Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “Smitten?” Çeda laughed. “Of course not!” The mere thought of it was ridiculous.

  Djaga finished slathering the wax over the rudder. That done, she hoisted the bucket and set it down in the shade under the pier, and from another bucket chose two bolts of stained cloth from the crumpled pile within it. She threw one of them to Çeda, who snatched it from the air.

  “Come,” she said, and moved to the starboard runner. While wiping the cloth along the skimwood, buffing the dried wax she’d applied earlier, she nodded to Çeda, an indication for her to do the same. Çeda liked making the cloudy surface glow under the brightness of the sun.

  “Not so hard that the cloth skips. Run it smoothly but with power. You see?” The muscles along Djaga’s shoulders and arms rippled as she worked.

  Çeda did as Djaga said, and felt the smoothness of the wood, but also the nicks the sand and stone of the Shangazi had taken as its price of passage.

  “Now, what did this man do to your Emre’s brother?”

  They worked the runner, making it shine, before moving portside and doing the same, and all the while Çeda told her story. Djaga interrupted to ask a few questions about where the man had come from, how she knew he hailed from Malasan. Her smooth motions continued without pause, but the look on her face changed. It went from one of doubt and curiosity to concern and then restrained anger. More than once Çeda caught the tall Kundhunese woman staring at her arms, her shoulders.

  “This Saadet ibn Sim did this to a man he’d never met over a purse stolen by a boy on a festival night?”

  “He did. I swear it beneath Rhia and Tulathan.”

  Djaga turned and spit onto the sand. The spit sat there on the sandy surface of the harbor, and then was drawn down, leaving only a dark stain. “And you wish me to do what? Train you to beat him?”

  “Train me enough to get me into the tourney.”

  “There’s not enough time. It starts in three days.”

  “My mother taught me to dance. And she taught me well.”

  “Dancing with swords and fighting dirt dogs in the pits are two different things.”

  “I can pay you.”

  Djaga snorted. “I don’t want your money.”

  Çeda was ready to protest, but Djaga held her hand up. “You’ll need your money, Çeda, for there are three things I will do for you, three things in payment for this crime within our borders.” Djaga was not born here, but she was Sharakhani, through and through. “First, you will take your money, everything that was stolen from this Malasani dog, and you will return it to him.”

  “What?”

  “Emre stole it, and you had a part in it. You will return it so that your debt is paid.”

  “I can’t do that. He killed Rafa!”

  “You will do it if you wish me to help, girl.”

  Çeda seethed at the thought, but she knew there was more to come. “I will do it, if that is what you require.”

  “It isn’t what I require, Çedamihn. It is the gods. The scales must be righted before you begin the second part of your journey.”

  “Which is?”

  “Once this is set right, I will enter you into the tourney.”

  “But Pelam won’t allow it! He’ll kick me out as soon as he sees me. And even if he didn’t I’ll have no money left to buy my way in!”

  “You will come as an honored guest to Sharakhai, a Qaimiri noblewoman who demands anonymity and is willing to pay extra for it.”

  “A Qaimiri?”

  Djaga shrugged. “It happens often enough, and Pelam will never see your face.”

  “Very well, but I can’t be Qaimiri. I’ll be a Sharakhani noble who doesn’t wish to be known.”

  “That’s more rare.”

  “The Qaimiri do it, you said. Is there not a single noblewoman in Sharakhai who doesn’t wish to test herself in the pits?”

  Djaga nodded, allowing her the point. “Well enough. I will broker the arrangement. I’ll vouch for you, and I’ll pay your way in.”

  Çeda’s head jerked back. “You would do this?”

  Djaga smiled fiercely, not so differently from her smile in the match several days before. “I do not do this all out of love.”

  “Then what?”

  “Consider it an investment. If you win, Çeda. If you beat this man and have your revenge, you will come to me, and I will train you. And when you win again—and you will, the gods as my witness—I will take back three times what I’m paying for you now. Understood?”

  “You will train me?”

  Djaga folded her cloth over, exposing an unblemished patch. “Unless you consider the price too steep, or the thought of training under me distasteful.”

  “No! I don’t!”

  “Then it is done. Come back to me once you’ve returned the money.”

  “My heart is yours,” Çeda said as she dropped the cloth onto the rudder and began backing away.

  “Keep your heart.” She went back to her waxing. “And you’ll need a disguise,” she called as Çeda took the ladder up to the pier. “Best it be one that means something to you!”

  Çeda’s heart lifted as she ran through the west end of Sharakhai. There was worry, too. She was no fool to think the tree of Malasan would fall easily, but she was now walking along the path she’d been so desperate to find.

  A disguise, Djaga had said. Best it be one that means something to you.

  She thought all the way home, thought long into the night for something that would suit her. She had no idea what it might be. None. Not until the sun went down and the maned wolves began howling in the desert.

  And then she knew exactly what it would be.

  Beneath the pits, Çeda’s heart beat so madly she thought it might rattle up her throat and fall to the cool tiled floor for all the other dirt dogs to see. Saadet was across the room from her, sitting easily, his back against the wall, staring into the distance, glancing occasionally at the other fighters but otherwise keeping to himself. Fourteen others wandered the long, narrow room. The sixteen of them comprised all the morning’s contests, the first of the tourney—a bit of luck granted by Nalamae for which Çeda was immensely relieved, for if she’d had to wait another day to begin fighting, she would surely have gone mad.

  She wore a pieced-together set of ragged leather armor she’d found in the bazaar after a full day’s search. It was little more than a breastplate with pauldrons and a battle skirt, with greaves and bracers to match. She had a bit of growing to do before her body would fill the armor properly, but it didn’t hamper her movements. It was old as well, but the boiled leather was in good shape, and Djaga had given it a gruff nod of approval after looking it over.

  Çeda had dyed the armor white and fixed a wolf pelt to the top of the helm to look like the white wolf that had saved her out in the desert. The helm she’d found in the bazaar after rummaging through nearly every stall, and she’d paid nearly her last copper khet for it. The hinged visor of the helm had been shaped by a gifted artisan into a woman’s face. The steel was nicked here and there, but it was well kept—not a speck of rust and few enough dents.

  “It’s of Nalamae,” the old woman had said as Çeda was looking it over.

  “What?” Çeda had asked.

  “The face,” the woman repeated while smacking her toothless gums, “it’s Nalamae’s.”

  That didn’t quite sit right with Çeda—Nalamae seemed eternally blind to her pleas—but she’d bought it just the same. The rest of her money had gone to Saadet, to repay all that Emre had stolen, and then some. She’d given it to Hamid and asked him to drop it at Saadet’s feet when he stepped from the pits. Saadet had frowned as Hamid stepped shyly up to him, threw the purse down, and sprinted away through the crowd. But he had still picked it up, examined its contents, and dropped the small purse into the larger one at his belt, as if
such things happened to him every day.

  When she had watched him do it from the shadows of a nearby alley, a niqab making her faceless to any who might see her, she’d felt strong, almost invincible. But here, sitting in the room with the other selhesh, she was not nearly so sure of herself. And yet the moment was growing near, and she knew she had to act, so she stood and marched over to Saadet, who eyed her with something akin to amusement. Çeda stopped before him, her heart beating so hard she thought the Malasani might hear. He was a burly man, but he’d grown fatter since that fateful night of Beht Revahl.

  “You are Saadet ibn Sim,” she stated simply.

  Saadet’s eyes narrowed as he took her in anew. “You don’t sound like a bitch from Goldenhill to me.”

  “You came to Sharakhai two years ago.” She said it loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

  “I come to Sharakhai often. What does a girl barely into her woman’s blood care of my comings and goings?”

  “On that visit, a purse was stolen from you.”

  Until this point, Saadet had seemed amused, but now all trace of humor fled, replaced by a severe expression. He sat up straighter. “Who are you?”

  “You found the thief’s home, and you killed his brother in cold blood.”

  Some few of the men and women in the room had been talking with one another, others hummed or sang softly to themselves. Still others lounged easily while waiting. But when Çeda said these words, everyone went silent, every ear turned her way.

  Saadet stood. He stared down at Çeda. She was tall for a girl of fourteen, but she still only came up to his nose. She gave up seven stone to him at least.

  Çeda hadn’t known what to expect from him. She’d imagined him saying all sorts of things. Denials. Diversions. Even an admission. But she hadn’t expected him to smile. By the gods she nearly went for his throat then and there. “What of it?” he asked.

  “I’ve come to right the scales.”

  Saadet laughed and took a step forward until they were chest-to-chest. “You have, have you?”

  “I have,” she said, looking up at him. “Blood is owed.”

  “And you’re the one to take it from me?”

  “You will beg for my mercy before this is done.”

  There was a pregnant pause as the other dirt dogs watched this exchange, and then Saadet tried to snatch her helm. He was fast, but she’d been expecting something like this. She leaned back and slapped his hand away. He tried again, and she leaned away once more, this time slapping his neck with the heel of her palm. Hard. Saadet coughed. His face went red. When he rushed her, she dodged to one side, rolling and coming to a stand before he could so much as lay a hand on her.

  Two of the pit’s enforcers stepped into the room, each holding a thick, nail-studded cudgel. The one who’d come in first banged his against an empty bench three times. “None of this, now! You all know the rules! Blood spills when the gong is struck, and not a moment before.”

  Saadet frowned, and then he looked around to all the other fighters, one by one. “None of you touch her.” Then he turned his eyes on Çeda. “None of you.”

  The others sneered at his words, and yet when they were led up, and Pelam released the viper, allowing it to decide who would choose their opponent for the next match, none of them chose Çeda. Bout after bout Çeda and Saadet were left, until there were only six.

  Çeda was standing in the center of the circular pit, waiting for Pelam to drop the viper onto the dusty floor. Osman himself had come to watch the bout. He was sitting in his private box overlooking this, the central pit. He watched with interest as Pelam dropped the snake, and when Saadet was chosen, and selected Çeda as his opponent, Osman’s brows rose. He sat higher in his chair as the spectators began to rumble in their seats, wondering what sort of strange match this might turn out to be.

  That Osman was interested made some sense, but it made her all the more nervous. She wondered if Pelam had told him about his encounter with her. But even if that were true, surely Osman wouldn’t guess that the slight woman in the pit was the same girl.

  She shook these thoughts away, knowing she must concentrate or lose; and if she lost, all would have been for naught. Worse, Saadet was angry enough that he might try to kill her.

  Which is fair enough, she decided. I’m trying to do the same to him.

  As the four remaining fighters left the pits, Pelam gave a flourish and a bow to Saadet. “Saadet ibn Sim of Malasan,” he said in a resonant voice, repeating the motions for Çeda, “chooses the White Wolf of Sharakhai!”

  The crowd had never heard of the White Wolf, but they began to cheer when they realized she was Sharakhani and her opponent from Malasan. Such matches always made for a higher volume of betting. Rarely, however, were two opponents so unevenly matched. Under normal circumstances Pelam wouldn’t allow such a thing, but in the tourneys, any of the sixty-four fighters who’d entered might face any other, and so, seemingly one-sided bouts such as these, while not commonplace, were certainly drawn from time to time. It made the day more interesting, and the oddsmakers began calling out the odds, weighing the match heavily toward Saadet. So heavily, in fact, that it made Çeda angry. And that made her all the more eager for the bout to begin.

  Before coming up from the cool lower levels of the pits, Çeda had set two dried adichara petals between her lips. She hadn’t wanted to ingest them until she knew she and Saadet would face each other, but she couldn’t be seen taking them, either, so holding them in wait in some way had been her only option. As the pit boys ran out, laden with weapons that she, as the challenged, could choose from, she slipped the petals beneath her tongue.

  Two petals.

  She’d never taken more than one before, neither before her mother’s death nor after, and it was already filling her with verve. She’d expected it to come on strong, but she’d had no idea it would come on so quickly. As she stepped toward the pit boys and examined the spears and nets and swords and fetters, she felt her fingers tingling, her lips trembling. She swallowed again and again as spit filled her mouth. The floral taste of it filled her, overrode the smell of sweat and blood and the faint whiff of decay that was ever present in the pits.

  The petals brought her back to the blooming fields where she’d harvested them last month. The twin moons had been so bright, so large, she’d thought they might swallow her whole and never let her go.

  “If you do not choose,” Pelam said calmly above the growing muttering among the crowd, “your opponent will choose for you, a thing I doubt you would like.”

  Osman watched her closely now. He had risen from his seat and was staring, not at her, exactly, she realized, but at her hands. They were shaking terribly. She gritted her jaw and blinked hard, chasing away the memories. She looked over the weapons with care, taking her time to allow the vitality of the petals to smooth out, and also to annoy Saadet.

  In the end, she chose fighting sticks, a pair of wooden bars as long as her calves, weapons she and Djaga had drilled with often over the past few days. It often made the match more brutal, as the weapons gave out less punishment than a sword, so the fights took longer, but it also gave the edge to the quicker opponent, which was something she desperately needed.

  As she took the sticks to her starting position, some of the Sharakhani in the crowd cheered, but others seemed only amused. Some few even howled—Malasanis, mostly, mocking her armor and namesake.

  Saadet walked to the weapons, picked up his own sticks and placed himself opposite Çeda. The two of them stared at one another, her entire body shivering and Saadet smiling, not with murderous eyes, or even rage, but with cool confidence, and an assurance that this would be an immensely satisfying fight.

  All too soon, Pelam stood between them with his gong. He struck it and stepped back. Çeda strode forward to meet Saadet, making sure to give herself enough room to retreat, for s
he knew what was coming.

  Saadet came on strong, beating the air with powerful swings. But she dodged backward, sending a few strikes in return, enough to slow him down. Again and again he came at her, but she refused to engage. She would step away, and as she came close to a wall she would dart to one side or the other and set up her defense once more.

  Saadet came faster after that, trying to catch her, and there were times when he connected with glancing blows against her pauldrons or helm.

  Like waves upon a storm-swept sea, the effects of the petals were strong, almost overwhelmingly so. They drove her against the cliffs, granting no subtlety to her movements. Like this she was little better than Saadet, but the longer she fought, the more the effects of the adichara began to sweeten, the waves calming, giving her an energy she could manage.

  Soon, as she knew would eventually happen, Saadet’s lips pulled back in rage, and he charged toward her. She blocked several tight swings and rolled away, but not before cracking one stick hard against his ankle. His thick leather sandals absorbed much of it, but she could tell it had an effect. As he limped away, she could think of nothing but Emre’s look as he knelt over Rafa’s dead form, the feelings of guilt coursing through him. It lit a rage within her that she’d suppressed during all the uncertainty of these past few days. As she maneuvered herself into position, she held the memory to her like a skin of water in the deep of the desert. But she should have waited.

  He was getting tired. She could see it in the way he was overreaching, in the way he overextended his swings. She could hear his breathing becoming labored. But the memory of Emre so maddened her that instead of retreating and waiting for Saadet to slow from exhaustion, she pressed and met him head-on as he came at her once more.

  She was not nearly as strong as Saadet, even with the petals, but she was stronger than he guessed, and she used his ignorance to her advantage.

  She beat away his first few blows, holding her ground, striking at his head or knees when he came too close. And when he struck at her, she would sidestep and crack his knuckles or his wrist with the end of her fighting sticks. They were not hard blows—she couldn’t afford to put her whole body into it lest he catch her off balance—but they took their toll. Slowly but surely, she saw him wincing each time she connected with his joints. He began grunting as well, and his breath became more labored from pain and exhaustion and perhaps fear. To be bested by a girl like her. It must be wearing on him.