Husamettín remained stubbornly silent, but she could tell she’d hit the mark.
“Look at you.” All the venom she’d harbored for the Kings returned in a rush. “You pretend to value family, and yet you sacrificed your brothers and sisters. You sacrificed a woman you loved. You would have sacrificed me as well, your own daughter.”
“You think your mother deserved anything less? You think a spy who’d infiltrated the ranks of the Moonless Host would be met with mercy by Macide Ishaq’ava?”
“I’m no scarab. And whatever my mother did to you, it wasn’t enough. None of you deserved the gifts the gods gave you.”
Husamettín snorted. “You’re blind if you think the thirteenth tribe are so different from the Kings.”
“How dare you compare us! The thirteenth tribe fights for its very survival, while you hope to murder us, finishing what you started on Beht Ihman.”
“The gods themselves anointed our cause.”
“You’re speaking to the wrong woman if you think you can wipe the blood from your hands by invoking the gods. They may have made you an offer, but it was your consent that led to the slaughter of thousands.” She was getting none of the satisfaction she’d hoped for from this confrontation. She’d expected catharsis but found only bitterness and bile. “I’ve long wondered,” she went on, “if I would do to my father as he did to my mother.”
“What is it you think I did?”
The image of her mother hanging upside down from the Kings’ gallows returned unbidden. Ahya had been bloody, naked, her throat slit wide. Ancient runes had been carved into the skin of her feet, hands, and forehead. “You tortured her.” Çeda blinked to clear the terrible image. “Cut foul words into her skin so that she’d be marked in the farther fields.”
And then Husamettín surprised her. There was a flash of regret in his eyes. “That was Cahil.”
“You think that makes it better?” His reaction made her wonder, though. Was he still hurt by what Ahya had done? Hurt by her lies? Had he loved her? No. One didn’t do that to people they loved. He coveted Ahya, and when he found he could no longer have her, that he’d never had her, he’d beaten her, given her over to the cruelest of the Kings for questioning, and watched while it happened. The very thought enraged her. Her feelings were echoed by Night’s Kiss, making them impossible to ignore. She was forced to suppress them lest the heightened emotions rob her of all reason.
Husamettín glanced down at the sword, still held in her left hand. “Its call is powerful. You might come to regret taking it from me.”
“I’ll manage.” She felt some small acknowledgment from the sword—deference to her as its new master—but she also sensed the undeniable kinship it felt toward Husamettín.
Husamettín shrugged. “When the twin moons return to the desert, we’ll know the truth of it.”
“And what happens then?”
“Its will becomes stronger.”
“Which implies that it wants something.”
He looked at her as if it were the most mud-brained thing he’d ever heard. “Well of course it does. It wants blood! It will demand it.”
She’d brought Night’s Kiss with her to get some of her questions about it answered, but it felt as if the conversation were too much in his control, so she altered her tack. “Was that the cost to seal your pact with Yerinde? Blood?”
To her satisfaction, his brows pinched momentarily in surprise. “The gods have stood behind the Kings of Sharakhai for centuries.”
“Azad dead by my mother’s hand. Külaşan, Mesut, and Onur by mine. Yusam is gone as well. Zeheb has been driven mad. Is that what you consider the gods standing behind you?”
“Sharakhai is still ours.”
“And yet your position grows more tenuous by the day.” The wind gusted and the hull creaked as the ship leaned over a dune. Night’s Kiss tried to fan her anger, but she stifled it, focusing on her reason for speaking to Husamettín alone. “Have you considered the possibility Yerinde is acting without the consent of the other gods?”
He remained silent.
“What did she promise you? What did she want in return? Was it the thirteenth tribe, or Nalamae?”
Again that pinching at the edges of his eyes, more carefully hidden. “Who told you that?”
“Come now. It should be no surprise that whispers of your hunt for the goddess have drifted to the desert. I’ll admit, it seemed preposterous at first.” She pointed beyond the hull. “But then I felt Yerinde. I felt her hunger for Nalamae. Don’t you think it strange that after four hundred years the goddess would suddenly appear in Sharakhai and ask this of you?”
“I presume you have a point?”
“You still have the power to make your own choices. Even you must admit Yerinde’s demand is strange. There is a greater purpose behind it. Tell me what you know, and perhaps together we can discover it before it’s too late.”
He laughed, a rare thing from the stone-hearted King of Swords. “You think I would do anything to help you?”
“Not me,” Çeda said. “You would be atoning for your sins before you leave these shores. You would be helping Sharakhai.”
“Are you a priestess of Bakhi now, to offer me salvation before I die? And what matter is Sharakhai to you?”
Çeda jabbed the hilt of Night’s Kiss into his chest. “You may not believe it, but Sharakhai is in my bones. It is my city as much as it is yours, and I love it. No matter what you and the other Kings have done, Sharakhai is still a place of wonder, and I will fight to protect it. But now the jackals of Mirea and Malasan are closing in. Worse, the gods themselves are playing us all for fools.”
“If you knew me as well as you pretend, you wouldn’t waste your breath. I would never share our secrets, nor take counsel with a traitor.”
“I may be a traitor to your cause, but I am loyal to Sharakhai.”
“Loyal to the people of the desert, you mean.”
“Them as well, yes.”
Husamettín sneered. “You think your tribe wouldn’t tear the city apart if given the chance?”
“You don’t know them. Not anymore. You’ve demonized them for so long you think they’re just like the tribes who came to Sharakhai four hundred years ago, ready to tear the walls down. But they aren’t. They no longer wish to see Sharakhai destroyed.”
Husamettín’s face turned angry. “You would sit before me and claim that the Moonless Host wishes for peace?”
“There are those who would mete out violence. What do you expect after all you’ve done? But Tribe Khiyanat is not the Moonless Host, nor is it the same tribe you and your brother Kings allowed to be sacrificed. It is a thing made anew, and I tell you, Macide is ready for peace. So are the other shaikhs. Offer them a way to prosper and they will join you. They would help save Sharakhai from her invaders.”
“The tribes know how peace can be found.”
“By bowing to you, men who think themselves the rightful rulers of the desert?”
The look on his face was one of supreme entitlement. “How else?”
Çeda was so angry she gripped the hilt of Night’s Kiss and bared a foot of its ebon steel. It hummed angrily as she spoke. “What power you have, you gained through the lives of my people!”
“All is fair in war, Çedamihn.”
She stood and bared the full length of Night’s Kiss, tossing the sheath aside. “That was not war!” She pointed the sword at his chest. “That was murder. That was betrayal. You are the traitor, Husamettín. You are the one who broke all confidences. Have you no shame for what you’ve done?”
His face was grim and undaunted as he stared at the tip of the ebon blade. “You think me cowed by the sight of steel?”
She knew very well that Night’s Kiss was heightening the rage within her. She let it. She would let it rise as high as it wished to go. “
You should be.”
“Why?” His eyes were flinty. He smiled. “What will you do with it?”
The blade pleaded with her to use it against its former master. She drew it back, ready to bring it across his throat.
Do not! came Mavra’s reedy voice. Do not!
Çeda sensed her running along the sand beside the others, who held similar reservations. Those who might once have pushed her into rageful action were now the voice of reason.
What are you afraid of? Çeda asked them.
Sheath it, Çedamihn. It was Mavra, and her fear was plain.
Sheath it, said Sedef.
Sheath it, called the others.
They were pained by the unsheathed sword, she realized. Or by the miasma of dark emotions that emanated from her. She tried to ask them more, but like so many things related to the Kings, their curse forbade them from speaking of it. That realization, and their collective fear, threw cold water on her fury. Her breath coming hot, her right hand burning white with pain, she picked up the sheath and slid Night’s Kiss home. It rested there with an angry buzz.
“Why does Yerinde want Nalamae dead? You cannot be so blinded that you don’t care about the answer.”
Husamettín only stared.
“Give me Sehid-Alaz, then.”
“Give him to you?”
The smug look on his face was too much. She threw Night’s Kiss aside, straddled his waist, and drove her fist into his mouth. “Tell me where he is! Tell me how to lift the chains you’ve placed on him!”
“Chains?” Husamettín was not a man of humor, but he laughed at this, blood dripping down his chin from his split lip. “You think I’ve chained him?”
She crashed her fist into his mouth again. “His chains!” She hit him again, and finally he stopped laughing. “Like the asir you treated like a hound.” Çeda could still see that sad soul, crawling along beside the gaoler, never leaving his side, his mind hungry to devour. “You did the same to Sehid-Alaz, didn’t you?”
Blood stained Husamettín’s lips and teeth. His eyes, however, were filled with mirth. “I placed no chains on him. I learned how to neuter the asirim long ago. It makes them less useful overall, but they become docile, willing to adhere to my needs. Once done, they come to heel forevermore. Once done, it cannot be undone. Sehid-Alaz is now as the one you saw in my dungeons.”
Çeda became pure red rage. The sword no longer drove her. Instead, it was the frustration and rage that had been building since before her mother’s death. It was the knowledge of all that Husamettín and the other Kings had done. This was for those who’d died on Beht Ihman. For those who’d been hunted like jackals ever since. For those the asirim had been forced to kill in the name of the Kings. This was for all the asirim who yet lived, waiting for their release. And it was for Sehid-Alaz, whose people had been taken from him, and now his very identity.
Over and over again her fists powered into Husamettín’s face. She realized she was screaming. Someone was in the hold with her, trying to pull her away, but she shoved them back.
Husamettín’s face was a wreckage of cut skin and hair and sweat and blood, but still she drove her fists into his flesh.
Sümeya, Çeda realized. Melis had come as well. They were trying to pull her away.
“You’ll kill him!” Sümeya was shouting.
Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she pounded his face twice more. And when they grabbed her arms and dragged her away, she sent her boot into his jaw and heard the satisfying crunch of broken bones.
Husamettín’s eyes fluttered shut and his head lolled to one side, unconscious. Blood dripped from a dozen wounds along his mouth, cheeks, nose, and the bony ridges around his eyes. But Çeda didn’t care. She wanted to kill him, consequences be damned. Another King would be gone. Another blight on the desert removed.
Sümeya was saying something.
Çeda’s breath came in great heaves, making it nearly impossible to hear. With a great effort of will, she focused her attention on Sümeya.
“Ships!” she said. “We’ve spotted ships!”
“What?”
“Swift dhows and ketches. At least a dozen of them flying the colors of Malasan.”
Slowly, Çeda’s breathing slowed. She saw then what she hadn’t noticed before. Husamettín’s kaftan had been ripped down to his stomach, revealing a knotted landscape of old scars. Had he been tortured? Maybe. Maybe one of his enemies had taken him centuries ago. It might even have been someone from the Moonless Host, someone from the thirteenth tribe.
The prospect sobered Çeda. Husamettín, the King of Sharakhai, seemed to shrink before her. No longer was he a King, a figure to be feared. He was but a man, a sad, broken man who deserved nothing but death. Part of her longed to give it to him, but there was still work to be done in the desert. Her people needed a home. The surviving Kings had to be dealt with. The gods were playing a game she knew little about. And there was still a chance that Husamettín, this pitiful thing of flesh and blood that many had thought immortal, could help them.
So he would live. He would live until he proved himself no longer useful. Picking up Night’s Kiss, she spat on his unconscious form and left the hold.
Chapter 25
IN THE DEPTHS OF SHARAKHAI’S trading district, Davud watched from the shaded portico of an old hostelry as an uncovered araba pulled by a pair of dusty brown akhalas turned off the Corona. The air was streaked with amber sand. The storm that had swept in that morning seemed to accompany the news that dozens of ships had been spotted along the southern horizon. The vanguard of the Malasani fleet had arrived.
“That him?” Davud asked.
Esmeray nodded. The veil of her orange turban covered her face.
Anila had remained in their cellar room in the Shallows. She’d wanted to come, but the simple truth was she was too weak. In any case, Davud wanted to gauge Lord Ramahd Amansir and his story before putting Anila at risk, so he was glad for the excuse. And yet, the very fact that Anila had agreed with hardly a fight worried him. The old Anila would have insisted on joining him. And likely would have won the argument.
The coach jingled nearer. The driver wore a patterned white scarf, tied inexpertly around his head. His curly black hair had snuck free in several places and was whipping around his head like a dervish as dust and sand whorled around him. He pulled to a stop before the portico and stared down at them as if they were naughty children he’d just caught harassing a cat.
“Who you wait for, ah?” His Qaimiri accent was thick.
“Aman-bloody-sir,” Esmeray shot back, and climbed into the back of the coach. “What happened, your coach with a gods-damned roof break a wheel?”
When Davud joined her, the coachman spun around and eyed him. “She a funny one. A jonglari,” he said, giving the Qaimiri word for fool. His eyes slid to Esmeray. “Why you no help when he come to you?”
He meant Ramahd, when he’d come to the Enclave for help, but Esmeray was having none of it. “I’ll not trade words with Amansir’s servant.”
“My name Cicio.” He pointed to the portico. “And you trade or you stay.”
When Esmeray looked as if she were about to give him a biting reply—there was hardly a moment when she didn’t seem angry—Davud waded into the conversation with a raised hand. “We don’t represent the Enclave.”
“No?” The look he gave Davud was one of disdain and dry amusement. “Then who you represent, ah?”
“Only ourselves.”
For a moment the wind turned the scarf so poorly restraining his hair into a mound of writhing snakes. Cold mirth filled Cicio’s eyes as he pulled a long knife from his belt and held it up for them to see. “Whoever you here for, you betray Ramahd and I take this to you throat.” He ran the tip across his stubbly neck with a laugh. “My knife represent my anger. You understand?”
Esmeray ro
lled her eyes and eased back into the bench, calm as summer sand. Cicio, after a bark of a laugh at Esmeray’s reaction, returned the knife to its sheath, turned forward in his seat, and snapped the reins.
The araba lurched into motion, and Cicio delivered them to a boatyard, a place along the city’s now-dry southern canal that made a bit of extra money in the rainy season by renting out flat-bottomed boats. The driver led them away from the wagon and among the dry racks and overturned punts, and there they found Ramahd Amansir. He was dressed in Sharakhani clothing—a simple kaftan, sirwal trousers, and leather sandals—but wore no scarf. He was a handsome man with dark eyes and several days’ growth of beard darkening his tanned face. His long hair was tied neatly behind his head. Despite the wind, not a single strand was loose, giving Davud the impression of a fastidious man, the sort who rarely let details escape him. Like the wagon driver, he looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept properly in days.
As they came to a halt, an alarming thing happened. The spell Davud had worked in order to mask himself from King Sukru began to unravel. He dispelled and recast it every morning in hope of hiding from the King. When he’d started using it, he had no idea whether it was strong enough to stop Sukru, though given that they hadn’t been found so far, Davud suspected it was. And yet as firmly as it had been in place a moment ago, as comforted as Davud felt by its presence, it was undone, leaving him feeling lost and unarmed, a mark in a den of thieves.
“Stop!” Esmeray said, and Davud knew that whatever spells she’d woven before coming here were unraveling as well.
“I’d rather we speak without magic standing between us,” Ramahd countered.
The abilities Ramahd was displaying weren’t new to Davud—King Sukru’s man, Zahndrethus, had had similar powers—but he’d never expected them from a Qaimiri lord. Davud took in Cicio, Ramahd’s wild-haired servant, more carefully. He didn’t have his hands on his weapons, but he was clearly ready to act, and suddenly the threat he’d made on their way here didn’t seem so casual.
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