Conqueror's Blood (Gunmetal Gods Book 2)

by Zamil Akhtar

  I looked around the room again. “If only I could see him.”

  Kevah pointed to his eyes. “It’s not as fun as it sounds, seeing beyond the veil. With the wonders come the horrors. One must be ready to take in both, in mind and soul.”

  “Were you ready?”

  He folded his arms and looked to the ceiling, with all its cracks — perhaps his jinn was floating, now. “Not even a little.”

  10

  Zedra

  Upon the cliff at the edge of time, Father stared at heaven. The image of a crying woman shown in a cloud; she prayed for her husband’s safe return. And then a little boy without an arm appeared, begging for his mother to be saved from the pox. And there was even a king, sitting upon a metal throne, crying for victory against an invading army.

  But Father did not grace them with a look. No, he gazed above at the black spot in the ring-lit sky. A spot that seemed to be…growing, as if a disease. What did he see there?

  I crawled to his feet. I could not stand, my knees too weak against the heavy air. I clutched his shins and said, “I’ve done it, Father.”

  The wails from the supplicants in the cloud intensified. Father Chisti drew out his hand, then swiped it across. The cloud blew away, far into the horizon, taking with it the hopeful and their prayers.

  “Such a waste,” he said. “They’d be better off praying to stones, like in the days of old.”

  We’d always been taught that Father Chisti would take our prayers to Lat. How could he dismiss them like chaff? How would Lat hear them, now? Hear any of us?

  “What of…all the prayers of your Children?”

  “Do you see her throne above? Until we restore the righteous rule of the Children, no prayer will reach Lat.”

  I was in no position to, and yet I had to press, lest I misunderstand. “How can that be? Are you not Lat’s chosen? How, then, can your prayers go unanswered, too?”

  His laughter was deep and dismal. He pointed to the black spot in the sky. “Because I’ve been staring at that for a thousand years. To fight darkness, you must know it, and to know it, you must become it. Don’t forget that, Zedra. You’ve done well, but it’s far from over. Go now…and finish what you started.”

  “I will, of course, I will.”

  “A word of warning. While you haven’t been discovered, you have been noticed.”

  “Noticed?”

  Another cloud billowed. Crying children stretched across its face. Shrieks sounded, and lightning flashed within.

  “Save us from temptation,” someone said in a strange language that I didn’t know but could somehow understand. “Teach us only what is righteous.”

  Father didn’t seem to care. He turned toward me, gazing upon my pathetic form. “You’ve been noticed by the magus who will wear all masks. He thinks himself on a path of righteousness, but he is far astray. Steel yourself, daughter. Destroy all remaining obstacles and enemies. And be prepared to do anything — anything — to defeat him, lest he take your mask, too.”

  Father had warned me about him before. His name was Kevah, and he was training in Zelthuriya. More than that, he would not say.

  “I will, of course, I will.”

  After what I’d endured, I had to be wheeled around on a chair. The healers said I’d regain my movements with time, but time was an extravagance. I aimed to restore the righteous rule of the Children now while the throne sat empty. Father had told me to destroy all remaining enemies, Kyars being the greatest of them, but I could be wiser: I could have gholam commander Kato destroy them for me.

  Vera wheeled me to the great hall. Kato was sitting upon the dais beneath the royal divan, wearing the formal gholam outfit: gold-thread turban, sparkling shoes with pointed-ends, and a plain caftan with a black vest, outlined with golden leaves.

  The Majlis stood before him: a collection of viziers, each responsible for one thing or another. The heads of this kingdom now that the Shah was dead. Each wore turbans with the fanciest patterns — I appreciated the marching lions on the rose-colored turban of the governor of Quchan. Each also wore a bewildered, fearful expression. For good reason.

  A shah’s death is a time for fear and sadness. I’d missed Tamaz’s funeral, not that I cared. But the wailers were harder to miss: his wife and concubines, shouting lamentations from their towers. One sounded like demons being beaten to death. Everyone had to pretend to be mournful, at the least, though I’m certain many truly were.

  For some, it was a joyous occasion: Tamaz willed his clerks to roam the streets and pass gold, silk, and porcelain to the city folk. Even us concubines got a share. Not that I could do much with gold — it just wasn’t my currency.

  “My pashas, I’m not a man of buttered words,” Kato said, breaking my thoughts, “so let me make plain. Those who planned this had help. Among you.” He pointed to everyone in the room. “Until we find the traitors, the Majlis is suspended.”

  Wise, though expected. By suspending the Majlis, the viziers who despised Kato couldn’t act against him in an official capacity. But it was somewhat like killing a bird with a cannon. I’d not expected Kato to make these sessions public, but I think he wanted to show his loyalty to the Seluqals, so the more who watched, the better.

  A clamor arose, of course. “What gives you the right?” someone shouted.

  Kato pointed to the seat behind him with his thumb. “An empty chair. And it’s going to stay that way until Shah Kyars returns to sit. Now, I don’t know who the traitors are. We’ve caught a few, but assuredly, there must be more. Some of you had to know about the ships beyond the river bend and the thousand khazis waiting within. And if you knew, then you were complicit in the Shah’s murder. In Ozar and Hadrith’s failed insurrection. Each of you will have to prove your innocence.”

  Not something the Majlis would easily swallow, but what choice did they have? The gholam around the room were not wearing formal attire but rather their battle armor: golden chainmail, gold-framed matchlocks, and bronze-colored boots.

  While I didn’t doubt that Kato admired Shah Tamaz, perhaps with some affection, and wanted to behead anyone even tangentially involved in his assassination, I was more certain that Kato would find traitors among his own enemies, whatever thin evidence he would use to make it so. He had been railing about the viziers that despised him, that undermined him, and this was his chance to destroy them by whatever loose association they had with Ozar or Hadrith. Good.

  “I have a request,” a voice boomed amid the nervous clamor. A man stepped forward: Grand Philosopher Litani. Beneath his blue robe, he wore a shirt that clung tightly to his thin frame and ended at his waist, where it was met by a metal clasp that tied his shirt and pants together. I rather liked the style.

  Kato said, “Speak, Philosopher.”

  Litani cleared his throat. “Next moon will be a special time in the heavens. We will have clear view of several stars and wish to study their orbits, upon Mount Qafa, undisturbed. Our instruments are quite sensitive, you see. We request the mountain be prohibited until our study is complete.”

  Kato stroked his beard, then replied, “Well, all right, fine.”

  “Ahem,” someone said in the crowd, “next moon will be Saint Jorga’s festival, which of course must take place upon Mount Qafa.”

  “Is that so,” Kato said. “I just gave the mountain to the Philosopher. Have the festival elsewhere.”

  “But Saint Jorga received his holy mission upon Mount Qafa.”

  “Hmm, I’d forgotten that.” Kato rubbed his bald head. “Philosopher, find another mountain.”

  “It’s the highest mountain within a hundred miles,” Grand Philosopher Litani said. “No others are suitable.”

  Kato stomped his foot. “This is not pertinent. Our shah was just murdered, and you come to me with such trite matters!”

  Litani raised his hands, as if in disbelief. “You just suspended the Majlis. Who else to come to?”

  “Don’t get sly with me, Philosopher. Sort this nons
ense among yourselves.”

  Seemed like Kato needed help. Good.

  While wheeling me to my room through the carpeted palace hallways, Vera asked, “Did Cyra really kill the Shah, sultana?”

  “I wasn’t there, dear, but that’s what everyone says.”

  “But Cyra had a good heart, and she loved the Shah. Why would she ever?”

  “If only we knew what people hide in their good hearts.”

  In truth, though I’d told Father that I’d steel myself, I needed rest. Too much had happened, too fast, and I didn’t know everything I needed to.

  Kyars, for sure, would turn around once he got word of his father’s demise. And that must’ve already happened, given how the Alanyans sent messages: archer relays. An Archer of the Eye would shoot a message a thousand feet, and then the next archer would pick up the message and shoot it another thousand feet, and on and on until it reached its intended. When an army departed, they’d leave three Archers of the Eye every thousand feet between Qandbajar and wherever they marched, each working in shifts. The Archers of the Eye also had permanent stations all over Alanya. I planned to use the Archers to send a message of my own, but first: rest, food, and time to think.

  Vera helped me settle on my bed. She opened the balcony door so the mid-morning breeze could waft through.

  “Go get food and eat with me,” I said. “It’s best we stay together at a time like this.”

  “Of course, sultana.” Grief tinged her voice — poor little thing. Much had happened that she didn’t understand. And yet, by bringing me Cyra’s conqueror’s blood, she’d made it possible. How horrified would she be to know?

  Ten minutes later, Vera returned holding a tray of saffron rice with cumin, a soup of lentils and cauliflower, and lamb chops infused with yogurt and tomatoes. She set the tray on a low table, then helped me settle onto a cushion she’d leaned against the wall.

  “Tell me about Ruthenia,” I said before stuffing rice and lamb in my mouth. “You remember your homeland, don’t you?”

  “I was eight when they took me. Rubadi slavers. Ruthenia was very cold. Not just in winter, all the time.”

  The rice was well-buttered and the tomato fresh. The lamb, though, seemed a tad overcooked. I’d become choosy since living in a palace.

  “What was the food like?”

  Vera pecked at a lamb chop she’d dunked in yogurt. “A lot of…porridge. Throwing whatever you could in a pot. Sometimes we’d get a meaty boar.”

  “You ought to eat your fill now, dear. Your ribs stick out. If they don’t feed you enough in the canteen, you can come here, and I’ll give you whatever you like.”

  She smiled, twitchy. “They tell a story, in Ruthenia…”

  “Oh? What kind of story?”

  “About a witch who captures children, then gives them sweets to fatten them up, so she can eat them.”

  “And do you think I’m like that witch?”

  She put down her soup bowl, then looked me in the eye. “Why did you ask me to bring you Cyra’s blood?”

  “You never questioned me about it before. Why of a sudden?”

  “It is not my place to question you, sultana. But everyone knows Cyra and I were close, since I’d been her handmaiden. I fear for myself. I just wish to know if…if I did something wrong.”

  I took her clammy hand. “You did nothing wrong, dear. You’re as sinless as the day you were born.” I’d prepared a story for this moment. “I come from the Vogras Mountains, from where descends the river that runs through this city and gives us all sustenance. It’s cold there, too. We’ve a custom, a strange one, but important, nonetheless. A little blood in our food, that’s all, so we can grow closer to those who are dear to us. I wished for Cyra and me to become good friends — that’s all.”

  Vera nodded, as if she understood. “I see, sultana. It is not so strange. Among certain tribes in Ruthenia, when a chieftain dies, the rest will eat him whole. It is sacrilege, in fact, to leave even a single hair. The bones, too, are chopped into a seasoning. But I fear in Alanya, they would find our customs…savage.”

  How dreadful. But it was best that I humor her. “That’s why they must never know. They look down on us, on our ways, because we’re different.”

  “Yes, sultana. To be true, in Ruthenia, we revere witches. They are our life-givers, our guides through this mortal world. They say my great-grandmother was a witch. Even in the deadest month, she could feed the entire tribe with meat she conjured out of bones. She lived more than a hundred years, they say.”

  It seemed Vera was probing me. I ought to do the same. “And if I were a witch, would you revere me?”

  She slurped up a cauliflower, nodding all the while. “I’d worship your very scent, sultana.”

  I smiled. But a girl like her, who must’ve masked so many wounds behind her innocent, strawberry facade, couldn’t be counted on with secrets. “Finish your food, dear. These are difficult days — best you be strong.”

  The truth: if Kyars entered the city, he would take the throne, and no one could get him off it. But if he didn’t return, Kato’s power — and ego — would swell, and he’d become the sultan-regent of Alanya. Neither outcome suited my mission. So, to get Kyars and Kato to destroy each other, I’d have to convince Kyars that Kato was trying to seize the throne, and I’d have to convince Kato that Kyars wanted him hanged. Neither was easy, given their long history.

  But I could plant the seeds. How fortunate that Kato had many enemies. Wouldn’t it be convenient if one would, somehow, escape and make his way to Kyars, bringing whispers of Kato’s power-binge?

  Another truth: though I’d been careful, writing those bloodrunes had risked exposing me. Using Cyra’s body to kill the Shah had risked exposing me, and still could. Vera had asked a good question that others were no doubt asking: why would Cyra, who had just been given everything a woman in Alanya could want, do it? And so, I had to stay shadowed while being more careful, clever, and considered so questions wouldn’t be asked.

  I decided to meet with Kato in the bare room he’d turned into a temporary office. I think it had been used to store linens, but now it sported a low table for Kato and a few cushions for his visitors. How considerate not to use the Shah’s office, or even that of a vizier — perhaps it was to show that his regency was meant to be as temporary as this office. A clever way to avoid making new enemies.

  The man was cracking almonds with a dagger when Vera wheeled me inside.

  “I’m busy,” he said, “make it quick.”

  “Busy doing what?”

  “Looking for traitors. Ozar and Hadrith’s lips are as sealed as a good wine, and I can’t exactly pry them open, given that one is the Grand Vizier’s son, and the other the Crown Prince’s — or rather the Shah’s — uncle-in-law. So I’m left with less direct methods.”

  “Do you want my suggestion?”

  He popped an almond in his mouth, then put the dagger down. “You’re full of ideas, aren’t you? Why is it every time you suggest something, it leads to gold?”

  Vera wasn’t the only one wondering about me, it seemed. “You never questioned me about it before. Why of a sudden?”

  “Because you’re too clever for a girl whom, when I met her, thought a bullet ball was a big, shiny bead. And given what’s just transpired, until Kyars is sitting on the throne, I won’t take anything at face.”

  “I’m perceptive. I notice things others don’t. I read a lot — just ask the Philosophers how many books I’ve checked out from their tower. I’m only as exceptional as I’ve made myself.”

  “So many virtues. Must be why Kyars fucked you more than twice. But why lay your blessed fruits at humble Kato’s door, hmm? That doesn’t sit right.”

  Just how suspicious of me was he? Before, when I’d made it my purpose to get acquainted with him, he seemed pliable, earnest, and open to my ideas. Perhaps recent events had brought his guard up, which could make planting seeds in him like gardening in the sea.

&nbs
p; Although, despite how high he’d risen, the man had no allies in the Majlis. He’d won his loyalties in the field, but he was on a different battlefield now.

  “I watched your performance earlier,” I said. “You’re lost at sea, Kato. If you don’t correct course, you’ll drown. Alanya, too, will sink if not steered right. It’s all on you.”

  The man wasn’t used to being challenged by someone whose jaw he couldn’t bash in. He glared at me, as if not knowing how to respond. “Suggest your suggestion and get out, woman. I’m busy.” He took up his dagger and resumed cracking almonds.

  “The Archers of the Eye have, by now, sent news of the Shah’s death to every city in the realm and beyond. The governors will come to give allegiances to Shah Kyars, and Kyars, of course, will come with haste to sit the throne and accept those allegiances. The question is — will Kyars come alone, or with his army? He’ll come with his army if he feels there’s a threat to his rule. He’ll come alone — and far faster, too — if he doesn’t. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  Kato raised his hands, palms up. “No, I don’t.”

  “Send a message to Kyars that you’ve caught all the traitors and announce the same to the Majlis. This way, Kyars will come alone, and the traitors — whoever among them remains — will feel at ease. Perhaps at ease enough to foment a new plan. They’re rats, you see — start a fire, they’ll run into their holes and you’ll never catch them. But put out some bait…”

  If Kato did what I was asking, it would only make Kyars suspicious of him. On the one hand, Kato would tell Kyars it’s safe. On the other hand, someone else whom I had in mind would tell Kyars that Kato was the danger. But would Kato take the bait?

  Kato stood, walked over to my chair, and bent down at my side. He whispered, “You want me to use the Shah as bait for rats? You out of your mind, woman?”

  He wanted to intimidate me. But I only needed to remind him: “You have much to lose, gholam. Your bald head would look extra shiny hanging from the palace gate. How many would cherish the sight?”