With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Being treated as a lord after so long in the desert was so strange a thing that Ramahd didn’t know how to feel about it. In some ways that moment months ago when Hamzakiir had first dominated his mind felt like it had happened only yesterday, the events since ephemeral, dreamlike mirages in the desert. But it also felt as though every day that followed had lasted an age, and that his life had stretched across every excruciating moment of it.

  They sat down for a meal that evening with Basilio and his wife, Eloise. They were a fine couple. Handsome. Polite. But for some reason Ramahd couldn’t stomach the idle chitchat after all that had happened. He ate of the blood-red elk medallions before him, he pecked at the baby parsnips, and tried his best to speak of things that weren’t related to death in the desert or fallen kings. “Might we speak alone?” he said to Basilio when he could stand it no longer.

  They’d not finished their meals, but Eloise immediately dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and stood. “The three of you will have much to speak about, of course.” She bowed her head to Meryam, then Ramahd. “My queen. My lord.”

  Alu’s light, how strange to hear it. But it was high time Ramahd started using it himself. Queen. Queen Meryam. He was embarrassed he hadn’t been using it all along, as befit her station. A memory flashed, Meryam naked in the water, speaking softly, huskily. Your queen wills it, before taking him in her mouth.

  “Whether we wish it or not,” he remembered telling Meryam that night, wondering at all they’d been through, “time is a river, ever moving, bearing us to new places.”

  “Until the water pulls you down,” she’d replied easily, “secreting your bones beside the souls of those who came before.”

  As Eloise left, the servants swept in and cleared their plates. Meryam, as was her wont these past weeks, had eaten only a bird’s helping, and the servants took away a plate nearly full. The wine, however, she drank deeply, and took her goblet up once more as the door closed, downing a fresh swallow with gusto.

  Basilio ran his hand over his beard, then steepled both hands over his ample belly. He looked between Meryam and Ramahd. “I thought to wait until tomorrow to tell you, but as we are here now, there is news from Almadan.”

  “Go on, then,” Meryam said, clunking her goblet against the table and falling heavily into her chair. She was not drunk yet, but was well on her way. Or so she wanted it to seem.

  Ramahd knew just how much Meryam could drink. It was part and parcel of her condition, an indicator of how close to the edge she pushed her abilities as a mage. The closer she was to death, she’d told him once, the more able she was to harness the power in blood. She’d even said she could taste the very touch of the first gods, could smell the scent of the farther fields. He didn’t believe that, but he had seen her drink two full carafes of wine on her own and still be able to walk a straight line.

  Which meant she wanted Basilio to think she was beyond her senses. Which in turn meant she didn’t trust him. Why, Ramahd wasn’t yet sure, but he’d play along until he understood.

  “There was some question over whether you were alive,” Basilio said. “We all hoped and prayed for your safe return, you and your father both.” He looked to Ramahd. “And you as well, my lord.”

  Ramahd nodded for him to continue.

  “But the kingdom has needs, and so plans were made—”

  “To pass the crown,” Meryam said, leaning forward and staring Basilio straight in the eye, “over my father’s dead body. Over mine as well. That was the way of things, wasn’t it?”

  “I mightn’t put it so bluntly.”

  Meryam eyed Basilio, barking a laugh. “Then how might you put it?”

  “You left under such strange circumstances, my queen. And this after arriving under such strange circumstances. There were those who were nervous from the beginning that we’d taken Külaşan’s son and paraded him like a prize before the lords of our kingdom. They worried that we had displeased Mighty Alu, that ill would befall us.”

  Meryam laughed, a low chuckle that built the longer it went. “Well they were right on that count, weren’t they?”

  Basilio could no longer seem to hold Meryam’s gaze. His balding pate furrowed like a field in spring as he slowly spun the base of his wineglass. “I wouldn’t like to say, my queen, but the lords were wroth that they had been taken so, played with like puppets in a play for Hamzakiir’s amusement. And they now know of Guhldrathen as well.”

  “How could they know?” Ramahd asked.

  “Because Hamzakiir spoke of it in the capital before he left.”

  The gall, Ramahd thought. He’d told the lords of Qaimir exactly what he’d planned to do with their king, but they hadn’t been able to do anything against him, ensorcelled as they were.

  “Some few,” Basilio said, “worried over your return.”

  “Worried . . .” Meryam pounded the table, making the silverware rattle. “Who? Abrantes? Gueron? Remigio?”

  Basilio hesitated. “Among others.”

  “How low we’ve come.” Meryam drained her glass in three loud swallows, then slapped it down. “Quaking in our boots at the mere mention of the Sharakhani Kings.”

  “I’m apt to agree with you, my queen. But those in Almadan view it differently. There has been talk of placing another on the throne even if you did return.”

  Meryam paused, but didn’t seem shocked. In fact, she seemed to accept it, as if she’d known it was coming and had already made up her mind about it. All the fire she’d shown only moments ago seemed to drain from her, and she seemed small and frail once more. “Well, there’s little surprise in that, I suppose.”

  Though Basilio tried to hide it, Ramahd caught a momentary look of disgust on his face at Meryam’s sudden weakness. “My queen. One of our ships leaves in two days. If you wish to return to Almadan, I’ll arrange for it. You have but to command me.”

  Meryam seemed to consider it. “There is unfinished business here in the desert. I would speak with the Kings first. Cement a new understanding between our two countries. Need I leave with haste to set things aright?”

  “Far be it for me to deny you, your excellence, but you were the one who took Hamzakiir from this city. The Kings of Sharakhai may view you as an enemy.”

  “Is that what they’re saying in Almadan?”

  Basilio looked suddenly uncomfortable. “It has been said.”

  “By whom?”

  “Who knows where whispers begin, or how they echo through castle halls? The point is that it is being spoken openly now.”

  “Are things so dire in Almadan, then?”

  Basilio made quite a show of pondering the question. He waggled his head. His face soured as if he’d bitten into a Malasani lime and he toyed with the silverware before him. “Your people need you, my queen, and I don’t advise leaving the throne for long. But yes, I believe there is time.”

  Meryam nodded, her eyes heavy with drink. “Very well. Send news with the ship that I am in Sharakhai and will travel home as soon as I’m able.”

  “Of course,” Basilio said. “It will be as you say.” He blinked his eyes, and ran his napkin over his lips and mustache. “It has been a long day for you, after many long, harrowing weeks. I’m sure you’ll wish to rest.”

  When Meryam nodded, Basilio stood, bowed, and gave his farewells. The moment the door closed behind him, the glazed look in Meryam’s eyes faded.

  The transformation was so sudden Ramahd nearly laughed. “What was that all about?”

  “Men like Basilio never give themselves away when someone with strength stands before them. But make yourself seem unsure and their true nature reveals itself. When given the choice of my returning to Almadan or remaining, he allowed that I could stay. No man as shrewd as Basilio would ever advise such a thing when there is so much uncertainty in Qaimir.”

  Ramahd paused. “You admit
that what you’re doing is foolish, then?”

  Her expression turned dark. “I admit no such thing. It is a calculated risk. My point is that Basilio is little more than a tool for others in Qaimir. He and his entire family have long been the Abrantes’ lapdogs.”

  “The Abrantes have long been overeager.”

  Meryam nodded. “My father kept them close, and for good reason. Their vineyards and their men at arms are too valuable to do otherwise. But now I’ve little doubt that they fought for Basilio’s position here to control our presence in Sharakhai from afar.”

  Ramahd looked to the door at the far end of the room. “What will we do with our good Basilio, then?”

  Meryam shrugged. “For now, nothing. The news of my return will put cracks in the foundations of their plans. It will be a while yet before they’re ready to make their next move. They’ll want Basilio to watch me, see what my inclinations might be. In the meantime, there’s a larger game afoot.”

  There was a gleam in Meryam’s eyes that Ramahd remembered from their time hunting Macide. It had been gone for a long while now. The journey back to Qaimir, their time in Almadan and later, Viaroza, the shock after their forced meeting with Guhldrathen and Aldouan’s death, had all seen a different Meryam. But to see her old self return so strongly, so quickly, so completely, made Ramahd wonder at all that had happened, and why . . .

  Like a root, the thought crept deeper and deeper into his mind. It was so foul and devious he felt embarrassed having thought it, but he couldn’t shake it. While Ramahd had been acting as the Qaimiri ambassador to Sharakhai, Aldouan had often hampered their efforts. At every turn, he’d taken such careful steps it had given the Host time to adjust, time to escape. Even Meryam had found her father’s strictures more and more difficult to live with. So what if Aldouan’s control over her simply . . . vanished? With the power of the throne in her hands, what might she do then?

  He shivered. Could she have done it? Taken Hamzakiir to Qaimir with that very thing in mind? Could she have planted in Hamzakiir’s mind an unyielding directive before he returned to the Moonless Host? Might he have been allowed to go so that Meryam could follow his movements as he thought himself perfectly free? It would give Meryam so much information about the Host, more than they’d ever been able to glean before. But it was all predicated on the assumption that Meryam could take such a step, to kill her own father in order to gain more power, or at the very least more freedom. It seemed a stretch. She had seemed so distraught in the desert after Aldouan’s grisly murder. Could that have been guilt in her eyes and not grief as Ramahd had assumed?

  I’ve done a terrible thing, Ramahd.

  “Ramahd Amansir, you look like you’ve stepped on your own grave.”

  Perhaps I have. “A game, you said. It made me think of Guhldrathen. The promise I made.”

  “The girl . . .”

  “Yes, the girl, the White Wolf. She doesn’t deserve that.”

  “Well, if you’re so worried for her, all we need do is serve Hamzakiir up on a platter. The only question is how.”

  “I’ve been thinking on that.” Ramahd rang the small silver bell on the lace-covered table.

  Meryam’s eyebrows rose. “We’ve been in Sharakhai less than a day and you’ve made plans. I am impressed, Ramahd.”

  A servant woman stepped into the room. “My queen.”

  “Send Tiron in.”

  The woman bowed and ducked out of the room.

  Meryam refilled her goblet. With a steady hand, she examined the carmine contents. She took a slow swallow, then licked her lips. “Tell me.”

  After knocking back a swallow from his own goblet, Ramahd nodded. “You recall how I found the White Wolf?”

  “Juvaan Xin-Lei.”

  “I believe it’s time we learned what Queen Alansal is truly up to in the desert.”

  “Mirea . . .”

  “Just so, my queen.”

  King Aldouan had refused to allow Ramahd or Meryam to look too deeply into Mirea’s activities. But with his death, their shackles had been removed. There was sense in being prudent—Mirea was not a tiger one should poke without reason—but it was long past time they discovered more about her plans. And that meant learning more about Juvaan Xin-Lei, her primary agent in Sharakhai.

  Again the thought prodded him. Had Meryam planned this all along?

  He quickly shoved it aside. It was too cynical. Meryam loved her father dearly.

  After a knock at the door, Tiron, a man of thirty years who wore a perpetual scowl to match his scruffy beard, stepped into the room and bowed deeply to them both. “My queen. My lord.”

  “Come,” Ramahd said, motioning to the chair across from him, the one Basilio had so recently occupied. “Tell our queen what you’ve found.”

  Tiron frowned, which for Tiron was merely a sign of reflection. “As you bade me before you left the desert, I’ve been keeping an eye on Juvaan’s movements, but he’s a very careful man. Careful enough that I never see him go to the wrong places, or speaking to the wrong people. He spends most of his time in Tauriyat. We saw his man, Ruan, go to his contact in the Host only once after the Wandering King’s death. And Osman, the owner of the pits, has gone nowhere near Tauriyat or Juvaan. They’ve not been seen anywhere with one another as far as we can tell.” Tiron tipped his head to Ramahd. “Finding so little, we began following Osman’s most trusted men. There are Deha, Bahral, and Fa’id, but through none of them did we find the slightest ties to Juvaan.”

  Meryam looked from Tiron to Ramahd. “Dear Alu, the two of you treat secrets like diamonds the size of your own two stones. Spill your tale, Tiron, before I die of old age.”

  At last the glimmer of a smile showed on Tiron’s face. “A young tough has been moving up the past few years. It seems Osman thinks his shoulders ready for a heavier burden.”

  Meryam considered this. “This man’s name?”

  “Tariq Esad’ava. And he’s been seen in the company of those who ferry messages to Ruan, so I think we have the right man, but there’s danger.”

  There was always danger in this sort of work. Tiron meant something unexpected. “How so?”

  “I did some rooting around. It may not have anything to do with Juvaan, but Tariq has been known to visit the Tattered Prince in the Knot.”

  Meryam seemed unfazed by this, but Ramahd hated complications. “Who is the Tattered Prince?”

  “A man who’s built a reputation as something of a hero,” Tiron answered. “For several years he’s been helping the addicts there, and they love him for it.”

  “What do you mean? Helps them how?”

  “Provides a safe place for them. Helps to free them from the smoke.” Tiron shrugged. “Rumor says he was once an addict himself.”

  “He’s no one we can’t handle,” Meryam said to Ramahd. She considered for a moment, absently pinching her bottom lip before taking Ramahd in with a look that made it clear she was ready to act. “Bring me Tariq.”

  “You’re sure?” Ramahd asked. “There’s time to consider your next move more carefully.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Ramahd nodded. “Then consider it done.”

  Deep in the back alleys of the Well, Ramahd and Tiron crouched beneath a garden arbor. Tiron was dressed as a west end beggar, his face dirty, his hair a filthy mess. The garden around them was green and vibrant, filled with a dozen types of flowers. Ivy choked the arbor’s slats, hiding them effectively from the nearby alley and, more importantly, the street crossing only a short distance away.

  Ramahd was glad to have Tiron by his side. He was one of the few still in Sharakhai—still alive, Ramahd reminded himself—from those who had joined the attack on Külaşan’s palace. The rest were dead, or presumed dead. Quezada, Rafiro, and Hernand had all been left on the ship that Hamzakiir had sailed from the southern border of the Great Shan
gazi. They might yet draw breath, but if so they were in Hamzakiir’s control and there was only a hare’s chance in a wolf’s den they’d make it through the experience alive. It comforted him to know Tiron and his brother, Luken, had a stake in this, that they along with Ramahd might have a chance at revenge.

  Tiron shifted by his side, lifting his head. With a deeper scowl than normal on his face, he pointed down the alley, where several men had just reached the crossing. “There he is.”

  Three men were walking side by side. Two were simple guardsmen. Hired thugs. The third was dressed in clothes that were fine but steeped in the styles of the desert, the sort of clothes the prince of a desert tribe might wear. This, surely, was Tariq.

  “Best get moving,” Ramahd said.

  Tiron nodded and left, leaving the garden quickly, then walking along the alley with a bit of a limp, a bit of a stagger, a very good approximation of a drunk turning sober and looking for money to fill his next cup. Holding a beggar’s bowl before him, he approached Tariq and his bodyguards. One of the brutes, studded cudgel in hand, blocked Tiron’s path. He said something Ramahd couldn’t quite hear, but when Tiron made to bypass him, waving his bowl toward Tariq, he raised his cudgel and shouted, “One more step and it’s a knock to the skull!”

  It was then that Ramahd saw a form break from the shadows behind Tariq—Luken, his dark clothes blending in well with the mudbrick buildings, the dusty street. He padded quietly, a slim knife in hand. As Tiron attempted a drunken rush past the guards, the guard who’d shouted took a swipe at Tiron. In that moment, Luken reached Tariq’s side, cut his purse from his belt, and ran quick as a jackal down a dark alley on the far side of the crossroads. Tiron immediately disengaged and ran down a different street as a group of gutter wrens, who’d been sitting on the stone stoop of a building, all pointed and laughed.

  The guards seemed momentarily unsure what to do, go after Tiron or Luken or remain with Tariq.