“More?” Ihsan asked when the servant had half-filled his glass with ice.
“No, thank you,” Mihir was forced to say, lest he look like a desert dog who’d never seen ice.
Which he probably hadn’t. But clearly appearances must be maintained.
“You’ve come a long way,” Ihsan said after sipping some of the tart juice. “The Burning Hands are well to their summer hills, are they not?”
Mihir sipped at his juice, watching as the servants set down the last of the food—freshly baked goat cheese and caramelized garlic tarts—and left them in peace at last. He tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the pureed eggplant, savoring it before speaking. “We’d only just arrived before I set sail for Sharakhai.”
“So late.”
Mihir chewed noisily. “There was good hunting in the plateaus below the mountains. Antelope. Goat. Dogs by the dozen.”
Ihsan opened his palms to the sky. “The gods will provide.”
Mihir smiled, then took another long sip of the chilled tomato juice. “Bakhi is kind.”
For a time the two of them ate and looked out over the city. The sounds of Sharakhai came to them—immense crowds, a ringing bell, hammers on stone—but it was soft, as if the city were apart from Ihsan’s veranda, separated by the veil of dreams.
Industry, Ihsan thought. Growth. How different from the world Mihir must be used to. He came from the desert and a nomadic lifestyle, moving from place to place to place, each dictated by centuries of tradition and war and the occasional whim of their shaikh. It was a life as foreign to Sharakhai as the strange crescent-shaped fruit Ihsan was eating. And yet young Mihir had come with news of the Amber City, or to be more precise, with news that might affect Sharakhai, as Mihir’s father had put it when he’d requested this meeting.
Mihir seemed nervous. He seemed to want to be about his business, but Ihsan waited until they’d had their fill. He would not give Mihir the impression that he was eager for his news, whatever it might be. At best he would be ceding ground for no gain; at worst it would be tipping his hand.
“And how fare the Kadri?” Ihsan asked as he stared out to the desert. Well beyond the borders of Sharakhai, a sandstorm was rising. It looked to be headed this way.
“Very well, your Excellence. Very well indeed. The ships you gave my father last year have served us well. We’ve started trade with the southern Kundhuni villages, as you bade us. My father sends his thanks once more.”
Without taking his eyes from the horizon, Ihsan waved his hand as if what he’d granted them was nothing. In the grand scheme of things, it was anything but. It was a promise. A promise the Kadri and three other shaikhs had made with the Kings of Sharakhai, to accept ships and horses and steel and the smaller trade routes it was no longer practical to police. The Blade Maidens had a hard enough time watching the primary trade routes for pirates and delivering the Kings’ justice to those they caught, to say nothing of the smaller trails that led into the Shangazi from Kundhun and Malasan especially. The prime concern of the Kings over the past few decades had been ensuring that caravans could not bypass Sharakhai or the few caravanserais that could collect taxes. And a fine job we’re doing of it.
The asirim, so tightly controlled in centuries past, were straining at their leashes. Some would bow to the will of the Blade Maidens only when King Mesut, the Jackal King, Lord of the Asirim, intervened. Some few had still refused, a thing that had never happened before. They’d been killed, of course, but it all made policing the pirate paths through the desert ever more difficult.
“It is but a passing thing,” Mesut had told the gathered Kings when they’d confronted him with the fact. “A storm passing through the Shangazi.”
One can die from desert storms, Ihsan remembered thinking. The Shangazi is not nearly so tenderhearted as you might wish us to think.
Like the leaves of an acacia blowing over the tops of the dunes, it had been these signs, and dozens more, that Ihsan had seen. And they worried him. Sharakhai would no longer be able to control the borders as they had two centuries ago, or even two decades ago. So why not turn it to their advantage? Why not draw some of the shaikhs to their side and make it look as though the Kings were magnanimous.
It had worked better than he could have hoped. This very meeting was a prime example. Even two years ago, a shaikh would never have sent his son to deal with the Kings. He would have sent a vizir, and they would have demanded the Kings’ envoy meet them out on the vast pan of the desert.
But here was Mihir, meeting with one of the Kings, perhaps not entirely trusting but willing to extend his hand in an offer of peaceable and mutual gain. And with even a small handful now willing to do so, the other tribes would, at the very least, give pause when considering whether to harm the interests of the Kings.
Across the table, Mihir downed the last of his drink, closing his eyes for a moment as the chill liquid coursed down his throat. Then he turned to Ihsan, his hand still lingering on his empty glass.
Here it comes at last, Ihsan said to himself.
“My Lord King,” Mihir began, “I’ve come with news from my father.”
“You wear a look most grave for one so young,” Ihsan said, feigning concern. “What is it your father wishes us to know?”
“There are stirrings in the desert.”
“Stirrings.”
“Yes, your Excellence. There are rumors of men and women gathering.”
Ihsan looked as though he were greatly surprised. “Gathering for what?”
“They gather to band as one. A tribe of tribes.”
“The Moonless Host?” Ihsan asked.
Mihir nodded, clearly embarrassed. Not, Ihsan was sure, because that growing opposition included many from the Kadri tribe. No, it was because years ago Mihir might have joined them. Ihsan could see it in his eyes, the fire behind them, the rage at being sent here to treat with the Kings when he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t want to draw a knife across Ihsan’s throat.
“The Al’afwa Khadar have long sought to bleed us, young Kadri. Pray tell, what makes this different?”
“Their numbers are nothing like what we’ve seen in years past. They think Sharakhai weak, a peach ripe for the plucking. A foolish notion, but the words of Macide and his father, Ishaq, have begun to sway the young, the impressionable.”
“And have members of your own tribe joined their ranks?”
Mihir seemed to choose his next words with care. “Your Excellency is wise. I’m sure you can guess the answer.”
“Then I’ll admit to some confusion. Have we not formed an accord with your shaikh? Have we not done so with many other tribes?”
“You have,” Mihir allowed. “But memories do not die lightly in the desert.”
Do they not? Ihsan thought.
“For some,” Mihir said, stepping into the silence, “there are cruelties that cannot be forgiven.”
“And what of your father?” Ihsan prodded. “Are there not cruelties that he cannot forgive?”
“My father has more to consider than his pride alone.”
“And what of you, son of Halim? Are there not cruelties you cannot forgive?”
Mihir took a deep breath. “Forgive me, your Excellence, but have I done something to offend you?”
Ihsan painted on a most surprised expression. “Offend me?”
“You are aware, I have no doubt, of the circumstances behind my mother’s death.”
“That was indeed unfortunate, but the asirim . . . When their blood is upon them, there’s little to be done. The Kadri of all people know it is so.”
A dozen years ago, King Husamettín, the King of Swords and Lord of the Maidens, had taken five hands of Blade Maidens, twenty-five in all, and a dozen asirim to put down a series of continued attacks against the northwestern caravanserais. He had followed their trail, and it
had led him to a large encampment of three tribes, the Burning Hands among them. Husamettín had not been kind.
Mihir’s mother, Syahla, had been wounded—a scratch from the blackened nails of one of the asirim—and had died a slow and painful death. Halim had come to the Kings, begging for a draught that might help her, an elixir, a salve, a laying of hands from one of the Matrons from the House of Maidens, or even from one of the Kings themselves. Ihsan had seen him and had refused his request, not once, but three times.
“The Kings cannot forgive such affronts as you committed these past years,” Ihsan had said to the bereaved shaikh, “but you may find that in time such things may yield new paths.”
Halim’s eyes had been fire that day, but in time, as Ihsan had seen, the fire burned out of him, such that when Ihsan had approached him, Halim had been grudgingly receptive, and then open to a treaty with Sharakhai.
How he’d convinced his people to follow, Ihsan had no idea, but he could see from Mihir that it had not been easy.
Mihir stood, his chair scraping loudly. His eyes were now fierce, as his father’s had been when Ihsan had refused his request, but these were the eyes of the young, the brash, eyes brimming with the callow bravado that had brought so many low. “The Moonless Host is gathering,” he said. “Best you look to your borders, to the darkened dunes, to the streets of Sharakhai.”
“To our very streets?”
Mihir ignored the condescension in his tone. “This is the last of the message from my father. The Host have had business in Sharakhai. My father heard word of their receiving a package beneath your nose, a thing that would lead to your downfall, if the whispers are to be believed, and he sent men to intercept it, to show his good faith. That is what my father has done. That is what the word of the Kadri means.”
“And what did they find, these men?” Ihsan asked, leaning back in his chair and staring up at Mihir with a calm every bit as cool as the drinks they’d just enjoyed.
“We do not know,” came Mihir’s reluctant reply. “Of the two who were sent, one was found dead. The other is missing.”
“What does your father believe the Moonless Host were sent?”
“We are unsure, but my father wishes me to tell you that we will continue to search. If we learn more, word will be sent.”
At this Mihir gave Ihsan a half bow with one fist cupped in the opposite hand, not a declaration of outright hostility, but certainly its distant cousin. It was so far removed from the expression of greeting he’d used earlier—palms outward—that Ihsan nearly smiled. It seemed there was fire in young Mihir after all.
Without another word, Mihir strode from the table and toward the doors of the veranda.
Tolovan stepped out and looked to Ihsan—ready to do whatever his lord bade him—and when Ihsan shook his head, Tolovan let Mihir pass and then struck a measured pace toward the table where his King was still sitting.
“And how did you fare with the desert’s young son?”
“It’s interesting, Tolovan.”
“Interesting, my Lord King?”
“Interesting. When one casts a net, one never knows what one might catch. But cast it often enough, and eventually something lands within it.”
“Something good, I trust.”
“It’s rather too soon to tell.” Ihsan stood, looking over the half-eaten fare. “Too soon indeed.” He said these words, and yet he smiled as he stood and strode purposefully toward the palace.
SEVEN YEARS EARLIER . . .
ÇEDA KNELT NEXT TO THE UPSTAIRS WINDOWS of Dardzada’s apothecary, peeking through the slats of the shutters out to the street below, where three women in brightly colored jalabiyas—emerald and saffron and goldenrod—were walking down the street chatting gaily with one another. These women came every week, always at the same time, ostensibly to buy tonics for their skin, but in reality to buy ral shahnad, summer’s fire, a hallucinogen made from the distilled essence of a rare flower found only in the farthest reaches of Kundhun. Çeda had been living with Dardzada for four years now, and already she’d seen many drugs of choice come and go. She knew, for she was the one who went through the painstaking work to prepare them. Dardzada might have perfected the formula, but it was her hard work that granted these women their eyes-aflutter dreams.
In the alley across the street, a boy poked his head out, staring up at her window. It was Emre. The women were just passing the alley, and when they walked past, Emre slipped into their wake and walked with a bow-legged gait, nose lifted high, arms swaying ridiculously. Çeda giggled but was horrified when he continued past Dardzada’s shop. At least he stopped acting the fool, but if Dardzada saw him, he would know Çeda was up to something.
Çeda waited until she heard the women entering through the door directly below her window. She heard the floor creaking as Dardzada walked from his workroom to greet them, and immediately one began regaling Dardzada with a story about a beautiful horse, a gift she’d imported for her daughter’s twelfth birthday. Upon hearing their voices fade—Dardzada often took his regular customers into the garden behind the shop for a cup of tea—Çeda opened the shutter wide, slipped out and onto the sill, then dropped down to the dusty street, rolling to make as little sound as possible.
She was up in a moment, and she and Emre were sprinting down the street. She socked him on the arm as they ran.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“For being such an idiot. I told you not to make a fool of Dardzada.”
“I wasn’t making a fool of him. I was making a fool of those women. Did you see the way they were walking? As if they could snap their fingers and the entire quarter would come running just to be the first to fall at their feet!”
“The entire quarter just might.”
“That isn’t the point.” He socked her back, then sprinted ahead.
She quickly caught up and pinched his ear, then the two of them made their way, laughing, to the nearest stone steps down to the Haddah. It was spring in Sharakhai, and the river was swelling. It was going to be a rich fishing season if the rains kept up. Old Ibrahim said the river might even flood.
“Has the look of it,” Ibrahim had told Çeda one day while fishing over the edge of an old stone bridge. “Just you see if it doesn’t. Ibrahim remembers.” He’d tapped his noggin below his wide-brimmed, sweat-stained hat. “Ibrahim knows the signs.”
“What signs?” Çeda had asked.
And Ibrahim had turned to Çeda, his face pinching like he’d bitten into a Malasani lime. “Never you mind, girl. Never you mind.”
Çeda and Emre wound their way along the Haddah. Near the city’s center, the bank was little more than a paved walkway that had been built for the more affluent of the city, the river flowing along a canal below. There were hundreds of people out, groups of the rich, some sipping rosewater lemonade and leaning out over the balustrades to look into the clear water below, others strolling and talking quietly. Çeda and Emre were given the eye by a few Silver Spears patrolling the promenade—they even followed the two of them for a short time until it was clear they were headed upriver.
They passed beneath Bent Man, the oldest and bulkiest of the bridges spanning the Haddah. The traffic along the Trough was lively, but through some trick peculiar to this place, the sounds seemed dull and distant. Soon the larger four- and five-story stone buildings gave way to squatter constructions, and those gave way to hovels. They had entered the Shallows, where crowds of men and women were out washing clothes. Children splashed in the water. Even a few herons waded along the edge of the reeds, their sharp beaks darting down to catch mudskippers.
A gang of seven or eight gutter wrens were playing at swords in the water, practicing the motions of tahl selhesh, the dance of blades, while wading in the shin-deep water, but they stopped and lowered their wooden practice swords as Çeda and Emre approached. Several began moving toward the bank but
stopped when Çeda and Emre placed hands on the knives at their belts.
They continued through the northwestern quarter of the city, passing through a wonderland of trilling birdcalls and jumping fish and buzzing insects, all of it so foreign to the way of things in the desert ten months out of the year. Is it like this in Malasan, where you can’t walk half a day without running across a new river? Or Mirea, where it rains every week? Some might call her a liar when she said it, but Çeda wouldn’t like to live in such places. The desert was in her blood, through and through. The very thought of leaving it made her laugh.
“What?” Emre asked, looking at her as if she were mad.
“What?” she shot back.
“You just laughed. At nothing.”
“So what?” she said, still smiling. “You look like an ox’s ass all the time, and I don’t make fun of you for it.”
He tried to punch her arm again, but she was too fast. She ducked the blow and sprinted away, Emre chasing after. To the annoyance of some enjoying the river, they flew along the banks, screaming, until they were exhausted from it.
Near the edge of the city, Emre pointed and said, “There, behind those bushes.”
After stepping behind the bushes with the flaming orange flowers, they dismantled a carefully constructed pile of stones. Within were the two packs she and Emre had brought here several days before in preparation for the journey. It felt good as Çeda shouldered hers. They had supplies for a few days, though they only planned to be out until the following morning.
When they’d passed the edges of the city at last, and entered the desert proper, Emre asked, “You sure you want to do this?”
Twelve Kings in Sharakhai Page 15