Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Hamid considered for a long moment, and then reluctantly nodded. The table cleared in moments. “Darius.” Darius had made to follow the others, but Hamid shook his head, then motioned to the table.

  Emre sat across from Hamid, and Darius sat at the end, a careful distance away from both. Hamid waved for a boy and motioned to the table with two fingers. The boy came with two fresh glasses, and Hamid immediately poured araq from the green goose-necked bottle. Emre opened his mouth to speak, but Hamid shook his head and nodded to another nearby table. The half-dozen men and women sitting there began to chant, a low, throaty thing that Emre could feel in his chest.

  “It confuses the King of Whispers,” Hamid said to Emre’s unspoken question. “Throws him off our scent.”

  “It’s true, then? He can listen for those who speak of him?”

  Hamid sipped his araq. “Darius tells me you’ve found yourself a pretty little wren.”

  “No,” Emre replied. “I’ve found you a pretty little wren.”

  “You went in there to help me . . .”

  “You and those you work for.”

  Hamid’s lidded eyes lingered on Emre, uncharitably it seemed to him. “And who is that, Emre? Who do I work for?”

  Emre glanced around, wondering why Hamid was being so coy. “For Macide.”

  “No.”

  “For Ishaq, then, his father.”

  “Wrong again.”

  “Then who?” Emre asked, trying to keep his annoyance from showing.

  “For the people, Emre. For you and Çeda and Tariq. For the children who walk through the Shallows not knowing what we’re about. For your wren, who walks about that estate as if it were made for her. We fight for her, even though she lives her life on the backs of untold thousands of others.” He took a mouthful of his araq, savoring it before swallowing. “Is that who you wish to work for as well, Emre? Is that why you interrupted Darius’s work?”

  “I know I can find whatever it is you need from that estate, from the old woman.”

  “We’ll come to that. What I asked was who you wished to work for.”

  “I wish to fight for the people.”

  For the first time, Hamid’s face came alive. “You do? Because it sounded to me like you pulled that stunt for yourself.”

  “I had to attract your notice.”

  “We’ve known one another since we were three, Emre. How could I not notice you?”

  “And if I had come to you and asked you to grasp arms in your cause, what would you have done?”

  Hamid thought on it, spinning his glass upon the table with idle fingers. “I would have sent you away.”

  Darius watched this exchange silently, glancing uncomfortably between the two of them. He hadn’t realized the history between them.

  “I have much to offer,” Emre said. “I’m known around Sharakhai. I’m well liked. I’ve done much in my time. I’m well rounded, as Rafa used to say to us.”

  Hamid shook his head, a distant look in his eyes. “That fucking bravo. My heart still weeps when I think of Rafa.”

  Emre touched his fingers to his forehead. “Thank you, but those wounds have long since closed.”

  “Truly. I think of him often.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I will not work with a man who does this only for his dead brother.”

  “I’m not.” Emre was shocked. “I don’t.”

  Hamid went on as if Emre hadn’t spoken. “You must do it for those who live, for those who have yet to join us.”

  “I do.”

  “I see it differently.” As Hamid’s eyes bored into Emre’s, the low, primal chanting continued. “You’re a hummingbird, flitting from one thing to another.”

  “Only because I hadn’t found a cause to believe in.”

  “You knew of the Host, Emre, long before Rafa died. All of us did. And yet it’s taken you seven years after his death to take this step.”

  Because I was a coward. “I didn’t know what I wanted after Rafa’s death. They were . . . difficult days.”

  “But now you do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Convince me.”

  Emre took a deep breath. How could he explain this without sounding desperate? Emre glanced to Darius before speaking, wondering how much he should share, but there was nothing for it now. “Last week I was out on the night of Beht Zha’ir.” Hamid and Darius exchanged a look, but neither said anything. “I was attacked, and I might have died but for Çeda. She found me and saved me, as if I were an infant.”

  Hamid shrugged. “No man can stand alone against the world, Emre.”

  “The asirim came while I lay there wounded and bleeding, and I remember thinking what it would be like. I wondered if they would make me one of them. I hoped they would. I was desperate for it, so ready that I cried when Çeda came. I felt as though she’d robbed me of the chance to take up the power those creatures hold.” Emre toyed with and then drained his glass, feeling the warmth of the sweet liquor make its way down his throat. “When I was back in my right mind, those thoughts seemed foolish. Preposterous.”

  “You were wounded.”

  “Yes, but their seeds remained. I yearned for power.”

  “To harm those who’ve harmed you?”

  “No,” Emre replied easily. “To wipe the presence of the Kings from this city. To wipe away the Malasani, and the Qaimiri, and the Kundhunese, and the Mireans. The asirim let me glimpse the Sharakhai that once was, before the Kings. I saw the desert before Sharakhai was made. Then I saw what’s become of it, and I wept again.” Emre stared deeply into Hamid’s eyes. “That is why I wish to stand by your side, Hamid. That is why I went to the estate and spied upon Darius as he spied upon Matron Zohra. It is a small thing—what I do, what you do—but together we are strong. Together we can stand against the Kings and end their corruption.”

  “You wish to clear this city then? To level it?”

  “I didn’t say that. I want to see the city reborn.”

  “In whose image?”

  Emre managed a smile. “Mine? Yours? Who knows, Hamid? I do know that before the gods turn the page on the tale of Sharakhai, many tears will fall and much blood will be spilled. But the Shangazi is thirsty. She’ll drink all of it and more.”

  Hamid was quiet for a time. He poured himself a fresh drink and then one for Emre. He glanced at Darius, and something passed between them. Emre had no idea what, until Hamid raised his glass, motioning for Emre to do the same.

  The two of them clinked their glasses together and downed their drinks.

  “Now”—baring his teeth from the bite of the liquor, Hamid slapped his glass down on the table—“tell me about this wren of yours.”

  IN THE WEEKS FOLLOWING Çeda’s first visit to the scriptorium with Davud, she returned many times. Davud always left her tablets, scrolls, or books to read—never more than a dozen, probably so that their absence would go unnoticed. And Davud had a good eye for research; they were always insightful texts that taught her much.

  She learned of Tulathan, goddess of law and order, who had spoken to the Kings on the night of Beht Ihman. She learned of Goezhen, god of change and creation, how he’d experimented with foul creatures aeons ago, much as the first gods had done when they created him and the rest of the younger gods. She read of Bakhi, how he came in times of reaping: of harvest, but also of death.

  There was one tale of a man called Thebi, who lay dying after a battle in the mountains far to the east. Thebi whispered prayers to the hot desert wind, as did his comrade, a bowman who’d survived the battle unscathed while Thebi lay dying with a spear running through him. Bakhi had come to them and listened intently as both men pleaded for Thebi’s life. In the end, Bakhi had pulled the spear from Thebi’s gut and run the other man through. Thebi recounted how all that remained of his wound
was a simple white scar, while his friend died in moments from the wound given him by the fickle god.

  She learned of Thaash, god of hate and vengeance, and his taste for blood. A shaikh’s wife recounted in her cramped script how Thaash had saved her desert tribe from the wild men of the northern wastes. They’d camped for the night, ready to take to their ships in the morning, when dozens of men sprang up from the desert like spring grass. The men and women of the tribe had surrounded the children, but their enemies were simply too many. Half their number were already dead, and the other half was soon to follow, when a tall figure strode through the night, swinging a gleaming sword of gold. The wild men had become crazed in their effort to reach the newcomer. They turned on him, their ululations echoing beneath the stars, and the god, for it could be no other than Thaash himself, had dealt cut after cut with low, wicked laughter. Soon Thaash stood alone among the wild men’s corpses, breathing hard, blood slicking his bronze skin. The tribesman were grateful, but none dared approach him. None dared speak. And then Thaash turned and strode back into the night from whence he’d come.

  She spent many nights reading tales of Nalamae, youngest of all the gods, trying to understand what had happened to her on the night of Beht Ihman. She found no further mention of Nalamae’s absence, and in fact many accounts spoke of her presence that night, though few gave any details. She did find one strange tale about the destruction of her temple, though, written at a time when her worshippers had long been in decline. A priest recounted the tale of a blind girl, no older than twelve, who had come to the temple insisting she was Nalamae. She said she was being hunted, that she needed the sanctuary the temple could provide. The priest thought of sending her away, but something in her voice, the way she carried herself, even in her desperation, moved him. He took her into the temple, thinking he’d find her a place to stay on the morrow. A few hours later, the temple was shaken on its foundations and voices called from the street.

  Come, Nalamae, one voice called.

  Come, sister, called another.

  The priest walked out onto the steps of the temple and swore he saw, though he knew it to be impossible, a woman with glowing white skin standing in the street. Another woman stepped out from behind the trunk of a large olive tree. She was shorter than the first, but her skin was also pale as the moons above. Both were beautiful beyond description, and the priest stood there, breathless, when a thunderous boom shook the temple. He turned and looked up. On the dome, high above, he saw a dark form with black skin and a crown of thorns. Goezhen, he realized. Goezhen had come. He was ready to run inside, to find Nalamae and guide her to safety, when a streak of lightning flashed down from the darkened sky, and the dome itself caved in.

  How he made it through that night alive he did not say, but in the morning he found the temple ruined and Nalamae gone.

  As she had bid him, Davud also brought texts that discussed the Maidens and their customs. She hadn’t told him specifically what she was looking for, and so found herself reading general accounts of the Maidens’ daily life, their birth rituals, their death rituals, what they did each night of Beht Zha’ir and Beht Revahl and Beht Tahlell. She wasn’t getting what she needed, and eventually was forced to write Blade Maidens induction rituals on one of the notes she left for Davud, hoping he wouldn’t piece the puzzle together and confront her about her intentions, or worse, stop bringing her texts altogether. He apparently didn’t, because the next time she came, she found several dozen accounts of aspirants—daughters of the Kings, generally between the ages of fourteen and eighteen—being inducted into the House of Maidens. The stories spanned centuries, and almost without fail, the ceremonies were formal affairs, often years in the making, unless of course, a young Maiden was inducted in times of strife or war, which happened on occasion. One account told of a girl who’d fallen to the white plague a week before she was to be inducted. A replacement was found, but the ceremony was delayed three months until after the plague had burned itself out of the city. Another account told of a girl who had been chosen but stepped down so that her twin sister who, according to the girl, had the better sword arm, could take her place. Seeing this selfless act, the Kings granted both an ebon blade.

  And one more account that made Çeda sit up straight in her chair as she read it.

  A century ago, the Queen of Mirea came to Sharakhai, claiming her daughter was the blood of Kiral, the King of Kings. As part of a sweeping treaty between their two countries, the queen asked that an ebon blade be granted to her daughter. Husamettín, the King of Swords, bristled, but when Kiral himself confirmed the girl’s heritage, the girl was brought to the blooming fields, and her blood was confirmed with the prick of an adichara thorn. The girl remained in the Maidens for two decades and returned to her homeland a hero.

  Çeda read this story three times before setting it aside. She breathed deeply, the cool air in that place of learning filling her with true hope for the first time since Davud had led her down there.

  She wanted to speak to Emre about her plans and tell him what she’d learned of the poem, but she rarely saw him. She spent many days teaching swordplay to her students at the pits and many long nights in the scriptorium reading the tales Davud left for her. A few times she found Emre snoring in his bed when she returned before dawn, but she didn’t have the heart to wake him, and by the time she woke, Emre was gone. One night she decided to stay home instead of going to the collegia, but Emre didn’t come home that night or the next. After that, her anxiety over the loss of research time grew too great, and she returned to her pattern of nightly readings.

  Where are you? she wrote on a note one morning, and left it on his pillow. But then she felt silly and ripped it up into a hundred pieces.

  She stopped by Seyhan’s stall in the spice market a few times, but these were busy days. Ships were arriving from north and south, the captains trading with merchants of Sharakhai and with one another, until Beht Zha’ir was on them again. Once, when Emre saw her approaching through the crowd, he smiled and waved her closer.

  “Glad to see you back here,” Çeda said as the din of the market hid their conversation.

  “Glad to be back. Need anything?”

  “What would I need?”

  He motioned to the row after row of spices before him. “A bit of galangal. Pine nuts from Qaimir.” He raised a bag of bulbous brown tubers and grinned apishly. “Dasheen, fresh from Mirea.”

  “I don’t need roots to boil, Emre.”

  He raised his hands at her tone. “Oh, ho! I didn’t mean to offend my lady queen by offering her free goods.”

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again. “I miss you.”

  He shrugged, hands spread, as if to say he missed her too, but what could they do when the world conspired against them.

  “Where have you been?”

  “No!” This came from Seyhan, who was glowering at Emre and shooing Çeda away from the end of the stall, where five potential customers leaned over, smelling the spices. “No, no!” he said again. “You talk to your wife on your own time.”

  Emre and Çeda both rolled their eyes.

  “We’ll speak soon,” Emre said.

  Çeda nodded, sorry the moment had been missed, then wove her way through the crowd and out of the market.

  The days blurred past, with more and more rumors about Emre reaching her. Twice at the pits after her classes and once while chatting with Tehla at the bazaar, she heard he’d been running the streets with Darius, that he’d been spotted with Hamid, that he was quickly rising through the ranks of the Host by some stunt he’d pulled east of the Trough.

  Likely they were rumors blown out of proportion, but the thought still made her blood boil, and it did have the ring of truth to it. It would explain where he’d been spending all his time lately. But why now? The night of Beht Zha’ir, she’d wager. Trying to prove himself after almost get
ting himself killed. If it’s true, Emre, I’ll box your ears till they bleed. See if I don’t. He was well aware of her feelings on the Al’Afwa Khadar, which, when she thought about it a moment more, might explain his consistent absence from their home.

  It made the desire to wait for him burn even brighter, but her research was too important, and Beht Zha’ir was fast approaching. She was becoming convinced she wouldn’t see him before the holy night, which made her uncomfortable given what she was planning. Finally, only a week before Beht Zha’ir, she found herself at home with him at the end of a miserably hot day.

  He’d arrived unexpectedly with a small jar of olives in one hand, a bottle of red wine in the other. Even before the door had closed, Çeda was up gathering the lamp, two glasses, and a heel of bread left over from that morning. She joined him on the carpet in the middle of their common room and set the lamp between them. It was a childish ritual they’d been observing for years, pretending the lamp was a campfire, and they were out in the middle of the Shangazi trading stories by firelight as the wandering tribes do.

  He sat cross-legged, wearing the wide belt and baggy trousers he favored at the stall. It would occasionally allow him to drive a better bargain from the women who came to Seyhan’s stall for spices. She had to admit he looked good in it. He always had, especially with his dark eyes and that black tail of a beard.

  “Stop staring,” he said, running his hands over the scars where the tribesman’s sword had cut him. His tanned skin shone from the sweat and oil of a working day. “They’re healing fine.”

  It wasn’t your scars I was admiring. Not for the first time, she wondered what had happened after they’d lain with one another, wondered why he hadn’t wanted more. There were days when she wanted to take him into her bed—truth be told the itch was upon her, stronger than it had been in a long, long while. But there was more to worry about just now. “Are you using the salve I gave you?” she asked.

  He shrugged and popped one of the rosemary olives into his mouth. “No need.”

  “The scars will show more.”