Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “It couldn’t be helped, my King. There was a new trail to follow.”

  Meryam sat deeper into her chair, which creaked beneath her. “Then tell me of it, this trail of yours.”

  “I will, but first some news that only came in this night. Macide, My King. We’ve found him.”

  “You have?” The surprise that registered on Meryam’s face was not as deep as Ramahd had expected.

  “We’ve found one of his safe houses in Sharakhai.”

  “We’ve found them before.”

  “True, which is why we’ll be cautious. But we believe he’s only just begun to use it, so he may feel safe there for a time, and if we do not find Macide himself, we can learn more from the man who owns the tannery.”

  Meryam nodded, her expression cautiously optimistic. “Very well. Let’s pray to Bakhi that he grants us this boon.”

  “Of course, My King.”

  “Your other news?”

  “When last we spoke, I said the clues may very well lead to Mirea. We were right. Juvaan Xin-Lei is the one lending support to the Moonless Host. Or perhaps one of several.”

  “What type of support?”

  “Money, certainly. Information. And we believe a breathstone has been delivered to Macide.”

  Meryam’s eyes narrowed. “A breathstone . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure of it? You saw it with your own eyes? Held it in your hands?”

  “No, but—”

  “You’ve been told of it, then. By whom?”

  “A woman searching for the same clues we are.”

  “Very convenient.”

  Ramahd paused. King Aldouan had been wary of their mission in Sharakhai from the beginning. He wanted vengeance for his daughter and granddaughter, but the thought of upsetting the Kings of Sharakhai made him wary and cautious. Too cautious at times. He would never say such things openly—that he feared the Kings of Sharakhai—but one could see it in the way his words and actions marched in near lock-step with those of Sharakhai. When viewed up close, the design was difficult to discern, but when viewed from afar, his fears were grand as a temple to the gods.

  “You seem to think her word cannot be trusted,” Ramahd said, “but she had no reason to lie to me.”

  “Then by all means, trust her with your life.”

  “I do not suggest we act on her word alone, My King, only that we investigate further. In the right hands, such a stone might be a powerful weapon to use against us.”

  And now it was the King’s turn to pause. “A powerful weapon indeed.”

  Ramahd frowned. “Do you know something of this?”

  “Of the stone? I know nothing.” She lifted her hand and swatted the air, as if chasing away a gnat. “A fanciful worry only.”

  “If there’s anything I need be concerned about, My King . . .”

  “Yes, yes. If the time comes, you’ll be told.”

  “Do you know what they plan to do with it?”

  “Guesses only, Ramahd. You’ll be told.” Despite his words, Meryam’s face clouded, and she pursed her lips. Several times she opened her mouth to speak, only to clap it shut once more. When Meryam’s eyes refocused on Ramahd, they had changed. There was worry in those eyes, a thing he’d never seen before, not since they’d started conversing through this infernal mechanism. “Keep watch on the tannery if you would, but do not attack Macide.”

  Ramahd stared, stunned. “My Lord King?”

  “You heard me, Ramahd.”

  “I cannot believe my ears.”

  “You will find the breathstone and, more importantly, the message, if it can be found, and only if you cannot find these will we capture Macide and get them from him.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “I am.”

  “My Lord King, I am not here to find messages from Juvaan Xin-Lei to the leader of the Moonless Host. I’m here to find Macide and grant justice to those he slew in the desert. My wife and daughter, and many more. I will search for him, and I will kill him as slowly and as painfully as he deserves. That is my right.”

  “You have that right, but you are in the Shangazi by my will, to do my will. And so it shall be. Find the message, Ramahd. Find it, and we’ll talk once more of Macide Ishaq’ava.” He paused, but only long enough to raise his forefinger as if he were scolding a child. “It is a trivial thing I ask of you, and it does not prevent you from watching Macide, finding the trails he follows to better prepare for the day when you do take him. Find the message, Ramahd, and then you may have Macide.”

  Ramahd could only stare.

  “I will hear it from you before we are done.”

  “I . . .”

  “Swear it to me, Ramahd, or I’ll order you home.”

  “I swear it, My King.”

  “Very well.”

  No sooner had King Aldouan said these words than Meryam’s eyes fluttered and her head tipped back, suddenly listless. The King was gone.

  Meryam, the whites of her eyes shining red in the lamplight, took some time to refocus on him. She was always out of sorts after such an episode—for hours or even days. When she focused on him at last, there was a look of burning hatred on her face. She had been privy to the conversation Ramahd had with her father. She would have been unable to do anything about it until the King’s spirit faded, but now that it had, she realized that Ramahd had withheld from her the information about Macide. But she was shivering so violently she couldn’t speak.

  She leaned forward, perhaps attempting to lift herself up, but then Ramahd realized she was tipping over. He shot forward and caught her before she fell. He lifted her gently—light as a lamb, she was—and laid her on her bunk. As he set her scarf aside and pulled the blankets over her, he heard her whisper something.

  “Hamzakiir,” she said. “Hamzakiir.”

  A name, but not one that meant anything to Ramahd.

  “Who is Hamzakiir?” he asked.

  But she only kept whispering, over and over again, “Hamzakiir, Hamzakiir,” so he kissed her on the forehead, then headed for the galley to make her fekkas.

  THREE DAYS AFTER THE FIGHT AT THE PITS, Çeda sat in the predawn light, near the window where she kept her plants, sipping coriander tea and reading through a history of Sharakhai, one she’d found in the bazaar only yesterday. It was largely drivel; an idealized version of events, but she flipped through its pages again, hoping it might give her some clue to the riddle in her mother’s book. The more she read, though, the angrier she got, and eventually she whipped the book across her room. It thumped against the plaster, then thudded to the floor. Broken plaster pattered around it like rain.

  There was more to the tale. She knew it, and she was desperate to learn more. Her mother had found clues that trailed backward in time to the very night of Beht Ihman. Was that why she’d gone to the House of Kings? Was that why she’d been killed?

  Çeda was desperate to learn more, to learn the truth behind the legend. But how? Most of what she knew was learned not from her mother—who’d spoken of it only rarely—but from people like Ib’Saim in the bazaar or Ibrahim, who rode about the city on his cart, telling and trading stories. But Çeda knew their tales were a dozen times removed from what really happened. She’d read many of the epic poems and books that recounted the years leading up to the war and the days that followed, but those were the Kings’ propaganda, stories written years or even generations after the fact. In some cases, the Kings themselves had penned them.

  She would learn little from those. She had to find more reliable sources. But where? The Kings had spent four hundred years retelling the story of those days in any way they wished. Those who had tried to speak against them would have been killed, their voices silenced. There were even rumors in the streets that one of the Kings—Zeheb, the King of Whispers—could hear those
who plotted against them. Çeda had no idea if that was true—it might be and it might not—but even if it wasn’t, it was a very effective tool of suppression, a deterrent against seditious behavior.

  Çeda sat at the edge of the bed and pinched her eyes. The asir’s words were linked to her mother, but how? She liked to think she knew a thing or two for a gutter wren, but she was woefully unprepared for this, the uncovering of grand secrets. As she placed the book on the nearest of the three stacks by her bedside, the certainty that had been forming these past few days felt confirmed; she would never unlock the riddle with the texts available on the streets. If she were some desert traveler looking over bones that had been picked clean, at least then she might be able to discern what the animal had once looked like. No, it was as though these stories were a gathering of bones selected from completely different animals, assembled into the approximate shape of what an animal ought to look like. Beyond whatever small value the stories held, they were dangerous, for surely they would lead her along the entirely wrong paths. But how to find the right ones?

  She needed clues, and it felt as though she had fewer than when she’d started. The thing about Sharakhai, though, was that someone somewhere in this wondrous city would have some secreted away. She just had to find them.

  With the sun now well above the horizon, Çeda rose and prepared another cup of tea. She stepped into Emre’s room, her tea in one hand, the last of Dardzada’s brewed concoction in the other. She sipped from the steaming cup while holding the phial out for him.

  He downed half of it in one gulp. “Mule piss, Çeda. Why do you insist on feeding me mule piss every morning and every night?”

  She held his gaze evenly. “You’d rather be a feast for worms?”

  He raised the phial, his face screwed up in disgust. “If they taste better than this, I might just try it.”

  “Shut your mouth, you beetle-brained fool, and finish it.”

  He took one deep breath, downed the last of it, and, afterward, shook his head and lolled his tongue out like a wolf. “Happy?”

  “As a babe with a finger full of honey.” She snatched the phial away and waved at his shirt. “Off.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Is that a proposition?”

  She punched his shoulder, hard. When he laughed, she gave him another, harder this time, and he wailed. “For the love of the gods, Çeda, we’re not in the pits!”

  “Say that word again and I’ll give you worse,” she hissed at him. He knew she didn’t like his talking about the pits, especially not loud enough for their neighbors to hear.

  He finally took off his shirt, allowing her to examine his stitches. They were doing much better. Most signs of infection were gone, and the wounds had closed well.

  “Good,” he said when she’d finished, “because I’m going to Seyhan’s today.”

  Gods, here we go again. “You’ll do no such thing!”

  “Çeda, if I stay here one more day, I’ll drive my head through the wall, if only to dream of being somewhere else.”

  “You’re still healing.”

  “I’m healed well enough to stand behind a stall and pass muslin bags to the fine Mirean women who happen to frequent it.”

  “Always the women . . .”

  “What can I say? They like me.”

  She punched him a third time, much harder than the first two.

  He howled in pain, but his eyes were smiling. As he sat on the edge of his bed, wrapping the leather cords of his knee-high sandals around his shin, she considered how much stronger he seemed. It was good to see him like this, and it was a far sight better than the haunted look he’d had in the days after the attack.

  “If you’re going to be mule-headed, then hold on,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”

  “And where might you be going?”

  “Never you mind.”

  Emre shook his head, starting on the other sandal. “Çeda and her secrets. Why don’t you marry them, if you love them so much?”

  “They’d make a sight better husband than you ever would.”

  He smiled at this, but there was something odd in his expression, as if she had pained him. But he said nothing of it, and neither did she.

  Soon they were out and headed east toward the bazaar, falling into step beside one another. The sun was bright, but there was a cool northerly breeze, rare in summer but all the more welcome for it. Emre was walking gingerly, but she could already tell he was starting to loosen up. The walk would do him good, she decided, and as long as Seyhan didn’t make him lift kegs of spices, all should be well.

  “So?” Emre asked as the sounds of the bazaar came to them.

  “What?”

  “Are you going to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what?”

  Emre rolled his eyes. “The price of figs. What do you think, Çeda? The poem!”

  She grew suddenly sober. She’d been so caught up in her worry over him she’d forgotten—at least for the past hour or two. “I think she was killed because of the poem, or something related to it. What I can’t figure out is why. The poem may relate to the asirim, or to the Kings, or both, but how? That’s the riddle I need to solve, Emre, the truth behind those words.”

  “I always thought it was because she’d been caught in the blooming fields.”

  Çeda had thought the same. It was a guess based on the night before her mother died, when she had returned in a rush from the night of Beht Zha’ir. Something had happened to make her so fatalistic. She’d said she’d not found petals that night. Was that because she’d been spotted in the blooming fields? She’d escaped, but had she thought her trail would lead the Kings to her, to Dardzada? To Çeda? That must have been why she’d gone back out, to lead the Kings away.

  She and Emre reached a corner where a line of men were hauling buckets toward the bazaar—some filled with water, others with lemons, a few with clutches of green mint in their hands. Çeda and Emre fell into step behind the men but not too closely.

  “Maybe the Kings knew about her poem,” Emre said, “that she’d unlocked some riddle.”

  Çeda shook her head. “If they had, they would’ve come for the book.”

  “Maybe they did. Maybe they sent the Maidens hunting for it but couldn’t find it.”

  “No. Dardzada would’ve heard about it. The fact that he gave me the book and never asked about it proves he suspected nothing. If he’d had even a whiff of the Maidens hunting after her, or suspected the book was anything but an heirloom, he would’ve burned it on the spot.”

  “Dardzada takes care of himself—”

  “And only himself,” she said, completing the refrain they used to toss back and forth when running the streets. The trouble was it wasn’t true. Dardzada had taken care of her—albeit in his own way—for four years. He’d been overprotective, not the reverse.

  No, as strict as Dardzada had been, and as cruel, it wasn’t because he didn’t care for her.

  They reached the edge of the bazaar, where as far as the eye could see, men and women and children were helping to set up stalls, laying out wares, putting up awnings for shade in hopes of stalling their patrons for a few precious moments longer. Emre stopped and stood there, clearly trying to order his thoughts before speaking.

  “Spit it out,” Çeda said.

  “Çeda, Ahya died over these riddles, and you’ll die too, if you go too much further.” He pointed to Tauriyat, the top half of which could be seen over the stone buildings on the far side of the bazaar. On it stood palace after palace, one for each of the Kings. “They’ve lived on that hill for four hundred years. Most likely they’ll live there another four. This isn’t worth chasing.”

  He was trying to protect her. She knew that. But it still burned, just like it had in the desert when they’d gone together to the blooming fields. “You don’t have to help,
Emre.”

  She tried to walk past him but he grabbed her arm and spun her around. “I’ll help if it’s help you want. You know that. You have only to say the word. But promise me you’ll think on it.” He looked her over, as if he were truly taking her in for the first time that day. “Where are you going, anyway?”

  “Just making sure you’re able to walk without pulling open those stitches.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Well, if you don’t want to tell me, just say so, Çeda.”

  Ahead, Tehla was using her broad wooden peel to pull eight golden biscuits from her brick oven. She slipped the biscuits onto the cooling board, above which was a small brass bell with a red ribbon tied to the striker.

  As Tehla struck the bell three times, Çeda took Emre’s arm and pointed him toward the stall. “Come on,” she said, “my gift.”

  Emre shook his head at her blatant ploy of changing the subject but allowed himself to be led just the same. When they reached Tehla’s stall, Çeda grabbed two goat cheese biscuits and dropped a silver six piece onto the weatherworn board. “No need to ring your bell, Tehla. The entire city can smell them.”

  Tehla clasped her hands and bowed her head to Çeda. “Welcome,” she said politely and with a mischievous smile, and then she turned to Emre, her eyes brightening like the sunrise, “and would you look who you’ve brought with you?” Tehla’s smile might be for both of them, but her eyes she saved for Emre. “As often as you come around, you’d think you hate my bread.”

  “Hate your bread?” Emre bit into the steaming biscuit. “Now there’s a laugh,” he said around his mouthful. “A good day to you, my lovely ladies.” He turned pointedly to Çeda. “I think I can manage from here.” And with that he bowed, grimacing only slightly, and walked away toward the spice market, whose tall mudbrick walls and peaked roof could be seen beyond the stalls of the bazaar.

  Çeda waited, taking a bite of her own savory biscuit. After a moment, Tehla caught her smiling and quickly looked down to her peel.