When Jackals Storm the Walls

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “Come, Surrahdi,” Meryam intoned, “I have need of you.”

  She felt his soul inhabit his dead body, felt his eyes open. He tore away the shroud that confined him, then pushed on the coffin’s lid. With a great crack, the lid was rent, the pieces thrown aside. He sat up. Around him lay a dozen more coffins—surely more men and women of royal blood who’d died during the ongoing war between Malasan, Mirea, and Sharakhai.

  A dim light from the far side of the ship’s hold caught his attention. There, a ladder led up a short set of stairs to a door. Part of Surrahdi wanted to lay back down, to find his final rest, but Meryam’s will overwhelmed him, forced him on. On creaking limbs he climbed from his coffin. The ship swayed as he lurched up the stairs. Meryam felt a desire in him to seek out his son, King Emir. She fanned that desire, allowed it to guide his steps toward the rear of the ship, then up another flight of stairs and along a short passage that led to Emir’s cabin.

  Meryam’s heart pounded like a kettledrum on hearing Emir’s voice. When it went silent, another voice, too soft to make out clearly, replied. She thought of waiting, of listening, but the chance of being spotted by a crewman was too great.

  Months ago both Malasan and Mirea had sent fleets racing across the desert so that they could be the first to take Sharakhai. Meryam had been working with the Kings ever since to stymie them, to push them back beyond the desert’s borders. Now, at last, she’d found a way to deal with Malasan. She would force Surrahdi to enter Emir’s cabin and kill him, sending Malasan a clear message: that the desert’s Amber Jewel was hers, and any attempt to take it would end with her feeding their bones to the Great Mother. When Malasan had fled east with its tail tucked between its legs, she would turn her attention to Mirea, who would buckle in short order. Then, with Sharakhai secure at last, she could focus on her deepest desire: to see Macide Ishaq’ava and every single one of the Moonless Host dead.

  Surrahdi drew a ceremonial dagger from a sheath on his golden belt. He trudged closer to the intricately carved cabin door. His leaden steps thudded against the wooden planks, so much so that Meryam feared he’d be discovered, but the volume at which Emir was recounting the invasion of Sharakhai to the cabin’s mysterious second occupant was loud enough that it masked the Mad King’s approach.

  Surrahdi gripped the door’s curving brass handle. The latch clicked. The door swung wide, revealing an opulent cabin. King Emir sat in a padded chair with a small table nearby, bathed in the glow of the hanging lanterns. Across the table from him was an empty seat. Emir turned toward the opening door—he might have thought it was the ship’s captain coming in unannounced, or a crewman—but soon recognition dawned and his expression became one of abject terror.

  “Father?”

  Knowing the time was ripe, Meryam filled the Mad King with purpose. Knife raised, Surrahdi launched himself at his defenseless son, but managed only one vicious swipe of the ceremonial blade before a form sped in from the right and powered his frail form against the hull. Surrahdi’s head crashed hard against it. Something glinted below his vision while a terrible pain, bright as a forge fire, exploded over his heart. Staring down, he saw a long steel hairpin inexplicably sticking out of his chest.

  King Yavuz, who should have been nothing more than a conduit with no free will of his own, recoiled in surprise, fear, and pain. His hands grasped ineffectually at his chest—he clearly thought the pin was sticking out of his own chest.

  Suddenly a woman wearing an orange silk dress cut in the angular Mirean style stepped into Surrahdi’s field of vision. Her appearance was of a woman who’d seen some fifty summers, but Meryam knew she’d seen many, many more. It was Queen Alansal, a woman centuries older than she looked who’d spent her entire life collecting artifacts like the miraculous hairpin.

  When she took its mate, the second pin, from the half-unfurled bun atop her head, her raven black hair flowed down over her delicate shoulders. “Did I not tell you?” Queen Alansal said in halting Malasani. “Soon enough, I said, she will come.”

  Understanding dawned on King Emir as he stared into Surrahdi’s eyes. “Queen Meryam is behind this?”

  Alansal twirled the second pin in her fingers with absent ease. “Undoubtedly.”

  Meryam commanded Surrahdi to attack, but he didn’t move so much as a muscle. Worse, the spell that had seized Surrahdi had Yavuz and Meryam in its grip as well. It was as if the pin had pierced all three of their souls, binding them together.

  Emir’s eyes flitted nervously between the animated corpse of his own father and Queen Alansal. “Is she still there?”

  “Yes.” Alansal gave a pleasant smile. “She’s trapped.”

  Indeed, Meryam was trying everything to free herself, but there was nothing she could do. For the first time in a long while, she was fully and unwillingly in the grip of someone else’s power.

  She did the only thing she could. It was hardly ideal, but it was precisely the reason she used men like Erol and Yavuz, and Ramahd before them, as her conduits. They protected her. All she need do was eliminate the conduit and she would be freed, steel pin or no.

  Using the power from Yavuz’s own blood, she pressed down on him, smothering him. He fought her when he realized what was happening, but he was like a toddler trying to fend off a lioness. It didn’t take long for her to still his heart. Still his breath. She felt the life leaving him and her own will returning.

  Alansal, who had just pulled a honey-colored gemstone from inside her dress, turned suddenly toward Surrahdi, her eyes wide as a frightened oryx. She knew. She lifted her right arm and brought the steel pin down against Surrahdi’s skull in a movement so fast it blurred. Meryam felt the crunch of bone. Felt the thump of Alansal’s fist against her forehead. Pain exploded as the vision of the distant cabin went dark.

  Meryam woke lying on the cold stone floor of the vault below the Sun Palace with a headache so intense she was certain Alansal’s bloody pin was stuck through her skull. She rubbed her forehead, wondering how much time had passed. The braziers, bright earlier, glowed dully, bathing all in red, leading her to believe it could be no more than an hour.

  Nearby, King Yavuz lay still, unmoving, dead.

  She pushed herself to her feet, knowing she should be more worried than she was over Yavuz’s death. It would cause problems, to be sure. Explanations would need to be made, perhaps an apology or two. But much worse than a lesser King’s untimely death was the discovery that King Emir and Queen Alansal had decided to throw in their lot together. The Malasani and Mirean fleets had been deeply wounded during their clashes against the Kings, but Sharakhai was worse—few knew it, but the city couldn’t stand against their combined might, not with Qaimir’s help, not with Kundhun’s.

  From the neck of her dress Meryam pulled out a red beaded necklace. As the realization she might lose everything began to squeeze the breath from her, she kissed it and spoke to her dead sister. What am I going to do now, Yasmine? Her fears were beginning to cascade when she noticed a glow coming from the tunnel she’d taken to the vault. She thought a servant might have come, but the glow was too perfect—and lanterns didn’t cast that sort of pure, blue-white light.

  Understanding dawned a moment later, and a nearly irrepressible urge to bolt away through the room’s other passageway threatened to overwhelm her, but really, what good would that do? If she was right about the identity of the one approaching, running wouldn’t help. With no small amount of effort, she managed to press the fear deep down inside her, smothering it temporarily, and wait as calmly as she could manage.

  The silver light brightened. A female form, a full head taller than any man or woman Meryam had ever seen, strode through the archway and into the room. It was the goddess, Tulathan, the sister of golden Rhia. She was naked, her breasts bared, her skin radiant. Silver hair flowed over her lithe shoulders, rippling as if she were underwater.

  Goosebumps rose along Meryam
’s arms. The pain in her forehead suddenly felt as if it were days old, a faint memory. The urge to kneel was great, but Meryam denied that as well—the goddess had come for a reason, after all; she wanted something from Meryam—so instead Meryam gave her the slightest bow of her head, a sign that they were equals, at least for the purposes of this meeting.

  Tulathan, her metallic eyes taking Meryam in from head to toe, seemed amused. She wandered the room. Where she walked, the dull red light of the braziers was drowned in silver. She stared at the table, at the golem, at Yavuz on the floor with the crystal heart still in his hands. Her hair trailed behind her languidly, as if it refused to obey the laws of the mundane, material world. Then the goddess spoke.

  Much has happened in the Great Shangazi.

  Meryam’s mouth had turned suddenly dry, so she waited to speak until she could do so clearly, strongly. “And much is yet to come.”

  Of this there can be no doubt.

  As Tulathan continued her circuit of the room, Meryam’s skin prickled. She shivered as if she were the naked one. Steel yourself, Meryam. What follows means everything.

  The goddess leaned in and whispered into Meryam’s ear, “So many possible outcomes.” How ephemeral her voice. How her breath tickled.

  “Not so many if one applies oneself,” Meryam said. “The fates reward the brave.”

  Tulathan stood before Meryam once more, her look of amusement vanished. The fates reward no one.

  “Why have you come, goddess?”

  To offer thee thy heart’s desire.

  “Sharakhai?”

  Thy desire is for a city? Tulathan’s silver gaze drifted down to Meryam’s neck, to her beaded necklace. If it is so, but speak it, and it will be thine.

  For the first time in a long while Meryam felt exposed. She felt beholden to the goddess, and if there was one thing Meryam hated, it was to have her fate resting in the hands of others. But what was there to do? The goddess was offering her a way to get what she wanted. What sort of fool would turn her down?

  “No,” Meryam said, “that isn’t what I desire the most.”

  Tulathan, her amused smile returning, waited.

  “I want Macide Ishaq’ava delivered to me,” Meryam went on. “I want to see him suffer.”

  As he made thy sister suffer?

  “Yes. And I want the Moonless Host to suffer as well.”

  If that is so, it is as simple as making a wish.

  A wind rose and swirled about the room. Drifts of silver sand were borne upon it. They circled Meryam, making her feel trapped by the goddess. Tulathan, meanwhile, held her hand out flat, her palm facing upward. When it was clear she meant for Meryam to do the same, Meryam did, and a portion of the sand pooled within her palm.

  Tulathan meant for her to whisper to the sand as it fell between her fingers, as the people of the desert did when begging the gods for favors, but it made her wonder . . .

  “What do you want in return?” she asked the goddess.

  Tulathan’s smile revealed perfect teeth. So very little.

  “Name it.”

  The goddess stepped closer, and whispered the terms of their bargain to Meryam. When she was done, the goddess strode away, her light fading with her. The room plunged into shadow, the walls returned to their former bloody, muddy red.

  Staring at her closed fist, Meryam swallowed hard.

  Nothing she’d done on her road to power had been more dangerous than this. Not dealing with Guhldrathen. Not dominating Hamzakiir. Not forcing King Kiral to change places and to walk into the desert to his death. Not even killing her own father, King Aldouan, had been more risky.

  Reaching up, she touched the worn beads of her sister’s necklace. Then lifted her fist to her lips. Allowing the silver sand to sift slowly between her fingers, she whispered, “I pray for your help, Tulathan. I pray you deliver me all that you’ve promised.”

  As the sand fell and pooled near her toes, it did so in a pattern that looked familiar. It was shaped very much like a particular crystal hidden deep beneath the city.

  Chapter 1

  ÇEDA FOLLOWED THE FLOW of traffic through the bazaar. All around her, the aisles were choked, the myriad patrons shoving past her, trading and chatting as if war hadn’t nearly torn the city apart five months ago.

  The meeting she was about to have was nothing if not dangerous. Nevertheless, Çeda found herself smiling beneath her veil. She wore a threadbare dress. A dusty, eggplant-colored turban wrapped her head. A beaten old shamshir hung from her belt. It was tatty attire at best, yet she felt like a queen. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed this homecoming until she’d arrived in Sharakhai.

  Sümeya, the former First Warden of the Blade Maidens, walked alongside Çeda. She wore a head scarf as well, its veil covering her face. The skirt of her midnight blue dress was uncharacteristically long, frayed along the hem, hopelessly dusty from walking the streets of the city. “Where are we meeting the girl?”

  Ahead of Çeda and Sümeya was Kameyl, the vanguard of their small contingent. Çeda pointed beyond her towering form to the horseshoe archway into the spice market. “Just inside the arch.”

  The last of their number, Jenise, one of Çeda’s Shieldwives, trailed a few stalls behind. She wore a belted kaftan. Her brown, shoulder-length hair was unbound and flowed freely on the gentle wind. She’d never been to Sharakhai, and it showed in the way her striking green-and-gold eyes flitted around, the way she flinched when others brushed past her.

  As the four of them entered the spice market, the din of business and barter became intense, and Çeda found herself looking for signs that they were being followed—by Silver Spears, by Blade Maidens in disguise, by one of the Kings’ elite Kestrels. Sümeya had assured her that Nayyan—Queen Nayyan, the woman they were about to meet—would abide by her word and listen to what they had to say. She’d further agreed to bring three and only three Blade Maidens, and promised that, no matter how the conversation went, neither Sümeya nor any of those accompanying her would be taken into custody. It was risky, but Sümeya trusted Nayyan, and Çeda trusted Sümeya. The closer they came to the meeting, though, the more Çeda’s doubts were starting to resurface.

  For years Nayyan had posed as her father, King Azad, but those days were behind her. She’d stepped out of her father’s shadow at last, unveiling herself as the rightful heir to his throne, which was precisely why Çeda was worried. With all the other young monarchs in the House of Kings, and a dominating force like Queen Meryam leading them, Nayyan needed notoriety. What better way to get it than by delivering the White Wolf and Sümeya, the former First Warden turned traitor?

  A few stalls in, Çeda spotted Mala, an eleven-year-old girl with curly brown hair pulled into a long, scraggly tail. Several strands hung down her face, adding to her angry, distrustful look.

  “Hello, Mala,” Çeda said.

  Mala glanced at the milling patrons. “Don’t use my name,” she spat. “You know better than that.”

  Çeda gave her a second look. Then caught an older girl staring at the two of them from across the way. Further down the aisle stood more gutter wrens, all of them girls, watching this exchange carefully.

  In Sharakhai’s west end, children were often pressed into gangs, either by choice or by the tough hand that life in the city’s poorest quarter often dealt them. When inducted formally, they were forced to stand up to a random person and cut them after some forced argument. It was a ritual called taking up the knife. Mala was only eleven, but it was clear she’d taken up hers. She looked harder than she once had, more prepared to protect herself and those she’d come to call family. Çeda wanted to ask about her swordcraft, wanted to trade a few blows as they used to, but she couldn’t. She’d become an outsider in Mala’s eyes.

  “Did you follow her?”

  Mala’s chin jutted out. “Money first.”


  Çeda considered challenging her, but she saw how fixedly Mala was staring at her. Mala needed this. She had to show that she could handle herself. So Çeda took out the handful of six-pieces she and Mala had agreed upon but held them just short of Mala’s waiting palm—this was deadly serious; the other wrens could easily have sold their identities to the Silver Spears.

  “Do they know who I am?” Çeda asked in a low voice.

  Mala shook her head.

  “You’re sure?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Do they know you were sent to watch Queen Nayyan?”

  She shook her head again. “I told them you were an heiress feuding with her sister over an inheritance.”

  Çeda stared at her, weighing her words, and found no reason to disbelieve her. “Here,” Çeda said, handing over the money. “Now tell me what you’ve found.”

  “She came in through the east entrance and went straight to the tea stall. Three women joined her. She’s been there for half a turn. There’s no one else watching her.”

  “No more Spears than normal? No enforcers wandering the aisles?”

  “None, and we’ve been watching all morning.”

  “Good,” Çeda said, and lowered her voice even further. “Take care of yourself, Mala.”

  A quick smile, a bit of the old Mala returning. “You too,” she said, and then she was gone.

  It was as Mala had said. Near the center of the spice market was a tea shop with several small tables and chairs. Within it, sitting by herself at a table with two empty chairs, was a woman in a rust-orange dress that was rich but not too rich. Standing at the corners of the shop were three women in tribal niqabs, the veils covering their faces a cascade of beaten coins and coral beads. Each wore a voluminous skirt that had been bunched beneath the belt at one hip. No doubt there were ebon blades beneath those skirts, ready to be drawn.