They all nodded, even Emre, at which point Sümeya turned and headed for the ladder leading belowdecks. “Come, it won’t be long before we moor.”
The sun was lowering as they passed through the gates and approached the caravanserai proper, a squat monstrosity with piers jutting out from it like a sunburst. The crew stopped them well short of the berth assigned to them by the harbormaster. As a team of mules towed them toward the dock, Sümeya ordered them all to take a petal. It felt strange for Çeda to do so. She’d never been this far from Sharakhai when she’d taken one. She felt some of the same verve she’d always felt, but it wasn’t so frantic as it was closer to the blooming fields. It was a subdued sort of energy, the sort she felt after a fiery sparring session. She felt Sharakhai, but only distantly, like the sun in the hours before dawn.
No sooner had they docked than a man in a rich brown kaftan with thread of gold came bustling down the pier. Behind him came a train of seven veiled men wearing blue kaftans that seemed to glow against the stone-and-sand canvas of the caravanserai. Sümeya leapt to the dock. Kameyl and Yndris followed, with Melis and Çeda coming last. Emre remained on deck wearing a black turban with a veil across his face to hide his identity. Sümeya had thought this best—he would, after all, be a valuable source of information from within the Moonless Host should his claims hold true.
“Welcome to Ishmantep,” the man said. “I am Şaban, aide to Lord Aziz Salim’ava.” He spread his arms wide and bowed so deeply his graying beard nearly brushed the sunbeaten boards of the dock. “What we have is yours.”
The other men, much younger, bowed as well, but none nearly so deeply. When they rose, Çeda could see how calm they were, almost too calm. A sudden visit like this should strike fear into men such as these, but they hardly batted an eye. And then she realized how similar they looked. Each of their bright blue veils was loose, revealing the set of their eyes, their sharp noses, the color of their skin. Brothers, perhaps. But seven of them?
“We were not expecting you,” Şaban said with a broad grin, “but it is a bright day indeed when the presence of the Kings graces us.”
“Take us to Lord Aziz,” Sümeya said.
“Of course, of course.” Şaban bowed his head and took a half step back, but made no move otherwise to lead them into the shaded stone halls of the caravanserai. “May we know your purpose? I’ll have my men run and tell my humble master.”
Sümeya strode past him. “Kings’ business.”
Şaban stumbled and then ran to keep ahead of her. “Beşir sent his coin counters only two weeks past. They found everything in order.”
Yndris and Melis followed, and Çeda made to as well, until Kameyl took her by the elbow and held her back a moment. Yndris glanced their way, clearly confused, or perhaps annoyed, but did as she’d been instructed and followed Sümeya. When they were out of earshot, Kameyl squeezed Çeda’s arm to the point of pain and whispered, “I’ve no idea what you’re doing, or how, but I want you to stop it. Now.”
She meant the asirim. She could see them through the gates they’d sailed through. They were closer than Çeda had realized. Their hunger had grown like the sun rising over the desert. They would not be stopped if they came much closer, so she pushed them back. Not these, blood of my blood. Not today.
The asirim sang their jackal songs, but then began to retreat, their forms dark in the distance over the golden dunes. Şaban glanced toward the sound, but seemed to think little of it. Surely the Maidens visited this place often.
In an effort to maintain some sort of decorum, Şaban rushed ahead of Sümeya and waved her beneath the arched tunnel that led into the heart of the caravanserai. They followed the passageway for a short distance and found themselves in a central courtyard, a place filled with green palms and lime trees and a well with a large bronze pump at its center. A portico bordered the entire courtyard, which lent dark, slanting shadows to a space that would be bright indeed under the noontime sun.
Şaban took them to the far side of the courtyard and back into the expanse of the building, which was much larger than Çeda had realized. They took several turns and found themselves in a hall with a stone dais at one end. On the dais was a wooden chair, a throne of sorts, a thing not so ostentatious that the lord of this place would be thought to consider himself a King, but certainly a thing that impressed with its beautiful pearl inlay and carvings of falcons at its shoulders. The chair sat empty, as did the rest of the room.
Şaban looked to the Maidens, but particularly at Emre. “My, but you are a strange Maiden, aren’t you?”
Sümeya walked to the center of the room. “Where is your master?”
“Ah, forgive me, but as I’ve said you’ve caught us unprepared. We’ll send for him presently.” He snapped his fingers at the seven veiled men. “It will be but a moment. Until then, let us offer you drink, or food if you’re hungry.”
Sümeya shook her head. “Your master. And be quick about it.”
“Of course, of course.” He bowed low as he headed for the door, one arm against his chest, the other flung wide. He reminded Çeda of none so much as Ibrahim the storyteller, who was theatrical to a fault. Şaban was this way, stepping near but not quite crossing the line that divided amusing from offensive. “But a moment, I beg.” He paused after stepping across the threshold, leaning back into the room at an awkward angle. “A moment only.”
And then he was gone, and Çeda, the other Maidens, and Emre were left alone in the room.
“I like this not at all,” Çeda said, looking about the room to the four sets of doors, to the shutters, half closed.
“Don’t fret, little wren,” Yndris said. “All will be well.”
“That man—” Çeda tried to reply.
But Sümeya cut her off. “Lord Aziz has always been a strange man with strange tastes, but he’s filled the Kings’ coffers well enough despite it.”
“You know this Şaban, then?”
“I do not.” She turned to Emre. “Do you?” It was a cold and insistent stare, as if she thought it high time he show his worth, but Emre appeared not to notice as he shook his head. Sümeya continued, “I’m not surprised Aziz has chosen someone eccentric to wait upon him, but in the end it changes nothing. As we agreed then.” She motioned Emre toward the door to the courtyard. “See what you can find.”
Emre nodded and left, looking about as if he were admiring the designs on the walls when in reality he was looking for signs of the Host while Lord Aziz was occupied.
A short while later, the scraping sound of footsteps came from the stone-lined hallway outside. The doors opened abruptly, and in strode a score of men and women, most in rich finery. At their rear was a large man with golden clothes and curling jeweled slippers and a turban with a bright red ruby in its center. “Welcome, my friends. Welcome, and please, please, forgive my late arrival. The Kings’ duties do take time.”
The men and women all watched raptly, but none said a word. One of them, a woman wearing an embroidered khimar over her head, hiding her face in deep shadows, seemed to be watching them more intently than the rest.
Aziz spread his hands wide, bowing his head. “Pray tell, what can the Master of Ishmantep provide for the Kings?”
“Our business with you is private,” Sümeya said.
“Private? Of course. We’ll rest but a moment, and then—”
“Now,” Sümeya replied.
Aziz’s round face grew worried. He looked to the others, the men and women who’d accompanied him here. They, however, appeared calm, amused even, by what was taking place.
Şaban, who seemed to appear out of nowhere in the corner, began clapping his hands. “As the Kings command, so must we obey. Come,” he said, clapping more loudly. “Out, and we will return for a feast when the sun has set.”
Hushed conversation followed as they filtered from the room. Şaban held the door open
for them, and when they’d all left, closed it behind them and moved to stand by the throne. Aziz sat down in it, perhaps trying to regain the air of nobility he’d had only a moment ago with his court surrounding him. Sitting there with no one but a single servant to attend to him, however, he looked ridiculous, a man naked, lost in the desert, hiding his cock lest he look foolish to the buzzards.
Lord Aziz smiled, a thing that bloomed and faded quickly. “Now, what might I provide for the Maidens of Sharakhai? You have only to name it.”
“I would speak with Maidens Dilara and Rana for a start,” Sümeya said.
“Ah,” Aziz said, clearly put off by this request, “forgive me, but they are gone.”
“They are assigned to this post,” Sümeya countered.
“Be that as it may . . .”
“Gone where?”
“East. They left for Ashdankaat two days ago.”
For the first time since arriving, Sümeya seemed off balance. Dilara and Rana were meant to remain here in the caravanserai. They watched the trade. They kept order. They were a reminder that the Kings were the power that ruled the desert and no other, and as such they were a stabilizing influence across the trails and caravanserais. For them to have gone east to another serai without Sümeya or the Kings knowing it was strange indeed.
“Was word sent to Sharakhai?” Sümeya asked.
Aziz bowed his head. “I do not presume to know the affairs of the Maidens. They may have sent word on the patrol ship that left a week ago, but if so, I do not know of it.”
Sümeya turned to the other Maidens. “Melis, take Çeda and examine their rooms.” As she said this, she made the sign for danger with her right hand where Aziz couldn’t see it.
Melis bowed her head and led Çeda away.
As the two of them headed for the door, Sümeya snapped, “I’ll see your ledgers.”
“My ledgers?” As they left the room and closed the door behind them, Çeda heard Aziz’s muffled reply, “I assure you, they are in order. Beşir’s man came not two weeks back.”
Melis led Çeda along the portico that bordered the lush courtyard. The sun was even lower now. The moons would not rise for some time, which lent this place—with its play-at-King master and his odd servant—a strange air indeed. They came to a heavy, nail-studded door carved with the official seal of Sharakhai, a shield with twelve shamshirs fanned around it. Melis took an iron key from the small bag at her belt, which she used to open the door.
Çeda stepped inside and found an office with two simple desks and a table with stools. Beyond, through an archway, was another room with eight beds, four along each side.
Melis glanced outside, then closed the door. “I like this not at all, Çeda. Dilara and Rana would not have left, not without sending word to Sharakhai.” She moved to the nearest desk, sat down in the chair, and opened the shallow central drawer. From it she pulled a journal, which she set before her and began paging through. “It’s possible some note they sent may have crossed paths as we came here, but the timing seems odd, doesn’t it?”
Çeda looked to the shutters, to the gap at the base of the door, both of which would allow some air to flow through the room even if both were closed. She pulled back a nearby chair. “Would the Maidens have cleaned diligently?”
Melis frowned. “Of course. Why?”
Çeda motioned to the brown glazed tiles on the floor, and the space where the leg of the chair had been. “A bit more than two days, don’t you think?” There was a fine layer of dust coating the floor, as there would be anywhere in the desert unless the room had somehow been sealed. It would depend on how many sandstorms had passed through the area, but it looked to Çeda like almost a month’s worth of buildup.
“Yes,” Melis said. “Dilara was fastidious about such things.”
“Where might they have gone?” Çeda asked.
Melis paged through the journal, reading the early entries within it. “The gods may know, but I certainly don’t.”
While Melis scanned the pages Çeda moved into the next room. There were no signs that Maidens were using the room, or had in recent days. All the beds had woolen mattresses with neck rolls and two sets of sheets and blankets folded carefully atop them. None of the shelves above the beds held anything. No books. No mementos. Nothing.
There was, however, a strange smell in the room. Something like spoiled cabbage, with the sharp smell of vinegar cutting through it. She’d smelled similar things in Dardzada’s shop, but those had always seemed natural, even if they had made her stomach turn. This odor made her feel as though the room had the taint of the dead upon it.
She heard Melis mumble something in the next room.
“What?” Çeda asked as she moved to the corner of the room where the smell was strongest. When Melis didn’t respond, she got down on her knees and ran her hands over the floor. There was a discoloration. A darkened area—blood, perhaps, but with an oily sheen to it. When she put her nose right up next to it and sniffed, she reeled back. Something foul had soaked into the floorboards here, and no amount of cleaning would undo it.
Melis mumbled again, something about Dilara.
“What did you say?” Çeda asked when she returned to the front room.
Melis looked up from the journal, which was open to a page that contained only a handful of entries. “This isn’t Dilara’s writing.”
“Rana’s, then?”
Melis shook her head. “You misunderstand. It’s been doctored, made to look like Dilara’s writing.” Melis stood and closed the book. “A forgery, and not a bad one, but it isn’t hers.” And then she tucked the book under one arm and headed for the door, grim determination in her eyes. “Come with me, and keep your sword loose in its sheath.”
Chapter 51
WHILE LEAVING THE CARAVANSERAI PROPER, Çeda took note of the docked ships. There were eight besides the Javelin. Most had no crew on deck, but two were being readied for sail, and both flew the pennant of Ishmantep: a green, spread-wing falcon on a field of gold. One of the ships was a mid-sized cutter, the other a sleek yacht with well-oiled runners that looked is if it would fairly fly across the desert.
Çeda give a short whistle—dangerous?—and nodded to the ships.
Melis looked, then walked toward the Javelin, which was close, and got the attention of the captain of the Silver Spears. She pointed to the ships. “Do not let those ships leave. Put the crew in chains if you need to.”
“It shall be so,” the captain said, and called orders to his waiting men.
Melis and Çeda crossed the sandy ship path circling the caravanserai and strode down a wide street. There were people about, but Çeda was so used to the weight and press of Sharakhai that Ishmantep felt like a boneyard, ghuls wandering about looking for fresh graves to unearth. Melis took them farther down the street to a small shop. She didn’t knock. She merely stepped inside, causing a small bell to tinkle above the door, to find a room filled with a variety of antiques—clay lamps, ornate hairpins, vases made from what looked to be jade. And there were books. Many books. Different sizes with bindings that ranged from wood to leather to metal.
At the back of the room, behind a workbench, sat a wizened man, bent over a book, wrapping what appeared to be snakeskin over the front backing board. “But a moment,” he said without looking up. “I’ll be with you in but a moment.”
Melis, a forbidding look on her face, stepped up to the desk, raised the Maidens’ ledger high, and crashed it onto the desk.
The man’s head shot up, eyes wild and impossibly large behind his round spectacles. He swallowed, then unwrapped the spectacles from around his ears and stared at Melis, who towered over him.
“Tell me what you know of this ledger,” Melis ordered.
He looked down, then at the book he’d been working on, then at his hands, now streaked with backing glue. He swung his gaze back
up to Melis and smiled awkwardly. “Melis, isn’t it?” When Melis nodded, he went on. “It’s been a few years, assuming my addled mind has it right.”
She stabbed her finger at the book. “The ledger, Belivan.”
“This?” His voice was tremulous, the voice of an old man, but there was also fear, confusion. “What about it?”
“You worked on this book, didn’t you?” Melis took it up and pointed to the binding. “The cover is old, the original, unless I’m mistaken, but the paper is new. New, but made to look old. Did you distress the pages before finishing this for Lord Aziz?”
The ancient man now picked up the ledger, held it in his shaking hands. He looked it over, but there seemed to be something melancholy about the way he did it. He made a show of walking his fingers over the pages, turning them slowly, running his hands along their length.
He stared up into Melis’s eyes. Licked his lips. Sniffed wetly as his eyes turned rheumy. “I knew you would come. One day, I knew . . .”
“Why, Belivan? Why did Aziz have you create another?”
“It wasn’t Aziz. It was Şaban, his servant.”
Melis glanced at Çeda, confused, concerned. “Şaban then. Why did he want a replica?”
Belivan shrugged, a pained expression on his face. He looked beyond Melis, toward the door. “I know not what happens in that place. Şaban . . . I . . . The serai hasn’t been the same since his arrival.”
“When did he come?”
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