Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Dardzada stared with blood on his face and shame in his eyes. Shame. From Dardzada.

  “At least tell me why you did it,” Emre snapped.

  “I owe you nothing. You least of all, who led her away from a proper life every chance you could.”

  He wanted to punch the fat apothecary again, make him feel the same pain he was feeling, but the urge soon waned, and he found himself standing and extending an arm to Dardzada.

  After a moment’s pause, Dardzada took his offered hand, and Emre hauled him up.

  “Please, tell me. I have to know what happened to her.”

  Dardzada cast his gaze about, but just then he seemed to be fresh out of biting replies. His lips began to quiver, and he blinked away fresh tears. “She came to me touched by adichara poison. She’d planned on going to them. I couldn’t heal it, and Çeda knew. No one but the Maidens can heal such a wound. They were her only chance.”

  Emre walked past him. “Then she had no chance at all.” He stopped at the door leading from the garden and looked back. “You should have sent word to me. Better she had died in a place of peace, surrounded by friends. Even your home would have been better than the house of her enemies.”

  Dardzada said nothing. He stared at the wreckage of his prized garden and began ordering the trampled leaves, trying to salvage as much as he could. Emre left him like that, tending to the plants that provided for his livelihood. He could choke on them for all Emre cared.

  As he stepped back onto Floret Row, the street outside Dardzada’s apothecary, a dozen small girls and a few boys trailing behind sprinted along, chasing barrel rings with sticks. When they’d passed, Emre realized someone was watching him from the shadows across the street. He walked to the arched alleyway. “Hello, Hamid.”

  Hamid didn’t smile. Nor did he frown. He merely took Emre in, his sleepy eyes noting the fresh scrapes and welts on his arms and neck and face. “Business?”

  “Of a sort.”

  Hamid’s only reply was a nod, as if he’d conducted the same sort of business himself from time to time. “We’ve more business to attend to, if you’re ready.”

  “Of course I’m ready,” Emre snapped.

  “Easy,” Hamid said. “Stop trying to prove yourself every moment of the day. You did well the other week. Zohra told you the truth. We’ve confirmed that Vesdi is indeed Külasan’s son.”

  Emre hoped Lady Zohra was in better hands. He’d done as he’d promised: sent word to the Four Arrows. It felt strange to have any sympathy for those who aided the Kings, but there it was, and what crime had Lady Zohra committed anyway, other than bringing babes into the world?

  Hamid had been furious with Emre after he’d heard the story. He’d been convinced the information was wrong, that the records still existed and he’d simply not searched thoroughly enough, but, having nothing else to go on, they’d sent men to watch Vesdi, to see if their one lead might work out.

  “You’re sure?” Emre asked him.

  Hamid pushed himself off the wall. “Come with me.”

  Emre fell into step alongside him, and together they traveled northeast, deeper into the heart of the most affluent section of the city. The ground rose gradually as they entered Goldenhill, where the tight buildings of Old Sharakhai gave way to newer estates with tall walls. It was an area where the rich hired private guards to patrol the streets. They passed a few with bright swords at their belts, steel breastplates and half-helms, but Hamid merely bowed his head to them and kept on walking. Emre did the same, trying to appear as nonchalant as Hamid, but he felt the fool. Not just a fool, but an interloper; he always did when he found himself walking these streets. “Why are we here?”

  “All in good time . . .” He glanced sidelong at Emre with a wry smile on his face. “You always were anxious.”

  “And you were always shy.”

  “I’m not shy anymore, Emre.”

  “I know,” Emre replied.

  It was true. Hamid had changed deeply. He was still quiet, but not because he was afraid to speak. It came from a confidence that radiated from him like warmth from sunbaked stones in the cool hours of the night.

  They came to an open space, a square where a stone-lined well sat beneath the reaching boughs of an ancient fig tree. The tree’s blade-like roots were twisted and gnarled, some of them raising the cobbles surrounding the tree. From somewhere nearby came the sounds of industry—hammers and saws and men calling to one another. Hamid plucked a fig from one of the low-hanging branches. He took a bite from it as he sat on the stones circling the mouth of the well. Fig in hand, he pointed to an estate on a hill in the distance. “There.”

  Emre looked up at it. He’d seen it before, but had no idea who it belonged to. It was one of the largest in Sharakhai, practically a palace in its own right. “That’s his?”

  Without taking his eyes from it, Hamid nodded. “His men are good. Attentive and well trained. Everyone, inside and out, is chosen by his captain of the guard. He’s very careful. It won’t be easy to take him.”

  “What do you want with Vesdi?”

  Hamid took another bite, and looked Emre up and down before swinging his gaze back to the sprawling estate. “The Kings hide their children’s identities from the world. This you know. They also bestow gifts. All one need do is find them.”

  “And Vesdi’s? What was his?”

  “Two nights ago we sent a woman into his home. She’s a wonder, is Irem. I swear to you, Emre, she could steal the hooves from a goat. She reached his study on the topmost floor, and found this in a safe hidden in the wall.”

  With his free hand he reached into his thawb and pulled out a gold medallion.

  “What is it?”

  “A seal.” He tossed it to Emre. “Few in Sharakhai know of them. There are twelve, and twelve only, and they are given to the first-born of each of the Kings. If a King dies, the lone bearer of this seal will come forth to take the father’s throne.”

  “So a woman could rise to the rank of queen?”

  Hamid shrugged. “The Kannan ranks men and woman equally, so yes, but in the history of the Kings it’s been a distinction without a difference. The Kings still live. Men still sit the thrones of Sharakhai.”

  Emre inspected the golden seal. It was beautiful and intricate, with tiny gemstones embedded in its surface. “Can it be forged?”

  Hamid shrugged. “Who knows? Doubtful, though. Macide suspects the seal would be verified somehow. Those gemstones are set oddly. Perhaps they reflect light just so, in a pattern known only to its maker and to the Kings themselves. Set them improperly, and it would be obvious that it was forged.”

  Emre ran his fingers over the design—which looked like one of the ancient tattoos from the wandering tribes—then handed it back to Hamid, who returned it to its pocket.

  “Won’t Vesdi miss it?” Emre asked.

  “Doubtful.” Hamid tossed the remains of the fig to the base of the tree. “He likely received it the day he was born. I doubt he’s looked at it more than a handful of times in his life.”

  The clop of hooves mixed with the sound of hammering, and soon two guardsmen riding akhala horses with bright, almost metallic ivory coats approached them from across the square. The horsetails on the top of their helms flowed as they rode. Each bore shamshirs and placed their hands on the hilts as they rode near.

  “What business?” the nearest of them asked while the other guided his horse to the other side of them.

  “None of yours,” Hamid said.

  “Ah, but yours is my business when you walk the streets of Goldenhill.” The guardsman drew his sword. “So tell me, or we’ll have more than words.”

  “He’s a tough one,” Hamid said to Emre. “Thinks with a horse and a blade he’s better than us.”

  The guardsman spurred his horse closer. Then he dug his heels against the horse’s ba
rrel sides and tugged sharply on the reins, calling, “Hup!” The horse reared, its front hooves clawing the air like a desert cat.

  Hamid was forced to back away, but the other guardsman cut off his retreat.

  “On your way, river trash,” the second one said.

  Hamid looked up at them with a deadly smile. “Well enough,” he said, and jutted his chin to the street he and Emre had come from.

  The guardsmen followed them until they were near the center of the city, at which point they peeled away and headed back toward Goldenhill.

  “We’ll need a diversion,” Hamid said as though nothing had happened. When they reached the Trough and turned right, following the flow of traffic heading north, the sounds of the city enveloped them, a welcome change from the strange silence in Goldenhill.

  “What sort of diversion?” Emre asked.

  “One so large even the gods couldn’t ignore it.”

  “Can I help?”

  Hamid said nothing as they came to the Wheel, the massive circle where not only the Spear and the Trough met, but Coffer Street and Hazghad Road as well. Hundreds of people moved through here with carts, horses, drays, arabas, and wagons of all description, singly and in lines as long as the caravans of old, bringing goods to and from the ships at the harbors, or ferrying them across the city. As Hamid guided them east, the roar of the city washed over them—the braying and shouts and laughter audible above it all. He stopped the moment the Spear brought them within view of the wall surrounding Tauriyat and the House of Maidens. He looked at it pointedly, fixing his gaze on the walls as if he could tear them down with thought alone. Pulling Emre closer, he leaned in close and said, “I don’t know, Emre. Can you?”

  The diversion. They meant to do something here, to target the House of Maidens.

  Emre’s first thought was of Çeda. She might still be inside. She might be harmed by any attack.

  But it was, at best, a fleeting hope. He knew he was fooling himself with such thoughts. She was gone; either killed by the Maidens for trespassing on holy ground, or fallen from the touch of the poison. There was no way she had survived both.

  As he stared at those walls, a burning desire to harm the Maidens, to inflict pain on them, stole over him. “Just tell me what to do.”

  Hamid turned Emre toward him and stared intently into Emre’s eyes. His serious expression faded, and a look of pride lit his face. “There’s a man I wish you to speak to, Emre. That’ll be the first step.”

  “What sort of man?”

  “An alchemyst.”

  “And what do we need an alchemyst for?”

  “Have you ever heard of demon’s fire?”

  “No, but if you’re planning to use it against the House of Maidens, I’m your man.”

  A laugh burst from Hamid, as it had when they were young; a spontaneous surge of emotion that once was infectious but now felt wrong, like an old man laughing into an empty teacup. “Very good, Emre.” He clapped Emre on the shoulder and turned him back toward the Wheel. “Very good.”

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER . . .

  ON ÇEDA’S FOURTEENTH BIRTHDAY, Emre took her to the pits to see Djaga, the Lion of Kundhun, face a woman who, it was said, was Qaimiri royalty. Indeed, Djaga’s opponent was announced as Lady Kialiss of Almadan, which made the crowd all the more eager to see how the fight would play out. They were quite the pair, these two dirt dogs, tall Djaga with her closely cropped, red-tinged hair and crisscross of scars over ebony skin, and Kialiss with her compact frame, honey-colored hair, and bone white skin without a single scar.

  “Four sylval on Kialiss,” Emre said as the swell of betting rose around them.

  “How could a dirty wren like you have found four silver coins to rub together?” Çeda asked.

  Emre shrugged. “They were in the street, lost without their mother. I thought I’d give them a proper home.”

  “Well, don’t put them on the Qaimiri. Djaga’s too good.”

  “That may be, but I’ll only win one sylval if I place them on Djaga, whereas the Qaimiri will gain me ten.”

  “That’s a fool’s bet if I ever heard one.”

  “You know so much, do you? Your bloody Djaga never loses?”

  “She hasn’t yet,” Çeda shot back, “and she won’t today.”

  “Oh ho! Then why don’t we bet? Even money, the Lady against the Lion.”

  “Now I know you’re a fool, but your little lost orphans will be more than glad to join their silver sisters in my purse.”

  Emre merely smiled and waved to a boy selling bright paper cones filled with sugared almonds. “Two!” he called, and tossed a copper khet. With practiced ease the boy snatched it from the air, dropped it into the thick purse strapped tightly to his belt and lobbed two packets Emre’s way. They dropped right into his waiting hands.

  Çeda accepted one of the packets and began crunching on the lavender honey almonds while Djaga and Kialiss faced one another in the pit below. Djaga, as she always did before a bout, stared hard into her opponent’s eyes, arms akimbo, nostrils flared and lips pulled back like an animal ready to defend its life. This was no act. Çeda had seen Djaga fight often enough to know that in Djaga’s mind the fight had already begun. Igniting the will to fight, the hunger to win was but one of the steps in her methodical preparations that allowed her to fight with such wild abandon.

  Kialiss ignored Djaga, perhaps hoping to put her off-balance. She looked to the crowd instead, swaying her arms, loosening her muscles. Her braided hair swung as she did so. “Look,” Çeda said, tapping Emre on the arm and pointing to Kialiss’s blond hair, which glinted like diamonds as it swayed back and forth. “she’s woven metal into her hair.”

  Emre’s eyes went wide in wonder. “That’s bloody brilliant!”

  “We’ll see how brilliant you think it is when she’s eating dirt off Djaga’s shoes.”

  Pelam stepped between them with his gong and rang it to start the bout. It was quickly apparent how good Kialiss was. She was fast and precise, and she used her compact body to good effect, anchoring from her stance, powering each swing with hips and torso, not just her upper body. She rained a series of tight thrusts from her spear into Djaga’s center, forcing the Lion to back up.

  Emre smiled as the crowd pumped their fists, screaming for Djaga to answer the onslaught, but Djaga, at least for now, was at a disadvantage. And in mere moments it grew worse. In a blurring series of moves, Kialiss stepped in and managed to rip Djaga’s shield away, but at least Djaga snuck in a shallow cut along her opponent’s side. When the fighters parted, blood streaking the Qaimiri’s white skin, the crowd screamed for Djaga to draw more.

  Çeda rarely joined in with the crowd. Even now she was silent, despite favoring Djaga, despite almost everyone in the stands willing Djaga to win.

  “A fool, am I?” Emre asked, crunching his almonds loudly in her ear.

  “Begone, foul beast.” She shoved him away with her shoulder, never taking her eyes from the action. She loved watching the fighters’ styles, picking up moves they used and trying them when she practiced with Emre or Tariq.

  The two fighters were clearly tiring, but they put everything they had into each thrust, each block, each advance, each retreat. She grew more impressed with the Lady with each passing moment. Djaga worked a series of moves meant to goad Kialiss into overextending with her spear, and she nearly did several times. Djaga made the mistake of reaching for the haft at one point, giving an insight into her strategy. She needed to take away the Qaimir’s greatest advantage: the greater reach of her weapon.

  Çeda wondered if Kialiss really was a lady in her homeland. It wasn’t uncommon for nobility to fight, particularly those from Qaimir, who fancied themselves skilled with sword and shield. And they were skilled. They’d proven it time and time again.

  The Lady swooped in, thrusting, then brought the butt of her
spear around, which Djaga blocked with her sword while skipping back along the pit wall. Their chests heaved, sweat and blood slicking their muscled skin. The crowd was on their feet now, and for a few moments, Çeda lost sight of them as the large man sitting in front of her leapt up. Everyone was cheering, some grabbing the ones next to them in their excitement.

  Çeda stood on her seat and saw Djaga stagger backward. Kialiss ran forward, thrusting the spearhead toward Djaga’s chest, hoping to press the advantage. Djaga barely managed to dodge it, and she reached for the haft again. And then Çeda saw a wondrous thing, a thing that would stay with her through all her days.

  The Lady was ready for Djaga. She snapped the spear sideways, hoping to slice Djaga’s forearms, but Djaga’s countermove was already in motion. She had stopped her retreat just before Kialiss’s blinding countermove, so the spear missed its mark, Djaga dropping her arm just as she was charging forward. Kialiss tried to hold her center by bringing the spear back in line, but Djaga beat it away with her sword and drove into Kialiss’s midsection. Djaga dropped her sword in the process, lifted Kialiss off the ground and bulled forward, building speed before dropping her opponent against the ground, her body itself like a spear, her shoulder driving down into Kialiss’s midsection.

  Kialiss tried to fight back, but Djaga was on top of her, slamming her fists down into the Qaimiri’s head over and over again.

  Pelam, the master of the game, ran forward and struck his brass gong when he saw Kialiss go limp, but Djaga ignored him, continuing to pound the Lady of Almadan until one of the pit’s burly enforcers dropped down and forcibly pulled her off.

  The crowd roared like lions. They stomped their feet, an ancient desert custom, once done by warriors before battle begins but now used as a way to urge the dirt dogs on. Djaga was not Sharakhani, but she’d been in the city long enough for the people to love her and respect the way she fought. As the pit devolved into a rousing chant—Djaga, Djaga, Djaga—Çeda watched the Lion. She stood in the center of the pit, breath still coming in great gasps, her face a mask of fury. She’d baited Kialiss into making that mistake. The pits weren’t about fighting. Not really. They were about playing your opponents better than they played you. Like pieces laid out on an aban board, moves were rarely what they seemed, not if one hid her intent well enough.