Rest will he,
’Neath twisted tree,
’Til death by scion’s hand.
By Nalamae’s tears,
And godly fears,
Shall kindred reach dark land.
Whatever was happening, Çeda didn’t understand. Why by Goezhen’s sweet kiss would this passage, this very one, be both written by her mother’s own hand and spoken by that sad, pathetic creature? It made no sense. Over and over she read the words, then paged through the book to find more clues, but in the end she still couldn’t unlock the puzzle.
With the light of the sun invading her small room, the exhaustion of the night caught up with her and she finally fell asleep, her mother’s book clutched tightly in her arms.
THE WORDS FROM THE PREVIOUS NIGHT echoed in Çeda’s mind while she slept, and she woke hearing them still, though now it was a strange combination of her mother’s melodic voice and the asir’s dry rasp.
Rest will he ’neath twisted tree.
The desert wind was up and the day was warm. She could hear old Yanca across the way, coughing heavily from the dust, and beyond that the sounds from the bazaar, which was only a short walk down the lane. The day was already lively with hawkers calling, mules braying, a small bell jingling—Tehla giving sign that her loaves were fresh-baked. People would flock to get just a slice of Tehla’s fresh bread, or they’d pay dearly for a whole loaf.
As Çeda sat up, the pains in her body came alive. She ignored them as best she could and retrieved a book from the shelf at the foot of her bed, an old history of Sharakhai, one of the more illuminating texts she’d found in her ceaseless combing of the stalls in the bazaar. The history spoke of how Sharakhai had been settled a thousand years ago, but not in any permanent way. Not at first. In those early days it was little more than an oasis, a place for nomads to gather water on their trek around the Great Desert. Eventually, many of the tribes—even those that normally didn’t travel to the heart of the desert—came to Sharakhai. Its central location made it a convenient place for the tribes to meet, to talk of their travels, to trade with one another, to sing songs and perhaps find husbands for daughters and wives for sons. The tribes did not believe in permanent settlements, and yet all too soon Sharakhai became one. Different tribes came at different times of the year, and so some would remain to trade with their sister tribes, planning on staying for a month or two. But for a few, months turned into years before they took to the desert winds once more, and their numbers grew with each passing season.
Soon, to the great dismay of the shaikhs, some from their tribes did settle permanently. Without ever meaning to, Sharakhai became a settlement, and then a city, and then one of the true powers in the desert, as strong or stronger than any one tribe. The shaikhs groused at this, but what were they to do? The reasons were sensible enough at first. A man was wounded and couldn’t travel. A woman grew pregnant and promised to rejoin the tribe once the baby was born. When the shaikhs returned to Sharakhai they frowned and demanded their loved ones sail the sands with them, but for some the chance to rest in one place, to grow roots after so long on the sands, was too strong.
The city grew, and the protests of the shaikhs grew louder. Travelers from the north and south came, then from east and west, and the protests grew louder still. They demanded tribute from the lords of the city. They collected it when they gathered every year around Sharakhai, and the lords of Sharakhai, their ties to the wandering tribes still strong, complied. As trade grew, though, so did the city, and so did the boldness of its lords. Kings, they called themselves, one for each of the twelve tribes, and their tributes to the shaikhs began to dwindle.
As the tributes shrank, so did the power of the shaikhs, but the city of Sharakhai did not reckon on the number of spears and shamshirs that might be rallied to their cause. The shaikhs brought war upon Sharakhai, and there were many arrayed against the Amber City—far too many for the Kings to survive. But then came the night of Beht Ihman.
The Kings gathered on Tauriyat, the very hill where the House of Kings now lay, and they called upon the desert gods. They called to the moons above, Rhia and Tulathan. They called to dark Goezhen and his crown of thorns. They called to fickle Thaash and winsome Yerinde and stark Bakhi and gentle Nalamae. The gods came, and they listened to the Kings’ plea.
Save us, the Kings said, and what we have is yours.
It was bright Tulathan who answered. You shall have your city and your desert, too. But we require a payment, a tribute of our own.
You have but to speak it, the Kings said.
Our price is dear, the goddess repeated.
Nothing is too dear for that which we ask.
Blood, Tulathan said.
Blood, said Rhia.
We require blood, said Goezhen.
This the gods asked, and this the gods received. Some brave few from Sharakhai, men and women who hailed from all twelve tribes, volunteered. They sacrificed themselves that the rest might live. It was a desperate act in a desperate time, but all would have been slain had the wandering folk had their way. Thus were the gods appeased.
They granted the Kings powers the likes of which the desert had never seen. And those who had paid the highest price became the asirim, servants of the Kings, bound to do their bidding and to protect Sharakhai from her foes. And so they did. They went at the Kings’ command. The Blade Maidens took them out in the desert where they patrolled for enemies; and for those who took seldom-used paths, hoping to circumvent the tariffs demanded by the Kings, the penalty was death. The asirim were said to relish their duty, righteous in their anger toward any who defied the Kings’ will, thereby ignoring the sacrifices they’d made on Beht Ihman.
But the gods were not content with the sacrifice of those few who became the asirim. In order for the Kings to ensure their power over the course of generations, more blood was needed. And so, in addition to heeling when the Blade Maidens called, the asirim returned to Sharakhai every six weeks when the twin moons rose. The asirim came for blood, and for many of the highborn—those chosen by Sukru and marked by his bloody hand—it was a great honor, for they deepened the legacy of the sacrifice those brave souls had made so long ago.
Çeda closed the history and opened her mother’s book, hoping sleep might have ground away at the events of the prior night, allowing her to look at them anew. The book seemed wholly different now. A day before it had been a treasured possession; now it felt entirely wrong, as if her mother had stolen it from that dread creature. Which was impossible, of course, but even so, she couldn’t escape the fact that the book was somehow connected to the asirim, or if not the asirim as a whole, then at the very least the one lost soul who had kissed her forehead with such strangely warm lips.
Rest will he ’neath twisted tree.
The twisted tree was surely the adichara, the thorny trees that grew in the desert. Few in Sharakhai would know this, however. Most had never seen the adichara up close, for such a thing was forbidden. Venturing into the blooming fields in daylight meant forfeiting one’s eyes—a sentence harsh enough—but venturing there at night would lose one her life. Despite this, Çeda still visited several times a year, as her mother had done, to gather petals and press them for later use, when she needed them most. It was something she needed to do again soon, for she was beginning to run low, and even if she weren’t, even if she’d hoarded the petals like some mad magpie, they began to lose their potency a few months from the vine.
The blossoms of the adichara glowed blue beneath the moonlight, and when they were harvested at that time—with both moons full—they gave one a strength and vigor that was granted by the gods themselves, even though the trees also had sharp thorns tipped with deadly poison. A single scratch could kill. And yet the poem claimed someone rested beneath them. The asirim? Some long-dead hero?
She moved through the pages of the book with more care. There were many s
tories within it, but the one whose pages held the strange verses told the story of Yerinde, the goddess of love and ambition, and Tulathan, the brighter moon, the goddess of law and order. The two had loved each other once, but this was the story of their downfall. Fickle Yerinde had loved all of the gods at one time or another, had lain with them as well. All except Tulathan. And so her desire had only grown. She wooed Tulathan, coaxed her down from the heavens to the earth below, and for a time Tulathan returned her love, but when she yearned once more for her place in the dark sky, Yerinde, feeling spurned, had taken her and secreted her away in the depths of a mountain fastness.
Rhia came to find her sister, and when she discovered what Yerinde had done, she freed Tulathan. Together they struck Yerinde down. Until that day Tulathan had been the smaller of the two, the weaker, but ever since then she’d been the brighter, the quicker to anger.
Çeda thought perhaps the story itself might relate to the asir, but if that were so, she had no idea what the connection might be.
Tehla’s chiming bell pulled her from her reverie, and she realized she needed to check on Emre. She also needed to check in on her sparring class at the pits. She wrapped the book carefully in its white cloth and restored it to its hiding place.
He was still fast asleep. He didn’t even move when she checked his bandages, a thing that should have been immensely painful. She felt his forehead and found him to be hot. Too hot. Poison, perhaps, or an infection. She had cleaned the wound last night as well as she was able, and she did so again, but she already knew Emre would need something more. She would have to go to Dardzada’s.
Beneath Emre’s bed was the leather satchel. Osman would be looking for this—or rather, whoever who had arranged and paid for the satchel’s transportation would be looking for it. Perhaps the pickup had run afoul, and Emre had had to flee. Perhaps he’d been caught on his way to the drop-off. But why had a man from the desert tribes attacked him? Had he somehow stumbled across his attacker by mere chance?
No. Tribesmen came too rarely to the city, and when they did they traded during the day and left well before nightfall. If the tribesman was there, it was for a purpose, and Emre was now involved.
What to do now, though? The safest thing was to get the bag to Osman and find out where Emre was supposed to have taken it.
She glanced at Emre, then opened the satchel and found an ivory scroll case within. She shook it gently, but it made no sound. Bright yellow wax sealed one end, the end that would be opened, but before that could be done, a combination would have to be applied. Like the one Macide had opened the day before, the case had six ivory bands along its length, each of which could be turned independently. The combination would have been sent weeks or even months ago in anticipation of cases like this being couriered forward. When the rings were aligned properly, the top of the case could be lifted away and the contents removed. Otherwise, if the end was pulled with the wrong combination, a bladder of acid would be punctured, disintegrating the scroll within, rendering the message unreadable.
Two short whistles outside the window made her sit up straight. She put the scroll case back in the leather satchel and whistled back, matching the one she’d heard. After toeing the satchel back beneath his bed, she ducked her head through the woolen shades that lay across Emre’s window. There in the alley stood Tariq. He wore white sirwal trousers and fine, dark leather sandals and a woven black cap he’d had since he was a child. He also had his shamshir at his belt.
The two of them stared at one another for a moment, then she smiled as if nothing were the matter and waved him up. Tariq gave her a rakish smile in return for hers and headed swiftly for her door. The moment he opened it and took to the stairs, Çeda ran to her room, grabbed her own shamshir, and set it down on the table where she and Emre prepared meals.
No sooner had she sat down than Tariq stepped inside. He turned away as he closed the door, trying to hide his reaction, but Çeda saw. He’d seen her sword, and a look of disappointment, or perhaps anger, had flashed across his face. She’d known Tariq since they were children, but he’d been under Osman’s wing for years now. Even young as he was, he’d grown into one of Osman’s most trusted men. And not without reason. He was brash, but also crafty, and wickedly good with a sword.
Tariq clasped his hands, the older way of praying to the gods. “Çeda,” he said easily. “Where’s Emre?”
Çeda nodded to the next room. “Things didn’t go so well.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I know Emre didn’t show.”
“I mean the package, Tariq.”
He smiled broadly. “I don’t know anything about the package, Çeda.” His manner was easy. Too easy. Osman had told him about the package.
“That’s what I thought.” Çeda smiled, every bit as broadly as he had.
“Does he still have it?” Tariq raised his eyebrows, and he tilted his head toward Emre’s room as if he were readying to stroll on in whether she liked it or not.
“No,” Çeda said.
“No?” Tariq echoed.
“But I know where it is.”
Tariq’s face turned cross. “And where by the gods’ sweet breath is that, Çeda?” Tariq, normally so unflappable, was unsettled. She could hear it in his tone and in the way his eyes pinched. Whatever was in that case was important, and there was no way she was just going to give it back to him or even Osman. Emre had been chased and nearly killed by desert tribesmen, and none other than Macide Ishaq’ava had received the sister to Emre’s case by Çeda’s own hand. Whatever was going on was big, and she wanted to know more.
“I had to leave it.”
“I believe I just asked where it was, Çeda, not for your thought process before making such a mud-brained decision.”
“It’s not . . . easily accessible. Not until tonight. I’ll get it when it’s safe and bring it to Osman tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you tell me where it is, and I’ll go get it?”
“Didn’t you hear me? It’s not safe now.” Çeda stood, as if she wanted to be about her day. “Tell him I’ll be by in the morning.”
“Çeda”—Tariq’s smile faded—“you know I can’t allow that. Let me fetch it.” He looked her up and down, an unreadable expression playing across his face. “Save us both some trouble.”
He was right. She should probably just give it to him. But this was all too strange. The asir. The tribesman. The kiss from the crowned one. Besides, she hated being pushed, so fuck Osman, and fuck Tariq. They could have the case when she was damned well ready to give it to them.
“Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours, Tariq. Osman cares that he gets the package, and he will get it, just not today.” She pulled the chair back, away from the table, as if to give herself more room to maneuver. “So why don’t you run back and tell him that? He won’t blame you for returning empty-handed.”
“Don’t blame the messenger?”
“Exactly.”
“The thing is, Çeda, they do blame the messenger, and I’m more than that to Osman. Much more. Come now. Don’t be difficult. Let’s go there together. Surely the two of us can overcome whatever concerns of safety you might have.”
“I can’t. I have things to attend to, Tariq.”
Tariq’s face grew cross. Normally he would put his hand on his shamshir and try to bluster his way through an argument. He was a dervish with a blade—everyone knew so—but Çeda was better, and he knew it. He was one of the few, besides Emre and Osman, who knew her identity in the pits. Give Tariq credit, though; none of the doubt he must have been feeling showed in his eyes, and none of it showed in his manner as he bowed his head to her. “Tomorrow, Çeda. First thing.”
“Tomorrow,” she echoed.
And then he was gone.
She probably shouldn’t ha
ve pushed him that way, but he’d grown too brash since they were young, always pushing her.
She returned to Emre’s bedside and poured more water down his throat. He drank but did not wake. His breathing came easier, which was a good sign, but his skin had never looked so pale. It was gray and ashen, and his lips were turning purple.
She reached under the bed, grabbed the satchel, and left their home. She was desperate to find out more about it, but Emre came first.
Within one of Osman’s deserted pits, Çeda’s eleven students were lined up in two rows of five, with Amal—a young woman who, if not particularly aggressive, certainly had a knack for forms—standing before them, taking Çeda’s place as instructor for the remainder of the class.
“You’re doing well,” Çeda said to Amal as she backed away toward the tunnel leading out of the pit. “Lead them through the nine dunes, then three laps around the pits. I’ll see you all in a week.”
Amal bowed her head and lifted her shinai to starting position as the others—all girls, ranging in age from five to thirteen years old—waved goodbye to Çeda. Çeda felt bad for cutting the lesson short, but there were too many things to do.
She left the pits and headed deeper into the city, then beyond the Trough until she reached Dardzada’s apothecary.
Çeda could see his burly form through his half-shuttered window. He was talking with some man, a thin fellow who seemed jittery. Below the window, at a small table, three brass censers were laid out: one filled with myrrh, one with amber, and one with sandalwood. Appeasement for the desert gods, Bakhi in particular.
The very fact that Dardzada’s home was built of stone and not mudbrick like the houses of the slums or the bazaar, lent a certain stature, and he’d been around long enough that he’d built a reputation. He knew how to find people. To most he was simply a man who dealt in herbs and unguents. But for a higher price, just as Osman could find shades to run your packages across the city, Dardzada could connect you with parlors that offered Yerinde’s Kiss, a honey collected from the rare stone bees’ nests far out in the desert, or a sniff of pollen from the adichara, or in very rare cases whole petals like the one in Çeda’s locket.
Twelve Kings in Sharakhai Page 8