A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  He shoved him aside and he fell off the wagon with an unceremonious thump.

  “Who the bloody hell are you?” the driver asked, shifting as far away as he could on the bench.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Brama said, brandishing his bloody blade. “I’m the Kings’ new barber! Now get off this coach before I slice you up!”

  The man’s hands lifted. “I want no trouble, my lord!”

  “Then I imagine you know what to do!” Brama pointed his knife over the side of the carriage, which was now hurtling toward the front gates, and the man took the hint. He leapt free, and Brama heard a grunt above the jingle of tack and the raucous rattle of the wheels.

  Ahead, along the top of the walls, a pair of guards were closing in toward the gates, but the coach would be past before they could swing either of them shut.

  They saw it too and stopped where they were to lift something to their shoulders. Brama ducked low as he flew through the open gates. A crossbow bolt thudded into the bench beside him. Another burst through the meat of his right leg. A roar of pain managed to escape him before he bit down on the pain. He pulled left on the reins, snapping them hard against horses’ flanks to keep them moving fast. As they turned, Brama sucked air through clenched teeth and glanced over his shoulder. A third crossbow bolt thunked into the roof of the cabin just behind him. He might have heard something flutter through the air above him.

  By then, the bulk of the araba shielded him. But it did little to ease Brama’s worries. Blood was running from the wound to his leg. The bolt was at an awkward angle, entering halfway down his thigh and exiting just behind his knee. To even touch it brought a searing pain.

  In his earliest days with Rümayesh, Brama would try to hide from the pain she dealt him, but he’d found over and over again that hiding made it worse. The only way through the pain was to accept it, but not so much that he embraced it. He had learned to walk the line between awareness and fear. Only then was he unmoved by it.

  As he had a thousand times before, he balanced along that knife’s edge. He calmed his breathing, unclenched his jaw, and snapped the shaft of the crossbow bolt. As he pulled it through from the opposite side, he felt it tug the skin along the outside of his leg, felt the shaft scrape through muscle, felt the skin near the inside of his knee grip as the shaft came free. The pain flared, and then slowly diminished, but he treated it no differently. The pain was. He was.

  More worrisome was the feeling of lightheadedness. Fall unconscious now, and it might mean both his life and Amansir’s. As the horses galloped along King’s Road, the flow of blood eased, and the stars in his eyes faded.

  Now what, you bloody fool?

  The guards he’d left behind would be after him soon enough. And ahead lay the House of Maidens, which he’d have to pass through to reach the safety of the city streets. The Maidens would never let him pass unchallenged, not with an unconscious Qaimiri lord in the cabin and his leg bleeding as though he were fleeing a battle. At the very least, they’d question him, which would give Queen Meryam’s men more than enough time to catch up.

  After passing several more embassy houses, he pulled the horses to a stop. There might be some clothes in the cabin or the trunk strapped to the back. He could prop Amansir up on one of the benches and pretend the man was drunk. He might even find a bit of brandy or araq hidden away to help. And he could fake a Qaimiri accent well enough. He could tell the Maidens his lord had ordered Brama to take him into the city. It happened often enough. The lords and ladies of embassies grew bored and could often be found in many of the shisha dens along the Trough, spreading their money around.

  He’d just lowered himself gingerly down to the ground, convinced he could make this work when he realized there was no one in the cabin. It was empty. He looked back along the King’s Road, surveying the moonlit landscape to see if the man had somehow managed to throw himself free, but there was nothing.

  “Nalamae’s pendulous teats, where have you gone?”

  “Right here,” came a hoarse voice.

  Brama spun to find Amansir standing there. He was holding a knife to Brama’s throat.

  “You don’t want to do that,” Brama said, his arms held openly at his sides, his eyes glancing down toward the knife.

  Amansir coughed. His brows pinched. “Don’t I?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather”—Brama jutted his chin toward the walls and towers of the House of Maidens—“escape into Sharakhai before your queen’s men recapture you? Or worse, before she comes herself rather than leave it to the incompetents who allowed me to rescue you?”

  “Rescue me?”

  “Just so.”

  “I tried to bloody kill you. Why would you—” His words trailed off as his eyes shifted to something over Brama’s shoulder. Shouts were coming from the embassy house.

  “If we’re lucky,” Brama went on, “they’ll need a few moments more before they ride out to find us. If not . . .”

  He left the rest unsaid, and Amansir took the hint. He looked back toward the House of Maidens. “Get inside,” he said. “Quickly.”

  He hopped up to the driver’s bench, pulled free the crossbow bolt embedded in the wood of the bench, then tossed it into the darkness. Brama did the same with the bolt on the roof, then slipped inside the cabin.

  The araba began to move a moment later. “Look hurt,” Amansir called back.

  “That’s hardly difficult, milord.”

  “And act drunk, but don’t say a word, even if they ask you a direct question.”

  “And if they take a cudgel to me?”

  “Keep acting like a jackanape and we’re both going to learn what the bite of ebon steel feels like.”

  The same as any other blade, no doubt.

  The araba soon approached the House of Maidens. When they halted at the gates, a Blade Maiden approached, her black turban and veil hiding all but her eyes. “My Lord Amansir,” she said. “Late business?”

  “Grim business, I’m afraid. Our physic is traipsing about in Sharakhai, and one of my men managed to take a length of steel to his thigh.”

  The Maiden glanced inside the cabin. Brama gripped his leg and looked appropriately grim, appropriately drunk as well, though whether the combination was working, or if he just looked like a crazed idiot, he had no idea.

  The wound had nearly stopped bleeding, but the blood all over his woolen trousers was fresh and bright.

  “Swordplay?” the Maiden asked.

  “Mmm. My idiot marshal downed an entire bottle of Qaimir’s finest and decided that trading blows with the smith’s son would make for a fine bit of entertainment.”

  “Let me guess. The smith was also drunk?”

  With a rueful smile, Amansir touched his finger to his nose.

  She laughed, though the look she gave Brama held little charity. A moment later, however, her look softened, and she tipped her head to the large courtyard behind her. “The Matrons rarely tend to such things, but if it’s serious, I could ask for an exception to be made.”

  “Ah, the House of Maidens is too kind, and I might have accepted had my queen not made it clear she wishes for Leticia and no other to tend to him.”

  The Maiden stared at Brama’s leg. She looked as though she were about to argue, but then merely shrugged. “Very well,” she said, and let them through.

  Brama might have heard the pounding of hooves as they rode through the gates and into the city proper, but he couldn’t be sure. And then they were off, hurtling down the Spear.

  Chapter 54

  IT WAS THE SEVENTH DAY after the attack in the desert, and Çeda was changing the dressing on Dardzada’s wound. Sümeya had done an admirable job, and Dardzada, once conscious, had guided Çeda to the right healing salve to help speed the healing process. Still, his collarbone had been cleaved, along with much of his shoulder muscle. Çeda guessed he’d
have some, perhaps complete, immobility in his left arm for the rest of his life. Dardzada seemed to agree.

  “I guess you’ll have to return to my side,” he said one morning as he tried to slip out of his hopelessly bloody thawb. “Milk charo like you used to.”

  “I’d rather eat all the sand in the desert.”

  He’d waved over the side of the skiff. “I’ve heard it tastes better over rice.”

  Despite herself, Çeda laughed. “It would still taste better than that garbage you gave old men to make them regular.”

  “They may have detested it, but their wives loved me for it.”

  “Loved you how much?” Melis asked nonchalantly.

  Dardzada tipped his head, a move he immediately regretted. “I wasn’t known as the stallion of the Merchant’s Quarter for nothing.

  Çeda stared open-mouthed at Dardzada’s boyish grin while Melis’s laugh filled the warming desert air.

  Zaïde had recovered somewhat. She was able to sit, eat, and drink. But any exertion beyond that sent her heart tumbling. Even the simple act of getting out of the skiff on their rare rests, or a climb to the top of a shallow dune, caused her to slow, put her hands on her knees and take measured breaths until it had passed.

  “Wipe that look from your face,” she said to Çeda one afternoon as they were breaking down their camp and preparing to set sail.

  “You weren’t even looking at me.”

  “I don’t have to.” Slowly she stood up and turned to face Çeda. “I know the signs of patronizing concern well enough.” Her face soured the longer she looked at Çeda. “Just look at you.” With an expression of disgust, she trudged past Çeda toward the skiff. “Put the funeral shroud away, girl. I’m not ready to be given back to the desert just yet!”

  On the twelfth day following the attack—three full weeks since leaving Sharakhai—they spotted ships on the horizon. Though their location was roughly where they were to rendezvous with the thirteenth tribe, they were worried they might be Onur’s ships or those of another tribe. But when they sailed close enough to see the blue pennants—although they were too distant to make out in detail—there were the telltale signs of Mount Arasal stitched in white.

  Çeda felt a palpable relief. Dardzada seemed to as well. But Zaïde, Sümeya, and Melis all seemed tense. They were entering the demesne of Tribe Khiyanat, who were, for all intents and purposes, the Moonless Host. In the span of a month, Sümeya and Melis had gone from respected Blade Maidens to traitors. Even so, Ishaq might make prisoners of them—no matter what Çeda might say, he was a man of his own mind. And Zaïde had spent practically her entire life within the walls of the House of Kings. She might be an ally of the Host, but most would view her as an outsider, a Sharakhani.

  Near the end of the day, as their skiff approached a circle of three dozen ships that had come to rest for the night, Çeda reached out to Kerim, whom she’d left in Salsanna’s care. She hoped to learn what had happened in her absence and gauge the mood of the camp before she arrived. Except, he was distant . . . She could sense him, but he wouldn’t respond to her calls. At first she thought he was slumbering as the asirim did beneath the adichara, but the closer they came to camp’s edge, the more she suspected Kerim was willfully veiling his mind from her.

  Or someone was doing it for him.

  Salsanna had bonded with him, after all. Perhaps she’d taken to it faster than Çeda expected. Or perhaps the answer was as simple as the passage of time and their distance from Sharakhai, and the Kings, and the other asirim; perhaps even distance from the compulsion the gods had placed on them. It might have allowed Kerim to create a stronger bond with Salsanna than he had with Çeda.

  After trying a while longer, with no success, Çeda gave up. It seemed there was no choice but to sail into camp with no further information.

  They were met beyond the camp by Ishaq, Macide, and several other elders, including Hamid and Darius. The sun was low. Their shadows slashed against the angles in the dunes. Many stared warily, angrily, at the five of them. And why not? Blade Maidens were reviled, and here were Sümeya, Melis, and Çeda in black battle dresses, while Zaïde wore her Matron’s white.

  Dardzada stepped forward to offer greetings, but before he could, Çeda moved past him to stand before Ishaq. “These two Maidens freed me from the House of Kings.”

  Ishaq’s expression was dour, Macide’s wary. The tower of flesh they called Frail Lemi stared on with a confused look on his face. Hamid, however, looked incensed. “Have you fallen and cracked your skull, Çeda? Are you bloody mad? That’s Sümeya Husamettín’ava. First Warden. Slayer of dozens of our number.”

  “You are not wrong, Hamid, but she comes here under my protection. She and Melis freed me from the House of Kings. They saved my life from Sümeya’s own father when he came to take us back. They saved my life again when two Blade Maidens from their former hand surprised us in the desert.”

  Çeda felt indebted to Sümeya and Melis for delivering her from the House of Kings. She felt grateful when they stood with her against Husamettín. But she hadn’t felt the same sisterhood they had once shared—not until now.

  “They know the truth about the asirim,” Çeda went on, focusing on Ishaq once more. “Through me, the veil over their eyes has been lifted. They saw what happened and they recognize our history. They could have left at any time—returned to Sharakhai, hidden away in a caravanserai, fled the desert entirely. But they came here with me because they’ve seen the truth, and they’re ready to help.”

  Hamid was beside himself with rage. “I don’t care what happened.” He drew his sword with one violent motion. “I don’t care what they’ve made you believe. You were with them too long to see the truth. But as sure as the desert is vast, as sure as the Kings are cruel, those two”—he waved the tip of his sword at Sümeya and Melis—“are ruddy fucking spies.”

  “I tell you they are not.”

  Hamid spat on the sand. “I’ll not suffer their presence here.”

  “You will,” Çeda replied easily.

  Çeda watched his every move, every flick of his sleepy, cold-blooded eyes. She saw his intent in the muscles of his jaw as they tightened, in his eyes as they narrowed, and she was on the move even before he’d taken his first step.

  She drew River’s Daughter as Hamid burst into motion. She felt for his heartbeat and pressed against him as he turned and swung for her. She blocked one swing, spinning as she did so, and sent a heel to the side of his head.

  He was knocked off balance but didn’t fall, so she stepped inside his guard and sent a gloved fist crashing into his mouth. This time he fell to the sand, dazed. Çeda dropped to his side, used a knee to pin his sword arm to the sand, and laid River’s Daughter across his neck. She leaned in until they were face to face.

  “They are under my protection. I vouch for them both. If they betray us, I offer up my own life. Is that good enough for you?”

  Blood and spittle flew from Hamid’s mouth. It fell on his chin, mixing in with the whiskers of his light brown beard. She’d never seen him so mad. “I’m going to kill them both, Çeda. I promise you this. And then I’m going to kill you.”

  By Thaash’s bright blade, she considered running River’s Daughter across his throat. He’d always been a rabid dog, so why not let his lifeblood seep into the sands? There was too much at stake to let a killer like Hamid decide her fate, the tribe’s fate, and perhaps the fate of the asirim as well. It was in that moment—as Thaash’s righteous anger burned ever brighter—that she felt Kerim clearly for the first time. He was hidden somewhere among the ships, feeding off her emotions. It was an echo of the compulsions of the gods, a thing that had somehow been largely removed from Kerim’s thoughts. Until now, that is. Her fear over what Hamid might do, and her own sudden bloodlust, had rekindled it.

  Like water thrown over a fire, the realization did much to douse her em
otions. Kerim’s were extinguished a moment later, and they both felt shame for wishing the death of another, one of their own blood. Kerim’s presence faded as Çeda pulled her sword away from Hamid’s neck.

  “Enough,” came Ishaq’s voice.

  With a shove, Çeda released him and stood up. Hamid did as well. He gripped his sword for a time, staring at Çeda with dull, emotionless eyes. Her younger self might have been chilled by those eyes, but she’d seen enough Hamids in her life to know that sometimes you could only meet a threat with a threat.

  “Hamid—” Ishaq began, but Hamid merely sheathed his sword and stalked away bumping several people out of his way until he was lost behind them.

  The expression on the face of the big one, Frail Lemi, had hardened throughout the conversation. He was now staring at Melis and Sümeya, as if daring them to draw their blades. Then he too turned and followed Hamid from the gathering.

  “Until I say otherwise,” Ishaq began again, “No one will touch the Maidens.” The tension running through the gathered crowd waned perceptibly. “Go,” Ishaq said, “we all have much to do.”

  At this, the edges of the crowd began to dissolve.

  No one—Ishaq and Macide included—greeted Çeda, Zaïde, or even Dardzada, with open arms. “Çeda,” Ishaq continued, “the three of you will tell me your story and your words will be weighed against what Zaïde and Dardzada have to say and what we already know of events in Sharakhai. Only then will their fate be decided.”

  Çeda spoke before Dardzada or anyone else could interject. “Best if I explain what I know first then.”

  Ishaq considered her request, then nodded curtly.

  They retired to Ishaq’s tent. Ishaq, Macide, Leorah, Dardzada, and several more Çeda had never met, sat around a cook fire with carpets covering the sand and pillows beneath them. Over the course of the next several hours, Çeda told her tale. It was a lot to take in, but she couldn’t leave this tent—she wouldn’t—without reaching an understanding on Sümeya and Melis. “My tale begins and ends with the asirim,” Çeda said upon reaching the end. “It is through them that more will come to believe, as Sümeya and Melis have. That’s why I brought Sümeya and Melis here. That’s why I’ve asked them to help me to free more of the asirim.”