Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  She blinked, the impotent rage for her mother’s death bringing her back to herself. She should have knelt long before now. She should be prostrate before him. But this, at least, she could do: stand before one of those responsible for her mother’s death and face him without flinching.

  Sukru held up his right hand, still bloody, still wet. “The mark of the chosen,” he said in a throaty voice. “They are blessed, are they not?”

  “They are, my King.”

  “And what of you?” he asked, glancing at his bloody hand. “Do you wish to be marked as well? Do you wish to walk among the farther fields, glowing from the kiss of the gods?”

  I would pay anything to walk hand-in-hand with my mother. But not yet. Now is not the time.

  The song reached its frantic conclusion, the drumbeat thrumming in time to Çeda’s heartbeat. She looked to his hand, to the King’s twinkling eyes. “There are paths I have yet to walk, my King. Streets I have yet to tread.”

  He seemed amused by her words. “This is a gift I bestow upon few.”

  “Then perhaps one day you might ask me again. Maybe I’ll have changed my mind.”

  He stared at her, perhaps shocked, but then he tilted his head to her, as much of a bow as someone like her would ever receive from one of the Kings. “Perhaps I will, little wren. Perhaps I will.” He pointed over her shoulder. “Now go. Return home and leave this street in peace.”

  She did as the King commanded, as around her, the music came to a rousing finale and then fell silent. As piercing whistles played over the Knot and the surrounding neighborhoods, Çeda glanced back and found the King gone.

  Çeda knew that Sukru’s appearance at that door had something to do with the other King’s interests. It seemed likely that he was working behind Mesut’s back. Why else go to a place clearly favored by the Jackal King? Or if not that, was it some inconvenience the other King was forcing Sukru to deal with? Or perhaps they shared common interests? Whatever the case, Çeda knew she had to return. She had to know why the Kings were so interested in that place.

  She left home just before dusk on the night of Beht Zha’ir. She padded along the streets, moving steadily toward the Knot. The city was hidden behind closed doors, giving her all the cover she needed, but she felt terribly exposed. She’d been out on Beht Zha’ir often to collect petals from the adichara, but she always left before nightfall so she was well clear of the city before the asirim arrived. Now, she felt hemmed in, as if she were running a maze that could only lead to Sukru. Then the King would mark her with his bloody hand, and the asirim would find her and take her to the desert to do whatever it was they did with the sad souls they collected.

  But the streets were empty as she reached the Knot, empty as she came to the marked door. She crept closer and stood before it. Tulathan had already risen in the east, and its light shone on the wood. Ever so faintly, she could see Sukru’s mark glinting in the moonlight.

  After glancing up and down the street, she tried the door, and found it unlocked. She stepped inside and saw a woman lying in a bed on the far side of the one-room home. She sat up immediately, and Çeda saw a girl in the bed with her, perhaps three years old. Çeda could see, even in the moonlight, how beautiful this woman was. Beautiful enough, perhaps, to attract the notice of Kings. Beautiful enough to draw them away from Tauriyat and into the streets. Were there not numberless stories about the Kings doing exactly this, wandering in disguise or even in the open, having dalliances among those of lesser blood?

  Çeda put her finger to her lips and closed the door.

  “Who are you?” the woman whispered, standing, grabbing a knife from the bedside table and unsheathing it. The blade gleamed in the dull moonlight coming in through the shaded window to Çeda’s right. “Get out of my home!”

  “Please, I’m not here to harm you. You and your daughter are in grave danger.”

  The girl sat up, and shrunk back into the bed, pulling the covers up to her eyes. Çeda was about to answer when she realized the woman was holding her stomach with her free hand. Kenshar in one hand; the other over her belly, protectively.

  “Gods—” Çeda’s mind was racing. “Are you pregnant?”

  Of course she was. But why would Sukru do such a thing? Mark a woman carrying the child of another King?

  “I’ll answer no questions of yours!” The woman was still whispering, but loudly now, in a rasp. She stepped forward, brandishing the knife, though it was with rushed, exaggerated movements.

  “I was here the other day”—she lowered her voice—“when the King was leaving.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, and then she stepped forward, slicing the air between them with her knife. “What of it? What is that to you?”

  Çeda dodged the swing easily, stepping back toward the door, and as she did, a long wail settled over the city, sending a shiver crawling along Çeda’s skin. The woman looked to the window.

  “Memma!” the girl cried from the bed.

  “Quiet, Mala. And you, get out! Now! The Holy Night is upon us!”

  “Just listen to me,” Çeda said, holding her hands up as the woman swung again. Her mind was reeling, piecing together the pieces of this very strange puzzle. “They’re coming. They’re coming here, to your home.”

  This caught the woman so off-guard she stopped advancing. “What?”

  “The asirim,” Çeda said as another tormented cry came, closer than the last, and more pained, as if the one who had released it was being whipped by Sukru’s black scourge. “They’re coming here. Sukru marked your door. Don’t you see? You and your daughter and your unborn child have been chosen!”

  “You’re talking nonsense!”

  Çeda stepped aside and motioned to the door. “See for yourself, but for your children’s sake, hurry!”

  In the dim light, the woman looked to Mala in their shared bed, then down to her hand, which was still resting on her stomach, then to the door as a third wail came, a primal howl filled not with anguish, or even agony, but with rage. “Get in the corner,” the woman said, pointing to a wooden cabinet, “behind that table.”

  Çeda complied, stepping behind a low eating table and a stack of pillows. The woman moved to the door and opened it with great care, so as not to make a sound. She stared at it and whipped her head back to Çeda. “Nothing!”

  “Look carefully, in the moonlight.”

  She turned back. Peered at the door. She swallowed hard. Then squinted, moving even closer to the wood, glancing up at the moon then back to the handprint, which she had evidently seen. The hand that held the knife quivered in fear or confusion or both.

  “Rhia’s grace,” she said. “Why?”

  More wails came. They were spread across the southeastern section of the city. How they might sense the blood that Sukru left—its odor perhaps, or some arcane faculty granted by the gods—Çeda didn’t know, but she knew they would be here quickly. “I don’t know,” Çeda answered, “but I know this: the asirim move quickly. And when they have their prey in sight, there is no escape. So I leave it to you. Do you wish to be taken by the asirim? Do you consider it an honor? If so, I’ll leave. But if not, we must go now.”

  Mala was crying into her blanket now. The sound was muffled but desperate. The woman cried as well, the moonlit trails of her tears giving light to how deeply terrified she was.

  “Mala, get dressed,” she said and moved to the cabinet, rummaging through its lower shelves.

  “No time!” Çeda said. “Get your sandals on, girl, and follow your mother.”

  Çeda made to grab the woman’s shoulder, to get her to rise. The sound of the asirim filled the streets now, and she heard a shout somewhere in the distance, a man screaming until his cries were cut suddenly short.

  The woman rose with a small wooden box clutched in her hands. “Come, now, Mala.”

  They ran out and into
the night, weaving through the streets as quickly and quietly as they could manage. As they were leaving the Knot, Çeda turned and saw a dark form bounding along the street toward them. She shoved the woman down an alley and turned, preparing to draw her pitiful shamshir, hoping to the gods she wouldn’t need to.

  The asirim galloped toward her, dark arms and legs eating up the distance between them at an alarming rate. Çeda breathed out. Drew her sword. Held it before her with both of her quavering arms.

  But at the last moment, the asirim turned, heading along the street they’d just come from, perhaps toward the empty home they’d just fled, or to another. Çeda didn’t know, she was simply glad to be alive.

  She fled, leading Mala and her mother deeper into Sharakhai. When they came to the Serpentine, the woman grabbed her arm with a desperation that surprised Çeda, then leaned in and whispered, “Sirina. My name is Sirina Jalih’ala al Kenan. I would have you know it if we die this night, so I might find you in the farther fields and thank you there.”

  In the distance, the wailing rose as a strangled cry was cut short. Several jackal bays followed, as if the asirim were pleased with their kill.

  “You won’t die tonight, Sirina. Not you. Not Mala. And not your unborn child.”

  Before Çeda could take them any further, Sirina pulled her in and kissed her forehead. “My heart is yours.”

  It was a very old expression of gratitude, and a very serious one.

  Çeda gripped Sirina’s arm, then did the same to young Mala, lending them what strength she could. And then they were off once more, wending their way toward Roseridge.

  Çeda laid an extra blanket over Sirina and Mala, who, while not yet fully asleep, were resting quietly in Çeda’s bed. Emre stood at her door, looking for all the world like a useless man. But he was only trying to help, and she loved him for it. She kissed him on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” he asked as she walked past him.

  “For trying.”

  He frowned but said nothing as they entered his room. Wordlessly they slipped into his bed and pulled the covers up. Now that the excitement of the chase had worn off, she felt cold, colder than she’d felt in years.

  The city was quiet now. The moons were high and bright, but they would be setting soon, and then it would be a few hours of pitch darkness before the sun rose. It would feel good to have a bit of darkness, Çeda decided. The brightness of the moons as she and Sirina and Mala had run through the city was harrowing. It had felt as if they’d be caught at any moment, that the alarm would be sounded. But no one had seen them.

  “What will we do with them?” Emre asked her.

  He was warm against her back, and his arms around her felt like the home she’d never had. She turned in the bed until the two of them were face-to-face. “We find them a new life.”

  “Won’t the Kings come for her?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Sukru marked her door, and she won’t go back there. I doubt they’ll think at all of a dead mistress and her bastard child.” Emre’s gaze flicked to her shoulders, and she knew why: the tattoo on her back, the one Dardzada had forced upon her, the symbol for a bastard child.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “It doesn’t bother me anymore.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  And to this she merely leaned in and kissed him.

  He leaned into the kiss and soon it became more passionate, the two of them running their hands along each other’s hips, then waists, then Emre slipped his hand beneath her night shirt. His fingers were warm, and it felt good against the cold skin of her stomach and hip and back.

  She’d not lain with a man yet. She’d come close. She and Tariq had gotten drunk on cheap wine he’d bought—bought, he’d said, swearing he hadn’t stolen it. They’d wound up below Bent Man along the Trough, kissing one another roughly, inexpertly. But Tariq had drunk too much wine. That or he was intimidated by her—Tehla the baker had told her more than once that it might happen with men.

  This was different, though. There were times when she’d looked at Emre that way, and times when she’d seen him looking at her. Many times, in fact. But the two of them had so much history. He’d been there when her mother had died. He’d been there after Dardzada marked her. He’d been there the first time she’d ventured out to the killing fields. And she’d been there when Rafa died. She’d been there to console him, however much good that had done. She’d seen him grow from a gangly boy into a well-muscled man. And more than that, a kind man, even if there was a part of him that always seemed scared.

  As she ran the backs of her fingers along his jaw, slipped them around his neck and pulled him deeper into the kiss, it felt . . . not wrong, but risky. Their relationship was so much deeper than tumbling between the sheets, and she didn’t want to ruin that.

  Perhaps Emre felt the same, for though he crawled on top of her, though he kissed her neck and spread her legs apart with his hips, his movements slowed. He rose up and stared at her, and for a time the two of them merely gazed into one another’s eyes.

  With a tenderness she felt in her heart, she reached up and pulled him close. With one hand she reached down and felt his manhood, stroked him for a time before guiding him inside her. She used her legs to pull his hips close, gasping for the pain that it brought. Emre recoiled, but she held him tight. This was a sweet pain, one she had been hoping to share with Emre for so long.

  When Emre saw her smile, his own smile returned, if slowly, and then he began to lose himself in the motions, rocking back and forth, his eyes closing as the two of them grasped one another tightly and he thrust himself into her with increasing ardor.

  When he released, he cried out, and Çeda pulled him into her, arching her back as she was sent over the edge. She never thought she’d experience anything else like the petals. The energy they granted was like nothing else. But this . . . It wasn’t the same, exactly, but it was every bit as grand, every bit as wonderful, like two symphonies playing out over the desert.

  And she swore to the gods she’d drop a handful of sylval onto Yerinde’s offering plate if it didn’t give her the same sort of hangovers. Then she laughed at the very thought.

  “What?” Emre asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You just laughed. While we were making love.”

  She reached up and stroked his cheek. “If you were feeling what I’m feeling, you’d be laughing too.”

  And then he did laugh, a short, beautiful thing, and they kissed again.

  Slowly, they came down from their heights, and the two of them lay side by side, their breathing in sync.

  As Emre stared at her, running his hand over her cheek, his brow furrowed.

  “What?” she asked.

  “There are days when I wish we could go back and start again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wish we had run away, before any of this had happened.”

  “Before what had happened?”

  Emre shrugged. “Your mother. The Kings finding her.”

  “And Rafa.”

  He nodded tentatively. “And Rafa. I’d wipe all of it away, and our life would be grand.”

  With dawn on the horizon, they kissed one last time. She nestled into the crook of his shoulder and held him close. “Where would we have gone had we run away?”

  “To the desert. We’d take a ship and travel the sands. We’d visit all the twelve tribes, then find a place of our own among them, or live in a home like Saliah.”

  There were days she wished she could change things as well, but what good did it do to wish for things you could never have? “We can’t go back, Emre.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “And life is never grand.”

  “I know.”

  THERE WAS A STONE LIP beneath Bent Man Bridge where one could s
it and watch the riverbed. It was dusty and dirty, and there were massive spiders that hid in the dusty recesses of Bent Man’s undercarriage, yet it was still a favorite of the gutter wrens in spring, when the river was strong and flowed bright and clear and cool. At other times of the year, it was rarely used. Those were the times when the Haddah became little more than a reminder of how harsh life was in the Shangazi.

  Even so, Emre had liked coming here with Çeda. They’d sit and eat stolen honeymeats, licking their fingers and smacking their lips after. They’d rest from the heat with Tariq and Hamid. Sometimes Rafa would come by and tell them jokes, or Hamid’s uncle would come and toss them a few lemons to suck on. Often it would just be the two of them, and they’d sit and talk about what they’d do when they grew older, things neither of them thought they would ever actually do—sail the Shangazi from one end to the other, dine in the halls of the long-dead Kings, visit the tribes and hear their stories over an open fire and tell stories of their own.

  Sometimes they’d sit and kiss, hands roaming, groping one another, though it never lasted long. He would have liked it to, but Çeda would tense up. He always had the impression it was because of her mother, yet strangely enough, the one time they had lain together, he was the one who’d thought about Ahya. There were times when he wished someone else could have told Çeda that fateful morning, so she wouldn’t always think of him when she thought of her mother’s death. But then, like now, he rejected the notions quickly. He was glad he was the one who’d told her; he just hoped it didn’t stand between them.

  This stone lip, this place filled with so many memories, was where Emre sat the day after being taken to the Qaimiran Lord’s manse to speak with Çeda.