“Do you trust him?”
“With what?”
And now it was Çeda’s turn to lower her voice, waiting for a group of jabbering women to pass by the fig tree. “In the teahouse, you told me he has little love for the Kings.”
“I should never have said that.”
“Is it true?”
“He feels they are . . . overly strict.”
“Can I trust him with a question or two about that night, Davud? Might he let me read some of those ancient works without becoming suspicious? That’s what I need to know.”
“Forgive me, Çeda, but I must know why.”
“No. I won’t involve you. Just tell me of Amalos.”
Were Davud older, or bolder, he might have demanded more of her, but instead he visibly quieted himself, considering her words, and nodded. “I don’t believe he would turn you in for asking a question or two, if that’s what you mean.”
“Will you take me to him?”
He tried to smile, and made a miserable go of it. “Yes.”
“Good.” She tugged on his arm. “Let’s go.”
Davud led her through the winding streets eastward and onto the grounds of the collegia, where more than a dozen redstone buildings were spaced within its walls. Farther east, beyond the walls, loomed the bulk of Tauriyat with the House of Kings crouched along its shoulders. Dozens of students wandered about, most wearing simple flaxen robes with rope belts and woven leather sandals. Some were younger than Çeda, but many were older. Few enough could afford tuition at the collegia, and often the masters ended up teaching as many from Qaimir or Mirea or lands beyond as they did those from Sharakhai, which did little to endear them to the people of the city, or at least not to the part of the city where Çeda lived.
Two men with long beards and the white robes of the faculty paused their conversation and studied Çeda as she passed, but they didn’t stop her. Çeda nodded to them, smiling until they turned away, but Davud sped up until they were well into the cool inner halls of the largest of the buildings, the scriptorium.
“Pay them no mind,” Çeda said, her voice echoing inside the massive reading hall.
“Shh,” Davud whispered.
Only then, as her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, did she realize that his face was red beneath his sandy-colored hair. He was embarrassed to be with her, she realized.
Her natural inclination was to rib him about it—if only to see his boyish face become even more red—but she knew that he’d had a hard time finding his place here. Despite the prudishness of the masters and her annoyance that Davud had succumbed to it, she didn’t wish him to suffer, so she remained silent and let him lead her two levels down into the scriptorium’s cool cellars.
She hadn’t seen Amalos in years, but when they came at last to his study, she wondered if it had been longer than she thought. He looked decades older. He was hunched over a fresh clay tablet, carefully copying another ancient tablet with a wooden stylus that looked as though it had been cast aside as useless when the first gods fled the world.
“Be a good boy,” Amalos said, waving a hand negligently toward the corner of the room, “and mix more clay.”
Davud stood there in the center of the room, hoping Amalos would see Çeda, perhaps so he wouldn’t have to explain her presence, but when he stayed hunched over his work like a vulture, Davud cleared his throat and said, “I’ve brought someone to see you, Master Amalos.”
How strange, Çeda thought. Such a confident young man elsewhere, but here, before her very eyes, he’d reverted to the untried apprentice.
Amalos still didn’t turn, making Davud look positively miserable. “Master Amalos, I’ve brought someone to see you.”
“What?” At last Amalos swung his head around to where Çeda stood. “Who are you?”
With that Davud ducked his head and walked over to the corner, where a ewer and a bucket of red powder lay, leaving Çeda to fend for herself.
“I’m Çeda,” she said. When he continued to stare, his white, bushy eyebrows creeping dangerously toward one another, she clarified, “Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala? You knew my mother, and you know Dardzada, who was my guardian.”
A look of recognition came over his face. “Not your guardian for very long, though, was he?” He turned back to his tablet.
“No, I suppose he wasn’t.”
When he continued with his work, she could see she was going to have to take the conversation into her own hands. “I’ve come to ask you of the Kings, and the night of Beht Ihman.” He paused for a moment, but then continued with his task, and Çeda went on. “I wonder if there are any texts about that night.”
“There are hundreds,” he said, his white beard waggling.
“Yes, but I want those that were written in that time,” she paused, glancing toward Davud, who was engrossed in his mixing, and lowered her voice, “by those who saw.”
“None but the Kings saw. The Kings and the gods themselves.”
Çeda spoke more quietly still. “There must have been others.”
Amalos’s stylus finished the curl it was making through the red clay but then paused, suspended above the tablet, shaking with age, or perhaps a sudden and acute anxiety. He did not turn as he said, “Davud, dear boy. I’ve completely lost the day. Go and tell Master Nezahum I won’t be able to meet her today, won’t you? Ask her if we might meet tomorrow over morning meal.”
“But you weren’t to meet her until midday.”
“I’ve too much to do. Now go on.”
“But the clay . . .”
“Forget the clay, Davud.”
Davud frowned, but he washed his hands and dried them off with a nearby towel, which he threw on the table before leaving, but not before shooting Çeda a look, one she could only describe as half relief, half resentment.
“Close the door, won’t you?” Amalos said, returning to his work.
Çeda did. The old door creaked before the latch rattled home.
At this, Amalos turned in his chair and regarded Çeda. His bushy white brows lowered as he studied her. “You say Ahyanesh was your mother.”
“She was.”
“And your father?”
Çeda had been asked this a thousand times by the men and women she met—though far less often by women—and usually she would answer with the truth: that she had no father. She couldn’t remember a time he’d been in her life, and the few times she recalled asking her mother of him, she had answered with a scowl or a grunt or a pinch on the ear. Only once had she answered, and it struck Çeda like a hammer.
Your father? she’d snapped. Your father would kill you the moment he learned you were alive.
Çeda remembered meeting her mother’s eyes, seeing her look of shock, as if she deeply regretted what she’d just said, but she never took the words back. She’d been silent, allowing Çeda to absorb them. She cried herself to sleep that night, convinced her father would one day slay her while she slept.
“I never knew my father,” Çeda replied.
“But you must know—”
“I don’t.” Çeda composed herself. “I don’t know. I wish I knew more.”
The white tufts of his brows quivered as if wrestling with one another. “Tell me why you’re asking of Beht Ihman.”
Çeda had known he would ask—any one of the masters in the collegia would. She’d been prepared to lie, but there was something about Amalos, about the way he was looking at her, stern yet caring, inquisitive yet deferential. She’d never felt quite so respected, not from Emre, not from Osman. Certainly not from Dardzada. It made her want to tell Amalos the truth, to repay his honest concern, but she couldn’t. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.
“I wish to know because I was caught out on Beht Zha’ir four nights ago. And I saw one of them. One of the asirim. I merely wished to know of
their history.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“You’ve heard the tales.”
“I want to know the truth.”
Amalos whipped one arm in the air as if he were swatting at one of the rattlewings that swarmed the adichara. “The truth is a mirage, changing with the winds of the desert. The truth is lost, Çedamihn, and you’ll not uncover it here.”
“Then where can the truth be found?”
“Find Saliah for your truth.”
Çeda frowned. Many refused to believe that Saliah existed. Others thought she might, but that she would never allow herself to be found, even if one knew where to look. Others believed she could be found, but only at a time and place of Saliah’s choosing. Whatever the case, it was clear Amalos didn’t believe in her, and that Çeda was being dismissed. But if he was so determined to hide the truth of Beht Ihman from her, why had he sent Davud away? Why had he asked her these questions?
“I’ve come here, Amalos. I’ve come here because Davud trusts you. I’ve come here because you are learned. I’d rather you help me, because this is a dangerous path I’m walking. I know that. But I’m going to learn the truth of that night whether you help me or not.”
Amalos seemed to become smaller at those words, as if he were shrinking away from the danger he saw lying before Çeda. His wrinkled eyes quivered. His lips flushed.
“You know,” Çeda said. “You know what happened.”
“What I know will do you no good.” He turned back to his desk, picked up his stylus, and began making careful marks into the red clay.
“Coward.”
He turned his head toward her but did not meet her eyes as he said, “A coward, perhaps, but one who lives.”
Çeda waited for him to say more, waited for him to change his mind, but soon enough she realized he wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever.
As she opened the door to leave, she was startled to find Davud standing there, his eyes wide as the moons. Gone was the young man she’d had tea with; he’d been replaced by a boy. He straightened himself, running his hands down his robes to smooth out unseen wrinkles. He was plainly asking—pleading—for her not to speak of this to Amalos. Without a word Çeda made her way past him, out and into the cool corridor that would lead her back through the scriptorium and into the heat of Sharakhai. If Davud wished to spy upon that old fool, who was she to stop him?
When she made it back to the streets, the rightful sounds of the city returned. People. Masses of people. Talking, walking, leading horses and carts and wagons and goats. But she also heard a wind chime, a simple wind chime, and it reminded her of something Amalos had said: Find Saliah for your truth.
Suddenly, it felt as though a great shroud had been lifted from her mind, and she remembered the chimes. She’d heard that sound out in the desert when she was young. Her mother had taken her on a skiff to see a woman who lived there, alone, far from the cramped bustle of Sharakhai. Saliah. She could remember meeting her when she was a child. Twice. Thrice. Who knew how many times?
By Thaash’s golden skin, how could she have forgotten?
And with this, another memory was spurred, of a vision in a tree of chimes. The blade of ebon steel. The hands of a King who granted it to her. It was the memory she’d been struggling to recall when she’d seen Sukru, moments after the asir with the golden crown had kissed her.
Suddenly the chime no longer felt like a random occurrence. It felt like a summons.
SHARAKHAI’S WESTERN HARBOR was a pale imitation of the great northern and southern harbors. It had a smattering of docks built into a cove filled with sand and standing rocks. It wasn’t well suited to ships, but it was the best the west end had to offer, and it had a clear channel out past the bedrock to the great desert beyond. Still, only small ships could dock here, which in some ways was better for those who lived nearby. Low dock fees meant hunters could go out and shoot hare or jackal or even the massive sand skates, which were difficult to catch but whose white meat was rich and exceptionally tasty when roasted over open flame.
No lighthouses stood at this harbor, but if ships were late or feared lost, braziers would be lit and raised onto tall wooden poles to see them home. A few ships were heading out to the dunes already, the tips of their sharp sails cutting through the rays of the rising sun. Çeda went to the ship at the very end of the quay, a two-masted ketch that looked as though the next windstorm would rip it from its runners and scatter its dry remains across the desert.
She knocked on the hull as she walked and then headed toward one of the three skiffs moored to the other side of the pier. “Djaga, I’m taking a skiff.”
Above, footsteps thumped across the deck and a woman with kinky red hair and chocolate skin and a clean scar along her jaw leaned over the gunwales. As always, Çeda was shocked by the beauty of her gray-green eyes, her ebony skin. She might have been a queen, though Djaga herself would sneer at such a notion. She’d been a dirt dog once—a selhesh, Djaga always corrected her, Bakhi’s chosen; I was no dog—but she’d left the pits years ago. She’d forged a brutal path up through the ranks, and then, when her stock was at its highest, she’d agreed to a bout in the killing pits, where fighters fought to the death. Usually twelve dirt dogs entered at once and fought until one remained, but in Djaga’s case only two had entered the arena. She’d been pitted against Hathahn, a massive brute, the most efficient and cruelest fighter the pits had ever seen. He’d been victorious in twenty-nine killing bouts before finally retiring, but he’d been lured back for one final match. The chance to take Djaga, a woman who’d won every one of her thirty matches, was simply too great.
He’d left that pit with vacant eyes, blood pouring from the fissure Djaga had cleaved in his skull with a bronze ax. And Djaga, despite Osman’s pleadings, had turned her back on the pits. She’d taken the money and bought herself a small but sleek ketch. She’d spent wisely since, and now she had two ships and was one of the more powerful merchants in the western harbor.
Djaga was holding a wooden worm gear in one hand, a grease-filled rag in the other. She set to slathering the grease into the nooks and crannies of the gear. “Only today?” she asked in her rolling Kundhunese accent.
“Only today.”
“Don’t scrape the runners again, girl.”
“I won’t.”
Djaga rolled her eyes, but then smiled, blew Çeda a kiss, and was gone.
“Djaga?”
She returned a moment later, frowning in that way she had, half amusement, half annoyance. “What, oh Çeda-of-ceaseless-demands?”
Çeda glanced around the dock and Djaga’s ship before speaking. “There’s rumor that Macide has come to the harbor.”
Djaga stopped what she was doing. “Why you always messing about with things a right-minded girl wouldn’t be messing with?”
“Have you seen him, Djaga?”
Djaga’s expression became flat and final. She lowered her voice before speaking. “Where it comes to the Al’afwa Khadar, my eyes are closed. Their fight is not mine, Çeda.”
“Think nothing of it,” Çeda said, stepping back along the dock toward the skiff she meant to take. “It’s just something I overheard in the bazaar.”
She’d returned to greasing the gear, but at Çeda’s words she lowered it and stared straight into Çeda’s eyes. “You taking care, girl?”
“I always take care.”
Djaga grunted caustically. “No, you don’t. But hear my words. Try harder this time.”
Çeda nodded and Djaga left.
After untying the skiff, Çeda dropped down to the sand and hauled the craft out from dock. The runners—made from shaped and finely polished skimwood—allowed it to glide like silk over the sand. She hoisted the sail up the lone mast and let the wind fill it before running alongside the skiff and jumping in. The wind was fickle, but it bore her toward the
mouth of the small harbor, and soon she was out onto open sand, sailing over the shallow dunes as the heat of the desert began to build. Sharakhai dwindled behind her until she could see only Tauriyat, and all too soon that was gone as well.
As she adjusted her course northward, the desert wind blowing athwart the skiff, her nerves began to build. After the chime in the city, she had begun to remember more and more. Her mother had taken her this way many times when she was young. She recalled the six-pieces memma had paid to the fat man at the harbor, the ride before the sun had fully risen, the tall, handsome woman they’d found far out in the desert. It felt like a dream, so distant it might have never happened.
Off the starboard bow, she saw a red, misshapen feature. Irhüd’s Finger, a tall standing stone, notable for the simple fact that there was nothing else near it. It was not as impressive as she remembered, but it was tall and could be seen for leagues around. She pulled at the rudder, changing the direction of the skiff until she was on a bearing aligned directly with the sail’s short shadow. She continued for hours more until a swath of land with tufts of withered grass clinging to it appeared along the horizon. She reached the plot of land in little time and misjudged her speed in the strong wind. Before she could lower the sail, sand gave way to rock. She winced as the runners ground over it.
Djaga was going to kill her.
She dropped the anchor anyway and headed for Saliah’s home. She could dimly hear the sound of tinkling crystal, and it brought more memories to the surface. She recalled capering around a mudbrick house as her mother spoke with Saliah. She recalled eating a honey sweet. But more than anything she remembered those chimes. How by Tulathan’s bright eyes could she have forgotten them?
She had no idea if Saliah might be home, but a tall woman was standing in the open doorway, staring directly at Çeda as she approached. The crook she leaned upon had a head that curled like a snail’s shell, and it glinted brightly from small golden gems, or perhaps bits of glass, that had somehow been embedded in the wood. Her rich brown hair was tied into a thick braid behind her back. Her jaw was strong, her eyes sharp as cut stone. Çeda remembered her being tall as the sky when she was young. She thought it might have been the world as viewed through the eyes of an eight-year-old girl that had made Saliah seem so, but even now that Çeda was grown, even now that she’d lived to see thousands upon thousands of women in the Great City, she’d never seen anyone like Saliah. She was a full head taller than Çeda, who was not short for a woman. Surely Saliah’s blood was mixed with the first men and women, the ones the old gods made before they left for farther shores.
Twelve Kings in Sharakhai Page 22