Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “Oh, that it is, my Lord.” The driver clucked his tongue and touched his whip to the horse’s flanks, and immediately the horse began plodding over the sand, the sleigh’s runners gliding easily over the harbor floor. “That it is.”

  As they rode, the southern harbor’s outer docks and the vast variety of warehouses and teahouses and brothels dwindled from sight, as did the sounds of reverie. Hundreds of foreigners mixed with locals in a festival that had culminated in a parade along the Trough, a great drum circle, and celebration on the sands of the harbor. There were still some few running about the harbor itself, many clearly drunk—caravan men and women and the like. Most were wary of the urchins that waited beneath the shadows of the docks, but those too drunk or too new to the ways of the Amber City didn’t know they could be robbed in the blink of an eye, or worse, struck over the head by one of the older ones then dragged beneath the docks to be robbed or raped or slain at the urchins’ leisure.

  The sleigh made a beeline for the central docks. Though her northern sister was indeed large, the southern harbor was massive—four or five times the size and large enough to house two hundred ships along the outer rim of quays and docks and another two hundred in its center, where a series of docks had been built for long-term storage. Foreign ships of state were often berthed at the inner docks. All four nations that traded directly with Sharakhai—Qaimir, Mirea, Malasan, and Kundhun—had one or more ships docked there at all times. The wealthiest caravan masters, or at least the shrewdest, would often stay in Sharakhai for weeks at a time, waiting to buy those goods that would fetch the best price back home or wherever their caravan’s terminus was.

  Ahead, the silhouettes of the moored ships rose against the cascade of stars in the southern skies. Dozens upon dozens of them, from all across the Shangazi. The sleigh slid to a stop near a set of stairs leading up to the great maze of piers and sand and ships. Another sleigh, this one filled with eight men and two women—rough and tumble sandsmen, the lot of them—was just unloading while singing a Malasani drinking song both loudly and poorly. When one of them paused unsteadily at the foot of the stairs and watched as Ramahd’s sleigh came to a stop, the driver turned to Ramahd, his peach stone necklaces clacking as he softly spoke, “Shall I go round the other side?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Ramahd said as he stood and lowered himself carefully to the sand.

  The driver looked to the bravo doubtfully, then shrugged. “You know your business. Ask for Hoav if you ever have need.” And with that he was off, the horse’s hooves plodding through the sand as it followed the other sleigh into the night.

  Ramahd trudged toward the stairs, where the Malasani was still standing.

  “Where you headed?” the bravo asked.

  There was a day when Ramahd might have engaged him, pushed him just to see how far he’d go, to see how sharp his sword was, how swift his arm, but he was tired. Two days had passed since his bouts in Osman’s pits, and his aches lingered. He’d fought three bouts that day, each one layering more wounds, more aches, and he didn’t wish to add more, especially not for a drunkard and his nine drunk friends. He wasn’t in the mood to trade words, either. He had little patience for fools and less for drunk ones.

  So he strode up to the bravo and stopped only when they were face to face.

  And said nothing.

  He stared into the Malasani’s broad face, into his reckless, callow, overconfident eyes. The Malasani blinked away his liquor for a moment or two, then puffed himself up like a peacock. But Ramahd didn’t move. He held his stare, waiting, wondering what the bravo would do. And the more he was forced to endure his cocksure attitude, the more he hoped the man would do something.

  The Malasani’s comrades had reached the dock, not even realizing a conflict was brewing, but three of them had stopped and were watching the silent exchange.

  “Come on,” one of the women called in Malasani. “A bit of the bones, you said.”

  Slowly, the bravo’s jaw lost some of its tight aggression, and then, like a cask of wine tapped for revels, his nerve drained away. He glanced to one side, then back to Ramahd, and finally he turned and spit well wide of Ramahd and strode up the stairs. The lot of them were soon gone.

  Ramahd shook his head and made his way to the dock that held the two Qaimiri ships of state, one a massive galleon that had arrived several weeks back as part of a delegation that had come to Sharakhai to celebrate the first exchange on a new trade route with Malasan. The other was a sleek yacht with extraordinarily long runners made from the highest quality skimwood. Ramahd headed for the yacht, the Blue Heron. It was the pride of House Amansir, named after his family crest, a heron wading in calm water. Ramahd had sailed it to Sharakhai two weeks before. He’d never made the journey faster.

  By the bright light of Tulathan, he could see his first mate, Dana’il, one hand behind his back, standing at the ready near the ship’s lone hatch. “My Lord Amansir,” he said with a bow of his head and a smart clap of his heels, which brought the six crewmen to their feet. They clapped their heels as well, each facing Ramahd from wherever they happened to be on deck.

  “At ease,” Ramahd said as he took the short hop down from the dock.

  Dana’il relaxed to some small degree, while the others—elite men, each and every one—returned to the business of readying the ship for the coming night’s sail. Dana’il waited with an expectant look.

  “You’re smiling, Dana’il.”

  “I am, my Lord.”

  Ramahd knew the one and only thing that might cause Dana’il to beam like this. “You found him?”

  “We did, my Lord. Near the western harbor, as you’d said. He’s hiding in a cellar beneath a tannery. Its owner has long been a sympathizer here in the city.”

  “Is he there now?” He might very well call off this voyage if he was.

  “No. Macide left with Hamid near nightfall. Quezada was forced to retreat for a time. Neither Macide nor Hamid have been seen since.”

  “They’re crafty.”

  “Aye,” Dana’il said soberly. He knew that better than most. He’d nearly been killed the last time they’d engaged the Moonless Host. “We can’t be sure, but we believe Macide only recently began using the cellar.”

  So he might feel safe in using it for a week or two yet. Ramahd stepped forward and gave Dana’il’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “The gods have shone upon us at last. This is better news than I could have hoped for.” Ramahd tipped his head toward the hatch. “Is she awake?”

  “Aye. She woke not long ago, and if you’ll forgive me for saying it, she’s in a foul mood.”

  “Is she ever not in a foul mood?”

  “I wouldn’t like to say, my Lord.”

  “Then you are wise, Dana’il. Wiser than I, have I ever told you that?”

  “I wouldn’t like to say, my Lord.”

  Ramahd clapped Dana’il on the shoulder. “Well, you are, but don’t let it go to your head.” He stepped toward the ladder leading belowdecks, pausing at the hatch. “One hour out, south-by-southeast. Sail her as you wish, and then back to Sharakhai.”

  “Aye, sir,” Dana’il said, bowing his head.

  As Ramahd made his way into the ship and walked along the narrow passageway toward the forward cabin—the one that had been given to Meryam—he heard the hollow thuds of the crew moving about the ship, then several thumps of sand as three of the men dropped down from the deck. By the gods, it felt strange to be leaving Sharakhai, even for a short while, with Macide an arm’s reach away. He couldn’t rush his response, though. He merely had news of one of his safe houses, which he’d had three times before. None had led to Macide’s capture, and one had led to the death of two of his men, with three more wounded, including Dana’il, who had been saved only by Meryam’s careful—not to mention costly—ministrations.

  Macide was slippery as a catfish. Had barbs like
one, too.

  So no, Ramahd would not rush to this tannery. He would sail and report to his King. And then they would take the time they needed to do this properly. Perhaps then, if the gods were just, the man who’d murdered his wife, daughter, and so many others would pay for his crimes.

  The ship was nudged from its docked position and began to slip over the harbor’s sandy bed. As light as it was and as fine as the runners were, the Heron could be towed from dock by the crew alone. Soon, the ship was skimming across the harbor, her sails thrumming as they filled with cool night wind.

  As he neared Meryam’s cabin, he swallowed involuntarily at the scent wafting into the passageway—a thing like fermenting apples but much stronger and infinitely more foul. He would become accustomed to it; he always did. It would just take time. Within the cabin he heard the sounds of slurping and the soft moans that often accompanied Meryam’s meals. He closed his eyes, hand half-raised to knock on the door, wondering if he ought to leave her in peace for a time.

  “Come,” came a gravelly voice from within.

  His throat tightened as he swung the door inward and stepped inside. A red lantern hung from one of the stout beams crosshatching the ceiling of the small, triangular cabin. Meryam wore a dark bronze dress with a gold bodice that was tightened to accentuate her dangerously thin frame. A scarf flowed down over her head and shoulders, leaving deep shadows over her face from the lamp above, but the darkness couldn’t hide her hollow cheeks, her cavernous eyes. Her lips, once so full, were pulled back into a near-grimace. It was her hands, however, that always distressed Ramahd the most. She was holding a chalice, which she had raised to her mouth. She took a sip as Ramahd closed the door. Those hands reminded him of a rat’s, thin and long with nails that looked more accustomed to clawing and gouging than the lifting of golden chalices.

  When Meryam set the chalice down, a streak of carmine glistened on her lower lip. She licked it away, which only served to remind Ramahd how much she’d changed. Meryam used to be beautiful. Used to be genteel. Used to have a kind heart.

  No longer. Now she was a vessel of hatred, of singular thought: to avenge the deaths of her sister, Yasmine, and her niece, Rehann. Ramahd had thought himself a creature of vengeance. His rage after the deaths of his wife and daughter had been unquenchable, but it had also been unfocused, a hammer pounding stones that created little more than dust and a chorus of raucous sound. In the years since the Bloody Passage, Meryam had honed herself meticulously, silently, and now she was a deadly keen knife, ready to slit the throats of those who had caused her so much pain.

  As Ramahd lowered himself into the chair across from her, the stench of her exhalations was enough to make him gag, but as he breathed, slowly and deeply, the urge passed. He thought of telling her about Macide. But if he did, she would insist they stop now, that they go to investigate, and he’d already made his decision, so he said instead, “Once we’re underway, I’ll have a bit of food brought.”

  “You know I can’t stomach it.”

  “Meryam, you’re wasting away. A small plate if that’s all you can manage. Or a little carrot and ginger soup.”

  “I have all I need.”

  A common refrain, a phrase she’d been repeating since Yasmine’s and Rehann’s deaths.

  Gods help him, whenever he saw Meryam, he saw Yasmine’s bright smile, saw her flowing hair tossed by the wind, heard the laughter that was rare but all the more beautiful when it arrived unannounced. The resemblance had admittedly become more difficult to discern with Meryam’s frightful weight loss, but it was there. It would always be there.

  By the gods of the bright blue sky, Yasmine, how I miss you.

  The visions came again, as they always did when he thought overly much of her—Yasmine running toward Macide, the arrow taking her in the chest, blood dripping onto the golden sand—but he squashed them before they could truly blossom. He’d become good at it, which made him all the more desperate to kill Macide, before his hatred could leak from him any further. Hatred took a lot from a man; when the bright flare of rage exhausted itself, it took work to sustain the heat.

  The sound of the yacht’s runners skimming over the sand came to them. The shush of the rudder as Dana’il guided them out of the harbor.

  When Ramahd spoke again, he put all the authority into his voice he thought wise. Meryam was touchy, especially after she woke from one of her week-long slumbers, and pushing her too far would make her balk. “At this rate, you’ll die before we see the shores of the Austral Sea again.”

  Meryam chuckled, revealing teeth stained red. “A proclamation you made six months ago.”

  “And look at you now! You’ve lost a stone since then! It can’t go on, Meryam.”

  “I have all I need.”

  “Yes, but your wrath cannot sustain you on its own. Believe me, I know.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?”

  “Don’t start, Meryam. Not again.” She had never said it outright, but she often hinted that Ramahd hadn’t loved her sister as much as she, implying that he wasn’t willing to make the sorts of sacrifices she was. “There are ways to achieve our goals that don’t involve withering away like a forgotten piece of fruit.”

  “Is that what I am to you? A forgotten piece of fruit?”

  “You are my wife’s sister, and I treasure you, which makes your condition all the more painful to see.”

  “Do we not have more important matters to discuss than my appetite?”

  “What if I made fekkas?” he asked. “Just as you like them, with nigella seeds—”

  “Tell me what you’ve come to tell me.”

  “Not until I have your answer.”

  She stared at him from within the deep wells of her eyes, anger seething behind them. But she knew, just as Ramahd did, how much Yasmine had loved fekkas. It wasn’t something Ramahd or Meryam particularly enjoyed, but they had shared many a plate with Yasmine over tea, especially during her pregnancy, when she’d demanded their obeisance to many of her small rituals. For the baby, she’d always say with a wicked smile. Do it for the baby. When her bouts of morning sickness had come nearly every day, neither Ramahd nor Meryam had had the heart to refuse her.

  Ramahd had grown to hate the small cookies during that time, as had Meryam. They would joke about it whenever Yasmine left the two of them alone, and they’d taken to throwing their cookies over the veranda’s marble railing and into the bushes, pretending they’d eaten them when Yasmine returned. Yasmine knew, he thought, or guessed soon after they’d started their furtive little counter-ritual, but she’d never said anything. After Ramahd had given Meryam the tragic news of Yasmine’s death in the desert, Meryam had taken to eating them. It was but one of the small and silent paeans to her lost sister, to the point that fekkas were now one of the few things she would eat.

  The anger seemed to drain from her. She took another sip from the chalice, licking the mixture of blood and wine from her lips, and said, “I don’t like them sweet.”

  “Then savory they shall be.”

  “Now tell me . . .”

  The ship rode up and over a dune, the lantern swaying, sending the crimson light dancing about the cabin. “As we suspected, Juvaan is lending his support to the Moonless Host, likely at the behest of his queen.”

  Her eyes narrowed until all he could see were two glistening points of light. “You sound as though you know the sort of support he’s lending.”

  She was always doing this—sensing his heart without his ever saying it. He knew it was to do with the dark rituals she’d fallen into. Blood rituals, a grisly thing indeed. Her decision was no act of desperation. Meryam had always had the aptitude. She’d known it for years and so did her father, King Aldouan of Qaimir, though she hadn’t been allowed to undergo the initiation. No one had even considered such a thing. But after Yasmine’s death, everything had changed. “I managed to find ou
t more, yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  Her eyes were becoming heavy. The time was nearing.

  “I fought a woman in the pits. She came to me after and admitted that she’d been following Juvaan as well.”

  “A woman.”

  “Yes, a woman. She said she’d unlocked a canister, the one sent by Juvaan. It contained a breathstone.”

  “What was she like?”

  Ramahd leaned back. “Are you listening? There was a breathstone inside it. They’re hoping to speak to the dead.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  Yes, she was pretty. “She was a pit fighter.”

  “You took an oath, Ramahd shan Amansir. We both took oaths.” The words came slow and slurred. On anyone else it might have sounded comical, but Ramahd wasn’t fool enough to think there was anything but deep resentment driving her words.

  “I know the oaths we took.”

  They were oaths to one another, oaths sworn in blood and washed in tears, oaths to make those responsible for Yasmine’s and Rehann’s deaths suffer tenfold for the agony they’d doled out.

  Meryam’s eyes were becoming heavier. She licked her lips as though they were irreparably dry. The change was coming upon her.

  They were well out from the harbor now. Good. It would make it all the more difficult for the King of Whispers to hear them should he bend his attention their way.

  Meryam coughed. Her head drooped, she shivered violently, and when she lifted her head once more, she sat straight and tall—a proud woman, a healthy woman without a hint of the quavering that had hung about her frame like willow leaves when he’d first entered the cabin.

  “Two nights,” she said, her voice no longer weak. “Two nights you are late.” The words poured from her throat like malice.

  Ramahd never failed to be amazed by her transformation. Amazed and sickened. It might be Meryam’s body sitting before him, but there was no doubt this was the King, his Excellency, Aldouan shan Kalamir, Meryam’s father, given voice from thousands of leagues distant by Meryam’s particular talents and a special tincture made of his own blood and a rare elderberry wine that preserved it for such rituals for months at a time.