With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Rasul paused, his curiosity plain in the narrowing of his eyes, the set of his suddenly knitted brow. “Go on.”

  “There’s trouble brewing in Sharakhai. The entire city knows it.”

  “The Al’afwa Khadar?” Rasul laughed. “Rest assured, they’ll be dealt with in good time, as will all in the desert who stand against the will of the Kings.”

  “A common refrain, and an apt one at most times, to be sure, but I wonder if the undeniable strength of Sharakhai will hold if they are betrayed from within.”

  Rasul’s smile crumbled. “Do you have evidence of such?”

  “I do.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “A state secret was leaked”—Ramahd spoke lightly, as if he were recounting the story of a day sail on the Austral Sea—“a secret so dear to the Kings they would kill for it. They would go to war for it. And the man who leaked it—”

  Rasul swallowed.

  “—was you, my good Lord.”

  Rasul’s face went stone-like. Just then, two from Rasul’s retinue—coxcombs, the both of them—approached. Both stopped when they saw Rasul wave them away, and moved stiffly toward the smiling form of Basilio instead. Rasul returned his attention to Ramahd. “Now tell me what you mean before I draw the knife from my belt and drive it through your heart.”

  “You know the Tattered Prince?”

  Now Rasul’s face went white as bleached bone. “I . . . Who . . .”

  “Or perhaps you know him as the Torn Man. He helps those who’ve developed an . . . unhealthy fondness for black lotus. I believe he has recently helped you. The only question is: Why would he have aided you, of all people?”

  Rasul stared like a man standing on an ice floe drifting out to sea.

  “The son of Kiral himself,” Ramahd went on. “One who might have access to information as dear to Sharakhai as anyone but the Kings themselves would possess.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard, Lord Amansir.” His voice quavered as he spoke. “I may have dabbled in smoke, that’s common knowledge, but that hardly means—”

  “The man who helped you is a collector of information. He helps those in Sharakhai who’ve fallen under the influence. But he does so with the help of a gem. A sapphire. Have you seen it?” Rasul only stared, pulse pounding in his neck. “No doubt you’ve felt it as well. He took the urge from you, did he not? Took it into himself? Likely you paid a handsome amount for it. What he didn’t tell you is that he lingers long after the ritual is done. A part of him remains, watching through your eyes, listening through your ears.”

  “He could not.”

  “He did. I’m telling you this as a friend, Lord Rasul. I’m telling you because neither my queen nor I have any love for the Al’afwa Khadar. That is common knowledge. And through you, the Torn Man has found a way into the House of Kings. He has found a terrible secret.”

  “What secret?”

  And now it came to it. The gambit he and Meryam had agreed upon all hinged on just how scared Rasul would be at the news that his indiscretions had been discovered. He seemed not merely scared, but terrified, but that didn’t mean he would share his secret. Ramahd gave a meaningful glance toward the Kings, who were listening to Meryam recount their carefully constructed story of the death of her father. “The caches,” Ramahd said under his breath. “It is known that they’re secreted in your grandfather’s palace, as well as King Ihsan’s and King Zeheb’s.”

  Rasul closed his eyes. He nearly stumbled, but Ramahd smiled and clapped him on the shoulder affectionately, as if they were sharing a humorous tale. “Don’t lose hope,” Ramahd said. “There is reason to believe the information will not reach the Al’afwa Khadar.”

  “How? How can you be assured of such a thing?”

  “Because we’ve intercepted the man who was to deliver it to them.”

  The haunted expression on Rasul’s face betrayed the fear roiling inside him, but there was some small amount of hope in his voice. “You have him?”

  “We do. But we don’t know if he’s told anyone else. We might take him to King Cahil, but in the questioning I’m afraid your indiscretions would become clear.”

  “I—” Whatever Rasul was about to say died on his lips.

  Ramahd gave him a soft smile. “I’ve smelled the lotus’s scent. I know its taste. Believe me when I say I’m familiar with its lure. It traps a man, does it not? And it grates that a man such as you, respected by all, would be brought low by such a thing.”

  Rasul swallowed. He seemed to choose his words with the sort of care a chef might give his ingredients before a Beht Revahl feast. “And why would you care, Lord Amansir?”

  “We are allies, are we not?”

  “Come. There’s more to this than being allies, fast or not.”

  Ramahd paused, just enough to make one think he was considering how much to reveal. “My Queen would be wroth with me for admitting it, but we need all the allies we can get in Sharakhai.”

  “Go on.”

  “You see”—he nodded almost imperceptibly toward Meryam and caught her glancing his way, but it was so fast no one but him would have seen it—“our position in Qaimir is perhaps not as solid as we might like it to be. But were we to return to Almadan with a nod from the King of Kings himself, it would go a long way to securing her the throne.”

  “And you think my favor will secure it for you?”

  Ramahd laughed. “My good lord, it couldn’t hurt!”

  At last, the indecision and distrust in Rasul seemed to melt away. He took in a deep breath and nodded. “What do you propose?”

  “Do you see the beautiful young woman over my shoulder standing in the corner?”

  Rasul looked. Then nodded.

  “Her name is Amaryllis. When the night is done, do not return to the House of Kings. Take a coach to the Wheel. Amaryllis will be waiting for you along its western edge.” Rasul looked uncertainly toward the corner. He was a man adrift, the currents dragging him further and further from the shore. When he’d nodded, Ramahd continued, “We’ll take you to Tariq to discuss the matter with him.”

  “And then?”

  “When we know all that he knows, I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Rasul considered, but not for long. “Very well.”

  It was then that Ramahd noticed King Ihsan watching his conversation with Rasul. They’d spoken long enough. Perhaps too long. But, Alu’s golden light, Rasul appeared to have taken the bait. That more than made up for any small amount of suspicion he might have raised from the Kings.

  “Fear not,” Ramahd said as he walked past Rasul. “All will end well.”

  Chapter 48

  IHSAN LAY NEXT TO NAYYAN AS MORNING light broke through the white fog that lay over the desert. He could see it from his bed through the nearby doorway, an echo of the chill of winter in the desert. It reminded him of the winters he’d spent in Tsitsian, the interminable snow, the howling wind. He shivered at the thought.

  He lay on his side, running his fingers over Nayyan’s form. She’d come in late last night. He’d stirred, more exhausted than he’d been in many months, but when she’d lain next to him and ran her hands over his naked form, he’d woken fully. They’d made love, simply, beautifully, without a word spoken, and then both of them had fallen asleep.

  “I’m cold,” Nayyan said, pulling the blankets back up.

  He pulled them back down. “It isn’t so cold as that. And I would look upon you.” His fingers roamed, touching the skin of her thigh, her hip, the curve of her stomach. He cupped her breast. Leaned in and sucked her nipple, which was taut from the cold. He warmed it as he could, and her breath came faster, but instead of turning to him as she’d done last night, instead of kissing him as she’d done in the throes of their passion, she took his hand away from her breast, pulled it to her stomach, and pressed it against
her belly. Then she spread his fingers and pressed again.

  She held it there. Waiting. Her heart beating. Her chest rising and falling with her breath. She stared not at him but at the painted ceiling of his bedroom. Their room these past many weeks. She was waiting for him to say something. Fool that he was, he didn’t understand why until she pressed his hand more fully against her belly.

  His first instinct was to recoil, to pull his hand away. He’d had a child once. A daughter. Ferrah. It meant child of beneficence in the old tongue. How his heart had sung when her hand was in his. How his ears rejoiced merely to hear her speak. She had grown into a beautiful woman and had given her heart to one of the thirteenth tribe. Their marriage had come shortly before the conflict with the desert tribes. When the two of them, Ferrah and Abdul-Azim, had been married in the desert, it had been a grand affair, with thirteen Kings and their thirteen queens and all their houses joining for a vast celebration, days of games and feasts on ships that sailed the dunes of the shifting amber sea. What joyous days those had been, even if Abdul-Azim had not been his first choice as a son. He brought joy to Ferrah’s heart, and that had been enough.

  And then the shadow of war had built on the horizon. The desert tribes had banded together, unforgiving of the way Sharakhai had grown, how it prospered, how its people had abandoned the ways of its ancestors. They called for higher tribute, and when it wasn’t given, they called for blood.

  Ihsan had worked so hard. He’d built the city, along with the other Kings, from a glorified caravanserai to a bustling metropolis, and he wasn’t about to give it up. But Ferrah. Gods how he’d wronged her. When the desert tribes gathered for war, the way ahead looked bleak. The caravanserais were taken, one by one, and then the tribes closed in on Sharakhai. An endless sea of swords and spears assailed the walls, and though the city’s defenses held, all knew the walls would soon fail.

  And then Kiral said he’d found a way. He called them all to his audience chamber in Eventide. All but Sehid-Alaz, who had never loved Kiral, and whom Kiral in turn despised. “Tulathan came to me in the night,” he said. “She offered me—she offered us—a way to avoid the bloodshed that lies ahead. If we come to her, she will deliver us not only Sharakhai, but the whole of the desert, until such time as we tire of its amber waves.”

  “At what price?” Ihsan had asked.

  “But one of our number,” Kiral had replied.

  “One tribe,” Ihsan had corrected.

  To this Kiral merely nodded, as if he couldn’t even bring himself to say it. The words fell over the gathering like a cold winter gale. But one of our number, the words had implied, and the rest could live. And it was all too clear which of their number Kiral meant to give. Tribe Malakhed. Iri’s Chosen. Of whom Abdul-Azim was one.

  Some of the Kings had quickly agreed. Sukru first. Then Külaşan and Mesut. Yusam followed, as did Zeheb and Beşir and Azad. Only Ihsan himself, Onur, Cahil, and Husamettín remained. If only Ihsan had said something sooner. All had watched Husamettín, knowing he would be the deciding vote. But Husamettín was a man of numbers, a man of calculation, always weighing the odds before making decisions. Ihsan should have known his answer well before he opened his mouth. He should have spoken against the King of Kings.

  By the time Husamettín had nodded his head, throwing in his lot with Kiral and the rest, it had been too late. Soon Ihsan, Cahil, and Onur had all agreed. Ihsan prayed Kiral was merely making up a story to give them heart.

  He hadn’t been, though. That night, when the moons were full, he’d called upon the gods at the top of Tauriyat. And they had come. Tulathan first, her silver eyes alight. Then golden Rhia, her sister. Dark Goezhen had come next, twin tails swishing through the moonlit air. Then Thaash and Yerinde and Bakhi. A tribunal. They’d stood before the Kings, hearing their plea from the mouth of the King of Kings.

  “Give us the means to drive the disloyal from the shores of Sharakhai,” he’d said. “Give us the means to storm over the desert to the very mountains that contain it.”

  And when the gods had demanded blood, where could they turn but the thirteenth tribe? Those who had come to Sharakhai last. Those who had the closest ties to the desert still. Those who challenged Kiral’s right to rule at every step, every turn.

  Ihsan had been a coward, watching as the gods had granted their dark appeal. He’d tried to shelter Ferrah from it, but she had fallen into a dark depression following Beht Ihman, then taken her own life in the night, a knife to her wrists while sitting on Ihsan’s own throne. He’d gone to the room alone, unable to face her with anyone watching, even his wife, Ferrah’s mother.

  All of this washed over him as Nayyan held his hand to her belly. “A child,” he said, caressing her skin as the sun began to break the fog over the city.

  “A child,” she echoed.

  Ihsan already knew it would be a girl—it could be no other way—and he knew he would not fail her as he’d failed Ferrah. “How the sun and stars will shine on the day of her birth.”

  Nayyan turned to him at last, stared into his eyes. “I wondered if you might not love another child.” She knew some of what’d had befallen Ferrah. Not all, but enough. She wiped tears from his eyes, tears he hadn’t even realized had gathered.

  “I was not looking for it,” he said after a time, “but those who look for miracles never find them. They come unbidden, at only the right moments.”

  “It is a sign,” she said.

  “What is?”

  And she laughed, a deep, resonant affair, a window into her soul. “I came in so late. I meant to tell you, but I wanted to wait until you were awake so we could rejoice together.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “The elixir, my love. I’ve found it. With the help of the scholars—Taram, especially, but Süleiman and Farid as well.”

  Ihsan hardly knew what to say. “You’re certain?”

  Her smile was the most beautiful thing he could ever remember seeing. “Well certain.” She took his hand and pressed his forefinger to a light scar that ran along her right forearm. It was long as a knife, but pale, a shade lighter than the rest of her skin. It looked years old, but Ihsan knew the mark of scars mended by use of Azad’s elixirs.

  He continued to run his hand over the scar. “You did this to yourself?”

  “I had to.”

  A vision of Ferrah, wrists slit, blood pooling at the base of his throne, swam before him. “With our child inside of you?”

  “I had to know, Ihsan. I had to know.”

  He sat up. “You could have died, Nayyan!”

  “Taram was tested first. He asked to be allowed to do it. But I couldn’t leave it to him.”

  He grabbed a fistful of her hair and shook her. “You foolish woman!”

  “Ihsan, you’re hurting me!”

  “You will never endanger our child again, do you hear me?”

  She slapped his face, then punched him in the throat. When his grip loosened, she rolled back off the bed, naked, and when he came for her, she grabbed his wrist, lifted it, and punched him hard in the kidney. Pain blossomed. His body curled unbidden around the punch. He tried to grab for her with his free hand, but this time she punched him like the Blade Maiden she was.

  He fell back on the bed, ears ringing. Nayyan straddled him. She gripped his head and shook him until he opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “I know about your daughter, my Lord King. I know more than you think. It will not happen with ours. Do you hear me? We will take this city like a raging fire. The fire will spread, farther and farther, until we have all the Great Shangazi in our grip. Perhaps we will look beyond, you and I. Perhaps we’ll travel the sand with our daughter. But by then it will be up to us and us only. Not other Kings. Not some bitch queen of Qaimir or Mirea. Not the mad King of Malasan nor the thousand crowns of Kundhun. Us and us alone.”

  Tears were s
treaming from the corners of his eyes, trailing into his hair. Nayyan was beautiful, but the only thing he could see in that moment was Ferrah, eyes lifeless yet somehow staring deeply into his soul.

  She shook him again until his eyes met hers. “The elixir needed to be perfect, and now it is, Ihsan.” She kissed him. “We are ready.”

  He nodded slowly. “We are ready.”

  She took his hands, both of them, and placed them on her belly. “We are ready.”

  Chapter 49

  THE DAY AFTER THE BEHT FIHRAL celebration was the most difficult day of sailing the Javelin had endured yet. A cool wind blew in the morning, ominous after so many days of heat. Barely an hour later, a storm struck. The captain advised Sümeya to find high ground or risk having their runners buried in the blowing sand, but Sümeya steadfastly insisted they sail on. All had the veils of their turbans wrapped tightly across their faces. Many who might have chosen lighter clothes instead wore tunics with long sleeves to ward their skin against the biting wind.

  Çeda worried over just how much Sümeya remembered of the night before. But other than her orders being given more crisply than usual, there was no difference in the Sümeya she’d known these past few months. She was First Warden once more. Whether she remembered and was suppressing the revelations of the previous night or had truly forgotten, Çeda had no idea.

  Near noon the ship began to slow, a strange feeling indeed after such smooth sailing during the past ten days. The deck seemed to sink beneath Çeda’s feet. She tipped forward as the ship slowed.

  “Slip-sand!” someone called.

  “Grab hold!” replied the captain.

  And everyone did. They’d been warned. The ship’s crew had drilled the proper reaction again just this morning. But Çeda still had no idea how quickly a ship of this size could come to a halt. As Çeda shot one arm through the rope of a nearby shroud, the Javelin slowed further and then, like a child might do with dolls on a toy ship, the deck seemed to be pulled out from underneath her. All about the deck, coils of rigging rope slithered away like a host of snakes. The masts creaked as the sails leaned forward and snapped back, making the canvas thrum. Something above gave with a loud crack.