Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  He smiled and chewed noisily. “I don’t know, it gives me a bit of character, don’t you think? You’ve no idea how many times I’ve been asked about them.”

  “By tarts, no doubt.”

  He smiled and winked. “Tarts can be tasty.”

  She tore off a piece of bread and whipped it at him. “You’re disgusting.”

  He tilted his head, as if to say he couldn’t disagree. “Where’ve you been, Çedamihn?” he asked while pouring the wine into two glasses that looked as if the glassblower had just woken from a three-day drunk. “Have you seen yourself lately? You look a right mess. Your eyes are dark, your step is slow. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You’ve been skipping classes of late. And the White Wolf has apparently declined to enter the upcoming tourney.”

  “And how would you know all this?”

  He shrugged and downed a healthy swallow of wine. “Asked around a bit.”

  She hid her surprise behind a swig of her own wine. These past weeks she’d been sure that Emre had everything else on his mind but her, and here he’d been checking up on her.

  “Keeping secrets?” he pressed.

  “Uncovering secrets,” she amended.

  Emre’s wineglass halted halfway to his lips, and he grew more serious. “Ah.” He shifted position on the well-worn carpet and sat straighter. He looked as if he was about to say something, probably to warn her away from things she was already doing, so she talked over him.

  “I’ve found something new.”

  He stared. This was clearly not what he’d been expecting her to say.

  “Let me show you.” She went and got her book. She lifted the lamp and showed him the words she’d found highlighted in her mother’s ink, and the different markings in the gutters.

  “And you see?” she said, pointing to the marks, “some are slanted and other’s aren’t.”

  “Why?”

  “An excellent question, dear Emre.”

  She sat back down and let him look through it, glass-shielded lamp held close to the pages so he could discern the different colored inks. She drank her wine and nibbled on the bread, wondering where to start. She wanted to tell him of her time in the desert with Saliah. She wanted to tell him what she’d learned, what she planned.

  The words were on the tip of her tongue—I’m the daughter of a King, Emre, and I’m going to the blooming fields to prove it—but they never came. Instead, she blurted out, “I don’t like that you’re running with the Host.” She knew immediately it had been the wrong thing to say, but it was already out there, sitting between them on the carpet like a fresh pile of shit. “They’re only going to get you in trouble.”

  He lowered the book, but not the lamp. “Let me understand this. You are lecturing me on running afoul of the Kings?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  He raised the book again. “I’m running some packages for them, just like I did for Osman.”

  “Except Osman doesn’t attract any attention. He’s careful.”

  “I’m careful. I know what I’m doing, Çeda.”

  “They’re using you, Emre.”

  “I know very well they’re using me, Çeda. They need someone who hasn’t been connected to the Moonless Host, someone the Silver Spears won’t suspect.”

  “But they will. They’ll figure it out eventually. Or someone will squawk, like they always do. There are enough who hate what the Host bring to the city.”

  He snorted and flipped the pages. “And what do they bring? A sense of realism? A sense that the Kings are not invincible? That there will come a day when they no longer rule in Sharakhai?”

  “Perhaps, but what good is it going to do if you get caught running packages for the Host?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  Çeda felt her face heat up. “I’m trying to learn the truth about my mother. You’re risking your future for men who would use you every bit as much as the House of Kings would.”

  Emre went silent. He’d gone terribly still.

  “Look,” Çeda said. “I know you—”

  Emre raised his hand, forestalling her. “Did you see the one without markings?”

  “What?”

  “Here,” he said, motioning with the lamp, “tomb.”

  Çeda felt her fingertips tingle as she took the book from him. He was right. She hadn’t noticed it, despite having been through the book hundreds of times, because there were no markings in the gutter. But there it was, tomb, highlighted in her mother’s ink.

  Forty-six words, then—forty-five with markings and one without.

  But why? Why would one be different? What makes it special? It was the end of the sequence, she realized. There was no mark, because it was the final word. And suddenly the rest of the puzzle fell into place.

  She got up and went for her pen and ink and a fresh piece of paper from her dwindling stack.

  “What is it?”

  “Shhhh!”

  The marks must indicate a number of pages, either backward or forward. Now she only needed to find the one that pointed to the final word and work her way backward.

  She found it three pages back—his—with three straight marks in the gutter. And then the next, five pages forward—toward—with five slanted marks. On the puzzle took her, until she’d reached the very beginning.

  It was another poem, she realized, written in the same meter as her mother’s.

  From golden dunes,

  And ancient runes,

  The King of glittering stone;

  By inverted thorn,

  His skin was torn,

  And yet his strength did grow.

  While far afield,

  His love unsealed,

  ’Til Tulathan does loom;

  Then petals’ dust,

  Like lovers’ lust,

  Will draw him toward his tomb.

  She read it through three times, her fingers shaking and her mind racing. The thorn could mean the adichara thorns, which everyone knew were poison. And petals’ dust might mean pollen from the blooms. But the key was the King of Glittering Stone. Who could he be? She knew Azad never slept, and that Cahil went to the blooming fields to tend the Adichara. She knew Besir watched from the shadows, that Husamettín could cleave stone with his great sword, that Ihsan was cruel and Mesut was kind and Kiral led them all. But these were all children’s tales. In truth she knew almost nothing about any of them. Nothing that mattered, in any case.

  “Çeda, what is it?” Emre was worried, more worried than she ever remembered seeing him.

  She had to force herself to lift her eyes from the paper. “My mother found something, Emre. She found secrets and hid them in this book.” She flipped the poem into his lap. “It’s related to the asirim that spoke to me, it’s related to the Kings, and it’s related to my mother’s death.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “When she took me to Saliah’s, the day before she died, my mother said she had four of their poems. Saliah said four is not twelve. I think there might be one poem for each of the Kings. And they contain clues to how they might be harmed.”

  “That’s foolish.”

  “Is it?” She pointed to the paper. “Read it again.”

  Emre read it over, looking between paper and book, his face growing dark. “It reads like a riddle.”

  “It does.”

  “But who would write such a thing?”

  “I’ve no idea. Nalamae, perhaps? Some accounts say she wasn’t on Tauriyat on the night of Beht Ihman. Perhaps she frowned upon the Kings’ dark bargain. Perhaps she’s left us clues about how the bargain might be unraveled.”

  “Why not simply tell us?”

  Why not, indeed? “That’s why the
y were hunting her,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “The gods have been hunting Nalamae. There are at least five recorded cases of Nalamae’s supposed rebirth.”

  “The desert is rife with such stories.”

  “Maybe for good reason, Emre. Perhaps they don’t want their secrets revealed.”

  “Well then”—Emre lifted the paper—“if this is one of their secrets, then what’s the answer?”

  “I don’t know.” She picked up the poem and read over the words again. “But you can bet by the gods’ own blood I’m going to find out.”

  SHE NEVER DID CONFESS her plans to Emre. They got good and drunk that night, and she found her old feelings for him returning. She even thought he might feel the same, but when she unbraided her hair and let it fall about her shoulders, he looked at her as if he were suddenly shocked by the very idea, then mumbled something about being tired. She’d thought about slipping into his bed anyway, but that look on his face, as if she were a disease-ridden whore, doused the flames within her.

  In the days that followed she found herself hoping he wouldn’t be home so they wouldn’t have to discuss it. She needn’t have worried. The one morning they saw each other he seemed as eager to avoid talking as she did.

  She was desperate to solve this one riddle before Beht Zha’ir, so she arranged for Djaga to come out of retirement and take up her classes at the pits, a thing she did as a favor to Çeda from time to time. Over the following week, Çeda practically lived in Amalos’s office in the scriptorium cellars. She brought food and water with her so she could stay longer. She even stayed through the morning one day, but when she heard voices echoing down, she scribbled her next night’s subjects for Davud and slipped away.

  She wanted to research the parts of the poem she didn’t understand. There was the “glittering stone,” but she didn’t know what kind of stone, or which King might wear one. The “golden dunes and ancient runes” was another clue, but again, she had little idea where to begin. So instead she read of the different tribes, hoping she might stumble across something. She read of Tribe Salmük, the Black Veils. Tribe Ebros, the Standing Stones. Tribe Masal, the Red Wind. Tribe Kadri, the Burning Hands. Tribe Kenan and Halarijan and Rafik and all the rest. She searched for any signs or symbols that looked even remotely like the one that had marked her mother’s forehead, but there were none. In this, the Kings had done their work well.

  At the end of each day, Çeda was swimming in the stories. The names of the shaikhs, the territory where the wandering tribes roamed, the breeds of horses they raised, the types of ships they first sailed onto the desert, and the skimwood forests that were culled for their precious wood. She even learned of their tribal designs, the subtle differences in the tattoos they used. She discovered that the tribesman she’d seen in the Haddah, where Emre had been assaulted, were of Tribe Kadri, the Burning Hands, the only ones who inked the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet. It felt important in some way to know this, but just how, she couldn’t say.

  As the nights wore on, her desperation grew. She began skimming the material, which made her feel as though she were missing things, and when that prompted her to go back and reread, sometimes two or three times, her research went all the slower. She soon felt her resolve beginning to weaken. I could wait, she told herself. I could take my time, go in another six weeks, on the next Holy Night. But she knew those feelings for what they were—excuses not to do what she’d vowed. No, she would continue as planned, no matter what happened here.

  Finally, only one night remained before Beht Zha’ir. She was reading a census of Sharakhai, hoping some of the names might link any one of the Kings to any one of the tribes. She wanted to understand their heritage, because the riddle of the King of Glittering Stone may very well be related to a particular region in the Shangazi, but there was nothing. Nothing. There was nothing on this infernal tablet, nothing in these infernal scrolls, nothing in the dozens upon dozens of books she’d read these past many weeks. This was all useless. She wanted to hurl the tablet across the room, but her mother had instilled in her a love of words that was too strong to break, so she stood and grabbed her chair instead, lifted it high into the air, and brought it crashing down against the floor over and over until it was little better than kindling.

  She stood there, breathing heavily, gripping the broken remains of the chair in her white-knuckled fists. Which was the precise moment she realized that someone was watching her.

  She turned and found a man wearing the robes of a collegia scholar standing in the doorway. It was Davud, she realized after one breathless moment, staring at her wide-eyed as she’d ever seen him.

  “I’m so sorry, Davud.”

  “You can’t wreck the place, Çeda!”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “They’ll find out! They’ll expel me! They’ll force my family to repay all that Amalos has invested in my education!”

  “I’ll take care of the chair. I’ll take it away and bring another.”

  “No!” Davud rushed to the wood, grabbing the remnants and tossing them into a loose pile. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m sorry, Davud.”

  As he continued gathering the smaller pieces, even splinters, his movements slowed, then stopped altogether. “You can’t come back here, Çeda.”

  “I know. It was a fool’s errand in any case. The Kings were too thorough.”

  “I can’t risk it,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her.

  “I know, Davud. I wouldn’t have come after tomorrow night in any case.”

  At this, Davud stood straight and looked at her. “What do you mean? Why not?”

  She met his gaze, which seemed surprisingly mature. “It doesn’t matter, Davud. You’ve done more than enough for me already.” You needn’t be burdened with my fool plans.

  She began walking away, but he grabbed her wrist, releasing her when he saw that it bothered her. “Tomorrow night is Beht Zha’ir.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “I won’t tell you that, Davud, so stop asking.” She stepped in and hugged him. “Be well.”

  And then she left, feeling strangely free. She’d so hoped that there was something hidden within the collegia, but the Kings had had centuries to alter their history. How could she hope to uncover the truth by pecking through random texts? The failure made her all the more sure that her plans for tomorrow night were the right course.

  She returned home with a strong desire to sit with Emre, share more bread, share more wine as well, perhaps enough to summon the courage to tell him. She had to tell him. She had to.

  I’m the daughter of a King.

  But he didn’t return that night. She stayed up until dawn, hoping he would come home. And he didn’t return the following day. She slept, hoping she would hear the door open, hear the creak of the floorboards as he made his way to his room. But she never did, and by the time she woke late in the day, it was time to begin her preparations.

  She checked her clothes, prepared her small bag with water and provisions. She sharpened then oiled her shamshir, and then her kenshar. She applied a fresh coat of oil to her zilij, a board she’d fashioned from skimwood, the same treated wood used for the runners of the great sandships. The zilij had rounded edges shaped and polished as much by the desert sands as by the hands of its maker; as tall as her legs were long, a handspan wide, the bottom surface gleaming with paraffin oil that would protect it when she skimmed along the arid dunes of the Shangazi.

  All too soon the sun set behind distant clouds. What if Emre didn’t come? Perhaps their distance over these past weeks was a not-so-subtle sign from the gods, but if so, what did it indicate? That she shouldn’t say farewell? Or that she shouldn’t go?

  With dusk spreading over the desert, the sounds of the city dwindled in
preparation for the holy night. It’s time, Çeda realized. I can’t wait any longer. She changed into her black fighting dress and retrieved her jewelry box from its hidden alcove. Placing it on the bed before her, she slid the top off and pushed the velvet tray inside just so while pinching the wooden base. The tray, which contained a few rings and bracelets and anklets that Çeda never wore, lifted free to reveal the hidden compartment beneath.

  Three adichara petals lay within. One was shaped like a spearhead, which seemed fitting, so she lifted it carefully and whispered a few quick prayers—to Rhia for guidance and Tulathan for forbearance—then placed it beneath her tongue. As the taste and scent of spices filled her, she took a deep breath and released it as she would a draw from a hookah filled with the rarest of tabbaqs.

  Hurry, Emre, please.

  Her hands shaking with vigor, she returned the jewelry box to its hiding place and took up her sword harness from the bed. This she pulled around her shoulders and strapped across her chest. She took up her shamshir next and slipped it into the sheath over her left shoulder. She buckled on a belt that held a waterskin and her kenshar and a leather pouch, one she would fill with more petals. If all went as planned, she’d have little need for petals, but one never knew, so the pouch would remain.

  Finally she picked up her zilij. A leather cord ran the length of it so she could hang it over her shoulder, which she did now, laying it alongside her shamshir.

  She was about to leave when she heard voices in the street. She moved to her bedroom window and peeked through the curtains. By the coppery glow of twilight she could see two men farther up the lane. One, by Rhia’s grace, was Emre, wearing sirwal trousers, laced sandals, and his wide leather belt and tooled bracers. The other was a stocky man wearing a long thawb and a brown turban that covered his face.

  The other voice . . . She recognized it, but couldn’t quite place it.

  She couldn’t leave without being seen, so she waited, and soon the two of them were hugging, slapping one another’s backs, and parting ways. The sturdy man headed toward the bazaar while Emre returned home.

  “Who were you talking to?” she asked when he stepped into their sitting room.