Jumaat’s face twisted into what Mahi assumed was supposed to be a smile, and she grabbed him by the hand and dragged him toward the arena. The closer they got, the bigger the challengers became—each of them easily twice the size of Mahraveh and even bigger than Babrak in some cases.
“There’s still time to back out,” Mahraveh said.
Jumaat laughed nervously. “Well, in that case…”
“Don’t be a coward,” she said. She took his hand and towed him along. “Come on.”
They pushed past some of the multitudes to the covered arcade wrapping the top of the arena where the presiding afhems were presenting their prized fighters. There was no greater pride for an afhem than when one of his own warriors, trained from birth, claimed another afhemate. And there was no better way to gain new allies or expand armies. Or in Babrak’s case, new enemies. When her father won, Muskigo refused to bow to a man he considered crass and cruel.
Presently, Babrak sat sprawled on a beaned cushion in the shadow of the arena’s highest concourse. Two stunning women fanned him with palm leaves while another fed him. When his eyes met Mahraveh’s, they opened wide, and Mahi’s stomach lurched.
“Spectators enter through the North entrance,” he shouted over the din of the gathering.
“We’re here to fight,” Mahraveh said.
Babrak stared at her for a moment, face blank. Then, he broke out into a roaring laugh that jolted Mahraveh and those around. Several looked over. Many joined in for fear of upsetting the large afhem.
When he was through, he waved his hand dismissively and said, “Move on, little sand mouse. This is a place for warriors, not children.”
“I am not kidding,” she said, straightening her spine although her knees shook. “We will fight for our afhem, my father.”
“You?” he scoffed. “A woman?”
“No, him.” Mahraveh pulled Jumaat in front of her. “Right Jumaat?” He’d been eclipsed by a mountain of a man—Babrak’s hulking champion, Rajeev.
Jumaat shifted weight between his feet. “I will…” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I will conquer that arena and walk away with al’Tariq as my own.”
“Exactly,” Mahraveh said. “Then we’ll sail his many ships to Nahanab, and turn the tides of battle in my father’s favor. And I will have no one to thank out of the lot of you cowards.”
Jumaat elbowed her hard at the last statement, knowing that any response from Babrak would be acceptable after such an insult.
The big man looked between her and Jumaat a few times, then broke out in hysterical, rolling laughter. If Babrak’s earlier laugh startled the crowd, this one reached the depths of the seabed and startled the dead. All the men surrounding them joined him, even the women fanning him. And it wasn’t a courtesy to their afhem this time—they all stared at Jumaat and his skinny frame.
Babrak held up his hand, trying to speak but struggling through laughter. “Oh, girl, thank you. I haven’t had a laugh like that in ages.”
“This is no joke!” Mahraveh snapped.
“This is your father’s grand plan? Send this puny whelp into the sands? I figured Muskigo was desperate after everything he did… but this?”
She took a step forward. “You have no idea who he is. Jumaat has been trained by my father himself.” Jumaat shot her a withering glare, and she knew she’d gone too far.
“That boy, trained by the Scythe?” He and Rajeev exchanged a chuckle. “Have his balls even dropped yet? Can he even fight?”
“He’s of age to march with our afhemate, if that’s what you mean. Champion of the Ayerabi.”
Babrak swayed backward once to build enough momentum to get to his feet. He stomped toward Jumaat. For what it was worth, her friend did his best not to cower in the giant’s shadow. Not that he could’ve backed up anywhere, Rajeev’s immovable frame right behind him.
Babrak lifted Jumaat’s chin and turned him one way, then another. He gave his side a slap, like he was appraising a prize zhulong bull. “Strong arms, I’ll admit, but you haven’t even filled out yet. You will be slaughtered. Look around you. These are strong men, violent men. Veterans of many battles.”
“So skilled in battle, yet none could be bothered with fighting for the freedom of our people?” Mahraveh remarked.
Jumaat bit his lip.
“Go home, boy,” Babrak said, more serious this time. “You too, Mahraveh. This is no place for children.”
“We’re not going home. We have nothing to return to,” she said. “The Glassmen you refuse to fight brought their hammered fist down upon Saujibar last night.”
Babrak looked to Jumaat, and Jumaat corroborated her story with a resigned nod.
For a moment, Mahraveh thought Babrak was going to show some sense of decency, but instead, he said, “That’s what happens when an immature afhem foolishly leaves his afhemate. Clearly, the bellot hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”
The red returned. Everything red. The fat pis’truda killing Farhan flashed before her eyes. “The Ayerabi are fighting in this tournament!”
“That isn’t up to you, girl,” Babrak said with a tone of finality. “Your friend is too young. Too weak. You will not make a mockery of this ceremony with such a pathetic tribute.”
“I’m of age,” Jumaat squeaked.
Babrak leaned in, his head twice the size of Jumaat’s. “Law doesn’t count for everything. Spectator’s entrance is on the North side,” he said again before turning back to his fellows beside him. “Enjoy the show.”
“Then why don’t I fight?” Mahraveh said.
Babrak rolled his eyes and waddled back toward his cushion. “You are relentless, girl. We will not sully the sands with the blood of a child bearer, even if you are the daughter of a traitorous afhem with no loyalty for the family that helped build him into what he was.”
“You’re just afraid. Afraid I’d cut your man here to ribbons.”
Babrak fell backward and made himself comfortable. “Even I am a victim of circumstance. Leave things to the adults, girl.”
“Coward.” Mahraveh’s hand reached up to grip her spear shaft, but Jumaat pushed her aside and stepped forward.
“I am going to fight,” he proclaimed. “By the doctrine of the God of Sand and Sea, you cannot stop me. I will fight for the honor of my father and my family.
“You will die before you step out onto the sand,” Babrak said. “But if that’s what you wish, then I suppose the Ayerabi have their champion. I’ll prepare the boat for your funeral.”
“You’ll be making one only for yourself, pis’truda,” Mahraveh cursed. She took Jumaat’s arm and pulled him away, hearing Babrak and his sycophant’s laughter echoing, louder than even the waves crashing against the Latiapur cliffside.
XXII
THE KNIGHT
Sir, what in Iam’s name is going on?” Lucas asked as he led Torsten out of the castle gates. They had to move fast to keep pace with the drunken queen made bold and brash by liquor.
“The Queen Mother decided that today was a good day to visit her people,” Torsten said. “Keep up with her!” Torsten shouted back to the Shieldsmen and recruits who’d followed them out of the city. Maybe he’d seen Oleander’s redemption, but he imagined there were plenty of common folk who thought of her and remembered only the bodies she’d left swinging from the walls, or the extravagant parties she hosted and drained the kingdom’s already-suffering coffers.
“Isn’t it good she’s finally out of her room?” Lucas said.
“Not in this state,” Torsten said.
“You!” Oleander shouted at someone on the Royal Avenue. “What are you all murmuring about? Yes, it’s me, your ‘whore queen,’ seared like venison at a Dawning banquet!”
Torsten pulled free of Lucas and hurried ahead, not taking enough care along the treacherous cobblestones. He stumbled, but Lord Kaviel was there to steady him.
“Lord Jolly, you have to put an end to this before she goes too far,” Torsten w
hispered, seething.
“She has already gone too far,” Kaviel replied. “Many times. Now it’s their chance to see her as a human, not a monster hidden in a tower.”
“She’s in pain,” Torsten said. “Can’t you see that? You should have consulted me before—”
“Take no offense, Sir Unger, but you know only the widow. I know the woman, ever since Liam plucked her from the tundra. She needs this.”
Torsten swallowed the lump forming in his throat and slowed down a bit. He and Oleander had grown close over the last year, especially after Redstar took over, but the Lord from Crowfall was right. Before Uriah went missing and Torsten inherited the white helm, he was just another face in a crowd of servants to Oleander. She’d gotten his name wrong as often as she got it right.
“Am I not as beautiful as you remember?” Oleander hollered. So many footsteps cleared out of the way of the royal escort, Torsten could no longer make out which direction she was yelling, though it sounded to him like it was at the drunkards who usually wasted the day away outside of the Lofty Mare.
“More beautiful, Your Grace,” Lord Kaviel said. “For you have survived what so few could have and came out stronger for it.”
“Lord Jolly, you flattering, northern croon, I didn’t ask you,” Oleander said. She stroked his arm loud enough that Torsten could hear it, and her hand slid lower toward his hip. “Is that your autlas pouch?” she asked. “The people need their Queen!”
“What are you—”
Coins rattled, then Oleander laughed as she flung a handful of coins into the air. They bounced along the street, and immediately, a fight broke out. Crowfall wasn’t known for its wealth, but a man like Lord Kaviel Jolly was sure to have gold autlas on him rather than bronzers or even silver.
“Am I not your most generous Queen?” Oleander said. Again, coins clattered, and Lord Kaviel was left muttering curses under his breath.
“I suppose now he’s getting what he bargained for,” Lucas whispered into Torsten’s ear as he caught up and retook Torsten’s arm.
Torsten couldn’t help but chuckle. “She always has been a handful.”
“You!” Oleander barked. “Buy your wife a new dress.” More autlas sprinkled the street. “By Iam, it’s been long enough since mine’s been torn off by a real man.”
Torsten coughed in shock. Lord Jolly very likely did the same. But a few of the onlooking citizens laughed in response and applauded, something Torsten never imagined would happen in response to Oleander after all she’d done.
“She’s nothing like I expected her,” Lucas said.
“She’s rarely how any of us expect her,” Torsten replied.
“It’s just… the way men in Dockside taverns talked about her all my life…”
“Trust me, it was the same in the castle, and I’m ashamed to say I was among the naysayers who didn’t think she belonged. But to come from Drav Cra, to face what she has—she’s a remarkable woman. I see it now, even if no one else can.”
“If you say so, Sir,” Lucas said. “Throwing gold out to the masses certainly won’t hurt though.”
“No. No, it won’t. Especially when it’s his.”
“You don’t trust Lord Jolly? The men talk about his brother Wardric all the time.”
“Our king is still too young for me to trust anybody completely,” Torsten said. “I know Lord Jolly loves this kingdom, but—”
“Nothing affects a boy like a father’s influence, for the good or bad,” Lucas interrupted, clearly having perceived Lord Jolly’s intent. “Before mother straightened him out, every time my father came home from the taverns he’d tell me men like us could never be more than Docksiders. I love him and mum, but he taught me exactly what I didn’t want.”
“Fathers do have a knack for that,” Torsten agreed. “Why do you think I won’t drink, even when the Queen asks me to?”
“Because Shieldsmen aren’t supposed to dull their senses,” Lucas said as if reciting from a rule book.
“Plenty have before me and plenty more will after I’m gone.”
“Ain’t got no gold for us?” A nearby Docksider said. It was easy enough to tell by his accent, and judging by how far they’d walked, they were near the street that led down through South Corner toward Dockside.
Oleander’s heels tapped as she lost her balance for a moment. “It appears my Lord’s pouch is empty,” she said, then hiccuped. “See?” Cloth rustled as she turned it inside out.
“Figures. Only Valin Tehr’s got our back, not ye lot!” The Docksider spat at their feet. Torsten now recognized him as the troublemaker Murray. In an instant, guards were upon him and slammed him against the street.
“That’s right,” he groaned. “We’re just filth to ye highborn.”
“Let him go,” Oleander said. The men listened, though not without offering the poor beggar a few blows to the stomach. “Here. This silk coin purse is probably worth more than you’ve ever seen and it won’t quite fit over my head to cover my face.” She slid it across the street, the metal tassels scraping.
“Now roll on back to your filth, skag,” Lord Jolly said.
“With this?” Murray protested, lifting the coin purse. “This gonna put food on our table or fix our roof.”
“I’m from Crowfall, lad,” Lord Jolly said, a harsh edge creeping into his tone. “Don’t have a roof? Build one yourself. The Crown keeps you safe enough. Least you can do is shut your trap and work harder.”
“This gonna bring my son back?” Murray shouted.
One of the guards grabbed Murray and hauled him away. Before he could say anything else that might guarantee him a spot in the dungeons, a woman stopped him.
“Murray don’t,” she said.
The Docksider named Murray grunted and shook her off. “Gods-damned nobles! They’ll get theirs. Iam’s forsaken us all!”
“Are you okay, Queen Mother?” Lord Jolly asked.
“Okay?” She laughed. “Hearing the people whine about gold again is music to my ears! Like everything’s back to normal. I was beginning to worry I was in a nightmare.”
Back to normal, Torsten thought as they continued down the streets of Yarrington. Now that was a sentiment he could agree with. Beggars were better than foreign invaders, cultists, and fallen gods. No matter how the kingdom rose, even at the height of Liam’s reign, there were always those whose fortunes faded. It was the way of the world. And though he wished Iam’s blessings fell upon all, he didn’t dare question the wisdom of his God in making Pantego the way it was.
“Torsten!” Oleander hollered. “Torsten, get over here, now!”
Torsten found himself speeding to greet her call without hesitation, leaving Lucas in the dust. He’d served Oleander closely for so long, he wondered why being called upon then made his heart race so.
“Yes, my Queen?” he asked.
“Torsten, my dear Torsten,” she said. “I’m used to seeing the markets filled with savages. Now, it thrives again.” She took Torsten’s hand. “Go, fetch me a new dress worthy of my son’s new crown.”
“Your Grace, you donated all of the autlas we had,” Lord Jolly interceded. “Shall I send a courier to fetch more?”
“I’m Oleander Nothhelm, you dolt. Any designer in the Glass would pay to have me slip into their handiwork.” She guided, then releases Torsten’s hand so that his fingers brushed along the curve of her hip. He wondered if it was intentional, his mind wandering back to that night in his chambers…
“Then perhaps there is someone more suited to the task than a blind man?” Lord Jolly said. He turned to Torsten and whispered, “No offense intended.”
“Like you?” Oleander scoffed. “I’m sure in Crowfall that sorry smock of yours could be mistaken for high fashion, but not here.”
Torsten smirked. Oleander’s favor was often fleeting, and it was a relief now to be on the other end of it whether she was drunk or not.
“Lucas will help me fetch something in your favorite color,” Torste
n said. “Perhaps you can wear it to the next public audience in the Throne Room? A dress by the people, to show you’re one of them.”
“How lucky the people would be,” Oleander said.
Torsten nudged Lucas and had him lead them down into the Yarrington markets. The warming weather had them bustling even though night was nearing, like citizens never expected the snows to break. Even folk from Old Yarrington wandered down to throw away autlas on trinkets and exquisite clothing just because they could. Torsten could recognize them by their pompous way of speech.
“Sir, I have no idea what she likes,” Lucas whispered, voice shaking.
“Worry not, my friend,” Torsten said. “There is a modiste shop on the corner run by a Panpingese seamstress the nobles favor. They’re always more than eager to dress the Queen Mother.”
“And if she doesn’t like it?”
“She won’t hang us,” Torsten said. “Don’t let rumors make a coward of you, Lucas. We are King’s Shieldsmen.”
“Not if I don’t survive training. I’d rather face down an army of Sandsmen than her.”
Torsten chuckled. “Trust me.”
Lucas took his arm tighter as the crowd thickened. A thousand different smells assaulted Torsten, all of them welcome. Anything was better than a horde of grimy Drav Cra camped in the square or the flocking beggars in Dockside. Traders from throughout the kingdom and beyond peddled wares: dwarven jewelry from Brotlebir, lutes and other instruments from Westvale, paintings from Glintish artists. When Liam set out to unite Pantego, Torsten imagined this was what he dreamed of. Though he doubted any Shesaitju were around presently, all sorts of people could be found in Yarrington square.
“Sir Shieldsman!” a trader shouted. “Sir Shieldsman. Surely a man of your size must be hungry. You’ve never tried stew like this.”
“Pardon me,” Lucas said, pushing through a group with Torsten in toe. “Move aside.”
“Sir Unger, I believe?” said another trader, popping up directly beside Torsten. “Yes, it must be you. He who felled Redstar the Deceiver. Is it here? Do you have Salvation here? I’d love to glimpse the blade. Bless you, brave Shieldsman!”
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