When Jackals Storm the Walls

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Hamid’s rage built. He could hardly think. He could hardly see. Around him, he saw only enemies, men and women who would gut him as soon as release him from the pavilion. How he’d love to see the sand stained red with Halarijan blood. Then we’ll see what becomes of you, Shaikh Neylana, you and your snide little smile.

  “We bring the promise of a brighter future,” Sirendra offered, perhaps seeing no other choice than to take over from Hamid.

  Neylana swung her displeased gaze to Sirendra. “My children cannot eat brightness. And they don’t live in the future but in the harshness of the here and now.”

  Hamid stood in a rush, refusing to sit with this woman any longer. “You’re going to accept Queen Meryam’s offer,” he said with certainty.

  “In truth, I wished to speak to you first. She’s offering much that we might join her to fight the desert’s invaders. She’s desperate. Together, the tribes might convince her to call off her quest against you.”

  “You would have us, the thirteenth tribe, join forces with Sharakhai?”

  “A new Sharakhai. I’m certain we can convince her to drop her demand that we give you up, particularly if we speak as one.”

  “A new Sharakhai?” Hamid spat. “There’s nothing new about it. Those who took the vacant thrones are the sons and daughters of the Sharakhani Kings, men who taught them how to control, how to manipulate, how to absolve themselves of their fathers’ treasonous past that they might keep their place on the mount. Oh, they will smile, they will hold out their hand in friendship, but only so they can draw you near enough to stick a knife through your ribs, or cast you down to writhe with the masses, those they’ve stood upon even as they claim it is they and they alone who lifted themselves high.”

  Neylana seemed unimpressed. “I would still ask that you take my offer to Macide.”

  Hamid spat on the sand between them. “Never.”

  “Then we’ll send an envoy of our own, as we’ve done to the other tribes.”

  Hamid stared, aghast as understanding dawned. Neylana was a cancer. She would infect the other tribes. She would ruin everything the thirteenth tribe had worked for, everything Hamid had worked for. With that realization, the buzzing in Hamid’s brain ceased. He became calm itself, knowing with a certainty that what he was about to do was right.

  “Macide did give me leave to make one last offer.” Macide had done no such thing, but Hamid knew this was the right way to proceed.

  “Oh?” Neylana asked. “And what’s that?”

  Hamid strode toward the exit. “Better to be shown than told.”

  Sirendra and Frail Lemi rushed to catch up with Hamid. “What are you doing?” Sirendra asked under her breath.

  Hamid kept moving, striding beyond the circle of ships and heading toward the Amaranth and her complement of three frigates. Neylana, the vizir, and the shaikh’s son followed behind. As did the other elders, plus a dozen warriors in turbans and veils.

  When they’d gone far enough, Hamid stopped. “Call them,” he said to Sirendra.

  Sirendra hesitated, her eyes shifting toward Neylana and the gathering crowd behind her.

  “Now, Sirendra.”

  With a flinty look, she pulled her veil across her face. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Turning to the frigates, she gave a piercing whistle. On the three frigates, three more Shieldwives whistled back, then stepped down into the holds of their ships. Moments later, loading ramps built into the hulls of the ships fell open with heavy thuds. Sand and dust sprayed, momentarily occluding the figures inside the hold, who were now moving forward along the ramps. A score of Shieldwives, all veiled, came first. Following them were forms that hunkered low, that walked strangely. Some crawled on all fours like insects.

  A collective gasp rose up from behind Hamid. He turned to look at them, the members of Tribe Halarijan. Dozens had gathered to watch, and more were joining them by the moment. Some stared with mouths open. Some drew shamshirs or readied their bows. Soon nearly two hundred had gathered outside the ring of ships, staring as the Shieldwives led fifty asirim forward over the sand. Behind Hamid, Sirendra, and Frail Lemi, the Shieldwives arrayed themselves in a line, and behind them, the asirim clustered in ragged groups.

  Hamid waited several breaths, then turned and faced the asirim. “They,” he said, pointing to Tribe Halarijan behind him, “would align themselves with Sharakhai. They would have us do the same. But we cannot. We will not. I will die before I join hands with any of the Kings, their sons, or their daughters.”

  Hamid had no ability to sense the asirim’s feelings as Sirendra and the Shieldwives could, but he saw the anger in their faces, he saw the way their necks craned and their limbs twitched, as if they had a storehouse of pent-up rage they were eager to let loose.

  That they had been sent with Hamid showed how important this mission was to Macide. The asirim were meant to protect them from the Malasani or the Mireans or even the holdout tribes if things went poorly. They hadn’t been sent to intimidate, but even before they’d embarked Hamid thought what a waste it would be not to use the asirim.

  Sirendra had pressed Hamid hard when he told her of his plans. She said Macide would never have agreed to it had he known. But Hamid had stood firm and eventually she’d relented. Whether Macide would have agreed or not wasn’t the point—when the last three tribes agreed to join the Alliance, Macide would see that it was the right decision.

  Hamid turned to face Neylana and her tribe. “Here,” he shouted, spreading his arms wide, “is Macide’s final offer.”

  Neylana broke from the crowd and strode toward Hamid, incensed. She raised one crooked finger and jabbed it at the asirim. “You would draw the blood of a sister tribe?”

  Sirendra drew her shamshir. “Wouldn’t joining hands with Queen Meryam, with Sharakhai, amount to the same thing? Would you abandon us, the thirteenth tribe, to the fates once more?”

  Hamid could see Sirendra was wasting her breath. A man like Emre might have taken this time to explain that it was in Halarijan’s best interests, that they would still have a say in all decisions once they joined the Alliance. Hamid didn’t see it that way. Sometimes people needed to be shown the consequences of their actions. And, he admitted, part of him didn’t want Neylana to agree. The past five months had seen his urge to draw blood grow and grow and grow to the point that he ached for it.

  “We’ll have your answer now,” Sirendra said.

  Hamid tried to read Neylana—he was usually pretty good at it—but found her inscrutable. As it turned out, he would never learn which way she leaned, for just then a crossbow bolt twanged. It sped past and fell short of an asir—one of a pair of twins, Huuri or Imwe, Hamid could never tell them apart.

  Both of the twins, smaller than any of the other asirim, bolted forward, straight toward the one who’d shot the crossbow. The man looked shocked and confused. It had been nerves, Hamid realized.

  Hamid could have given an order for the Shieldwives to rein the two asirim in. But he didn’t, and the twins closed the distance like hungry wolves. The man retreated, but Huuri and Imwe both fell on him and tore into his flesh with abandon. Blood flew. Others rushed to the man’s aid, but they were taken down as well. A loose group of Halarijan warriors closed in. Howling, more of the asirim began to break away to help the young twins.

  “Enough!” Hamid called. “Enough! Call them away!”

  The Shieldwives came forward, summoning the asirim to them. Huuri and Imwe, both inhumanly fast, had escaped with hardly a cut to their shriveled black skin. Tribe Halarijan, on the other hand, had two dead and five more wounded.

  The twins smiled as they backed away. Hamid wanted to smile, too, but there was business to finish. He’d save his smiles for a bottle of araq later while lying in bed with Darius.

  “You see what comes of defying us?” Hamid said to Neylana, who watched in
shock. “Their might and anger should be directed against the Kings. Against the Mireans. Against the dirty Malasani and their ragtag fleet. Join us, Shaikh Neylana. Join us, or suffer the consequences.”

  Her gaze shifted from him to the dead and wounded who were being carried away. She blinked several times, her mouth working, but no words came out. “I will need to speak with the other shaikhs,” she finally managed.

  “We both know Tribes Okan and Narazid will follow your lead.” Before she could say another word, Hamid spun and strode away. “You have one day.”

  Chapter 7

  WILLEM KNEW THE COLLEGIA in Sharakhai well. He knew it better than the architects who’d designed it, better than the builders who’d built it, better than any of the masters, scholars, or students who’d walked its halls. He’d traversed every path through the grounds. He’d walked every hall, both above ground and below. He’d circumnavigated every room and hidden inside every closet, even the chancellor’s while he slept at night.

  He traveled its byways regularly, cataloguing changes like an accountant at his ledger: the desert’s sudden windstorms working untold damage, coats of paint being added to disguise the passage of time, new wings of the collegia being planned then excavated then built, or in some cases rebuilt. He took note of each new statue, each new piece of artwork, most commissioned from alumni, that graced the plinths, shelves, and walls. (The art was meant to add grandeur, Willem supposed, though each new crop of artists seemed to bring a greater fondness for gaudiness than the last.)

  One night, on one of his many forays, Willem saw a student heading across the esplanade toward the sciences building. Even from this distance Willem knew it was Altan. He’d spied on him many times, watching him sleep from outside his window, watching him go from place to place, watching while he ate in the student cafeteria. More than the cut of his collegia robes or the awkward, somewhat self-conscious way in which he walked, it was the light he shed that defined him. Altan glowed brighter than the other students, with a slowly altering hue that was pleasant beyond description.

  Altan took the steps up the stone building’s arched entryway. When the wooden door had boomed shut, Willem scrambled up a tree, sprinted along a particular bough, and used the spring at its end to launch himself toward a balcony. Scrabbling up to the third floor, he entered through a shuttered window, one that was never kept locked, and slunk into the building’s central hall. Looking down over the railing to the cavernous interior, he caught Altan’s sparkling form as he headed toward the far corner.

  Now that he had a better look at him, Willem could see that Altan’s light was more subdued than normal, which made Willem wonder where he might be going at this late hour. He was taken for a moment by thoughts of Altan coming to him in the depths of the lower levels, the secret archives that only a handful were aware of. Altan might ask Willem questions about, well, anything, and Willem would answer. He had a gift for reading quickly, reading endlessly, and retaining it all. There was hardly a passage in the thousands of books he’d read he couldn’t summon on demand.

  Gods, the secrets Willem could share. He hadn’t read every text in the collegia, but he’d read most, including those squirreled away by the blood mage, Nebahat, Willem’s master, a high-ranking member of the secret society known as the Enclave. Nebahat’s carefully culled archive held texts of deeper knowledge—dangerous texts, Nebahat had called them once. Nebahat wouldn’t be pleased if Willem shared them with anyone, but Altan certainly would be. How could he not?

  They’d become fast friends. They’d talk long into the night, laughing, debating topics that challenged them both, making them each glow the brighter.

  Except . . .

  Except Altan didn’t know Willem existed. Willem made sure of it, exactly as the spells Nebahat had placed on him prescribed. (There had been another before Nebahat—he’d been the first to cast a spell of binding on Willem—but what matter was that now? Willem couldn’t even remember his name!) And besides, even if Altan did learn of Willem’s existence, Willem couldn’t talk to him. His voice had been taken from him long ago.

  So why had Altan come to the science building? Why was he taking the hallway that would lead, assuming the right route was followed, to Nebahat’s hidden lair? Willem shimmied down a sandstone pillar to the second floor. He supposed it was possible that Altan wasn’t headed toward Nebahat’s secret archives, but Altan’s glimmering had a resigned shade to it, the sort that combined purpose, secrecy, and no small amount of worry.

  So it came as no surprise when Altan entered the alchemycal lab, continued into the storeroom, and pulled the hidden latch on the trick shelf. The shelf creaked open. Altan’s footsteps resumed, then faded. Only then did Willem ease into the room filled with shelf upon shelf of glass beakers, labeled wooden boxes, and bottles filled with a kaleidoscope of chemical agents and reagents.

  Quiet as an owl on the hunt, Willem slipped into the passage beyond the half-open shelf, wound downward along the spiraling stairs, and sped through the catacombs in the deepest part of the collegia grounds. He heard distant voices, which hid the sound of his padding footsteps as he sprinted along a side passage to a narrow ventilation shaft. Arms and legs pressing the sides of the shaft, Willem climbed down and eventually reached the lair’s uppermost level, where he spent much of his days. Creeping along the aisle between the towering bookshelves, he reached an iron railing that overlooked a circular space with a hearth, a carpet-lined floor, and seven tables; the surface of each was filled with stack upon stack of disordered books, scrolls, and ancient tablets, both copper and clay. In the hearth, a black cone of porous, volcanic rock burned, the wavering emerald flames shedding an eerie light that mixed with the golden lanterns spaced throughout the room.

  Nebahat’s large frame blocked much of Willem’s view, but he could see Altan’s lean build, his clean-shaven face with its lighter skin. Altan was a young man—Willem’s age more or less—with brown hair cut tight to his well-shaped head. He wore the simple, wheat-colored robes of a collegia student. Nebahat, on the other hand, though not old, had clearly passed the summer of his life. His skin was deep bronze, and his peppery beard was so bristly it looked like a snow mink had sunk its teeth into his chin and died there. His clothing was rich, from his khalat of patina green to the turquoise blue kaftan beneath to the pristine ivory silk turban that peaked above the bright stripe of orange and yellow pigment covering his forehead.

  “You spoke to no one of your findings?” Nebahat asked Altan.

  “Only Cassandra and the chancellor.”

  “Cassandra and the chancellor,” Nebahat echoed, to which Altan nodded. “You questioned the chancellor as to the purpose behind our little project. Why?”

  “Because I—” The light around Altan shifted toward mauve, a sign of anguish and indecision.

  “Come, Altan,” Nebahat said. “There’s no use fighting me.”

  Altan’s face burned red, then a deep shade of purple. “Because I am descended from the thirteenth tribe.”

  “Oh?” Nebahat paused. “On which side?”

  “My mother’s.” The pain on Altan’s face made Willem burn with anger and frustration and impotence over what was happening to him.

  Nebahat nodded as if, with his question satisfactorily answered, he could continue on his prior course. “How many more names have you found?”

  “Ten.”

  Altan was normally so loquacious, his voice lively, yet he was responding to Nebahat’s questions with tight, curt answers, his voice lacking all semblance of life. Like a man who’s lost all hope.

  The very thought made Willem want to cry.

  As Nebahat stepped away from Altan, Willem gasped. Nebahat had been partially blocking his view, but now he could see that Altan had a hand out, palm facing up, as if he were offering almonds to Nebahat. Except his hand wasn’t filled with almonds. It was filled with blood.

  Nebahat
paced back and forth, a thing he often did when he was bothered. Willem had no idea what Altan had done, nor what it meant to Nebahat, but he was certain Nebahat was about to make a momentous decision.

  Nebahat’s face suddenly hardened and he returned to Altan in a rush. Willem nearly shouted for him to stop as he dipped a finger into Altan’s blood and proceeded to wipe a long, crimson stroke on Altan’s forehead. Willem had always known Nebahat was a blood mage, but by the gods, he’d never seen Nebahat use it on another person. Stroke by stroke Nebahat was drawing a sigil—in effect casting a spell over Altan that would compel him to do as Nebahat wished. The combined knowledge that something irreversible was about to happen to Altan and that Willem could do nothing about it was terrifying, doubly so because it was happening before his very eyes.

  When Nebahat finished the final, curving stroke, he wet a rag and wiped his finger clean. After doing the same to Altan’s palm and forehead, he waved to the yawning passageway behind Altan.

  No, no, no, Willem wanted to scream. Please don’t go!

  But he was silent as ever, bound to work in Nebahat’s interests, never his own. Willem’s silent plea unanswered, Altan turned and strode away as if what had just transpired was little more than a polite chat.

  Heart beating like a kettle drum, Willem rushed back to the ventilation shaft, climbed it, and followed Altan up the winding stairs. He maintained his distance, but when Altan left the science building and returned to the pathways of the esplanade, he grew bold and closed the distance between them.

  Altan was going to do something terrible. The glimmering told him so. It was dim, like a distant, dying funeral pyre. Willem paced just behind him, repeatedly trying and failing to summon the courage to tug on Altan’s sleeve. The cage that Nebahat had placed around his mind—the one that forbade both touch and conversation—was almost impossible to ignore.