A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Soon they were headed east. Emre was standing amidships when Haddad broke away from her duties and joined him. “Is it true you saved Macide and the others?”

  Emre shrugged. “I had a hand in it.”

  She laughed loudly, head tilted back like a hyena. “More than a hand if even half of what I’ve heard is true.”

  “Forgive me, but could you tell that stone-faced idiot to stop staring at me before I cut him a new smile?”

  Haddad turned, confused. Zakkar was still watching from his spot at the mainmast, where he’d been standing since Emre had first spotted him. “Ah. Zakkar does forget his manners at times. Go below,” she told the big man.

  Zakkar obeyed. His footsteps thudded against the deck and, by the gods, Emre felt it beneath his feet.

  When he was gone, Haddad said, “Better?”

  “Better. Now, what was it they were saying about me?”

  “Your own lord said that twice you sniffed out betrayal before it happened. Shal’alara said you stole Macide’s sword and shattered the chains across the harbor so you could all escape. Frail Lemi said you fought a dozen Maidens before fleeing on one of the Kings’ own ships to meet Macide in the desert and return his sword to him.”

  And now it was Emre’s turn to laugh. “And you believe them?”

  “Of course not. But the truth lies in there somewhere, no?”

  Emre waggled his head. “Some small amount, I suppose. What of you? I’ve heard tell you saved your Mad King from a terrible decision several years ago.”

  He’d said Mad King to provoke, but Haddad merely raised one eyebrow. “Mad is it?”

  “As an old, drunken goat.”

  She tilted her head, as if granting him the point, but with an expression that made it clear he’d sparked a painful memory. “The tale has grown in the telling.”

  “You prevented a war was how I heard it.” After her reaction, Emre was suddenly eager to talk about something other than the Mad King of Malasan, but he pressed anyway. If the thirteenth tribe was to survive, they needed to know more about their neighbors.

  Apparently Haddad’s own caravan had delivered a shipment of dates to King Surrahdi’s palace, and he’d taken offense to the quality. He’d gotten it into his head that the purveyor had meant it as an insult to Surrahdi himself. That very day he’d summoned a thousand of his best cavalry and ridden well into Sharakhai’s territory, to the caravanserai of Ashdankaat. Haddad, knowing well what Sharakhai’s response would be should her king attack, had sailed back there herself and managed to talk Surrahdi down before blood was shed.

  “Everyone in the east is sure the king will march once more,” Emre continued. “All it will take is for him to stumble across a patch of sand to remind him that he still wants to conquer the Great Shangazi.”

  “I’ll share with you a secret, Emre Aykan’ava. Few yet know it, but the Mad King of Malasan is dead. He passed only weeks ago. His son, Emir, now sits the throne in Samaril.”

  News, indeed, Emre thought. “How did he die?”

  “Rumors are flying that Emir killed him, though if so, it wouldn’t have been for his own sake. Surrahdi was in terrible pain these past many years. Killing him would have been a mercy. I think those rumors are just rumors, though. Emir would never have done that to his own father. I suspect it was his ill humors that finally took him.”

  “The dunes do shift,” Emre said.

  “Grinding bones until all has been forgotten. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “It is.” Emre watched as two crewmen began oiling the deck nearby. “What now? Does King Emir covet the desert as his father once did?”

  “How could he?” she asked with a wry smile. “In the desert, none can oppose the will of the Sharakhani Kings. All know this.”

  Not the Malasani, Emre thought, whose kings are nothing if not bold.

  The tribe sailed on and days passed. Emre didn’t always remain on Calamity’s Reign, but he found himself sailing on it more often than he would have thought. He’d been right about Haddad. She was a conniving woman, but after hearing her tales of navigating favor among the desert tribes, and the auction blocks of caravanserais, he developed a grudging respect for her. One didn’t become a caravan master without the ability to bargain shrewdly. That her king had turned that to his advantage was no real surprise.

  On their twelfth day out from the meeting with Macide, Mihir’s young cousin, Aríz, sent up their falcon, and this time it began circling in the distance. By evening, they saw the masts of Onur’s tribe on the horizon, and by sunset they were drawing near. They stopped well short of the large camp, which was gathered around a set of oases. A dozen small water holes were revealed with trees and desert ferns huddled close around them. Beyond the pools, Onur’s ships and tents were set in a defensive ring. All flew a pennant depicting Onur’s new sign: a black spear over a field of amber. There were also other pennants flying on various ships and tents. The red design of Tribe Masal were the most common, but there were a few sporting the river design of Tribe Kenan and even one showing the white tree of Tribe Halarijan.

  From the Black Spear tents, a dozen warriors, men and women both, came to meet the Kadri ships. Mihir spoke with Onur’s vizira, a hardened woman named Sibyl, and soon learned that Onur was not in camp.

  “Where has he gone?” Mihir asked.

  “He will return in a day, perhaps two. We have much to do before then, in any case.”

  “I didn’t ask when he would return,” Mihir pressed. “I asked where he’s gone.”

  Sibyl sniffed and swept her gaze over the entire Kadri assemblage, as if the words she was about to speak were not only for Mihir, but all of them. “Onur goes where he will.”

  Now that Tribe Masal had bowed to Onur’s will, she said, their fleet was preparing to attack the nearby caravanserai of Tiazet, and much of the camp’s activities were dedicated to it. The crews trained relentlessly, launching grapnels, firing ballistae, some practicing ship-to-ship raids. Others drilled with spears and swords and shields, units moving in well-oiled concert. Tribe Kadri was expected to play its part. Sybil began by demanding that Mihir break his ships into three groups, that they might drill with others.

  “As soon as I speak to Onur.”

  “You’re already speaking to him,” Sibyl replied easily. “Until our lord returns, I am his voice.”

  “My ships are my own,” Mihir replied, “and they will drill together.”

  “Your ships are Onur’s and you will drill with those you’ll fight beside.” Sibyl paused, regarding Mihir as she might a molding lemon that threatened to ruin the bushel. “Are you with us, Mihir Halim’ava of the Burning Hands, or are you not?”

  Emre hoped Mihir would say no, that he would leave and join hands with the thirteenth tribe, but he already knew Mihir wouldn’t. He had committed himself, and there was little to be done until Onur returned.

  “Tribe Kadri is with you,” Mihir replied to Sibyl.

  Emre nearly took out the knife Macide had given him—it was hidden inside his thawb—but Macide had been very clear that he should wait for the perfect time, when Mihir would be most open to it. If Sibyl’s tyrannical behavior was any indication of how the Burning Hands would be treated under Onur’s rule, waiting would only help Emre’s cause.

  The days that followed were strange. Tribe Kadri, her ships and her people, were ordered to remain well away from the center of the camp. Onur’s tribe, Salmük, was camped around the watering holes, which no one outside Tribe Salmük was allowed to visit. Water was always brought to the Kadri ships.

  Every night, screaming came from Onur’s camp, making life more difficult. “Tribe Masal was taken by force,” Sibyl told them when Mihir asked of it. “There were bound to be those who refused to recognize Onur as their shaikh. But do not worry. Those who resist are fewer each day, and soon we will sail united.”
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br />   On their third night, Shal’alara returned to Mihir’s ship with a grim expression. “Beril is dead,” she said when they were safely in the hold.

  Mihir’s expressive eyes filled with worry. “How?”

  “Some knew she was blood of our blood. After Çedamihn escaped, Onur suspected Beril of treachery. One night, a few weeks before we arrived, she and nine others were bound and taken away.”

  “Taken where?” Emre asked.

  “No one knows.” Shal’alara turned to Mihir. “But who can doubt they were given the knife? Or worse, given to Onur to feed his monstrous appetites.”

  “Someone must know the truth,” Mihir said.

  “Of course, but they’ll never tell me. Nor you. Nor anyone from Tribe Kadri. I was lucky to learn this much. Sibyl saw me returning from their camp after I’d heard the news. Gave me a look with those dead eyes of hers.” Shal’alara was no wilting flower, and yet a violent shiver rattled up her frame. “She chills me to the bone, that one. She considers herself one of Onur’s daughters, as they’re being called now. Part vizira, part shaikh, part Blade Maiden.”

  Emre couldn’t take it any longer. “Will you not reconsider, Shaikh Mihir? The gods have shined upon you. You still have command of your people. Onur is missing. We might yet leave without suffering his wrath.”

  For a moment, Emre thought he’d won him over, but Mihir hardened and refused to listen to reason. “Tribe Kadri does not run from conflict. I will speak with Onur.” When Emre made to speak again, Mihir spoke over him. “Do not press me. I’ve allowed you here as a favor to your lord, but I will brook no challenge to my commands.”

  On their fourth day at the oasis, Sibyl came to their camp with a dozen warriors in her wake. They would make for Tiazet in the morning.

  “Not a single sail of Tribe Kadri will be hoisted before I’ve spoken with Shaikh Onur,” Mihir protested.

  “He will speak to you after the battle,” Sibyl replied, and strode away.

  Mihir was left with an impossible choice. Shout at Sibyl’s retreating form and be seen as a man not worth listening to, or say nothing and be seen by his own tribe as weak. With grim determination he strode toward her, but stopped when the warriors flanking her drew the bows on their backs and nocked arrows. They hadn’t drawn the strings, but they didn’t need to.

  “None of my ships will sail for Tiazet before I speak to Onur.”

  At this, Sibyl turned. She was a tall woman. A grim woman. But at Mihir’s words, a wide smile broke across her face. “Some say we all dig our own graves. There’s truth in those words, I think, but I hope you won’t dig yours so soon, Mihir. We need you. And if what your herald told us is true, you need us. Assuming, that is, you still wish to—how did your emissary put it?—drive a knife through the black heart of Sharakhai.”

  Without waiting for a response, she left. Her warriors backed away, bows at the ready, and then turned to follow. Mihir looked ready to protest, but just then a horn sounded from the far side of the camp.

  In moments, the entire mood of the camp changed. There was little enough joy to be found here, but now, men, women, children, all became tight, their eyes nervous as they glanced eastward, where a skiff was now approaching.

  It’s now or never, Emre said to himself. Approaching Mihir, he pulled out the kenshar Macide had given him and held it out, hilt first. Mihir stared down at the knife, confusion plain in his eyes. As he accepted the knife from Emre, however, his face lit in a mixture of wonder and confusion and surprise, even a bit of anger.

  Haddad, standing nearby, pointed at the knife. “What is this?”

  “It is my brother’s knife,” Mihir said breathlessly. “But how did you come by it?”

  “Macide tells me Anish was a good man. Loyal to his last,” Emre replied.

  “He’s dead?”

  Emre nodded and chose his next words carefully. “You’ve heard, no doubt, of the abduction of the collegia scholars over winter. It was a terrible blow to the Kings, and after it, as a show of power, they gathered up many sacrificial lambs. Anish was one of those taken.”

  Haddad’s eyes flitted between Emre and Mihir. “I don’t understand.”

  “Anish left for Sharakhai after my mother died.” Mihir pulled the kenshar from its sheath and examined the blade with a look Emre could only describe as reverent. “He refused to listen to my father, who urged us to live in peace with the Kings of Sharakhai. He took up with the Moonless Host in the city. I’d thought him dead many times, but news always came that he was still alive.”

  “He was chosen at random,” Emre said. “Locked in a cage like an animal. His eyes put out. Laurel leaves stuffed in his eyes and mouth. His hands were lashed to the bars of a cage to keep him propped up, as if begging for release. He was paraded through all of Sharakhai, then brought to the southern harbor where he and the others were hung from a tower, the leaves fluttering down like plucked feathers.” Emre pointed at the knife, allowing any sense of mercy to leech from his voice. “Anish did not die in battle. He did not die fighting the Kings. He died because the Kings wanted to make an example of him. He was as subject to their cruelties as you will be should you clasp hands with Onur.”

  Mihir’s eyes were for the kenshar alone. Near the center of the camp, among the many ships anchored there, the skiff had stopped. A giant of a man was now climbing over the side. Onur. Emre had only seen him a few times before, and always from a distance. He’d never realized how massive the man was.

  “You see Onur as an opportunity,” Emre pressed on. “I don’t blame you, but it is a mirage. You cannot be blinded by his promises. Nor can you listen to a Malasani king, who sends his servant to the desert with sweet promises even as she gathers information about you and the rest of the eastern tribes.” Haddad’s eyes widened in anger, but Emre ignored her. “Join the Al’Afwa Khadar. Together we can settle an injustice that is centuries overdue.”

  “My shaikh,” Haddad said. “What has the Moonless Host ever done for you? They took your brother. They failed to protect him when the Kings came for him. And now, in recompense, they give you his kenshar? I may be new to the ways of the desert, but that seems a poor bargain to me. The Kings are cruel, yes, but you reached out to Onur for a reason.” She waved dramatically behind her toward her ship. “Tell me it isn’t so. Tell me you no longer wish to ally yourself with Onur, and I will board the Calamity now and sail for Malasan. But we both know you can use Onur. You can pit him against Sharakhai, and the desert will be better for it.”

  “Better for Malasan, you mean,” Emre said.

  Haddad shrugged. “Is it so wrong for us to want better men to deal with in Sharakhai? We have no designs on the desert. We only want peace.”

  Emre laughed. “And you’re willing to pay for it with the blood of Mihir’s tribe!”

  “You’d rather we invade?”

  “Enough,” Mihir said. He turned coolly to Emre and lifted the point of the knife to Emre’s chin.

  Emre felt its bite, but he didn’t shy from the pain.

  “Why would you have kept this from me until now?”

  Emre told him the truth. “Macide wanted you to have it before you spoke with Onur.”

  Mihir gripped the hair at the back of Emre’s head and shook him roughly. “Why?”

  “So you would see him for what he truly is. He chose your brother, Shaikh Mihir. Dozens and dozens were gathered up by the Silver Spears, but Onur chose whose throats would be slit, whose mouths would be stuffed doll-like with leaves before being strapped inside cages and paraded about the city. He chose those who were hung from a tower like so many crows.”

  Emre thought Mihir would slit his throat and be done with it—such was the anger in his eyes—but when he shoved Emre away and turned to look upon Onur, Emre knew he’d taken the bait.

  Haddad saw it, too. “Mihir—” she began.

  He ign
ored her and strode forward, backed by a dozen warriors from his tribe. Onur lumbered over the sand to meet him, Sibyl and the rest of Onur’s retinue following. Onur came to a halt several paces away. Gods the man was big. He towered over Mihir, staring down at him with a hungry sort of look. He lifted one hand and cracked a knuckle. In his other hand he gripped something. A stone, perhaps. It glinted and had a bright orange surface.

  “Well met,” Onur said in a deep, gravelly voice that sounded anything but pleased.

  Mihir lifted the knife. “This is the knife of my brother, Anish Halim’ava al Kadri, a son of the Burning Hands. He was taken by the Spears in Sharakhai and was paraded, naked, before the entire city.”

  Onur looked Mihir up and down in a way he hadn’t when he’d first arrived. He did not look beyond Mihir to the people of Tribe Kadri, but Emre had the sense he was now more aware of them than he had been a moment ago. “What of it?”

  “You chose those who were slaughtered.”

  “Is this why you’ve brought your entire tribe? To ask me senseless questions?”

  “Did you choose them?”

  “Who told you this story?”

  Mihir gripped the knife so hard his arm shook. “Did you choose them?”

  Onur all but ignored Mihir as he looked to the warriors behind Mihir. He took in Haddad, Shal’alara, and Emre. His gaze dropped until his eyes were lingering on Emre’s hands. They had no orange tattoos, as tribe Kadri did. He took in Shal’alara’s hands as well, then lifted his gaze and sneered at Mihir. “Would you expect anything different? Would you not punish those who killed the children of your tribe?”

  “Anish was not part of the attack on the collegia.”

  “Even so.”

  Mihir took a step forward, still gripping the knife as if it were his last link to sanity. “You’ve not answered my question.”

  Onur spat on the sand between them. “I not only chose them, I chose the example to be made as well. Sharakhai needed to learn what it means to test the might of the Kings. It’s a lesson they still need, a lesson I’ll administer when I sit the throne, the one throne, of Sharakhai. I stood before those my Spears had gathered up, the scum of the west end, the dross from the forgotten harbor. I selected each. I selected the method of their death. I selected the route they would take through the city. I even killed a few myself. Perhaps your brother was one of them.”