Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The woman was pulling the sheets back over Çeda’s arm, which had been pulled out for the King to inspect. As she did so, her hand grazed downward over Çeda’s eyelids. The motion had been ever so slight, but Çeda had no doubt it had been done with intent. She wished for Çeda to pretend she was still asleep.

  “Such wounds do not heal overnight, Eminence. A week. Perhaps two.”

  There was a pause as the King considered. “Seven days.” A chair creaked. Sandals scraped over the floor. “If she is not presented to me by Savadi next, I will send for her.”

  “It will be as you say,” the old woman replied.

  When the shuffling footsteps had died away, the woman turned to gather something near the head of Çeda’s bed. The clink of glass and the gurgle of liquid filled the air.

  “Who—” Çeda’s voice was like a rasp. “Who was that?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “Tell me,” Çeda pressed.

  The woman brought a cool glass to Çeda’s lips. She drank from it, but recognized too late the taste of Night Lily, a telltale sign of a sleeping draught. She tried to spit it out, but she’d already drunk too much.

  “Thaash curse you,” Çeda said as the soporific began taking effect, drawing her downward into the darkness.

  “Save your curses, girl. Sleep is what you need now, not stories of the Jade-eyed King.”

  Nalamae’s teats, which one is the Jade-eyed King? But she had no chance to wonder further, before she had blacked out once more.

  SIX YEARS EARLIER . . .

  ÇEDA STRODE ALONG THE DRY RIVERBED, the sounds of revelry coming from the bridges and walkways above.

  It was Beht Revahl—the night the Kings defeated the last of the wandering tribes and sent them fleeing into the desert once and for all. One of the holy days in which the entire city seemed to take part, from the ship races in the southern harbor, to the horse shows in the north, to the bacchanal in the confines of the western harbor. The Haddah’s meandering bed had become a wonder of singing and dancing and tanburs and tambanas that jingled as the drummers struck. And the lights!

  On this night four hundred years ago, the surviving Sharakhani had walked the city with tallow candles and oil lamps, searching for the wounded, looking for their lost loved ones that they might be buried deep in the desert, as was proper. The candles were a way of honoring that sober day, but they also celebrated the living.

  Tonight, the revelers, Sharakhani and foreigners alike, walked with small candles in their hands, many bought just for the occasion. It was a day for which the city’s chandlers prepared the entire year. Lights drifted along the Haddah, along the streets and alleys. They were everywhere, moving about the city like lost souls, casting all in a beautiful amber glow beneath the half-moon light of golden Rhia.

  “Little Çeda!” came a voice.

  Çeda looked through the crowd. On the opposite side of the Haddah, beneath an arching stone bridge, was Emre’s handsome brother Rafa. From his work as a dockman, Rafa brought in the lion’s share of the money and paid for the flat he shared with Emre and Çeda. It was a tight space, especially when their eldest brother, Brahim, returned for a day or two. But it would do for now, as she and Emre told one another many times, at least until they could save enough for a place of their own.

  Emre leaned against the stone wall of the embankment with a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes brightened when he spotted Çeda, but before he could say anything, Rafa shook his head to clear his eyes of his curly brown hair and called, “Come on, Little Çeda,” waving over the heads of Tariq and Hamid.

  She hated when Rafa called her that, but she forced a smile anyway and wove through the crowd, bowing her head when she drew near. “Good eve, Rafa.” The words sounded stupid to her ears, a child speaking to a man.

  But Rafa didn’t seem to notice. He gave her that chiding smile of his and used his knee to nudge her leg. “Where were you off to?”

  “I was coming to find these beetle-brained fools,” Çeda replied, glancing at Emre and Hamid and Tariq.

  Emre smiled at her, as if he had a secret he wanted to share.

  “I’ve no idea why,” Rafa told Çeda. “You’re too good for them. Gods know you’re too clean for them.” Without even looking, he shot his hand out and tousled Emre’s hair.

  Emre ducked away, running his fingers through his dark hair, putting it back in place while eyeing the crowd to see if anyone had seen. Always preening, was Emre.

  “Well, I’m off to the docks, little brother. The wine the harbormaster is opening won’t drink itself, you know.” He took Emre by the scruff of the neck and pulled him in for a kiss on the forehead, then ruffled his hair again and ran off, easily dodging Emre’s hastily thrown punches.

  “He’s right, you know,” Çeda said. Emre raked his hair back into place and returned to leaning against the wall, clutching his canvas bag as if it might fly away. He and Tariq and Hamid all had the look of gutter wrens about them. Their skin was dirty. Their sirwal trousers were threadbare and dusty beyond all hope of cleaning. “You’re filthy, dirty, hopeless wrens. The lot of you.”

  Tariq puffed himself up. “If we’re hopeless, then what are you?”

  At this Hamid grinned. Quiet Hamid. Shy Hamid. He was always bashful around Çeda, but he would watch her from the corner of his eye, especially when he thought she wasn’t looking.

  “Me?” Çeda said. “I’m nothing like you, that’s for certain, Tariq Esad’ava.”

  “Nothing like me?” Tariq said, his smile wide as he kicked dirt onto her sandaled feet and her own much-cleaner pair of boy’s trousers. “I beg to differ, My Lady Çeda.” He was always calling her that because she’d lived with Dardzada, east of the Trough. Even though she’d left after Dardzada had given her that vile tattoo, Tariq wouldn’t let it go.

  Çeda stepped back, trying to dodge the dust and dirt, but it caught her around the ankles and shins, dusting her clothes. “Stop it!”

  He didn’t, and he chased her when she backed up further, so she shot forward and slapped him across the face.

  His eyes went wide with shock. Emre grinned, while Hamid uncharacteristically pointed and laughed out loud, which caused Çeda to laugh too. The slap had been harder than she’d meant, but there was little to do about it now. “Tariq, I’m sorry!” she said, still laughing, which only served to further enrage Tariq. He lashed out, trying to even the score, but Çeda blocked his wild and hurried attempts. “Too slow, Tariq. As always.”

  The crowd nearby gave them wide berth, and an old woman yelling, “This is a holy day!”

  But Tariq was focused only on Çeda. His face screwed up with rage as he charged her, hoping to wrestle her to the ground where, she admitted, he had an advantage, but she never gave him the chance. She grabbed his shirt with both hands, rolled backward, and used her legs to launch him up and over her body.

  The revelers were taking more notice now, including the men and women along the banks of the Haddah above. The old woman was still yelling at them, but many only chuckled at the playing children, which made Tariq all the more furious.

  Çeda readied for his next charge, which would probably be more bullish than the last, until Emre called, “For the love of the gods, you two, wait!” and imposed himself between them, holding one palm out toward each in order to still them. Emre turned to Tariq, showing Çeda his back, and said more softly. “I’ve brought something. I was waiting until we were all here.” He motioned to the place they’d been standing earlier. Tariq looked over Emre’s shoulder to Çeda, his eyes filled with adolescent rage, but when Emre pulled something from the bag at his side, Tariq’s eyes softened and he glanced around with a mischievous grin. The crowd took little notice of him now, most continuing to walk past or drink from polished ox horns.

  “Come, my friends.” Emre stepped carefully away, eyes still on Tariq and Çe
da, waving for them to follow. “Come, for we’ll not be left out of the revelry this year. Your good servant, Emre, has seen to that.”

  When they’d returned to their spot beneath the bridge, Emre pulled out a beautiful, etched silver flask from his bag. “Araq! Sweetened, too, my friends. Emre spared no expense.”

  “Expense . . .” Tariq snorted. “As if a gutter wren like you could afford araq.” He snatched the flask away from Emre, pulled the ruby-red glass stopper, and took a long swig from it before shoving it back into Emre’s hands. As Emre handed it to Çeda, Tariq coughed and smacked his lips. Hamid laughed again, his eyes wide in anticipation.

  Çeda wiped the mouth of the flask with obvious care, receiving a sock on the arm and a reluctant smile from Tariq. Then she tipped the flask and downed a mouthful of the sweet lemon-infused liquor. Coughing every bit as much as Tariq from the alcohol burn, she passed the flask to Hamid.

  Hamid took a short swallow, then one more, then a third before passing it back to Emre, who looked as proud as a King, seeing them profit from his bounty. As four young women sang a lively tune on the bridge above, the three friends loosened up and began to enjoy the holy night. They drank and danced, trading partners among the other boys and girls walking along the riverbed, some of whom they knew, others foreigners they’d probably never see again. Tariq always seemed to choose a dark-skinned Kundhunese girl; Çeda had always thought he secretly wanted to leave Sharakhai and travel to the territories, a place he derided so often she knew there was more to it than he was letting on.

  Hamid remained by the wall, mostly watching, though there was one point where a Qaimiri girl pulled him forward and spun him around. They danced together a while, and you’d never guess there was a shy bone in his body, for he laughed and joked with her as they spun about. But when they were done he returned to his place along the wall, reddened cheeks obvious to any who cared to look, even in the dim glow of the candlelit night.

  Çeda danced with Emre, the two of them spinning, then lifting their coiled hands high, then rolling, back-to-back, to grab the other hand and begin the dance anew. It was wonderful. She was so glad to be free of Dardzada. They might have to snitch food, they might have to run from the Silver Spears from time to time, but for now life suited her just fine.

  When the dance came to an end, Emre passed the flask around once more. All four of them were becoming tipsy from it, laughing at the smallest of things: An old man who stopped and clapped in time to the beat of the tambana, two belled goats that gamboled behind a woman and her three children, a drunk Sharakhani who tipped over and fell from the bridge to the riverbed, scattering the stones and scaring everyone around.

  On the riverbank above, a dozen Malasani bravos strode along, speaking in their thick tongue. They wore garish clothes, leather caps, and bright falchions slung through their wide cloth belts.

  “Fucking caravan trash,” Tariq said, nodding toward them. “Think they can take anything they please from Sharakhai and then sail the sands like it means nothing to them.”

  Here, Çeda and Tariq were in agreement. She watched them sit on the bank, choosing spots along the stone lip of the street above, some glaring at an old couple until they moved and the bravos could sit next to their brothers. They sat and drank and called to the women walking by.

  “They should keep them locked in their ships until they’re ready to leave,” Çeda said.

  “They should sling arrows through their hearts is what they should do.” They all turned to Hamid, who looked back at them with steel in his eyes.

  “At the very least they should leave with lighter purses,” Tariq said.

  “They should,” Emre said, staring up at them, as if choosing one for his mark even now. Then he looked to Çeda, as if asking her permission. He was drunk, she could see it in his eyes. But not so drunk that there wasn’t a little fear in him.

  “They should,” Çeda agreed, pointing to the biggest among them, thickset and bald, with a scar running along the back of his head as if he’d had his skull cleaved and lived to tell the tale.

  “That one?” Emre said, swallowing.

  “That one,” Çeda challenged.

  They all nodded, then Emre dropped the canvas satchel in the dust. He remained in the riverbed while Tariq, Çeda, and Hamid walked down a ways until they could jump and climb up to the street that ran adjacent to the northern side of the riverbank, the side where the bravos gathered. The three then strolled along, somewhat unsteadily, until they were between the Malasani men and the squat stone washhouse.

  That was when Tariq pulled her hair a good deal harder than normally, and Çeda spun on him. “I told you not to touch me!”

  “Oh ho!” one of the bravos shouted, slapping the man next to him and pointing at the unfolding spectacle. The bald man glanced at them, but then returned his attention to a Sharakhani girl wearing a loose blouse and long skirt she had pulled up over her knee with one hand.

  “I’m only playing,” Tariq said.

  “You’ve been playing all day. Play one more time, and you’ll find yourself with a foot in your crotch, a fist in your mouth, and your stones and your teeth lying on the street, sharing stories of what a bloody coward you are.”

  The bravos laughed again, more of them watching now, their smiles lit by the large oil lanterns, spaced along the larger streets of Sharakhai’s city center.

  There were times when a simple display like this was enough, but Emre’s mark was still not paying enough attention, so Tariq shot his hand out and grabbed her hair again, and when he did, Çeda snatched his wrist, lifted it high, and spun behind him. The twist was enough to bring him down to the ground. She let it go before he was hurt, and Tariq, on cue, rose from the ground and tackled her about the waist. Down the two of them went, onto the cobbles and rolling over and over again, shouting and swearing and scratching at one another’s faces. They did no real damage, but they did enough to make the bravos watch. All of them.

  That’s when Emre climbed up the riverbank, slipped his knife beneath the bald man’s purse, and cut it carefully away.

  He would have been fine if it weren’t for the araq. He was normally very good with a purse cutting—but his reflexes weren’t as sharp as they should have been.

  He got the purse away clean, but the man noticed, and the way his face contorted in rage, she knew at once they’d made a mistake.

  The man stood, pushed the girl away, and leaped down into the channel. Revelers parted like water before him, and Emre sprinted along the riverbed faster than she’d ever seen him go.

  She and Tariq were up and running as well. Hamid had already turned and was sprinting around the corner into an alley. It had a small hole in a broken board at the end of it where he could easily slip through.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” one of the men said, reaching for Çeda and Tariq. He managed to grab Tariq’s shirt, but he wasn’t ready for Çeda. Men like him had no idea how quickly she could move. She slipped beneath his grasp and punched him as hard as she could in the stomach.

  He doubled over and released Tariq. A long bellow of pain escaped him as he lost his breath; immediately, she and Tariq ran in opposite directions.

  The two bravos deepest into their wineskins were just getting up, laughing, one pointing at the bald brute running after Emre, the other at the one coughing on the ground behind Çeda. The rest, though, scattered after Hamid, Tariq, and Çeda, chasing them through the streets, shouting the sorts of imaginative beatings that made it clear they had more than a little experience in such things.

  The last she saw of Emre he was leaping at the supports beneath a narrow walking bridge. He used his momentum to swing up the opposite side and pull himself up by the rails, narrowly avoiding the outstretched fingers of the bravo chasing him.

  Then Çeda was off, sprinting down a wide street that had a dozen alleys within the next eighth-league, any one of whi
ch she could use to climb to the rooftops.

  The bravos gave chase, but they were lumbering. She’d be safe enough. Tariq and Hamid, too. Emre, though . . .

  Gods, the look on that bravo’s face. It kept playing through her mind. There was fury, but also a cold determination. And it was clear from the crispness of his movements that he hadn’t poured nearly the amount of drink down his gullet as his fellows had. Perhaps he’d had nothing. Perhaps he got drunk on fighting and was just looking for an excuse.

  Please be safe, Emre.

  In little time, she lost the bravo chasing her. Then she circled back, looking for Tariq or Hamid so they could go after Emre together. But she never found them.

  She should have gone straight home. She should have waited for Emre there, not wasted her time running about Sharakhai, but home should have been the last place he’d go. After running a scam, they always met at one of their haunts, never their homes. But she didn’t find him along the river, or in the bazaar, or in the streets of Roseridge. She didn’t find Tariq or Hamid, either. Dread began to fill her. She searched all the harder, running from street to street to street. When she finally did return home—just as the sun was rising in the east—she found Tariq and Hamid waiting outside the door. As she came closer, a chill ran through her.

  The looks on their faces . . . As though someone had died.

  “Emre!”

  Tariq put himself in her way. “Çeda, don’t!”

  Even Hamid tried to stop her, but she bulled past them both and ran into the room.

  By the gods who walk the earth, it was Rafa. He lay on the floor, and there was blood everywhere.

  Emre knelt next to him. Just knelt there. Not crying. Not sobbing. Just staring down at Rafa’s serene, handsome face.

  “Emre?” He didn’t respond as she moved around to Rafa’s other side, being careful not to tread in any of the blood. “Emre?” She knelt across from him, Rafa’s lifeless body between them, and still Emre didn’t respond, didn’t take his eyes from his brother. He merely knelt there, eyes vacant, hands clasped as if in prayer to the gods of the desert to undo this.