He would know what Ahya had planned to do. She was sure of it. But she didn’t even know his name. She had no more hope of finding him than she had of sprouting wings and flying from the desert.
She sailed for hours, not knowing whether she was headed toward Sharakhai or not. The past played through her mind, her days with her mother, the days since her death, and all of it looked different now. It was a different hue, tainted forever. She felt adrift, utterly aimless.
And why not? she thought. Why shouldn’t I be?
As the sun began to set, she let go of the rudder and lay down in the bottom of the skiff. She stared at the sky, felt the swell of the sands, the twists and turns of the Great Shangazi. She heard the shush of the skis, saw high clouds drifting at an angle that cut across her path like a knife.
“Who am I?” she said to the sky.
I am the daughter of a woman whose final act was to slap her own blood—the thing she claimed was most important in this world—and then abandon her.
I am meant to be a tool, and yet I am utterly unprepared to be one.
I am a means to an end, and a poor one at that.
I am unloved.
Unwanted.
“I am nothing,” she said at last, wondering if the gods were watching, laughing at her. “I would speak with you all before I pass to the farther shores. Will you grant me that, at least? One small conversation with the one you played so falsely?”
When the sun had fully set, and the light of dusk burned the western sky bloody, the skiff ran aground. Çeda lay there, uncaring, hoping to simply sleep, but when sleep would not come, she sat up. And gasped.
There, standing like some long-forgotten monolith, was Tauriyat, the mount where the twelve palaces of the Kings stood. She could see no other part of the city, only Tauriyat and the Kings, beckoning to her like a friend, or an enemy tiring of the chase.
Deep within her, Çeda felt a piece of her old hatred cupped and sheltered like an ember in the sand, ready to set the city aflame. Small words, Çeda thought. Weak words. For she was still largely rudderless. Then again, she knew more than she had known before—quite a bit more, in fact. And knowledge was a form of power, an effective lever that might do much, with little applied force, if only the proper fulcrum could be found
As she stepped from the skiff and was reaching for the gunwale to tug it from the rocks, she noticed a mark on the meat of her thumb. It was blood, she realized. Saliah’s blood, left when Çeda had helped her up.
The blood of one of the ancients. And she, the blood of Kings. And then she understood. With a clarity she’d never felt before, she knew what she had to do.
After dragging the skiff out and setting the skis on a fresh path, she pushed hard, ran beside it, and jumped in.
Then sailed for Sharakhai.
ON THE THIRD-STORY ROOFTOP of the Four Arrows, one of the oldest and most famous inns along the Trough, Emre lay flat as a sand skate. He faced not the Trough itself—the myriad sounds of which he could hear billowing up behind him—but a walled estate to the rear. The estate was not overly large, but it was a complicated affair, with a half dozen verandas and balconies situated around it. There was even a limestone gazebo at the center of the tasteful garden.
As had been true for the past three days, no one walked the grounds, no one took tea on the verandas, and the gazebo looked dirty and untended, as though it hadn’t been used in years. Few enough had come and gone, at least in the hours Emre had spent watching. A gardener had arrived on the first day and spent four hours watering and trimming the bushes and flowering plants along the garden paths. A water wagon had come the second day to fill a cistern at the rear of the estate. But today, nothing.
Emre lifted his spyglass and peered through it, looking carefully through each of the windows. Curtains billowed in a strangely cool breeze coming from the east. The curtains made it difficult, but he saw no one within. He swung the spyglass to the right, moving it to watch an old water tower that served Ophir’s, the oldest standing brewery in Sharakhai. A small walkway surrounded the base of the tank, and lying along this—barely visible in the shade—was Darius, an agent of the Moonless Host.
Darius, like Emre, was watching the estate and had been for the past three days. It was Darius as much as the estate itself that Emre kept an eye on. He had no idea what Darius or the Host were hoping to find, but he would learn if he was patient enough.
Today was Savadi, the busiest day along the Trough, and so, as the sun crept lower in the sky and the time for last meals came, the sounds of the city rose up around him. Men and women gathered in the crowded taverns and teahouses, shisha dens and oud parlors, grabbing tables within or sitting on stools along the Trough to watch the passersby. Behind Emre, from within the well of the Four Arrows’ bustling courtyard, poets intoned their lyrical tales. Whistles and the clack of araq glasses on the tables followed each performance, some louder, some softer, depending on the prowess of the poets, who were each given only a short amount of time in which to impress their audience.
Emre worried that this would be another wasted day. From a few carefully placed bribes and by calling in several favors, he knew only that Hamid was looking for something in this part of the city, and Darius had been the one assigned to the task. Even knowing this, he’d practically stumbled upon Darius the first time through the neighborhood. He’d been walking through the streets at dawn, hoping to learn more about who inhabited these homes, when he’d spotted Darius settling himself down on the tower. He’d waited throughout the day, hunkered down in an alley, watching and waiting for Darius to move. But Darius only climbed down after the sun set. Emre had followed him to the Shallows, tracing him back to a smoke house known as The Jackal’s Tail, a seedy place Hamid was known to frequent. That had been enough to confirm he was on the right track. Now he simply needed to figure out what Darius was looking for, and clearly that wasn’t going to happen today.
The idea that had been nagging him for the past several days returned, stronger than before. Go to Hamid. Speak to him directly. They’d grown up together, after all, he and Emre and Çeda and Tariq. For years they’d been inseparable, a covey of four gutter wrens running the streets together until eventually they’d drifted apart, all but Emre and Çeda. But Emre didn’t feel right going to Hamid to offer some meek overture. He had to prove himself, or he’d never get anywhere, friendship or not.
On the water tower, Darius was rising to his knees. Emre was just about to do the same when a covered araba drawn by a pair of tall black horses clattered along the lane leading to the estate. The wagon stopped at the gates, and the footman leapt down and unlocked them. With the jingle of tack and harness mixing with the sounds of revelry, the driver whipped the horses, and the araba rattled into the estate proper, pulling around the circle leading to the house’s covered porch.
In the back of the araba was a pretty young woman with plaited black hair and a blue pendant that hung over her forehead, glinting in the early evening light. After placing a set of brass stairs in place, the footman ran to the front door, used his set of keys to unlock the front entrance, and hurried inside. As the woman stepped down and spoke softly with the driver, the footman returned with a wheeled chair, which he thumped down the front steps and rolled along the gravel until it was abreast of the araba.
Only then did Emre realize there was someone else in the coach. She’d been sitting so low he hadn’t noticed her, a bent old woman swathed in blankets. The younger woman eased her up and helped her to the edge of the araba where, with the attentive footman’s help, they lowered her into the waiting chair. As the three of them moved into the house, the driver whipped the horses and drove away, stopping only to leap down and latch the gates closed behind him.
Lamps were lit within the house, but not a soul was visible, suggesting they’d retired to one of the interior or eastward-facing rooms. Emre thought surely Darius would g
o to investigate, but he didn’t; after a few minutes of watching he climbed down the water tower and was gone, surely taking the street south so that no one from the estate would see him.
Emre remained for a time, watching, hoping for some hint as to who the elder woman was. It might give him some clue as to what it was Hamid wanted here, either from her or one of the others. But nothing presented itself. He would have to learn more, and soon, before Darius sprung whatever plan he had. But how could he do that without being seen? Just then the crowd in the street behind him burst into laughter, the poet continuing only when a semblance of quiet had returned. Just as she began reciting the next verse in a liquid-silver voice, the younger woman from the estate came to one of its south-facing windows and was silhouetted by the lamplight behind her.
He watched until she turned and strode away, and he realized something. He couldn’t do this without Darius seeing him. Nor should he wish to. He’d come to bring himself to the Host’s attention, so that’s what he’d do.
As he made his way to the trellis at the corner of the roof, whistles pierced the night. Someone in the crowd said something, and the poet shot back a sharp reply, and the crowd roared with laughter.
On a blustery morning four days later, Emre strode along the Trough carrying a simple leather satchel. He was wearing his best clothes, which were still no match for even the worst dressed folk of this quarter. He needn’t look like a lord, though, only a passable journeyman.
Reckoning that Darius would be in position by now, Emre headed east and soon came to the estate’s gated entrance. The wind was starting to gust, threatening a sandstorm, which might play to Emre’s advantage if he managed to get in. He pulled on the thin rope to the right of the gate, and a bell rang on the opposite side. A short while later, the footman he’d seen the other day came jogging out to meet him.
“Good day,” he said, eyeing Emre.
“The lady of the house, if you please.”
The footman’s face pinched in confusion or suspicion or both. “Is your business with Matron Zohra or Lady Enasia?”
Emre’s words died on his lips. Enasia?
Years ago he had worked for Galadan the stone mason, building a wall around an extension to Tulathan’s temple. Over the course of their work, he’d often seen a girl—a woman—named Enasia, and he’d made a fool of himself trying to impress her. Once the job had been finished, he’d never seen her again. He’d wanted to—she was a rare dove, indeed—but he’d been too shy to approach her without the excuse of the masonry work. She had been an acolyte in Tulathan’s temple, after all. She might have giggled at his bumbling attempts to beguile her, but she’d never be seen with a gutter wren like him. After a time, he’d simply forgotten about her. And now, here she was again.
He’d spent the sunlit hours of the past three days—and many of the moonlit—asking around the neighborhood, taking care never to be somewhere Darius could see him. He’d learned that the woman who lived here was the Matron Zohra, and that she’d taken ill in recent months. He’d concocted a plan to speak with the woman he’d seen in the window, the Matron’s caregiver, surely, but now the words he’d rehearsed quickly reassembled themselves as the footman’s stare grew more and more cross.
“Forgive me,” Emre said. “It’s Matron Zohra I’ve come for, but I’d best speak with Lady Enasia.”
“What about?”
“Begging your pardon, but the Lady asked me not to say.”
“Then our conversation stops here.” The footman spun and began walking away.
“Please! There’s secrecy, but it’s in the name of Matron Zohra’s health and privacy.”
The footman turned around, but made no move back toward Emre.
Emre patted the satchel at his side. “Lady Enasia was once an acolyte in Tulathan’s temple. That’s how I know her, but I’m now a member of a caravan that trades in Malasan. I’ve been to Samaril. The apothecaries there have wondrous things, not the least of which are elixirs that can alleviate and even cure derangements of the mind.” Emre had learned little about the Matron’s condition, just enough street gossip to know that she was suffering some sort of mental malady. “I’m not at liberty to say what the cure might be, nor its cost, but”—he patted the satchel again—“believe me when I say it could help the Matron.”
The footman glanced back at the residence. From the look on his face he was teetering somewhere between barking at Emre to leave and believing Emre’s story lest he upset the woman he worked for.
“It makes little difference to me,” Emre said. “I don’t even know the Matron. But Enasia does, and I believe she cares.”
A strange mixture of confusion and doubt played over the footman’s face, but then he made a decision. “Your name?”
“Tell her Emre’s come calling.”
“Wait here.” The footman returned to the house, and soon Enasia strode from within wearing a peach-colored abaya with orange embroidery that the wind pressed against her body. Her eyes scoured him his as she walked, struggling to remember who he was. Clearly there was a spark of remembrance, but full recognition came only when he smiled and said, “Apologies for such an abrupt reunion.”
“Emre?”
“The very same,” he said, allowing his smile to widen.
“You”—she looked him up and down—“you’ve grown!”
When last he’d seen her, he’d been sixteen and a full head shorter than he was now, with little enough muscle on his frame. There was a clear glint in her eye as she took him in. He’d seen that look before, on other women. “What brings you here?” she asked. “Why did you tell Rengin that we’d spoken?”
“In truth, you brought me here. I was walking the Trough several nights past. Having arrived just the day before, I decided to walk for a bit. I wandered Sharakhai’s streets for old times’ sake, and who should I see riding along in a wagon but the lovely acolyte I’d met years before!” He waved vaguely southward. “I lost track of the wagon for a bit, but saw it leaving through these gates. It was too late to call on you then, but I promised myself I’d stop by to say hello before I had to leave again.”
“And you told Rengin you had a cure for Matron Zohra?”
“Well, yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ah.” Emre fumbled a bit, allowing some of his old feelings of awkwardness around this woman to return. “It’s a bit embarrassing, but I didn’t wish to come to you knowing nothing. So I asked around. I was hoping to learn more about you, but you seem to be somewhat of an unknown around here.”
She nodded, the wind blowing her bangs playfully. “I find the neighbors . . . unfriendly.”
“Yes, well, when I heard that your Matron was sick, and a little about her malady, it was like a sign from the gods themselves. I told Rengin the truth. I’ve been to Samaril, many times, and the caravan master I work for plies trade in, among other things, the elixirs that can be found there. I bought some from him in hopes it might help your Matron.”
“You bought some for a woman you didn’t know?”
“But you know her. And I know you. And, well, it didn’t really cost me anything. Burhan owes me a bit in the way of back wages, you see. . . .”
Enasia offered a knowing smile. It wasn’t difficult to pretend that it made him even more uncomfortable, but he held her eye and gave her a smile of his own. He didn’t want her thinking he was still the callow youth she remembered.
“Sailing on a caravan,” she said wistfully. “To Malasan! I’ve always wondered what that would be like. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Tell me it’s wonderful!”
“Well, if by wonderful you mean that your deepest desire is to find yourself with hopelessly cracked lips, or to drink of water that tastes of thousand-year-old rain barrels, or to eat mealy biscuits that taste like the first gods themselves had tossed them aside as inedible, then yes, it’s wonde
rful.”
Her smile scarcely wavered. “It can’t be so bad as that!”
He returned her smile. “No, not so bad as that, but truly”—he looked up to the ancient stone buildings around them—“there are days where I yearn for my old life here in Sharakhai.”
“Then come back!”
He chuckled. “If only it were that simple.”
She leaned in. “It is that simple.”
He leaned in as well. “Tell that to the man I still owe a hundred rahl to.”
“A hundred rahl! What did you do, kill his favorite horse?”
“Something like that.”
“Emre, you must tell me.”
“Another time, perhaps.” He motioned to the residence behind her. “And you? You’ve left the service of Tulathan?”
She shrugged as the wind blew her hair into her face, and she flicked it out of her eyes, twisting her head until the wind blew it back. “In truth, I was never in the service of Tulathan. My father arranged for my place there, but I never loved it.” She glanced behind her again. “But I’ve found a good home now. Matron Zohra is a wonderful mistress, and she’s taught me things I never would have learned had I stayed. I might even deliver for the highborn, as she has.”
Emre frowned. “Deliver?”
Enasia laughed. “Matron Zohra is a midwife. Was a midwife. Her health, as you’ve learned, has indeed taken a turn for the worse.”
“I’m sorry to hear it confirmed. She was a midwife, you say?”
“Yes! For twenty years, to many of the finest Lords and Ladies of Goldenhill. And that after leaving the service of the Maidens.”
Emre had to suppress the urge to look for the presence of the deadly women. “She was a Maiden?”
Twelve Kings in Sharakhai Page 24