Beşir’s long face grew longer. “Perhaps, but their own borders are not secure. They’re in the midst of a five-year drought. From all you’ve said, Emir seems a reasonable young man—a pragmatist, I think you said of him once. Why would he risk so much on this gamble?”
“We may be giving them too much credit,” Ihsan replied. “They may be interested in sacking the city before the stronger force from Mirea arrives.”
“A move that might help see them through the next year or two, but which would harm their prospects of trade for decades to come.”
“No doubt you’re right,” Ihsan said. “Who can say what the mind of the young king might hold?”
Beşir’s eyes grew flinty. “I daresay our chief diplomat might.”
Ihsan knew he needed to take care lest Beşir fly into another of his rages, a thing he’d become famous for since killing his own daughter in front of Yerinde and all of Sharakhai. “Alas, I’ve shared all I can on the matter.” He jutted his chin toward Zeheb. “Perhaps if I’m allowed to work alone with our friend here, we might get the answers we seek.”
Beşir flung a hand at Zeheb. “Can’t you make him make sense?”
“Were his mind whole, yes.” Ihsan put on a look of regret while staring into Zeheb’s ceaselessly moving eyes. “But like this, we’re lucky to get as much as we are . . .”
“Then let’s give him to Cahil again.”
“Are you forgetting how badly it went when we tried?” It had been a huge relief to Ihsan when Cahil had got nothing. Zeheb’s ravings had only become worse and more unintelligible.
“Well, we have to do something!”
“We are.”
With a terrible grimace, Beşir pushed himself off the wall and thrust one long, dextrous finger at Zeheb. “I lost Kara over this!” His face, already flush, had turned a deep shade of red.
Beşir hadn’t, in fact, lost Kara over their inability to get straight answers from Zeheb, nor their attempts at learning more about King Emir, but Ihsan kept those thoughts to himself. “Yes,” he said calmly, “so let’s honor her memory and do this right.”
Beşir rolled one shoulder, working it slowly. He’d taken the healing elixirs—more than was prudent given how few of them remained—yet the wound he’d taken from Çedamihn’s sword was still not fully healed. No one was certain why. Although, Çeda’s heritage being what it was, Ihsan had a few guesses.
Beşir stared at Zeheb a long while, then spun and opened the cell door. “Just hurry up about it, will you?” He left, slamming the door behind him.
As his footsteps faded, Ihsan returned his attention to Zeheb, who was whispering more loudly than before. “Now,” Ihsan said, putting more of himself into his words, “what have you found, my old friend?”
His words felt blunt as an old plowshare. It happened. He’d learned as much centuries ago while exploring the limits of his newfound ability. At first, those under his power had simply done what he’d said, but the more he used it, the more effort he’d needed to put into the commands. Eventually it became a battle his mind and body waged in concert. He would shiver and sweat as though suffering a fever. And then it simply stopped working, forcing him to end his experiments in a rather ruthless, though not altogether unexpected, manner.
It was the second reason Ihsan used his power sparingly on Zeheb. The slow and steady accretion of resistance was real. For years, Ihsan had been funneling resources, information, and money to the Moonless Host, all with an eye toward weakening the other Kings. Zeheb didn’t know all of it, but he knew more than enough to send Ihsan to the gibbet. The day Ihsan could no longer control him was the day the chances of Zeheb revealing something damning increased exponentially. Soon, Ihsan knew, he would need to end this, but that time had not yet come. Zeheb might still prove useful.
Zeheb mumbled, his eyes flitting to and fro as if he were caught in a fever dream. At first Ihsan couldn’t tell what he was saying. And then he realized Zeheb wasn’t speaking Sharakhan. He was speaking Malasani. “Flawless, modest, goddess.”
“Which goddess?” Ihsan asked. “Nalamae?” None of the other desert goddesses could be described as modest. He hoped Zeheb might have stumbled on a clue to Yerinde’s plans. But it mightn’t be a desert god at all. It might be one of Malasan’s gods. “Is it Ranrika? Or Tamtamiin?”
At this Zeheb’s eyes lit up. He turned toward Ihsan with a look of perfect clarity. “Her tenets are being kept.”
“Whose?”
“They are not befouled.”
“Whose, Zeheb? Tamtamiin’s?” She was an androgynous god who shifted between man and woman at whim. She was the goddess of love and compassion and empathy. “Has someone broken her faith?” Ihsan asked.
“They are not broken!”
“No,” Ihsan said, not understanding what was happening, nor who Zeheb was speaking to, but unwilling to let the opportunity pass him by. “But some are saying it.”
“Who? Who? Tell me who they are and they’ll lose their heads.” Zeheb’s eyes went glassy and his voice went soft. “Tell me, spell me, fell me.”
Ihsan tried to ask more, but Zeheb only continued to whisper, and Ihsan was soon forced to give up. It was odd, this episode. Not only had Zeheb echoed someone’s thoughts clearly, Ihsan had conversed with them through Zeheb. To Ihsan’s knowledge it had never happened before.
Interesting, the phrase he’d used. Lose their heads. There were plenty who might say that in jest, but Zeheb had seemed deadly serious about it. Only a few might use it in such a manner. And given that Ihsan had told him to search for King Emir, and that Zeheb had spoken in Malasani, had Zeheb been speaking for the Malasani king?
Ihsan left and returned to the halls of Eventide, climbing its interminable stairs until he reached a veranda that overlooked the eastern and southern reaches of Sharakhai. He squinted at the brightness of the vivid blue sky, which was stippled with clouds that seemed to glow from within. Kings Sukru, Cahil, Beşir, and Nayyan, wearing her disguise as Azad, were speaking with one another. King Kiral, standing with his hands on the stone railing, stared out over the southern reaches of the desert, where the Malasani fleet was arrayed.
In the courtyard below, wagons were arriving with supplies for the feast that would take place that night. It felt strange to be celebrating Beht Revahl, the night the Kings defeated the last of the wandering tribes, but it would be even stranger not to. The desert’s observances must be maintained after all, perhaps now more than ever. Abandoning them would be akin to spitting in the face of the gods, a thing none of the Kings, even Ihsan, would dare to do.
He joined the other Kings and their vizirs and viziras, and confessed his inability to learn much of anything from Zeheb. They’d hoped to find King Emir and notify the commander of the Silver Spears before their attack began, but it wouldn’t happen today. Kiral looked disappointed, Sukru groused and Cahil sneered, but they let it pass. The Blade Maidens and Silver Spears stood ready in any case. They’d made their plans for any number of points of attack from the Malasani fleet, though right now they felt Husamettín’s loss most keenly. The man was inflexible as granite, but Ihsan knew of no better strategist.
By and large, they were now waiting for King Emir to tip his hand. The city could withstand an attack for weeks, perhaps even months, but they counted on reinforcements from Qaimir well before then, and more from Kundhun. If Meryam and the royal navy could stave off Queen Alansal and her fleet to the north, then things would be looking up for Sharakhai once more.
Ihsan noted how strangely Nayyan was acting. In her natural form, the one she always wore in the privacy of Ihsan’s palace, she showed signs of carrying their child. Those signs might be masked now—hidden by the magic of the necklace that transformed her into the likeness of Azad—but the child was still there. Nayyan could feel her, she’d told him more than once, and she was still affected by the mood swings that came wi
th bearing a child. The explanation might be as simple as that, Ihsan thought, but he suspected not.
Before he could get her alone to ask about it, everyone’s attention was drawn eastward.
“They’re moving,” Cahil said.
From this vantage Ihsan could see them, the Malasani fleet closing in. It looked like the desert had come alive.
“You look like you’ve stumbled upon your own grave,” Nayyan was saying.
Ihsan’s fingers had begun to tingle. The vision of the moving desert . . . The fleet sailing closer . . . “King Kiral,” he spoke numbly, lost in the words of the journal that had inspired this vision. He could see King Yusam’s journal, could see Yusam’s script clearly. He just couldn’t recall which journal it was.
Kiral turned to him.
“I need to review Yusam’s journals.” When Kiral stared at him dumbly, he said, “The Blue Journals.”
Yusam recorded many of his visions in journals, placing those he thought most crucial to the success of the Kings into journals with blue covers. Ihsan had once had free access to them, until Kiral had ordered them taken to Eventide.
Except Kiral looked as if he had no idea what Ihsan was talking about.
Beşir swept into the silence. “Why do you need them?” His long face was dour and displeased, as if he’d been left out of some important secret.
When Ihsan paused, Kiral seemed to recover himself. “One of the passages you read,” he said carefully, “it relates to this day?”
“It does.” The importance of the moment was crawling over Ihsan’s skin like a host of insects. “It mentioned ships sailing toward Sharakhai”—he waved toward the Malasani fleet—“exactly as we see before us.”
Kiral seemed lost, perhaps waging the same sort of internal battle that so often plagued him of late. Finally he waved toward the palace. “Go. Tell us what you learn.”
Ihsan wasted no time—he sprinted into the palace, making for Kiral’s library. Each passing moment made it feel like their fate was being sealed. Something big was about to happen. Something crucial to the future of Sharakhai and, more importantly, to the Kings’ place in it.
After gaining access to the room with the Blue Journals, he pulled out a dozen he thought likely to contain the passage in question, and found it after a short search. Yusam’s description of a fleet sailing slowly toward Sharakhai.
This was an important vision in and of itself, one that might advise them on the course of the coming battle, but it was also a precursor to another event. Yusam had said as much in the marginalia. He had written often about how the strongest of his visions were not major turning points in the fate of Sharakhai, but rather, precursors to other major events, and it was up to him to find the related possibilities and decide what might be done to either prevent it or ensure that it happened, depending on the favorability of the outcome.
Running his finger quickly down the margins, Ihsan found the mention of the other journal. As he’d suspected, it was one of those he’d had copied only to have that copy, and three others, turn up missing. A thorough search of the palace had ensued—Ihsan had even used his power to ensure he had the truth from those likeliest to know what had happened—to no avail. No one had been able to tell him where the journals had gone. A theft in his own palace, though why anyone else would be interested in a handful of Yusam’s journals, he couldn’t say.
He retrieved the referenced journal and flipped through its pages. His fingers couldn’t turn them fast enough. He read through the account of a vision of Eventide, which mentioned passages deep underground. It spoke of a fallen King. Of the drawing of dark blades. Of a chase and a bird of prey preparing to attack. In the margins, Yusam had written: A kestrel?
The fallen King was clearly Sehid-Alaz, who, after Husamettín’s capture, had been moved to Eventide. Near the end of the passage, Yusam mentioned a woman in a blue dress running along a stone wall. She was described as being young and pretty with piercing eyes, and a dark halo surrounded her: the shadow of the kestrel. Several other women, also dressed in blue, ran alongside her, but Yusam was careful to note that the kestrel’s shadow always followed the first woman, whose dress shifted to white the longer she ran. She had a conniving look about her, Yusam had written, not unlike a desert fox.
A fox, Ihsan thought, or a maned wolf.
Curiously, the account mentioned the kestrel opening its mouth, as if to release a cry, but nothing came out. Ihsan had read enough of these accounts to know that the effect said something about the kestrel, a limitation of some sort, most likely. Her voice was silenced. Does she die? Ihsan wondered.
Then came a mention of a silent observer, a woman cloaked in shadow and holding a pair of knives. At the base of a hill, she stands in darkness, the passage read, though a corona surrounds her belly.
“Oh, gods, no,” Ihsan whispered, immediately knowing to whom that line referred.
Then Ihsan came to the last line. He read it twice, and felt his face go pale.
After slapping the journals closed, he replaced them on the shelves and sprinted for the dungeons.
Chapter 44
ALONG THE HALLS OF EVENTIDE, Çeda pushed a cart stacked with crates of lemons, herbs, and dates. Ahead of her, Sümeya pushed a similar cart piled high with bags of rice. They were two of a dozen servants heading toward the kitchens. The carts’ wooden wheels clattered along, adding to the general din as hundreds of cooks, servants, and entertainers prepared for the coming feast. Somewhere, a choir of children practiced, their sweet voices echoing through palace.
Like all the women in the train of carts, Çeda and Sümeya wore plain woolen dresses dyed robin’s egg blue. The white hats covering their hair, foreheads, and chins completed a look that was, to put it mildly, unattractive. Which was perfect, of course. The more plain their garb, the more they blended in. Çeda’s only regret was that the hats had no veils. Few had ever seen her or Sümeya’s face, but that did little to quell Çeda’s fears. It felt as though someone would point to the two of them at any moment and cry, “Traitors! Traitors in our midst!”
Çeda’s buckler was strapped around her waist, River’s Daughter along her back, its hilt resting snugly between her shoulder blades. Like Sümeya, the shamshir’s length was hidden not only by the folds of her oversized dress and the thickness of the fabric itself, but by the long tail hanging from her cumbersome hat.
As they neared the kitchens, Çeda scanned the hall for Kameyl, who’d snuck away to find Sehid-Alaz nearly an hour ago. The palace chef, a stick of a man with a frayed mop of black hair on his head, was just exiting the kitchens with a group of six Blade Maidens in tow. They walked confidently by his side, especially their warden, a woman Çeda would never fail to recognize. It was Yndris, the daughter of King Cahil, a woman Çeda had nearly killed, and would have had she not been saved by her father’s store of healing elixirs.
A hand of Maidens was typically five, but here was a sixth wearing a rust-colored dress and turban that were of slightly different design from the Blade Maidens’. Çeda had never seen one before, but she’d heard of them. She was one of the bloody nine, King Zeheb’s Kestrels, his highly trained assassins.
Çeda breathed a sigh of relief as they headed toward the feasting hall en masse, the chef relaying the food he was serving, which servants would be attending the Kings, and so on. Çeda and Sümeya followed the others into the kitchen and unloaded their carts, but instead of filing out with the others, Çeda pulled Sümeya aside.
Around them swirled a mad press of cooks, assistants, worktables with piled ingredients, hanging pots and pans, and serving dishes of every imaginable size. The sound of chopping, of clanging and pounding, of orders being called, filled the hot air, which was laced heavily with the scents of garlic, mint, thyme, and lemon. On the far wall was a wide hearth with several coal fires glowing fitfully within. Hanging from hooks or set onto iron grates were a do
zen iron pots of varying sizes. One was a massive stock pot, big as a wine barrel. A rotund woman in a stained apron was standing beside it, sliding diced carrots from a cutting board into the roiling broth.
“We can’t give Kameyl more time,” Çeda said. “The wagons are nearly empty.” There was no telling were the chef might assign them next.
Sümeya stared beyond the hearth to the corner, where an archway led to the servant’s quarters. Kameyl had gone through it on her winding way toward the dungeons.
After considering briefly, Sümeya nodded. “Let’s go.”
They were just heading across the kitchen together when Kameyl strode through the very same archway, pushing the food cart she’d left with ahead of her. The shelf’s top cart was empty save for a layer of burlap, which hung over the sides, completely obscuring the lower shelf. Seeing them standing there, Kameyl nodded once, then stopped the cart near a chopping block where two young cooks worked feverishly with cleavers, reducing a mountain of red onions to dice. The cooks gave Kameyl no more than a glance as she swept the pile of peelings onto the cart, then headed grim-faced along the kitchen’s central aisle toward Çeda and Sümeya.
Çeda turned, ready to head for the kitchen’s exit, only to be met by the mop-haired chef, who bulled his way past Çeda and Sümeya, heading straight for Kameyl. Placing himself in Kameyl’s path, forcing her to stop the cart, he put his hands on his hips and spread his legs wide. “And just where have you been? I do your lord a favor by taking you on, and this is how I’m repaid?” He leaned forward and sniffed the air while peering into Kameyl’s eyes. “Are you on the reek?” He stabbed a finger toward the archway she’d just come from. “Is that where you were? Having a smoke before coming back to work? Well I won’t have it, I tell you. I won’t have it!”
“Finding a place to relieve oneself isn’t a crime,” Sümeya said as she rushed in front of him, “nor is getting lost in a palace as big as this.”
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 42