Conqueror's Blood (Gunmetal Gods Book 2)

by Zamil Akhtar

  Kyars looked nothing like his ancestor: round eyes, rather than almond-shaped, slender cheekbones, not the bulging things that flanked Seluq the Dawn’s flatter nose. After Seluq wiped out the Children, the Vogras Mountains were settled by sheepish Waste tribes who dared to call themselves Vograsians. Kyars’ mother was from their stock, and so were his great grandmothers on both sides. Gorgeous faces but weak blood.

  When the Sylgiz conquered the Vogras, a year ago, I joined a caravan of those they’d enslaved and sold to the Alanyans — that’s how I ended up in Kyars’ harem. Of course, this was just after Father saved me from Seluq and brought me six hundred years forward to this time.

  Kyars shook his head as if in disbelief. “Zedra, what is wrong with you? Was it weak the way I beheaded my uncle and sent his pieces to Pashang? There’s a difference between strength and cruelty. Killing a slave girl who was only trying to get by…who took loving care of our son…that is cruel! And I’ll not allow it.”

  “And what of Cyra? You had every chance to end her, and you let her go! And now she’s going to kill us all with her star magic!”

  He wound up to slap again, then caught his own hand. “So you punished Vera for the crimes you accuse Cyra of, is that it?”

  “They’re going to kill us, the way they killed your father. They’re going to kill our son!”

  “Mad fucking woman,” Kyars said under his breath while tightening his chainmail. “Stay with our son. Take care of him. That’s your only role, your one job, you hear me? You are not to step out of this room.”

  Curse the saints — the last thing I wanted was to be stuck here, where I couldn’t soulshift. Once again, I’d exploded in anger and set myself back. If only that bloodrune had given me a sweet mirage, perhaps I would be calm. Instead, my whole body sipped of Najat’s bitter, drowning death.

  “Everyone just wants to lock me up,” I said, my throat sore. “Mansur locked me up. And then Khizr Khaz. And now you.”

  “Speaking of Khizr Khaz…” Kyars glared at me, hesitant. “He says Cyra’s story is true. That you’re the sorcerer who killed my father, not her.”

  “And are you fool enough to believe that?”

  “Khizr Khaz is many things, but not a liar.”

  “Have you forgotten? He backed Mansur’s claim before switching to your side. If not a liar, then a traitor!” I didn’t want to shout, so tried to chill my temper. “Why don’t you ask Kato what he thinks? He’s the only one who remained loyal. Your gholam are loyal. I am loyal. We’re your slaves. We’re only for you. Unlike Cyra, I’m not the sister or daughter of a khagan. All I have to uplift me is your glorious name. It’s the same for Kato. Save those who stood for you — unwavering — and kill the rest.”

  “If I kill everyone who wavered when my father died, who’ll be left? Rather, I’ll give them a chance to show loyalty and kill those who insist on standing against me. Saint Chisti forgave those with hearts like a shifting sea, and I’ll do the same.”

  I glared at him as bitterly as I could. “Are you suddenly filled with faith, now? How convenient — but faith is not a cloak for your weakness.”

  “Easy for you to say. But I have to think of the kingdom after the battle, not just about settling scores.”

  “Win the cursed battle first!”

  He shook his head and looked upon me with a pitying smile. “Zedra…you are a killer now, you realize? And you talk like one. But I don’t see it. There’s no evidence that you’re a sorceress, that you’re at all clever in what you do…rather, it’s just rage in you.” He sighed. “Khizr Khaz, it seems, was deceived by Cyra — as I was. I’ll accept the blame for her escape. But killing the undeserving is no way to win.”

  He knew nothing — nothing! — about who deserved to live and die. If he wouldn’t win this, then I’d have to. I’d have to soulshift and kill Pashang and Cyra. Ozar, Hadrith, and Khizr Khaz I could get to later. And finally, Kyars — oh Kyars, don’t think you’re not on my list. Perhaps I could spare Kato; he listened to me whenever he could. He was faithful.

  “I need some air,” I said. “Let me stroll in the garden. Please.”

  Kyars sighed. His expression softened. “All right.” He always relented to me in the end, at least in small matters. “I’ll have a girl from the harem watch the baby. Don’t kill this one.”

  Sadie was there, in the garden, chatting with Aicard as fireflies and locusts flew about beneath a sickly crescent. Kyars had assigned me a gholam escort, and they kept Celene and me surrounded, so I’d have to watch my words.

  “You’re still here?” I said to Sadie.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said. “I’ll fight for Kyars, but I want nothing to do with you.”

  Aicard smiled. “I convinced her to stay. But failed to convince her you’re a victim, Zedra.”

  I didn’t want to suffer more of this fake philosopher’s nonsense, but I’d never been called a victim before. “I am a victim. How profound. Too much cruelty have I suffered.”

  “And she’s a victim.” He pointed to Celene, then at himself. “As am I. As is all mankind.” The nonsense finally spewed.

  “Tell me, Aicard,” I said, “when you’re smoking hashish with my beloved Kyars, is that when your best ideas come to you?”

  “Mine is not an addled mind. I spent much of my life deceiving others. But nothing I did can compare to the deception of the gods. Tell me — who is it you believe to be fighting for?”

  What did he think he knew? And had he really figured out that I’d soulshifted into Mansur that night? If so, I’d scrawl his name on my list.

  Celene whispered to me, “That man was Micah the Metal’s spymaster. Whatever you do, don’t trust him.”

  I wasn’t about to trust him, in any case. But what was Kyars doing with a dead Crucian general’s spymaster? Oh, I understood that he’d helped Kyars retake our western coast at lightning speed, but what was his true aim?

  “You talk a lot,” I said to Aicard, “and yet, say nothing. If you hadn’t noticed, we’re at war, and here you are, dawdling in the flowers. Why not use your skills of deception for some good, hmm?”

  Aicard raised his hands, palms up. “I’ve been telling Kyars — we need to sit down with them. Find a way out that doesn’t cause this city suffering. I’d be most useful in a negotiation. You see, I’m very convincing.”

  I didn’t see. “So you’re the one whispering this nonsense in my beloved’s ear?” I really did need to add him to the list. “The Jotrids aren’t reasonable. We just barely stopped them from ravaging the city.” I stepped closer to Aicard and Sadie, trudging over the dew-covered flowers, and whispered in their ears, “Kill. Them. All. Does that sound like the words of a god? You’re so busy fearing the sky when truly, it’s all on us down here.”

  Sadie shook her head. “You remind me of my father. Kind and nurturing one moment, screaming for blood the next. I’ve felt those yearnings too…they can never be quenched.”

  What did this irksome bitch know? Did she think I was a child? I’d lived longer than the two combined, possessed more wisdom than they’d ever attain — I wasn’t yearning for vengeance. I just wanted a good, clean victory, and nothing’s cleaner than your enemy dead and buried.

  My sigh was tinged with remorse. I’d wasted enough time on these fools. Aicard and Sadie could rot, for all I cared.

  I needed a way out of here, and that meant losing my gholam escort. And yet, I couldn’t use my bloodrunes — that would expose me further, perhaps beyond hope. Worse, I no longer had willing allies. Why was I so intent on antagonizing everyone? I needed to be far more clever, cool, and in control. But I still felt like I was drowning, and so I flailed.

  The palace wall stood two stories high. How could I get over that? With thousands of gholam everywhere? Was I truly stuck?

  I walked across the garden toward the palace gate. As soon as I arrived, an arrow arced through the sky and landed just inside the gate. A young man in the white and blue garb of the Archers of
the Eye picked up the arrow and pulled off a paper that was pressed around it.

  “What does it say?” I asked him.

  He ignored me and handed the message to a nearby gholam, who then ran toward the palace. Whatever it said, he was in a hurry to relay it.

  “What did it say?” I asked again. Perhaps he didn’t know who I was. “I am the mother of the Crown Prince! What did that message say?”

  The young Archer gulped, then said, “The Jotrids have entered the Tower of Wisdom. That’s all it said.”

  The Tower? If you stood several paces away from the palace wall, you could even see its tip kissing the sky. By Lat — what if the Jotrids hauled cannons up there? They could fire down at the palace! Perhaps this was the perfect reason to convince Kyars to let me stay elsewhere.

  I smiled, satisfied. I knew exactly what to do. I had to act fast on this fresh knowledge, lest the opportunity slip.

  27

  Cyra

  I’d never been inside the Tower of Wisdom before, so I climbed the winding steps with an excited smile. First, I noticed that, though there were no lamps, moonlight shining through the windows lit wall mirrors that caused the whole stairwell to glow. The palace had something similar, but the light was brighter here.

  Our footsteps echoed as we climbed, as if it were hollow. Then we came upon the first floor.

  The massive, circular room had walls covered in book niches…all empty. Not one book, not one Philosopher. I expected resistance, not this tidy emptiness.

  Divans stuffed with blue pillows were arrayed around the room, perfect for comfortable — even luxurious — reading.

  Eleven more floors to go.

  And they were all alike: tidy and echo filled. Seemed the Philosophers had taken their books and escaped. How? And where?

  A back room near the top contained something so large they couldn’t carry it: a miniature great hall, complete with a golden divan, pillars, and mechanical dolls in the likenesses of viziers and Tamaz himself. With the pull of a lever, water coursed through the contraption, and everything moved. Dolls wearing the high felt hats and blue caftans of the Philosophers, holding sitars and flutes and tambourines, sprang up from behind the divan, their melody utterly lifelike. As they played, the viziers and Tamaz danced — which, to me, was the strangest part. You could even press a switch that changed the song and dance being played, with up to four settings, ranging from exciting to tranquil.

  Now, in actuality, I’d never seen Tamaz or his viziers dance, no matter the melody being played. And given that the Philosophers hid this contraption in a back room, I wondered if they wanted anyone to see it, and something about how lifelike the dolls were filled me with more dread than wonder.

  Aside from that, they left another massive contraption, consisting of a lever that, when pressed, sent water through a spinning wheel which caused these giant hammers to mash down on a white liquid bubbling in big buckets. The finished products were hanging on the ceiling: layers and layers of smooth, white parchment. In an adjacent room, printing presses were set up; they resembled giant stamps attached to strings and switches and rollers. The finished products lay neatly on high tables spread across the room — papers with gleaming ink that still needed to dry, which was likely why the Philosophers hadn’t bothered to take them.

  At the very top of the Tower, we came upon an empty room with a high desk of glass and wood. A book sat upon it, as if welcoming us. Pashang picked it up, then handed it to me.

  Melody of Flowers was written on the cover. Flowers…was this the book they made Eshe transcribe? Why’d they take everything and leave it here?

  Jotrids filled the room, inspecting everything, though there was naught else betwixt these rounded corners. Whatever treasures they’d kept here, whatever invention we could’ve used to turn the tide, they were smart enough to haul away. But the real treasure — the Tower itself — they couldn’t bring.

  “The Tower is ours,” Pashang said. Jotrids cheered and hollered and ululated. A small victory with a hopefully large outcome. “Let’s make holes in the walls and haul up those cannons.”

  “Pashang,” I said, “no one ever reported the Philosophers carrying out books in mass.”

  He hunched his shoulders. “True…but they did. We must’ve missed it.”

  “Missed it?” I shook my head. “Since we came here last, we’ve held this part of the city, right?”

  Pashang nodded.

  “Then how could we have missed it?”

  “What are you saying? Did they fly away, like you?”

  “Of course not. We would have seen that. And why did they leave that one book? What the hell is going on?”

  He rubbed his head and sighed. “All good questions. You think on it while I work on bringing Kyars and Kato an early bright morning.”

  I searched every floor. Aside from the back rooms with the large contraptions, they really had cleaned up — not a parchment, a drop of ink, nor a hair to be found. Just divans, wooden stands for reading, pillows, and empty niches.

  Back at ground level, I was so tired I collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily. That was when I noticed it.

  Most of the concrete here was worn from being tread upon, but in the corner shone a fresh patch. I tapped my feet on the worn concrete — a dull, matted sound. Then I tapped my feet on the fresh patch; a thud echoed below, as if allowed to breathe. The floor was hollow.

  I went to Tekish and said, “We’re going to need another bomb.”

  28

  Zedra

  Kyars was intent on sending us into the cisterns; I pleaded that the dark, damp air would be poor for our child. But it was Kato who stood for me, who finally convinced Kyars to move his harem and heir from the palace and into the Glass District by reminding him that “cannons care not whom they shred — man, woman, or child — it’s only flesh.”

  Perched on a hill and surrounded by a short wall, the Glass District had some protection. But our best protection was not being known; Kyars moved us quickly and secretly, out of fear that the Jotrid cannons doubtlessly being perched onto the Tower of Wisdom could fire at any moment.

  Kato’s mistress was a woman of skill. A merchant, it seemed, who bought and sold perfumes from as far as Abistra, given the language on the bottles I’d noticed sprawled across her foyer. She was polite when addressing me — I wished she’d teach Kato the same — and wanted to tour us through her mansion; I insisted on sleeping, so she took Celene and me to our room.

  It had a closet. Perhaps Lat was starting to smile upon me. Unlike the one in the Sand Palace, there was no hole, so I kept the door ajar. Celene sat next to it, content to guard me.

  “Once you end this war…that’s it, then,” she said, somewhat jittery. “I can finally go home, right?”

  I poked my head out. “Celene, dear, of course you’re going home. You know I’d never betray that.” I stroked her hair. She’d kept loyal and deserved to go home. “You deserve happiness. That mirage we shared — you deserve that and more.”

  She gulped hard. “I bet everything on you. And, even though it doesn’t concern me, I want you to triumph. Want you to be happy. So please don’t…please don’t be lying.”

  She could have played games, like the others. Hedged her bets. But she stood by me, even when all seemed lost. And if I couldn’t reward that, then I truly was wretched.

  “You’re like a daughter to me, dear. I won’t suffer your loneliness. You’ll go home. I promise, on my life.”

  She nodded. “Marot forgive me.”

  I huddled in the closet and pictured the rune I’d scrawled beneath a divan on the tenth floor of the Tower. I pricked it in my mind, and it glowed with the light of stars.

  I was standing on a familiar spiral staircase, surrounded by Jotrids. I looked down. Breasts. It would’ve been better to be a man with arms chiseled like diamonds, but a woman could be less assuming, could get closer to Pashang or Cyra. I was young, given how smooth my face felt, with small-and-rough
rider hands. I brushed my short head hair, then felt a bone bow clinging to my back. That wasn’t all — two daggers, one on each side, and a scimitar in a leather sheath hung on my belt. This Jotrid bitch was truly armed.

  “Heave!” They took deep breaths. “Heave!” A troop of Jotrids pulled a cannon larger than a horse and heaved it up the stairs. Oh Lat — to think they’d unleash such a monster on the palace…good thing my son and I weren’t there.

  I asked a man with a spotty beard and reed in his mouth, “Where’s Pashang?”

  “Your brother-in-law’s at the top, of course.”

  Brother-in-law!? Was I…his brother’s wife?

  “And is Cyra with him?”

  He shook his head. “Last I saw, she was setting up a bomb downstairs.”

  A bomb? What? Were they going to level the Tower? Obviously not, if they were hauling cannons up it. Just what was she up to?

  I peeked into the tenth-floor reading room: empty. So…the Philosophers had departed…but when? And to where? And how? No one had seen them leave — surely we would have heard about it at the palace.

  Add it to the pile of mysteries hidden behind the fog. Now, I had a choice: climb two floors and kill Pashang or descend ten floors and kill Cyra. I could only kill one before being caught. Killing Pashang could end the war, but he had a brother, it seemed. Wouldn’t the brother just take over his command? And considering Cyra had brought a simurgh to life, she was surely more dangerous than some khagan.

  Someone brushed by me while I was thinking:

  “Whoa, sister,” the tall, brown bearded man said, “in a bit of a daze, are you? Come, let’s see what Cyra’s found.”

  Pashang! I could stab him now, but if they were together downstairs, I could stab them both. So I followed Pashang down to wherever Cyra was.

  “Still mad at Tekish?” he asked. “The idiot never remembers my birthday, either.”