With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  She waited, watching the slowly burning page. This time she held her hand over the flames and felt only light warmth. Soon, penned in blue flames, were new words:

  The Sun Palace, moments before you received your blade.

  Let us waste no more of these. Take great care to conserve them, as no more exist in Sharakhai but those I’ve delivered to you. But don’t fear to use them if the information is important. Let us try to write when the moons are dark, but know that they will be monitored all hours of the day.

  I hope to hear more when the time is right.

  Çeda stared at the words, then watched as the sheet lit and burned itself to nothing. She stared for long moments at the empty space where the paper had been, her anger rising. She took another sheet.

  And what of the scarab I asked for?

  She lit it and waited. It took a long while for Juvaan’s response.

  These are more precious than you can imagine. Do not use them frivolously again. There is nothing I can share as yet. Such things are difficult to attain. Be patient! I’ll give you what I have each time we speak.

  Do take care to conserve these!

  Then the page lit and was gone.

  Çeda popped a grape into her mouth, chewing it noisily for a moment. Take care . . . She finished off the wine in one swallow. Take care I don’t show up at your house and beat it from you.

  But really, what was she to expect? He’d spoken true. It would likely take time before he had any word of Emre. So, after putting the paper, ink, and pen into her desk and stuffing a few more grapes into her mouth, she fell into bed.

  Chapter 10

  IF SHARAKHAI WERE A CROWN lying in the center of the desert, its famed collegia was certainly one of its brightest jewels. Its two oldest buildings—a mudbrick hall of learning and a small dormitory—predated the rule of the Twelve Kings by three centuries. Others had been built as time wore on, the collegia eventually splitting into different fields of study, with halls and scholars dedicated to each. It was one of the few places in Sharakhai that held a reverence quite separate from that of the Kings and the Maidens, of Beht Zha’ir and the asirim. The collegia was part of old Sharakhai, the one settled by a mismatched group of wanderers who had, for myriad reasons, tired of the ceaseless travels of the desert tribes. The collegia was rightly regarded a part of the bedrock of Sharakhai, one of the wonders that made it unique.

  The collegia had from its earliest days steadily collected wisdom, first from the wise men and women of the twelve desert tribes. Its more formal name, the Collegia al Shangazi’ava, showed how the early settlers thought it a place that reflected the collected wisdom of the desert, not merely Sharakhai. Later, as the city had grown and more travelers had come to settle, it attracted more of the learned from all the Five Kingdoms until eventually scholars and laymen alike, whether native to the desert or not, recognized it as the undisputed leader in dozens of different fields: mathematics, astrology, the lesser forms of alchemy, engineering, irrigation, mining, and so much more. That in turn made it one of a very small handful of academies where one aspired to go in order to dedicate oneself to higher learning. Kings and queens, emperors and empresses, lords and ladies, all vied to place their sons and daughters there, for it was a mark of high prestige to attain the laurel wreath of a collegia scholar.

  It was so well respected, in fact, that it was one of the very few places considered sacrosanct, safe from harm or violence, even by the scarabs of the Al’afwa Khadar, who had sworn oaths to harm the Kings in any way they could. No formal treaty had been signed, nor even uttered, but neither had anyone ever been attacked on collegia grounds, which made the latest request from King Yusam all the more unusual. More curious still was the fact that he’d called on all five in Çeda’s hand to attend him in his throne room and bid them to go to the provost’s office that very morning.

  “What should we expect to find, my King?” Sümeya had asked.

  Yusam, staring at her with his piercing green eyes, had pursed his lips and sat deeper into his throne. “Expect conflict. Swords at your sides, Maidens, loose in their scabbards.”

  Yusam’s dictates were often thus: confusing, inscrutable before the fact. It sometimes took the event itself, even for Yusam, to understand the vision he’d been shown in his mere. Some of the things he’d been asking them to do since Külaşan’s death had been strange indeed—queries asked of caravan masters, watching the passage of ships entering and exiting the vast southern harbor, digging up bones far into the desert—but Çeda had the impression that the grand vision Yusam seemed to be fixated on was starting to come clear. They’d been going on missions that seemed to be leading to something; Çeda just had no idea what.

  With the black veils of their turbans hiding their identities, the five of them left Yusam’s palace and rode down the slopes of Tauriyat, through the gates of the House of Maidens, and into Sharakhai proper. The day was unseasonably warm, the heat wavering from the tops of the amber stone buildings as the crowd parted for them like waves before the prow of a ship. They reached the collegia stables a short while later and left their horses with a stable girl. Sümeya bade them each to take an adichara petal. Sümeya, Kameyl, Melis, and Yndris retrieved one from small clamshell holders that hung from their belts, but Çeda took hers from the flame-shaped locket hanging around her neck. As the floral taste filled her, and the verve of the petal rushed down her limbs like a spring flood, they made their way through the outermost buildings, swords swinging easily at their sides.

  Sümeya led the way, with Kameyl and Melis following and Çeda and Yndris bringing up the rear. As their leather boots crunched into the gravel path, scholars and students all stepped aside, bowed their heads, and crossed their arms over their chests. In short order, they reached a wide open space, a grand oval with flowering bushes and pathways and stone benches, where people sat talking or studying in the shadows of the tall date palms. When the flaxen-robed students and collegia scholars in their hooded robes and saffron belts spotted them, they stopped what they were doing and paid obeisance to the will of the Kings in Sharakhai.

  Sümeya led them through the well-tended courtyard and into one of the buildings directly off of it, the hall of records. They soon came to a large atrium open to the sky above. Six sets of stairs were spaced at the corners of the atrium and halfway along its length, allowing access to the floors above. As before in the courtyard, all stopped what they were doing, faced the Maidens, and bowed their heads, though some few did not cross their arms—likely foreigners who were unaware of or unused to the rituals of Sharakhai.

  When Sümeya neared the center of the atrium, she stopped and took in the scene as if she were memorizing each and every face, as well as their positions in the atrium. Çeda tried to do the same. Clustered in one corner was a flock of students who hardly looked old enough to be entering the collegia. To their right, a group of tall Kundhunese men in togas and sandals stood by two young women and a boy who hardly came up to their knees. One of the men was bent down and shushing the boy, who was talking and pointing at a pair of finely dressed Sharakhani men who’d just stepped off the nearby stairs. The boy paid no attention until finally the man pinched his ear and he began to cry. Other scholars, administrators, and students stood about, but Çeda saw nothing of note.

  Though Çeda had spent very little time in the collegia proper, she’d come once to speak with the old scholar, Amalos. Later Davud, a boy from the bazaar who’d grown into a proper young man within these halls, had shown her the tunnel that led all the way from the neighborhood known as the Well to the collegia’s scriptorium. She’d visited dozens of times after that, but had been limited to a single room beneath the scriptorium, devouring the texts left there by Davud for her to read. She’d no more begun sifting through those memories than she saw him, Davud, a student with dirty blond hair and an infectious smile, standing beside two other students—pretty girls, the both of them
. It was like a gift from golden Rhia, come when she’d least expected it. Gods, how he’d grown these past four months. He looked a proper young man now, the remains of his boyish features replaced by more masculine ones.

  “You may take your ease,” Sümeya called loudly.

  In fits and starts, the crowd returned to their business and the sound throughout the atrium rose to a suffused and roiling din. The girls near Davud—both Qaimiran from the look of their lighter-toned skin—began speaking to him, but he hardly seemed to hear them. He was staring at Çeda as if he’d recognized her, even in her veil and turban. Çeda gave him the smallest of nods, a thing he returned before turning to the girls and smiling. He walked away with them, chatting all the while. He didn’t look back.

  Sümeya was eyeing the levels above, studying those who stood at the railing. “Yndris and Çeda, with me. Melis and Kameyl”—she pointed to where the two main hallways adjoined the atrium—“watch the exits. Be wary.”

  With that she headed for one of the stairwells. Çeda and Yndris followed, and together they made their way up to the second floor. They came to an open doorway, beyond which was a long marble desk with two men and a woman opening and sorting wax-sealed letters behind it.

  “I’ve come to speak with the bursar,” Sümeya said.

  The nearest of them, a fellow with a crooked back and a strange, gourd-shaped head, stood and bowed.

  “Of course,” the man said with a noticeable slur to his words. He moved out from behind the desk with a heavy limp. “If you’ll follow me.”

  “Remain here,” Sümeya said to Çeda and Yndris, and then followed the man to an office at the rear of the large room.

  The remaining pair of clerks returned to their business, but they were noticeably quieter than before, and they made sure never to look in the direction of the entrance where Çeda and Yndris stood. Çeda eyed them for a while, still wondering what Yusam might have seen, and why he wouldn’t have told them. If he had, would the vision fail to come true? Would some other reality have presented itself? How difficult a burden it would be to know so much, yet be afraid to approach it for fear of its taking wing like a skittish lark. Little wonder he was so mercurial.

  Outside the office, Çeda could see a wide swath of the atrium below, plus the balustrades and rows of doors opposite where the bursar’s office was situated. Some few people were peeking out, sending glances toward the doorway where Çeda stood. A pair of men were climbing the stairs directly across from her. Neither glanced her way as they wound their way up, but she recognized them from the atrium below: the little boy had been pointing to them before the Kundhuni man had pinched his ear.

  Çeda whistled softly, drawing Yndris’s attention. She nodded toward the stairwell. When Yndris stepped over and looked, Çeda said, “I saw them downstairs.”

  “What of it?”

  “When we arrived, they were headed out, yet here they are, climbing the stairs after two Maidens were posted at the exits.”

  Yndris watched as the men continued toward the fourth floor and were momentarily lost from sight. Yndris swung her gaze to the bursar’s office then out to the atrium again. “Watch them,” she said. “I’ll tell Sümeya.”

  As she headed for the back office, Çeda stepped onto the balcony. The two men had reached the top floor and were walking along the hall that would take them to the far left corner of the building. And where might you be headed? The men might be here for perfectly innocent reasons. Or they might be pretending to be on proper collegia business until the Maidens left. Or it might be they had another way to escape. She looked for another set of stairs between the pillars and the scalloped arches along the upper floor, stairs that might lead up to the roof. Seeing none, she scanned the roofline, looking for a ladder or . . .

  There, hanging from one corner of the roof’s opening, she spotted a rope. It blended in well with the building’s white stone but hung below the ceiling of the upper level, far enough for someone to stand on the marble balustrade and reach it. A moment later, one of the men did just that. He stood, grabbed the rope, and began climbing with surprising ease toward the roof. Neither was watching her, and she had the distinct impression they no longer cared if they were seen. They’d judged the regular exit too dangerous and were praying none of the Maidens saw or, perhaps, that they’d be far enough ahead to escape even if a Maiden discovered them.

  Were these men scarabs, agents of the Moonless Host? It seemed likely. So many of Yusam’s visions revolved around them. Çeda stared down to the atrium below. Neither Kameyl nor Melis was looking up; they were scanning the comings and goings of the people below. She thought of letting the men go. She could let the Moonless Host have whatever it was they’d come for. Except it would weaken her position with the Kings. It would weaken her own grasp on the situation as well. The Host had raised Hamzakiir for a reason. And she was sure that this was somehow a part of it: their plans for him, or perhaps Hamzakiir’s plans for the Host. It was very possible, perhaps even likely, that the power structure had shifted and Hamzakiir now pulled the strings. Macide and his father, Ishaq, may have shattered a gemstone, releasing a demon that would better have remained trapped.

  The first man had nearly reached the roof. The other was just about to grab the rope. He looked down at the lowest floor first and caught sight of Çeda watching him. His eyes went wide and he climbed faster, his body swinging wildly from the effort.

  Çeda leaned over the balustrade and whistled sharply. When Melis and Kameyl looked up, Çeda pointed to the corner, where the first man was just levering himself over the lip of the roof. Kameyl and Melis sprinted for the nearest exit—they knew they couldn’t make it up the stairs in time, and were trusting that Çeda, Sümeya, and Yndris could.

  After directing another sharp whistle into the bursar’s office, Çeda sprinted after them. When she neared the corner, she leapt onto the balustrade and propelled herself through the air toward the trellis that ran from the ground floor all the way to the topmost. A shout of surprise filtered up from the crowd as she crashed into the trellis. The slats shattered beneath the weight of her right foot. Splintered bits of wood spun lazily down, but the trellis held, and soon she was climbing for the roof as fast as she could.

  One glance back saw Sümeya and Yndris stepping out from the bursar’s office. They fairly flew along the hall toward her. As Çeda reached the third floor, she heard the rattle of leaves and the snap of vines as Yndris and Sümeya leapt onto the trellis below her.

  Above, the younger man was nearing the edge of the roof. “Hurry, you fool!” the other rasped as he shook his hand and leaned down as far as he dared.

  Just as Çeda gained the topmost floor, the two men clasped hands, and the one climbing kicked against one of the bronze torch holders along the wall and was dragged over the lip. Knowing time had almost run out, Çeda stepped off the trellis, onto the balustrade, and sprinted along it, arms windmilling to keep her balance. The men tried to pull their escape rope up, but before it could snake out of reach she jumped and grabbed the end of it. The rope, drawn down by her weight, slid through the younger man’s hands, burning them. He released it, sucking air through his teeth noisily, and the rope snapped taut, straining against whatever it had been tied to above.

  The elder man, meanwhile, drew a knife from within the sleeve of his khalat, and slipped it under the rope. He sawed at it feverishly. Desperate, Çeda drew her legs up, caught the wall’s decorative coping, and powered herself away from the wall just as the knife finished its work. The world spun. With one hand still holding the rope, Çeda snatched its opposite end and snapped it like a skip rope toward the nearest torch holder. It wrapped around the curling base and, thank the gods, held.

  She dangled in midair, planning to use the holder to climb up to the roof, but she stopped when the man with the knife approached. Knowing he could easily reach the rope, Çeda gripped both ends of it with her left ha
nd and drew River’s Daughter with her right.

  The man froze, eyeing her sword.

  “Come,” the younger man rasped. “Quickly now.”

  After one last glance at Çeda, he complied, perhaps hoping that by the time she managed to reach the roof, they would be well away. Gripping her sword between her teeth, Çeda climbed, feeling like an ungainly sack of potatoes as she maneuvered herself atop the torch holder and then up to the roof at last. The men were sprinting with abandon toward the corner of the flat roof. As she watched, they leapt toward another of the collegia’s buildings, arms spinning as they spanned the gap. She nearly charged after them, but knew that would be foolish. She didn’t know if they’d have others lying in wait; they likely did, the Host long ago having been forced to become adept at conducting such operations.

  She leaned over the edge and found Yndris and Sümeya standing on the fourth-floor balustrade, waiting. She dropped one end of the rope to them and held the opposite end tightly, bracing herself as Sümeya and then Yndris climbed to the roof to join her. Then all three of them were off, chasing after the two men. Sümeya whistled—two sharp, rising trills, an alert for Kameyl and Melis so they’d know their position—then did so again after they’d leapt the gap between the buildings.

  Ahead, one of the men was walking a rope, balancing with his arms as he stepped quickly but expertly across the span to one of the collegia’s dormitories. As the other followed, the first kneeled and lifted a contraption that looked like a crossbow, except instead of a single bolt in a groove, nine bolts protruded from a rectangular wooden box. The bolts themselves weren’t tipped with broad-heads, but what looked to be wads of black cloth or paper. As the taller man dropped to the roof and drew his knife across the tightrope he’d just used, the other triggered the crossbow. Nine bolts flew through the air, one of them trailing red powder as it arced off target.

  “Hold your breath!” Çeda called.