The Forbidden City (The Dragon's Legacy Book 2)

by Deborah A. Wolf

“Yes,” the slavemistress whispered. “You see it. I knew you would. There is a chance for you, a chance for both of us. It is a slim chance, but I was a slim girl, not yet ten years of age, when I was first sold down by the river. My first master took me there, in front of all those cheering, laughing men, then he sold me over and over… and over again.” She drank. They both drank, washing away the ugly taste of truth.

  “He is dead now. I hung his head from the walls of my first palace, until all the skin and flesh had rotted away, till nothing was left but a skull with no smell, then I smashed his bones to powder and had them mixed into my wine. It is good, is it not? Wine mixed with the bones of your enemies.”

  It is very good wine, Hannei thought. Better than the mothers ever made. Better than usca, maybe.

  “Perhaps some day you will have your own vineyards, and slaves to make your own wine. On that day, we may raise our glasses together and toast the shades of our fallen.” Sharmutai smiled. “That would be a good day, but if you want to get there, my pet—if you wish to walk a path cobbled with the skulls of your enemies and eat meat salted by their tears—you must make sacrifices.

  “I have a dream, sweet one,” she said, “a dream so close I can almost, almost reach out and touch it.” She did reach out then, and stroked Hannei’s shoulder. “The false king in Atualon has raised a fighting pit of his own. ‘The Sulemnium’ he calls it, an arena like your own Madraj, only ten times as big, with columns of gold and ivory, and silken pillows upon which the elites park their powdered asses as they watch your kind die. A world wonder, they say, as beautiful as that hulking fortress Atukos, but it is just another fighting pit, to those who spill their blood into the dirt. It is just another whorehouse, to those who are raped before a cheering crowd. One of my masters had a chamber pot made of gold. It still smelled of shit.” She smiled at the memory. “I caved his skull in with it, one night, as he lay snoring in a puddle of my blood.”

  Hannei was almost glad for her missing tongue. What could she say to that?

  “The false king and his false heir have begun holding tournaments, pet. Champions from every land are invited to fight to the death before the silk-clad arses of Atualon, and their patrons to sit at the feet of the Dragon King himself. Champions such as you may become, if you fight hard enough and stay as lucky as you have been. Patrons such as I, if I salt enough palms and grease the way with the blood of a few more rivals.

  “Were I to sit at the foot of the Dragon King…”

  The wineglass shattered in Sharmutai’s hand, and the lesser slaves fled. Blood and wine dripped from the slavemistress’s hand, to pool upon the floor.

  “…were I to sit at the foot of the Dragon King,” Sharmutai continued, “I would be so close to this thing I want that I might reach out and throttle it with my bare hands.” Sharmutai’s chest heaved, the air hissed between her clenched teeth, and her eyes had a hot, glazed look. Hannei knew that look well. It stared up at her from her washbasin every morning.

  “Now, my pet, you know more of my desire than is entirely safe for you.” Sharmutai glanced at the ruined wineglass, grimaced, and set it aside. A brave slave lad crept from the shadows, carrying soft linen cloths, and began to wrap her wounded hand. “You will be my champion, dear one, with or without a brat suckling at those lovely teats. So much easier for you—so much safer for you—without.” She waved the lad away, withdrew a folded scrap of parchment from a pocket, and held it out.

  Hannei took the packet and sniffed it. As she had expected, there was a strong smell of lemons and mint and dust… “stillborn tea” the Mothers called this. It was given to a woman whose child needed to be expelled.

  “I am a foolish woman, with a heart of sand,” Sharmutai whispered. “I could force you to drink this, as I was forced, but I will not. The choice is yours, such as it is, as the choice was never mine.” Her laugh was brittle, edged with blood and wine. “I have given you a choice, and now I will give you some words of wisdom. You should heed them, because I own you and can have you killed for no reason at all.

  “Lose the child, my little two-blade killer. Lose the child, win your freedom. There can always be another lover, another child. There may never be another chance for you to get what we both want.”

  Vengeance, Hannei thought, clutching the deadly packet in her fist. Sharmutai held out a hand, and took another goblet of wine from the slave lad. She held it out to Hannei, and their fingers twined about the thick glass stem.

  “Vengeance,” she said as Hannei drank deep of the sweet wine, and the sun cast a shadow over her face.

  * * *

  Hannei stood upon the balcony long after the slavemistress had left, staring upon the gardens and fountains, and the miserable laughing slaves. Akari Sun Dragon disappeared behind the Jehannim, and the world grew cold.

  At long last, she picked up the goblet that lay waiting at her elbow, and dumped the packet of herbs into the pale wine. Some of the herbs sank to the bottom, while others floated on top.

  Had I a dreamshifter, she thought, I could ask her to see my future in these patterns. Had I a Mother, I might ask her for advice. She had neither of those things, however, and had to choose her own way. She lifted the goblet.

  I am sorry, she told the child of Tammas, as it slept deep beneath her dead heart. I have been given a choice, but it is no choice at all, not for me.

  Hannei poured the wine out onto the cold stones.

  FIFTY

  For so long Ismai had been invisible, the awkward younger brother of Tammas, underfoot bratling to an embarrassment of sisters, favored son of Umm Nurati.

  He had been born too early, so early that the midwives had at first despaired for his life, and later that he would ever grow into so much as the shadow of his handsome brother. How he had craned his neck to see those members of his family as they stood on high, and longed with all his heart to be seen as they were seen. To have his voice heard, and his deeds matter.

  How foolish I was, he thought now, his eyes wet. It would have been better if I had been born three moons early instead of two, and not survived at all.

  You are foolish to think so, Ruh’ayya scolded. She remained hidden away from the people, but never from his mind.

  You are foolish to think I am foolish, he responded irritably, and allowed himself a small smile. Ruh’ayya alone, of all his friends, had not abandoned him to his fate.

  Yet, she said.

  Yet, he agreed.

  Ismai’s smile faded as Ishtaset’s chestnut mare powered up a steep dune, its powerful hindquarters bunching and thrusting so that he was thrown against the woman’s back. Ishtaset was a beautiful woman, but he wanted no part of this, no part of her, and the feel of her hot skin against his belly made him feel like sicking up the breakfast they had stuffed down his throat before dawn.

  There will be a lot more physical contact than this, before the day is done, he knew. They made it to the top of the dune, and Ismai leaned back as far as he was able.

  “I hope you are not thinking of running away again,” Ishtaset said, barely turning her head. “It would not go well for your mastersmith, were you to attempt it. And wipe those tears from your face. I will not have my husband standing before all my sisters looking like a sullen child.”

  With one corner of his touar Ismai dashed the tears from his cheek, and his face scrunched into a scowl. “Sand in my eyes.” He bit the words off short, angered, near tears again by the petulant sound of his own voice.

  I am not a child.

  You are no cub, Ruh’ayya agreed, and the tender concern in her voice was almost his undoing. You are stronger than they know. Stronger than you know, even.

  Like Daru, he thought, struck with a longing to see the boy. I wonder how he is faring, far away in the golden city? Better than me, for sure. He is probably chin-deep in books and scrolls and magic, and I am about to marry the First Arsehole of the Arsehole Mah’zula.

  Ishtaset had announced her intention to claim exclusive rights to h
is body and his seed. Azuage, she called it, an “ancient and blessed covenant between woman and man.” Ismai knew another word for it. He was being given over to slavery no less than Hannei had been. Then, he had thought he was showing Hannei mercy. Now he wondered whether it would have been kinder to let her die.

  The chestnut mare crested the dune and flew down the other side. All around him Ismai could hear the whoops and wild ululations of Mah’zula and Ja’Akari, and others besides as they plunged deeper into the heart of the Zeera. Screaming like the wind across the sands, beautiful beneath the eyes of Akari, uncontained, unhindered, free. His fondest dreams, he realized, had come true.

  All it had cost him was… everything.

  They came at last to a midsize oasis which in days long past, Ishtaset explained, had been a large oasis and a favorite gathering spot of the prides. The Madraj, she had determined, should be used only rarely for high feast days. The people had grown too fond of stone walls and false comforts. For lesser ceremonies such as the unwilling sacrifice of a lowly boy to the Rajjha of Arseholes, the oasis would suffice.

  As soon as the mare halted, he pushed away from his captor. Ishtaset dismounted more gracefully and turned to smile at him, and Ismai was overwhelmed by the urge to grab that pretty throat in both hands and squeeze the very life from her eyes. He clenched his fists and glared for all he was worth.

  “Better than tears,” she purred, patting his cheek. “I will make a man of you yet, young Ismai.”

  “Fuck you,” he growled, and he spat at her feet.

  She laughed at him, of course. Ismai might not be invisible these days, but he was still insignificant. Ishtaset led him to the edge of the water, a wide and mirror-still pool thick with reeds and ringed by date palms heavy with fruit. At the edge of the water stood a great pyre of fresh-cut palm logs, built some days earlier by riders and warriors and wardens.

  My funeral pyre, Ismai thought, and almost he wished it was true.

  The Mah’zula joined them, and Ja’Akari, some of whom had chopped their braids and stiffened their hair with lye in the manner of the wild riders. After these came no few of the mistresses and masters of craft, including Mastersmith Hadid, whose life was hostage to Ismai’s good behavior. Jasin was there, and Ghabril, and Daoud. None of them would meet his eyes, and Ismai curled his lip in contempt.

  The ashes of the elders still sting our eyes, and yet here come the Zeeranim, willing as goats led to slaughter. He looked away, unwilling to gaze upon the shame of his people even as they witnessed his. We thought ourselves a free people.

  The snake woman, Hassetha, swayed across the sands to join them. Her eyes were yellowed from long use of poisons and potions, she was thin-lipped and slender as the vipers she kept as pets.

  She even moves like a snake, Ismai thought. He met that cold unblinking stare, though it raised chillflesh along his spine and turned his bowels to water every time. Never show an enemy that you are afraid, his mother had taught him. The greater your fear, the harder you must appear. Ismai turned his face to wood, his heart to stone.

  Hassetha flicked her tongue at him.

  “He reeks of fear,” she said.

  “He is a boy.” Ishtaset reached to ruffle Ismai’s hair, and laughed when he pulled away. “But he is my boy, now.”

  “Are you certain?” That unblinking gaze weighed Ismai and found him wanting. “His blood is as water. Too long have we been away. The hearts of the people have grown pale and weak.”

  “His blood is true,” Ishtaset insisted. “You have tasted his salt. Is this one not of the line of Ishmalak, for whom he is named? What says your god?”

  “The blood is true.” Hassetha flicked her tongue at Ismai again. “He is of the line of Ishmalak, but even that line has grown… less.” She turned away. “Thus speaks Thoth, son of Eth and Illindra.”

  “The line of Ishmalak has grown weak, but we will make it strong again.” Ishtaset smiled at Ismai, though he knew she did not see him. “Thus speaks Ishtaset, last of the line of Iftallen. We will join that which was sundered—we will mix the blood of Iftallen with that of Ishmalak, son of Devranae, daughter of Zula Din, and in so doing we will mend what was broken in the long ago.” As she spoke a crowd gathered and stood rapt. Akari Sun Dragon glared through the red dust, bathing their world in fire and blood.

  Ishtaset continued, raising her voice for all to hear. “With this marriage, and through our children, the destruction brought upon the people by Davvus and Devranae will be healed, and the people will be restored to their rightful power and glory. Once more will we raise our people up, that they may find favor in the eyes of the Four. Once more will the skies tremble with the thunder of our warriors’ hearts. Once more will the Zeera sing with the voices of our priestesses and priests. The Dragon King is not the only one in this world who can wield magic. The Daemon King is not the only one in this world who can raise an army.”

  “Ehuani,” Hassetha hissed, thin lips stretched wide in a killing smile.

  “Ehuani,” the people muttered more fervently than Ismai might have hoped. He looked upon the faces of his friends and elders, and realized with a sinking heart that he was a sacrifice they were willing to make.

  Hassetha held up her arms. The world held its breath.

  “Let us begin.”

  * * *

  Ismai had no idea what to expect as Hassetha took her place before him, Ishtaset to his left, her riders beyond her. To Ismai’s right hand stood the rider Adalia, and with her stood Hadid. The mastersmith gave Ismai an inscrutable look. Ismai nodded to the older man, trying to convey his apologies with a look.

  I will not let them harm you.

  A shame the Zeeranim had never made that promise to him.

  “People of the Zeera,” Hassetha cried out, and a hush fell upon them. “My sisters and brothers, my children. Even as sa and ka are bound into atulfah, even as Akari Sun Dragon and Sajani Earth Dragon are bound to the earth beneath our feet, even as Eth and Illindra are bound to the skies above our heads, we bind together this woman and this man to join the ancient bloodlines of Iftallen, priest of Thoth, to Ishmalak, son of Devranae, daughter of Zula Din. Let that which was sundered be mended. Let the halves become a whole, let that which was wounded be healed. Let the fire in our hearts—the hearts of those who live and ride and die beneath the gaze of Akari—once more rage across the land.”

  Even as she spoke these words, the snake priestess of Thoth unfastened a small yellow bottle from her robe and brought it to her mouth. She tipped her head back and drank some viscous liquid, and then whipped around quick as a snake, quick as death, and hissed as she spat a fine spray of—whatever it was—onto the waiting pyre. The logs, green as they were, exploded into flame. Streaks of red and black reached upward.

  “Aaaaah,” the crowd breathed, as if they had never seen fire before. Ismai stared in open-mouthed horror.

  This is how they burned Aish Kalumm so quickly, and with no warning, he thought. This is how they killed my people. Hassetha turned back to them, a look of satisfaction upon her sanguine face, and met Ismai’s furious stare with a tiny smirk, there and gone again in half a breath.

  I am going to kill that woman.

  ’Ware, Kithren, Ruh’ayya warned. Her voice cut through the flames like a cool wind. Do not rush blindly down the red path.

  “By Sammai’s bones, I will kill her,” he whispered, giving his promise to the wind, making it real.

  As you will.

  “Fierce cub.” Ishtaset’s eyes flicked to his face as if she had heard the promise, and her smile was indulgent. “Only do not think to try your claws out on me, little one.”

  Hassetha returned the empty yellow bottle to its place and addressed Ishtaset. “This man is giving his life to you, the hours of his day, the children of his body, should Sajani so bless this union. What do you offer in return?”

  “I offer him the comfort of my fire, the protection of my blade, and these few humble gifts.” The riders behind her part
ed, and a handful of women emerged, arms laden with gifts, to parade before them. One held a stack of books—his mother’s, Ismai saw with a pang—another led a brace of spotted goats, a third presented a fine touar with horses embroidered all along the hem. They were shown to him and then whisked away again, but one last item—his own shamsi—was handed to him with a flourish.

  They trust me with my sword, Ismai thought, then, indignantly, she would offer to give me things that are already mine.

  Hassetha turned to Ismai. “This woman is giving her life to you,” she intoned. “She will listen to your words, consider your interests, bear children by you at the risk of her own life, should Akari so bless this union. What do you offer in return?”

  Ismai gaped. He was supposed to offer gifts to the woman he was being forced to marry?

  They can kiss my—

  Adalia spoke, so loudly that Ismai jumped. “This boy offers stud-rights to the stallions Ruhho and Zeitan, pride of the prides.”

  “What!” he shouted. Stud-rights to those stallions, stolen by Hannei and Sulema, had reverted to him as part of Hannei’s blood-debt, and were more precious than salt.

  The Mah’zula rider ignored him and went on, gesturing toward Hadid. “He offers the skills of this man, a mastersmith in his own right, whose life was deemed forfeit by his own actions. He offers this fine mare.” At these words, Hadid was given a shove so that he stumbled to his knees at the feet of Ishtaset, and Ehuani—beautiful, beloved Ehuani—was led before them, snorting and rolling her eyes at the people, the fire, and the red, red sky.

  Hassetha turned to Ishtaset. “Are these things agreeable to you?”

  The Rajjha of the Mah’zula gazed upon Ehuani, and upon Ismai, and she smiled.

  “They are.”

  “And to you, boy?” Hassetha’s eyes glittered hard and cold.

  “I… I…” he stammered. No, he shouted with everything he was. He looked over his shoulder at his people, and it seemed to him that their eyes had all turned to snakes’ eyes, cold and hard and filled with spite. Where was Jasin? Where were Ghabril and Daoud, his friends? Surely they would not allow this to happen?