector first saw her. With one main difference.

The coffeehouse lacked the constant humming and singing of its hostess, the protectiveness glimmering in her eyes, whenever some man would get too close to her girlfriend, who would swerve around the tables, carrying trays after trays. There was no havoc coming from the store room, the laughs of the people, who had become his family within the walls of the then new and overwhelming world of magic.

The ones who had died at the hands of the gods. Recently, Michel had started to wonder if it may not have been better to die that day, almost a century and a half ago, wrapped in the arms of Tamer Yildirim. He'd always thanked Vladimir for saving his life back then, snapping him out of his love-struck trance. But now, the one who had saved him from the embrace of Chaos, seemed to be pulling him deeper and deeper under the waves of its Sea.

Michel ordered Tamer's favourite coffee, black and bitter, yet addicting, and sat down in the corner. It felt right to dedicate the drink to the man he missed, the same way he had dedicated his new name to the godling's final resting place.

He might go and take a stroll to the Pleasure Gardens later that day, but the thought was quickly dismissed. It was a miracle he had gotten even an hour's worth of a break from that wretched Hall. Vladimir seemed to be glued to the war room, plotting his attack on the 21st. In the past weeks, Michel hadn't seen him sleep. Not that he himself had had the chance to.

A name reached his ears. Kane. The conversation got louder as two women sat at the table in front of him, seemingly unaware of the Chief Lector's presence. Responsibility and exhaustion were turning out to be a better disguise than even magic could make, so long as the leopard cape was kept in his rooms. It was nice to leave the titles for a bit, the Desjardins, the Champollion. To be just Michel.

"Yeah, that's what I heard," said the first woman, "A bunch of magicians have made the 21st Nome their new base. They are planning an attack on Iunu, want to kill the Chief Lector and use his blood for some dark ritual."

Michel rolled his eyes. Rumors liked to spread amongst the magical world faster than a plague. The Kanes weren't dangerous because they were malicious. They were dangerous because they were stupid. Misguided. Michel had seen personally how easy it was for the gods to twist good intentions for their own personal gain, back when he himself had almost agreed to take down Iskandar.

"Fahim, rahimaho Allah, would have never let rebels into his home!"

The second woman's voice was weirdly familiar. Where had he heard it before?

"Fahim wouldn't have, but his kids sure did."

"Have some respect! If the Kane Family was still alive, they wouldn't have allowed all of this to happen."

"Hajra, what do you mean? Amos is very much alive, so are the littles."

Michel froze. So this was who the voice belonged to. Hajra Khodeir.

The Khodeir family was the second branch of Masoud Younas's descendants, the one that returned to live in Iunu. The closest living relatives of the Kane.

For their own safety, they had been told by the House, that no surviving members of the 21st remained. That the mansion was never rebuilt after its destruction in December. It was one of the reasons why Amos Kane's stay in the City of the Sun had been kept a secret. Michel had to intervene, correct the women, wipe their memory. Do everything possible to prevent the Chaos that would ensue if the Khodeir reinstated contact with their cousins.

Just as he was about to get up and do just that, Michel's vision went black. He awoke in his usual spot before the throne. Milky white eyes were staring down at him, and a smile so cold-blooded, it could as well have bee reptilian.

*rahimaho Allah (may god have mercy on his soul) = (there is also a similiar phrase in bulgarian: "leka mu prast" may his soil be light ), which is basically used when you mention a dead person and then you wish their soul well out of respect (or habit, or fear of the dead getting pissed that you are mentioning them and not blessing them and then making sure you put two cups of salt instead of sugar into the cake (most disgusting cake batter I've ever tried (it's in moments like this I understand why Terry Pratchett was using notes Like That.)))