by E. M. Hardy
“Good advice, Emira… uh…”
She snickered while shaking her head “Emira Lubna Far’eh, of the Far’eh Emirate.”
“I’m sensing a naming pattern here,” said Martin. “So you all bear the names of the emirates you rule over?”
“Normally you would be right. The creepy leech over there is Zubair el-Sattar, the Emir of Sulba,” said the emira as she pointed a finger at the tall, spindly man. “And the woman over there who has more bosom than brains is Emira Safaa Mourad of the De’em.”
“Huh. Now that you mention it, why is Zubair and Safaa named differently?”
Martin was cut off by one of the emirs she was insulting. “We will fix that in due time, though it is not your place to question such things,” hissed the other woman, Emira Safaa. “It is just a matter of hunting down those who ruled before us and parading their heads on pikes, establishing our rightful authority over our newly-acquired lands.”
The big one, Emir Haafil, grunted. “You are looking at two usurpers, clay man. Their predecessors did not see the writing on the wall and defied the cartels. These pups are far feebler and weaker than the men and women they replaced.” He waved a meaty hand in the air. “They would be easy prey for my own forces if it weren’t for these bastards pulling all our strings,” he said as he thumbed the ‘advisor’ standing behind him.
“That would be enough, Emir. No need to teach our guest more than he needs to know.” The other emirs went stiff at the words of the previously-silent ‘advisor.’
“See?” grumbled the big man. “Me, ruler of the proud Ramali warriors, reduced to a simpering dog whose leash is held firmly by his criminal masters.
“I said, enough!” said the ‘advisor,’ gritting his teeth while moving disturbingly close to the emir.
“Oh, put away that needle, you sensitive child. You have me and my emirate by the balls already, so at least let me grumble as much as I want.”
Martin didn’t know whether to stab or hug the man. He was as annoying as a flea biting your ankles yet was providing a wealth of information that told him a lot about what was going on.
“You people still haven’t answered my question though,” said Martin. “Why’d you call this meeting?”
“We see that you are not one for games,” said another ‘advisor.’ She was the one standing behind Emira Lubna, and approached Martin while taking off her veil. “Very well. I shall reciprocate in kind, and will be frank with you: we, the League of Merchants, want to form an alliance with you.”
That got the full attention of all the emirs seated at the conference.
“What!?”
“You CANNOT be serious!!”
“This was not part of our original agreement!”
“Why not?”
All heads turned toward the owner of the voice. It was none other than Emira Lubna Far’eh, the woman who had been the least abusive to Martin’s walker. “He seems like a decent enough fellow. Besides, his forces would be useful in our siege of Ma’an. Better his clay men than our flesh and blood.” And just like that, Martin’s improved appraisal of the woman went back to zero.
“Gee, thanks for the glowing recommendation. I can hardly contain my joy,” deadpanned Martin, stopping himself from saying anything more lest he made life more difficult for himself. At least the other emirs weren’t protesting loudly anymore.
The spokeswoman of the cartels—of the League of Merchants—stepped in before the discussion went the wrong way again. “Please, Master Martin, hear our offer out before you make your decision.”
It was Martin’s turn to be surprised. “Wait a second… I don’t recall giving you my name.”
“You didn’t,” said the spokeswoman, giving him a thin smile. “We have many eyes and ears within the various emirates. Though Emir Rifaah does his best to defy us, not all of his people share his delusions of grandeur. More importantly though, we think that it would best serve your interests to work with us in the League of Merchants.”
“Oh? How so?”
“By uniting the Bashri under one banner, we will stand a better chance of facing these invaders you so desperately fear.”
Martin looked long and hard at the woman, despite having no eyes. The eyeballs floating up in the air focused on that woman and her fellow members, whose veiled faces turned toward the woman.
“What’s your name? I would offer mine first, but you seem to have beaten me to the punch.”
“Isin, at your service, Master Martin.”
“Isin. Right. So, Isin, since your spies have been telling you so much already, you must already know that I’ve struck a deal with the Ma’an.”
“Yes,” she said as she nodded, “we are aware of this alliance. But think about it, Master Martin. The Ma’an occupy just one small corner of the Bashri. Granted, it is a very good corner of the Bashri, rich with food and precious stones. However, we have managed to secure a good number of emirates under our cause. The Grand Emirs you see before you have joined forces with us, and together we stand to achieve that which only few have dared to dream of: unification.
“We will have a brighter future,” added Isin, her eyes going wide with ambition. “The riches of Ma’an will help build that future, from its diamond mines and rich fishing grounds to a steady flow of fresh, clean water from the Hayawiya River. The prosperity of Ma’an will be shared among the other emirates, bringing us into a golden age of peace and prosperity.”
Martin nodded, appearing convinced to all that saw him. The advisors grinned beneath their veils, while the two cartel-backed emirs smiled. However, Martin noted that Emir Haafil and Emira Lubna did not join in the cheer. In fact, Haafil downright scowled at Isin, his grimace telling Martin that something funny was up. Isin was about to launch into another monologue about the wonders of the Merchant League when Martin’s walker held up a palm to stall her.
“And what of the people you press into service? The slaves?”
That caught Isin by surprise. “The slaves?” Her surprise did not last long though, as she nodded slowly and looked into the faceless head of Martin’s walker. “Those who cannot serve in a capable fashion will be made useful. The weak shall serve the strong, so that we will all grow strong together. That applies to all of us, even the emirs before you.” She gestured to the rulers laid out behind her. “They know their people, and their people know them. If they are willing to work with us, then we will support them. You have seen them quarrelling, and they would continue their petty squabbles without our firm hand to guide them,” she said, the disdain clear in her voice. Martin looked over the emirs for their reaction, and they all wore thin frowns on their faces—even Safaa and Zubair, the emirs directly backed by the League. Haafil, however, was downright livid as the cartel representative berated the emirs. “And yet despite their disunity, we have made them work together for a greater purpose. The power we wield has made this possible, and this unity will help us stand strong against the true enemy—the invaders that will inevitably come.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” spat Martin, dissatisfaction evident in his voice. “However, I also see far more than what the average man does.” Isin’s eagerness slowly melted away as Martin’s voice went down a notch to an almost dangerous growl.
“I see threats and coercion, not unity and cooperation between leaders.”
Martin’s walker kept its eyes on Isin as he spoke, but an eyeball up in the sky was keeping watch over the emirs. He could see Emir Haafil gripping the handles of his seat with white knuckles, an angry vein popping on the temples of his head. Behind him was his ‘advisor,’ who had moved in closer than usual. Another eyeball focused its lenses upon the scene, zooming in and revealing a long needle pointed squarely at the base of Haafil’s neck. The captive emir clearly wanted to say something, no, scream it out at the top of his lungs. This time, however, he knew that his ‘advisor’ was serious about using the poisoned needle. The League needed Isin to convince Mart
in to join their cause, and they would not brook any break in their plans.
“I see cruelty and ruthlessness, not an efficiently and productively run organization.”
Another set of eyeballs hovered over the desert, tracking a convoy trudging slowly behind the League’s coalition army. In it, he saw emaciated men and women hauling supply-laden wagons along badly damaged, poorly-maintained roads. Taskmasters walked up and down their lines, whipping those who lagged behind with cords of thick, rough rope. He saw a man drop to the ground and not get up. He was pushed to the side of the road and left for dead while the others were driven onward.
“I see fear and terror, not drive and commitment to a cause greater than one’s own death.”
Yet another set of eyeballs examined the army in front of Martin. There, in the front rows of the infantry, were poorly-dressed, poorly-equipped conscripts. Fear and trepidation oozed from their faces, gripping their weapons hard with trembling hands. They held nothing more than sticks with sharpened ends, while thin tunics clung loosely to their bodies. They had no whip-bearing taskmasters patrolling their ranks. Why would they, when they had the regulars right behind them—ready to cut them down if they even thought of running anywhere except forward. They would serve as the fodder, the meat to be ground up, so that the regulars behind could get into a better position to attack.
Martin’s walker crossed its hands and shook its head before continuing. “No. No, I do not believe that the League of Merchants really has the best interests of the Bashri in mind.”
Isin inhaled deeply, obviously controlling her anger at Martin’s words. “That is merely your opinion. You do not see things as we in the League do. However, I am a merchant at heart and I would much rather walk away from all this after striking a deal. So let me ask you, Martin, what would you like done? What would it take to secure your assistance against Ma’an? With your aid, we would be able to take it so much faster and with far less loss of life.”
Martin paused for a moment and considered her query. “I do have to agree with you on one thing, Isin: I agree that Ma’an is a wealthy nation—just not in the same way you see it.”
He had other eyeballs hovering around al-Taheri, hundreds of miles away. In it, he saw the Ma’an guards ushering people inside the bastion walls. It didn’t matter if those seeking refuge were farmers carrying hastily-harvested crops, merchants carrying wagons of goods, or empty-handed laborers bringing nothing but the clothes on their backs. Bread and water was being rationed out to them all, while a large number of healthy young men lined up near the barracks. They were going through quick and dirty lessons on how to use a spear before being pushed off to another part of the yard where they would receive more lessons on using the bow and arrow. Unlike the conscripts in the coalition army though, the people of Ma’an accepted their duties with grim but determined faces.
“I think that if I let you pass, if I let you take Ma’an, the rest of the Bashri will fall. From what I’ve seen you do to the emirs before us,” he said, nodding to the four leaders and the ‘advisors’ behind them, “you will keep them weak and separated, ensuring they will be no threat to you while you expand your control over the land. This is why you have these four squabbling emirs meet me, isn’t it? You wanted me to see four immature children sniping at me and each other while you, the ‘adults’ in the room, are there to make sure everything flows smoothly.
“However, there is a big problem with that approach, for you will rule over a bloated empire held up not by strong pillars but by feeble foundations. When the time comes, the invaders will not find a powerful, united people that can beat them back. No, they will find a clutch of weak, pliant victims that have already been sapped of strength and will.”
Martin took a moment to gather his thoughts, minimizing accusations and moving on a more constructive direction. “I don’t like what I see from you and your people, but I won’t pretend to know how to run an empire. Heck, I wouldn’t even want to even if I could. However, there is one thing I do know right now.” He turned his walker to face Isin completely, holding out his palms while doing so. “Things will get much worse if we fight.”
Martin continued on without waiting for Isin’s reply. “Let’s say that our negotiations break down, and you decide to continue your attack. Let us say that you manage to destroy every single construct right here, and you fight so efficiently that you eject my forces from the sands of the Bashri. You lay siege to Ma’an, you break the defenders, and you take control of it. What do you think will happen next?”
Isin sniffed in indignation before quickly giving her rote reply. “As I said before, the peoples of the Bashri will enter a glorious age of peace and prosperity and—”
“No you won’t,” interrupted Martin, to Isin’s growing anger. “You will just end up like the convoy carrying supplies to your army.”
Everyone froze. Isin, the emirs, the advisors behind them—they all froze.
“I am watching it right now. The slaves hauling your goods? They’ve just been hit by a bunch of mounted riders.”
Isin snarled—actually snarled—as she drew her sword at him. “All your talk of not wanting a war, of not wanting a fight, and you attack us while talks are still going on!?”
The walker shook his head. “My constructs are not behind this. Forty riders. No banners, no symbols. They are all wearing odd, mismatched armor. They have no jinn with them. They have hoods over their faces and have just finished dealing with the guards.” Its head froze in place, before Martin’s voice grunted in disgust. “They’re killing the men and children. The women, they’re—”
“Sounds like cartel goons, alright,” rumbled Emir Haafil, interrupting Martin and saving him from having to relay the horror his eyeballs were witnessing. “I’ve had enough of those bastards plaguing my lands before I capitulated to this bunch,” he added, shaking his head in disgust. Instead of threatening the outspoken emir with his needle though, that same advisor opened up his veil and gave Isin a worried glare.
“You shut up,” hissed Isin without even turning to face him. “This is nothing, this is just—”
“It is plausible,” spoke Emira Lubna, her voice low and solemn as she turned toward Martin’s walker. “The Merchants are more like us emirs than they would like to admit. They each have their own factions vying for power. I would not be surprised if one of them saw this attack on Ma’an as an opportunity to weaken the influence of Isin and the other Merchants currently ‘advising’ us on this campaign.”
“I said shut up!” growled Isin. “You!” she said, pointing to one of the generals watching over the negotiations, going right over Emir Haafil’s head. “Take your swiftest akinji and have them check the supply wagon trailing the army. Be quick about it!” The general turned to his emir. He nodded in the affirmative, and the general turned around to pass on his commands to the other officers under him.
“Be that as it may,” Martin said, “This attack I am witnessing right now is the entire reason why I cannot trust you. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but it looks like your own people are screwing you over right in the middle of an attack. I want to help the people of the Bashri stand a fighting chance against the invaders, but that won’t happen if these kinds of betrayals are the norm.”
Isin narrowed her eyes and deepened her scowl, but Martin ignored her and turned his attention to the emirs. “Is this a regular thing back in your emirates? Do the cartels, the League of Merchants, constantly stab each other in the back?”
Emir Haafil barked out a laugh, shaking his beard out in the process. “Every single day, clay man. I saw my last ‘advisor’ choke on his own vomit after downing a goblet of poisoned wine. I suspect this one was behind his downfall,” he added, tossing his head toward the advisor standing behind him. “I prefer the old one, if you ask me. This new one’s too uptight for my tastes.
“BUT!” The man shouted, clapping his thighs with his hands and standing up to face his ‘adv
isor.’ “All this talk bores me. It’s late, and I’m getting really hungry now. Call me when you’re done posturing and you need someone to bash some potheads in.” And just like that, the big man upped and left the conference. Emira Lubna chuckled, shook her head, and lazily stood up from her own couch. “Yes, these talks are beginning to wear me as well. Please, Martin, by all accounts—keep irritating Isin with your inane arguments. I’m sure the words of a clay man will reach the hearts of a League Merchant more than the words of a mere emir ever could.” She then waved her hands and turned around, leaving the conference. The two other emirs shrugged and followed suit, each returning to their respective armies.
Martin stared, flabbergasted by their abrupt departure from the negotiations. He turned back toward Isin, who grumbled quietly to herself. “Overgrown brats, the lot of them. We should have just offed them all and taken control ourselves.” Realizing that Martin’s walker was staring intently at her, she straightened up and cleared her throat while doing all she could to hide the way she was gritting her teeth. “Well, their highnesses have made their decisions. Why don’t we join them as well, hmm? At least until the riders return with their respective reports.”
***
Three hours passed before the riders made their way back at nightfall, their mounts panting and slick with sweat. Martin was surprised at just how fast the akinji could travel in the open desert, especially with the aid of the jinn that ‘pushed’ the air out of the way while giving their horses an extra shot of vitality and stamina.
During that time, Martin’s walker was left alone with Isin while the emirs and their ‘advisors’ were busy preparing their troops. He learned a great deal about the League of Merchants, about what they wanted to achieve. He also suspected that most of it was sweet talk and propaganda, the way Isin tended to gloss over more sensitive topics.
The coalition forces were still combat-ready, still preparing to advance at a moment’s notice, though they were now starting to get restless from being on alert for so long. Even the conscripts had relaxed somewhat, the tension on their faces lessened. Maybe they, like Martin, hoped that this would all blow over and they would get to go back home to their families.
