Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  When she came at him again, however, he was ready. He blocked a strike from her cleanly, and when she aimed a blow at his wrist, his hand shot forward, dropping his weapon and grabbing hers with his free hand. She tried to wrest it free, but with two strong tugs, he had it. He tried to grab for the other, but it was a ruse. When she drew it back he stepped on her foot, preventing her from backing away, and grabbed her neck. She tried to slip free, but he dropped his one remaining stick and brought both hands around her throat. She brought her stick down with all the strength she could muster, but she couldn’t put her body into it. He let the blow fall against his helm, no matter the pain, for his hands were now squeezing hard.

  The crowd was on their feet, shouting, screaming, stomping their feet and whistling. It all became a single shrill note in Çeda’s ears as Saadet’s hands tightened. He lifted her, slamming her against the wall of the pit.

  Pinpricks of white appeared in her vision and began to dance. For a bare moment she felt a greater presence around her—not those in the pit, nor those in the Well, nor even in Sharakhai. It was a presence outside, ringing the city. The adichara, she realized. The asirim. She could feel them, though she didn’t know how. Her anger at Saadet was great, but it was nothing—a grain of sand in an endless desert compared to the anger in the minds of those sad creatures.

  She used their anger—or it used her, she wasn’t sure. With her free hand, she reached over Saadet’s forearms, grabbed a fistful of his fingers, and wrenched them up, twisting as she went. She heard and felt a crunch as one of them gave way.

  Saadet screamed and released her, trying to twist away and free his hand from her grasp, but she controlled him down to the ground until his face was in the dirt.

  Lest he pound the pit floor and give up the match, she let his hand go, but as she did she slipped the fighting stick she still held under his neck, then wrapped one knee around the end of it and pressed a forearm against the back of his head. Before Saadet knew what was happening, she levered the end of the fighting stick sharply. The haft of the weapon pressed ever harder against his windpipe, until she felt it give way with an audible pop.

  The gong was ringing over and over again. When it had started she had no idea. Hands pulled at her, and still she heaved over and over, wrenching the length of wood against his neck, listening to the wet gurgling in Saadet’s shattered throat. With a sound like stone breaking, something hard struck the back of her head. She lost track of which way was up as sky and ground and roaring crowd spun in her vision.

  She was pulled to her feet as the fat man on the pit floor clawed at his throat and writhed and arched his back, legs making furrows in the dirt, all in the hopes of regaining breath that even the gods would no longer grant him. He was dying, and there was nothing Pelam or Osman or Saadet or anyone else could do about it.

  Chest heaving, breath coming in ragged gasps, Çeda stared up at the crowd, many of whom were howling now—not the Malasanis but the Sharakhani, in honor of the skill she’d shown, and the viciousness. But there was one in the crowd, one near the very edge of the pit wall, who did not shout. Nor raise his hands to the sun. He merely stared at Çeda, eyes wide, mouth open.

  Emre. It was Emre, his eyes taking her in as she stood over Rafa’s killer like an avatar of Bakhi himself. By the gods, the look on him, as if she had killed Rafa.

  She should have told him, she saw now. She should have said she was coming to kill Saadet in revenge. But if she had told Emre, he would have come for revenge himself. And he would have died trying.

  She’d kept silent to protect him, but right then, in front of the cheering crowd, it didn’t feel that way.

  It felt as if she had utterly betrayed him, and it seemed that Emre felt the same, for the moment Saadet’s body fell still, even as Pelam tried to revive him, Emre turned and climbed up through the crowd. Tariq and Hamid had been standing next to Emre, Çeda realized. Hamid stared with a look of apology, then turned to follow Emre. Tariq, however, stared at Çeda with a look of annoyance, as if Çeda had betrayed not only Emre, but him as well, and then he, too, turned and followed Emre toward the pit exit.

  And then Çeda was alone in the pit, with the crowd cheering her.

  A SHORT WHILE AFTER her candlelit encounter with Ramahd, Çeda took the stairs up to the roof of her mudbrick home. She sat on its edge, just as she had done weeks before, on Beht Zha’ir, when Emre hadn’t returned from delivering his canister across the city. She would have searched for Emre if she could, but unlike the last time, she had no idea where he might be.

  So she waited.

  As Rhia crawled across the sky, as true night fell, she waited and prayed that Emre would return. But he didn’t, and when the first signs of light began to brighten the eastern horizon, she wrote a note and left it under his pillow.

  Leave and do not return. I’ll find you when I can.

  Then she went to her room and retrieved the wooden box in which she hid her petals from the nook above her bed. She took out the two remaining petals and crushed them into dust, then threw them to the night wind from her window. Then she pulled out her mother’s book and carefully ripped out the page with the poem that had started her down this path.

  Rest will he,

  ’Neath twisted tree,

  ’Til death by scion’s hand.

  By Nalamae’s tears,

  And godly fears,

  Shall kindred reach dark land.

  She held the page over the candle, which had nearly burned down to the nub. It pained her to do so—it felt as if she were burning her memories of her mother—but she imagined that Ahya, wherever she might be, could see the flames licking along the page, the two of them staring at it from opposite sides of the great divide, imagined that by the light Ahya could see the words and remember her past life, remember the daughter she’d had. The flames brightened, illuminating this room that was no longer her home. For a moment it looked like the place she remembered, a place of relative peace she’d shared with Emre for so many years, but when the flames dimmed, and she dropped the page’s burning remnant into the wax pooled around the candle’s base, the darkness of the days ahead returned, and this home again looked like some echo from her past she’d be a fool to revisit.

  “I’m sorry, memma,” she whispered.

  After tucking the book into a small bag at her belt, she left and ran through the city toward Tauriyat. The streets were empty. The Maidens might still be out, but if they were, she could no longer hear the clatter of their horses. The wall that housed the gates looked impossibly tall. Black soot marred the crenellations, and in one place a great swath of it discolored the wall from the base nearly all the way to the top. A dozen Maidens stood guard. Çeda watched them for a time, but they were more vigilant than she’d ever seen them.

  There’ll be no sneaking in, not with the place looking busy as a beehive.

  Deciding it would be better to have them aware of her approach, she stepped out from behind the corner of the building and strode purposefully toward the door. The Maidens watched her. She knocked upon the doors with her the heel of her hand, the dull thuds pathetic as a beggar calling for coppers.

  “Who comes?” called one of the Maidens from atop the wall.

  Çeda backed up so that she could see the one who spoke. “It is I, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala.”

  “Where have you been, little dove?”

  “I returned home, to check on my family.”

  “Are we not your family?” called another Maiden.

  “I know you not at all,” Çeda replied.

  There was a silence, a silence in which the whole of Sharakhai seemed to pause.

  And then one of the tall doors before her groaned open.

  Sümeya marched forward, her veil gone but wearing her black Maiden dress, her ebon blade at her side, her eyes afire. She grabbed a fistful of Çeda’s hair at the back of he
r head and forced her roughly through the doors, into the courtyard of the House of Maidens. Çeda tried to wrest herself free, but Sümeya’s grip was strong, and Çeda was off balance. She stumbled several times, but Sümeya used her grip on Çeda’s hair and arm to keep her upright and moving.

  As the gate closed with a clank of metal, Sümeya threw Çeda to the ground. “You’ll not speak your name like some urchin at our door. Your name is now sacrosanct, not to be spoken outside these walls while you wear our garb.”

  Çeda stared up at the wall, realizing the Maidens who had called to her from atop it had done so to embarrass her. “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Because you know nothing. You’re a sneakthief who’s stumbled into the luck of having the blood of Kings running through her veins, and believe me, that’s all that’s saved you.”

  Çeda tried to rise, but Sümeya stepped forward and knocked Çeda over with a shove from her sandaled foot. Çeda tried again, faster this time, and again Sümeya darted forward and knocked her over.

  The third time, Çeda blocked Sümeya’s leg with a slap of her palm, then she spun about, sweeping her leg out wide and catching Sümeya’s ankle.

  Sümeya, however, would not be caught so easily. She rolled over one shoulder and was back on her feet in a flash, drawing her ebon blade as she stood. She gripped the sword easily while advancing on Çeda.

  The sword . . . Çeda had never seen one so close in daylight. It looked like a sliver of night, a thing hidden from the sun’s eye.

  Çeda prepared to dodge, to retreat, but she knew it wouldn’t stave Sümeya off for long. Çeda had an eye for such things, an instinct honed over the course of dozens of bouts in the pits and thousands of hours of practice. Here was a woman at the peak of physical condition, and as gifted a swordswoman as Çeda had ever seen. Çeda retreated until the wall met her back. Sümeya smiled, mirroring Çeda’s movements as Çeda tried to slide left. “Where were you last night, thief?”

  Çeda had thought long about this on her way back, what she would say. The truth, she’d decided, was the only way to answer. “I went home to warn Emre about you.”

  Sümeya’s eyes went wide, a look of amusement now mixing with the anger. “Do you think him now safe?”

  “You won’t find him,” Çeda said, “not if he doesn’t wish to be found.”

  “You underestimate me, child. You know me as little as you knew your own father. Believe me when I tell you I am steadfast. If I wish your Emre found, then find him I will, and then—”

  “Lower your sword!”

  Sümeya, to Çeda’s utter surprise, immediately complied while turning toward the voice. In that moment, Çeda had seen a flash of embarrassment play out on her face—embarrassment from the First Warden of the Maidens. There were only a handful of souls, Çeda was sure, who could command such respect from her.

  Çeda turned toward the voice and was struck by a vision, a rich and powerful painting brought to life. A tall and imposing man strode toward them. His black turban and thawb wrapped a well-proportioned frame. He wore no adornments, none save the tattoos that marked the backs of his hands and the corners of his eyes. The ink on the back of his hands covered the skin completely, obscuring whatever tattoo had once been visible, as if it had been too dangerous or too sensitive to remain. The small tattoos on his eyes, however, appeared to be intact. They were in the shapes of spearheads—six on each side, one for each of the twelve tribes. They looked old and faded, but his eyes did not. They were rimmed heavily in kohl, as the men and women of old once did. They were such a light blue they almost appeared white. They pierced her, those eyes. Pierced her and made her want to retreat, to run and hide in a place where he wouldn’t find her.

  This had to be Husamettín, King of Swords, the one who commanded the Blade Maidens and saw to their preparedness, who even took a hand in the training of new Maidens. Or so it was told.

  “My King,” Sümeya said, lowering her blade and bowing her head as the King came to a stop before her.

  When he spoke, his voice was low and primal, like the back-of-the-throat growl a cat makes as its enemies near. “You’ve drawn a sword against a sister Maiden, Sümeya.”

  “Siyaf,” Sümeya replied, using the term for a master swordsman, “I was set to teach her a lesson.”

  “And what lesson might that be?”

  “That she cannot leave this House, she cannot spit upon it and return, expecting to go unpunished.”

  “She has been claimed,” Husamettín countered easily.

  “Siyaf, she left! On the eve of her naming, she turned her back on this house. She doesn’t deserve a place among us.”

  The entire focus of the House of Maidens was now centered here. More Maidens had come and were gathered in a circle. Many Matrons had come as well, Zaïde among them, wearing their white dresses, cowls wrapped around their heads or gathered around their necks. None seemed sure what to do or what to say.

  The King turned toward Çeda, but when he spoke, he spoke to Sümeya. “Did she tell the truth? Did you threaten her family?”

  Before Çeda could respond, Sümeya cut in. “The boy she refers to is not her family.”

  “Yes, he is,” Çeda said.

  “No, he isn’t,” Sümeya countered. “He’s just another gutter wren.”

  Husamettín, his gaze unwavering, jutted his chin toward Çeda. “Is he your brother?”

  “More than anyone, Emre is my brother, the only family I have left.”

  A weight seemed to lift from Çeda’s shoulders as Husamettín returned his attention to Sümeya. “We do not harm the blood of our blood, Sümeya. Not without cause, and she has named him her brother.”

  Sümeya scoffed, the tip of her sword lifting toward Çeda’s neck. “We do not harm the family of our sisters. She is not one of us.”

  “Is she not?” He waved to one side. “Zaïde has seen it, Yusam has said it is so . . .”

  “My Lord King, this piece of dung deserves only the sword, not shelter. I would sooner see my grave than have one such as her at my side.”

  “You will teach her,” Husamettín said calmly, “and you will take her into your hand, as Yusam bade you.”

  “No,” Sümeya replied, “I will not.”

  Before Çeda could blink, Sümeya had lifted her sword and swung it sharply toward Çeda’s neck. There was a blur of dark movement. A clatter of steel a hair’s breadth from Çeda’s neck.

  Husamettín’s blade had blocked Sümeya’s killing stroke.

  The King stepped in while Sümeya and Çeda were both in shock and kicked Sümeya away. She flew backward through the air, landing hard, but she was up in a moment, facing the King, ebon blade in hand. She approached Husamettín, not with anger, but with an expression that Çeda could only interpret as deep and utter resignation. She meant exactly what she’d said about preferring the grave, and now she meant to force the King to take her life.

  Husamettín stood tall, one arm behind his back, his own sword at the ready. It was a strange pose for a swordsman, but somehow he made it look both elegant and deadly. “When the desert was young,” he said, “there was a tribe of wanderers who lived in the Vandraama Mountains.”

  If Sümeya’s ebon blade could be said to be made of night, Husamettín’s was deeper still. And it was not merely black; it drew light from anything that surrounded it. Everyone in the Shangazi knew of Night’s Kiss, the blade the dark god, Goezhen, had granted to Husamettín on Beht Ihman four hundred years ago. It was said to thirst for blood. It was rumored to feast upon those the King slew, and if it had no feast, it weighed on his mind, calling upon him to take another so the dark sword might slake its thirst.

  Sümeya seemed angry at the King’s cavalier attitude, for she closed and swung at him. The King blocked, and retreated three steps as Sümeya launched a flurry of blows. Çeda couldn’t take her eyes fro
m them. The ringing of their swords sounded clear and high and hypnotic, as if this were some echo of a duel waged centuries ago.

  Husamettín continued his tale between blows. “The tribe wandered the mountains, looking for food. They were starving, for there had been a drought the likes of which the mountains had never seen.”

  As Sümeya continued to seek an opening in Husamettín’s defenses, it became clear that he had chosen to deny her wish. He would block a strike and retreat, block and retreat, never advancing, though it would have provided an advantage to do so. He was wearing her out, Çeda realized, pressing Sümeya to the edge of her abilities but no further.

  “One day a boy of the tribe was beaten by two elder boys for trying to steal their water. Late that night he prayed for Goezhen to come for them, to take them into the desert and to turn them into slivers, pale and cruel imitations of men that steal souls when the twin moons are darkest.”

  Sümeya’s face reddened as she pushed harder. Husamettín’s sword flashed, darkening the space between the King and Sümeya. Their swords rang louder and louder, as every woman in the courtyard stood transfixed. Even Zaïde, who always seemed so calm, seemed fearful of how this would end.

  “A god came to the boy that night, but it was not Goezhen. It was Thaash, and he frowned upon the boy, asking him why he would wish ill upon his brothers.” The King sidestepped a charge from Sümeya. He fended off her blows with an ease that Çeda had never seen before. “‘Because they beat me,’ the boy said, ‘and because they’re hiding water from the tribe.’ ‘Are they?’ Thaash asked. ‘Then if you wish it, I will kill them.’”

  Sümeya’s breathing was becoming labored, her swings and footwork slower. That was when Husamettín slipped his sword inside her defenses and cut her arm, just below the shoulder. It was a light cut only, but enough to draw blood. Sümeya merely grunted and redoubled her efforts.