With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Zaïde nodded, her eyes distant. “I’ll think on this.” A tear slipped down along her cheek, and she wiped it away. “Now give me the last.”

  “Sharp of eye,

  and quick of wit,

  the King of Amberlark;

  with wave of hand,

  on cooling sand,

  slips he into the dark.

  King will shift,

  ’twixt light and dark,

  the gift of onyx sky;

  shadows play,

  in dark of day,

  yet not ’neath Rhia’s eye.”

  “Beşir,” Zaïde said, “the King of Shadows.”

  Çeda nodded. “And it implies that he cannot use his ability to shift between shadows when Rhia is full.”

  Zaïde’s eyes were afire, moving this way and that. “And yet I wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  “Does Tulathan’s light weaken him? Or does she negate her sister’s effects? We must be very careful of the bloody verses. The Kings think them largely forgotten or obscured to the point that they’ll have no meaning to those who discover them. The true, untainted verses are like water in the desert to those of us who strive against the Kings, but to tip our hand early—”

  Zaïde stopped, tilting her head. She raised one finger to Çeda, a warning not to speak, then raised her hand into the starting position in a rush, motioning for Çeda to do the same.

  No sooner had Çeda done so than Yndris slid the door to the room open without announcing herself. She stood at the edge of the padded canvas mat and spoke to Çeda as if she were First Warden. “We’ve received word that we’re to leave in the morning for the desert. Sümeya bids you return to the barracks.”

  Çeda stifled her annoyance as Zaïde nodded to her. “Practice what we’ve done,” she said to Çeda. “Live within the beat of your heart, and those of your sister Maidens if you can manage it. We’ll continue another day.”

  “Of course, Matron.”

  Then she bowed and followed Yndris from the room.

  Chapter 15

  WITH NIGHT FALLEN AND RHIA swelling in the east, Emre watched as five drunk women wobbled down an otherwise empty street, gossiping and tittering as they went. When they’d passed around a bend and the street was silent once more, Emre headed for the open doorway of the warehouse across from him. He didn’t go with the cockiness he’d learned from growing up in the city’s west end, but with a tentative step, hands fiddling before him, a persona he hoped matched the modest robes and curl-toed shoes he wore.

  Inside the warehouse he found a small office where a man leaned back easily in a chair, copying tallies of the day’s receipts into the master ledger by the light of a bright yellow lamp. A large bottle of what looked to be pombe, a Kundhunese beer, was near to hand, as was a gourd cup filled with the frothy beer.

  Against the far wall leaned the night captain of the warehouse’s guardsmen, a brute of a Kundhunese with scarred black skin and closely shorn hair. He’d been whittling a lion woodcarving, making the small shells on his vest rattle and the muscles along his arms bunch and cord, but upon Emre’s entrance he stopped and studied him with deceptively casual interest. When Emre bowed his head and waited, hands clasped respectfully, the captain soon went back to his whittling.

  The man at the desk raised one finger, not yet prepared to look Emre’s way. He dipped his quill and continued writing, finishing one last line. When he was done, he marked the last of his figures with a spot of ink and pulled the spectacles from around his ears. His annoyance was clear as he turned to take Emre in. “What do you want?”

  “Are you Serkan?”

  Without looking, he picked up his gourd cup and took a long, healthy swallow. He glanced at the guard, then nodded once to Emre, suspicion growing in his eyes like ironweed.

  “I’ve been told, by a, uh . . .” Emre licked his lips. “By a close associate of yours. That . . . Well . . .”

  “Dear gods, man, get on with it!”

  “I’ve been told that you deal in, uh, certain goods.”

  Serkan rolled his eyes at Emre’s bumbling, put his spectacles back on, and turned back to his ledger. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now get out.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  At this, the Kundhunese stood from the wall, his woodcarving forgotten while his right hand held the knife in a particularly unsubtle grip.

  Serkan turned back to Emre, taking his spectacles off with much more deliberation than he had the first time. “There are many paths to tread in the desert, young falcon. Are you sure you wish to tread this one?”

  Emre knew very well he dealt in certain goods, but Serkan was a wary man, and for good reason. He worked for a woman named Hülya, a Sharakhani with Kundhunese blood who traded exclusively with the Thousand Territories. She’d spent her life doing so, as had her mother, who’d left her not only the caravan ships and the warehouse when she’d died, but its longstanding trade agreements as well, the most valuable of the lot by far. The allegiances of the Thousand Territories of Kundhun were like constantly shifting sands, what with the wars that spread like wildfire over the hills and plains of the grasslands. But Hülya had learned from her mother. She navigated their politics with poise. Like a creeping vine, she forged new relationships when old ones were severed. She brought much to Sharakhai that other caravan masters could either not obtain or else paid for exorbitantly, while she enjoyed the prices of a close ally, a privilege normally granted only to other Kundhunese.

  Serkan was her master of books, who negotiated contracts with various merchants in Sharakhai and other caravans who took the goods Hülya imported, the rarest of which were tabbaqs, shipped in crates and divided into smaller bags before being auctioned off to various other merchants. It was a process easily skimmed if one were dishonest. Emre doubted Serkan was dishonest by nature, but the Host had learned he’d fallen on hard times, and there was nothing quite like personal hardship to spin the dial of one’s moral compass.

  For months he’d stolen a bit from the batches coming in, then replaced it with a slightly inferior—and much cheaper—tabbaq. And suddenly Serkan had his own supply of unadulterated, highest-grade smoke from the richest producers in the known world.

  Emre bowed his head to Serkan three times. “My most sincere apologies, hajib, but anything your creative minds might dream up for me will be nothing compared to what my master will do should I return to him empty-handed.”

  “You underestimate Agabe’s abilities.” The man—Agabe, presumably—took a step toward Emre, but at a raise of Serkan’s hand, he stopped, still eyeing Emre with that coldly casual look. “Pray tell why your master would treat you with anything but the utmost delicacy.”

  “My master is a tenement lord in the Shallows. His name is Alu’akman. You may have heard of him.”

  Alu’akman was one of the most feared men in the Shallows. He ruled his tenement houses fairly, but for those who didn’t pay, or broke the rules, he was ruthless. He was the same with those he did business with, which made him simultaneously sought after by those who dealt above board and shunned by those out to cheat him in even the smallest ways. He might have met an untimely end before now had it not been for how diligent he was about paying his taxes, making him the golden child of the city’s tax lords and, by extension, the Silver Spears.

  “I fail to see what business that is of mine.”

  “Well,” Emre continued. “His mother has taken ill. She has terrible pains in her knees and ankles. And my lord Alu’akman has learned that a particular tabbaq from Kundhun can alleviate her pain.”

  Serkan nodded, granting the point. “There are many fine purveyors of such tabbaqs along the Trough.”

  “There are, indeed,” Emre replied quickly, “but my master finds their prices unfair. He is prepared to buy in some quantity and the merchants
along the Trough are often . . . inflexible, even when buying in bulk.”

  Serkan inserted one end of the spectacles into his mouth and considered Emre’s story. “The cost of such tabbaqs is dear, even when purchased in bulk.”

  Emre took the bag from his belt and opened it, revealing the topmost layer of the golden rahl within. “My master is prepared. He asks only that the price be fair, all things considered.”

  Serkan looked at Emre, but his eyes betrayed him when he glanced sidelong to his man, Agabe, who stood very much at the ready to do whatever Serkan wished. Given the amount of coin within Emre’s purse, even Serkan might be thinking of betraying whatever code of ethics he held dear and simply take it from him, but that was why Emre had put forth the name of Alu’akman for this caper. Had Emre been sent by some unknown lord in the Shallows, Serkan might take the money and bury Emre in the sand, and should anyone come calling claim he’d never seen him. But Alu’akman was a different story entirely. The likelihood of receiving righteous retribution over it was simply too high.

  “The name of this tabbaq?”

  “Laulaang, from Yaramba province.”

  “And how much does he desire?”

  “Three pounds.”

  Serkan glanced down at the bag of coins. “Such a sum might be found, but for no less than twenty-eight rahl.”

  Emre considered this. It was a slightly higher price than one might pay for bulk tabbaq of that rarity and quality but would not be considered unfair. “Very well.”

  Serkan nodded. “Wait here.”

  Emre shook his head. “Forgive me, my lord, but my master was adamant. I’m to collect it myself, ensuring he gets the best from the bulk.” Serkan hesitated, but Emre went on. “He’s aware that you keep it at the back of the warehouse. There’s no harm in allowing me a closer inspection on behalf of my master.” In truth his purpose here had nothing to do with the tabbaq. He’d been sent to act as a diversion. The tabbaq was merely the excuse he needed to get inside the warehouse so that Hamid and Frail Lemi, the simpleminded brute who’d accompanied them, could get an alchemycal agent for Macide.

  “I never allow such things,” Serkan said.

  Emre waited for a moment or two, to see if Serkan would change his mind without another word being spoken, but when he didn’t, Emre nodded and closed the strings of the purse. “I understand.”

  “But,” Serkan said as Emre was tying the purse to his belt, “for a man of Alu’akman’s stature, if there are guarantees that more orders might be placed, I suppose an exception might be made.”

  Emre pasted on a smile like Serkan had just saved his life. “A most generous allowance, my lord. Most generous.”

  “And since you’re choosing whatever you wish, it seems appropriate that thirty-five might be paid.”

  Emre pretended to weigh Serkan’s offer, and eventually countered with, “Thirty-two, hajib, and I’d say we have a deal.”

  Serkan stood and smiled, nodding as he took Emre’s hand in a congenial shake. Grabbing the lantern at his desk, he led Emre to the rear of the office, through a doorway, and into the darkness of the warehouse at large. Once inside, Agabe whistled. From the darkness emerged a short, reed-thin man with two long knives strapped to his thighs. As Agabe whispered to him, Serkan motioned Emre toward the back of the warehouse. The four of them—Serkan and Emre, followed closely by Agabe and the other night guard—walked among the tall shelves filled with crates and burlap bags and cloth-wrapped furniture, many burned by the brands of the Kundhunese craftsmen who’d made them and the caravan sigil of Hülya.

  Serkan walked all the way to the opposite corner of the warehouse, as Emre knew he would, and there he had Agabe and the thin Sharakhani drag out several crates. The air was thick with the smell of tabbaq—earthy, pungent, even floral. When Agabe had dragged three large crates aside, Serkan pried up several boards of a false floor, revealing a clutch of smaller, hidden crates.

  As Serkan worked to pull one up, Emre glanced over his shoulder to the front of the warehouse, where he saw the silhouette of a rope snaking down from the darkness above. A moment later, a form dropped, spider-like, soon lost in the shadows among the shelves. By then Serkan was cracking open the lid of a crate. Within was a cinched leather bag, which he tugged open. Stepping back, he waved at it, allowing Emre to inspect the tabbaq.

  Emre crouched beside it and smelled, good and long, making a show of it, as if he were some connoisseur. Using the spoon within the bag, he lifted some of the tabbaq, and allowed it to pour back in, being careful not to touch any of it with his fingers and making sure none of it spilled from the bag.

  “This is from Yaramba?”

  Serkan answered with a clear note of pride in his voice, “Every last leaf of it.”

  “It doesn’t smell like it.”

  Serkan laughed bitterly. “Believe me, my mistress fought long and hard for the rights to buy from tribe Hidindi.”

  Emre placed the spoon carefully back in the bag and faced Serkan. Seeing a crate being lifted at the far end of the warehouse, he cleared his throat, coughed several times. “You’ll forgive me, I hope, but Alu’akman is a very particular man. I’m not nearly as accustomed to tabbaq as he is, but I am familiar with it. He had me smell the leaf he bought along the Trough, many times, over the course of days, before he allowed me to come here to you. And this”—Emre waved to the crate—“is not Yaramba tabbaq.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Serkan said, clearly flummoxed. “The shops you speak of along the Trough, where your master bought his Yaramba leaf, all of them purchased their leaf from this very warehouse.”

  “Might you check the crate again? There may have been a simple mistake. Or we could open the larger, and take it from there.”

  “You’ll take from the crate I opened for you or none at all.”

  Emre resisted the urge to stare as a second crate was lifted on the far end of the warehouse. From the corner of his eye he saw it rise from the darkness of the aisles toward the open ventilation window above where Frail Lemi was pulling furiously at the rope. Only one crate left, then Hamid himself had to escape.

  “I can see that I’ve caused offense. You’ll forgive me, I hope. My master is not a merciful man, and if I came back with the wrong leaf, it would be worse than if I came back with no leaf at all.”

  “Which is exactly what will happen unless you take what I’ve offered. And now the price has increased to thirty-five.”

  Emre was raising his hands. “Yes, of course. Let me just take another look.” He knelt down again, clearing his throat several times to cover the momentary buzz of the rope rubbing against the windowsill. He sniffed the leaf with long, exaggerated inhales, each time stopping in between and blinking while staring off into the distance as if he were considering. “Hmm,” he said, dropping the tabbaq from the spoon again. “Could you bring that lantern closer?”

  Serkan stared down at him. He picked up the lantern, but made no move to bring it closer to Emre. “You’re wasting my time,” he said, and turned away.

  “Wait, please!” Emre ran forward and grabbed his sleeve as the third crate was being lifted away from the front of the warehouse. “I think perhaps I was mistaken. I’m sorry my master is so difficult, but surely you can see it isn’t my fault.”

  Serkan had turned back toward Emre, but his face was now a study in disgust. “Take him out back,” Serkan said, ripping his sleeve away from Emre, “and show him just how particular caravan men can be.”

  Emre managed to grab Serkan’s sleeve one last time as Hamid’s form was being hauled up by the rope. Frail Lemi was strong as three men put together, but there were still times when Emre was amazed by him.

  Agabe and the smaller guard stormed in, wrenching Emre away from Serkan. Agabe pulled him up and drove a fist into his stomach. The smaller man knocked him across the jaw, a thing Emre rolled with, but not enou
gh to make them suspect that they were playing their part in this heist. “This has been a complete misunderstanding!” He raised his hands to Agabe as Serkan walked away. “Please!”

  Emre saw the rope being pulled up as Serkan’s form walked away in the darkness. As Agabe approached once more, he fell for the mere show of it, taking some kicks to the legs, to the back. The pain didn’t bother him. He’d seen his brothers safe, and that was enough.

  Chapter 16

  THE MORNING FOLLOWING THE revelations with Zaïde in the savaşam, Çeda and her entire hand stood amidships on the royal cutter Javelin as its sails began to fill with a stiff easterly wind. All around the ship, standing like troops on display, were fifty more ships of war: carracks and caravels and several massive galleons that looked so ponderous Çeda wondered how they could ever manage to sail the sandy seas. And this was but half the royal navy. This many ships or more patrolled the desert or were harbored at the caravanserais sprinkled across the Great Shangazi.

  There were smaller vessels as well: the Kings’ yachts or sleek scouting ships like the Javelin. Even more impressive than the ships, though, were the walls arcing around the eastern border of the harbor. The towers spaced along the wall’s length looked like sentinels ready to lumber forth and trample the Kings’ enemies. And the gates looked as though Thaash himself had built them—two tall monstrosities, one of which was open to allow them passage.

  Nalamae’s sweet tears, Çeda thought, what the Kings have built.

  Melis was laughing at her.

  “What?” Çeda asked.

  “You may as well put on a pretty little dress and tie ribbons in your hair,” Melis said, chuckling good-naturedly, referring to how Çeda looked like a wide-eyed girl.

  Yndris, who’d surely seen the harbor a dozen times before, scoffed, but Çeda didn’t care. Taking in the entirety of it, the harbor, its defenses, the palaces that watched from above, she wondered who could stand against the Kings were they to assemble for war. No one, which is why so many approach Sharakhai like jackals, waiting for the Kings to weaken or fall lifeless to the desert floor. Who, then, had she seen in the vision she’d shared with King Yusam? The desert tribes? The Moonless Host? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t see how they might prevail.