The asir was gone, which was hardly a surprise, but Sukru was gone as well. As he left the grove, he found Zahndr a short distance away, pissing into to the trees. He finished his business, tied his trousers, and trudged toward Davud.
“I . . . I think I saw the goddess—”
Davud stopped speaking when Zahndr raised his hands. “I don’t want to hear it. Tell your King.”
Davud nodded numbly, and together they headed back toward the yacht. Sukru met them halfway, gliding over the sand with the look of a vulture hopping toward its dying prey.
As Zahndr continued on, Sukru said, “Go on, boy.”
Gods, where to begin? “It worked.”
Sukru was not amused. “Had it not been for the five hours you just spent staring at the same tree, I would never have guessed. Tell me what you’ve learned.”
Davud did. All of it. From the feelings of connection to the receding water to the sacrifices going back through time. He spent the most time on Tulathan, partially because he’d been so transfixed by her, but also because Sukru kept asking for clarification: about what she’d said, her description, and her affect on the trees and the surrounding land.
“And the tree?” Sukru asked when he was done.
Davud shrugged. “I could sense the illness in it, but in truth no more than by merely staring at it, or smelling it. Whatever sense of disease there was faded entirely as I was drawn back toward Beht Ihman. I learned nothing more.”
Sukru considered for a time. “Very well,” he said at last, flicking his fingers for Davud to follow him toward the ship. “We’ll try again soon. Until then, I’ll provide you with more sigils.”
As they walked side by side over the sand, Davud couldn’t help but wonder: if the blood of a tribute achieved this much, what might the blood of the asirim give me?
He glanced sidelong at Sukru.
What might the blood of a King?
Chapter 16
MERYAM WAS IN her apartments when Ramahd returned from the Widow’s estate, but it took her nearly an hour to finish discussing plans for Basilio’s return to Qaimir. When Basilio finally left, he strode past Ramahd with the look of a sow that had just enjoyed its fill of slop. Ramahd would like nothing more than to wipe that smug look off his face, but he was still so angry about Tiron he held his tongue and walked in through the double doors leading into Meryam’s apartments. He closed the doors behind him and found Meryam sitting by the fireplace.
“How could you have let Tiron—”
He stopped, for Meryam was shaking her head and beckoning him closer. As he stepped near, she bit the inside of her lip and touched her forefinger to it. It came away bloody. She used it to wipe her spit and blood over Ramahd’s own lips, a precaution so that their words wouldn’t carry to the King of Whispers.
It may be wise, but the delay made him feel manipulated, and it only made him angrier. “How could you have given Tiron to a woman like the Widow?”
“Don’t be such a fool, Ramahd. Tiron volunteered.”
The words struck like a hammer blow. “Tiron—”
“Yes, he chose this. He was weakened after the loss of his cousin Luken and fell to the touch of the smoke. So I summoned him and gave him the choice: I would help him heal or he could give himself to this mission. He chose the mission. And now we’re nearly there. Soon he’ll be taken to the Tattered Prince.”
“The Tattered Prince . . .” And suddenly Ramahd understood all of it. Understood Tiron’s being given to the Widow, being left there until near death, and what Meryam planned to do with him now. “You’re using him as bait.”
If Meryam were embarrassed, it didn’t show in the skeletal features of her face. “Yes. I am.”
The Tattered Prince, also called the Torn Man for the scars that riddled his body, had become something of a legend in the city’s west end. His real name was Brama, and he had a small but loyal group of men and women. It was said he healed those in the grips of the black lotus’s lure. Some were so thankful they joined him in what Ramahd could only describe as a cult, with Brama as their enigmatic leader. More importantly for Meryam, Brama had a gemstone, a massive sapphire that housed, in all likelihood, a powerful demon. An ehrekh.
“We have enough to worry about without calling that sort of trouble down on ourselves.”
“There’s always danger, Ramahd, when one seeks power.”
“Perhaps, but this sort of power isn’t worth the risk.”
“I disagree. If we succeed in this, it will all have been worth it.” She seemed incredulous at his hesitance. “Can you not feel Guhldrathen’s impatience? Time is a luxury we can no longer afford.”
Guhldrathen was the ehrekh they’d bargained with in the desert to free themselves. Ramahd had promised neither his own life, nor even Meryam’s, but Çeda’s if they failed to deliver Hamzakiir. And he’d given his own blood to seal the bargain. In the months since, he’d felt the weight of that bargain, not only from the guilt but from a growing compulsion. It had the feel of black magic about it, the same feeling as when the ehrekh had used its magic to draw symbols around the dead body of King Aldouan. At the moment, the urge was directionless, but he knew it would soon become a need to do as the ehrekh wished.
“Of course I can feel it,” Ramahd said, “but there’s time yet. Which is why we should be spending our efforts searching for Hamzakiir.”
She flicked one hand, as if chasing a fly away. “Unless you’re ready to go to the desert yourself, we’re doing all we can.”
“Then let me go in Tiron’s stead. He’s been through enough.”
Meryam pulled herself taller in her chair. “No. I have other plans for you. And Tiron is in too deep to change plans now.”
“If you had only told me. I could have helped.”
“I don’t need explain to you every decision I make, Ramahd. I don’t think you appreciate how aggressive the Kings have become of late. The fewer who know, the smaller the chance the King of Whispers will hear us.” When he continued to stare, she closed her eyes and released a long sigh. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you would act”—she sent a dismissive wave in his general direction—“like this.”
“But Tiron—”
“Tiron is a soldier, and we have only begun taking the steps we need in order to make Qaimir safe.”
“This is all for Qaimir then?”
Meryam’s face reddened. “And for revenge! Don’t tell me you’ve lost your will to see Macide Ishaq’ava hang! Don’t tell me you’d let Hamzakiir walk for his crimes! Because I won’t have it. They will pay, both of them, before this is done. And in the meantime, everything I do will make Qaimir far more powerful than the Kings would allow, more than my father ever thought to seize.”
“Tiron was my man.”
Meryam pushed herself off the chair in a rush, her eyes afire. She only came up to his collarbone, but she seemed well larger. “You’re setting your feelings above the needs of our nation. There was a time that I admired you for it, especially when you were my sister’s husband. But I tell you now it has become an obstacle. Years past, you and I would joke. I’ll have your head if you don’t fetch me tea, I’ll have your head if you don’t rub my shoulders.” She stepped closer, the fire in her heart reflected in her eyes, making her look crazed. “Hear my words. Those days are gone. I will have that gem, and you will help me to get it, not on your terms, but on mine.”
Ramahd couldn’t deny that Meryam had done much. And he was certain she had Qaimir’s interests at heart. The only question was whether she placed her own thirst for power above them. “Forgive me, my queen,” he said at last. “I’ve been too easy with our relationship, treating it as it once was. When I press, it is for Qaimir, always.”
The stiffness in Meryam’s frail body softened, and a hint of relief showed in her eyes. “I don’t blame you for it. But there is always more goi
ng on than I can share. Question me, but by the gods, heed me when I have spoken.”
“Of course. What would you have me do?”
“Brama must offer to heal Tiron. The trouble is he no longer heals everyone. When the two of us inveigled our way into Tariq’s mind, we stumbled across a sapphire. The soul we felt within it, the ehrekh . . . Her name is Rümayesh, and she is an almost mythical being among the halls of Goldenhill. She once collected souls as I collect Mirean ivory. She chose her victims for how interesting their lives had been. Lately, Brama has been choosing to heal those with rather storied pasts, a marked difference from months ago when he would heal nearly anyone, no matter their history. I believe Rümayesh is the reason for his change.”
It took Ramahd a moment to understand. “You chose Tiron because of what happened to us in Eventide.” The satisfaction in Meryam’s sallow eyes gave him his answer. “It’s dangerous. There’s no telling what Rümayesh or Brama might do with the information. It could implicate you.”
“We’re beyond danger. We have been for some time. I need that gem, Ramahd. I need it to find and defeat Hamzakiir and save us from Guhldrathen.” Meryam took Ramahd’s hand and squeezed it, a rare show of emotion. “Make them take notice of Tiron. The story he tells them will do the rest.”
Ramahd nodded slowly. “I know what to do.”
* * *
Two days later, shortly after dawn, Ramahd found himself in the west end once more. He was waiting in the shadows of the same bridge, studying the Widow’s bulky estate. This time, he knew exactly where Tiron was. Before he’d left the embassy house, Meryam had given him some of Tiron’s blood mixed in wine. She’d bid him drink half of it, then dripped more into his ears, whispering words to bind him to the earth, to the very world around him, in ways Ramahd would never fully comprehend. It left behind a keen ringing, which had increased as he walked across the city toward the west end, and led him to Tiron.
It was strong enough now that Ramahd could not only hear Tiron’s presence, but feel it as well, as it moved from the rear of the estate to the front entrance. Tiron left on his own, heading north as the city came alive, and looked a proper wreck, holding one arm tight to his body, shambling as if every step pained him. And his eyes . . . Mighty Alu, how empty they looked, how focused on one thing and one thing only: finding more black lotus.
Ramahd ran ahead, taking a parallel route on the dry river bank’s opposite side. He lost sight of Tiron as the Haddah’s path curved, and Ramahd headed into the Shallows proper. The two of them were now headed toward the same place: the Knot, the Tattered Prince’s domain. Soon Ramahd spotted Cicio leaning against the wall of a bakery, tearing apart a still-steaming hunk of bread and popping it into his mouth. The two of them didn’t acknowledge one another, but as Ramahd passed Cicio fell into step and together they neared the southern entrance to the Knot.
They stopped on the near side of a cross-section of streets where the morning crowd grew thick. The ringing sound rose in both pitch and intensity moments before Tiron appeared, limping along as if it were all he could do to keep himself from curling into a ball right there in the middle of the street. He entered the Knot through an arch of sorts formed by the mudbrick houses on either side and the oddly angled structure that had been built across their shoulders. It announced the character of the neighborhood every bit as effectively as the bronze-capped pillars that stood at the borders of Goldenhill.
Tiron made his way deeper into the Knot, then came to the dead-end street where the Tattered Prince’s territory formally began. As he turned to head along it, Tiron, on queue, glanced back, then played his part perfectly. He stumbled. His eyes went wide. He began moving faster.
As he rushed up the street and was lost from view, Ramahd moved faster, but not too fast. He turned onto the street, and Cicio trailed him. Ahead, Tiron glanced back again. And then Ramahd saw the first of them. A woman wearing simple flaxen robes, flanked by a taller man with the look of an enforcer. The woman gave Ramahd more pause, however. The palm of her hand, which she’d raised to Tiron, was scarred in the shape of a starburst. Ramahd had heard about these, the sign of those most loyal to Brama, but not about the gem embedded there. Like a blue eye, a sapphire gleamed at the center of the scars on her palm.
She spoke to Tiron, halting him just as Amaryllis exited a small home where she’d had her fortune read—a ruse to ensure she would be along this street at this precise moment.
She turned as Ramahd drew his sword and headed for Tiron with more speed. Amaryllis gasped loudly, then backed away while pointing at Ramahd. “On your guard!”
Ramahd moved faster. “Traitor!” he shouted at Tiron.
Ramahd knew Brama’s followers kept the peace here, but he hadn’t expected them to rush toward him so aggressively. And he certainly hadn’t expected a burst of light to blaze from the gemstone buried in the woman’s hand.
But that’s exactly what happened. As Tiron backed away, shouting, “Please help!” the woman strode past him, holding her ruined palm toward Ramahd as if it were a lantern and he a demon in the night.
A blue light flashed. Ramahd blinked, trying to clear it away, but it wouldn’t. It burned like the sun wherever he looked.
His world tilted.
He heard Amaryllis shouting something. Heard Cicio raging until his voice was cut short. Heard the scrape of sandals over the sandy street and saw a scarred hand poised above him. A wave of nausea took him until her palm lowered and touched his forehead.
A rush of memories came unbidden—of Qaimir, of sailing the desert, of wandering the endless streets of Sharakhai. The memories came faster, a cavalcade of sounds, sights, sensations followed by a flood of emotions. He could relate to all of them and none of them. Soon it became too much, and he became lost.
Chapter 17
ZEHEB, THE KING OF WHISPERS, met Kings Ihsan and Azad just inside his palace doors.
“Well met,” Ihsan said, giving Zeheb a bow, as did Azad.
“We shall see,” Zeheb replied, the rolls beneath his chin creasing as he gave a stiff nod and led them down through the palace to its cool lower reaches.
“How fares your daughter?” Ihsan asked him.
“Pharrali died this morning,” Zeheb said.
He said it with as much emotion as he might speak of the weather, yet Ihsan knew how close they’d been.
Pharrali had been a Blade Maiden—one of many sent to verify his whispers, or to act on them—but her mission had gone awry. A man she’d been sent to question had a slow-acting poisoned needle secreted up his sleeve. She’d managed to subdue him and bring him back to Zeheb before being rushed to the Matrons for their curatives. For several days all had looked well, but now . . .
“My tears for your loss,” Ihsan replied, genuinely shocked. “The poison took her?”
“No. She was strong. She fought it off.” Zeheb was angry now. Ihsan could see it in the stiffness of his strides, the way he swung his arms, as if he wished a weapon was held in each. “It was the infection. It seemed to be under control, but then it returned, rushing in like a sandstorm. Within a day, she was gone.”
Pharrali’s death was yet another test of resolve for Zeheb, the sort every King was forced to contend with sooner or later. Zeheb could have used one of his small cache of the old elixirs, those made by Azad before his death; he could have healed his daughter in moments. But the Kings had long ago agreed never to share them. Ihsan had never once done so, though he had been sorely tempted several times. Some of the Kings may have made exceptions, but Ihsan doubted it. It was one of the more sacrosanct rules they’d agreed to after Beht Ihman four centuries ago, that only the Kings would use them, never others, lest their secrets be discovered. The elixirs were gifts from the gods meant only for those who were worthy. To share them would not only dishonor the gods, it would surely anger them. And, Ihsan admitted, a hoarding mindset had settled in among the King
s; start using them too much, and they wouldn’t have enough for themselves.
The only exception Ihsan knew of was Nayyan, but having taken Azad’s place she was like to a King, and deserved all that went with it.
They reached a guarded doorway. The Silver Spear bowed his head, unlocked the door, and pulled it wide. Zeheb swept in, leaving Ihsan and Azad to follow. Inside was a clean, unadorned room with a smelly chamber pot in one corner. Wedged into the opposite corner, chained to an iron ring, was a middle-aged man dressed in a bright Malasani kaftan, sirwal trousers, and fine, if dusty, leather sandals. He was clearly scared—eyes wide, harrowed brow—but otherwise looked unharmed, fresh from the streets.
The man’s gaze moved to each of the Kings in turn, then he seemed to remember himself and shifted to a kneeling position.
“Tell them what you told me,” Zeheb ordered.
The man bowed low, touching forehead to folded hands. “Of course, my Lord King. I said Macide Ishaq’ava is still in the city. And that the remains of the Moonless Host are scared of the Kings’ power. They know their days are numbered. Their leader Ishaq has already fled the city, but Macide and many of his captains, Hamid the Cruel, Darius One-Arm, Shal’alara of the Three Blades, are preparing to leave the city en masse.”
“And how would you know this?” Ihsan broke in.
“A number of them are hiding in my tenements.” His words were so rushed Ihsan thought he might start to hyperventilate. “I’ve only recently stumbled across the information. I proceeded to discover all I could so I might pass it to the Silver Spears and the House of Kings.” He bowed his head again. Was he shivering? “I was preparing to do so when I was so kindly invited here”—he bowed his head and flourished toward Zeheb—“by My Lord King’s most gracious servant.”
Zeheb crossed his arms over his chest. “And your offer?”
“I am more than willing to tell you where Macide and his comrades-in-arms are hiding, or how and when they plan to leave the city. You need only release me for a day, and you’ll have them, my Kings, on my word as a loyal citizen of Sharakhai, my word as a child of the desert. There is no need for you to hold or involve my brother or his wife. They are innocent lambs, both.”
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