One of the stable girls took her down the hill in a covered araba to the estates set aside for dignitaries and emissaries from distant lands. Qaimir had one manse of its own. A servant led her to a rich sitting room on the first floor, appointed with granite pedestals, fresh flowers in pewter vases, and a marble-lined fire pit with a beautiful arrangement of pillows surrounding it. She couldn’t sit, however. She was too nervous. She wished to see Ramahd again, though what she would say, or what he might say in return, she had no idea.
She heard footsteps behind her. The doors opened, and Ramahd stepped in wearing a silk brocade coat opened to reveal a white shirt. He wore black boots and trousers that matched his bronze coat. He looked every bit the lord her fellow Maidens imagined him to be. But for some reason he looked supremely uncomfortable. And he wasn’t alone. Another man stood behind him.
It took her a moment to recognize him, dressed in fine Qaimiran clothes, his face bloody, cuts and scrapes marring his cheeks, lips, and jaw. His left eye was badly bruised, and there were red gouges in the knuckles of his hands.
She recognized him only when he’d lifted his head. By the gods who shine in the night, it was Emre.
RAMAHD SAT ON THE THIRD-FLOOR BALCONY of his apartments in the Qaimiri emissary house. Above him loomed Tauriyat and its thirteen palaces—twelve for the Kings themselves and the thirteenth, the Sun Palace, near the base of the mountain. They were an imposing sight, not merely for their grandeur, but also for the power they represented—the Kings, the Maidens, the asirim; even the gods who seemed to favor them.
He wondered, as he sipped his glass of sweet Malasani wine, whether he and Meryam were playing with fire so hot that they would not only burn themselves, but everyone around them, people they’d never meant to burn. The Kingdom of Qaimir itself might pay the price for what they were about to do. Part of him wished to go to the Kings and give them the evidence they’d collected so far—that Macide was searching for the blood mage, Hamzakiir, the long-dead son of Külasan the Wandering King; that they’d secured a breathstone in order to speak to him; that Juvaan Xin-Lei was lending information, money, and resources to help in the effort. But it would be hard to prove, and he was loath to bring up the subject of Hamzakiir with the Kings. Hamzakiir’s ties to Ramahd’s homeland were simply too strong, which surely pleased Juvaan greatly. It might even have been Juvaan or his queen who had suggested it to the Host, not the reverse. Hamzakiir’s position in this grand equation made it all the easier for Mirea’s Queen Alansal to deny Mirea had anything to do with it. What, she would ask, would we stand to gain?
And there was Macide to consider. Ramahd’s thirst to find him was no less strong than it had been when Yasmine had died. And now it felt as though he was close. Truly close. Follow the White Wolf, the fork-tailed ehrekh had said.
And so he had, tracking her as well as he could. He’d heard the rumors flooding Sharakhai, that a woman had been taken to the gates of the House of Maidens and abandoned by a foreign priest. He’d spoken to enough witnesses who had seen it firsthand that he was convinced the story was true, and, from their descriptions, that the woman was Çeda. He’d waited for her in her home for many nights, hoping to find her on her return, or perhaps her lover, Emre. She’d come at last, just as Meryam had said she would.
That same night, Dana’il had stumbled upon news of Emre, and Ramahd wondered if he’d made a mistake by letting Çeda leave, or worse, by giving her his word that he’d wait to let her speak with Emre. But the ehrekh’s words . . . Meryam had made it clear that they should let this play out. So he’d waited and worried.
Whatever was going to happen would happen soon. King Aldouan paid informants dearly for news of Sharakhai, and they reported that the Host was planning something. It seemed likely to happen two nights hence, on Beht Zha’ir.
As the wind played among the potted palms on the balcony, Ramahd sipped more of his wine. It was fine enough, but the sweetness was cloying.
There was a knock at his door.
“Come.”
The knock came again.
“I said, come!”
Mykal, his nephew and pageboy, stepped into his rooms bearing a silver tray with a note on it. He walked with a motion that made him look as though he had something lodged firmly up his bum.
“For the love of all that’s good, patience, Mykal.” Ramahd took the note from the tray. “One can rush without making it look like you’re late to your own birthing.”
Mykal’s cheeks flushed. He glanced to the note, then to Ramahd, then to the tray and the note again.
“Do you understand?” Ramahd pressed.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“No, you clearly don’t, but think on it, and one day you might. Now go.”
“Of course, my Lord.” And he left, moving even faster and looking more awkward than when he’d come in.
Chuckling at how blissfully blind the boy was, the wax seal upon the note registered at last. It was the seal of the House of Maidens—twelve shamshirs fanned out in a circle around a shield, sword points outward. He cracked the seal, opened the letter, and read it carefully. Then he folded it back the way it had come and made his way from his apartments to Meryam’s across the hall. He knocked loudly and entered, not waiting for an answer. She was sitting with her handmaid on the south-facing balcony, both of them painting on canvases the amber cityscape of Sharakhai.
“What if I’d been naked?” Meryam asked without turning.
“You’re not.”
“I might have been.”
Ramahd held the note out to her, shaking it when she made no move to take it.
“A note does not concern me when I’m halfway through a painting,” she said.
“It’s from the House of Maidens.”
Meryam’s hand went still. She turned, setting her brush down on the nearby table, and snatched it from his hand. She read it over once, then snapped her fingers for her handmaid to leave the room.
The girl began cleaning their brushes until Meryam snapped her fingers again—“Leave them”—at which point the golden-haired girl bowed to them both and left the room.
Meryam read the note a second time. “It seems you’ve made an impression.”
The note was from a Matron named Zaïde, who explained that a young aspirant named Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala was about to take her final test before entering the service of the Maidens. She was to be granted one night for herself before this happened, and she would enjoy the company of one Ramahd shan Amansir of Almadan.
Ramahd wondered at all that had happened since he faced Çeda in the pits. Chasing Macide, speaking with the King, the visit with the ehrekh, and then finding Çeda in her home while waiting for Emre. It was a dizzying series of events that made him feel as though the gods were toying with him—toying with all of them—as if they’d meant Ramahd and Çeda to meet for a purpose known only to themselves.
“You’ll see her, of course,” Meryam said.
Ramahd was glad she didn’t mention the ehrekh. She trusted far more in that creature than he did. Even if everything happened as the ehrekh had predicted, even if they found Hamzakiir and Macide and took them both, it still felt as though they’d given away too much in the bargain made out there in the desert. Bargains with Goezhen’s children never ended well. “She may come, but she knew little enough the last time we spoke, and as far as I know, she’s been in the House of Maidens since last I saw her.”
“You still believe she was telling the truth? That she knew nothing of the Host’s plans?”
“She didn’t say that exactly, but yes, I think she knew little enough. She doesn’t believe in their methods. She thinks them too harsh.”
“To deal with change is to deal with harsh realities, and sometimes, harsh methods,” Meryam countered, in a tone not unlike the one Ramahd had used with his nephew mere moments ago. Setting the note aside, she t
ook up a paint-stained rag and rubbed at the cerulean paint on her hands. “She might have been trying to protect this Emre of hers.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think so. She seemed surprised at what I told her of him, his dealings with Macide and his ties to the attack on the House of Maidens.”
She stared at him from the hollows of her eyes. “You made her a promise.”
“I promised her she could speak to Emre before I did. I didn’t promise not to arrange for her to meet him.”
“I only wonder whether you’re seeing things clearly.”
“I won’t have this argument again, Meryam.”
“She asks for you, of all people, on the one night she has before she’s put on trial by the foul asirim. Does she have no one else in this city?”
“The ehrekh saw this, and now you’re surprised?”
“Like the gods, the ehrekh see into the hearts of man. Strange that he stopped before you, of all of us, and gave word to sniff along the White Wolf’s trail.”
“Well, she might have asked for Emre before me, but he’s gone, isn’t he?”
“She has her Emre, true.” Her voice trailed off, none too subtly. “But now there’s you as well. It has been some time since you . . .”
“What are you saying, Meryam?”
“I’m saying there would be no harm in toying with her affections. It might even bring her closer to us.”
“She’s using me. And we’re using her. There’s nothing more to it than that.”
Meryam tilted her head, raising her brows with an expression that supposed none of this meant anything to her. “As you say.”
Ramahd stifled a sigh. “It is as I say. Now are we done? There’s much to do before I meet with her.”
Meryam had already returned to looking out across the city. “Then by all means, go.”
Ramahd thought of trying to talk her out of this mood, but he was sick of her games. She could judge him if she wished.
He had work to do.
The following day, Ramahd stood before his mirror, adjusting his shirt, adjusting his coat. By the gods, he was even checking his hair to make sure it didn’t look too disheveled.
It’s only for appearance’s sake. The servants, and the Matron, Zaïde, if she happens to come, must think I’m taking this seriously.
But as time wore on, he found himself thinking more and more of that night with Çeda in her home. She’d looked so confident, so angry, when she came in. He couldn’t deny he was attracted to that sort of woman. Yasmine had been like that—fiery in her own way. He thought of the ceremony in the Sun Palace as well, where he’d planned on introducing Çeda to Juvaan. When he’d mentioned it in Çeda’s home, he’d merely hoped to learn more of Queen Alansal’s ambassador, but he’d spotted Juvaan speaking with one of the ladies of Goldenhill, a woman who was said to be a close confidant of King Ihsan. Of all the Kings, he was the one Ramahd trusted least—he hadn’t been named the Honey-tongued King for no reason—so Ramahd thought it best to steer clear of that conversation, and even avoid being seen with Çeda, at least until he saw how Çeda’s presence changed the lay of the land, if at all.
He’d seen Çeda looking for him and the disappointment on her face, but it couldn’t be helped. Navigate the intricate weave of Sharakhai’s politics recklessly and the wrong thread might be cut, and then everything might unravel.
Just before he’d left the Sun Palace, he’d seen her speaking with Juvaan, taking things into her own hands. She was bold, that one. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t send a bit of a thrill through him just to be near her, but it was also a thing he’d have to be careful of in the future. He was not so blind that he couldn’t see how much of a liability she might become, if not handled properly.
He shook his head and smoothed down the front of his coat. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t begin a relationship with another woman, not even an affair, until his debt to Yasmine and Rehann had been paid in full, but he had to admit he’d been sorely tempted that night in her home. Still, there was too much happening to consider such a thing. There was Emre, a man she lived with, and certainly seemed to love, not to mention the mess they were all embroiled in—the Moonless Host, the Kings, Mirea.
From the window came the sound of horse hooves and wagon wheels grinding through loose gravel. Ramahd turned and walked out and down to the ground floor. When he stepped out, Dana’il leapt down from the driver’s bench, holding his hands up, trying to prevent Ramahd from approaching. When Ramahd kept his pace, Dana’il placed himself in Ramahd’s path.
“What happened?” Ramahd asked, peering into the darkness of the wagon. “Do you have him?”
“We have him. But he . . . My Lord, he refused to play nicely.”
“What does that mean?” Ramahd pushed past Dana’il.
“My Lord!”
Ignoring him, Ramahd opened the door and found Alamante, Ramahd’s second after Dana’il, sitting across from a man who was slouched on the padded bench, wrists bound, blood marking his ripped shirt and sirwal trousers. Emre, his face bloody and swollen and bruised.
Ramahd spun to face Dana’il. “And just what does the word unharmed mean to you?”
Dana’il shrugged. “He refused to come with us.”
“So you subdue him!”
“We tried! He’s a scrapper, that one.”
“Well, he looks like a gods-damned side of meat, now!” Ramahd closed his eyes, imagining presenting that to Çeda, imagining what she would do, what she would think! There was nothing for it now, though. “Bring the wagon around the back,” he said. “Sneak him in, and see if you can avoid dropping him down any flights of stairs. Do you think you can manage that?”
Dana’il bowed. “Of course, my Lord.”
“Clean him up. Get him changed. Take anything from my wardrobe that will fit him and make him look presentable. And by the gods, cover up those bloody wounds!”
“Of course,” Dana’il replied, and then hopped up to the bench.
As the wagon rattled away, Ramahd knew it was useless. There was no covering up this bloody great mess, no explaining it away.
He thought of confronting Emre over his involvement with the Host and what part he’d played in the attack on the House of Maidens and the abduction of Lord Vesdi, but he’d gone to the effort of finding him with the express purpose of having him speak to Çeda first, and he refused to break that promise now. Çeda would get that much out of him at least.
Besides, what might he get out of Çeda without Emre? He truly believed she knew nothing of the Host’s plans, and if that were so, there was no sense in questioning her again. He had to give Çeda a chance to speak with Emre. It was the only way he and Meryam would get what they needed.
After the noon hour, he had Emre brought to his room. Emre’s hands were no longer bound, and he was dressed in Ramahd’s clothes, looking for all the world like a goat in horse’s tack. He was a fine enough looking man, but he was Sharakhani, through and through, with his long beard and dark skin and darker eyes. His face looked horrible, even cleaned of the excess blood.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
Emre stood tall, looking down on Ramahd as best he could. “Your man claimed it was to speak to Çeda.”
“And don’t you wish to speak to her?”
He hawked and spat blood-tinged spittle onto the carpet between them. “I’ll speak to her when and where I please. I need no meeting arranged by some piece of Qaimiri trash.”
“She’s been taken in by the Maidens. You must know this by now.”
Emre didn’t respond, confirming Ramahd’s suspicions.
“You think you can steal into their House?” Ramahd went on. “The Maidens look upon you with that sort of favor? They would allow you to—how did you say it?—speak to her when and where you please?”
Again, Emre chos
e only to stare, to blink slowly. Through Ramahd’s window came the sound of another wagon—a lighter one—entering the circle out front. Emre glanced in that direction but made no mention of it.
“She’s about to go to the blooming fields, did you know? As part of her initiation to become a Blade Maiden?”
The edge in Emre’s hardened look softened.
“Are you so confident the asirim will look into her eyes and judge her worthy to join them?”
It took Emre a long time to respond, but eventually he said, “There’s nothing I can do about that anymore.”
Outside, a wagon door opened and closed. Soft words came, a welcome for a new guest.
Ramahd pointed his chin toward the window. “That will be her. Speak to her, Emre. That’s all I ask.”
“Speak to her?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“Whatever it is she wishes to speak to you about.”
Emre’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that you’ve brought me here—that you had me beaten and stuffed in a wagon—so that I could talk with Çeda?”
“Just so.”
Emre, his eyes full of mistrust, considered Ramahd for a time, but then his look softened. “You’re after the Host, aren’t you?”
The young man was smarter than he looked. “I’m after many things.”
“You won’t get them. I won’t tell you about them. You’ll kill me before that happens.”
His eyes were so fierce that Ramahd nodded and said, “You know, I believe you.” They could hear the entry door downstairs open and close, and Ramahd stood. “But I doubt that will be necessary.” He strode forward and squeezed Emre’s shoulder. Emre winced and knocked Ramahd’s hand away.
“Just speak to her.”
Emre stared into Ramahd’s eyes, weighing his options, and then nodded.
Ramahd nodded back and led Emre out to the stairs and down to the ground floor.
Twelve Kings in Sharakhai Page 54