Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “What keeps you, Emre?” Enasia continued to stare into the fire, her calves scissoring lazily as her bottom swayed back and forth.

  “The wine. You’ve a taste for something sweet, I hope.”

  Before arriving, he’d planned on waiting until they’d finished a glass or two, letting her drink deeply before giving her the soporific. Drink, like so many other vices, was something Enasia wasn’t the least bit shy about, but the truth of it was he couldn’t stand to be with her any longer. After three weeks with her, the thought of spending another night, even a short one, made him shudder.

  She rolled over, baring herself unabashedly. “I’ve a taste for something salty,” she stared down at his crotch, “but the wine will do for now.”

  He moved to her side, decanter in one hand, glasses cradled in the other. “Then wine it shall be.” He set the decanter down and offered her the tainted wine.

  He thought she might be difficult, insist on making love before they shared their wine, but true to everything Emre had come to expect from her, she took the glass and downed half of it in one swallow. She stared at the wine with a puckered expression. “A bit sour, don’t you think?” Then she downed the rest before pouring herself another. “Drinkable just the same.”

  Emre glanced at the open doorway. “You’re sure Zohra won’t hear us?”

  “Why are you so distracted? I told you, she’s locked in her room.”

  “Even still. I wouldn’t like her to know.”

  “Why not? I may have gentlemen callers.”

  “You said she was very particular.”

  “She is. Or was . . .” She drained the last of her wine and held out the glass for Emre to refill. He did, and she shrugged. “In any case, you could wage a battle in this room and no one on the first floor would hear it. And even if she did, she wouldn’t care. Not anymore.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “She becomes less like her old hateful self every day. I tell you, she can already see the swaying of grasses in the green, farther fields.”

  “There are days I wish I could see them.”

  “And why, dear Emre, would you wish to pass beyond this world?”

  To beg Rafa for forgiveness. “We’ll all be there soon enough, I suppose. I just wonder what it’s like. I wonder if the old gods are truly there.”

  “Of course they are. Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “They passed beyond these shores, who’s to say they wouldn’t pass beyond the next?”

  Enasia frowned. “I never thought of it that way.”

  Of course not. You’re too concerned about stealing from an old, dying woman.

  Her eyes began to droop. She seemed to notice, for she drew in a sudden breath and leaned over to kiss Emre’s neck. “Why do you still have your clothes on?”

  While pulling at the ties to his shirt and tugging the tails free from his trousers, she pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him. One hand slipped beneath his shirt and raked his skin, then wriggled down into his trousers, stroking him while she stroked herself. He worried that her thirst for lovemaking would throw off the effects of the soporific, at least for a time, but he trusted Hamid’s promise—a count of two hundred, he’d said, and her eyes will close of their own accord.

  He laid her gently down on the tiger skin, laid kisses on her lips, at the hollow where neck met shoulder, on her breasts, and then stitched more of them slowly across her soft belly. As he did, her head lolled to one side, and the hand she’d been running through his hair fell to her side with a thump.

  “Enasia?” he called softly.

  She didn’t respond, and a soft snore mingled with the crackle of the nearby flames.

  He rose immediately and found a blanket to lay over her. Then he poured the remaining wine into the base of a decorative fern near the window. He left just enough that she would think they’d nearly finished it. It was a good deal of wine, certainly enough to account for a night of heavy sleep.

  After fixing his trousers and shirt, he found a lantern and walked into the hall. He knew much of the house by now, not from walking through it himself, but from talking to Enasia over the past few weeks. He knew where Matron Zohra kept herself most days, where she took her meals, where she might write letters to the Matrons or the Kings or those who lived on Goldenhill; and so, without needing to wander, he already knew the key places to search. He found the study where she kept her writing desk. It looked rarely used—dust upon its surface, a musty smell to the room. He rifled through the desktop and its drawers all the same, looking through the papers. It took longer than he liked. He had come to letters late, and it still took him time to take in what a page was saying. He plodded his way through the pages of each journal, through the few loose papers stored there, eventually realizing there was nothing remotely close to what he was looking for.

  He needed names. The names of the babies Matron Zohra had delivered. There was no other way to find the one Hamid wanted.

  He found a strongbox in a hidden compartment behind a painting of an oryx standing on a white mountain cliff. It reminded him of his journey to the blooming fields with Çeda when they’d been young—a dead oryx had been caught in the adichara as the rattlewings buzzed around them. How long ago that seemed. He and Çeda had been so close then, but now . . . Now they were distant, more so than they’d ever been. He missed her. He should tell her, he knew, but she was spending so much time at the pits, with her classes, perhaps, or maybe throwing herself into training for her next bout. She was so evasive about where she spent her time lately. It made him wonder if she’d found a man and was too embarrassed to tell him about it.

  The strongbox, oddly, was unlocked, but when he levered the lid open he understood why. It was empty.

  He tried another room, a private parlor near the solarium on the ground floor, but found nothing there. He searched other rooms, becoming progressively more worried as he went, not just because he feared he wouldn’t find the records, but because he feared they no longer existed. It had been an age since anyone had seen them.

  Years ago, an agent of the Moonless Host had worked as an aide to Matron Zohra. She claimed that the Lady kept meticulous records. The Kings would not have approved, for she was documenting the birth records of those she’d personally attended to over the years. Because Zohra had kept it secret, however, they’d had no opportunity to complain; the records were in her own hand, penned after the business of birthing was complete. The aide discovered it purely by accident when she’d stepped into the Matron’s offices one day and found her writing in the book. The Matron had closed it as if nothing were amiss, but her aide had seen enough to want to know more. She’d returned to Zohra’s office only one other time, to look for the book. She’d found it and was surprised to see that it contained names, dates, notes about the baby’s health, hair, eye color, and weight. She’d had only moments alone with it, but managed to write down several names and reported it to the Host that very night. But their sense that they’d found something valuable was short-lived. Three Blade Maidens had come for the Host’s agent that very night. She’d been beheaded the next morning.

  Hamid doubted Zohra would have stopped the practice. Likely she’d made up some story about her aide to hide the real reason for having her taken and killed. Emre had agreed, but now he wondered. Perhaps she had stopped, or perhaps she’d disposed of her records when she’d taken ill. Or perhaps the Kings had found out and taken them from her.

  He searched long into the night, through every room except for those few assigned exclusively to Matron Zohra. But when the soft light of dawn began to brighten in the east, he knew he didn’t have much longer. The sleeping agent he’d given Enasia wouldn’t last forever.

  He might simply wait for Enasia to wake. Come again another night to try again, but he worried she would become suspicious, and Rengin would return at the end of the week. He
was already suspicious of Emre, and would only be more so after his fruitless journey to Ishmantep.

  So instead of opening the door, he returned to the parlor and found Enasia’s belt. He opened the velvet pouch attached to it, and took out a small brass key. With it in hand, he headed for Matron Zohra’s rooms. He listened carefully at the door. Hearing nothing, he unlocked it and stepped inside, entering a sour-smelling anteroom filled with dusty tables and a stained carpet. When he moved through the peaked doorway into the next room, the smell of piss and shit struck him like a club.

  The Matron Zohra was sitting crookedly in a chair, staring into one corner of the room. He could see little of her from this vantage save her gray hair, which was bundled atop her head, some held in place with ornate gold pins, some straggly locks falling about her face and shoulders.

  “Matron?” Emre called as he approached.

  She didn’t move a muscle. He feared she might be dead until he noticed her quivering.

  “Matron?” he said again.

  Receiving no response, he moved into the corner and squatted until he was directly in her line of sight. It was all he could do not to let her stench make him gag.

  The sun was rising now, and Enasia would wake at any moment.

  This was none of his affair. What was one highborn lady to him? Why did he care if she was mistreated by her servants?

  He didn’t. He needed to get the information he’d come for and leave this place as soon as possible.

  “I’ve come from the House of Kings, Matron.” He would never say such a thing to someone in their right mind, but he needed her to think of Külasan, to think of the sons or daughters of his who she’d delivered. “It’s most urgent. The Wandering King is dead. He passed only this morning, and we must find one of true blood, one of his blood.”

  He said it while feeling as small as he’d ever felt. The sight of her like this . . . He had no idea why it was affecting him so, but there were tears in his eyes. They ran down his cheek as he reached out and took one of her frail hands in his. “Grandmother, are you well?” Her head twitched, and her eyes tried to focus, but he guessed it was little more than surprise at being touched, at being spoken to like a human being. He had planned on wheedling out of her the information that Hamid needed. But he couldn’t. Not like this.

  He returned to the antechamber and poured water from the tall ewer there into a bowl. He rummaged through her wardrobe and found several clean nightdresses. He ripped two of them into rags. The third he left whole.

  After placing them on the rug in the center of the bedroom, he moved to Zohra’s side and lifted her carefully, then laid her down as gently as he could manage. He pulled her dress slowly up and off her frame, no easy thing, as her night soil had stuck it to her thighs, backside, and hips.

  Dear gods, how can anyone be forced to live in such a way?

  He began using the strips of cloth to clean her, slowly working along her frame, wiping away the worst of it, exposing the many rashes and sores, moving as gently as he could manage. Then he refilled the water in the bowl and did it again.

  She whimpered as he worked, but she didn’t try to stop him, nor did she say a word against him. She simply watched, confusion in her eyes—confusion, he imagined, not just over who he was, but who she was, why she was here, and what was happening to her.

  He was forced to fill the bowl with fresh water a third time, and rip another dress to finish, but when he had, he dressed her in the clean nightdress and carried her to her bed. As he laid her down, she spoke for the first time, her voice a tumble of loose stones. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Emre,” he said simply.

  Her eyes went cloudy for a moment, and when they returned, she managed a smile and patted his wrist. “Where’s Enasia?”

  “I’m right here.”

  Emre stood and spun and found Enasia standing in the doorway in her orange dress, eyes bleary, the look on her face a study in rage.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” She advanced like a captain of the Silver Spears, all cocksure attitude and puffed-up authority. “You will leave this place immediately,” she said, pulling herself taller. “You’ll leave this place and never return, or I’ll have the Maidens come to take you away!”

  Cold purpose filled Emre as he strode toward her. He stopped only when the two of them were face-to-face. “And what do you suppose the Maidens will do when they learn how you’ve treated one of their own?”

  “Do you think for a moment they’ll believe you over me?”

  Emre smiled easily. “Me? No. But they’ll surely believe her.” He stepped closer still. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You will gather your things—your things only; you’ll show me before you leave—and then you will leave. This very morning. And you’ll never return.”

  She set her chin before speaking again. “And if I don’t?”

  “When I leave I’m going to the Four Arrows. I’ll tell them I heard horrible moaning from within this estate while walking past. Someone will come to investigate. They’ll find Matron Zohra, and they’ll get her some help. They’re good people, and they’ll make sure she’s well tended until her life can be sorted out. I’ll return every day, in the days ahead, and if I find you here, a letter will be delivered to the House of Maidens, detailing the neglect I’ve found. And when they come to investigate, they’ll not stop at speaking with you, nor with Rengin. They’ll speak with Matron Zohra. And when they do, what are the chances that she’ll remain silent?”

  Enasia glanced at Zohra. “She doesn’t even remember who she is!”

  Zohra stared back, a defiant look on her face, but said nothing.

  “Are you willing to bet your life on that?” Emre asked. “One recollection of how you’ve mistreated her is all it will take, and, as I said, we both know how the Maidens deal with those who harm their own.”

  Enasia licked her lips. Fear had grown in her eyes, but now there was dread. She glanced about the room, to the floor and the shit-stained rags, then to Matron Zohra lying in her bed. And then, without saying another word, she stepped away, spun around, and ran from the room.

  As the stairs down the hall creaked with her passage, Emre returned to the bedside. “All will be well,” he said, pulling the blankets higher.

  Zohra seemed not to care. She had the most determined look on her face, like a child trying to figure out how to speak her mind without all the right words, without all the right concepts. “I remember who I am,” she said at last.

  “Of course you do.”

  He was just beginning to turn away when he heard her call, “Vesdi.”

  He turned around. “I’m sorry?”

  “Vesdi,” she said, her glistening eyes full of pride. “Vesdi is Külasan’s eldest living son.”

  “Lord Vesdi, the Master of Coin?”

  She nodded triumphantly.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Bless you, grandmother.” He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. “You are wise, the pride of Sharakhai.” Emre had said these words to give her some comfort, a bit of succor in the storm, but her smile, however bright it was at first, was fleeting, and soon she was staring up at the ceiling, lips quivering, her eyes going glassy once more.

  Emre stared at her for a time, hoping her mind had gone to a peaceful place, and then, after one more squeeze of her hand, he gathered up all the rubbish and left the room.

  ÇEDA OPENED HER EYES to see a stone ceiling above her. Dim light came from a lamp hung from a standing iron hook. Five similar, unlit lamps were standing just next to this one along the wall. It smelled dank and the air was humid, with a strange mixture of smells—antiseptic elixirs assailing a mildewy odor. Water dripped in a thin stream in the corner, where the stones were black with mold.

  Her head rolled to one side. She was lying o
n a narrow wooden table, her arms strapped to planks that jutted outward from the table like a cross. Her legs were similarly restricted, and as weak as she was, she couldn’t lift her head to see what was binding her. Her bandaged right arm, throbbing like a slowly dying pendulum, flared with pain when she tried to move it. By her left arm were two thick straps that might have been strapped down—one across the elbow, another near her shoulder—but weren’t; only the one by her wrist had actually been strapped in place, and for some reason even that had been left loose.

  After pulling and working her arm slowly back and forth, her wrist scraped through the thick leather restraint. Her right arm was firmly strapped down in three places, but with her left now free she was able to loosen and finally undo the strap closest to her shoulder. Which was when the contents of the table against the wall finally registered.

  Laid out in precise rows were dozens of gleaming saws and knives and pliers and pincers and awls and a host of strange hooked contrivances, the purpose of which Çeda couldn’t even begin to guess. A shelf filled with blue bottles and strips of dull brown cloth and pewter bowls stood above the surgeon’s instruments. Panic gripped her as she took it in, laying it against the reality of waking in this dank place after going to Dardzada for help.

  Dardzada was going to cut off her arm. He’d realized it was too dangerous to take her to the Maidens—or perhaps his agent there was unreachable, or dead, or had refused him—and for some reason he couldn’t allow himself to let her die, so he’d brought her here, wherever this was, to cut off her arm and stop the spread of the poison.

  No, she thought. No, no, no. Dardzada would never do such a thing. Not to me.

  But she knew those were the words of the scared little girl inside her. When it came down to it, Dardzada was a pragmatic man. He would cut off her arm, with no regrets, if he thought it would save her. But she wasn’t willing to accept this fate. Not yet. There was still time to reach the Maidens. She just had to make Dardzada see that.