With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  She tried again.

  This is no longer a request. I’ll not wait any longer.

  This time, she made sure to look away before it burst into flame. She tilted her head back as well, scanning the rooms above. A breath passed. Then two. And then she saw it. A flickering high up on the topmost floor. She’d been nearly certain that was Juvaan’s room, but she hadn’t known whether his papers—the twins to hers—were there, or if he’d be there tonight.

  Words appeared on the charred sheet.

  You’re being reckless. Wait as I have asked. You’ll receive no more replies until then.

  Çeda rapidly tucked everything into her dress, wrapped the blanket around her waist, and moved to the edge of the building, where three silk ropes were secured. Dozens of lanterns were hung along the ropes for various festivals and holy days, the most recent the celebration of Mirea’s new year. The lanterns were gone, but the ropes gave Çeda access to the tower. Checking one last time for the guard, she placed her foot on the rope and used her arms for balance. She was not as graceful as Kameyl, but she windmilled her way across the gap to reach the tower’s fourth floor. From there she followed the path she’d mapped out earlier, scaling up along the decorative lions and dragons that graced the corners of the building.

  Landing softly on the parapet outside Juvaan’s room, she found a candle flickering behind the paper doorway. With deliberate care, she stepped down to the balcony and slid the door open. Within, she found Juvaan sitting at a desk, stripped down to a simple pair of cotton leggings. On the desk, leaning against the wall, was a large metal rack with several dozen sheets of the reed paper strung to it. Juvaan’s head jerked toward her, his pale eyes wide, then he stood and spun to face her, his bone-white skin rippling with lithe muscle. Fear was painted all over him, in the way he looked to her, then the sword hanging from the wall nearby, to the way his body was positioned, ready to spring into action.

  “I’ll have my answer now,” Çeda said in a low voice.

  As she pulled her veil away, his fear faded, and fury rushed in to replace it. He glanced back at the desk where he’d been sitting, then over Çeda’s shoulder to the darkness of the desert night. And then understanding dawned on his face. “You stupid girl!” He gave a short, piercing whistle. Only a bare heartbeat passed before the door at the far end of the room flew open and a Mirean man in light armor rushed in. “Take her,” Juvaan said, motioning to Çeda.

  The guard hesitated only a second, perhaps given pause because a Blade Maiden had suddenly appeared in his master’s room. He drew a straight, double-edged blade and advanced. Çeda, meanwhile, backed away. She didn’t think Juvaan would attack her himself—likely he wanted no bloodshed—but she wasn’t willing to risk it. As the guard stepped forward, Çeda felt for his heartbeat, as she’d done so many times with Zaïde. As he neared her, she felt it, but instead of trying to attune hers to his, she pressed against his.

  By the time he coughed, momentarily confused, Çeda was on the move. She swept in as he prepared to deliver a compact swing of his sword, then she leaned away, in perfect tune with the sword’s arc. The tip slid past, a finger’s breadth from her chest. She felt a tug, heard a ripping sound as it caught the fabric of her dress. And then she was on him, slipping beneath his elbow as he tried to recover, sliding past him to reach his side. A sharp knee blow to his stomach made him hunch forward, enough that Çeda could send a vicious cross with her free hand to his jaw. When he reeled, she followed, sending her right hand, still gripping River’s Daughter, crashing against his exposed temple. He crumpled to the floor like a misshapen sack of limes.

  She’d only taken her eyes off Juvaan for a moment, but when she turned back, she found the tip of his sword beneath her chin. He held it with both anger and confidence. Çeda, however, held her ground. He wasn’t ready to draw the blood of a Maiden. Not yet. “You think what I did was foolish?” She let her eyes drop to the sword for a moment. “What you’re considering now is infinitely worse.”

  “You don’t come to my home and dictate how our arrangement will work.”

  “I’ve come, my good lord, to make my position more clear to you. The fault is mine, really. I’ve failed to convey just how important this is to me.” The sword didn’t waver, but a bit of the anger left his eyes. “I’ve gone through great pains to become the woman you see before you now. But I have not left my old life behind. Far from it. If anything, its absence has made it more dear to me, not less. So you’ll forgive me if I’ve become frustrated at your reluctance to share with me what you know.”

  “As I’ve said, I know little.”

  “Ah, now there’s a word. Little. While your replies would have me believe you knew nothing.”

  “Your impatience could lead to years of work unraveling.”

  “No, your unwillingness to confide in me could. And if you please, let’s discuss this with your sword lowered. Unless you wish to find yourself lying next to your man there.” When his eyes glanced down toward his guardsman, she slowly but deliberately reached one hand up and pressed the tip of his sword downward. Juvaan huffed his pent-up breath and lowered it all at once. In one smooth motion, he sheathed it and sent it clattering onto the nearby desk. Turning to her, he leaned back against the desk, crossed his legs casually, and folded his arms across his chest. His long white hair hung freely, the ends brushing the surface of the desk behind him.

  “I am no confidant of the Moonless Host, to know this man’s whereabouts or that man’s intentions. They deal only through Osman, as they always have. And they’re well aware of the arrangement. They’re supremely careful. I supply them with what they need, and in the end it helps my queen’s position here in the desert. I’ll not jeopardize our arrangements over one man, no matter how important he is to you.”

  “And while all that you’ve said makes perfect sense, my impression of you, Lord Xin-Lei, is that you are also supremely careful, an impression that has only been strengthened by our dealings with one another. You wouldn’t allow supplies or money or information go to the Host without a way to verify that it’s paying off.”

  “It’s not so difficult as you’re making it out to be. You can see, as I have, that my dealings have furthered our goals.” He waved at the papers on the wall behind him. “The very information you’ve sent to me confirms it. That doesn’t mean I have an inventory of every scarab in the Host.”

  “What I’ve sent may provide you with some insight, but we both know that I’m hardly your only source of information. You have others in Sharakhai, and you’ve learned much from them, enough to ensure that your investments are sound. I’ve given you much, risking my life each time I’ve communicated with you. Give me a way to reach the Host, and I’ll consider the ledger squared.”

  Juvaan paused. Çeda thought he was going to deny her. And if he did, she truly wasn’t sure what her reply would be. But then Juvaan seemed to come to some conclusion. “There is, perhaps, a way to find another who would know more.”

  “Go on.”

  “A drop is being made soon. The elixir that was used on the scarabs in the collegia, the ones who fought so maniacally. There’s more being made by an apothecary in the merchant’s quarter, a man named Dardzada.”

  Çeda felt a chill. Dardzada. She hadn’t seen him since the days following the battle at Külaşan’s palace. “When?”

  “Five days from now, near nightfall. That’s all I can give you.” He paused, then gave her a more contrite look. “But I meant what I said. I’ll give you more when I have it.”

  Çeda nodded, walking toward the balcony. “I’ll contact you again in a few weeks.”

  As she climbed down the tower, a strange mixture of emotions simmered within her. Part of it stemmed from the feelings she always had when she thought about Dardzada: the discomfort of all they’d been through coupled with the desire to speak to someone, anyone, so closely linked to her mother. But the
re was more, something deeper. Stop being foolish, she chided herself, yet the feelings remained. She realized why a moment later.

  A terrible storm was brewing in the desert. It was gathering, preparing to sweep over Sharakhai. She wondered where they would all land by the time it was done.

  Chapter 32

  THREE DAYS AFTER SHE CONFRONTED JUVAAN in the Mirean embassy house, Çeda was granted a free day, the first one she’d had in weeks. She knew she needed to reach Dardzada’s on the day Juvaan had indicated, but the leave she’d been granted was a full week later. “What would it take,” she asked Kameyl that night, “to let me take your day instead?” Kameyl, she’d learned, had the day two days hence, the one Çeda needed.

  Kameyl was sitting in a chair, legs pulled up, reading a book of bawdy Malasani limericks. Without looking up, she said, “I don’t know that there’s anything you could offer.”

  “There must be something.”

  “Why do you need it?”

  “I’ve heard word of a troupe of jongleurs and acrobats from Mirea. They’re leaving the city the day after.” It was the truth. Çeda had learned of them that morning. When Kameyl lifted her head, her face slowly transforming into a look of disgust, Çeda shrugged. “My mother and I used to go to see them.”

  Kameyl rolled her eyes and went back to her book. “Gods forbid you’d miss the jongleurs prancing about in their pretty tights.”

  “Does that mean you’ll trade?”

  She waved her hand. “If it’s so precious to you, then go.”

  Çeda ran to her and kissed her head. “My thanks, sister.”

  “I’m not your sister.” Çeda waved and left to tell Sümeya. “And if you kiss me again I’ll gut you in your sleep!”

  Two days later, Çeda left the House of Maidens, but she knew she couldn’t go straight to the merchant’s quarter. She wasn’t aware of having ever been followed, but she couldn’t risk being discovered now, so she went to the spice market, as she always did. Once there, she wandered the stalls, not only to calm herself, but to look for any who might be following. She stayed for well over an hour, sampling araq-soaked honey-prunes infused with cinnamon and ginger and coriander, trying the ground spices at a stall she’d never seen before, tended by a pale woman in white clothes who acted as though each sniff she allowed should be regarded as a holy experience. She bought a bag of cashews coated in caramelized sugar and dusted with something smoky and spicy, then walked along the stalls to the south, the ones that specialized in flavored drinks. And all the while she watched from the corners of her eyes, studied the patterns of those around her.

  Her instincts for noticing a tail had always been good. Even when she was young, she rarely failed to spot Emre or Tariq or Hamid in the games they played along these very aisles, seeing who could find whom first. And when there were real threats, she was the first to notice those as well—older children looking to dole out a bruising for having a purse nicked, or fruitmongers angry at having food stolen from their stalls. She’d warn the others with the signals they’d developed, or would outright shout if the threat was near, and then they’d be off.

  And yet it took her nearly the full hour to notice that someone was, in fact, trailing her. A woman. Young from the look of her, though it was hard to know for certain, clothed as she was from head to toe in an indigo dress and matching keffiyeh. But Çeda had learned to identify people by telltale signs like silhouette, and the shape of one’s hands or feet, even by the cadence of a gait, so she knew as surely as the sun did shine that the woman following her was Yndris.

  She picked up her pace, but only slightly, as if she still had time to linger but would soon have to leave. She made her way toward the center of the grand, complicated space. Yndris was good. She stayed two aisles back, lost among the crowd. She never looked directly at Çeda, but instead browsed the stalls, pinching samples of spices and sniffing or tasting them. Çeda was careful not to look directly at Yndris, either, lest she realize Çeda had grown wise to her.

  Çeda wondered who’d sent her. It might have been her father, King Cahil. More likely, though, she’d come on her own. Yndris was desperate to find Çeda doing something, anything, wrong. She wanted to discredit Çeda, though Çeda still didn’t understand why. Don’t be such a fool. When have the highborn needed a reason to frown and spit upon those of lower birth?

  The spice market was filled with dozens of places one might hide, from slipping beneath a table covered in cloth to hiding in a carpetmonger’s rolls of carpets to shimmying up the stone supports to the wooden beams above, a space that was hidden in relative darkness but that housed thousands of grape-sized spiders.

  She was near a hiding place she’d used many times when she was young and never been caught. Near the old fort that was home to the spice merchants there was an alley of sorts that ran behind a row of stalls. The aisle leading to the alley was conveniently curved, so that by the time Yndris reached its entrance, Çeda would be out of sight. Çeda took it, moving swift and low past seven stalls until she came to Young Khava’s, a place that sold exotic vinegars made from pomegranate and coconut, and rice from a particular mountainous region in Mirea that somehow made the vinegar taste like peaches. At the rear of the stall were three massive wine tuns. No one knew why they were there. Not even Old Khava had been able to tell Çeda why. “They were here when I first took this stall, and I like them,” he shouted at her, hard of hearing as he was. “I’m not getting rid of them!” She hadn’t bothered to say she wasn’t asking him to.

  The tuns were tight together, and a hole had been cut in the rear of each. Çeda ducked through the first, and immediately, the same old scent struck her, a fruity, oaky smell, strong from the heat within the enclosed space. Somehow it seemed much less pleasant than it had back then. Years ago she’d been able to stand tall, but now she was forced to hunch as she stepped forward, ready to peer through the narrow gaps in the tun’s staves. Before she could, she stumbled into something.

  She should have been prepared for it, should have looked, but in the darkness she hadn’t realized she wasn’t alone. A young girl, perhaps seven, was hunched down, small as a mouse, trying not to be seen.

  “Quietly now,” Çeda said to her while shifting to the far side of the tun. “Quietly, and all will be well.”

  The din of the market came to her muted. She watched as people strode past, as Young Khava spoke with his patrons, oblivious to her. And then Yndris in her indigo dress rushed by the front of the stall, past the patrons dipping some crusty bread into Khava’s samples. She was in a hurry, craning her neck to look ahead over the shoulders and heads of the endless sea of patrons. Soon she had moved beyond Khava’s and was lost around the bend in the aisle. Çeda ducked down to leave, but paused and looked at the girl.

  “A good find, is it not?”

  The girl only stared.

  “Do you have money for food?”

  The girl nodded, eyes wide.

  Çeda laughed. “You’re a shit liar, girl. Work on that.” She reached into her purse and tossed two sylval onto the floor of the tun, enough for a gutter wren like her to eat for a month if she was careful. The coins landed with dull thuds. “Be well,” and then Çeda left, heading in the opposite direction from Yndris, making quickly for the spice market’s exit.

  She wanted to head toward Roseridge, if only to see her old home once more, but she didn’t want Yndris to find her there, so she headed south instead, planning on heading east once she’d passed beyond the Well. She was just nearing the Spear when she felt a familiar presence. She came to a stop in the middle of the street, absently rubbing the wound on her right thumb. It was throbbing again, but the pain felt good, like her legs after a punishing run, or her arms after an hour of sparring with Kameyl.

  It was the asir, she realized, the one Mesut had chosen for her, the one he’d forged through ritual sacrifice in the courtyard of Eventide those many
weeks ago. Why had it found her here? And why now? Çeda wasn’t sure, but she couldn’t let the opportunity pass. She had to know what Mesut was doing with the golden band, and more importantly how.

  She beckoned the asir nearer, coaxed it, remembering what Mesut had told her. Control. She needed to exert control. Like wildfire rushing over the city, it drew nearer and nearer.

  Do you remember who you are? Çeda asked.

  Like a dog well acquainted with being kicked, the asir shied away.

  Do you remember what he did? How you gained your new form?

  The asir said nothing, nor were there thoughts or memories like she’d felt from the asir Yndris had killed in the blooming fields. There was only a cold rage burning.

  Please, I only wish to help.

  It was then that Çeda caught sight of a woman in an indigo dress. Yndris. Luckily she’d turned and was heading away or she’d surely have spotted Çeda.

  Çeda should have hidden—Yndris might turn at any moment—but just then hiding was the farthest thing from her mind. She let the traffic flow around her, pressing the meat of her thumb, watching Yndris’s form dwindle as she walked farther and farther away. Gritting her teeth against the growing pain in her hand, an image played through her mind: Yndris rushing through the spice market as if Çeda were a prize she hoped to string up like a desert hare and lay at the feet of her father, the Confessor King. How very proud she would be when she did it, desperate to win affection from a father who had lived to see dozens upon dozens of children like her in his four centuries spent walking the halls of Tauriyat.

  Without knowing when she’d decided to do it, Çeda found that she was trailing Yndris. Her thoughts shifted from the spice market to the desert; the memory of Yndris killing the asir in the blooming fields was suddenly vivid in her mind. The simple glee she’d shown. The way she’d reveled in the blood. She’d shown her nature again with the pirates, killing that boy in cold blood when she’d been denied it earlier. And again on the tower during the riot, shooting arrows into the crowd with the sort of enthusiasm a child reserved for treacle sweets.