Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  It felt less painful now. In fact, it felt better than it had at any time since she’d been poisoned. She began to unwind the bandage, curious beyond reason to see the wound again, to see the tattoos surrounding it. When she unwrapped it at last, she stared at the puckered white crater where the thorn had pierced her skin. “A kiss from an adichara,” she said, holding it up for Ramahd to see. The tattoo circled the wound, but did not touch the wound itself. It crawled to the back of her thumb, covering it to just short of the nail. It was beautiful in this dim light. Hypnotic.

  She read again the words Zaïde had hidden among the tattooed vines of the adichara: The lost are now found and Bane of the unrighteous, and she realized that they might be taken several different ways. It all depended on whose point of view you had. They were important, Zaïde’s words. One day Çeda would have to ask the Matron about them, though she would need to do so with the utmost care.

  As he stared, Ramahd’s eyebrows rose. He glanced to her wrist, then her dress, then his piercing eyes met hers as the implications of her words played themselves through. “The Maidens healed you?”

  Çeda nodded.

  “Then let you go?”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t put it so.”

  “Then how would you put it?”

  “I’m to join their ranks. They’re taking me in.”

  He frowned at her wrist. “Because of that?”

  “In spite of it.”

  “Then by the gods why? What could they want from you?”

  She chose her words with care; Ramahd was too sharp of mind to do otherwise. “They feel that I’m made from the right stock.”

  “But—”

  “Enough,” Çeda interrupted. “I’ve given you plenty of answers already. We trade in the desert, yes?”

  Ramahd was still confused, but he allowed her the point, and his attempts at hiding his confusion in a smile were miserable. “As you say.”

  “What are you doing here?” Çeda asked.

  “I’m waiting for Emre.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he knows Macide. He’s been working for him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My men have been following him. In the past two weeks he was seen with Hamid Malahin’ava three different times. There may have been many more meetings between the two.” Ramahd paused. “Do you remember the albino? Ambassador Juvaan of Qaimir?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “There’s a half-Sharakhani man,” he went on, ignoring her gibe, “who works for Juvaan. His name is Ruan, and he visits a woman in the southern quarter from time to time.”

  “Visits a woman? You can just say she’s a whore.”

  Ramahd waggled his head. “She is, but she trades in more than the arts of the flesh. She provides safe places for men to meet. She transfers money and goods, not so different from Osman, but for a different clientele.”

  “And?”

  “And Ruan was seen leaving her home an hour before Emre arrived.”

  She tried not to let her discomfort show. “Emre’s friendly with many in Sharakhai. That doesn’t mean that Macide’s pulling his strings.”

  “After he left the woman’s home, he went to see a man named Samael. Do you know him?”

  “I thought Samael fled Sharakhai years ago.”

  “So did we,” he replied. “Apparently he’s returned. So, three weeks ago, an alchemyst capable of creating demon’s fire returns to the city. Emre met with him not three days ago, and tonight pots of demon fire were launched against the House of Maidens.”

  “Get to your point, Ramahd.”

  “Patience,” he countered. “There’s one last piece of the puzzle. Do you know the name of Hamzakiir?”

  Çeda’s heart went cold. “Every Sharakhani has heard of Hamzakiir, though most don’t believe him to be real.”

  “Do you believe him to be real?”

  “I do,” Çeda admitted.

  “And who do the people of Sharakhai think he was?”

  Çeda swallowed, not really wanting to share street rumors with Ramahd. “He was a blood mage,” she said, “but he died generations ago.”

  Ramahd nodded. “We believe the Kings killed him nearly eighty years ago. His grave was never located—and believe me, we tried—but now we’re convinced that Juvaan has given the location to the Moonless Host.”

  Çeda’s mind was racing. “The message I delivered . . . That canister went directly to Macide.”

  “As did the breathstone that Emre carried.”

  “And breathstones are used to speak with the dead.” By Thaash’s bright blade, what have you gotten yourself into, Emre? “You think they want some secret from Hamzakiir, some secret that was lost with his passing.”

  Ramahd had a grim expression. “I believe so.”

  Suddenly Çeda wished she had kept the breathstone, wished she could find her mother’s remains to ask her questions: Who is my father? Where are the other poems?

  Why did you leave me?

  “But why?” Çeda asked. “What does Hamzakiir know?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it? That’s why I’m here to speak with Emre. He was as much a part of the attack on the House of Maidens tonight as Macide or Hamid. As much a part of it as Juvaan, who is funneling coin, information, and more, to the Moonless Host.”

  She could see the anger building in his eyes now. To him, Emre was just as bad as Macide. “But why launch such a pointless attack against the House of Maidens?” she asked. “It set some walls on fire and scared the horses, but otherwise did little but rile them up like a swarm of bees. They’ll be buzzing about the city for months now.”

  “Perhaps that was the point.”

  “To what end?”

  “That’s what I’d like to ask Emre. Do you know where he is?”

  Even if I knew, there isn’t a beggar’s chance at the gates of Tauriyat I’d tell you. “You know,” she said easily, “that I’ve only just returned.”

  He studied her carefully as she said these words. His eyes searched her face. He even glanced at her hands. He was reading her, she realized, weighing her every move to assess if she was lying. Yet another thing she would have to be careful of in the future.

  “I’m telling you the truth.” She lifted her wounded hand. “Is this not evidence enough?”

  He sighed, and much of the suspicion in his eyes faded with that simple gesture. “Some days I no longer know what to believe. My life is filled with distrust, Çeda.”

  “Wait a moment,” Çeda said, realizing something, “if you’ve been watching him so closely, why don’t you know where he is now?”

  “He became suspicious. We lost him two days ago.”

  “And you think he’ll be back tonight?”

  He shrugged. “Who can tell? I thought after the attack he might return to a show of normality, if only to keep suspicions from landing on him. After tonight, the Maidens will be asking questions across every threshold in the city.”

  Çeda nodded. “True, but that could just as easily drive Emre into hiding. He’s run afoul of those in power before.”

  “Caught stealing?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “Well, occasionally. He’s stolen enough in his life. But when he was young, he lost his brother to a caravan tough.” Çeda could still see Emre running down the Haddah, Saadet chasing him. “Emre went to the Silver Spears after, and they laughed at him. They laughed. Said to him, what did he expect? It just so happens that caravan was one of the richest from Malasan, and they’d paid the Silver Spears for a bit of freedom from local troubles. It might have been why the bravo was so angry to be stolen from. He felt entitled here, as if he owned the city. And he surely felt entitled when he went looking for retribution.”

  Ramahd was silent for a time. “My tears for hi
s loss. I know what it’s like.”

  “You know what it’s like to lose the ones you love,” Çeda allowed, “but you have no idea what it’s like to live on the streets of Sharakhai, especially as a child. Emre saved me when I was young. When my mother died, he kept me from throwing myself at the walls of Tauriyat and getting myself killed for it. He put food in our bellies. He made me laugh when my heart was filled with salt. I owe him much, and I tell you this: he is a good man. He deserves more than to have some lord from Qaimir steal into his home and question his honor.”

  “So what would you have me do?”

  “Leave Emre to me. Let me speak with him. I’ll find out what’s happening, and I’ll share with you what I learn.” It was all she could think of to save Emre from a beating, or worse.

  “And if he’s with Macide?”

  Çeda swallowed. “I’ll tell you that as well. I swear it, Ramahd.”

  He looked into her eyes, then glanced to the door, the shuttered window. A great clattering of horse hooves could be heard in the distance, riders throughout the city streets. Somewhere a woman cried out, followed by the shout of a man, a short clash of steel. The Maidens were not close yet, but who knew where they might be headed? “Very well,” Ramahd finally said. “I’ll wait, if you’ll do for me one thing.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “You’ll be presented to the Kings soon, will you not?”

  “I will,” she admitted.

  “It will be a formal affair, so that the Kings can get a good look at you, so they can choose you for their service if they wish.”

  “But I’ve already been chosen.”

  Ramahd’s head jerked back, his shock clear. “By whom?”

  “The Jade-eyed King.”

  He stared at her, clearly waiting for some stronger reaction. “Do you really not know?”

  “Know what?”

  “King Yusam chooses very few Maidens, Çeda, none in the years I’ve been coming to Sharakhai as my Lord King’s emissary.”

  “And how long is that?”

  “Seven years now. And he’s chosen none for many years before, if what I’ve heard is true. He doesn’t like people getting close to him. So why now? Why you?”

  She felt so woefully unprepared to return to the House of Maidens, and this was only more proof of it. She knew so little about life inside those walls. “I have no idea,” she finally said.

  The look of shock on his face faded, but there was still a curious look in his eyes, as if Çeda were some Kundhuni puzzle box to be solved. “No matter.” He seemed to come to some decision, for he took in a sharp breath and smiled at her. “There’s a good chance Juvaan will be invited to the feast being held in your honor. There’s a good chance I will as well. If we are, would you join me in a conversation with him?”

  “That’s all? A conversation with Juvaan?”

  “Don’t you wish to know more about him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, so do I. I’ve never met him. Well, beyond a quick introduction here or there. We’ve never spoken in depth, and I’d like to rectify that.”

  “So meet him and talk to him yourself. It’s called conversation, Ramahd. It happens at parties.”

  “I could, but he’s a particular man, and Mirea and Qaimir have never been fast friends. But he’s an avid admirer of the pits.” Ramahd paused. “Admirer isn’t nearly a strong enough word. He’s a devotee. If he knew you were the one I fought...”

  Çeda stared. “You want me to reveal that I’m the White Wolf?”

  Ramahd shrugged. “It’s a small token that could gain you much.”

  “That’s no small token! And you and your king stand to gain as much as I, or more.”

  “True, we stand to gain, but don’t tell me you aren’t curious. Besides, is the White Wolf likely ever to make another appearance in the pits? Her identity is a currency in high regard right now, but that will change when she disappears. Memory of her will fade, and you will have wasted your chance.”

  It was true. She wanted very much to know more about Juvaan than she did at present. Anyone supplying the Moonless Host was someone she wanted to know more of. And Juvaan was no man of modest means. His connection to the Queen of Mirea gave hint to a much deeper story. But to give up the identity she’d worked so hard to keep secret? “I’ll think on it.”

  “A fair enough response.” In one fluid motion he rose to his feet. “Be well Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala.”

  “Goodbye,” she replied, though some small part of her wished he would stay.

  Perhaps he sensed that desire, for he moved to the door with a pace that spoke of reluctance. His hand strayed toward the handle, stopping just short of touching it. He turned his head toward her, looking as though he were about to say something, but then his eyes wandered to the doorway to Emre’s room, and everything changed. The diffident look on his face vanished, and he opened the door without another word.

  He was gone, while deeper in the city, horse’s hooves and the cries of the accused filled the night.

  “UP.”

  Emre opened his eyes. “What?”

  “Get up.”

  He sat up on the small pallet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He had no idea who’d spoken. He thought it might have been Çeda. The room was packed with other sleeping men and women, and a woman stood not far away. She looked like Çeda.

  But no, it wasn’t her. Of course it wasn’t. Çeda was dead, killed by the Maidens or by Dardzada. Or perhaps he, himself, was to blame. He’d let her go when he knew very well he should have fought harder to keep her home.

  “Time for food,” the woman said.

  She was Nirendra, he finally realized, the woman who owned this shit room on this shit alley on the backside of the Shallows. Around the room were a dozen more narrow pallets and reed mats with men and women snoring upon them. It smelled in this place. Of unwashed bodies. Of piss and shit. It was late in the day. Orange sunlight spilled in through the blanket-covered window and around the ill-fitting door. The noise of the cramped Shallows was forcing its way in like an unwelcome guest. Most in the slums were preparing their final meal, a bit of song or a bit of talk before readying for bed, but not in the house where Emre had been hidden away. It was not filled with daytime laborers; this was a crew that plied their trade by moonlight.

  Nirendra was a drawn old woman who Emre suspected was once much larger from the way the skin sagged along her neck and arms. She was bent over an iron pot set into the embers of a cook fire. She looked nothing like Çeda. Why had he even thought that? After scooping a helping of rice and peas into a wooden bowl, she limped over to Emre and held it out with a shaking hand.

  Emre was hungry—ravenous, in fact—but he shook his head. “You take it.”

  She shook it at him, staring with those haunted eyes of hers. “I’ve had mine.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Her face hardened. “Fuck your mother and fuck your pity.” She tossed the bowl into his lap, rice and peas and parsley spraying over his blanket. “You’ve a long night ahead. Eat.”

  Emre collected it back into the bowl and began shoveling it into his mouth with his fingers.

  “When will they come?”

  She seemed to measure the light as she glanced toward the window. “Shortly, I expect.”

  Indeed, as Emre was finishing his rice—a meal that tasted much better than it had any right to—Darius entered without knocking. As his eyes adjusted, he spotted Emre. “Ready?”

  “As I will be.” Emre stood and headed for the door, handing the bowl to Nirendra on the way. “Thanks,” he said. Her only reply was to grunt and set the bowl on a stack of others near the pot.

  With deep shadows darkening the alleys, Darius led Emre east through the Shallows. After several turns they came to an intersection where six narrow stre
ets met. Darius whistled, and a few moments later, Hamid appeared from one of them. He nodded to Darius and Emre, and the three of them wound their way toward the heart of Sharakhai, where they walked in silence to the rear of a tiny teahouse near the Trough and, without announcing themselves, entered a small kitchen.

  A Mirean man with a paunch and a mustache that hung like damp moss looked up from the platter of tea cups he was preparing. He nodded to the three of them. Emre nodded back, but he’d already returned his attention to the tea. Darius led the way down a cramped set of stairs into a cellar while the sounds from above—the beat from a pair of tambours, a group of old women laughing and hooting, the clatter of teacups—dwindled.

  Hamid and Darius pulled a stack of tea crates away from the wall, revealing a cleverly designed stone door that hinged inward when Hamid pushed at it. It was a tight fit, but Hamid, then Emre, then Darius, made their way through it and into a narrow tunnel, even tighter than the cellar stairs. Their footsteps made an odd, shuffling chorus as their shadows danced in the light of Hamid’s swinging lantern. Beetles skittered along a damp section of wall, but the air was bone dry and chill as they navigated connecting tunnels, climbed down stairs, and treaded along slow declines.

  “You suppose it’s safe to tell him now?” Hamid asked Darius.

  “Might be better to wait until after,” Darius replied. “We don’t want him all moon-eyed before he speaks to Macide.”

  “Perhaps that’s exactly what we want,” Hamid shot back.

  Emre looked between them. “Tell me what?”

  “Three nights past, a certain young woman was spotted returning to your home a mere half turn after the attack on the House of Maidens began.”

  A certain young woman? A thousand thoughts fought to be spoken, but what came out of his mouth was, “Çeda’s alive?”

  “Apparently,” Hamid replied, “though she returned to the House of Maidens the morning after.”

  Emre hardly heard his reply. His whole body was tingling with a strange mixture of joy and the desire to rein his hopes in. He’d been so certain she was dead. He felt a pang of regret immediately after—he’d helped in the attack on the House of Maidens; what if she’d been hurt? But whatever small regret he might be feeling was soon overcome by the relief that filled him at the thought of her living and breathing.