With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  It was Çeda who spoke next, however. “Is it to do with the names from the collegia?”

  Several of the Kings exchanged glances, but Husamettín pulled his attention from the parchment, pulled himself up to full height, and focused his dark eyes on Çeda. “Explain yourself.”

  “The Host were after names. Perhaps they were looking for names of Qaimiri students”—she waved to the body on the table—“perhaps some who’d been related to our newly departed king.”

  Kiral, standing by Husamettín’s side, frowned. “There is much that might be done with blood.” He looked to Zeheb, the King of Whispers. “Look into it. See if any of the students from Qaimir have gone missing.”

  Zeheb nodded. “At once.”

  The shuffle of footsteps sounded behind Ihsan. “At once . . .” a deep voice said in a sneer. Ihsan turned and found Onur’s massive form standing in the open archway behind him. He stared at the body on the table with porcine eyes as he waddled forward on legs wide as tree trunks. He towered over all the other Kings, even Kiral and Husamettín. Black hair hung in lank strips down his forehead. He had the stink of black lotus on him. “At once,” he repeated, “as though you command the Spears.”

  “Only,” Zeheb replied, “when my Lord King finds himself indisposed.”

  The implication was clear to everyone in the room. The Silver Spears were Onur’s to command, but his office was so often vacant that Zeheb, in addition to coordinating the movements of the Kings’ spies, had taken command of the Spears as well.

  Heaving his bulk forward with his characteristic limp, Onur treaded closer. He scratched the stubble along his jowls and stared down at Aldouan’s body with dispassion, the sort one might give to an uncooked rack of lamb. “What do we care if a young scholar has gone missing?”

  “Other than the obvious,” replied Beşir, the King of Coin, with forced patience, “that all four kingdoms pay handsomely to have their children taught by our collegia masters. If they fear for the safety of their young they may call them home and send them to other institutions. The money that would normally accompany them would go elsewhere. Are you not worried that a plot might be unfolding beneath your very nose?”

  Onur sniffed. “This may smell of a plot, but what of it?” He turned to King Zeheb. “What have the whispers told you?”

  “Nothing as yet,” Zeheb replied.

  “Nothing,” Onur scoffed. “They oppose you at every turn.” He swung his gaze to Yusam. “And you? Has your mere not granted you some small insight into this grand plot?”

  All eyes turned to Yusam, who was still staring at King Aldouan’s body, transfixed. Onur snapped his fingers, and Yusam drew his eyes up, his distant look replaced by one of annoyance.

  Onur laughed. “What use is a pool that grants foresight when the one who peers into it flits and flutters like a hummingbird?”

  “The mere brought us this body,” Yusam replied.

  “And what of it?”

  A pensive look overcame Yusam, a look of uncertainty. He looked to the body, then Çeda, then Ihsan, who he considered with a look of calculation, but also uncertainty. A chill ran down Ihsan’s frame. Had he seen enough of Ihsan’s carefully laid steps to guess what he was doing?

  “All is not yet clear,” Yusam said to Onur, “but the gods will provide. It will come.”

  “There is more we should discuss,” Ihsan said before Onur could lead the conversation further astray, “including what we can expect from Qaimir now that their king is dead.”

  “If they even know,” Zeheb added.

  Ihsan tipped his head. “If they even know. We should prepare the body and bring it to their embassy house. I can speak to them, offer aid in the investigation.”

  Kiral considered, then nodded. “I won’t have them thinking it was our fault. Offer to have them come and examine the king, question the Maidens.”

  “Offer them nothing,” Onur countered. “Our Maidens found their king. Give them his body, then wait. We’ll learn who takes Aldouan’s place and by his response learn what he’s made of in the bargain.”

  If Zeheb were watching Onur with an irritated expression, Azad could barely conceal his anger. No small wonder given how fastidious he was; he hated everything about Onur. Cahil, however, still standing with his back against the wall, seemed impressed. Sukru, the Reaping King, seemed pleased as well. He had a hungry sort of look on his pinched, vulpine face. The rest guarded their expressions, perhaps waiting for Kiral to make his thoughts known.

  “His daughter, Meryam, is next in line,” Ihsan said, “though since the Bloody Passage, she and Lord Ramahd Amansir have been here as often as in Qaimir. I wonder if Aldouan’s brother, Hektor, will allow her to take up a crown he covets. And for that matter, given Meryam’s fixation on the Moonless Host, I wonder if she’ll even wish to lift the crown from her father’s dead brow.”

  “It seems there’s no reason to make the decision tonight,” Husamettín said, motioning to Aldouan’s body. “I daresay he’ll keep until morning.”

  Onur flung one meaty arm toward Aldouan. “Will no one say it? We sit here and talk of appeasing a country that would take us the moment they saw weakness in the heart of the Shangazi. We grow weaker every day. The vultures have begun to peck at our dying corpse. It’s a wonder they haven’t already come, Qaimir or Malasan or both. And surely we’re all aware the hungry gaze the bitch queen of Mirea has upon Sharakhai.” He paused, sweeping his eyes over them all before resting on Kiral. “The gods have laid the King of Qaimir at our feet. Can you think of a clearer sign that they wish us to march south?”

  “Whatever you may think, Qaimir is not a plum ripe for the picking,” Husamettín said evenly.

  “No, but soon we will be. Our asirim are dying. They become more erratic every day.”

  He said this to Mesut, who waggled his head. “Some few have rebelled . . .”

  Onur laughed and leaned forward. “Some few . . .” He stared at Mesut as if he were a mummer in a play making a grand joke. “Some days I wonder if you hear the shit that spills from your mouths. Keep dickering, my good Kings, and it won’t matter what power we still hold. It won’t be enough. Soon, Mirea will ally itself with Malasan, or Qaimir. And then where will we be?”

  “Onur’s words have the ring of truth to them,” King Sukru said, his pinched face watching Kiral and Husamettín carefully. “We would be wise to consider them.”

  “Consider, yes,” Ihsan said. “But let us not be hasty. There is time yet.”

  Onur spun, swaying slightly before looking Ihsan up and down. Then he looked to the rest of the Kings with an expression that might better be saved for prattling children. Finally, he turned to the Maidens, looking at Çeda with bald hatred. “Consider all you will,” he said without taking his eyes from her, “but when the spears of our enemies close in around Sharakhai once more, you’ll remember my words.” With that he strode from the room, leaving a dark mood in his wake.

  Ihsan broke the silence. “Can we agree to meet midday at the Sun Palace to discuss our next moves?”

  There was general agreement, after which the group began to disperse. Some remained behind, but Ihsan walked with most out to the carriage circle, where a host of horses, coaches, footmen, and drivers awaited. Onur’s coach was just rumbling away as Ihsan motioned Zeheb nearer. “Ride with me?”

  Zeheb agreed and sent his own coach away, and soon the two of them were riding along the switchbacks, down from the heights of Eventide, the lights of the city twinkling below. “An interesting occurrence,” Ihsan said. “A king killed by an ehrekh.”

  “Do you know what those signs meant?”

  “I suspect they were a plea to Goezhen, a way to make its voice heard by the God of Beasts, or if not that a way to summon a future it desires.”

  “Or both.”

  Ihsan sat deeper into the bench, feeling the cool nig
ht air wash through the cabin. “That I doubt. What I do know is that Yusam is coming nearer to something. I can see it in him, that look he gets when a grand weave begins to make itself known. The Maidens would not have stumbled across the body were it not so.”

  “You said you could control Yusam.”

  “I can. But if his mere leads him to the plans of the Al’afwa Khadar, there’s no telling what he might do.”

  “Then what? Back away?”

  “No, no, my good King, we speed things up.” Ihsan stared up at Eventide, lit brilliantly by a host of lanterns and braziers. “It’s time the scarabs came scuttling from their holes.”

  Chapter 19

  THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER . . .

  IN THE CENTER OF SHARAKHAI, along the banks of the River Haddah, a crowd of three hundred joyous friends and family were gathered to celebrate the crossing of Demal, a handsome boy of thirteen with gangly limbs and an infectious smile. Winter storms had come, and the river was flowing in a clear, bright stream. The burbling sound reminded Çeda of the times she’d splashed in it with Emre and Tariq. The crowd laughed and joked. They ate and sang. A drum played while women danced around it and boys watched shyly. The girls would pull the boys in from time to time. No one did this more than Sarra, who always chose Demal, and together, they would dance over the river stones, laughing when they spun too fast.

  Çeda’s mother, Ahya, was speaking with a man who looked fresh from the desert, from the way his turban was tied, to the amber sand in his orange thawb, to the dust that marked the creases in his skin. He had a long beard, which made his handsome face look longer than it truly was, tattoos on the skin alongside his eyes, and more that were lost in his brown beard. Most interesting were the two shamshirs he wore on his belt. She’d never seen anyone with two. When Çeda asked him about them, Ahya had smiled and sent her away, which seemed rude, especially since she’d also refused to introduce them.

  After a while, though, she didn’t care. There were so many people to watch, and she liked listening to the music. And her mother . . . Tulathan’s bright eyes, what a change had come over her. She was normally so strict. So grim. But here she was, chatting with this man from the desert, smiling. She even laughed now and again, her eyes far away as if she were reliving a story they’d both had a hand in crafting. There was a look to his face that was not so different from Ahya’s. A man from her father’s tribe visiting the Amber City? A cousin, perhaps? Ahya wouldn’t say. Of course she wouldn’t. She’d just shoo Çeda away again so she could talk in peace.

  Higher along the bank, walking in from the western quarter of the city—the poorest by far—were Hefhi, Demal’s father, and his six brothers and sisters. Demal’s mother had died years ago from dysentery, leaving Hefhi to raise their children alone. Demal was the eldest, though, and everyone knew that he had shouldered his responsibilities well. He was the head of the household when Hefhi was working in the southern harbor, moving freight to and from the ceaseless influx of ships in from the southern kingdom of Qaimir, or the eastern kingdom of Malasan. He even worked on the occasional catamaran favored by the desert tribes.

  Demal had changed since Çeda had first met him a season ago. He no longer ran the streets. He directed his brothers and sisters now, some of whom were gifted at stone carving. They made small but artful statues of oryx or falcons or rearing desert asps, things one would buy while in Sharakhai and return home to give to children, or put on a shelf and remember the distant, golden land they’d once visited. The other siblings, including Demal, scoured the aisles of the bazaar to sell them to the ceaseless droves of visiting patrons. Demal also cared for those who were sick, and not just the members of his own family; he made time for those in the tenement where they lived, and those from the neighborhood as well. He took them to the physic, the one who lived in the Shallows, who everyone knew was favored by the gods for her unguents and salves and balms. They worked wonders, and Demal sometimes shared what was left over from an application and gave it to others who might benefit. He had become a treasured child of the Shallows. And it showed in the sheer number who had come to the river this day.

  “He’s already been promised to another,” Çeda’s mother said with a chiding smile, nodding to Sarra, who was even then laughing at a quip from Demal.

  Çeda realized she’d been staring for some time. She looked around for the man her mother had been speaking to, and found him at the edge of the crowd, crouched down as he spoke to three wizened men sitting cross-legged on the bank of the river. “I don’t care,” Çeda finally said. “I don’t want to be promised to anyone anyway.”

  “You don’t?” Ahya asked, her smile widening. “Not even to Emre?”

  Çeda had been spending more time with Emre lately. Truth be told, she sometimes pretended that she and Emre had married, but she didn’t want her mother knowing it. She feigned a sullen shrug and said, “You don’t need a man. That’s what you keep telling me.”

  Ahya pursed her lips as she leaned her body into Çeda’s and pulled her close. “Need? No.” She kissed Çeda’s forehead. “But we all want love. We all want family.”

  “Where’s our family?”

  Ahya nodded to the crowd around them. “Right here.”

  “No, where’s our real family?”

  “You don’t understand,” Ahya said. “This is our real family.”

  She was always saying things like that, but Çeda knew it was just a way to deflect Çeda’s questions. They’d come from the desert. Çeda knew that much. But she had no idea from which part, or why Ahya had come—or been forced to come—to Sharakhai. She had yet to meet another soul from her family. She’d not met her father. Nor her grandfathers or grandmothers. Nor her uncles or aunts or cousins. That is, if there were any alive to meet. Her mother would never say.

  “Is he our family?” Çeda asked, pointing to the desert man.

  “Shush,” Ahya said, jutting her chin toward the crowd. “It’s about to begin.”

  Demal’s father, Hefhi was making his way down the bank. In his right hand he held a freshly cut branch from a fig tree with three ripe figs dangling among the green leaves. In the other he held an unsheathed sword—a fine shamshir with rich leather wrapping its hilt, the pommel in the shape of a desert fox, ears standing tall. As he came, the crowd made way, parting like water. Hefhi shared a toothy smile, his pride shining like a brand in the night. Demal’s grin, on the other hand, faded, an anxious look replacing it. He’d been dancing earlier, acting the fool, but the time had come for him to show his mettle. All eyes were on him.

  The crowd formed a rough circle as Hefhi and Demal met at their center. The men howled while the women cried “Lai, lai, lai!” Holding sword and fig branch in one arm, Hefhi wrapped the other around his son’s shoulders and spun him about. “A thousand thanks for all who have come to see my Demal pass into manhood.” Again the cries rose up, louder than before. Demal’s cheeks were ruddy from the attention, but there was an eagerness in his eyes and bearing that made it clear he was ready for the dance. “That you, his friends and loved ones, are sharing this day with him means much to me, to all our family.” Hefhi spun around, turning Demal with him, and took everyone in. “Blood of our blood,” he said.

  “Blood of our blood,” the crowd replied, including Ahya, who had slipped her arm around Çeda’s shoulders.

  Hefhi now broke away from Demal. The crowd whistled and stomped their feet as Hefhi held the sword and olive branch high, presenting them both to the sun. He then flipped the sword in a graceful move, laying the blade along the sleeve of his arm, holding the hilt out for Demal to take. The moment Demal took the sword, two drums struck a lively beat.

  As Demal began an intricate dance with the blade, turning and spinning, his blade glinting under the winter sun, the crowd cried out, and this time Çeda joined in with them. Blood of our blood, she thought, smiling, feeling, at least to some small degree, what he
r mother had been talking about. One might be powerless over one’s family—in this, the fates gave what they gave—but you could spread your arms and embrace those you loved. That much you could do.

  Demal began a series of spinning moves that drew a roar of approval. Then he approached his father and slashed out with the blade, slicing one of the figs cleanly from the branch. The crowd gasped as Demal completed the move, snatching the purple fig from the air before it struck the ground. Many laughed their approval, some calling for the fig to be theirs. But it was only in jest. The first was always given to the one holding the branch, often the boy or girl’s father.

  Demal gave it to his father with a smile and a half bow. Hefhi accepted it and took a huge bite from it, then held it up high, his pride clear to gods and man alike.

  As the drumbeat came louder and Demal picked up the dance again, Çeda wondered what it would be like when it was time for her crossing. Would the gods be watching when she danced? Would they bless her? This was an ancient ritual that had been brought to Sharakhai from the desert. The people of the tribes claimed Sharakhai had not been anointed by the desert gods, but Sharakhai still stood, did it not, despite the anger of those who still sailed the sands and forged a living from the Great Shangazi? Surely the gods favored Sharakhai, and if that were so, perhaps they would smile on Demal. Perhaps they would smile on Çeda when her day came.

  She hoped it was so.

  Demal spun away, then came closer to his father once more. The blade swung out and cut another of the dark purple figs from the branch. Demal caught this one cleanly as well. This one would normally have gone to his mother, but as she had passed to the farther fields, Demal was free to give it to whomever he chose. He didn’t hesitate. He made straight for Çeda and offered it to her with a bow.

  As Demal’s youngest sister began to cry that she hadn’t been given the fig, Çeda could only stare at the plump fruit in his hand. Many laughed. Others smiled, waiting expectantly.