The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Captain Cassandane flinched. “I didn’t know.”

  Daniyar’s eyes narrowed. “How could you have?”

  She weighed her response before answering. “I rode with the Khan to Black Aura, but I wasn’t permitted entry into the Ark. I did not know that the Bloodprint had been purchased from the Authoritan at such a cost.”

  Daniyar glanced quickly at Arian. But she chose not to disclose the Black Khan’s act of betrayal or what she’d suffered as a consequence. Focused on the needs of the moment, she reached out for Cassandane’s hand.

  “Was the Bloodprint brought to the capital? Has the Black Khan returned?”

  When Cassandane hesitated, she pleaded with her again. “Please, Captain. All our fates now rest upon the Bloodprint. Look below. The Talisman will be at the inner walls soon. Why hasn’t the alarm been sounded?”

  Cassandane’s voice was wooden. “In the Black Khan’s absence, it is the Nizam who assumes command. But the Nizam refused to issue any orders for the city’s defense.”

  “What of Arsalan?” Daniyar cut in. “Does he not command the Zhayedan?”

  “He rode with the Khan, as he always does. He thought his orders would be followed.” Her tone was laced with foreboding. And then, as if realizing she was wasting precious time, she came to a swift decision. “If it’s the Bloodprint you need, ride to the city at once. Soon there will be no escape.”

  Arian shook her head. “When the outer ramparts fall, you’ll be needed at the city gates. Let us retreat together.”

  The second Teerandaz archer was introduced to them as Dilaram; she looked at the Companions with relief. “We’ve enough to make our report, Captain. We won’t be able to hold.”

  She gestured at the group of Talisman fighters who had reached the foot of the ramparts—four dozen men in all. Others were coming up behind them. They shouted catcalls at the bell tower, followed by the beating of drums.

  A shower of fire-lances arced up and across the parapet, disappearing over the other side, setting the grasslands ablaze in pockets.

  Daniyar took up a position along the wall, poised with his bow in his hand. But Sinnia responded first. Faster than the Teerandaz could follow, she fired six arrows at the soldiers lounging at the base of the tower. Each of the six found their target, awakening a roar of outrage from the scouts. They took shelter under the cover of their shields.

  Cassandane looked at Sinnia with new respect.

  Dilaram joined Sinnia, firing arrows deep into the Talisman’s ranks, delaying the returning volley of the fire-lancers.

  Daniyar used his spyglass to sight the vast distance between the inner and outer walls. He prodded Alisher into the shelter of the bell tower, where a ladder climbed to the sky. “We must send warning to Ashfall. Climb the ladder and ring the bell.”

  “Those are not my orders,” Cassandane said sharply.

  Daniyar held her gaze. “Then your city will fall. You know I am speaking the truth.”

  The Talisman shields broke apart. They had fastened two fire-lances together, doubling their capacity for ruin. Before Sinnia or Dilaram could react, the conjoined lances were fielded from below, scattering a rain of fire over the parapet. Sparks fell all around them, brushing their hair and their arms. The lance arrowed over their heads, setting fire to their route of retreat.

  “Climb, Alisher.”

  With a harried glance at the others, Alisher disappeared up the ladder. Cassandane let him go, a faint frown on her brow. Daniyar took that as encouragement.

  “Send word to the Zhayedan to hold the gate as long as they can and then to retreat to the nearest village. The people there will need cover, fleeing into Ashfall.”

  “I command the Teerandaz, my lord.”

  Daniyar’s voice remained even as he said, “There is a time to follow orders and a time to think for yourself. Your allegiance is to Ashfall—not to the Nizam, nor even to the Black Khan. What would serve your people best?”

  She nodded to herself at the words. “Very well. But I determine what happens from this moment on.” She gestured at the Zhayedan positioned along the ramparts. “It was hard to win their respect—I won’t be seen taking orders from any man other than my commander.” She quirked a brow at him. “Not even one as worthy as the Silver Mage.”

  He made her a bow. “Understood, Captain. Then what are your orders? They’ve brought a battering ram to the gate. How long will it hold?”

  “Not long.” She whistled to the Zhayedan, a series of disconnected blasts without a seeming pattern. Yet men raced along the wall to meet them at the parapet, taking note of the new arrivals without comment. Sinnia and Arian focused on the party below, firing until they’d used up their supply of arrows. But their accuracy was no match for Dilaram’s unerring aim. Each arrow she released found its target. When her sling was empty, she dodged into the shelter of the tower, where more silver-tipped arrows were stacked in piles.

  “You.” She pointed to Sinnia. “Can you use one of these?”

  She handed over a double bow and passed Sinnia a sling. “Be careful,” she warned. “Avoid the tips of the arrows.”

  Sinnia didn’t have to ask why. Below them, the men Dilaram had winged began to stagger away from the gate. Their limbs jerked apart in frenzy.

  A handful of Talisman riders were on the brink of reaching the gate. Sinnia aimed at their necks. Her brief smile wasn’t a celebration—it was an acknowledgment of her skill.

  Dilaram spoke into her ear. “Wherever you come from, we could use you here.”

  The words reminded Sinnia of the Technologist’s dark promise, whispered close to her skin: I will find many exquisite uses for you. She shook off the words with a shudder, turning to grin at Dilaram.

  The grin died on her face. A Talisman arrow winged through the night, catching Dilaram in the throat. Her blood spattered Sinnia’s face. Coughing, Sinnia leapt to catch the archer in her arms. Zhayedan soldiers took their place, sheltering them from the next volley.

  A moment later, Alisher reached his target. Ashfall’s warning bell sounded over the plains, piercing the night with a loud, discordant clang. He had spun many verses in his time, but none felt as pure as the ringing notes of the bell that echoed toward the city. It rang twice more. By the fourth reprise, an answering bell sounded from the opposite corner of the city walls.

  The Maiden Tower. Their message had been received.

  “Leave her,” Cassandane said of Dilaram, motioning the others to the inner staircase. “She cannot be saved.”

  Sinnia eased Dilaram’s body into the shelter of the tower, unwilling to abandon her. “We could carry her into the city.”

  Cassandane’s answer was grim. “There will be other bodies before this night is through. Go now.”

  She turned to find the Silver Mage at her side.

  “You don’t come with us?” he asked.

  She smiled, a rare expression on the face of the Teerandaz captain. “I’d heard it spoken of once—the gallantry of the Silver Mage. But though I honor it, I am not in need of your courtesy. I command these walls. I will retreat when nothing more can be done to hold them. Do what you can for our people, but make sure you reach the city.” She nodded at Arian, hovering at the edge of the staircase, waiting for Alisher to reach them. “The First Oralist must gain access to the Bloodprint—she is our only hope.”

  Daniyar nodded at her gravely. “May your aim never waver.”

  She answered the Zhayedan formula in kind. “May your sword strike bone.”

  41

  THE NIZAM BALANCED THE SHAHI SCEPTER IN HIS HANDS. IT WAS A good, solid weight, carved of gold and set with rubies, diamonds, and red spinels, some as large as forty carats. He held the weight of empire in his hands, and the weight was pleasing. He bowed before the Black Khan and offered him the scepter. He’d persuaded the Khan to take up his throne to reassure the court of his fearlessness in the face of the Talisman advance.

  The Black Khan took the scepter in hand and mounte
d the Peacock Throne. His mind was otherwise occupied, his regalia of state dismissed: the Shahi sword, abounding with emeralds; the painted enamel dagger with its haft set with Aryaward diamonds; and a heavy gold belt whose central stone was an emerald the size of an egg. This last was fitted over the Khan’s black silk tunic, the entire effect one of utter decadence. The Black Khan’s official return to court required the accoutrements of power.

  Two giant armlets blazed from the Khan’s upper arms, each set with a luminous stone larger than a man’s fist: the Mountain of Light and the Sea of Light, the latter blazing a fiery pink. The onyx rook at the Black Khan’s throat seemed a trifle next to these. Yet the rook was the emblem the Nizam knew the Khan cherished most. The Peacock Throne and the regalia of state were the symbols of an ancient dynasty; the Khan preferred the insignia of his recent ancestors, patterned in black and silver. And now he wore the Sacred Cloak over his ceremonial dress. The Cloak seemed to ennoble him, enhancing his stature at court.

  From the Khan’s careless survey of the room followed by his mannerly acknowledgment of the court, no one could have guessed that the Talisman had advanced to the city’s outer walls. Captain Cassandane’s urgent call for reinforcements had been intercepted by the Nizam and refused, a decision he had made without consulting the Khan. The battle would be at the inner walls—he would not spend the warriors of the Zhayedan on an unfeasible defense. If the outlying villages were taken, it would serve the empire in the end. Ashfall was provisioned for a siege. It would hold out longer if those provisions were free of the weight of refugees.

  He wasted no thought on farmers or unschooled undesirables. Ashfall was the glory of an age: the Nizam had something to protect. His mouth curled at the sight of the mongrel boy who’d been made to kneel before the throne. An illiterate, he thought. What use could the boy be to any defense of Ashfall?

  “Speak, boy. Tell us what you know of the Talisman.”

  Wafa sobbed to himself, his head hanging down, his limbs trembling with fear. He was guarded on either side by two soldiers in leather armor, their faces covered by transparent masks. One of these prodded him with the tip of his sword; he gulped back another sob.

  The boy was a pitiful wretch.

  “Hazara doesn’t know,” the boy said. “Hazara’s use was for the slave-chains.” He motioned with his hand, imitating the gestures of a slave-chain’s tally-taker. The Black Khan watched him with hooded eyes. He nodded at the Nizam again.

  “You must have heard the Talisman speak amongst themselves. You must have heard plans for the assault on Ashfall.”

  Wafa answered the Nizam humbly, gazing up at him in awe. “I don’t know Ashfall.” With a shudder, he added, “I didn’t know Black Aura.”

  A whisper of dread chased across the room at the mention of the Authoritan’s capital.

  “Whatever your life has been, you’ve been with the Talisman for years. You’ve seen the One-Eyed Preacher. You recognized him on the road. Tell us what you know of him.”

  Wafa put his hands up to his ears, his memory now made nightmare. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what you want.”

  The Nizam gestured impatiently at one of the guards. The soldier’s fist struck Wafa hard in the back. He went flying, striking his chin on the marble floor. A line of blood trickled from his mouth.

  “Speak, boy.”

  The soldier’s boot struck Wafa between his shoulder blades. He didn’t let out a cry, which served to irritate the Nizam. The boy closed his eyes and braced his hands, preparing for the next blow.

  “Stop this!” A woman’s voice called from the end of the hall, her words followed by the tapping of slippers and the chiming of tiny bells. The guard who’d struck Wafa was pushed aside, and the boy was swept up in the shelter of a young woman’s arms. The Nizam scowled at her from his seat.

  Of course the Princess would find a way to interfere. A second pitiful child to answer the needs of the first.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice surprisingly fierce. “Why are you beating a child for all the court to see?”

  “Princess.” The Nizam’s voice was cold with displeasure. “You have no notion of what transpires here or how useful the information of this Talisman spy may be.”

  “How could a Hazara be a Talisman spy?” she asked, incredulous. “You know they exterminate his kind.” She turned to her brother, not bothering to bow. “Didn’t you hear the bell? Why are you receiving the court when Captain Cassandane is calling for help? Shouldn’t we be preparing the city against attack?”

  Before the Khan could respond, the woman seated to his right rose from her chair. She was a majestic woman, attired like an empress in layers of silk under a brocade robe. Her eyebrows and eyelids were lined with kohl, and despite her great age, her lips and cheeks were rouged. Her headdress and jewels were nearly as splendid as the Khan’s. It was clear the woman wielded enormous power. Even the Nizam waited for her to speak.

  “How dare you address the Prince in such a manner? How dare you presume to know better than the Khan how to mount his city’s defense? How many times have I warned you about your impertinence at court?” She motioned to a member of the Zhayedan. “Take her to Qaysarieh, let her learn her lesson there.”

  Though her cheeks were red and her voice was faint, Darya managed an answer. “If you send me to Qaysarieh, Begum, at least I’ll have the chance to see my brother.”

  The Nizam seized the opportunity granted by Darya’s response.

  “I warned you, Excellency. The Princess conspires against you with Darius. Your brother would seize your throne given the merest chance—he grew bold in your absence from Ashfall.”

  Wafa trembled in Darya’s grip. The Nizam smiled to himself, well aware that the boy would not wish to be condemned at her side.

  Darya’s hands were gentle on the boy’s arms, stroking them to reassure him. She shielded him with her body from the Nizam’s cruel gaze.

  The Black Khan rose from the Peacock Throne, the scepter in his hand. He nodded to the Begum to take her seat, motioning his guards to stand down. Not that the gesture was necessary—none would lay a hand on a princess of the blood, except at the Khan’s command.

  The corner of his mouth quirked up at the sight of Darya attempting to shield the boy. “Reinforcements are on their way to the ramparts, Darya. Have faith in Commander Arsalan.”

  “But they’re not!” Darya said desperately. “I don’t know where the Commander is—”

  “Then perhaps your efforts would be better spent in pursuit of him. You are normally certain of his whereabouts.”

  She blushed at the Khan’s mockery, and he sighed.

  “I interrogate this boy because I wish to mount the best defense of Ashfall. Can you not see that you delay me?” Rukh surveyed the assembly, the women jeering behind their fans, the soldiers of the Zhayedan, who seemed embarrassed for their princess. His voice hardening, he said, “You disgrace yourself, Darya—and you insult the Prince of Khorasan.”

  He nodded to one of the guards. “Remove her.” And after a pause, “To her chambers, not the Qaysarieh Portal.” Then he gestured to the other. “Continue. The boy must speak.”

  Darya fought off the grip of the Zhayedan, holding fast to Wafa. “You cannot beat him. Look at him! See the terror in his eyes. Does it not disgrace the Prince of Khorasan to wreak violence upon a child? Is this not a graver offense than my disregard of custom?”

  She faced him defiantly, her headdress aslant on her head.

  This was the time to crush her, to put the girl firmly in her place. Instead, the Nizam watched in dismay as the Prince waved his guard aside. He looked at his sister and smiled. “What would you have of me, Darya?”

  Darya’s face brightened with joy. She didn’t hesitate. She issued a quick series of orders to the guard who had tried to take hold of her. He looked to the Black Khan, who nodded. A chair was brought for Wafa, along with a basin and cloth. Darya dipped the cloth in warm water and
began to clean the boy’s face, wiping blood from the corner of his lips.

  The hard edge of Rukh’s mouth softened. The Nizam knew what he was thinking: the Princess of Ashfall touched a Hazara boy and viewed it as an honorable service. He shook his head at the Khan’s belief that a girl with his sister’s heart would never conspire to dethrone him. Rukh spoke to Darya gently. “Darya, I must know.”

  Darya whispered to Wafa. “Tell me, please. I don’t want them to hurt you. My brother might frighten you, but he isn’t needlessly cruel. So please, is there anything you can tell us of the One-Eyed Preacher?”

  Wafa licked a trace of blood from his lips. His glance flicked up at the Nizam before coming back to rest upon Darya’s gentle face. He must have taken encouragement from the way she refused to desert him.

  Gathering up his courage, the boy spoke haltingly, trying to describe what little he knew. He told her of the Talisman’s conclaves, of their determination to conquer all of the lands of Khorasan. He told her that though they’d forbidden others to read, they were searching for an ancient script. The Immolans were skilled in the script. They twisted it with their tongues. Wafa had met their master only once, when he’d been sent to serve the One-Eyed Preacher. He pointed to the Nizam, who glared at the boy’s presumption.

  “He’s not a man—not like that.”

  “What do you mean?” Darya asked. “Not wise, not important? He’s not someone of rank?”

  Wafa didn’t understand. He was shaking his head, confused, uncertain as to how to explain. He moved his hands, sketching a shape in the air—something that seemed tall and vast and ephemeral—almost transient. But the boy didn’t know these words and so he didn’t use them.

  “He’s bigger than himself.”

  “Do you mean he’s taller?”

  Again, Wafa shook his head. He peered into Darya’s eyes, as if he searched for the answer there.