When Jackals Storm the Walls

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  With manic movements, she righted the table and readied an inkwell. On a fresh sheet of vellum she drew the new sigil, then stared at it while her world turned inside out. How peculiar was it that the fates would lead her to this only after she’d admitted defeat.

  Her hands had started shaking—from the excitement, from fear, she knew not which. With all the care she could manage, she applied the sigil to the scarab who remained, the father. Long moments passed, but then she heard it: soft footsteps, the son returning. He walked unerringly to his father, felt around clumsily, found him, and immediately took him into a deep embrace. The father went stiff at first, then returned the hug.

  Meryam unwound the bandages around their heads and pointed them toward the mouth of the large tunnel. The father and son, knowing the squad of Silver Spears stationed there would find them and lead them back to the Sun Palace, went hand in hand, both of them relieved, crying.

  Meryam, meanwhile, cast her gaze about the cavern. It was a miracle, a triumph, but it made her skin crawl. Such things didn’t just happen. She drew a sigil surreptitiously, a way to detect any who might be near, and for long moments she felt nothing, but then a chill sunk deep beneath her skin, and she sensed something on the very edge of her enhanced perceptions: a dark well of power beyond the crystal’s light.

  “You may as well come out,” Meryam said.

  A long silence followed. She prepared a number of spells, utterly unsure of what she’d stumbled across in the cavern. The more she was able to sense of it, the more ancient it felt, the more demonic. She was surprised, then, when it was no ehrekh that stepped into the light, but a man dressed in the Mirean style. His face was scarred badly, as were his hands. She knew this man. His name was Brama, and he’d been one of three men—Ramahd and the scarab, Emre, being the other two—who’d assaulted King Kiral’s ship during the Battle of Blackspear. Brama had freed Rümayesh from the very sapphire Meryam had stolen from him.

  “You’ve changed,” Meryam said to him.

  “You haven’t. You’re as single-minded as ever.”

  Meryam stared closer. There was a lump on his forehead, one with a straight scar running vertically over it. Meryam had no idea what it was, but she felt power there. He had a smell about him as well, the same scent as the ehrekh who’d been trapped within the sapphire. She had no idea how it had happened, but of one thing Meryam was certain: she was speaking not to Brama the backstreet thief, but to Rümayesh.

  Meryam waved to the sheets of vellum. “Why did you give me these?”

  “Because the way you’ve been flailing at it has been so very painful to watch.”

  “Why would you want to help me in the first place?”

  Rümayesh smiled, a wicked thing on Brama’s scarred face. “My reasons are my own.”

  “Were you sent by Tulathan? By Goezhen?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Meryam’s heart was beating faster and faster, partly from fear, but more so from the wild sense of hope building inside her. “If you know what I want,” she ventured, “then you know I’m struggling with another problem.”

  “State your wish plainly, Meryam shan Aldouan.”

  The rules surrounding bargain-making with ehrekh were ancient and binding. Stories of those who had failed to navigate them properly abounded. Many seeking power had been left cursed or dead or, perhaps worst of all, beholden to the ehrekh. To ask Rümayesh for her help would be Meryam’s entry into just such a bargain, which gave her pause, but she’d come too far to balk at it. She’d managed Guhldrathen. She could manage Rümayesh.

  Pulling herself tall, Meryam spoke loudly and clearly. “I want Macide Ishaq’ava, the leader of the Moonless Host. I need him brought to me.”

  The smirk on Rümayesh’s face made it clear she’d known what Meryam’s answer would be. “A simpler matter than you may have guessed.”

  “And your price for sharing it?”

  Rümayesh’s eyes drifted down to Meryam’s neck. “That will do.”

  Meryam felt her ears and cheeks go warm as she lifted one hand and touched the beads of her necklace, Yasmine’s necklace. “This?”

  Rümayesh nodded. “Just that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because its story is a perfect morsel. I wish to taste it, savor it, consume it.”

  A morsel . . . Rümayesh wanted to revel in Meryam’s pain. You can’t have it, Meryam nearly said. I’ll never be parted from it. Never. The very thought of having Rümayesh linger over Meryam’s pain, Yasmine’s pain, made her stomach twist in knots.

  But what good was the necklace if she couldn’t fulfill her promise to Yasmine? Keep the necklace and everything could fall apart. It would haunt her forever.

  Rümayesh, apparently amused by Meryam’s indecision, held her hand out. Choking back her contempt, Meryam slipped the necklace over her head and pooled it into Rümayesh’s waiting hand. Her smile broadening, Rümayesh slipped it over her head, Brama’s head. Mighty Alu, how foul it looked on her, how revolting to see her hands stroke the beads, to have her leer in that way of hers.

  “Tell me now,” Meryam said before she did something rash, “how will I get Macide?”

  “By making a simple offer.”

  “An offer . . . ?”

  “Of peace. You’ve sent one to the other twelve tribes. Send one to Macide Ishaq’ava as well and see what comes of it.”

  “I cannot. Not to him.”

  Rümayesh waved to the crystal, to the table with the vellum and the countless sigils. “You’ve done all this, but you won’t send a simple offer to the man you hope to see hanged?”

  “He’d never accept.”

  Rümayesh tilted her head, as if she couldn’t believe Meryam was so dense. “The specter of war looms large in the desert, larger than you may think. To those who stand in its shadow, the lure of peace can be blinding.”

  “And if he still doesn’t agree to meet me?”

  The smile Rümayesh gave as she backed away was chilling. “I’m certain that he will.”

  She left, fading into the darkness of the cavern, but Meryam remained, wondering at all that had happened. After a long while, the chill of the cavern started seeping into her bones. As she breathed warmth into her hands and headed through the same tunnel the two men had taken, she considered how she could possibly offer peace to Macide Ishaq’ava, if it could ever work.

  She felt naked without her necklace.

  When Meryam left the cavern and the Silver Spears followed her up to the Sun Palace, Rümayesh returned to the crystal. She stared up at the lone tendril hanging down from above. She watched the slow drip of the adichara’s essence, watched it patter against the crystal’s surface and spread along the smooth sides.

  She started at a sudden snap from within the crystal, a cracking sound. Within the crystal’s depths, a bright line as long as her forearm had formed. It ran vertically, angular as a lightning strike.

  Rümayesh smiled. For the first time since its creation, a fracture had formed within the crystal. The seal on a sacred door had just been broken. All that need happen now was to give that door a forceful shove.

  Chapter 36

  ALONG THE SEEDY EDGE of the Red Crescent district, Ramahd sat in the back room of a gambling den, studying the players while shisha smoke filled the air with a fragrant haze. Along with notes of old leather and loam, he could just detect the more floral scent of black lotus. Citing the growing epidemic of addictions, an edict had come down from the House of Kings preventing the smoking of pure black lotus, which had led to many drug dens being raided. In response, gambling dens like this one had sensed an opportunity and started offering tabbaq laced with lotus. Business was apparently thriving. The air was so thick with it Ramahd was starting to feel dreamy.

  A few games of hollow head were being played with house dealers snapping cards over the
red cloth tabletops with expert sweeps of their arms. Beyond them, near the rear door, a cluster of women and a few men threw dice in a heated game of barbudi. Ramahd had been to the den a handful of times, most often with Cicio and Tiron and the rest of the boys before all the troubles in Sharakhai began. It was run by a Qaimiri expatriate, which was precisely why he’d offered to meet Amaryllis here.

  Ramahd was nursing a glass of brandy when she walked in. Amaryllis, who’d seen some thirty-two summers, had dark eyes and curly hair that fell halfway down her back. She wore a form-fitting dress of sky-blue cloth that had clearly seen better days. It lent her a confident air that made her seem all the more fetching, as if she was well aware she didn’t need fine dresses to enhance her smoldering beauty.

  She scanned the room while the room scanned her, then she caught Ramahd’s eye and raised two fingers to the barkeep so that, by the time she was scraping away a chair at Ramahd’s table, the burly barkeep was waddling over with a bottle of Qaimiri brandy and a pair of mismatched glasses.

  “What’s my girl been up to?” he asked in growling Qaimiran while pouring a generous measure of brandy into Amaryllis’s glass.

  She pulled the glass toward her and gave the golden liquor an energetic swirl. “The usual,” she said, never taking her eyes from Ramahd’s.

  “Trouble then?” the barkeep said.

  Amaryllis gave an alluring smirk. “Always.”

  The barkeep splashed a pittance of brandy into Ramahd’s glass, slid it toward him, and shoved the cork back into the bottle. “If there’s anything you need,” he said to Amaryllis, “you have but to ask. You know that, right?”

  Amaryllis lifted her glass to her nose and breathed in the scent. “I do.” The barkeep left, but not without a sour look for Ramahd. Amaryllis, meanwhile, took a healthy swallow of the brandy. “I watched you come in, Ramahd.”

  “I thought you might.”

  She sent a glance over one shoulder, though not far enough to see the young man with straight chestnut hair sitting alone in the room’s opposite corner. “And I saw young Duke Hektor come in an hour before that.”

  Duke Hektor looked up as the women playing barbudi cheered a good throw of the dice. He caught Ramahd’s eye, looked embarrassed for having glanced his way, and returned to his own drink. He was Duke Hektor II, the eldest child of the man who’d been hanged on Meryam’s orders shortly before the Malasani and their horde of golems swept through the city during the Battle for the Mount.

  “I thought about summoning the Silver Spears,” Amaryllis went on. “I thought about having you both brought to our queen in chains. We could have our chat then and be sure you’re telling the truth.”

  Ramahd sipped his brandy. “So why didn’t you?”

  She pulled off a bracelet Ramahd had given her several years ago, during their short but passionate fling. “Because I think you believe you’re doing the right thing.” She tossed the bracelet onto the gouged wooden tabletop. It made a metallic ting as it slid into his glass. “This is your one chance to convince me of it, Ramahd.”

  He spun the bracelet around one finger, recalling how Amaryllis had smiled when he’d given it to her. It had been one of the rare times when she’d let her guard down. That smile had been a window into her soul, but like a break in the clouds showing a brief glimpse of the sun, it was there and gone in moments. “Do you know him,” Ramahd asked, “Duke Hektor?”

  She shrugged. “I knew his father. I’m sure I met him when he was a child.”

  “He’s grown into a good man. He’s wise for his age. Shrewd.”

  “And likely angry.”

  Ramahd waggled his head. “Of course, but he knows how the game is played.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Let’s hear it from the man himself.” Ramahd raised his hand and beckoned Hektor to sit with them.

  Hektor wove his way through the tables and joined them. A loud groan came from the entire hollow head table while Hektor regarded Amaryllis with a neutral expression.

  “Well?” Amaryllis said. “I don’t have all fucking day.”

  “I’m here to offer Queen Meryam an arrangement,” Hektor began.

  “An arrangement.”

  Hektor nodded. “An arrangement in which we divide the duties of running the Kingdom.”

  “You’ll have to forgive me, but I have no idea what sort of arrangement our queen might make that could possibly accommodate that. She’s already queen. There’s no sharing to be done.” Amaryllis sat back, her smile a charming combination of lush lips, perfect teeth, and beguiling dimples. “That’s literally what it means to be queen.”

  Hektor’s face went red, but Ramahd gave him credit. His voice was steady as he replied, “Some might argue that one who commits patricide to gain a throne is no rightful queen at all.”

  “A scurrilous, unjustified claim, Duke Hektor”—she waved to Ramahd— “with only a single witness to back it up.”

  “No,” Hektor countered evenly. “Not a single witness. There is another who can testify to its truth.”

  Amaryllis paused. Her eyes slid to Ramahd. She knew who Hektor meant—Hamzakiir—and she was now wondering if they had him in their custody, ready to speak against Meryam.

  “But that’s a matter of little consequence for the moment,” Hektor went on, just as he and Ramahd had agreed. “What I propose is not for Meryam to step down.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. I propose she remain queen in name, and to cede power in Qaimir to me.”

  “Cede power to you?”

  “I will rule Qaimir, as is my right.”

  “And what, pray tell, would Queen Meryam be doing while you rule her country?”

  “She would stay here in the desert. She’s shown that she wants it more than her homeland, so let her have it. She can keep her title too. I’ll even grant her leave to use our sandships to support her efforts, within reason of course.”

  Amaryllis laughed. “Enlighten me. Why in the great wide desert would she agree to all of this?”

  “Because if she doesn’t, it will mean civil war in Qaimir. Because I have lords committed to me, ready to raise an army. We will not bend. Should Meryam refuse and fight us, it will tear our country apart. We’ll still win, but I would forego that. I would protect our people from the threats our kingdom would face should we weaken ourselves in some needless conflict.”

  “Come, Duke Hektor. How many could you possibly have beyond your own family? The Amansirs, certainly. Likely the Guerons as well, and if they’ve joined you, I’d wager the Remigios have as well. But beyond them?”

  “I won’t name names. We all know what Meryam does to those who stand up to her.”

  Amaryllis was a master at hiding her true emotions, but Ramahd knew her well and saw a brief glimpse of relief pass over her face. She thought they had nothing but a weak bargaining position with the might of a bare handful of lords to back them. “If this is all you have to offer Queen Meryam, then you have nothing.” She downed the last of her brandy. “I see no reason to trouble her with it.”

  The moment Amaryllis stood, Ramahd saw the barkeep make a signal to a boy standing near the entrance to the front of the house. The boy dashed through the doorway and was gone.

  Ramahd, heart racing, snatched Amaryllis’s wrist, preventing her from leaving. She stared down in surprise, then anger, as if she were ready to draw the long, straight dirk from her belt and cut Ramahd for the offense. Her hard expression softened, however, when Ramahd picked up the bracelet.

  “Just make her the offer.”

  “She’ll laugh at it, Ramahd. She’ll bite my head off for even meeting with you.”

  “You would risk war because you can’t be bothered to talk to Meryam about an offer of peace?” He pried open her hand, placed the bracelet on her palm, and closed her fingers around it. “Presen
t the offer, Amaryllis.”

  She stared at the bracelet but never got a chance to respond, for just then the back door was kicked in and a dozen Silver Spears poured into the room, swords and crossbows at the ready. “Down! Get down! All of you, on the floor!”

  Ramahd stared at Amaryllis, his eyes wide with shock. “Mighty Alu, I trusted you!”

  Amaryllis stared back with just as much surprise. “It wasn’t me!” she cried as more soldiers burst through the front entrance.

  “No talking!” said the captain, and shoved Amaryllis down to the floor.

  “Easy!” Duke Hektor said, which earned him a punch across the jaw.

  Hektor’s face went purple with rage. He charged the captain, but three of his men swooped in, grabbed his hair and jerkin, and rained more punches down on him. Hektor gave a mighty roar and tried to fight his way free, but was tripped and fell hard against Amaryllis. A rather large soldier shoved Hektor’s bleeding face into the bodice of Amaryllis’s blue dress, pinning them both against the wall.

  Ramahd tried to help Hektor, but he was intercepted and pressed into a nearby corner. While two men held him in place, a third aimed a loaded crossbow at his throat and grinned, showing off two rows of ragged, tabbaq-stained teeth. “I’d stay nice and quiet were I you.”

  “I am an agent of the queen!” Amaryllis shouted from beneath Duke Hektor.

  The captain laughed. “If you’re an agent of the queen, then I’m the fucking King of Kings.” His men pulled Hektor up, while the captain grabbed a hunk of Amaryllis’s hair, dragged her to her feet, and shoved her toward the back door. “Now get moving.”

  “You will release us!” Amaryllis cried. “You will release us immediately!”

  But none of them listened. They were taken to a nearby garrison, where they were thrown into a pair of dirty underground cells, Amaryllis in one, Ramahd and Hektor in the other.

  It didn’t take long, however, before they came back for Amaryllis. Opening the door, the captain sucked his teeth. “You’re free to go.”