Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “Let me guess. His efforts didn’t go unnoticed.”

  “Nor unpunished. He ignored the Enclave’s warnings to desist and soon became known all about the city as a new force in the racing circuit. For months he was feted in some of the richest halls in Blackfire Gate and Hanging Gardens. Then he was summoned to Goldenhill by the great-grandson of King Sukru, a man who, as it turns out, only wanted to ply Deniz for his secret to training horses. Sukru was there as well and learned of Deniz’s sudden blossoming. It took little time for the Reaping King to guess that Deniz had been using hidden talents to tilt the field toward his horses.”

  “But surely he wouldn’t have been expelled from the Enclave for that?”

  “Not if he’d stopped then, no, but Deniz had his eye on the greatest race of the year. He was warned that if he raced a single horse, even in the preliminaries, he would have to give up his seat in the Enclave. Stubborn fool that he was, he continued anyway. I begged the Enclave not to abandon him. I begged Deniz to stop, but neither listened.” They took a dip in the tunnel, then entered a small cavern. In the distance came the sound of dripping. “Three days later, Deniz disappeared from a pre-race feast in the hippodrome. He left the stadium without saying goodbye to anyone and was never seen again. I looked everywhere for him, using every means available to me, and never found a trace. Months later his body was found along the Haddah, face-down on the stones.” Esmeray’s voice was amplified in the echoing space of the cavern. “His body had been ravaged, sigils written in blood, some fresh, some dried and flaking, others barely apparent on his dark skin. They told a story of pain and anguish, of cruelly inventive experiments, likely conducted at the hands of King Sukru, or his brother the Sparrow.”

  “And you?” Ramahd asked. “Why wait all this time to seek revenge?” He regretted putting it so bluntly, but he still wasn’t sure he could trust her.

  She looked him straight in the eye. The blue light she’d conjured lent her such a haunting aspect she looked as though she’d risen from the dead right alongside Fezek. “Because I was a coward. I let my brother and sister convince me that revenge against the Kings was destined to fail, and that I would be jeopardizing not only the Enclave but them specifically. Members of the Enclave or not, how could the Kings allow a pair of siblings to live when the other two had assaulted them so baldly?”

  “Is all of that not still true?”

  “Perhaps”—she gave him a reluctant shrug and resumed walking—“but I refuse to live in fear any longer.”

  “But why now?” he asked, following in her wake. “Davud’s sudden appearance wouldn’t have been enough to change your mind.”

  “No?”

  “No. There’s something deeper at work.”

  “You’re persistent,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll give you that.”

  “It happens when I’m worried.”

  “Do you believe in the fates?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “You’d be surprised,” she said with a bark of a laugh. “But I do. Their signs are everywhere. I thought I could let Deniz’s death go. I thought I would heal in time, but each day that passed saw my soul burn a little bit more, until it felt like only charred remains. And then the fates saw fit to deliver Davud to the Enclave, one year to the day after Deniz’s death.” She paused as if that were explanation enough. “I won’t go to the farther fields having done nothing to avenge him.”

  They met several more tunnels but soon were climbing a set of winding stairs into a shop filled with all manner of metal and glass cages filled with lizards, toads, frogs, snails, and insects. The symphony of calls reminded Ramahd of the wet forests of Qaimir, but here in Sharakhai they seemed wrong, as if a part of his homeland had been stolen and hidden away here in the desert.

  An old woman sitting behind a high counter nodded to Esmeray. Esmeray nodded back. Cicio, meanwhile, was craning his neck to look through the nearby window. “Not much time left, no?” he said in Qaimiran.

  Ramahd nodded. It was already nearing high sun. He didn’t have much time to reach Alu’s temple, and today was likely the only day he’d have a chance to speak with Mateo. “Take them to the workshop,” he said to Cicio.

  Ramahd had arranged the safe house himself. An old friend in the city, a locksmith, had a small room above his workshop. He’d agreed to let Ramahd use it for as long as he liked.

  “Take them?” Cicio looked at Ramahd as if he were mad. “No, I’m going with you to the temple, then we’ll both take them.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen with Mateo. Better you see them safe.”

  Still he refused. When Ramahd took them outside and pointed sternly west, however, Cicio relented. As he led Davud, Esmeray, and Fezek toward the safe house, Ramahd headed east, toward the temple district.

  Chapter 27

  THE VEIL OF ÇEDA’S turban was pulled tight across her face as she peered over the Red Bride’s port bow. With the screaming wind, the landscape was little more than an amber haze, but a half-league distant, she could just make out the telltale signs of ships. The dark smudge of hulls, the cut of sails above them. They marked a line that ran roughly parallel to the Bride’s line of sail.

  “They’re all Malasani?” Çeda asked.

  “Looks like it,” Sümeya replied. She and Melis stood next to Çeda, the wind whipping the heavy fabric of their Maiden’s black.

  “Adjust course,” Çeda called above the wind, “one point starboard.”

  “Aye,” Jenise called from the pilot’s wheel, “one point starboard.”

  The Bride creaked as Jenise pulled at the wheel. The enemy ships drifted farther away, fading as they went. Çeda held her breath as they were lost to the sand entirely, but it was only a few moments later, as the Bride was leaning into the swell of a dune, that they came back into view.

  “Goezhen’s pendulous balls,” Çeda said under her breath.

  “We outrun them,” Jenise shouted. “It’s the only way.”

  “No.” Melis lifted a hand and pointed to the Malasani line. “Half of those ships could outpace us.”

  “Then why are they holding back?”

  No one had an answer.

  Seven Shieldwives, the healthiest of those who’d survived the battle with the Kings, crewed the ship. There was a stiffness about them, and a silence that spoke of their growing nervousness. These were stout women, more than ready for battle, but the numbers against them were daunting.

  Behind their yacht came a pack of nine bounding forms—Mavra, Sedef, Amile, and the others who’d remained after Wadi’s Gait had made for Mount Arasal. There was no fear in them. Quite the opposite, in fact. Their battle lust was building. Çeda could hear it in their thoughts like whispers on the wind: rend, tear, kill.

  Night’s Kiss, hanging from Çeda’s belt, echoed their sentiments. The two were starting to work in concert, the sword’s and the asirim’s dark thoughts intensifying Çeda’s emotions. To make matters worse, Çeda’s right hand was on fire. The whole length of her arm felt hot and infected, and more than once she found herself flexing her hand near the hilt of Night’s Kiss. Each time she’d had to force it back by her side. She had half a mind to take the sword belowdecks and leave it there, or better yet, throw it overboard. Yet whenever she thought overlong on either possibility, the urge dissipated like spindrift in a growing gale.

  Just then a whistle came from the stern. Enemy, a Shieldwife called. Behind.

  They all turned and saw the subtle shapes. Three, then five, then eight. More of the Malasani fleet, sailing to hem them in.

  “That’s why they haven’t attacked,” Melis said grimly. “While we gawped, they were working to cut off our escape.”

  Çeda stared at the two lines of ships, wondering how they could have executed their trap so perfectly. “It makes no sense. Their fleet sailed for Sharakhai weeks ago.”

&n
bsp; “True,” Sümeya said, “but we know they were sailing hard for the city, likely so that they could beat Mirea to the prize. They would have left dozens of ships behind to secure the caravanserais. Likely that’s done and now they’re sending unneeded ships to the city.”

  The crew was nervous. Çeda could see it in their eyes, in their stiff movements.

  “What do we do?” Jenise asked.

  Çeda’s eyes were fixed on the line of ships off the port bow. “We punch our way through.” She squeezed her right hand, letting the pain course up her arm and into her shoulder, but stopped when Sümeya took note of it. “We’ll call the asirim to us, have them run ahead and shatter their line.”

  Break them, Mavra echoed.

  Grind them, said Sedef.

  Çeda did her best to ignore their collective urges, but it wasn’t easy. “When they do, we sail through. The Malasani will think twice about following after that.”

  Melis and Sümeya shared a look, but then Sümeya nodded. “It’s as good a plan as any.”

  Jenise began calling orders to the other Shieldwives to make ready and to call their asirim closer to the yacht.

  Come, Çeda called to Mavra, but she was already bounding ahead of the others, her children fighting to keep up. Let’s show them what it means to invade the Great Mother.

  Just then Sümeya gripped Çeda’s right wrist. Her hand felt like a forge fire, her arm a bar of molten steel. She was torn between wanting to strike Sümeya and asking her to grip it harder.

  Sümeya spun her around until the two of them were face to face. “I’ve seen what that sword does to my father. He’s had centuries to master it. It, in turn, has had centuries trying to master him. That sword hungers for blood. Don’t let it blind you to what we need to do.”

  Çeda twisted her wrist from Sümeya’s grasp. “We have a battle to prepare for.”

  But Sümeya didn’t budge. “Why not give it to me before we engage?”

  “I’ll keep the sword.”

  “You’d have it back once we’re safely through.”

  “I’ll keep the sword,” she repeated, then walked sternward and bent her attention to the asirim. It was not lost to her how pleased Night’s Kiss seemed, nor how Mavra’s worry seemed to echo Sümeya’s, but Çeda ignored it all.

  The asirim bounded ahead as horns sounded—orders being relayed to the other Malasani ships, orders that were crisply obeyed. As both lines began to close in, there were two narrow gaps the Red Bride might sail through, but both cinched tight before the Bride could take advantage. They were surrounded. Four ships began to break from the rough circle and close in.

  Çeda drew Night’s Kiss and used it to point over the port bow. “Direct the asirim there! Attack the ketch with the dark sails and the dhow behind it, but don’t risk lives. The asirim’s blood will be up. They’ll want to do more than disable the ships, so be ready to fight them over it.”

  As her orders were relayed by the Shieldwives, the asirim bounded ahead of the Bride, galloping on all fours and separating into two ragged groups. Mavra was like a bear leading her cubs. Sedef, the tallest, powered over the sand beside her. After the battle with the Kings and the loss of several of their number, they were ravenous.

  Mavra called the desert to her aid. A great gout of sand and rock lifted before her and buffeted the ketch with the dark sails. It rocked the ship and whipped the rigging mercilessly. The canvas began to rip just as the other group of asirim reached the dhow. They leapt to the deck, scrabbling over the sides while warriors in scale armor ran to defend. The warriors stood little chance, however. The asirim were too fast. Too powerful. They stormed the deck, taking down the pilot, leaping up to the sails and pulling at the rigging.

  One by one their swordsmen were felled. Three flew over the side in a tumble of limbs when Amile bulled into them. As they were lost to billowing amber dust, Amile flew up the mainmast toward the vulture’s nest, where a crewman was blowing a signal horn.

  The pilot, however, had regained the wheel. He was cranking at it madly, guiding their ship toward the Red Bride. Jenise was ready for it. She steered the Bride expertly away so that the dhow, which had lost a lot of speed, passed narrowly behind them rather than ramming them as intended.

  As Jenise adjusted course again, guiding the Bride away from the Malasani ships along their starboard side, three bulky shapes dropped from the dark-sailed ship. They were large, and dressed in armor that reminded Çeda of her days in the pits.

  Why the Malasani would have dropped three of their soldiers from the back of a ship she had no idea, but she was instantly worried. Stop them, she called to Mavra. Don’t let them get near the Bride.

  Mavra, Sedef, and the three others in her group moved to intercept. The first of the bronze warriors met Mavra with a lowered shoulder. For all her bulk, Mavra was thrown aside like a child trying to stop a horse, but not before she swiped one massive hand across the warrior’s face. Beneath the force of her blow, massive chunks of cheek and nose were ripped free and went tumbling through the air before landing with a splash against the sand. What remained of the face turned wild and angry.

  “A golem,” Melis breathed. “They’re golems.”

  Mavra was up again in a moment, chasing after it. Arrows began to streak in. The Shieldwives returned fire. Sümeya, Melis, and Çeda joined them a moment later, but Çeda was transfixed by the golems pounding their way toward the Red Bride.

  Mavra caught up to the first and took it down from behind, then tore at it mercilessly, but not before the golem struck her across the face in response. The blow would have destroyed a mortal woman, but Mavra seemed only enraged. Looming over the golem, she lifted her massive right hand and brought it down like a sledgehammer onto its chest and pressed.

  The golem’s body, armor and all, collapsed inward. Its chest was now a misshapen hollow, but the blow hardly seemed to have affected it. As it continued to struggle against Mavra, however, the sand beneath it began to part like water, drawing it down, deeper and deeper. It thrashed wildly and bludgeoned Mavra, connecting against her arms, her chest, but Mavra, the blackened skin of her face locked in an expression of rage and fierce determination, kept her hand firmly pressed until the golem was swallowed by the desert.

  When Mavra raised her hand toward the other charging golems, the effect of the sinking sand spread. Çeda’s hand tingled from it. She felt her awareness of the desert expand, a thing she’d only ever felt near the blooming fields. It was strange to feel it here, so far away from Sharakhai, but she had no time to wonder over it. As she launched more arrows, and the Malasani ship on their starboard side closed in, its warriors prepared to swing over on boarding lines.

  The slipsand caught another golem, allowing Sedef to tackle it from behind. The other asirim closed in like wolves. But the golem was far from defenseless. It hammered several, and then Natise came too close. The golem grabbed her by the throat, then brought its closed fist down against her head in a terrible blow. Bone and ichor exploded. Natise crumpled to the sand, her shriveled, blackened limbs gone slack, while the other asirim howled and tore into the golem with renewed rage.

  The third golem had escaped the effects of Mavra’s spell and was pounding like a warhorse toward the Red Bride. It would reach the ship in moments.

  Çeda swung Night’s Kiss toward Jenise. “Drop a rope off the transom!”

  As Jenise moved to comply, Melis covered her with a shield against the incoming arrows and Çeda sprinted toward the bow.

  Sümeya whistled sharply behind her. Halt!

  But Çeda kept running. Along the bowsprit she flew, Night’s Kiss raised high. The fire in her arm had reached her heart. She felt like a herald of Iri, a demigod of sand and stone and scorched desert air.

  Reaching the end of the bowsprit, she launched herself toward the golem. In a grand arc she flew, bringing the great, two-handed shamshir acr
oss the golem’s hastily raised defenses. With a terrible rattle that shook her bones, the sword cleaved through its upraised arms, its head, and halfway into its wine-barrel chest.

  Çeda’s momentum carried her into the golem. It felt like striking the face of a cliff. She fell to the sand while the golem merely staggered sideways and remained standing. The split halves of its body widened like unfired potter’s clay as it turned toward her and raised one leg. She twisted away from one thundering stomp. The golem loomed over her, but she stopped its advance by setting both feet against the golem’s chest. With the darkness of the Red Bride’s hull looming ever larger, she released an almighty grunt and pressed with both legs.

  The yacht swept overhead and the keel connected with a hollow thud, sending the golem sprawling to the sand, arms and legs flailing.

  Catching, the rope Jenise had dropped off the back of the ship, Çeda swung herself up and around the back of the ship, landing just inside the transom. Sümeya and Melis had gained the deck of the dhow off their starboard side and were pressing the enemy back. Their aim was not to engage with the Malasani soldiers, however. When they’d gone far enough, Melis sliced the mainsail’s halyard while Sümeya did the same with the foresail’s. The wind flung the canvas away, leaving the sails to drape over the ship’s far side, covering a good many of the crew in the process.

  Nearer to Çeda, four Malasani warriors leapt over the gap between the ships. Jenise intercepted the first. The second fell to a swift uppercut from Night’s Kiss, the sword buzzing like a ripsaw as it cut deep into his chest. The shamshir emitted a satisfied drone as it sheared through another warrior’s buckler and halfway through his forearm. The shock in the man’s eyes was plain as he tipped over the gunwales behind him and plummeted toward the sand.

  The sheet of darkness that trailed the shamshir’s movements was thicker now. The last of the Malasani soldiers watched it more than her movements, which proved his undoing. After a blinding but desperate exchange the man had no hope of keeping up with, she sliced his leg, then caught him across the neck when he dropped his guard.