by Zamil Akhtar
That actually was in my interest. I had to learn what Mansur pretended to want, and what he really wanted. Kato’s assumptions rang true, but his overconfidence rattled my bones. Unless he knew something I didn’t, he was downplaying the threat and endangering us.
“Honestly, I’ve been feeling rather useless since my accident. What you’ve suggested would do wonders for my spirit.”
Kato clapped. “You see? I do have an ally in this city.” His smile reached his ears again. “And what a wonderful ally she is.”
We traveled by carriage to the Shrine of Saint Jamshid, a yellow-domed, archway-covered compound that could hold a thousand worshippers. It had been cleared out for this Seluqal visit. Within the sepulcher, which was surrounded by a cage, lay the green shroud that encased Shah Tamaz’s body, aside other green shrouds — all deplorable men who didn’t deserve reverence. One day, if I succeeded, we could burn these bodies and throw them where they’d be forgotten.
Mansur, Tamaz’s brother, wore a beige caftan that barely dropped beyond his ankles and leather socks with the typical gold-flecked pointy shoes. He stood and prayed for what felt like an eternity, an entourage of his mirror-armored household guard at his back. Khagan Pashang had decided not to come, it seemed, which unsettled me.
Though not entirely proper since we were in the men’s section, I had Vera wheel me forward. The desert air must’ve dried up Mansur’s face; flaky skin surrounded his thin, shaped eyebrows.
“My brother adored the great saint,” he said, “first of the saint-kings. Always said he would model himself on the holy man, and now look — they are entombed together.”
Jamshid the Usurper, we called him. No, he and Tamaz were not alike. The stories these saint worshippers told conveniently omitted the horrors Jamshid inflicted upon the Children. Tamaz was not so cruel.
“He truly was the spirit of our saint,” I said, choking up. “I called him Father.”
“That must have pleased my brother. He prayed for a daughter. Ended up having three daughters, but Lat took away what he wanted and gave him what he needed. Two strong boys, last I saw them — now they must be men, hardened by wars against the infidel.”
“You’re so right, Your Eminence,” I said, bending my neck. Mansur was a Seluqal, after all. “Kyars, may Lat bless his reign, is the best of men. Stronger than a lion.” I tried to recall some of the flowery wonders from Laughter Square. “Wiser than a saint. Gentler than a summer breeze. Under him, our kingdom will prosper as it did under his father. I have no doubt.”
Mansur nodded and smiled. He’d dyed his hair black, though left his whiskers and beard gray. An odd look, to say the least. “You’re a lovely girl. Kyars is fortunate to have you. You know, it’s all so…strange…that this tragedy happened while Kyars was on campaign.”
“Is it, though? Isn’t the best time for assassins to strike while the army is away?”
His belittling chuckle wasn’t endearing. “Dear girl, the games people play for power…you wouldn’t believe them. They are so layered, so many-faced, so filled with misdirection. Which is why I’m here.” An obviously false quavering took over. “When our father tried to have me strangled, it was Tamaz who stopped him. It was Tamaz who convinced him to add me to the line of succession, so I would not have to die. And yet, where was I to stop Tamaz’s killers? All I have is a dream of justice.” He sniffled, then dried his eyes with a kerchief. “No, I will not allow his killers to go unpunished and will root them out from wherever they lie. I do not trust these viziers and gholam — Lat knows which of them plotted with the killers.”
So, justice was his pretext. How boring.
Mirima’s wail punctured the air. In her airy white mourning gown, she knelt before the sepulcher and pushed her hand through the cage, as if Tamaz would wake up and take it.
I pretended to sob a little. “Of course, Your Eminence. You are so right. I feel so much better now that family is here. I’ve been waiting ceaselessly for my beloved to return — oh, it feels like this torture will never end.”
He lowered himself so we could be eye to eye, despite wincing as his knees bent. “My dear, you and the other women shall have no fear now that we have come. Injustice and rebellion will be cast from this city.”
“But surely—” I swallowed a sob, “surely Kyars will be here within days. And he, as Shah, is the fount of justice. Is all this really needed? When I saw the warhorses and heard the blaring of long horns, I almost fainted.”
Mansur sighed. “They work for me. Worry not, my dear.” Oh, I worried — from what I’d heard, Khagan Pashang liked to use his enemies as seating whilst he supped. “Khagan Pashang has been a loyal retainer to the Seluqals of Alanya. Not so long ago, he helped me crush a rebellion in Merva. Path of the Children have new roots there, it seems — Lat knows how they keep resurfacing. The slaves, especially, seem to love their vile message. Pashang, on the other hand, is a slayer of heretics, infidels, rebels, and traitors, and I know he’ll render such service here…if needed.”
I smiled and said, “That’s reassuring. Those Sylgiz were so deceitful and wretched. I’m sure these Jotrids are nothing like them.”
He stood and cast a cool gaze upon me. “Couldn’t be more different. Pashang has promised to hunt the Sylgiz for their part in this crime. I’ll leave matters outside this city to him. But within, I am the hunter, dear girl.” This hunter hadn’t even bothered to learn my name. “I suspect this plot goes far deeper than anyone realizes. The Grand Vizier’s son is a good friend of Kyars — what would he gain from plotting with the Sylgiz to kill the Shah? Ozar, whom I’ve hosted at my palace countless times, is no revolutionary, either. I’d be interested to hear what they have to say. Another reason why I rushed over — I fear they may be silenced, by the true deviants, before their story can be heard.”
A rather astute conclusion, and somewhat worrying. Whom did Mansur suspect, I wondered? Would he cast aspersions on his nephew to seek the throne for himself?
Considering the surprisingly clever moves Cyra made before her demise, I ought not to underestimate anyone. Mansur didn’t seem too sharp or vicious, and so I didn’t find him threatening — especially compared to my image of Pashang — but perhaps he wanted everyone to let down their guards. That was my game, after all, and it’d served me well.
A young sheikh began reciting the Recitals of Chisti, which echoed off the leaf-colored dome above our heads. Curse the saints! I wanted to plug my ears rather than hear that forgery, though his melody was rather pleasant, despite being so mournful.
“Pasha Kato has been interrogating the viziers,” I said. “He’s made it all open, so everyone can assess their guilt or innocence. He has done wonderfully keeping us safe. The man does not sleep, does not tire, barely eats — he means to safeguard this city until Kyars returns.”
“Kato — loyal, yes. I like Kato. But we tend to only see what we’re looking for. Kato is a warrior, so he sees a brandished sword. But more subtle weapons may lay in wait for Kyars. No, to safeguard this city, I will need to begin my own investigation. Curious, also, that my good friend Khizr Khaz has run off to Zelthuriya at such a critical moment. Perhaps he fled in fear of the true menace. If Kyars returned today and sat the throne, I’d be worried for his safety. No, it is good I’ve come first. His nest must be cleansed of vipers.”
I let my tears flow. Let Mansur comfort me with his bravado. A brandished sword, I didn’t have; tears, frailty, innocence — those were my weapons. Let the battle begin; I’d rip out their hearts when they were done devouring each other.
After Mansur departed for the palace, Vera and I traveled by carriage to the Archers of the Eye training ground. With Mansur in the city and Pashang just outside, it was crucial I gained influence and leverage with the Archers, so I could control what messages Kyars received. He still had the largest and most heavily gunned army, and now I feared I might have to use it.
It was on that ride that I began to feel as if I were swimming in a deep sea,
trying to reach the light at the surface — a light that kept receding. No matter how much I swam, I remained in darkness, drowning. But surely, it wasn’t so hopeless. I needed to redouble my pace, despite not being able to walk.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t a bird, so couldn’t fly past the guard at the walkway’s entrance. He wore the Archer uniform: a white dress that ended just above his dark knees. A few springy ribbons adorned his otherwise plain front — a foreign outfit and inexplicably ugly.
I knew little about Ethosian orders, but the Archers were a large one. An Ethosian order serving a Latian palace in a vital capacity — only one thing could cement such a union: mountains of gold. I suspected other royal families must have vied for their services, but Alanya outbid them.
Vera said to the guard, “This is Sultana Zedra, the beloved of Crown Pri—of His Glory, Shah Kyars. She wishes to tour the grounds and acquaint herself with your order.”
The guard looked at us, stupefied. Then he whistled to someone, who jogged up to him. They whispered to each other, and the other man ran inside.
The guard put his hand on his heart. “Please wait a moment.”
A minute later, a giant of a man approached. His dense black beard dropped to his waist; it alone was larger than Vera. He wore a white caftan and simple leather sandals — a thoroughly Alanyan outfit. But where did they sew clothes that large?
“Sultana,” he said, “the palace did not tell us you were coming.”
I smiled up at him. “Just how I prefer it. A surprise. So I can see what this place is really like, not what it’s like when the Shah’s beloved is visiting.”
“Very good, sultana. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Grandmaster Abunaisaros of the Archers of the Eye. If it pleases you, call me Abu.”
“Abu it is.”
We followed him to a canopied sitting area aside the training field. All the while, Abu explained the history of the order and their role in Alanya. They were called Archers of the Eye by the Alanyans because when Shah Hazam invaded the Labash kingdom, more than a hundred years ago, most of his soldiers returned an eye fewer than when they’d departed. Despite my pressing, Abu would not admit their secret, laughing whenever I asked how they were so superior to a gholam archer, or even the horse archers from the Endless.
“The blood plague ravaged Labash, so now we are here,” he said. “Alanya is our home. Some believe we serve only because we are paid to, but the truth is, we love this land. And we would die for it. The Seluqals have ever been good to us.”
An enlightening story, but I had to state the obvious. “You were warriors…but now, you’re glorified messengers.”
He offered me some nuts — puffy and round. Some kind of Labashite refreshment. I declined with a polite smile. Vera popped one in her mouth. Then another.
“We are whatever the Shah needs us to be,” he said. “We don’t yearn for battle, but we will fight if called upon. And Archangel help the eyes of whoever stands against us.”
How confident. I liked that. Even tried a nut, which I wanted to spit but scarfed down to not offend. The syrup within was disturbingly sweet, nauseatingly so.
On the field, the red-haired woman shot arrows at a suit of armor hundreds of feet away. She gazed at the sky, aimed at the declining sun, and loosed. It arced for a lifetime and landed in the grass by the armor.
“Fuck!” she shouted.
I chuckled, then pointed at her. “How peculiar, Abu. All around, I see men. Labashites. Clad in your white dresses. And then, in the midst of it all, one Karmazi girl wearing the garb of a horse tribe.” Nearby, a group of young Archers sat, passed around a pipe, and watched her. I gestured to them with my head. “And your men seem to like it. Rather too much, perhaps.”
Abu bit his lip, then stroked his unbelievable beard. “We let her practice here.”
“Why?”
“She won a bet.”
“Oh? Against whom?”
He smiled wide, admitting it was him. “Got lucky. Even an Archer of the Eye can have a bad day. But the girl is good. Very good. Not quite Archer good, obviously, but I’ve given her permission to practice with us. To learn from us. She wants to enter the archery tourney. I don’t allow my men to take part in that, for obvious reasons.”
“Well, you’d win every time.”
“Precisely. It wouldn’t be fair. We’d be resented. As Ethosians, we don’t need more of that.”
The girl wiped off sweat with a towel and walked by our low table. Abu whistled to her, and she approached.
“This is Sultana Zedra,” he said, “beloved of Shah Kyars. She was just admiring your form.”
Sweat still dotted her forehead and dripped off her wavy locks. Looked like she’d been practicing for hours. She wrapped the towel over her shoulders. “Pleased to meet you, sultana.”
“Please, sit,” I said.
“I…I should bathe first. Or at least change clothes.”
“No need. I insist.” I gestured at the floor cushion beside Vera.
The Karmazi girl sat, then folded her arms.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Sa…Safia,” she said, her gaze on the wooden table.
“You barely know your own name, dear.” I chuckled to show it was a jest. “Safia is a lovely one. Your namesake is Saint Chisti’s daughter.” How lovely to hear it again, after so long. An unheard-of name in today’s Alanya, though.
She nodded, not even looking in my eyes. “I see. It was my grandmother’s name, too.”
Why was she so coy? Something about coyness made me overeager to draw out the truths from a person. I’d done so with my cousins and nieces and nephews.
“I like your outfit,” I said, “reminds me of my homeland. But the Vogras Mountains and the Karmaz Mountains couldn’t be more different.”
“I wear what suits me.” She spoke almost in a whisper. “Nice thing about Alanya, no one cares.”
How strange to phrase it like that. “Last I checked, the Karmaz Mountains are in Alanya. Are you not from here, dear?”
Obviously, if she had a rare blood flavor flowing through her, she couldn’t be just any Karmazi. Most Karmazi women in this city — the young ones, at least — worked as dancers or serving girls or even in pleasure houses. Ornaments for their exotic features. But this girl spoke Paramic with a lofty accent, and she had bested the Grandmaster of the Archers of the Eye in a bet. What was her story, why did she have a rare flavor of blood, and why was she so careful with her words?
“I’m rather tired, sultana.” She tugged on her towel nervously. “Apologies if I’ve been short with you. I’d like to go home and rest, if that’s acceptable.”
I forced a smile, but within, frustration reigned. “Of course, dear. I’d like to speak with you again, some other time, when you’re refreshed.”
She nodded, got up, and walked away.
Before I departed too, I pricked my finger on a needle I’d brought, then wrote a soulshifting rune on the underside of the table. My seeker’s blood would be good enough to possess another with seeker’s blood. Perhaps even Abu himself, though I couldn’t rely on that assumption.
In any case, the events of this morning had thrown everything on its head, and so it was time to return to the palace, lock myself in my room, and think on what to do next.
I fell asleep on the carriage ride to the palace. Old age. Once the carriage stopped at the gate, Vera shook me awake. She stepped outside to ask my gholam escort to unpack my chair.
But instead, she screamed.
“Vera?”
No answer. One window faced the thoroughfare and the other the palace wall, so I couldn’t see what’d happened. Barely able to stand on my weak knees, I crawled out the door.
Mirima and Mansur stood at the gate with a troop of Mansur’s mirror-armored guards. One was tying Vera’s hands behind her back.
“What the hell are you doing?” I said, clinging to the carriage door to stay standing.
Mansur huffed. “Th
is girl was handmaid to the assassin herself. Instead of being interrogated, Kato allowed her to enter your care.” He shook his head in disgust. “It’s a good thing I came. You can’t leave justice’s pursuit to a Himyarite slave.”
“She’s done nothing wrong!” I said. “Release her at once!”
Mansur sniggered. “Your heart is too soft, my dear. Surely the assassin’s very own handmaid must have some information. Whether culpable or not herself, who knows what she’s witnessed? Even the smallest, overlooked detail could unravel the truth masked behind the lies.”
I turned to Mirima. “Sultana, Vera was in my service far longer than she was in Cyra’s. Kyars is the one who bought her. Should harm come to her—”
“Kyars didn’t buy her — I did,” Mirima said, her hands clasped at her navel. “I know she’s a decent girl. It will only be a questioning, nothing more.”
Tears streamed down Vera’s cheeks. Her face glowed red and her eyes widened. I, too, wanted to cry but preferred to show strength.
“Don’t worry, dear,” I said as a gholam finally brought my chair. I dropped onto the seat, my knees strained from standing so long. “I won’t let them harm you.” But it wasn’t her harm I worried about as much as what she knew. If she told Mansur that I’d asked her to bring me Cyra’s blood, and if Hadrith told him about the bloodrunes, that would be enough to expose me.
Curse the saints! Mansur had only just arrived but wasted no time in asserting his authority. I needed time to plan, but he seemed to be rushing for the throne, perhaps out of fear that Kyars could return at any moment. Absent the comfort of time, a breathlessness overtook me, and I strained for air.
“I don’t know anything,” Vera said between sobs. “Cyra never confided in me!”
Mansur and his guards escorted her inside the gate. I looked on in disquiet and loosened my caftan’s collar to breathe better. For now, all I could do was watch and worry and pray this wouldn’t be the beginning of the end.
