by Beth Brower
Basaal half turned. He had not realized Ammar was still in the room. “Why?” he asked.
“Jealous already?” Kiarash laughed. “That’s a bad sign.”
Ammar’s brow knit, and he looked at Basaal strangely. “You said she was not feeling well. As her physician, it would be unsuitable for me to ignore her fatigue.”
“Clearly,” Basaal said almost too readily. “Yes. It’s only—I don’t—I believe she was sleeping when I left. That is to say, she meant to rest,” he explained, trying to hide his unease. “But please, visit. I just did not want you to wake her—that is all.”
“I have a task that will take some time, and then I will go,” Ammar said. “Eleanor never does sleep long, even when ill.”
“Yes,” Basaal said, and he shrugged so stiffly that he almost laughed at himself. “And tell her I won’t be far behind you.”
***
The soldiers passed without looking twice in their direction, but Eleanor still felt her stomach twist until they had moved farther up the street. The eastern gate stood ahead of them, a tall, arched display of beautifully carved stone. Soldiers stood near it, eyeing the many people pouring in and out.
It was late enough in the day for them to leave the city unnoticed. So, although Eleanor’s entire body was beating with the drumming of her heart, she and Dantib passed through the gate, waiting patiently for the crowd to give way. She held Dantib’s arm with her covered hand, being careful to keep her headscarf pulled down, and tried to imitate the tired motions of the vendors and herders around her.
Walking away from Zarbadast without looking back was a surreal task for Eleanor. It seemed strange and so unbelievable that she was free of the city. Using a staff he had purchased in the market, Dantib altered his walk to reflect his many years; a worn figure with his knapsack, old sandals on his feet. No one would have ever guessed the treason he was committing.
Soon, they were pushed to the side of the road by a small band of horsemen and blended into those on foot as they spread out towards the eastern deserts.
“Rocks,” Dantib said to Eleanor not long after getting onto the road. “There are many rocks and canyons. By the end of the day, we will have dropped down into one of them and will be lost from the view of the main road.”
“Will we get far enough to be untraceable?” Eleanor asked quietly, aware that her accent would set her apart if overheard.
“Be the Illuminating God willing,” Dantib replied.
Then, as if it were a sign, a woman called out to them. “There, you, old man! I’ve sold my wares and travel east the day long, if you wish a ride.”
They turned to see a woman, covered with a jangle of cheap trinkets, her skin tight and discolored from years under the desert sun. She was driving a jumble of wood barely passing for a cart, pulled by an equally disreputable donkey.
Eleanor bent her head as Dantib greeted the woman warmly. “Seraagh herself could not have made a better offer,” he said. “My dear woman, I accept your ride. We have many days left in our journey and would appreciate a rest to our bones.”
With Eleanor’s help, Dantib lifted himself into the front of the cart. Then he began a congenial conversation with the woman while Eleanor climbed onto the back, sitting on the edge of the cart, where she could see the massive city spreading out behind her. There, to the north of the eastern gate, rising above a cacophony of buildings and structures, gleamed the white perfection of the seven palaces.
Eleanor grabbed the sides of the cart as the donkey shifted and moved forward, taking them over three rather large holes in the road. Pulling her teeth together against the resulting rattle, Eleanor watched as she moved farther from Zarbadast. Farther from Basaal, and his rituals and his honor and— Eleanor gripped the cart harder, taken off guard by the pain she felt at the thought of leaving him behind. If only he had come. If only he had come with her.
***
Basaal had endured almost two hours of long, stretched out anticipation, envisioning when and how the storm would break. As much as he tried to listen, Basaal could not take his eyes from the doors of Arsaalan’s grand salon, speaking only an occasional observation, waiting—and waiting.
It took longer than Basaal had thought for Ammar to come into the room, white-faced and stern.
“Basaal.” Ammar tilted his chin at him and stepped into the corner of the room. This was the first test, acting a part before his brothers. Basaal stood and walked to Ammar.
“Yes?” Basaal held a drink in his hand, swirling its contents. “Is Eleanor well? You did tell her I was coming?”
“She’s not there,” Ammar leveled.
“Isn’t there?” Basaal said, drawing his eyebrows together. “Strange. She must have gone to the women’s quarters.”
“I searched there.” Ammar led Basaal by his elbow farther away from the other brothers. “She has not been there all day.”
“But—”
“Hannia has not seen her either,” Ammar said.
Basaal could no longer look Ammar in the eye. He swore and stepped away, marching from the room. Kiarash called out to him, but he did not turn around. Ammar followed at Basaal’s elbow.
“Certainly she’s somewhere,” Basaal said through gritted teeth. “Did you check the archives? The gardens?”
“I have begun asking, that is all,” Ammar said. “I did not want to put the palace into an uproar unless—”
When Basaal reached his palace, he encountered a panicked Hannia, who repeated that Eleanor was not there and could not have gone anywhere else. Basaal walked from room to room, ignoring the frantic questions from the maid and ignoring the unspoken questions emanating from his brother. He walked through all of his gardens, and he checked every room. Servants and guards stepped away, wary of the murderous look Basaal conjured onto his face. By the seven stars, he hated this deception.
“The women’s quarters,” Basaal said, finally addressing Ammar. “You’re certain they were searched in their entirety?”
“Yes.”
“Hannia, have them searched again,” Basaal said.
After the maid left, Ammar narrowed his eyes at Basaal. “She won’t find her there.”
“I know,” Basaal said. “I wanted her out of the way.”
“Where is Eleanor, Basaal?”
“I can think of only one other person who might know,” Basaal said.
“You are really going to bring this accusation before the emperor?”
“No—perhaps,” Basaal said, moving his hand across his face. “But who else could have done it?”
Ammar’s mouth twitched, his response sounding thick. “Who else indeed?”
***
If Basaal had expected the luxury of taking the news to the emperor himself, he was not surprised when he did not receive it, for it was not long after Hannia had been sent off that the captain of Shaamil’s imperial guard arrived.
“The emperor wishes to know if the rumors are true,” the captain said.
“I am certain she is somewhere on the premises,” Basaal answered angrily.
“He has ordered that all personnel be charged with searching the entirety of the seven palaces.”
“Yes,” Basaal said. “I was planning on mobilizing my own men immediately.” Basaal nodded to one of his personal guard, who stood waiting near the doorway. The soldier bowed in return then left to organize the search.
“If you have nothing further to say,” Basaal said to the captain, pulling at the sleeve of his coat. “I will join my men.”
“You are to return to your palace with the Vestan,” the captain insisted. “They will track her movements from there.”
“But the Vestan are out of the city,” Basaal said. “Let my own guard—”
“The Vestan are in the emperor’s palace,” the captain interrupted.
Basaal’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “It’s the day of purification. They should be gone from here.” The captain did not answer, rather he
turned on his heels and disappeared down the corridor. Basaal felt genuinely furious now. “The Vestan are supposed to be out of Zarbadast!”
“What sort of playacting is this?” Ammar asked as he grabbed Basaal’s shoulder and shoved him back into the wall. “What have you done with her?” he demanded. “Don’t pretend that you had nothing to do with it.”
Before Basaal could say anything, a company of six Vestan came around the corner. Basaal shook himself free, stepping forward, ignoring Ammar.
“What do you want?” he snapped at the assassins.
“The emperor has ordered us to your apartments, Your Grace, to find the missing Aemogen queen.”
Ammar followed Basaal with a glare so fierce that Basaal dared not look at him. As Basaal led the Vestan into his apartments—his palms wet, his eyes alert—he kept frantically counting the hours since Eleanor and Dantib had escaped. Would it be enough?
“She was here, in this room, when I left.” Basaal said, pointing toward the open windowsill where they had sat together before her disappearance.
The Vestan spread out wordlessly and began to canvass the chambers, paying attention to the slightest print on the rug or movement of a drape.
“I swear it, Basaal,” Ammar hissed quietly. “If you had anything to do with putting Eleanor’s life in danger—”
“Do you really think me capable of that?” Basaal turned and shot these words back at his brother. “You think that after all my efforts, I would let her go? That I would be such a fool?”
Ammar did not reply, but Basaal’s performance had done little to alter the expression on his face.
The next several minutes passed by in a blur, a blur composed of motions so slow he felt he were pacing at the bottom of the ocean, fighting a heavy weight against every limb. It took no more than a few minutes for the Vestan to take their search into the bedchamber. A few members of Basaal’s honor guard entered the room to report the progress of the search. Among them stood Zanntal. Being careful not to look in his direction, Basaal listened intently, arms folded, staring at the floor.
“Nothing has yet been found inside the palaces,” the guard said as he reported. “There is no evidence to show if it was an escape or an abduction. Should we begin to search the city?”
During the report, Basaal had looked up once towards Zanntal. The soldier had stood, serious-faced, quiet. But, when he caught Basaal’s eye, the side of his mouth lifted into an almost imperceptible smile.
She’d gotten out. Basaal hoped his internal relief appeared in the form of external frustration. “Search the city—” Basaal began.
Then another Vestan came into the room. “That will not be necessary,” he said. “We have found two tunnels leading from the bedchamber.”
Basaal waved his guard away with a flick of his wrist as he turned to face the assassin. He knew that there were three escape routes from his bedchamber. So, the question was which did they find?
“One door opens from a back room,” the Vestan said. “We are tracking it. A second was found under—”
Basaal felt a rush of anxiety and his mouth twitched.
“—found under a bureau in the small corridor. Are there any others?”
“Yes,” Basaal said. His mouth felt dry as he answered. “There is a third passage.”
The Vestan’s eyes gleamed, and he bowed. “Please,” he said, holding up his hand for Basaal to lead the way.
Wordlessly, Basaal stepped past the assassin. He had spread a map out on the table, scattered notes across its surface, and now walked past it with all the disinterest he could muster. “There is a third way to leave these chambers,” he said, “from the garden.”
Basaal stepped down into his garden and through the patterns of red blooms and grasses. “There,” he said as he pointed to the back wall. “You will find a wanderer’s mark carved into the stone, indicating an escape route directly over the wall,” he explained. “Though, I doubt that anybody could have used it.”
“Why not?” It was Ammar who asked the question.
“Because,” Basaal said as he turned to look at him. “Its existence is unknown to any but me, and it would be impossible to scale the wall by oneself, let alone be successful escaping on the other side. Ideally, one would use it during a rainstorm.”
“A rainstorm?” the assassin inquired. This was the first time in his life that Basaal had ever heard a Vestan ask a question in sincerity rather than for intimidation.
“There is a small opening thirty feet down that leads into the aqueducts,” Basaal replied. “You could make the jump if there was enough water to catch you. Without the rain,” he added, “you would need to have a very long rope and no one at your back.” He eyed the Vestan before continuing. “Since I’ve not discussed the existence of this with anybody, especially not with Eleanor, your time would be better spent searching the other gardens,” he suggested. “For you know better than anybody the endless secrets of Zarbadast.”
With that, he turned away, leaving the Vestan and Ammar to stare up at the high wall.
***
“Thank you,” Dantib said as he smiled at their benefactor before easing his stiff body down onto the road. Eleanor followed suit and came around to take his arm. It was dusk, and they were now far from the city. It lay in the distance, spread out across the waves of sand.
“We are grateful for these hours of rest,” Dantib told the woman.
“May you follow your stars,” the woman said, and she smiled, trying to catch a view of Eleanor’s face, seeming curious about the mute girl who had kept to herself all day. Then, with a sharp two-note whistle, she set the donkey in motion and continued down the nearly abandoned road.
Dantib did not hurry off the road, rather he scanned the sandy layers of the horizon as he slung off his water-filled pouch, and then they each took a drink. The wind had picked up, and, despite her headscarf, Eleanor could still feel it whip and whistle around her ears. Dantib fished a few pieces of dried fruit from his heavy satchel, and Eleanor accepted one gratefully, turning back towards the distant city, watching as the lights began to appear in the haze of the desert evening.
“She is a beautiful city,” Dantib said as Zarbadast began to illuminate herself.
“Yes,” Eleanor acknowledged. “Do you think he will be alright?”
Dantib frowned and waited a long moment before answering. “I have asked myself that question many times.” He shifted his packs, and Eleanor checked to see if her own bag was secure. Dantib turned and waved a gnarled hand across the graying landscape. “Now we are on the edge of the eastern rocklands. It is a forgotten terrain, full of cracks and crooks left behind by the ancient rivers long dried up.”
And as Dantib spoke, Eleanor thought how he too was made up of ancient things, all cracks and crooks and wisdom. She could see why Basaal had been drawn to him.
“And we will travel through the night?” she asked, tired, but ready to walk.
“Yes,” Dantib nodded. “We will not stop these four days yet if we have any hope of disappearing into the east.”
Nodding, Eleanor followed Dantib into the serpentine ravine.
***
The Vestan were none too gentle as they threw Basaal on the ground before Shaamil’s throne. Basaal’s arm, still tender from the challenge weeks before, rattled with pain. He breathed in fast, sounding like a scared snake, his face hovering inches above the floor. A bead of sweat dropped from his face, and Basaal thought it strange, for he felt as cold as the rivers of Aemogen.
It had been twelve hours since Eleanor’s escape, and Basaal had been confined to his palace, unable to move from his private apartments, watched constantly by the Vestan. His father had not called for him and had not wished to see him—until now.
The emperor soon ordered the Vestan to get out. Even when they were left alone, Basaal did not move to look at his father. He breathed against the white marble, waiting for Shaamil to speak.
“You miserable wretch.” The words
were clipped in the emperor’s mouth. “Get up.”
Basaal pulled himself to his feet, deliberately throwing his shoulders back as he looked into the eyes of his father.
“What have you to say to me?” Shaamil asked.
“As I have told your imperial guard and as I have told the Vestan, I have nothing to say that you do not already know.”
“Nothing?” the emperor said, his voice sounding as the wind scratching across the rock hills north of the city.
“I have nothing more to say,” Basaal repeated.
“The Vestan have no word of your wife, even after hours of searching.” Shaamil’s mouth twisted up. “It’s as if she were swept away like a single grain of sand in a windstorm. Gone. Scattered among ten million other pieces without a trace. I warn you now, if I find you had a hand in any of this, I will kill you outright.”
Basaal stiffened, the corners of his mouth turning down as he spoke. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”
“Let us then suppose,” Shaamil said, and his voice rang with accusation, “that you had nothing to do with the queen’s disappearance. Let us suppose that you stand wronged. What is your price?”
“My price?” Basaal glowered. By the stars, he was so tired.
“The price of your retribution,” Shaamil explained. “What price do you exact for such a valuable loss? Is it one life?”
“One life?” Basaal asked, confused.
“Is it one life?” Shaamil repeated. “Or is it two? The desperate impression you gave was that this woman—this girl, really—meant a great deal to you. And now she has been taken away. So her value must be beyond the cost of just one life. Is it three times as much? Is it four times?” Shaamil demanded. “What would satisfy the debt? The death of a dozen people? Of a caravan? Should a city be ransacked to pay the debt of her loss? A country, even? Answer me!”
Basaal stood petrified, terrified of what his father might do in his own name.
“What is she worth to you, Basaal?” Shaamil pressed. “How many thousands must die to atone for her loss? Answer me!”