A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  En masse, the Kadri warriors roared and delivered a flurry of blows before disengaging. They ran, but Onur’s soldiers were ready. Emre was nearly cut down from behind, but an old man with a long white beard threw himself at the Salmük warriors chasing him. He fought bravely, but was cut down a moment later.

  Emre and the others flocked toward the ships. Their sails were raised, billowing as they gathered the hot desert winds. Emre made for Haddad’s ship, his throat and lungs burning. The muscles of his legs nearly gave out, but he managed to gain the ship with Haddad’s help as a rain of arrows began to fall, biting into the hull and deck of the dhow.

  As the crews answered with their own rain of arrows, Emre helped more up to the deck. One slipped, her eyes wide when an arrow struck the meat of her calf. Emre held on and managed to hold her tight to the ship. One of Haddad’s crew dropped to the deck by his side, grabbed a fistful of her thawb, and hauled her up, the woman screaming the whole while.

  Behind the ship, the wyrm lifted into the sky. It circled once, twice, then dove straight for Haddad’s ship. A crewman was at the rear ballista, a heavy bolt in the channel, ready to fly, but just as he was aiming it, an arrow took him in the neck. Blood spurted as he grabbed for it. He jerked on the arrow shaft reflexively, and actually managed to pull it free, but the moment he did, a spray of crimson flew from the wound, staining the ballista, the bulwarks, and the deck beneath him.

  An indescribable terror frothed up inside Emre, threatening to overwhelm him, but he quashed it while dashing for the ballista, knowing he only had moments before it was on them. The wyrm swooped low and began its strange, undulating flight toward Emre’s ship. Its shadow swept across the ground below, a dark companion as the wyrm’s shape loomed ever larger.

  When Emre reached the ballista, every fiber of his being urged him to squeeze the lever that would release the bolt, but he couldn’t risk a miss.

  The wyrm came closer and closer. It dipped and pulled sharply up and stretched its clawed feet forward and opened its great maw to reveal razor teeth and a barbed tongue.

  Emre squeezed the lever. The bolt flew with a great thud.

  The wyrm’s neck came forward, and a black cloud issued from its mouth, which flew toward the ship in one great stream, as if the wyrm hoped to spray the entire ship, stem to stern, from the top of the mainmast down to the decks.

  But then the bolt pierced the wyrm’s wing just above its right shoulder, puncturing the skin. Immediately it curled to the right, the inky cloud trailing off along with it.

  “Take cover!” Emre shouted, and ducked under the ballista.

  Where the black spray had struck, it ate through the sails. It burned the wood. The crew screamed in pain. And then it hit Emre too. Black droplets burned through his shirt and along his shoulders and back. Wherever it touched, his skin sizzled and bubbled. Emre found himself sucking air through gritted teeth. He tore off his shirt and used it to wipe himself wherever he could reach. It may have helped, but did nothing to ease the pain, which grew worse, until he was crying out with the rest of the crew.

  The mizzen sail was eaten through so badly it looked as though it had lain moth-eaten for a hundred years. The remnants at the head flapped in the wind. The mainmast was better, but was beginning to tear from the sizable holes near the top. The foresails, thank the gods, were largely intact.

  Looking back, Emre saw that perhaps two dozen ships had manage to sail away. Another twenty were still at the site of the battle.

  The victors, Onur’s warriors, raised their swords to the sky and gave ululating calls. The wyrm, praise be to Bakhi for his kindness, had dropped to the ground and was nursing the hole in its wing. Its tongue lapped at the blood running along its skin.

  As their forms dwindled into the distance, Emre’s relief became anger. Bakhi may have shown them some small kindness, but the gods had given Onur more than he already had. Long life. Terrible strength and speed. And now a bloody great wyrm. How can we fight him when the gods are his allies?

  With no answers likely to arrive soon, Emre turned away and went to help the wounded.

  Chapter 45

  DEEP BENEATH SUKRU’S PALACE, Ihsan walked down a darkened passageway. The gaoler accompanied him, holding a lantern to light their way, though the combination of his noticeable limp and unsteady hand made the light swing so wildly it made Ihsan sick.

  “If you please,” Ihsan said, holding his hand out for the lantern. “It’s enough to make a mule vomit.”

  The man handed it over but not without a sullen look.

  “Hello?” came a booming voice from the passageway ahead. “Can you hear me? Tell the King of Kings I would speak with him alone!”

  It was Zeheb’s voice. Ihsan never thought he’d see the day. He sounded completely terrified.

  “I will speak with Kiral! I am King Zeheb, and I will speak with Kiral!”

  “Enough you bloody crow,” the gaoler groused. “Do that again and you’ll get dog bones and piss water for a week!”

  To Ihsan’s utter astonishment, Zeheb fell silent.

  “You do know you’re speaking to a King, don’t you?” Ihsan asked the gaoler.

  The gaoler’s sullen look turned darker. “I know my lord Sukru gave a prisoner over to me and that he’s as loud as the end of days.”

  “Still,” Ihsan said, allowing a touch of power to leech into his voice. “You’ll not speak ill of him again.”

  The gaoler said nothing, but his face was now scrunched up so badly he looked like a prune. They reached a door shortly after, and the gaoler used his jingle of keys to open the door.

  Zeheb’s voice called tentatively from the darkness. “Kiral?”

  “No,” Ihsan said. “Not Kiral.” There was no reply as he stepped inside and held his hand out to the gaoler. “The keys.”

  The gaoler’s mismatched eyes stared at the keys for a moment, then at the open doorway.

  “Now,” Ihsan said.

  “Of course, my Lord King,” he said contritely as he handed the keys over.

  “Now wait for me above.”

  And off he bobbed, into the darkness, leaving Ihsan alone with the King of Whispers.

  When he was sure the man was far enough that he wouldn’t hear the conversation, Ihsan entered the cell. He held the lantern in his left hand, his triple-bladed knife in his right. The cell was large, meant for several at once, which was perhaps why Zeheb looked so small, huddled in one corner as he was.

  “Are you well?” Ihsan asked easily. “Have you been fed? Would you like water?”

  Zeheb gaped in pure befuddlement. “Ihsan, there’s been a terrible mistake.”

  “Undoubtedly, but it will be corrected soon enough.”

  Zeheb shook his head as if Ihsan hadn’t just threatened him. “Can you call for Kiral? I didn’t know what I was saying, but I’m better now. I can explain everything.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I’m so confused, Ihsan. I didn’t do those things. You did.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Ihsan didn’t bother telling him about the tincture that had been slipped into his wine during Davud’s interrogation of Çeda. What would be the point other than to gloat? The drug was a Kundhuni import and very rare. Its original name was difficult to translate, but meant, more or less, “wanderlust,” and in this case was the perfect solution. It caused confusion for a time, and often docility. Like this, the victim was unable to piece together his thoughts, unable to recall his memories. Under the right circumstances, it could make a man seem as if he were hiding things, which was exactly how Zeheb had seemed and exactly what Ihsan had wanted.

  It also made him suggestible. The drug was wearing off, but there was still enough running through Zeheb’s veins that he wouldn’t be able to resist Ihsan’s voice, nor deny him answers.

  “Have you been list
ening to Kiral?” Ihsan asked, allowing power to flow through his words.

  Zeheb shook his head. “I would never.”

  “I need the truth, Zeheb, or I’ll never be able to help you.”

  “I haven’t! The chances of him sensing it were too great!”

  “Have you been taken beneath his wing, then? Are you his man?”

  Zeheb swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  Interesting. “When?”

  “Not long before you came to my palace.”

  “When you had me attacked?”

  It took Zeheb some time to nod. “Yes.”

  Ihsan nodded. He’d suspected as much. “And yet, if you’re half the man I remember, you would still keep an eye on him.”

  Zeheb had always been good at hiding his emotions, but affected by the drug, his old instincts were apparently lost to him. It was almost comical seeing how transparently guilty the man looked. “I’ve listened to some whispers. But not Kiral’s! I swear it! Only those around him.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “Kiral and Hamzakiir are in league. They’ve made arrangements for the burgeoning thirteenth tribe to be destroyed.”

  Ihsan started piecing the puzzle together. “They’re going to help Onur.”

  Zeheb nodded. “At least insomuch as they can quell the knowledge of the tribe before it threatens the natural order of things.”

  Ihsan nearly laughed. Natural order . . . The natural order would have seen us dead four centuries ago. “And I suppose Hamzakiir, if this is successful, will suddenly find himself with a seat at Sharakhai’s table.”

  When the lantern’s light guttered for a moment, Zeheb stared at it, his brows pinching, as if within that lonely glow he’d found some small amount of hope. “Yes.”

  “And who suggested this arrangement?”

  “Hamzakiir.”

  This time, Ihsan did laugh. “Now let me guess the price for this bargain: half of our elixirs of long life; the very elixirs that Hamzakiir managed to steal from your palace.”

  Zeheb’s eyes widened like a little boy who’d just been shown his first magic trick. “Just so.”

  In the end, the arrangement wasn’t surprising, but it did make Ihsan wonder just how far Kiral planned to take this. How much of Sharakhai was he willing to surrender to Hamzakiir? And conversely, how much was Hamzakiir willing to settle for?

  “Who else knows?”

  Zeheb was quivering. He was trying to resist, and Ihsan could tell it was becoming easier for him. There was little time left, then.

  “Who else knows of the bargain, Zeheb?”

  “Sukru and Cahil.”

  “What of Husamettín and Beşir?”

  “I’ve heard no whispers of import coming from their halls.”

  It made sense. Both Husamettín and Beşir would likely balk at such an arrangement. “Very well,” Ihsan said. When he stood, taking up the lantern, Zeheb looked relieved.

  “We were allies once, Ihsan. Will you speak with Kiral? Convince him that this has all been a mistake?”

  “No. But I do have one last request of you, after which you will be free to do as you will.” He paused. “Are you ready?”

  “I am. I’ll do anything.”

  Ihsan smiled widely. “I don’t blame you for threatening Nayyan. I was angry over it, but I can understand why you would do it. But you should never have threatened my unborn child.”

  “I know.” In the span of a heartbeat, much of the hope in Zeheb’s eyes vanished. “I swear to you, I’ll never do so again.”

  “You’re right. Because what I want you to do, Zeheb, is listen to the whispers.”

  Zeheb’s face brightened. “Of course. Which ones?”

  Never before had Ihsan put so much of himself into his power. “All of them.”

  Zeheb couldn’t disobey. Not this. His chin quivered. The worry in his eyes intensified even as they lost their focus. He was now staring through Ihsan, as if he could see the whole of the desert. His breath came faster. His hands pressed flat against the stone beneath him. His jowls shook. The long moan that escaped him reminded Ihsan of a wounded black laugher he’d seen on a hunt once. As the hunters had closed in, long wheezing breaths had overcome it. It had tried to struggle, tried to fight, to no effect in the end.

  Zeheb was that doomed beast, a man who recognized his fate as more and more of the whispers came to him. From this palace. From the House of Kings. From the city beyond. Soon they would reach even to the desert, for his ability to control it, his desire to control it, had been stolen from him with Ihsan’s command.

  Ihsan left the cell and calmly locked the door behind him. The first of Zeheb’s screams chased him down the dark hallway. By the time Ihsan had reached the gaoler’s room, they’d become so maniacal there was hardly a pause for breath from one to the next.

  Ihsan handed the gaoler the keys. “You’ll forget that I was here. And you’ll ignore the King’s screaming. When he falls silent, you’ll inspect his cell and then tell King Sukru what you’ve found.”

  “Of course, my Lord King.”

  Ihsan took the stairs, wondering how long it would be before Zeheb drove himself perfectly, utterly mad.

  Chapter 46

  ÇEDA WAS CHAINED to the bed of an enclosed wagon. Sunlight slanted in through the lone, barred window at the rear, sometimes playing against the wagon’s dark interior, at other times lost as they navigated the many switchbacks along King’s Road. It was the end of a miserably hot day. Sweat tickled along her skin, made her scalp itch. The cramped space inside the wagon was hot as a bloody oven.

  After nearly an hour of waiting, the wagon began to move. It rocked, creaked, and leaned awkwardly as it navigated the stones and potholes of King’s Road. The rattle of the wheels mixed with the jingle of tack and the clop of hooves. The distant sound of temple bells honored the setting sun. It made her wonder if Davud, wherever he was now, could hear them too.

  She was still so shaken by the look on his face, his intensity as he sought to kill her. She’d seen that look before, but only on men like Hamid. Cold-blooded killers. Davud, a peaceful dove above all else, was anything but. So why had he done it? She’d been able to come up with only one answer: Ihsan.

  Why else would Davud have done such a thing? She supposed it was possible Sukru had threatened him, but the way Sukru had stared so hawkishly at every move Davud made, as if in awe of Davud’s powers, made her think it wasn’t so.

  Ihsan had been a different story. He’d seemed intrigued, then surprised, then shocked at all the right moments. A good performance, but Çeda felt certain it had been just that. A performance.

  When Davud had shared Onur’s bloody verse, she’d thought Ihsan might have been subtly nodding to her about the pact they’d made on Tauriyat—that he would reveal the name of her father if she brought him Onur’s head—but she realized what a mistake that had been. After her capture, Ihsan had likely seen how ill-advised their compact had been and decided to tie off that thread before it unraveled all his careful planning. He’d only given Davud Onur’s bloody verse because Onur was now an enemy. It would prove Davud a trustworthy source, and if it also reminded the Kings that Onur was still a threat to them, so much the better.

  It struck her how brilliantly Ihsan had orchestrated Zeheb’s implication. He must have pulled dozens of strings just so, including the ones that tied him to Zeheb. When he’d been accused, the King of Whispers had sat there, dumbfounded, as if waking from a dream. Had Ihsan whispered in his ear as well?

  After Davud’s peculiar escape from the palace, the Kings had come to inspect the damage. They’d questioned Sümeya and Zahndr. Allowing only a cursory explanation, Husamettín had halted the interrogation and ordered Sümeya to return Çeda to his palace.

  “She is in my care,” Sukru had spat, with King Cahil standing just beyond him.
“She is now mine to question.”

  Husamettín had stared at him with a look of such intensity Çeda thought he might draw his sword and cleave Sukru in two, but he’d merely kept his eyes fixed on Sukru and repeated his order for Sümeya to lead Çeda away, which she’d done a moment later. Melis, Kameyl, and Yndris had accompanied them to the palace, where the wagon and horses had been waiting for them. It was strange that Sümeya had ordered the driver down from the bench and taken the reins herself.

  Gods, what happens now?

  Perhaps Husamettín would give her over to the dark asir again. Perhaps he’d threaten Sehid-Alaz’s life unless he got his answers. Perhaps she’d have her day on the gallows after all.

  After a time Sümeya called, “Woah, woah!” and the wagon creaked to a halt. The clopping of the horses behind the wagon, the ones carrying Kameyl, Yndris, and Melis, came to a halt as well.

  “Kameyl and Yndris,” Sümeya’s voice called from the driver’s bench, “continue on to the House of Maidens. Inform the Matrons that we’ll return when we’re able.”

  “Don’t you think it best that we all accompany you to the palace?” Yndris’s voice, grating and impertinent.

  “Do as I’ve ordered, Maiden,” Sümeya replied easily. “Go, and we’ll speak in the morning.”

  “Come, girl,” Kameyl said. “The First Warden has spoken.”

  One of the horses exhaled noisily. “Call me girl again”—hooves thudded against packed earth—“and we’ll have more than words.”

  Çeda heard a snort from Kameyl. She could picture her sneer, a thing she’d seen a thousand times while practicing their swordcraft. Soon two horses were trotting away. When the sound of their retreat had dwindled, the wagon lurched back into motion, heading downhill for a time, then uphill, surely along the spur of King’s Road that led to Husamettín’s palace. It was a goodly distance away, and yet a short while later the wagon came to a halt.

  Çeda thought they were waiting for other horses to pass, perhaps another wagon, but she heard nothing save the lonely call of an amberlark.