The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  The Black Khan shook his head. He drew Ilea away from the Bloodprint, his hand lingering on the soft skin of her arm, and over to the windows that looked out onto the gardens.

  “It would be counterfeited as soon as you sent it. A thousand counter-disputations would arise. Khorasan would know chaos.”

  “Khorasan would know redemption from chaos. Each of our copies would bear the seal of Hira—anything else would be known for a lie. And besides—” Idly, she reached up a hand to stroke the rook at the Black Khan’s throat. He let her, capturing her hand with his own. His bemusement with the High Companion hadn’t abated. He would willingly take her again. “The only scribes in Khorasan are here or at the Citadel. And do we not seek the same end, my lord? We want the Talisman to burn. Just as they burned everything in these lands.”

  Rukh bent and kissed the top of her head. His honeyed voice whispered in her ear. “Make your copy and go, Ilea. The Bloodprint is needed here.” He raised her arm alongside his, showing her a point on the horizon, under the cover of the clouds. “The Talisman are not the only threat. The Rising Nineteen are rumored to march on Ashfall from the west.”

  The words seemed to jolt the High Companion. Her slender body went still against his, her gold eyes opaque with calculation. “If this is true, how will you ensure its safety?”

  “The Khorasan Guard are dedicated to the protection of the Warraqeen. And an army stands between the palace and the scriptorium, which is more than Hira has to offer in its own defense. There will be time enough for the Companions to dispute the Talisman’s Assimilate. We require the Bloodprint to serve our immediate needs first.”

  It was clear she couldn’t persuade him, a possibility she must have known. “Then I concede to your greater need.”

  “As easily as that?” And he wondered what else she would concede or whether he might seek a momentary oblivion in her arms. But she didn’t share his need for consolation—for a temporary stay of the darkness about to beset his rule.

  “Not quite. Send me your head calligrapher. I will need some time with the Bloodprint before I leave.”

  For a moment he thought of asking her to act as Golden Mage, to stay in Ashfall and teach him something of his powers—the secrets Darius knew. His own understanding was deficient; the plots he’d laid had left no time for dedicated study. He knew a few tricks of voice and movement, yet he was Dark Mage in name only. He shrugged aside his weakness. He knew the power of the Mages would not be enough to hold Ashfall.

  Only the Bloodprint would.

  39

  “I GAVE ORDERS FOR THE DEFENSE OF THE CITY, NIZAM AL-MULK. WHY did you reverse them?”

  Though Arsalan spoke with a surface politeness before the council, the Nizam was not a fool. He knew the effort it was costing Arsalan to keep his anger in check, just as he knew how to play this game, always flattering the Khan, who was seated at the head of the table within view of the council’s chief objects: the table-sized map of the province of West Khorasan, and the armillary sphere at the windows, aimed at a dusting of stars.

  “Please answer him, Nizam.” Rukh’s voice echoed with a deference that Arsalan found galling in the circumstances. He waited at the Khan’s side, across from two captains of the Teerandaz, clad in the armor of their kind, embellished at the neck and the arms with arrowheads shaped like silver rooks. The two women had removed their transparent face masks for this meeting. At the sight of them, the Nizam grimaced in distaste.

  Dismissing Arsalan’s question with high-handed insolence, the Nizam took his time to address the Khan’s request. “I did not reverse your orders, Commander, I delayed them. You must have known your absence from Ashfall would cause a general panic, yet you chose to curry favor with the Khan. Your lack of foresight in abandoning the city distressed the Warraqeen. And his Excellency left me in no doubt that the well-being of the Warraqeen was to be my chief concern. Was that not so, Excellency?”

  Rukh nodded. He did not dispute anything the Nizam had said, nor did he take issue with his rudeness to Arsalan. But Arsalan could play this game as well as the Nizam.

  “I fail to see how manning the outer walls and preparing the armory could disrupt the studies of the Warraqeen,” he pointed out. “Why should they have suffered discomfort?”

  “It wasn’t just that,” the Nizam said smoothly. “You’d asked for the residents of the outlying villages to be brought within the city walls. The Warraqeen were unable to set about their work. They are noble-spirited. They wished to join the city’s defense.”

  Arsalan’s eyes narrowed. “So you thought to soothe their worries by offering no defense at all?”

  The Black Khan rose from the table. “Enough, Arsalan. The Nizam al-Mulk is correct in all he says. Without the efforts of the Warraqeen, any other defense is moot. They must be shielded from agitation. The Nizam acted for the best.”

  “The Warraqeen are not the Prince’s only charge. Everyone beyond the city walls is at risk. They must be gathered behind our defenses at once.”

  “You forget the outer ramparts,” Rukh chided.

  It was all Arsalan could do to keep the anger from his voice.

  “There are no men at the outer ramparts. A direct contravention of my orders to the Zhayedan—do you dare to pretend otherwise?” His steely-eyed gaze rested on each of his captains in turn. “The gravest dereliction of duty.”

  The council erupted in noise. The Black Khan listened in silence, a movement of his hand telling Arsalan to let it play out. When the commanders had fallen silent, one of the captains of the Teerandaz spoke, her words concise and certain. She spoke with utter command of herself, assuming control of the room.

  “My lord commander, I deferred to Nizam al-Mulk on the issue of the defense of the ramparts, where six of our companies should have been stationed. But we have been preparing, regardless. The archery is fully armored, and we have rehearsed our plan of attack along each line of our defenses.” She gave Arsalan a quick nod. “We are ready. What’s more, though we were not permitted to send riders to bring our people into the city, we sent messages through our couriers. His Excellency’s hawks have sent your memorandum to each of the outlying villages. They know to expect the order to retreat.”

  “They did not seem in readiness when we rode into the city, Captain Cassandane.”

  Cassandane hesitated. “The shortcoming was mine, Commander.”

  Arsalan didn’t believe her. “Speak your mind, Captain. You’ve never been afraid to do so.”

  “My lord, the Nizam assured the villages they were under the Khan’s protection, even if they chose to remain outside the city walls.”

  A rare fury blazed from Arsalan’s eyes. He moved to confront the Nizam, heedless of Rukh’s attempt to restrain him. “I command the Zhayedan, Nizam al-Mulk. With what authority did you gainsay my orders?”

  The Nizam studied his well-tended nails. “You soldiers and your imaginary fiefdoms. It is the Khan who balances all our fates in his hands. As he did not advise that I no longer govern in his absence, I allayed the fears of the people, as has always been my duty.”

  Arsalan’s hands clenched at his sides, the palpable force of his self-restraint silencing the outcry in the room. His voice dropped, the warning in it low and lethal. “And what protection does your governance offer now?”

  Now it was the Nizam who moved closer, meeting him on his ground with a fine and sneering disdain. “I have accounted for my actions to the Khan. I need not explain myself to you.” He flung a contemptuous glance at Cassandane. “Nor to the woman you hide behind by appointing her to your ranks.”

  A terrifying expectation settled in the room at this insult.

  The moment of reckoning. The moment for Rukh to decide whose counsel he valued most.

  Through the fog of rage in his head, Arsalan became aware of Rukh’s fierce grip on his arm—and of the fear communicated by the strength of that grip. This wasn’t a choice to be forced upon the Khan, not now at this perilous moment. Not
with the Talisman hastening to their gates.

  He took a swift breath to calm himself. Then another and another, unnoticeable to anyone in the room save Rukh, who still held on to his arm.

  He was playing into the Nizam’s hands.

  And he was giving his prince every reason to second-guess his judgment. He pressed Rukh’s hand briefly with his own, his decision made. This wasn’t the moment to force a confrontation. His gaze came to rest on Cassandane, who held herself aloof, as he should have done in the first place.

  His glance flicked over his men. He addressed himself to them, though his message was for the Nizam.

  “I will not tolerate any disrespect shown to the Captain of the Teerandaz.” Then he turned back to the Nizam. “Perhaps if we are fortunate enough to survive the Talisman assault, you will be able to persuade me of the merit of your actions. Until then, my concern remains what best serves the Prince of Khorasan and the capital of this empire.”

  His commanders saluted him as one. Cassandane shot him a glance he couldn’t easily interpret—something between gratitude and warning. Rukh’s grip on his arm eased, his thoughts hidden as he shielded his eyes with his silky, downcast lashes.

  A pulse throbbing in his jaw, Arsalan conceded the Nizam’s victory. He turned to the captain of the cavalry. “Send riders now at once. The Talisman approach our walls. And you—” He pointed to another of the commanders. “Double the number of men at the eastern gate. Prepare supplies, man the parapets.”

  The Black Khan interrupted him. “Set a special guard at the door to the scriptorium. No one is to be allowed through without my express permission. That includes Darya.”

  A murmur of laughter rippled through the room. It didn’t please Arsalan to hear it. The Khan’s sister had become a curiosity, one who could be mocked with impunity in his presence. Whose doing was this? The Nizam or the Black Khan himself? Perhaps both men were to blame.

  “If the Princess desires to visit the scriptorium, tell the guards to notify me.” He relayed additional instructions, sending his men on their way. Cassandane he held back.

  “What else have you learned?”

  “I sent scouts to the west. Your intelligence was correct. There is an army gathered in the valleys of the Empty Quarter. Though the full strength of the army is weeks away, a vanguard is at our borders. We need a better defense.” She glanced through the silk curtains to the manuscript on its pedestal. “We need a weapon greater than anything we have in the armory. I would think on that, Commander.”

  Arsalan nodded. Of all his captains, he relied on Cassandane the most, whereas the Nizam preferred to appoint his own men to the Zhayedan. Arsalan wasn’t distracted by personal loyalty. Nor did caste, class, or individual affiliation factor into his staffing of the army or the Khorasan Guard. He trained with the Zhayedan regularly, alert to independent thinking. It hadn’t taken him long to place Cassandane in charge of the Teerandaz. In addition to her skills as an archer, she possessed imagination. She spoke up if she spotted a flaw in his tactics, unafraid of his displeasure. She was the kind of captain Ashfall would need to survive the coming Talisman offensive. The Nizam’s men, he trusted not at all. They were bound by dual loyalties, too often absent from duty, scurrying back and forth with messages for the Nizam.

  Rukh had left the Zhayedan in Arsalan’s hands. He was more than the commander of Rukh’s army: he was Rukh’s confederate and closest friend. It was a bond that meant more to Arsalan than any other, and he knew the Nizam would use it against him, given the first opportunity. The two men the Black Khan trusted were once again at odds.

  The Nizam’s decisions had left the city vulnerable. The Zhayedan wouldn’t hold the outer ramparts for long. The defense of the city walls was uppermost in his mind. He needed to know how quickly the Talisman advanced. He sent Cassandane and a handful of trusted others back to the outer walls to report. He needed more time. Cassandane would buy him that time.

  “We’ve done what we can for the moment,” he told Rukh. “We’ll know more when Cassandane reports. At least the Nizam has ensured the city is well provisioned. If we can defend the walls, we’ll be able to last out a siege.”

  Rukh listened with half-attention. His hand moved the armillary sphere, scattering the light over its finely worked quadrants. “What of the western gate? It’s the weakest point of our defenses.”

  Arsalan gestured at the Bloodprint. “Send the Warraqeen there. Make sure they know how to use it.”

  On her stool before the Bloodprint, Ilea listened to the war council. Something was amiss. The Black Khan was passive before his council, permitting others to speak in his place, to advise him against his better judgment. Was it the tension between Arsalan and the Nizam that kept him quiet? Or did he have an agenda of his own the others failed to perceive?

  He gave the Nizam a free hand in matters of governance, but the Zhayedan were Arsalan’s province. Why did he permit interference with Arsalan’s jurisdiction? It was Arsalan who’d installed Cassandane as commander of the Teerandaz, a decision of some perception.

  It didn’t surprise Ilea that women filled the ranks of Ashfall’s archers; the Teerandaz trained agile and adept girls from earliest childhood. Just as the Companions of Hira had their legend, so did the Teerandaz’s archers. She was pleased the Black Khan had kept up a tradition that empowered women, even as he suppressed their studies as Warraqeen.

  She could fathom the contradiction. He feared the dominance of Hira, though he little knew how much more afraid he should be. She smiled to herself. She found him a worthwhile ally, even an alluring one at times. His schemes had borne fruit more than once. Truthfully, she hadn’t believed the Authoritan would relinquish his treasure. He’d turned out to be a tyrant no different from the One-Eyed Preacher, one who couldn’t conceive of the nature of his treasure.

  While the Black Khan left her alone with the Bloodprint, she was working out a plan of her own. She wasn’t overcome by the knowledge that myth had proved reality. She was heir to Hira’s secrets; she had known the Bloodprint was real. It fulfilled her every hope. She memorized each line she read, feeling its power take root.

  There were things she hadn’t been able to do before, things the Bloodprint would help her to correct. Magic she would be able to seize. Lands that would fall under Hira’s command. Everything north of the Wall would be hers, everything west Ashfall’s. And when they had merged their two capitals and their bloodlines, she would no longer be High Companion of Hira, the women of the Citadel nipping at her heels. She had freed herself of the encumbrance of Arian; she had dealt with the First Oralist for good.

  Everything she had worked for, silent and alone, would be within her grasp. This included the Bloodprint and the Khan.

  She made her preparations to depart. The Citadel needed her first.

  40

  ARIAN AND DANIYAR REACHED THE RAMPARTS AHEAD OF THE TALISMAN soldiers at their heels. As the gates closed behind them, they rode up the ramparts into a scene of chaos—orders shouted along the parapets, signal flares launched from the corners of opposing towers, a buzz of furious activity as soldiers raced to position themselves at defenses along the wall. The sense of urgency was everywhere, a tense command to bar the gate issued by a woman at the wall.

  The woman was dressed as a captain of the Teerandaz, the silver aigrette pinned to her helmet an indicator of rank. Her black leather armor was feathered at the neck and wrists with a row of silver rooks. Beneath her pointed helmet, her hair was fashioned in dozens of intricate braids, her skin as dark as Sinnia’s, her hair and eyes the color of black carnelian, her features that of the people of the Aryaward. She was joined by another member of the Teerandaz, this one a native of Ashfall, lighter in complexion and sharp-featured like the Khan.

  Both women bore the lightweight double bows and deadly silver-tipped arrows of their unit, and their bearing was that of deadshot archers who’d been trained from earliest childhood to join their company’s ranks.

  The d
ark-skinned woman greeted them in the manner of the Companions of Hira, one arm extending out and brought back to her chest. She gave a quick nod, first to Arian and then to Sinnia, with a swiftly masked look of surprise. With the Talisman assault gaining speed, she didn’t have time to spare, yet she plainly recognized that the arrival of the Companions could serve at this desperate hour.

  “First Oralist,” she said. “Companion.”

  “Captain Cassandane,” Arian returned. “You hold the outer wall—just the two of you alone?”

  Cassandane grimaced. “The Nizam’s orders were to gather our forces at the inner walls, to keep the Warraqeen safe. We’re here to track the Talisman’s advance.” She indicated Daniyar and Alisher with a quick jab of an arrow. “Who accompanies you?” Her eyes studied the torn crest at Daniyar’s throat as she waited for the answer. Arian motioned him forward. He raised his head and focused his silver eyes on Cassandane. She stepped back a pace with a whistled breath.

  “Thank the One,” she said simply. “Perhaps the Nizam will heed the counsel of the Silver Mage, as he was once prone to do.”

  Daniyar crossed the bell tower, looking at the villages that lay outside the protection of the city walls.

  “The outer ramparts will be taken, Captain Cassandane. Have your villages received no word of the army on the march?”

  Again Cassandane’s eyes rested upon his crest, and this time Daniyar took note. He wouldn’t get answers from the captain until he’d made his own position clear. “You know I am of the Shin War. And that I do not ride at their head.”

  Cassandane nodded. “When last you came to Ashfall, you were dressed as the Silver Mage. Your ring, your sword, the Candour—where are they? Why do you wear the tokens of your … less promising allegiance?”

  Daniyar hesitated for a moment, then decided there was nothing to be gained by discretion. There were nearly out of time: they needed to come to terms. “I come to you from Black Aura—the Candour was taken from me there.”