A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  With a sharp intake of breath, Ihsan stood. “You’re free to go.”

  Tolovan cut him free, and Yosef fairly fled from the storeroom.

  “Is there anything the matter, my Lord King?” Tolovan asked when the door had slammed shut.

  But Ihsan was in no mood to speak of it. “Find Ibrahim. Bring him to me.”

  “Of course,” Tolovan said, “but—”

  “That will be all, Tolovan.”

  A pause. “Yes, Your Excellence.”

  He left with one of the Blade Maidens in tow. The other accompanied Ihsan back to his room—a small, nondescript flat in the Red Crescent. When he arrived, he found Nayyan and the Blade Maiden, Yndris, standing beside the water basin. Nayyan held Ransaneh in her arms. She was crying, but that was hardly the most concerning thing. “Nayyan, what happened?”

  The front of her dress was stained with fresh blood. Her right cheek was covered in it. Ransaneh was bloody too, with scrapes along her chin, nose, and cheeks. She seemed unfazed by it, however; her mismatched eyes were bright and wide, and when she locked eyes with Ihsan, she smiled.

  Yndris was using a curved needle and thread to stitch a jagged gash on Nayyan’s forehead. A few stitches were already in place. The one Yndris was tying off with a gleaming set of forceps and scissors looked to be the last. She cut the thread and set the instruments aside. Picking up a clean cloth from a pile beside the water basin, she wet it and began to dab the bloody wound clean.

  Ihsan had never been bothered by his own blood, but to see so much of it on his Queen and his daughter made his gut twist into knots. “Nayyan,” he asked again, “what happened?”

  Nayyan didn’t answer.

  “She took a tumble is all,” Yndris finally said.

  “Go,” Ihsan said to her. He’d have a word with her later about answering for her Queen.

  Nayyan took the wet, bloody bandage from Yndris and nodded to her.

  The scars over Yndris’s brow and cheeks—remnants an old beating from Çedamihn—puckered as she frowned. She looked like she wanted to argue, to deny Ihsan, but then she bowed her head and left the room.

  Ihsan took Ransaneh from Nayyan’s arms and waited for her to say something. But Nayyan only stood there silently while pressing the bandage to the gash along her forehead.

  “Were you attacked?” Ihsan asked.

  “I fell.” Tears fell down her cheeks, creating tracks in the blood. She waved to Ransaneh. “I fell and I dropped our daughter.”

  “You tripped?”

  “I fainted.” Her face screwed up and she slipped into a deep bout of crying.

  “Where?”

  She motioned vaguely toward the window. “A block away.” She folded the bandage, dipped it into the water, and began dabbing her forehead and left eyelid, where the blood was heaviest.

  “But why?”

  “My moon day.” She bent over the basin and began scrubbing more vigorously at her cheeks and jaw. “Its come sooner than expected, and it’s been heavy. It started seven days ago and hasn’t stopped.”

  Ihsan recalled her mentioning something about it as she’d left to visit the physic. He was embarrassed to admit he hadn’t been paying much attention. He certainly was now. “What did the physic say?”

  “She gave me some herbs that should help to stem the flow and alleviate the cramping.”

  That was a small relief, at least.

  “Get cleaned up,” Ihsan said gently. “Then we can rest. Just the three of us, like on the ship.” Things had been so busy in the city he’d actually come to miss the slow rhythm of their desert voyage. It had been hellish when Ransaneh couldn’t sleep, but the intimacy had been nice, and their worries over the desert’s fate had felt distant.

  As Nayyan continued to wipe away the blood, Ihsan looked Ransaneh over. The excited burble she gave was normally a heartwarming sound, but Ihsan hardly noticed it. There was something hugely distracting about seeing your child hurt for the first time.

  A vision swam before him, of Ferah, his daughter with another woman. Ferah had lived and died centuries earlier, but the image of her crumpled body at the base of his throne, her wrists slit, was still bright in his mind. She’d been fully grown, but still young and married to Abdul-Azim, a man she loved, and who loved her.

  Abdul-Azim had had the misfortune of being a member of the thirteenth tribe. When the Kings struck their bargain with the desert gods, he, like so many others, had been sacrificed to save the city.

  In his mind’s eye, Ferah stared at him in accusation. You did nothing to stop him from being cursed. You watched him be turned into an asir, then claimed he was a holy warrior. Lies, father. All lies!

  Tears blurring his vision, Ihsan went to the small chest they’d brought with them from the desert. Stacked beside a sizable store of money were a dozen metal vials, each with a dose of the healing elixir Nayyan had crafted many months ago.

  He took one of them and popped the cork with his thumb. He was just raising it to Ransaneh’s lips when Nayyan snatched his wrist, forestalling him. “Don’t, Ihsan.”

  But the need to see Ransaneh healed of her wounds was so great he jerked his arm away and tried again.

  “Ihsan, don’t!” She wrenched the vial from his hand, stuffed the cork into the vial’s mouth, and dropped it back inside the chest with the others. With a shove from one slippered foot, the lid slammed home.

  “She’s hurt,” Ihsan said, utterly baffled.

  “She doesn’t need it.”

  He tried to speak, but stopped when she went to the nearby windows and opened the shutters. She pointed toward Tauriyat. “The end is near, Ihsan. We’ll need every resource we have, including those vials.”

  “We have enough.”

  “No, we don’t.” Her face, now mostly clear of blood, flushed red. A trickle of blood was leaking from one side of the freshly stitched wound. She went to the table with the basin, took up a fresh bandage, and wiped it away. “Ransaneh has a scrape. She’ll heal.”

  Nayyan refused to use so much as a drop of the elixir on herself, either. She finished cleaning herself up and changed into a fresh dress. It was early, but she was exhausted, and so, apparently was Ransaneh. As they lay in bed, with Ransaneh napping between them, Ihsan reached out and stroked Nayyan’s cheek.

  “Did the physic say anything more?”

  She looked annoyed by the question. “Wouldn’t I have told you if she had?”

  “It’s only, you reacted so strongly when I wanted to give Ransaneh the elixir.”

  She was silent for a time. Outside, a rebab and a flute took up a song. An old woman joined in a moment later, her voice imperfect, the words soulful. Suddenly, it felt like the ancient days of Sharakhai, early in Ihsan’s rule, when life had been simpler.

  “You’ve had other children, Ihsan,” Nayyan finally said. “I haven’t. I worry with every step we take that we’re going to ruin her future.”

  “It won’t be ruined.”

  “Let’s make sure by taking each step with care and by conserving what we can.” She reached out and pressed her hand to his cheek. “Yes?”

  “Yes,” he said, and they fell asleep together.

  Chapter 20

  Çeda found little sleep the night following Shaikh Zaghran’s decision to allow the tribunal to proceed. Long into the night, she lay beneath her bedroll while staring at the ceiling of the tent she, Emre, and the others had been given.

  You have one day, Zaghran had said.

  One day to prove Hamid was a liar and a murderer. One day to bend the acacia to her will. Only after hours of worry did she manage to fall asleep, but it was fitful at best, her dreams chilling. She woke exhausted. It was still dark, but dawn wasn’t far off.

  Emre snored softly beside her. She wanted to let him get his rest, but she was too eager to get started, so she sho
ok him, and he woke bleary-eyed. He seemed confused at first but then nodded and grabbed his shirt from the pile of clothes beside him. “I’ll wake the others.” He sat up, pulled the shirt on, then paused, looking suddenly pensive. “What do you suppose the acacia showed Zaghran to convince him?”

  Çeda stood and began to dress. “I’ve no idea, but the acacia speaks the truth. Apparently that was enough for him.”

  “I suppose. Let’s just hope it’s enough for the others as well.”

  By the time everyone was roused and fed, the sun was peeking between the shoulders of the mountains to the east. A fine fog lifted off the nearby lake as they all gathered beneath the acacia. The pressure was high, but Çeda had to admit it felt good having those closest to her there to help. On her left were Emre, Sümeya, Kameyl, and Shal’alara; on her right, Dardzada, Frail Lemi, and Leorah, who had Nalamae’s staff lying beside her on the wiry grass. Çeda was all set to begin when Emre glanced meaningfully toward the fort above them. Atop the walls, a woman stared down. It was Rasime, Hamid’s closest ally besides Darius.

  “Let her watch,” Çeda said, then took in everyone in the circle. “Our goal is to ensure that I can summon visions of the past and share them. If we can do both, I can show the shaikhs the sort of man they’ve allied themselves with.”

  She hoped to use the tree to show them the danger Sharakhai and the desert were in as well, but first she needed to stop Hamid from gaining an even larger foothold on the tribal alliance. Do that using the power of the tree, and they would become receptive to more.

  “Close your eyes,” Çeda continued. “Open your minds. Listen to the wind through the leaves. Sense the rising heat of the sun. Breathe and feel the beat of your hearts. Be with me in this moment. The tree, I hope, will do the rest.”

  As the others closed their eyes and began taking deep breaths, Çeda pulled her necklace from beneath her dress, the one her mother had given her. “Be with me, Memma.” She kissed the teardrop pendant. “Today of all days, I need you.”

  When she looked up, she saw Frail Lemi looking back at her. He nodded the way an older brother might. A smile overcame her, and the growing pressure she’d been feeling shed from her like sand off skimwood. Seeing it, Frail Lemi winked and closed his eyes again.

  Çeda summoned the power of the desert, spread her arms wide, and opened herself to the tree. She felt its presence suffuse her, body and soul. She wanted the tree to show everyone Emre’s past and how Hamid had betrayed him. She wanted to verify that she could share her visions with the shaikhs. But the tree had other plans.

  A different sort of vision swept her up, and it was so powerful, she lost all sense of her original purpose.

  * * *

  A pair of Silver Spears in white tabards escorted a woman along a hallway lined in rich marble and beautiful bronze sconces. The woman was a beauty with dark hair and striking eyes. Her name was Ahyanesh, though the guardsmen and the Sharakhani King she was about to meet knew her by a different name. And while they thought her a locksmith, she was anything but.

  Covering her head was a respectable, leaf-pattern kufi. Her trousers were stuffed into the tops of soft leather boots that curled at the toes. Her kaftan, made of green linen, was embroidered with thread of gold around the collar. Her clothing spoke of a woman who was well off, though not too well off. A russet bag made of fine leather, containing the tools of her trade, was slung over one shoulder.

  Ahead stood a man in King’s raiment: jeweled slippers, an ivory thawb with pearls sewn into the cuffs, and a sandstone khalat made from the finest of silks. His name was King Yusam, and he was tall, lithe, and gifted with a feral grace that was beautiful and threatening at the same time. His aquiline nose warred with his soft, rounded chin and his light beard. It was his eyes, however, that were the most arresting. He wasn’t called the Jade-eyed King for no reason. His gaze seemed to pierce Ahya as she strode forward, flanked by the two Silver Spears.

  Hands clasped behind his back, King Yusam led Ahya to a room lit by golden lanterns. On the far side was the door to a vault, which was swung partway open.

  “You’ve been apprised of the situation?” Yusam’s voice was calm and confident.

  “I have, Excellence,” Ahya replied, her nervousness masked by weeks of preparation.

  “I want it done before nightfall.”

  And for good reason, Ahya thought. The holy night of Beht Zha’ir began at sunset. She’d chosen this moment carefully. In recent months, the Moonless Host had used Beht Zha’ir to launch some of the most violent attacks in years. King Yusam feared his treasury had become a target, and he was taking no chances.

  “I need three hours, four at the most.”

  Yusam considered, and then nodded. “I require four copies of the keys. Any notes you take will be given to the Silver Spears on your departure.”

  “Of course, my Lord King.” Ahya patted the leather bag by her side. “Everything has been prepared.”

  Yusam considered her, his jade eyes discerning, discriminating. “The master locksmith. Is he faring any better?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. He can’t take food. He can hardly keep water down. He’s lost half a stone in three days.”

  “Well,” Yusam said with a spin toward the door. “The gods will provide.”

  Ahya bowed as King Yusam left the room. “Yes, my Lord King.”

  With him gone, the pressure eased, but not entirely. She had only so much time to change the lock and trick the guards to get what she wanted from the vault.

  For over two decades, one master locksmith had safeguarded the locks in King Yusam’s vaults and stores. Two nights ago, Ahya had broken into his home in Hanging Gardens and slipped one of Dardzada’s poisons into his meal. The poison, made from sand drake venom, would see him sick as a dog for days. That same night, after he’d fallen ill, she stole into his home again and took the safe where he kept his most precious notes, those that described the configuration of the locks he maintained.

  The theft, as Ahya had known it would, had been reported to King Yusam. Yusam, worried the Moonless Host was planning to loot his treasury, had asked the locksmith to come to his palace immediately to change the combinations.

  “My deepest apologies, my Lord King,” the locksmith had written, “but I’ve contracted a sickness that may be part of the plan you fear. I won’t be well enough for some days. To ensure the highest safety to your valuable stores, I recommend Master Fallay attend you in my stead. He keeps his premises in the heart of the merchant’s quarter.”

  Through careful research, Ahya knew that King Yusam’s private messenger adored fine tabbaq. On his return to the House of Kings, he rode his silver-and-bronze akhala along a curving road, only to find Ahya on her knees, trying to fix the wheel of a dray that had slipped its axle.

  The messenger, a rail of a man, looked ready to move past without offering help but stopped when he noticed a broken crate. Ahya had made it look like it had fallen off the top of a stack when the wagon wheel slipped. There was a spray of tabbaq all over the road. The brand on the side was from a rare house in Qaimir. All of the crates on the dray’s bed were from extremely fine growers in the southern kingdom, the sort that men who knew tabbaq—men like the messenger—would kill to sample.

  “Can I help?” he finally asked.

  Ahya stood, dusted off the front of her dress, then wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of one sleeve. “I would be eternally grateful if you would.”

  He dismounted and from a box at the front of the wagon’s bed pulled out the tools needed to lever the front axle high enough for the wheel to be slipped back on. As he began putting it in place, he glanced at the open crate. Even from this distance, the air was thick with the smell of it. Ahya had been educating herself on the finer points of tabbaq for years. She could detect notes of marzipan, rum, toasted almonds and, beneath it all, an undercurren
t of cinnamon and black pepper. The lone crate cost as much as many households in Sharakhai made in a season.

  The messenger pursed his lips and gave the crate an appreciative nod. “House Darrio.”

  She feigned surprise. “Why, yes.”

  “The mark shows it’s from the tabbaqanist’s select reserve.”

  “It is!” Ahya let a touch of excitement leak into her voice. “Do you partake?”

  He waggled his head. “From time to time.” He looked up, his eyes moving from crate to crate. “Remigio . . . Abrantes . . . Vartaga-Almore.”

  “The finest in Qaimir.” She paused. “You know, I was just headed to a private tasting at an auction house.”

  The messenger laughed. “If only I had the funds to bid on full cases.”

  “But you don’t have to! Many don’t, in fact. I work for the auction house.” She waved to an especially large crate near the front of the bed, the sort used to hold bottles of liquor. “Each of the tabbaqs is going to be paired with fine Qaimiri brandy. I could vouch for you, say you’re a buyer. Then they’ll give you a bidding paddle. You’ll sample the tabbaqs. You’ll drink some of the finest brandy ever to find its way onto the sandy seas. And you’ll go home a happy man.”

  The messenger stopped all pretense of working on the wheel. His eyes moved from the open crate to Ahya to the crate again.

  “Please.” She waved to the half-fixed wheel. “It’s the least I can do.”

  A smile broke out across his face. “Very well, though I fear I’ll be the one owing you by the time this is done.”

  From there they moved on to the auction house. The owner maintained a respectable appearance, but he’d been on the take for years, allowing the occasional crate of stolen goods to pass through the auction house. Ahya hadn’t lied about the tasting, though. It was real. Ahya had paid the owner handsomely to allow her to borrow a few of the crates, on the understanding that she would return them before the auction began.