Well, that certainly explains why the man is in such pristine condition. If he were to leave and go hunting for information about the Host looking like he’d fallen down a mountain face-first, it would make the Host suspicious, as would an extended absence from his daily routine, which made it likely that Zeheb had brought him here no more than a day ago.
“Let me understand,” Ihsan said. “You wish to be released so that you might serve us Macide Ishaq’ava on a platter.”
The man’s eyes lit up. “You have the right of it, my Lord King!”
Ihsan turned to Zeheb. “I’ve heard enough.”
Zeheb glanced at Azad, but he only frowned and left the room. Zeheb followed, but Ihsan tarried for a moment. “Your tenements, do they include the one where a man burst through a brick wall and crushed a Maiden’s head with an iron pot to escape?”
For a moment the man didn’t seem to know how to answer, but then he nodded tentatively. “Indeed, your Grace, that’s one of mine.”
Ihsan clasped his hands behind his back and followed Zeheb, the pieces falling into place. The slum lord was a traitor to the Moonless Host—how could he provide Macide’s whereabouts otherwise?—but his betrayal signaled more. An irreconcilable rift had formed in the Host, with Ishaq and his son Macide on one side of it and Hamzakiir on the other. Since his return to the desert, Hamzakiir had been peeling away more and more of Ishaq’s support in the host; the slumlord was but more proof of it.
If this man was Hamzakiir’s, then Zeheb’s caution made sense. Acting now would weaken Macide’s hold on the city, thereby making Hamzakiir’s position stronger. It had taken Ihsan years of careful cultivation to gain the trust of the right people—Zeheb and Azad included—and to begin funneling resources and information to Ishaq so that the Moonless Host could better work against the interests of the Kings. Not so long ago, Zeheb wouldn’t have thought twice about trying to turn this situation to the advantage of their alliance, but now he hesitated, and Ihsan had to wonder why.
“Are you losing heart, my Lord King?” Ihsan said to Zeheb as the three of them walked down the hall.
Zeheb said nothing until they’d taken one set of stairs up to an empty landing, then he spun and jabbed his finger at Ihsan. “I am not losing heart. You’ve no idea how close Kiral is to finding us out.”
Azad was clearly confused. “What in the wide great desert are the two of you on about?”
“Zeheb is concerned that if we don’t fall in line with Kiral and the rest, we’ll be sniffed out and strung up like thieves before the gates.”
Azad motioned to the stairs behind them. “And what did our prisoner have to do with any of that?”
“He is a sacrificial lamb,” Ihsan began, “almost certainly set up for us by Kiral, who for some unfathomable reason has decided to back Hamzakiir in the Moonless Host’s internal war. This leaves us with a difficult choice: use our lamb to betray the Host’s old order, Ishaq and Macide, thereby ruining our years of careful work. Or we can use him to find Hamzakiir and go against the implicit wishes of Kiral, perhaps exposing ourselves in the process.”
Zeheb faced Azad. “The choice is not so complicated as that. We have a chance to cripple the Host. What does it matter if Hamzakiir helps? If we fail to seize this opportunity, there’s no telling what could happen. Ishaq and Hamzakiir could come to an accord tomorrow. Let us strike while the opening presents itself.”
“And Kiral?” Azad asked.
“I agree with Ihsan,” Zeheb said. “Kiral is more worried than ever about betrayal. Let’s toss him a bone and let our slumlord betray the Moonless Host, or he may start sniffing in places that would best be left alone.”
Azad considered. “Have you heard whispers from Eventide? Elsewhere?”
“That Kiral has evidence of our treason? No. But believe me when I tell you he’s wary of everyone, especially after Onur’s sudden departure and the stories we’ve crafted to explain it away.” Zeheb drew breath, his nostrils flaring. “Let me put this plainly. Kiral, in no uncertain terms, is demanding we step in line. If we don’t, the things we’ve done, our aiding of the Moonless Host, will not survive his scrutiny. We’re not prepared to oppose him. We must bide our time, especially since we’ve failed to re-create the elixirs.”
Ihsan had decided there was no reason to tell Zeheb that Azad had managed to perfect a new version of the life-giving elixirs, not leastwise because of the likelihood that Zeheb would lose heart. Ihsan had wondered what he’d do if the day came where Zeheb decided that their pact was no longer in his best interests. He’d never found a satisfactory answer, largely because it would depend on how the pieces lay on the aban board when that happened.
“You play a short game,” Ihsan said. “If we cede ground to Hamzakiir, we may be handing the keys to the House of Kings to him instead taking them for ourselves.”
“This is no short game. What we do pits the two factions of the Moonless Host against one another. It will weaken Hamzakiir as well, with little harm to Sharakhai. Hamzakiir is dangerous, but he is a threat we can deal with in due time.”
Ihsan was tempted to try and persuade Zeheb, to lure him back to their side. But there was danger in it. He might very well convince Zeheb to remain bold, but Ihsan could sense how uncertain he was. Zeheb might change his mind again. If he did, if he thought Ihsan wouldn’t bend to his request to align themselves with Kiral, he might very well offer them up as sacrifices, or worse, send his assassins to present them with a kiss of steel. For now, being seen as pliable was more important than pushing for advantages that may or may not bear fruit.
Rock will break, Ihsan’s father had often told him. But water goes where it will.
Besides, Zeheb was right about one thing. They weren’t prepared to oppose Kiral directly. Not yet. And the old guard of the Moonless Host, while a useful tool, could be replaced in time. So instead of using his god-given powers to convince Zeheb to remain resilient, he used them for another purpose. “I see the wisdom in your words,” he said while giving the slightest tug on Zeheb’s heart. “Better to cut the head from the snake before worrying about its nest.”
He’d learned over the years just how much he could draw upon Tulathan’s gift without being discovered. He did so now with the care of a master craftsman, using words and expression and tone, even the set of his body, in conjunction with his power, creating a symphony that masked the use of his power.
Bowing his head, Ihsan tugged again. “Hamzakiir will keep, and there’s no telling what Macide might do once he leaves the city.” He turned to Azad. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Azad considered for just the right amount of time, as if he too saw the wisdom in Zeheb’s words. “Very well.”
Zeheb looked at them both as if he’d been prepared for more of a fight and, now that it was over, wasn’t sure what to say. “Well and good, then!”
Azad’s apathy played in stark contrast to Zeheb’s relief. “Are we done here, my good Kings?”
“Yes!” Zeheb was most affable, almost giddy.
He led them back upstairs, where Ihsan and Azad returned to their coach. As it trundled away, Azad regarded Ihsan levelly, annoyance now marking his features. “I don’t know that the use of your gift was necessary.”
For the first time in years, Ihsan was caught flat-footed. “You felt that?”
Azad touched his stomach. “I feel much from you since . . .” He left the rest unsaid. The child Nayyan carried inside her was hidden by the disguise she now wore, but the babe was there. Had some of his power been passed to her along with his seed? He laughed. In all his years, he would never have even considered the notion.
“Wondrous!” he said, a genuine laugh filling the cabin, warring with the sound of clopping hooves. “But it was necessary. For Zeheb to renege is no small thing. He is an honest man. It took much for him to consider abandoning our plans.”
“Honest
or not, if he’s gone this far, he’s considered betraying us.”
“Which is precisely why I had to use more than words to convince him.”
Azad bowed his head with a hungry look that put Ihsan on edge. “We must prepare for the worst.”
Ihsan wasn’t sure whether to be nervous or proud.
Both, he decided. Nayyan was more impulsive than he liked, and more bloodthirsty, but those very qualities would see them to the end of his long-laid plans. “Indeed,” Ihsan replied, acknowledging that Zeheb may soon have to join Yusam, Külaşan, Mesut, and Nayyan’s father, the true King Azad, all of whom now lay in their crypts beneath their palaces, their chances to rule the desert lost with their lives.
Chapter 18
THE GRAY GULL, Adzin’s rickety sloop, left the city’s western harbor under cover of darkness. They needed to reach the northern harbor by dawn, but with the wind against them, they had to head northwest until they could tack and set a path around the city’s rocky northeastern shoulder. Adding to Emre’s distress, this was a day when every second mattered, but the wind was meager. Less than meager. Were the wind to find a friendly breeze to join it, then it might be considered meager.
Lissome Rhia, Emre prayed silently, I would dream beyond this day. Please, lend the weather more ambition than this!
The soothsayer, Adzin, sat cross-legged on the foredeck, doing his best to hold a wriggling, black terror of a creature with both hands. Another flapped violently in a metal cage beside him. The horrific beasts, ifins, were the size of a small dog, and had two sets of saurian wings and smooth, scaled necks that tapered to eyeless heads. They had no jaws, but instead funnel-shaped mouths with row upon row of needle-sharp teeth. Adzin curled over the one he held as it squirmed. He spoke gibberish to it like the Malasani witches who whispered to their cats before sending them off to perform some errand.
“Take it,” Adzin said to Emre.
Gods, Emre thought, the only thing worse than watching it is holding it.
The infernal thing twisted as Emre grabbed it. Its twin sets of wings flapped madly. Its head snaked around to snap at his hands and wrists. It managed to latch onto the protective gloves he wore several times, and once bit through the thick leather. In a moment of panic, Emre slapped the head away, which made it wriggle all the more. Hissing from the pain, Emre held its neck more securely, wondering if he’d just made a grave error by letting it blood him. There was no telling what one of Goezhen’s children might do to him. Track him for days, maybe, perhaps even months or years, then return one moonless night and suck his blood dry.
Darius, Hamid, and Frail Lemi stood on the edge of the foredeck, eyeing the Gull’s crew. Adzin had promised he would see them through the day, but even so, things were tense. Unsurprising when Emre and the others had effectively stolen the ship and threatened to kill their captain unless they obeyed. For now, they were complying with Adzin’s orders. Emre consoled himself with the knowledge that he only needed their loyalty a short while longer.
The ifin flapped its bat-like wings again, scratching Emre’s face. He held it at arm’s length until it had calmed. “When can I release this fucking thing?”
Adzin took out the second of the ifins. “It won’t be much longer.” His words, like his actions, were tranquility itself, which was more than strange considering the position he and his men were in. The man is a soothsayer, Emre reminded himself for the dozenth time. He might know every move he has to make to get through this day with his skin intact.
As if he’d heard Emre’s thoughts, Adzin turned and smiled his calming smile, then ducked his head and spoke softly to the second ifin, the words as nonsensical as before.
The ship rattled and shook, slowing momentarily as it crossed the dry bed of the Haddah. They were now rounding the northwestern shoulder of Sharakhai and sailed east-northeast, but gods it was taking a long while to get anywhere. Every moment they spent sailing toward the harbor endangered another of the Host.
Thaash, lend this tepid wind your anger!
As if he’d heard Emre’s prayer, Adzin suddenly lifted the writhing demon and flung it into the air like a sacred dove. The ifin flapped its wings, sounding like the clouds of bats that plagued the banks of the Haddah in late spring, and headed straight for the entrance to the northern harbor, where a pair of lighthouses stood sentinel, twin brands that mirrored the light of the coming dawn.
“Quickly,” Adzin said, holding his hands out to Emre.
Emre gladly handed the ifin over. It wriggled, managed to clamp its teeth on the leather gloves again, but then lost hold as Adzin cradled it.
As the Gray Gull slid over the sand, the mood grew darker and the eastern horizon brightened. They could see two of the Kings’ patrol ships several leagues north and a small yacht stationed at the entrance to the northern harbor. Across the harbor’s entrance, strung between the two lighthouses and held up by posts driven into the sand, was a stout chain meant to stop any ships not approved by the Kings’ agents.
“Track the ifin closely,” Adzin shouted to the pilot.
“Aye.” The pilot, a rangy woman with a scar that ran down one cheek and along her neck before being lost beneath her roughspun shirt, adjusted their heading, making sure the sloop’s course and the ifin’s matched.
As they came closer to the harbor entrance, however, it became clear that the ifin was flying a path that would lead them over a raised section of rock.
“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Emre said.
“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Frail Lemi echoed, his eyes brimming with childlike anticipation.
The swath of stone, harbor, and the city beyond looked unreal, a painting on canvas. Ochres and purples and rust dominated the landscape in the early morning light. The stone was mostly flat, with pools of sand contained within its topography, though there were outcroppings of rock as well. No captain in their right mind would run their ship across such terrain. Not unless they were desperate or mad. It could cripple the ship, especially if they struck one of the larger stones.
Adzin seemed neither desperate nor mad. Once he’d resigned himself to finding a way to save Macide and the others, he’d set about it with surprising zeal. It was as if he now viewed this mission as a test, perhaps one he’d never faced before, or ever would again, and had taken it as a personal challenge.
If there was one saving grace, it was that the wind had finally picked up. The ship was now moving with proper speed, enough that Emre thought they might actually make it to the harbor.
The ship lurched as it struck stone. Emre held tight to a shroud lest he be sent sprawling to the deck. The ifin flapped and twisted, guiding the ship over several of the larger pools of sand, narrowly bypassing large rocks that would cause serious damage. The ride was rough, and the sudden adjustments made the twin masts sway alarmingly. Ahead, however, was the worst obstacle yet, a ridge that was simply unavoidable.
“All hold!” roared the pilot.
Everyone held tight, even Adzin. The sloop’s nose bucked as they crossed the ridge. So steep was the angle that Emre was sure the struts were going to give way when they landed. The ship came down hard, the hull groaning. Everything rattled, including Emre’s teeth. Something cracked as the ship’s ass end tilted up from the rudder catching the same ridge. Then finally, blessedly, they were past it and into the harbor proper.
Off the port side, a bell started ringing on the King’s yacht, and the crew rushed to pursue them, their warning being picked up along the quays.
“Now!” Adzin called. “Sail along the piers until the ifin finds them!”
“Aye!”
The pilot adjusted course starboard toward the docked ships while the ifin flew well ahead, angling between masts and rigging. It twisted this way and that, looking more like a buzzing fly than the demon Adzin had somehow found and tamed. It was searching for the ship where Macide and
the others hid. It circled and searched, and as they came ever closer to the end of the line of ships, Emre began to worry that the ifin wouldn’t find them. Then it finally began to flip and dive around the mainmast of a caravel.
“That’s it,” Emre said, and began looking for any signs of the Host, both on the deck of the ship and along the sand below.
He’d hardly begun when he heard footsteps thumping over the deck behind him. The towering Kundhuni was barreling toward him, a slim knife in his hand that was already speeding toward Emre’s neck. Emre jerked backward, and felt a burning sensation run in a line across his neck. From the corner of his eye he could see the other crewmen rushing the foredeck. They’d been relieved of their weapons earlier, but they’d found makeshift clubs or belaying pins to fight with.
“Stop!” Adzin shouted, throwing the second ifin into the air. “All of you, stop immediately!” The Kundhuni stayed his next swing, staring at Adzin in wide-eyed disbelief. The rest of the crew did the same.
“We’ve taken a commission,” Adzin went on, “and we will fulfill it. Back to your stations!”
The crew frowned, visibly reluctant.
“Man this ship!” Adzin shouted.
Only then did they obey, albeit slowly. Okzan, the mountainous Kundhuni, glared at Emre, daring him to attack, but then slipped the knife up his sleeve. Emre grimaced as he touched his hand to the shallow cut he’d taken from Okzan’s knife. As he pressed his sleeve to it, the others returned to the work of guiding the ship around the harbor’s curving interior. Adzin, meanwhile, watched as the second ifin wheeled higher into the gauzy yellow sky, as if he had no doubt the mythical beast would lead him and his crew to safety.
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