He picked at the brown blanket across his legs. “I’m sorry, Çeda.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For putting you in danger. You shouldn’t have come after me.”
“We take care of one another, remember?”
“And yet you’re always taking care of me.” He grinned as if he’d made a particularly dark joke.
She’d never seen him look more haunted. “What’s wrong, Emre?”
He looked up. He shivered, then shook his head. “I’m just shaken, is all. How about you? You never told me what happened that night.”
“I told you, I found you in the riverbed. You don’t remember?”
He shrugged. “I remember some. Tell me the rest.”
And so she did, recounting her evening, how she’d found him, how the asir had taken the tribesman. She stopped there. She didn’t want him to worry over the asir and the sickeningly warm kiss she’d received. But he took her wrist as she was trying to spread Dardzada’s healing milk over the cuts along his ribs. “What is it?”
She really didn’t want to tell him, but here she was, hoping he would tell her what was troubling him while keeping secrets of her own. She had to trust him, so she took a deep breath and let it out. “One of the asirim stopped me.” She paused, shivering, remembering that kiss. “He wore a crown, and he spoke to me.”
“It spoke to you?”
She finished with the salve and placed a length of fresh cotton over the wounds. “Stay,” she said as she stood and went to her room to retrieve her mother’s book from its hiding place. She returned to Emre, turned to the poem written in her mother’s hand, and held it out for him to see.
Rest will he,
’Neath twisted tree,
’Til death by scion’s hand.
By Nalamae’s tears,
And godly fears,
Shall kindred reach dark land.
“He spoke those words to me, Emre. How could the same lines be in this book?”
Emre gritted his teeth while pulling himself higher in bed. Then he regarded the book more seriously. “It spoke?”
“Those very words.”
“But you’d taken a petal, hadn’t you? You know they give you dreams.”
She could hardly believe her ears. “And?”
“Maybe you thought you heard it. Maybe after you’d slept—”
“I heard what I heard, Emre. He was as close to me as you are now.”
“But you said—”
“Are you listening to me?” She snatched the book away from him. “He spoke those words!”
“All right!”
She stared at the book, realizing she’d torn a page, and a black fury rose up inside her. She’d torn one of her mother’s pages. She smoothed it carefully back in place, cursing herself for a fool, but as she did, she saw something, and her anger dwindled.
There were marks in the gutter of the pages, so close to the folds of the book she’d never seen them before. There were three of them.
“Çeda, what is it?”
“Wait,” she mumbled, flipping through the book.
“What?”
She ignored him, finding more. Four marks on one page. Six on another. Two here and one there. It couldn’t be coincidence. It couldn’t. But what could they mean? She saw no relation to the poem at the back, no indication they were connected in any way.
“Çeda, what is it?”
With a forceful exhalation, she turned the book toward him and pointed to the marks she’d found.
Emre squinted. “Did Ahya make them?”
She was about to snap at him, but that was only her residual anger talking, her anxiousness. The marks were made with a similar brown ink as the poem, but they seemed to be made with a different pen, or a different nib. “I don’t know.”
In the end, she couldn’t puzzle it out and didn’t have time to think about it just then. She put the book back in its hiding place and made ready for the day. “I’ll be back later,” she told Emre as she leaned into his room, her practice armor in one hand, shamshir in the other.
“And where are you headed?”
“To the pits. I need to loosen up.”
“Loosen up? You were beaten bloody a few days ago!”
“Nine days, Emre.”
“And you’re not still sore?”
“Sure I am,” she said, rolling her shoulders and feeling the burn, “but that’s when it feels the best.”
Çeda stood before a stout wooden door, listening as the crowd beyond it stamped their feet in time, a slow and heavy beat, a demand for violence and blood. The air smelled not only of sweat and blood, but fury and fear. It infused this place, the dark tunnel behind her, the door before her, the fighting pit that lay beyond. She ran her fingertips over the wood, then bowed her head to it. “Thaash guide my sword.”
She took a deep breath and released it, the sound loud in her iron-masked helm. Before a fight she would often think of her mother swinging from the gallows in the morning breeze, of the marks the Kings had left upon her hands and feet. Whore. False Witness. She would think of the strange symbol on her forehead, a thing that had taken on a different meaning for her. She used to think it some epithet the Kings had placed on her, some ancient rune now lost in time, but now she wasn’t so sure. Now it felt like a clue, part of the mystery surrounding her mother, the book, the asirim. It made everything feel different. It made this fight feel different.
Beyond the thick wooden door, the crowd roared. Her opponent’s door had just been opened, and from the way the crowd chanted—a barking that sounded like the jackals of the desert—she knew she was facing a foreigner.
“Çeda.” She turned and saw Pelam walking up the dark tunnel toward her. He wore his long red kaftan, his sweaty brown kufi, and his long, dour face. As the door began to rise on its pulleys, Pelam nodded toward it. “Watch him. He paid much to bout with you.”
Çeda returned his nod and turned back toward the door as it rose fully, revealing the pit. As she stepped out, the straps of her leather battle skirt slapping against her thighs, the volume of the crowd above her intensified.
“The White Wolf!” they yelled. “The White Wolf!”
“Show him!” others shouted. “Teach him what it means to cross swords in Sharakhai!”
Around the edge of the pit, a ring of men and a handful of women were seated. This bout took on a much different complexion than her last, against Haluk. This was a tourney, and as such it attracted the best fighters, which in turn attracted royalty, ambassadors and dignitaries, merchantmen and merchantwomen. They wore bright clothes and brighter jewels and used fans or horsetails to fend off the flies. Some few—those who wished to hide their identity—wore veils or burqas decorated with coins or silver bells that jingled when they moved. Behind those rich patrons, standing five rows deep on progressively higher levels, the crowd was not so extravagant. They wore shemaghs on their heads and long, loose thawbs of simple cloth and simpler colors—but still, they had paid handsomely to watch the tournament with the finest warriors.
Ten paces away from Çeda stood her opponent, a Qaimiri man, handsome, and perhaps ten years her senior. He was taller than she, though not by much, and well muscled. His oiled skin glimmered beneath the sun, and he wore a leather kilt and sandals. He did not pace or flex as many young fighters did. In fact, he had the bearing of a lord, or perhaps a lord’s son. She wasn’t surprised to see a well bred man from Qaimir; they were drawn to the pits like dung beetles, especially the rich or the spoiled. They considered themselves the nobility of the fighting world, and yet they heard about the pits of Sharakhai and the warriors who could be found there and felt themselves somehow threatened. Many came only to test the Sharakhani, thinking it would be easy, thinking their high birth or training would help them. And there were times when it did, but more o
ften than not they were little more than pretentious nobles come to steal a bit of pride from the desert city that boasted the best sword arms in all the Five Kingdoms. They soon learned there was a reason Sharakhai had never fallen to outside forces. They discovered that the children of the desert trained in sword, shield, and spear from the time they could walk. It was no mere interest, a thing done for tradition’s sake; it was as much a part of life in the Shangazi as hunger, as thirst, as heat from the ever-watchful sun.
As Çeda faced the Qaimiri, she watched his eyes for any hint of hunger for their coming battle, but there was none. He merely nodded to her and turned to face the edge of the pit toward Osman’s box. This one would be a challenge, she could tell. She was rarely wrong about such things, and she found herself bouncing on the balls of her feet, hoping she was right.
Osman, wearing an emerald kaftan and an embroidered vest, stepped to the edge of his box. After their talk at the lighthouse, she thought he would have summoned her before the match, but he hadn’t, and now there was nothing to do but fight and hope he hadn’t changed his mind about feeding her information about Emre’s shade. He took up a horsehair tail and dipped it into a brass ewer of water. The moment he did, the crowd quieted, though shouting could still be heard from other nearby pits.
“Bakhi’s luck be upon you,” Osman boomed as he lifted the tail and swung it like a whip, first toward Çeda and then toward the Qaimiri, spraying them both with water drawn from the well beneath Bakhi’s temple. Then he looked to Pelam and nodded before sitting regally in his carved chair. As the crowd began to shout, louder than before, Osman turned to a man sitting next to him, a lord from the House of Kings who often came to the pits.
Behind Çeda, a dozen of Osman’s boys trotted out from the darkness of the tunnel bearing swords and whips and shields. The Qaimiri was allowed to choose first. He took up a long, straight sword, one made after the fashion of his homeland. Çeda took a shield, oval in shape, barely larger than her forearm. As she fitted it onto her arm, the green-eyed Qaimiri picked up a round shield not much larger than the one she’d chosen.
Çeda was then allowed her second selection. As the Qaimiri had chosen a longsword, she chose a shamshir, the very heart of martial art in the desert.
The crowd laughed and stamped their feet and howled.
The Qaimiri seemed somehow pleased by this reaction. He didn’t smile, but there was a brightness in his eyes now, a thirst for battle every bit as deep as Çeda’s. He backed away as Pelam held a small gong between them and struck it.
The Qaimiri immediately rushed forward, trying to catch her off guard. She danced away, keeping her shield at the ready. He didn’t swing his sword, but instead tried to use his shield to bull her up against the wall of the pit. She was too quick, however. She spun away, and he was forced to begin swinging.
She blocked his first few blows, which were tentative, meant only to test their range and gauge her reactions. She let him think she was slower than she really was, barely catching his swings before they struck her head or chest.
And then he overextended. Not by much. But it was enough for her to beat his sword away with her own, step forward and block his shield with hers, and cut him along his left side.
He pushed her violently away as the crowd howled and clapped in time, wanting more.
Blood ran from a shallow cut along his thigh. The swords of the pits were not sharp, but neither were they dull. The point of most bouts was not to fight to the death, but the threat was always there. One wrong move, one miscalculation, and one could lie bleeding on the sandy floor, watching the blue sky above, helpless as Bakhi came to escort you to the farther fields.
She thought surely the Qaimiri would be angry, but if anything, he seemed calmer. Amused, even. “That won’t happen again,” he said, his voice low like the strum of an oud, his accent thick but understandable Sharakhan.
“We’ll see,” she replied, then struck hard, blocking his hurried sword strikes with her shield.
But then he regained his balance and started raining blows against her. They were not overextended or misbalanced, as they’d been moments ago. They were precise, and she could tell she’d misjudged him. The placement of his feet, the compact yet powerful swings, his quick reactions—they all spoke of an expert swordsman, one who took his craft seriously.
She smiled, and this time it was genuine. But then, over the Qaimiri’s shoulder, she saw someone enter Osman’s box: a man with skin as pale as snow. He was led directly to Osman, who stood and kissed his cheeks.
Çeda locked swords with the Qaimiri and bulled her shield into him, sending him flying backward.
It had done nothing to harm him, but that wasn’t been her intent. From within her mask, she looked up at Osman’s seats. The pale man had the almond eyes and strong cheekbones of a Mirean, and his ivory hair was pulled back into a tail that trailed down the back of his blue silk shirt. As he sat, Osman saw Çeda looking. He gave her a quick nod, his intent clear.
As the Qaimiri closed once more, she realized this was the man who’d contracted Osman to deliver the canister—him or one of his servants. It was the clue he’d decided to grant her, despite his normally tight compact with his patrons. She understood now why he wouldn’t tell her at the lighthouse. This was the most he could bring himself to, the closest he could come to outright betrayal.
The Qaimiri delivered a flurry of blows, and this time she couldn’t stop them all. The sword slipped past her guard and bit into her battle skirt, hard enough to pierce leather and skin, both. Hissing, she skipped away.
The crowd cheered, but not so loudly as before.
Foolish, Çeda. Foolish, foolish, foolish.
The crowd might want her to win, but they liked a good match as well, and they appreciated skill when they saw it.
She was limping from the wound to her thigh, and the Qaimiri used it to his advantage. He pressed, sending quick jabs toward her head, her shins, anything to keep her moving. And once, when she moved too slowly, he snuck in a vicious strike to her left shoulder, then beat her sword hard. Her arm went numb from the elbow down and she lost her grip.
The crowd gasped. A bare few clapped, but more snapped their fingers, making it clear they expected better of her.
The Qaimiri came on again, hoping to press his advantage, but this time Çeda was ready. She limped more than she really needed to, using her shield to block his sword strokes. She caught him glancing up at Osman’s box more than once, perhaps anticipating the favor he’d receive if he won the bout.
He refocused but seemed off-balance somehow. When he committed himself to a strong downward strike, she beat it to one side with her shield and feinted as if she were going to slip past him. He was ready, which was what she’d been hoping for. As she spun back to center, she allowed the shield to slip down along her arm. She caught the leather grip, grabbed the top of his shield with her free hand, and whipped her own up and over it, catching him across the crown of his head.
Immediately she loosed her hold on her shield—which tumbled over his face—and gripped his shield with both hands. As the crowd rose to their feet, stamping louder than ever, she drew him away from the wall with long, powerful strides. He stumbled from the sudden violence of her movement, then she pivoted, pulled the shield across her body, and dropped to the ground, dragging him as she went. With his arm already caught in the shield straps, he was whipped off his feet. His sword tip, which he’d been trying to bring to bear against her, caught on the ground and spun from his hand.
He crashed to the dusty earth, and she had his shield. She held it down, hoping to keep him pinned, but he let his arm slip out and rolled away, reaching for his blade as he went. She tried to block him, but he was too quick, and she was forced to take up his shield, lest she be left defenseless.
Both back on their feet, the cheering crowd was divided, some crying, “Sharakhai!” while other
s howled, and still others called out, “Qaimir!”
The Qaimiri faced her, the cut along the crown of his head spilling blood down his face. His eyes, however, looked up yet again toward Osman’s seats.
Çeda struck, hoping to catch him while he was distracted. She blocked a few weak strikes, meant more to fend her off than anything else, and then she realized.
The Mirean. The man who’d come to speak with Osman. Çeda had been distracted by his presence. And she realized that the exact same thing had happened to the Qaimiri. His glances to the box hadn’t been for Osman. They’d been for the albino. He’d come searching for him as well.
The thought so captured her attention that—while fending off three quick thrusts from his sword—she didn’t see him ready himself. After the third of her blocks, he timed it perfectly. He bull-rushed into her, sending her flying backward. She fell unceremoniously against the pit floor, dust rising as she slid into the pit wall and struck her head on the stone.
Quick as an asp he was on top of her, one foot pinning her shield and trapping her arm, his sword at her throat.
The crowd fell silent.
Çeda’s lips thinned into a miserably straight line. Grudgingly, she slapped the ground with her hand.
And Pelam’s gong rang.
The match was over.
THE AREA AROUND THE PITS was known as the Well. On a normal day it was one of the oldest and most cramped sections the city, but now, with so many leaving the pits, the streets were positively choked. Çeda pushed her way not only through the raucous crowd and the carts selling roasted pistachios and honeyed rosewater and thousand-layer sweets but also through the occasional circle where pit-goers had stopped to regale one another with stories of the fights they’d seen. With the sun setting, Çeda chose a darkened archway in which to wait, and she watched carefully for the man she planned to follow. She wore a striped hijab and a matching thawb, well made but threadbare, one that would fit in easily in this section of the city.
Among the throng, near the fighters’ entrance, she saw several dirt dogs leaving—seven or eight men and a few women, all of them bloodied and bruised. They were immediately swamped by a small crowd of waiting admirers. In ones and twos, the dirt dogs peeled away, their admirers circling them like flies.
Twelve Kings in Sharakhai Page 17