A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “You may have missed your calling, Ihsan. I hear they’re in need of jongleurs in the playhouses along the Trough.”

  “You as well. I hear the city is suffering through a great dearth of undertakers.”

  “I might even consider it if the pay wasn’t such shit.”

  Ihsan smiled. The joke might have been low hanging fruit, but humor from Kiral was rare as summer rain. “As you know, I’ve been looking into Nalamae.”

  Here something most interesting happened. Kiral blinked. His nostrils flared. His cheeks actually flushed. It was a momentary thing, there one moment and gone the next, but Ihsan had seen it. Kiral had looked nervous. He must be interested in Nalamae as well.

  But why? Something must have precipitated it.

  Ihsan decided to share the truth, to see how Kiral would react. “Based on the visions he recorded, I suspect she will return soon. I could learn more if my access was unfettered.”

  For a moment Kiral seemed to consider it. He was on the verge of agreeing, but then his look of indecision vanished. “Detail all that you’ve found and send it to me tomorrow, along with the journals.”

  “Of course, my Lord King. Forgive me for asking, but why the sudden interest? Has something happened?”

  When a third cart left, pushed by a stocky Spear with a bulbous nose, Kiral turned to follow him. “Yusam once told me of the fall of Ishaq and the Moonless Host. It’s high time I found out more.”

  A lie. Or at least, not the whole truth. “And when you’re done?”

  Kiral didn’t stop. “It may take some time, Ihsan,” he said, and swept from the room.

  Some time, Ihsan thought. He means they’ll never be available.

  It smacked of something other than Kiral imposing his will simply to show that he could. Whatever had happened, had been recent.

  Secrets, Ihsan thought, and me without my King of Whispers.

  Which gave Ihsan his next destination. He made his way to Zeheb’s palace, and was forced to wait for nearly an hour before the two of them could speak. Eventually he was led by Drogan, Zeheb’s clever young vizir, to the throne room. Using the brass knocker in the shape of a grinning demon, Drogan knocked thrice and then moved to a table beside the gilded doors. On it were a dozen lamps. Drogan chose one of the smallest, lit it, then opened the rightmost door and led Ihsan into the dark, cavernous room. Even though the sound was strangely deadened, Drogan clicked the door shut behind him, taking pains to ensure the door did not clatter.

  It was daytime, and yet the throne room was dark as night. The only source of illumination was Drogan’s tiny lamp, which revealed precious little save the patterns on the carpets. This space had been bright once—centuries ago, a grand vaulted room with high windows. Now it was perpetually dark. Heavy curtains were draped over the windows and along the walls as well, hiding the stone completely. The floor was covered from one end to the other in layers of carpets. Only in the vaulting recesses above could any stone be seen, and even those were obscured by bolts of orange and yellow cloth.

  “I feel like I’ve been swallowed whole,” Ihsan said to Drogan, but it was a voice ahead in the darkness that answered.

  “Yes, yes. It’s dark. Like a dragon’s cave. Do you have to mention it every time you come?”

  As they approached, a man sitting cross-legged on the carpets appeared from the darkness: Zeheb, sitting on a mound of pillows before a low table. His eyes were closed. His hands were on his knees, his palms upturned like an ascetic in the mountains of Mirea.

  Ihsan laughed. “Goezhen could craft demons in here and no one would stir. An army could do battle and not a soul would come to investigate.”

  Drogan set the lamp on the table before Zeheb, then strode away, his footsteps silent as fog. Zeheb finally opened his eyes. “It’s also quiet enough that if I strangled you, no one would hear it.”

  “You’re sure?” The place was deadly quiet. “Have you ever tested it?”

  Zeheb’s reply was humorless. “I’m willing to try if you are.”

  Ihsan lowered himself into the pillows opposite Zeheb. “Another time, perhaps.” Taking up the bottle of araq sitting there, he poured two helpings and slid one toward Zeheb.

  Zeheb didn’t take it at first, but then his posture relaxed, he sank deeper into the pillows and took the glass. He downed it in one gulp, then poured himself another. “I’m surprised you’re here.” Words seemed to be warring within him. But then he seemed to come to some decision. “What do you want, Ihsan?”

  A rather curious reaction. “There are a few things I wonder if the King of Whispers has got wind of.” He sipped his araq, a silvery liquid thick with the taste of pear and lychee and freshly churned butter that finished with strong notes of tabbaq. “I’ve been reading Yusam’s journals, hoping to learn when Nalamae might reappear. Today, however, Kiral forbade me from reading them.”

  Zeheb frowned. “Denied you outright?”

  “Not in so many words. He took many of the journals I wanted and asked that I deliver those in my palace to him, further implying that access to them will be severely restricted.”

  “Well, we both know that when Kiral’s eye lands on some new bauble, he doesn’t rest until he has it.”

  “In this case, however,” Ihsan replied, “it’s something that concerns us all. He’s looking for something in particular. I’m certain of it. And likely to do with Nalamae.”

  “What is your point?”

  “My point, my good King, is that something has happened recently to cause Kiral to do this.”

  “And?”

  “And I would think the King of Whispers would want to know something about it.”

  There was a look of sour disappointment in Zeheb’s eyes, even disgust. “We agreed that we would no longer work against Kiral.”

  “We did, but this is important. We deserve to know what he thinks will happen to us, and to Sharakhai.”

  “Ah, so if you had learned of it, you would have shared it with the others?”

  Ihsan paused and chose his next words with care. “That would depend on the nature of the information.”

  “Which is, you must admit, precisely Kiral’s point of view.”

  “Meaning that it’s your point of view as well.”

  “Perhaps it is,” he said flatly. “Which brings me to another order of business. You agreed that we would bide our time. You agreed to step in line with Kiral’s wishes. There is wisdom in your words, I believe you said. Your visit here, would you call it wise given the dangers we face from within our own house?”

  “Can two Kings not talk?”

  Zeheb snorted. “You may have played Yusam for a fool, Ihsan. You may even have done so with me for a time. But that ends today.”

  He made a hand sign, the sort the Blade Maidens used to communicate with one another. Ihsan had never made a study of them, but he knew the sign for attack when he saw it.

  With the floor carpeted as it was, and the gloom that filled the cavernous space, he neither saw nor heard the Kestrel until she was practically on top of him. She wore a rust-colored dress, a matching turban with a veil covering all but her eyes. Emerging from the darkness, she looked like a freshly made wound that grew by the moment.

  “Halt!” he shouted, imbuing his voice with power.

  But the Kestrel kept coming. She held no weapon, but her hands were protected by fingerless gloves. Ihsan pulled his gods’ gift, his triple-bladed dagger, from its sheath by his side. She came to a halt as he swung the blade in a broad arc—a warning, for all the good it would do.

  “I command you to stop!”

  But the Kestrel didn’t. She stepped forward as Ihsan gave himself over to another violent swing, and then she was on him, snatching his wrist as quick as her namesake while kicking one leg into the air. Then her body was up, twisting, her thighs locking around his neck
. Her momentum carried her, and she used her hold around his neck to draw him forward and down, his body whipping past her so that he fell hard on the carpet.

  As the pain was just beginning to register, she rolled off him, twisting his hand as she went. His wrist and arm were torqued so ferociously his knife dropped to the carpet beside him. She immediately kicked it away, just out of reach. If he were able to crawl, only a tiny bit, he might reach it, but it may as well have been lying on the other side of the desert. His wrist and shoulder were in such agony he could make no move toward it, and even if he could stifle the pain it would be child’s play for the Kestrel to break his wrist or dislocate his shoulder.

  “Release me!”

  A pitiful appeal, made through a veil of pain.

  The Kestrel was indifferent to the power of his voice. She grabbed a fistful of hair, sent a knee into his lower back, and pressed him into the carpets.

  Zeheb had made his way around the low table. When he came near, he took one knee and turned his head to the side so that Ihsan could see him clearly. “She’s deaf,” he said. “I had her hearing taken from her years ago, in case I ever needed to move against you. She won’t hesitate to cut a smile across your throat should I give the sign. If you say but one word of command against me, I’ll be able to resist long enough to signal her.”

  “I am a King!”

  Zeheb’s face screwed up in disgust. “I see no King. I see a man who lives or dies at my whim!” His angry eyes bored into Ihsan’s. “When you talked of ruling Sharakhai together, years ago, I doubted you. I not only came to believe you were sincere, I’m nearly certain you never once used your power on me. Am I wrong?”

  Ihsan’s neck was pressed so hard the simple act of drawing breath caused pain. Speaking was worse. “Why would I have needed it? You wanted to believe my words as much as I did.”

  “I may have been blinded years ago, but now I know the truth. Your eyes see only enemies. Even Nayyan will one day wither in your regard.”

  “Please, Zeheb. I was in error, but I would still do as we’ve long planned—”

  Zeheb nodded to the Kestrel, who arched Ihsan’s head back so hard he feared his neck would break.

  “For once, be quiet, Ihsan.” Zeheb leaned closer, leering. “Know that there are others like her. Know that I can and will call upon them if the need arises, and that there’s nothing you can do to stop them once they’ve been given your scent. Know that they have standing orders if you command me to kill myself or I die in some mysterious manner. Lastly, know that it won’t be you who’s taken first, but Nayyan. Nayyan and the child you thought to hide from us all.”

  Despite all that had happened in this room, something cold slipped between Ihsan’s ribs, crept ever deeper toward his heart. He knew it well, the fear of losing a child, the anguish of knowing you might have helped but failed.

  “You will not come to me like this again. If I have need, I will summon you. Do you understand me, Ihsan?”

  In the darkness, a vision of his daughter swam before him: Ferah, lying on a throne, her wrists slit. The Kestrel wrenched his head back farther, eliciting a scream that echoed those he’d shed for Ferah when he’d entered his throne room and found her dead.

  “I understand,” he managed, pounding the carpet with one hand.

  Zeheb studied his eyes a moment longer, then made a new sign to the Kestrel. She released him, then melded back into the darkness.

  Taking up the small lamp, Zeheb began walking toward the back of the throne room. “You can see yourself out.”

  Zeheb walked silently away and was gone, the light diminishing with him.

  Chapter 32

  DAVUD COULDN’T SLEEP after returning from the cavern with the Kings. The dreams were haunting. Visions of the Kings swam before him. Kiral, Cahil, and Husamettín standing in the background, grim-faced, while Sukru demanded to know why Davud had done nothing to stop Yerinde. Every time Sukru spoke her name, the face of the goddess came to him, piercing him over and over with those violet eyes.

  Her head. Bring me her head. Bring me her head.

  The words built in intensity until he woke sweating, wondering why a god would ask for the head of one of their own.

  Can the gods not squabble?

  Certainly, he reasoned, but why not take her head themselves? He recalled his vision of Goezhen running after Nalamae. How she’d denied him, left him bleeding near the blooming fields. What can the Kings do where the gods have failed? But then he remembered all of Çeda’s research below the collegia. He’d read everything she’d asked him to bring, partly to ensure it was something she’d want, but also to satisfy his own curiosity. He’d seen in those texts the number of times the gods had hunted Nalamae down only to have her reappear years later. Was this some new attempt on their part to finish the job once and for all?

  Sukru had been prominent in his dreams as well. He would swoop down like a vulture and thrust a knife into the center of Davud’s chest. Face sweaty, eyes like a rat in the night, he snarled, “What good have you been to me, fool boy?”

  As dawn approached, he gave up on sleep and went for a walk around the palace. It was calming, the grounds dreamlike under Tulathan’s silver light. He wandered the gravel walks, the topiary, the small ponds filled with exotic fish. He even wandered the hedge maze for a time, breathing deeply of its piney scent, which did wonders to dispel his dreams.

  He was heading back to his room when he saw a dark form walking through the archway that led to the boneyard. A woman, surely one of those who tended to the graves and crypts.

  No. It was Anila. Standing as he was behind the statue of a spread-winged crane, she didn’t see him and continued deeper into the large yard. He was just about to call out to her when he saw Zahndr trailing behind her. He stopped at the entrance and turned round, blocking the path.

  Guarding it, Davud realized, but why?

  He was tempted to ask, but there was something strange going on here. The way Anila had acted in the coach the day before, as if she were ashamed of something. Sukru was encouraging her to do something. He just wasn’t sure what.

  Using the sharpened point on his ring, Davud pierced his left wrist. He let the blood pool for a moment, then drew a sigil upon his palm, combining drift, descry, and obsess. Using that same hand, he scooped sand from the pathway and blew it into the cool morning air.

  It wafted toward Zahndr, scintillant as it drove against the prevailing wind, it became so thin Davud could hardly detect it. As it passed the boneyard’s entrance, Zahndr blinked, then he shook his head and blinked again. The moment he turned away, Davud walked along the gravel path toward him. The crunch of his own footsteps made Davud cringe. Zahndr would surely have heard them, yet his gaze remained fixed on a tall minaret in the middle distance and remained there as Davud slipped past him and into the boneyard.

  The yard itself wasn’t terribly large but was so packed with grave markers, sepulchers, and entrances to underground crypts that one could easily get lost. Davud walked as silently as he could, looking for Anila. When he caught movement ahead, he pulled up short and hid behind a large gravestone.

  Along the wall of the massive wing of the palace that held Sukru’s residence were several dozen stone sepulchers, all with open entryways. Anila stood within one of these, her dark head scarf, skin, and dress making her look like a shadow within that enclosed space. She stood before a white sarcophagus, staring intently at the marble lid, which looked bright and new.

  Bela’s grave?

  Anila had cared for the girl, but this visit felt like something more than paying respects to the dead. He was proven right moments later, when Anila reached out and touched one finger to the sarcophagus lid. She moved her finger in a rough circle, then drew a line through it, followed by more embellishments, until it was clear she was drawing a sigil.

  What good will it do, though? He could s
ee no blood.

  He thought back to the finch in the bird cage, how he’d thought it dead, but it had awoken while he’d been talking with Anila. He’d known she was doing something arcane, but he hadn’t pressed her. He should have, he realized now.

  A thin mist lifted from the sigil and spread like fog. It drifted down from the lid in thin rivulets before the dry desert air swallowed it. Both of Anila’s palms were held motionless above the sigil, as if she were warming them over a fire. When she tilted her head, Davud felt something deep inside him shift. Akin to what he felt while summoning magic.

  A chill ran through him as more fog crept out from the crack beneath the lid.

  Gods, it’s coming from inside the sarcophagus.

  It drifted down and spread along the floor, swallowing Anila’s feet and ankles. And then Davud saw something he’d hoped never to see again. The fog . . . It was rolling down Anila’s form as well, just as it had when she lay on the ground in Ishmantep after Davud’s clumsy use of magic had burned her. Except this time she didn’t appear to be in pain. Her skin wasn’t broken and bleeding, as it had been then.

  Davud could take it no longer. “Stop!” he cried as he strode forward. “Stop it!”

  Anila turned, her eyes wide with surprise. “Davud!”

  He grabbed her hands to pull her away from the sarcophagus and snatched them back a moment later. Her skin was so cold it burned.

  “Leave me!” she hissed.

  “This isn’t right!”

  He’d just motioned to the sarcophagus when a thud came from beneath the lid. Anila froze and Davud prayed it had merely been a shifting of the lid caused by the cold. But it came again a moment later. A thud that struck the underside of the lid. The next one came so hard it made him shiver.

  Breath of the desert. The girl . . .

  As Anila turned to the sarcophagus, a boom came from beneath the lid, so hard the slab shifted. Anila began to whisper as a scratching, scrabbling sound came from within. She touched the surface of the marble, drawing another sigil. Crystals of ice trailed behind her finger, melting and evaporating as Anila complicated the sigil.