Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Tears began to slip down Çeda’s cheeks. If Emre would not cry, she would cry enough for the both of them. “Emre, what happened?”

  “I came home. And he . . . was like this.”

  The look on Emre’s face. He looked so scared.

  “But why? Who could have . . . ?” She didn’t have to finish the question. She already knew. It was the Malasani bravo. “How could he have known?”

  Emre looked up then. “What does it matter, Çeda? If I hadn’t taken his money . . .” He opened his clasped hands, revealing the bravo’s stolen purse. He tipped it over, and coins fell to the dull, dusty boards, one clinking against the next, Malasani coins mixing with Sharakhani, all coated in Rafa’s blood.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Emre.”

  “No?” he asked, staring at her, tears now welling in his eyes. “Whose was it then?”

  Mine, Çeda thought. It was mine. She stood, her mouth feeling suddenly and inexplicably dry. Emre said nothing as she left and stepped outside. She stopped when she came face to face with Tariq. She hadn’t noticed it before, but he’d been beaten. Red welts along his cheek. Bloody scrapes on his hands. He’d been found. He’d been caught by one of the bravos, and they’d beaten the location of Emre’s home from him, except they hadn’t found Emre, they’d found Rafa and killed him in Emre’s place.

  Tariq looked uncomfortable. “Why’d you have to pick the biggest bloody one of them?”

  Çeda didn’t say a thing, because he was voicing her own thoughts. Why had she picked that one?

  She looked up the empty street. The sun was beginning to rise, and soon many ships would be leaving for farther shores. She starting heading east, toward the Trough, but Tariq grabbed her sleeve and forced her to stop and look him in the eye.

  “Don’t go after them,” he said, his eyes wide with fear.

  She ripped her arm from his grasp and started walking, but all too soon she was running, and she didn’t stop until she’d reached the vast southern harbor—the most likely place for a Malasani ship to have docked.

  She asked and asked. For hours she went from ship to ship to ship, looking for them, her knife ready at her side, and eventually she found word. She ran along the bed of the harbor just as five caravels and three dhows were sailing through the narrow pass, all of them flying the blue pennon of Malasan.

  She sprinted until her burning muscles could go no farther. She slowed and heaved her kenshar end over end at the ships. The knife rose and fell, throwing sunlight until it splashed ineffectually against the golden sand.

  “Goezhen take you!” she screamed, and fell to her knees, pounding the fine sand over and over until her skin was raw from it. “Thaash drink your blood!”

  Yet the ships sailed on, and soon they’d passed beyond the line of rocks leading out to the easternmost lighthouse.

  Çeda stayed there a long while, whispering curses upon those men, upon their ships. Whispering curses upon herself, the one who deserved them most of all.

  ÇEDA DID NOT DREAM, but she was aware of the passage of time. She heard an accumulation of sounds: the whisper of footsteps over ceramic tiles, the clink of glass and the gurgle of liquid, snippets of low conversation between the Maidens and Matrons.

  She was given more sleeping draughts—how many, she didn’t know, but each time it happened she felt the chill of the glass as it was pressed to her lips and sensed the bitter, floral taint of the Night Lily. One night, however, she woke fully from sleep. It might have been a week after her arrival or it might have been a month, she simply couldn’t tell.

  Sitting in a rocking chair to the right of her bed was the younger woman from the other night, the one who’d offered Çeda the length of leather to clamp her teeth onto. She was cast in dull silver by Rhia’s light, which angled in from the window on the far side of the empty room. This was an infirmary of some sort but not one that saw much use. For the moment, at least.

  How much death have these walls seen? She tried to sit up, but the deep pain all along her right arm made her gasp and ease back down again, so she leaned on her left side and pulled herself slowly up until she was sitting at last. And all the while, the woman in the rocking chair next to her bed watched, silent as the forgotten corners of the Great Shangazi.

  “Who are you?” Çeda asked when the pain finally faded.

  “My name is Sümeya. And that is the last favor I shall grant you in this house. You’ve no business asking who I am, little wren. The better question is who are you.” She rocked back and forth, considering Çeda. Outside, far in the distance, a pack of jackals laughed at some cruel joke. “So who are you, little bird? Who are you to come to the Hall of Swords begging succor? Who are you to wander to the killing fields and return home as if nothing were amiss?”

  The killing fields . . . Çeda had never heard the blooming fields called that, but it must have been what she meant. Whether or not Çeda had an ally in the Maidens, they would all know that her poison came from the adichara. What they wouldn’t know was whether she had actually been to the blooming fields or if she’d been pierced by a thorn someone else had brought back to Sharakhai.

  The Maidens were no fools, though, and they were fiendish. Çeda would be wise to remember it.

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” Çeda finally said.

  A soft chuckle. “You came yourself, then? Alone?”

  They knew about Dardzada, then. They’d seen him leave her there, surely, but she guessed they didn’t know who he was. She recalled through her haze the strange robes he’d worn, perhaps something he’d secreted away in the apothecary. By now, though, those robes would have been burned, so that no one could tie them back to him. “Someone brought me. I begged for help. I remember a cart but little before that.” She paused. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she repeated.

  “So you said.” The Maiden paused, as if she were choosing her next words with the care of a jeweler about to cut a facet on a gemstone. She leaned forward, the wood of the rocking chair creaked, and at last Çeda recognized her. The woman with the red-brown eyes who had stared down at Çeda with revulsion while the old woman inked her hand. “I know what you’ve done,” she said. “I know you went to the fields to harvest the adichara. What I don’t know is why.”

  The sign carved into her mother’s forehead flashed through Çeda’s mind. “Surely the Maidens are aware of the market for adichara petals.”

  Sümeya’s laugh was one of quaint amusement, as if she’d expected so much more. “It’s money, then? You harvest for money?”

  “Don’t you?” Çeda asked.

  “The Maidens do not use the adichara. We gain nothing from it save for the glory of our Kings.”

  “There is little glory to be found in west end, and few enough Kings.”

  The Maiden scoffed. “What need have the Kings of visiting Roseridge or the Shallows or Hallowsgate?”

  “Indeed, because the Kings find their harvest near the Hill.”

  Sukru, the Reaping King, who chose the victims for the asirim, nearly always chose tributes near the Hill. It was properly known as Goldenhill, though it was referred to as Sidehill by nearly everyone west of the Trough. It was where the progeny of the Kings lived—those of royal blood, though none of them would rise to take the seat of King. The best they could hope for was that one of their daughters be taken by the Maidens, or their sons taken by the asirim to honor their family, the Kings, and all of Sharakhai.

  Sümeya leaned back in her chair, and it occurred to Çeda how strikingly beautiful she was. Her thin eyebrows, her graceful lips, her jaw that narrowed like an arrow’s tip. Like one of the ebon blades the Maidens wore, here were the elements of art and edge and sanguine confidence all forged into one perfect weapon. “To be chosen is to be blessed.”

  These were the words that all spoke in Sharakhai, that to be taken by the asirim was to be the chosen o
f the gods themselves. Most in Sharakhai accepted that it was an honor, but they would still quake in their homes on the night of Beht Zha’ir, wondering what their fate would be. The Maidens didn’t merely take their responsibilities as protectors of the Kings and their interests seriously; it was their life. It was clear that Çeda had been saved for a reason, but if she were to speak against the reaping now, she had little doubt Sümeya might ignore her orders and kill Çeda then and there as a traitor.

  “When am I to be taken to the King?”

  Sümeya paused, perhaps debating how open to be. “You’ll be taken before him at sunset. But before you go, I have a question.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Who is Emre?”

  A knife cold as the dead of night slipped into her heart. “Who?”

  Sümeya’s laugh was biting. “Knowing what I know of you now, I’m not surprised you were brought on a cart and left before our gates, but I thought surely someone would come asking for you. They might not come directly to the Maidens. Oh, no. But they might ask those who saw you taken through the city. They might ask those who saw you lying there, dying from poison before Zaïde decided to grant you sanctuary.” Sümeya leaned back in her chair, allowing her momentum to rock her back and forth, the silver moonlight playing across her form. “Five days after your arrival, a man named Emre asked about you along the Spear. He’s come every day since for the last two weeks, including just this morning. He is always careful. He has no wish to attract the notice of Tauriyat, as I’m sure you’re well aware, but I know of him now.”

  Sümeya paused, evidently waiting for her words to sink in, for the implications to take root.

  They did. As did the fear. Fear for Emre, and for everyone she knew in the west end or the bazaar. Davud and Tehla, Djaga and Osman. Even Tariq. She’d take Tariq over a thousand like Sümeya.

  “What do you want?” Çeda asked.

  At this Sümeya stood. The rocking chair slid back and came to a rest against the next bed. “Zaïde, the woman who saved you, has it in her head that you might become a Maiden. It was why you were saved, despite breaking the laws of Sharakhai by touching a blessed thorn.”

  Sümeya leaned down and pressed her hand over Çeda’s bandaged wrist. Çeda sucked breath through her teeth as the pain blossomed, radiating out from the wound to her fingers and up to her elbow. She did not cry out, however, a clear sign her injury had vastly improved. Nor did she give Sümeya the satisfaction of hearing her beg for mercy. She merely bore it, breathing through gritted teeth, and stared into Sümeya’s unforgiving eyes.

  “She can see far, Zaïde. She is gifted in many ways. But in this she is wrong. When you have healed enough to stand on your own, you will be taken before Yusam, the Jade-eyed King, and he will judge you in his mere. He will see you for what you are and give you what you deserve, but if he does not, if by chance he asks you into the House of the Maidens, you will decline. It will be a grave insult to do so, but make no mistake, you will do this”—she squeezed Çeda’s wounded hand—“for your Emre.”

  Çeda had fought often in her life. She’d been the youngest woman ever to fight in the pits, the youngest to win as well, man or woman. She’d fought a hundred fights since, and in each she had received beatings. She’d been wounded. She’d broken bones. But none of that compared to this, a feeling as though her hand were burning, as though her skin were ash. Çeda could feel her blood pumping through her wrist, through her still-poisoned flesh, her entire being reduced to searing white pain.

  Sümeya squeezed harder, and Çeda cried out, hating herself for it.

  “I will! I will decline!”

  Rarely had she felt so fragile, so helpless. She wanted to refuse Sümeya’s request, if only to spite her, but she couldn’t risk Emre’s life. She would bide her time. Her gamble had paid off thus far, after all. She was in the House of Maidens, she’d learned the identity of the Jade-eyed King, and more would come. She simply needed to find a way to nullify Sümeya’s advantage. Wait and watch and learn. Show your enemy what they want to see. Isn’t that what she’d learned from Djaga in the pits?

  Sümeya’s grip eased. She released Çeda’s hand and stepped back to look down on Çeda like a headsman who’d just been told to stay his sword. “Well and good. In all likelihood it will matter little, sweet bird. Most likely the Kings will relieve you of your hand, perhaps both, and then you’ll be back in the streets to live out the remains of your useless life. And to think Zaïde sees in you the blood of Kings.” She sniffed, her gaze roaming over Çeda’s form as if she were a rotten fig. “It was Bakhi’s grace and Zaïde’s skill that saw you through, not kingly blood.” Sümeya leaned down until they were eye to eye. “But even if I’m wrong, if perchance a King wandered the dirty streets of the west end to bed your whore of a mother, you’ll do well to keep Emre’s pretty face at the forefront of your mind. Won’t you?”

  Çeda’s head was swimming, but she managed a nod. “I will,” she said.

  Sümeya seemed satisfied, with her own callousness if nothing else, and after a sharp nod she spun and left, her footsteps all but silent, her form a darkening shadow, until Çeda was alone with her thoughts in the cavernous, moonlit room.

  THE INFIRMARY DOOR OPENED with a clatter. A sharp, if hushed, conversation followed as a group of Maidens helped three wounded women into the room. Two of the wounded were limping, each helped along by another Maiden. But the last was unconscious and lying on a stretcher. She was laid down gently as the other two were helped onto beds, grimacing as they went.

  Zaïde swept into the room shortly after. The cowl of her white dress was pulled back to reveal not only her long gray hair but the tattoos along her neck and forehead. Zaïde asked many questions, not all of which Çeda could hear, but she heard the words we were ambushed, and the name Macide Ishaq’ava was uttered several times. The Maidens had been attacked in the southern quarter while escorting something or someone to Tauriyat. Çeda had no idea what that might be, but she thought it strange that the Maidens were escorting anything or anyone from the harbor this early. It implied that a ship had sailed under dark of night, a dangerous thing in itself. Why not wait until full sun?

  When one of the Maidens saw Çeda watching, she spoke to the others, and they all fell silent.

  With the Maidens providing any help needed, Zaïde tended to the unconscious woman, focusing first on her right leg, which was gone below the knee. She checked the belt that had been cinched around her leg to stop the blood flow, then cleaned the terrible wound and sewed as much of the skin together as she could manage. Çeda couldn’t see clearly, but it seemed to be bleeding terribly. Most likely she’d die—few survived the blood loss from wounds as bad as that—but she had yet to cross to the farther fields. When Zaïde was done, she unwound the bandage around the woman’s midsection, cleaned it, and rebandaged it with confident efficiency.

  While Zaïde and the Maidens worked, the memories of Sümeya’s visit in the night came rushing back. Emre . . .

  Çeda had no doubt Sümeya would follow through on her threats. Why hadn’t she told Emre more? She should have. She should have warned him away so that he wouldn’t do something foolish like this. We are two fools, Emre, you and I.

  She’d been a coward, she saw now. She could tell herself all she wanted that it was because Emre might protest, that he might do something foolish or desperate to stop her, but the truth was she’d thought that by saying a final farewell it would indeed divide them forever. Part of her had wanted to pretend that things could still be like they used to, the two of them running the streets of Sharakhai, poor but free, with the specter of her mother present but distant.

  She wondered why Sümeya was so determined to scare her away. Did she know how much Çeda hated the Maidens? The long-whispered rumors of their talents came back to her—their ability to read their enemies’ minds, to see into their hearts. Sümeya had been sitting i
n that rocking chair by Çeda’s bed for a long time. Had she peered into Çeda’s dreams?

  Emre was in such danger, and he didn’t even know it. She should have realized the Maidens would look into her past. She should have warned him not to come looking for her. It was a foolish mistake, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t warn him now and send him into hiding. Once she’d done that, she could return and see what the Maidens and Kings would make of her.

  Zaïde finished tending the wounded a short while later. Many of the Maidens would have left the gates already, headed out on patrols. And with the attack on their own, additional patrols would be out, learning what they could about the attack, while others would plan their response.

  Through the window across from her, the luster of the coming dawn lit the sky a chalky blue. The three wounded women were silent in their beds. They must have been given a draught of some kind to ease their pain and let them sleep. Perhaps the same drink of Night Lily given to Çeda.

  Çeda slipped out from her blanket and set her feet upon the cool ceramic tiles. She cradled her bandaged right arm with her left hand. It was painful, and she would have little use of it, but it was worlds better than it had been. She stood and walked gingerly to the room’s central aisle. Her body ached, but this, too, was manageable. Even a simple walk into the open window’s cool morning breeze gave Çeda a sense of her old self, a sense that, other than her weakened right arm, she could trust her body.

  As she turned down the central aisle, she noticed the full-length mirror at the end of it. She walked numbly toward it, eyes widening in horror as the bright moonlight revealed a woman she hardly knew. She was gaunt, her jaw and cheekbones standing out like a beggar in the Shallows. There were hollowed, blackened wells where her eyes used to be. Her lips were cracked. Her hair was a hopeless, tangled bird’s nest. Gods, she looked like a maiden of death, not a Maiden of the Kings.