A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “What?”

  “You don’t know where the ritual was held.”

  “I do know. I’ve seen it, Dardzada. That day in your apothecary, when I fought Macide, I was overwhelmed by the asir, Havva, and I saw the gods standing on a plateau near the very top of the mountain.”

  He could hardly hold her gaze. When he spoke again, his words were tentative but caring, the sort a parent might use after finally deciding to give a child more freedom. “You’ll be able to find it by moonlight?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  Dardzada became fixated by the fire. “You’ll take care?”

  “Of course. As much as I’m able.”

  He blinked and drew breath sharply through his nostrils. “Very well, then.”

  Çeda’s lips curled into a smile as she set about the business of boiling water for rice. “Dardzada, did you just agree with me?”

  He shrugged as another peel flew. “It’s important, what you’re doing. I see no reason not to find out, one way or another, if you’re right.” He rushed on before she could say anything to embarrass him. “What about the asirim?”

  “That’s a bit trickier. Unless the Kings work actively against me, I’m certain I can bond with several asirim, perhaps as many as five or six. I might even be able to draw them into the desert. The pressure on Kerim diminished the further he got from the blooming fields.”

  Dardzada lifted his head, his knife held steady. “You could maintain such a bond for months?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Even so, the pressure on Kerim, as you call it, was hardly minimal.”

  “Granted. It will likely prevent us from unleashing them against Sharakhai directly, but it may be enough to keep them by our side far out in the desert. They could help to protect us as we rebuild, and we could learn, hopefully find a way to free them.”

  “Still, five or six . . .” He picked up another cactus leaf, the last for their meal, and set to peeling it. “It’s hardly inspiring.”

  “I know. The permanent solution may only be found when the Kings are dead, but there might be another way. Sehid-Alaz. I think there is a bond between him and the other asirim.”

  Dardzada considered. “You mean all the other asirim.”

  “Yes.”

  “You think he’s still alive?”

  “I’m certain of it. Through Kerim, I felt him, though the link to him was thin as spider silk. It’s another reason I want to speak with more of the asirim. If we can learn more, and if we can find Sehid-Alaz and take him with us, speak to him, we may find a way.”

  “It’s a lot to do, Çeda.” Done peeling, he began cutting long, thick slices off the white, edible cactus leaf. He handed one to Çeda. She took a large bite. The mildly sweet meat crunched in her mouth like a juicy melon.

  Beht Zha’ir was less than a week away. She would try to find the trove that night and on her way out steal into the House of Maidens to speak to Melis. If all went well, she and Dardzada might be able to travel to the blooming fields and bond with some of the asirim. It would be a good night to do it, she reckoned. Their anger was upon them then, and they might be better able to use it to throw off their yokes.

  “Don’t worry,” she told Dardzada. “I’m not setting my sights too high. My only hope for Sehid-Alaz is to locate him. We can make plans to return another time and free him.”

  As they ate their simple meal, passing a water skin back and forth, Dardzada frowned. He opened his mouth, stopped, and then said, “How will you get into the House of Kings?”

  She had the impression that wasn’t what he’d been about to say, but she let it go. “Through the tunnels.”

  Dardzada nodded, lost in thought.

  “Is there an apothecary in the city we can trust?” she asked, partly to gauge his reaction.

  He turned sharply toward her, his face a mixture of feigned and genuine shock. “What am I, minced goat?”

  Çeda laughed. “Components, Dardzada. We need components so you can make me something. Is there someone you trust?”

  The firelight played over his round features as he considered. “Make you something? What does that mean?”

  She began to catalog what she would need to get into the House of Maidens—and out again as well, especially if things turned bad. But she could tell that Dardzada was only half listening.

  She stopped halfway through and waited for him to take notice of her. “What is it you’re not saying?”

  “Sehid-Alaz . . . You seem to think that freeing him will somehow free the other asirim.”

  “I said that it could lead to freeing them.”

  “Yes. Well, you also said that you thought the asirim might not be freed until the Kings lay dead.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Have you not considered that for the asirim to be freed, Sehid-Alaz himself might have to die?”

  She wanted to laugh, but the dead serious look on his face prevented it. Her mind wandered to all she knew about the King of the thirteenth tribe. He was taken like the other asirim, but there had been a power in him unlike the others. Over the centuries he’d found a way around the spell of silence the gods placed on him. He’d spoken to those with blood of the thirteenth tribe, hoping that one of them might find a way to kill King Mesut. He’d stood against the Kings on the Night of Endless Swords. He’d disobeyed their commands. Any other asirim would have been killed. Why not Sehid-Alaz? Why would the Kings show restraint? Why not kill him and be done with the problems he presented?

  Çeda’s bowl lowered into her lap as a terrible shiver ran down her frame. “Oh, gods . . .”

  The poem. The one she’d heard from Sehid-Alaz’s own mouth. How could she have forgotten?

  Rest will he,

  ’Neath twisted tree,

  ’Til death by scion’s hand.

  By Nalamae’s tears,

  And godly fears,

  Shall kindred reach dark land.

  She recited it aloud. Dardzada remained silent after, his eyes sparkling in the firelight, his body still as stone. The realization was beginning to settle in him, the same as it had for her—the realization that after all the King of the thirteenth tribe had done for her, she may have to kill him to free the rest.

  Chapter 26

  EMRE WATCHED THE SKIFF SAIL AWAY—Dardzada sitting at the tiller, Çeda working the sail.

  “You like her, Emre?” Frail Lemi asked as he trudged up behind him.

  “Sure I like her.”

  Frail Lemi pursed his lips as he considered the skiff’s dwindling form. “Should’ve told her, then.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “I know I’m right. She’d be good for you.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’d be good for her.”

  “Nah, you would.” With a nod, as if he’d never been more sure of anything in his life, he pulled Emre in and kissed the top of his head, much like Frail Lemi’s waif of a mother did to her massive son each time he left her home. “You would.”

  A whistle made them both turn. Beyond many of the largest standing stones, Hamid was waving to them from the deck of a small cutter. Macide stood behind him, barking orders as the ship prepared to set sail.

  “Time to go, Lem.”

  “Time to go.”

  Soon they were off, a small delegation sailing east on the cutter, Drifting Sun. They passed beyond the standing stones and over open sand as the bulk of the tribe’s ships turned south.

  Several times a day Macide’s nephew, a skinny boy with closely shorn hair and big ears, would send up a falcon, a gorgeous bird of mottled brown with a tan belly and auburn markings behind its eyes.

  “Looks like it’s painted for war,” Emre said jokingly to him one day.

  “It is,” the boy shot back, his face stone serious. He caught Emre’s wry smile, and
went on. “Thaash himself kissed the egg that hatched him.”

  When Emre laughed, the boy glowered and launched the falcon into the air. The bird ranged far ahead, traveling in a vast arc ahead of the ship. When it returned hours later, it would alight on the boy’s outstretched arm, which was protected by a double-thick glove. The falcon would get a vole for its trouble, and no small amount of petting along its crest feathers, before a leather hood was placed back on its head, and it was returned to its wicker cage near the pilot’s wheel.

  On the fourth day, as the falcon was flying a few points off the starboard bow, it began to circle.

  “Ships ho!” the boy called, pointing to the falcon.

  Macide ordered the ships to adjust course. As the Sun sailed closer, the falcon’s lazy circles brought it progressively lower, until it executed a pinwheel turn and dove straight for their ship. One moment it was flying like a spear toward his handler, and the next its wings were wide and its talons were extended. It landed on the boy’s arm, triumphant, where it received not one vole, but two, and was allowed to rest in its cage for a time without its hood.

  “Come,” Macide called a short while later, waving Emre and Hamid toward the foredeck. The three of them joined Shal’alara, who stood at the bow. Soon enough they spotted the masts of several dozen ships.

  Macide, the wind tugging at the twin tails of his pepper-flecked beard, placed one sandaled foot on the gunwales and stretched. “Onur has two tribes under his yoke already, and unless we can convince Tribe Kadri otherwise, he’ll soon have another.” He pointed to the ships ahead. “We will speak with their shaikh, Mihir Halim’ava, who sent one of his tribe’s elders to treat with Onur. He hopes that in approaching Onur, he’ll be able to ensure a favored place for his tribe in the fight against Sharakhai.”

  Shal’alara hawked and spat over the side of the ship. “Blood traitors,” she said, “Mihir included.” Her turban, a rich eggplant color with flecks of gold, was wrapped in the desert’s western style: unbalanced and low enough on one side that it covered her right ear. Combined with the tattoo of a ram’s skull that spanned her forehead, it deepened an already rakish look. Emre guessed she was younger than Macide by five years, and perhaps ten years Emre’s senior, but her attitude and the way she looked at Emre from time to time—as if she’d make a meal of him given half the chance—made her seem younger.

  “That remains to be seen,” Macide said. “Until we know more, leave such thoughts unspoken.”

  The wind made the sleeves and skirt of Shal’alara’s white abaya ripple like windblown silk. “The man would clasp hands with a King!”

  “Mihir has no love for the Kings. He lost his mother to their cruelty and saw his father pass to the farther fields while kneeling to them.”

  “And now he would do the same. Better to die with sword in hand than kiss the feet of your enemy.”

  “He’s practical,” Macide replied easily. “He sees Onur as a tool he might use to stab at the heart of Sharakhai.”

  “And if Onur’s quest to conquer Sharakhai is lost?”

  “Then Mihir still wins. The Kings are weakened and he slips back into the desert with his tribe.”

  Hamid sat easily on the gunwales opposite Macide. Since their terrible row after Adzin’s death, Hamid had been quiet around Macide, but now he seemed anxious, almost angry. “What in the great wide desert are we doing? He’s not going to change his mind. He’s already reached out to Onur!”

  Macide shrugged. “Mihir wants two things. Revenge for his mother and father, and to protect his people. If we can give him both those things, and show that Onur can’t, he’ll join us.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Emre asked.

  Macide smiled, a broad thing that revealed how confident he was of the coming meeting. “Then we remind him of his heritage.”

  He would explain no further, and soon they were nearing the Kadri ships, which had formed a large circular enclosure across the dunes. A sand-colored pennant was hoisted atop the Drifting Sun’s mainmast, a signal for truce and parley. As the Drifting Sun’s skis sighed to a halt, several dozen warriors wearing orange and yellow thawbs and brown turbans and veils met them.

  Macide headed for the gangway. “Shal’alara and Emre, with me. Hamid, ensure the safety of the ship. If things turn bad you’ll take word to my father, so keep her ready to sail.”

  Hamid, who had begun to follow Macide, came to a stuttering halt. He stared at Macide’s back, then at Emre with that stony, nearly emotionless look of his. Emre had seen it a dozen times before, the sort of cold calculation that came from being slighted, which Hamid would stew over for days, even months, before his anger came back in one violent rush.

  Emre shrugged. “I can watch the ship, Macide.”

  “You already have orders, young falcon,” Macide shot over his shoulder.

  And so Emre left, trailing after Macide and Shal’alara through the gap in the line of warriors who watched them warily, though thankfully with no great enmity. They were led to a ship on the far edge of the circle, where a pavilion and several tents had been erected. A young man no older than Emre came out to meet them. His hands were raised, his palms toward them, revealing the complex orange tattoos there. It was a sign of peace, a gesture Macide returned, and the two of them embraced.

  “Well met, Mihir,” Macide said, slapping his back affectionately.

  “And you,” Mihir replied, doing the same. He was a handsome man with dark skin and dark eyes and a wide smile, all of which accented his rust-colored thawb and thread-of-gold turban. “And you’ve brought friends!” He clasped his hands and bowed to Emre and Shal’alara. “You’re welcome to share our fires and our bread.”

  “As long as we’ve brought a bit of araq?” Macide asked, pulling an oval-shaped bottle from the bag at his side.

  “It certainly doesn’t hurt!” Mihir said, accepting it. “Bakhi’s bright smile, you’ve brought me a bottle of Tulogal!”

  Macide laughed. “Though the Great Mother was parched and tried to drink of it many times, yes.”

  “In that case, we’ll all partake.” He swung the bottle in a beckoning motion, a simple but welcoming gesture that somehow encapsulated Macide, Emre, and Shal’alara. “Please. Honor me.”

  “The honor is ours.”

  Mihir led them to the pavilion, which sat in the lee of the largest and sleekest of the ships. A dozen older children, guided by a doddering matron, were busying themselves, bringing pillows to lay about the carpeted floor, laying out dates and olives and cups of water, plus empty blue glasses for the rare araq. Mihir introduced his wife and his brother, and many more besides, the elders of Tribe Kadri, but Emre’s eyes kept drifting to one particular woman, a Malasani who was conspicuous among the desert folk. She wore silk trousers so baggy they could easily be confused with a skirt, an embroidered white shirt made of some rich, supple fabric, and a red-brocaded waistcoat. The necklace of a thousand coins around her neck accented her headdress, which was large and ornate and had many more tiny coins and chains hanging from it. They glinted in the sun sneaking through the pavilion’s thin cloth roof. And yet none of that was what made her stand out. It was her eyes. They were dark. Demanding. She was royalty of some sort, Emre had no doubt, the sort who confused covetous thoughts with ownership.

  Three steps behind her was a man as rotund as Emre had ever seen. He was shorter than Emre, but probably outweighed Frail Lemi by three stone. He had hulking arms crossed over his broad chest and by his side carried a huge curving scimitar with metal rings worked in along the blunt edge. They made a shink sound as he shifted to face Emre. The way he stared—a stonelike scowl while the sun shone off his bald pate—was so comical Emre nearly laughed.

  Mihir waved to the pillows and most sat. Emre, however, remained standing. He scanned the desert beyond the ring of Kadri ships, and spotted another beyond its edge. A Malasani dhow.


  “I see no need for a Malasani spy to sit with us.”

  The conversation, which had been lively up to this point, came to a complete and immediate halt. Macide, who’d already sat on Emre’s right, gave him a look, but Emre didn’t care. He’d be damned before he sat with a Malasani, especially with the future of the thirteenth tribe hanging in the balance.

  “I am Haddad,” she said before anyone else could reply. “A caravan master. An ally to Tribe Kadri. I could be an ally to Tribe Khiyanat as well.”

  “You are an interloper,” Emre shot back, “not worthy of a seat at this council.”

  Unperturbed, she sat cross-legged on one of the pillows nearest to Mihir, took a clutch of grapes from a nearby bowl, plucked one, and crunched on it loudly.

  “She is an honored guest,” said Mihir, who had remained standing. “As were you, until now. Sit, young one, before you embarrass your lord further.”

  When Macide motioned for Shal’alara to sit, she took her seat with same sort of leisure as Haddad. Macide took Emre by the elbow and whispered, “Control yourself. Why do you think you are here and not Hamid?” He waved to the space on his left with a look that made it clear Emre would be playing with fire if he disobeyed the order.

  Doing his best to ignore Haddad’s satisfied smile, Emre complied. Macide’s words had been like a bucket of cold water. Hamid had a terrible cruel streak in him, a thing Emre had always been somewhat afraid of. Was that how he, Emre, now seemed to Macide? To Mihir?

  They ate for a time and spoke of sailing in the desert, of hunting in the mountain reaches. A song, one of Tribe Kadri’s oldest, was sung by a young girl with a magical voice. As promised, Mihir shared the araq with everyone gathered. Emre was sure it was exquisite, but it tasted sour on his tongue.

  At last they came to business. “I’ve come at my father’s behest,” Macide said. “We’ve come to ask that you join us as we raise our spears against the Kings.”

  The implication was clear. Onur was a King, not to mention a growing threat in the eastern reaches of the Great Shangazi.

  “Your ships are few,” Mihir said, “as are your spears.”