The Flames of Shadam Khoreh

by Bradley Beaulieu

  Curled near their feet was a man lying down and facing away from Styophan. He seemed old and frail, for his robes hung loosely, revealing the curve of hipbone and shoulder. Even his emaciated ribs showed through the cloth.

  Toward the back of the cage were three more men.

  Soroush Wahad al Gatha. Ashan Kida al Ahrumea.

  And his Lord Prince, Nikandr Iaroslov himself.

  They were all of them bound in iron. At their wrists, their ankles, and their necks were cuffs and collars of black iron. The janissaries knew, of course, the powers of these men, and had prevented their use with those dulling restraints.

  His first instinct was to call out, but he realized how foolish this would be. The janissaries would not know that there were Anuskayan men in the city. They could not.

  So his next fear was that Nikandr would recognize him.

  “Say nothing,” Styophan said.

  He worried now that Nikandr would see him, that he would call or wave or do something else foolish, but on the opposite side of the roadway, the statue of Hakan had caught their attention—that or the sheer level of industry in and around the dome. They all stared that way, Ashan and Nikandr speaking with one another in low tones.

  Just as they were passing, however, Nasim looked his way. His gaze darted to Nikandr, then back to Styophan, but he said nothing.

  Thank the ancients for small favors.

  All too quickly they were gone, but in their wake was a host of harrowing thoughts.

  They couldn’t go through with their attack, not as they’d planned it, for to do so would be to abandon Nikandr and the others. Nasim was the key to healing the rifts, and if what Nikandr said was true, so was Sukharam. He had little use for Soroush, but Ashan was known far and wide as a wise and powerful man.

  These men were needed. The islands needed them. The world needed them. He couldn’t have abandoned them even if Nikandr weren’t here.

  “Come,” Styophan said. “We need to speak with Datha.”

  Rodion fell into step alongside him. “It isn’t going to be pleasant, is it?”

  “Hayir, it is not.”

  Styophan walked along the high bank of the Vünkal. He walked alone. He’d sent Rodion ahead, for he needed to think. Needed to figure out how he was going to tell Datha that they couldn’t continue, not until they’d saved Nikandr and Nasim and the others.

  On his right was a low wall, the top of a stone divide that separated the fish market and the warehouses from the quays and the water down below. The ships—barges and flat fishing ships and other light watercraft—bobbed as the lights of Alekeşir, vast Alekeşir, played over the water. Beyond the river, the city’s landscape rolled like an inland sea. It was night, and the moon was but a sliver in the sky. Much of the city was lit softly by lanterns on tall posts—more of the ostentatious lifestyle of Yrstanla. Had this been Volgorod, the city would be near pitch dark. Not so in Alekeşir. No doubt the oil that filled those lanterns had traveled a thousand leagues from the sea, or overland from some distant corner of the Empire.

  The market had closed, but there were still men talking. He heard a child giggling, then a squeal and another giving chase. Somewhere in the city, a dog barked until it yelped and fell silent.

  Styophan stopped for a moment, allowing the sights and sounds and smells to wash over him. He’d been thinking of what to do ever since leaving the circle, but he’d come up with nothing. He didn’t know how he could save Nikandr. He wasn’t even sure that he should. Perhaps the wiser choice was to continue with their plans and kill the Kamarisi. Perhaps then, in the chaos, they could steal in to Irabahce and take Nikandr back.

  When you go to Alekeşir, the path will lead to your graves.

  But what of His Lord Prince? The wodjan said that they would kill the Kamarisi. Did that mean he should go on with that plan? Or did it mean he might save Nikandr and still kill the Lord of Yrstanla?

  “It’s not safe here after too long,” called a rough voice.

  Styophan turned and found the quay master, an old man with a limp and a crooked jaw, approaching him. His hair was long and curled. Greasy. He had not seemed like a man worthy of much trust, but neither had he seemed overly loyal to the Kasir. With the coin they’d brought with them, Styophan had figured it would be enough to buy several days silence at the least, and before today he’d figured that was all they would need.

  The man approached and stood next to Styophan, looking out over the city, but not quite looking away from Styophan, either. He smelled of alcohol and garlic.

  “I remember,” Styophan said. “You told me when we arrived.”

  “From Avolina…” He let the words sit there between them.

  “From Avolina,” Styophan relied easily.

  “Said you’d been sent by the Kaymakam. Waiting for orders to head toward the war in the east.”

  Styophan remained silent, but he turned himself toward the quay master, a not-so-subtle sign that he’d better get to the point.

  He took the hint and squared himself up, and when he spoke again, it was with a notably softer voice. His voice creaked, though, as if he’d caught the cough but had never rid himself of it. “Might’ve been a messenger that came from Avolina this morning. Might’ve been asking for the soldiers who went through their city. Took two barges on the order of the regent himself. Said”—he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly—“they were looking for news on a young janissary that’d gone missing the day those soldiers left.”

  Styophan shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Which is why I sent him to the southern quays. Said barges go up and down the Vünkal every day, but that none had stopped from Avolina at my docks. You know what he said to me after that?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Said they searched along the river. Said they found bits of his uniform. Tatters, he said, that caught up in the branches of some tree. A half-league further they found the head of his horse lying in the shallows. It’d been cut clean from its body. Clean, he’d said, as if from a single swing of a blade.”

  Styophan could feel himself breathing now, his chest expanding, contracting. The quay master was watching him closely for any sign that he’d known about this, but Styophan had been through much. He knew how to master his emotions. “What of it?” he asked.

  “I don’t get into people’s personal matters as a rule. But this? I worked on a farm when I was young. I know what it takes to cut through that much meat. That much bone.”

  Styophan laughed. “Tales grow in the telling.”

  “That they do, but this one seemed to have a fair bit of truth in it. There aren’t many who can do that sort of thing. But the Haelish?” He nodded grimly. “Maybe the Haelish could.”

  Styophan nodded in return, carefully preparing himself to snatch the knife from his belt if it was needed. He didn’t want to, though—he’d seen enough killing on this ill-fated journey through Hael and Yrstanla—but he would do it in a moment if he thought this man would turn on him. “I imagine they could. They could cleave me in half. And you too.” Styophan looked around theatrically, laughing again. “Do you think they’re coming to tear the walls down?”

  The quay master smiled. He looked out over the city again, as if he’d just shared something with an old friend—a strange story, a bit of gossip. “He comes back, you want me to clear him away?”

  Styophan had paid him well for the berths that were furthest into the inlet by the warehouses—the ones most hidden from casual view both from the walkway above the quay and the river itself. He’d not told the quay master why, and the crooked old man hadn’t asked, but he was no fool. He wanted to know if Styophan was nervous. He was baiting Styophan. If Styophan said he wanted to keep the messenger away, he’d know Styophan was guilty, and he’d tell the city guard. The kasir would know before the day was out about the strange barges on the river.

  “Hayir,” Styophan said while shaking his head. “Send him my way if you seem him again.
”

  “Will do.”

  “Too bad about the horse,” Styophan said as he walked toward the ramp leading down to the quay.

  “Evet. Too bad.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Datha met Styophan at the stairs to the hold. He led Styophan to a place on the floor where a horsehair blanket was laid out, and there Datha sat, motioning for Styophan to do the same.

  Low-burning lanterns hung from the wooden beams, shedding meager light on the mass of Haelish men. They’re stacked tighter than cordwood, Styophan thought. Most of the Haelish sat as Datha did, but others were up, hunched over from the low ceiling, walking back and forth simply to stretch their legs or to get some sense that they weren’t trapped in this place until their true mission began. Such men aren’t made for life aboard a ship.

  The air smelled of man and piss and shit. At the far end, three of the men lay on pallets. They coughed and moaned, and though Styophan couldn’t see them clearly, he knew that their eyes would be dark, the pits of their arms and knees blackened. They were close to death. He could hear it in the way they coughed. It was not only wet, but it went on and on. Soon they would start coughing up blood.

  “There were none with the withering when we left,” Styophan said to Datha.

  “And now there are three, laid low in less than a week.”

  Styophan shook his head. “A week…”

  What were they to do when the wasting progressed so far in a mere handful of days? It used to be that it would take months for such symptoms as these men were starting to manifest. Was it now the same on the islands? Was it perhaps even worse? He couldn’t help but think of Rozalyna. Had she been stricken? Was she already dead? And if the pace of the disease was accelerating, what it would be like in a month? In a year? Would men die in mere days? Would children fall in hours? Who would be left in this world if the disease continued unchecked?

  Thankfully none of his own men had been infected so far. He knew that was merely the ancients shining down on them, but it could not last forever. Something had changed in the world. He could feel it, and so could Datha. The very air felt heavier. There were times when Styophan felt it harder to breathe, harder to pick himself up and make his way through the hours.

  “You wished to speak,” Datha prompted.

  Styophan realized he was staring at the sick men, and several of the Haelish warriors had stopped what they were doing and were staring back, their faces hard.

  “I did,” Styophan said, turning self-consciously to Datha. For a moment, Styophan could think of no way to begin. After a long, uncomfortable silence, he said simply, “The ways of the world are strange.”

  Datha frowned at this. “Something happened today? On your walk?”

  Styophan nodded slowly, and seeing no way to approach it gently, went straight to the point. “I saw my lord, the Prince of Khalakovo, Nikandr Iaroslov. He was being taken in a cage to the Kasir.”

  “Your lord. Here.”

  “Evet.”

  Datha rubbed the stubble along his cheek and laughed grimly. “Did he see you?”

  “Hayir, but the boy, Nasim, the one I told you about, did. By now he would have told Nikandr.”

  “Strange days, indeed, Styophan.”

  “You see why I’m concerned. They cannot be left for the Kamarisi, or Bahett.”

  “Cannot?”

  “Cannot,” Styophan said. “We must save them, Datha. We must bring them to safety and return them home. My Lord left for the Gaji nearly two years ago to find Nasim, and now, at last, he has. He may even have found the Atalayina.”

  Datha frowned, all trace of humor gone. “And what is that to me?”

  Styophan turned and pointed to the men at the far side of the hold. “Look to your warriors for your answer. Without ever having lifted a sword against the Kamarisi, they’re dying. Your women and children are dying as well. Mine too. And it’s because of the rifts. My Lord Khalakovo has gone to heal it, and Nasim is the key. If you abandon them now, you’ll be turning your back on your own people.”

  “We came for a purpose.”

  “True, but things change in war. You adjust as the enemy adjusts. And make no mistake, the withering is an enemy every bit as dangerous as Yrstanla.”

  Datha’s face reddened. The veins in his neck stood out. “The Kamarisi must die, and if we can find Bahett, he’ll be put to the sword as well. Yrstanla must be taught that Hael is no plaything of theirs. They must learn that from this day forward, to touch our lands will be to lay the life of their greatest lords, even here in Alekeşir, on the block, and that we, the men of Hael, are the arm that holds the sword above their neck.”

  Styophan found himself breathing heavily, but if his blood was up, Datha was worse—his breath came in great gasps, his nostrils flared, and his eyebrows arched as if Styophan were a rat he meant to stomp.

  “You cannot do this alone,” Styophan said slowly.

  Datha’s breathing hitched. His eyes narrowed. “We could.”

  Styophan shook his head. “You need us, as we need you.”

  The meaning was clear to Datha. Styophan was not only threatening to withhold the help of his men. He was threatening Datha directly. If he didn’t agree, it would be a simple matter of alerting the city guard. And then it would all be over.

  Datha rose from the table, striking his head against the low ceiling. His back bowed as he stared down at Styophan. “You would break your vows?”

  “My vows are to my Lord Duke and his family first,” Styophan said as he stood as well. “All others come second.”

  In a blink, Datha had grabbed Styophan’s shirt while drawing his knife with his other hand.

  Styophan reached over Datha’s massive hand and grabbed his two smallest fingers. He wrenched them up and away, and from there it was a simple matter to twist Datha’s arm around.

  Datha was quick, though. He crouched, relieving the pressure on his hand and yanked it away from Styophan sharply. Styophan lost his grip, and Datha spun, knife in hand. Styophan backed away as Datha rounded the table at which they’d been sitting.

  “Think!” Styophan shouted. “We can find my lord, free him and the others, and still take the Kamarisi.”

  Datha either didn’t listen or didn’t care. He stalked forward as Styophan backed toward the stairs.

  The other men made room, doing nothing to stop Datha or Styophan.

  Datha swung the knife, but he overreached in the cramped space. Styophan grabbed his wrist and swung his arm high. He stepped to his right, preparing to bring Datha’s arm behind his back, to force him to drop the weapon, but Datha was again too fast. He dropped the knife, grabbed Styophan’s left arm, and yanked him sharply backward and down, forcing him down against the planks. Styophan tried to twist away, but soon Datha had slipped his arm around Styophan’s neck.

  Styophan reached for the knife, but it was too far away.

  Stars filled his vision as Datha’s arm tightened.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  He tried to struggle away, but he could already feel himself weakening.

  “Enough,” a voice called.

  Datha’s arm did not relent.

  “Enough!”

  At this Datha finally pulled away, shoving Styophan’s head roughly against the floor. Styophan immediately began coughing and sucking in breath noisily.

  A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet.

  He looked up and saw a face he recognized, but long moments passed before he understood.

  It was King Brechan. Lord of the Haelish. He’d come to Alekeşir.

  “How?” Styophan croaked.

  “With bright paint and without my crown…”

  Brechan left the rest unsaid. It seemed impossible. Styophan had thought Brechan a man impossible to miss. And yet he’d traveled with him all this way?

  He had to admit he’d been concerned largely with his own men, making sure they were safe, especially after what had happened to his ships. He hadn’t wa
tched the ranks of the Haelish closely at all.

  “Why have you come?”

  Brechan did not smile, but there was a certain mirth in his eyes. Not to mention a deep-seated hunger. “I would taste the blood of a Kamarisi.”

  Styophan shook his head. This was a foolish thing, indeed, but he had to admit he wouldn’t mind having a man like Brechan by his side as they made their way into Irabahce.

  “You believe in this boy?” Brechan asked.

  “I believe in my Lord Prince, and he believes in Nasim. That’s enough for me.”

  Brechan eyed Styophan for long moments. He turned to Datha and regarded him as well. He looked the warrior up and down, as if weighing his argument. When he turned back to Styophan, his face was grim but resolute. He put out his hand like the thrust of a knife, holding it there until Styophan grasped his forearm and the two of them shook.

  “Come,” Brechan said, “there’s something I would show you.”

  In an alley near the center of Alekeşir, not so distant from the dome Styophan had viewed earlier that day, King Brechan of Hael, dressed in a shapeless brown robe, knocked thrice upon a heavy, brassbound door. The air smelled of damp and mold. The door led into a building of stone, part of an old estate that now served as a winery. Its distinguishing feature—for it looked very similar to the other buildings in this quarter of the city—was a tall minaret that wound up into the star-filled sky.

  Styophan waited, watching the darkened alley closely, ears peeled, as Brechan knocked again.

  Styophan had been nervous every single step since leaving the barge. Nervous that the quay master would spot them, nervous they would stumble across the city guard, nervous the inhabitants of the city would wake and spy them walking along their streets and call the janissaries down upon them. But the city was strangely silent in the small hours before the sun rose. Most of the lamps had gone dark, leaving Alekeşir in near darkness save for the light of the waxing moon.