“Where is Haddad?” Emre asked.
The king turned back toward the growing sound of battle. “Exactly where she deserves to be.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
They were interrupted by the sudden wild movements of the man in the golden mask. His hands gripped the gunwales until his knuckles turned white. He shook and hooted like a bird performing a mating ritual. “A King!” he shouted. “A King! A King! A King!”
His caretaker spoke soothing words into his ear, but the man would not be consoled. His shaking became worse until Emre thought he’d tip himself over the edge of the ship. “To me, children! To me! To me!”
Only when King Emir moved to his side and whispered into the madman’s ear did his wildness ease. He whispered back to Emir, while the battle raged. The overwhelming ranks of Malasani soldiers, along with the chaos created by the golems, had allowed them to push the Silver Spears back and gain the mouth of the channel. The golems in the harbor were now moving into the city. They drove through the streets like an implacable surge of mud and sand. The entire scene was surreal. It made Emre feel homeless and adrift watching the sacking of his city.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he saw a group of golems walking from the eastern part of the city toward them. They crossed the dried banks of the Haddah and trudged steadily closer, until Emre could see that they were dragging something with them. Or someone. A soldier. A Silver Spear in a commander’s uniform.
The golems threw him onto the sand before the ship, where he lay unmoving. The man in the golden mask stabbed a finger toward him. He went on tiptoes, a child returned home to find a new pet waiting for him. “He of the forked tongue!” he cried. “He of the hated dozen!”
A King, he’d said earlier, and now the mention of a forked tongue. Emre stared closer. Could it be King Ihsan? Emre had never seen him up close.
In a blur of movement, the man in the uniform of a Silver Spear spun and pulled a strange, triple-bladed knife from his belt. As dense as Emre knew the flesh of the golems to be, it severed the leg of the one nearest him and hacked through the neck of another. When a third swiped clumsily for him, it cut neatly through the golem’s grasping wrist.
Four of King Emir’s guards had bows at the ready, arrows nocked and sighted, waiting for their king’s command. But before Emir could say a word, the man on the sand trumpeted a single word.
“Halt!”
It cut through the sounds of battle. Emre felt himself still, suddenly unable, unwilling to move. A part of him knew he should disobey, but he quickly disregarded the thought as foolish, a fleeting whim. Beside and around him, Emre saw everyone go still. King Emir. Hamid and Frail Lemi. The woman and the masked man and the guardsmen.
The battle before the prow of the ship was short and sweet. Ihsan drove his knife into the chests of the last two golems, moving faster than Emre would have given him credit for, and the golems stilled. You’re a fool, Emre. Ihsan might not be known for battle, but he was blessed, as were all the Kings, with speed and reflexes beyond that of mortal man. When it was done, Ihsan shaded his eyes with one hand and squinted up at the men and women frozen on deck. He had a wry look on his face. He didn’t look pleased, exactly, but curious, as if he wondered at the fates’ purpose in delivering him here.
He walked alongside the ship, momentarily lost from view. Soon there came the sound of his footsteps thumping hollowly over the deck, ominous against the distant din of battle. King Ihsan came into view, discordantly clothed in the uniform of a Silver Spear. He looked at Emre, glanced over Hamid, gave Frail Lemi a good long look, clearly impressed. The King’s face was coated in amber dust and he had a cut along one temple that had bled, coating the right side of his face with dust-ridden blood. He surveyed the deck, particularly King Emir’s personal guard.
Again Emre had the urge to break free from the prison his body had become, and again he tossed the thought aside as daft and dim-witted, something Frail Lemi might have come up with.
“Guardsmen,” King Ihsan called, “draw your knives and slit your throats.”
As simple as that, a dozen men drew kenshars and ran them across their own necks. One by one they thumped to the forecastle deck. Blood pooled beneath them, turning dusty planks into mirror-smooth reflections of a cloud-strewn sky.
Ihsan turned his back to them and stood before King Emir. “Well, well,” he said, “our would-be conquerer.”
Emre couldn’t see King Emir’s face clearly, but he saw his throat constrict over and over. Ihsan was smug, but the way he gritted his teeth gave the impression he was struggling to maintain his power.
With his triple-bladed knife he waved to the encampment beyond Emir’s capital ship. “Is this all of it, then? Your ships? Your men?”
“It is,” King Emir replied.
“It was a solid gambit,” Ihsan mused. “The golems. Racing ahead of Mirea. But it wasn’t enough, was it?”
“It . . .” King Emir swallowed. “It appears not.”
Ihsan smiled a handsome smile. “It appears not.” His gaze slid to the man in the golden mask, who stood among the expanding pools of blood. Ihsan peered more closely, then tilted his head like a dune fox listening for voles. “By the gods who breathe, could it be?”
The crooked man shivered. The little finger on his right hand twitched. Ihsan noticed, then peered into his eyes as if by doing so he could see the face hidden behind the mask of Tamtamiin. He placed the tip of his knife to the chin of the mask and lifted it until it slipped from the old man’s head and thudded against the deck in one of the pools of blood. It came to a rest upright, smiling, half its golden face smeared in crimson.
The old man was revealed. His face was familiar to anyone who’d been in the Malasani camp. They’d seen it a hundred times in the faces of the golems. It was Surrahdi, Emir’s father, the Mad King of Malasan.
Ihsan laughed long and hard. The sound of it filled Emre with genuine mirth. He wished he could laugh as well, but the King’s command still compelled him.
“I will admit you had me fooled. But now I wonder.” He lifted his knife. “What will happened to the golems when you die?”
With his free hand he reached for Surrahdi’s wispy hair.
Surrahdi burst into movement with a cackle of laughter. Ihsan, taken by surprise, swiped with his knife and Surrahdi took a deep cut along one forearm but continued his frenzied charge and snatched up both of Ihsan’s wrists. Surrahdi was not a large man, and he was frail, but Ihsan was not large either. Ihsan tried to retreat, but tripped over one of the guardsmen.
Down both men went, Surrahdi crashing his head against Ihsan’s. Ihsan, dazed, lost his grip on his knife. Again and again Surrahdi brought his head down, laughing maniacally all the while. “The Honey-tongued King! The Honey-tongued King!”
He took up Ihsan’s knife with both hands and brought the pommel crashing down against his skull.
Ihsan’s eyelids fluttered. “Stop,” he said in a long slur. “Stop.” But Surrahdi continued, somehow immune to Ihsan’s words of command.
Only when Ihsan fell unconscious did Surrahdi still his wild movements. Then he reached the fingers of one hand inside Ihsan’s mouth. “Let’s see if it tastes like honey!”
He drew Ihsan’s tongue from his mouth as far as it would go, then plunged Ihsan’s own knife into his mouth, deep between his teeth, cutting one side of his mouth in the process. Back and forth Surrahdi sawed. Ihsan woke again, thrashing. He tried to throw Surrahdi off him, but Surrahdi was bent close, impossible to dislodge.
In a burst of movement Ihsan arched his back and clubbed him. Surrahdi fell away, but not without an arc of blood stemming from Ihsan’s mouth. Surrahdi was laughing higher than ever.
Suddenly Emre was free. He could move again. So could the others, who staggered before pulling themselves upright.
Surrahdi regained
his feet. His robes were filthy with blood, and in his hand he held a hunk of flesh. Ihsan’s tongue. He stared at it, eyes crazed. Then popped it into his mouth and scampered away, arms and legs flailing like a frog gone upright. Left on the deck, King Ihsan writhed, holding his mouth and moaning terribly.
Chapter 47
INSIDE THEIR ROOM ABOVE THE WORKSHOP, Davud and Ramahd helped Fezek onto a stool. Fezek was missing the lower part of his right leg. It was an indicator of just how tense it had been that he’d remained silent on their harrowing way back from the Shallows. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the leg itself or the way Hamzakiir had blasted it off. As soon as the door closed, however, he motioned to it with a look of deep sorrow. “It was my favorite.”
“Fezek”—Davud wanted to be sympathetic, but—“how could you have had a favorite leg?”
Fezek shrugged and waved to it again, as ineffectual as a bull at a milking contest. “I just did, and it was that one.”
While Esmeray began sewing the wound, Ramahd’s man Cicio spun Davud around and pointed a finger in his face. “What happen with you and this King, ah?”
Davud knew the question was coming, but what could he say? Hamzakiir awakened me to the red ways? A bond formed between us when he did, and tonight that same bond stirred something within him? It was the truth, but it would be the height of foolishness to admit it. He needed them to help with Anila, and he couldn’t have them doubting his heart or his purpose.
“I don’t know,” Davud said.
“No?” Cicio stared between Davud and Ramahd. When Ramahd merely shrugged, Cicio went on. “Then why he stare at you so long? What he say to you?”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Ramahd stood behind Cicio, both literally and figuratively. “Then how do you explain him letting us go?”
“I’m almost certain Hamzakiir knows he’s trapped,” Davud finally said. “Tonight, Meryam’s concentration surely slipped. It must have allowed him some free will.”
Cicio stared at Ramahd, perhaps hoping he would contradict Davud’s explanation, but Ramahd shrugged again. “It could be. Meryam was tired. More than she’s been in a long while.”
Cicio’s frustration seemed to drain all at once. “Mateo is free, then? He’ll come to us?”
“I think so.”
“When?” Cicio asked. “When he come?”
“Soon, I think. Meryam expects the Qaimiri fleet to arrive within a few days. Mateo, assuming he now understands the danger we’re all in, will want to make arrangements before that happens.”
“Then we’d better go tomorrow,” Davud stepped in.
Ramahd stared, noncommittal, even a bit confused.
“To help Anila,” Davud added.
Ramahd and Cicio shared a look.
“Mateo might come tomorrow,” Cicio said.
Ramahd looked as though he was considering a delay, but Davud wasn’t about to let that happen. “We’re leaving in the morning to get Anila out.”
“We leave when Ramahd say we leave, ah?”
“You owe me,” Davud replied evenly. “War is about to spill over the walls, and I’ve left Anila alone for too long already.”
Cicio stepped up to Davud so that they were chest to chest. “What I tell you, you fucking shit?”
“Please.” Fezek got up on one leg and was hopping toward them with both hands raised. But Cicio shoved him back and he flew, arms windmilling, back onto the pallet. “Hey!”
Suddenly Cicio had his knife beneath Davud’s chin. Davud felt Esmeray working a spell, which died a moment later, courtesy of Ramahd. Davud refused to summon one himself. He was exhausted and it would only make things worse anyway.
Instead he looked straight into Cicio’s angry eyes and said, “There’s no time left. We’re leaving in the morning to get Anila.”
Cicio’s nostrils flared. He looked as though he were about to do something rash—teach Davud a lesson, or worse—but then Ramahd touched his shoulder. He pulled him back until Cicio drew his knife away from Davud’s chin.
“You’ve got everything ready?” Ramahd asked.
When Davud nodded, Ramahd nodded back.
“Very well, then. We leave in the morning.”
The sun had yet to rise as Davud stood with Esmeray in their small room above the workshop. Ramahd and Cicio stood nearby, dressed in light armor. They had swords, knives and small fighting shields at their belts. Cicio also held a small crossbow, cocked and ready. Fezek, meanwhile, whose right leg below the knee had been fitted with a peg leg, seemed positively giddy with excitement.
“An entirely new chapter to add to my epic,” he said.
Davud had half a mind to leave him here, but he was simply too valuable, giddiness or not. “Just remember why we’re going,” Davud said, and from around his neck retrieved a leather necklace, to which was attached a golden triangle. Using one corner of the triangle, he pierced the skin of his index finger. On one palm he drew the sigil for passage, and on the opposite, doorway. He repeated the ritual on the palms of Ramahd and Cicio.
“If you have need, press your palms together”—he mimicked the motion but didn’t complete it—“and a portal to wherever the golden triangle is will be opened.” He showed them the triangle. “I’ll send the bird ahead to gain us a way in. As soon as we’re through and into the palace, I’ll send it back for our escape.”
Esmeray seemed impressed. “It’s smart, Davud. Just be careful you don’t spread yourself too thin.”
She was right. It took effort to maintain a spell that allowed any one of them to summon, but it was important. They needed a way out. When he offered the same to Esmeray, she raised her hand.
“It would only weigh on my mind.”
When she nodded to Ramahd, he reached back and opened the door. A short while later, a spoon-tailed warbler flew through the door and landed on Esmeray’s outstretched finger. The bird’s bright azure wings stood out against the blacks of their clothing and the grays of the worn wooden planks.
“As we’ve done before,” she said to Davud, “but don’t attempt to guide the spell. Lay your presence over mine like a cloak, so you can learn the shape of it. Understand?”
Before Davud could respond, a sound rose up from outside. There was a rumble. Davud swore he could feel it though the soles of his feet. War drums beat. Horns blared. Shortly after came the shouts and cries of hundreds, thousands.
“Best we hurry,” Ramahd said. “This may play out in our favor.”
Davud nodded to him, then waved for Esmeray to begin.
He had no ability to control animals in a fine-grained way. Esmeray, on the other hand, had been able to call the serval to her, so Davud had asked her to prepare a bird of her choosing for their assault on Sukru’s palace.
As she’d instructed, he felt the way she cradled the bird’s mind. It fluttered its wings, fighting her momentarily, but Esmeray’s intent nestled over the warbler like soft cotton. It coalesced, tightened, without the bird even realizing it. Mundane spells, those that gathered and released power in crude, elemental ways, were simple to cast, relatively speaking, and took no great amount of concentration on the part of the caster.
Living creatures, however, had blood and minds of their own and were much, much trickier to affect. It was as intricate as clockmaking and easy to foul or to do clumsily, but Esmeray placed the spell on the bird without it even realizing it, and soon both she and Davud had been granted a second sight and a form that was not their own. It felt strange to be lifted into the air, to beat limbs that were not his. But it didn’t take so long as he’d thought to orient himself, and he could move his own body while still sensing the bird’s.
Davud held the golden triangle out for the warbler to take. The bird pinched it in its beak and was off, flying through the door and over the city. At first Davud saw only stone and mudbrick buildin
gs, and a bit of the white-studded sky. Then the entire neighborhood opened up to him, nestled as it was inside the old city. Not so far away lay the sprawl of the collegia grounds; the Wheel at city’s center where Sharakhai’s two largest streets, the Trough and the Spear, met; the patchwork estates of Goldenhill and Blackfire Gate and Hanging Gardens. To the right, the great southern harbor yawned in a swath of ships and sand. Hundreds of piers raked outward from the quays. More were clustered around the great watch tower in the harbor’s center. Many of the piers were empty, their owners having fled the looming conflict.
In the center of the sand there was a great lifting of dust. It billowed up as dozens—hundreds—of clay figures crawled from the sand and began pouring toward the docks. Davud had no idea what was happening, but it was clear the Malasani assault had begun.
The fates had shone on them at last. Not even prayers could have led to a better distraction.
The bird winged toward Tauriyat and its thirteen palaces. It made its way steadily toward one in particular, roughly halfway up the mountain, and flew around it, guided by Davud. He brought it to the large open space within the palace grounds where the gardens were, the walking paths, the boneyard where Anila had first raised the young girl, Bela. The bird arced along hallways, then flew down to the dungeons. Finding only two men held there, it wended its way back up and made for Sukru’s apartments. Silver Spears tried to wave it away, as did an old woman with a broom, but the apartments were otherwise empty.
The bird left and fluttered its way to the small courtyard with the fig tree where Davud had first met the Sparrow’s firefinch and received the golden triangle. The windows were open, and the bird flew in to find two women in fine clothing staring intently at a half-finished game of aban on the table between them. Davud was getting nervous, and it showed in the erratic pattern the bird described in the air. As the women stood, wondering at the warbler’s sudden presence, it darted back outside, then returned to the palace’s cavernous hallways. He guided it along several passages before coming to a door that gave him pause.
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 45