As Jenise and Kameyl took up positions near a counter dominated by open bags of aromatic teas, Çeda followed Sümeya, who was just rounding Nayyan’s table. Sümeya suddenly stopped in her tracks. Çeda had no idea why until she reached Sümeya’s side and saw that Nayyan was cradling a newborn.
“You have a child,” Sümeya said in a voice that was distant as the Austral Sea.
Nayyan was a woman of some forty summers who stunned with her beauty. Thin eyebrows arched above expressive eyes as she took Sümeya in. She had full lips, a dimpled chin, and rounded cheeks that accented the unbound waves of her hair. The folds of her dress were pulled wide at the chest, allowing the babe to suckle while her mother patted her swaddled bottom.
Nayyan’s eyes might have been locked with those of her child, as if the baby were her sole concern, but her words gave lie to that impression. “When you asked me here, you said nothing about inviting the daughter of my father’s killer to sit across the table from me.”
Sümeya pulled out a chair and sat. “Nayyan, this is as much about Çeda—”
“I should have her throat slit here and now.”
“I told you we’d be discussing the asirim and the thirteenth tribe and all the things Çeda discovered in the desert and in the mountains. Who better to tell it than Çeda herself?”
“Don’t bandy words with me, Sümeya.” Nayyan stroked the peach fuzz on top of her baby’s head. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“It isn’t Sümeya’s fault,” Çeda said. “I insisted.”
“The Sümeya I knew wouldn’t let anyone insist on anything.”
“Then maybe you don’t know her as well as you thought.”
Nayyan regarded Çeda at last, her gaze turning razor sharp. “I know her better than you ever will, scarab.”
Just then the baby squirmed, fell off the teat, and began to fuss. Only then did Çeda realized the babe had mismatched eyes: one brown, one hazel. Nayyan pinched her nipple and used it to rub the baby’s lips, at which point she latched back on, gave one last squirm, and continued feeding. Çeda actually felt bad. It was clear Nayyan had brought the baby away from the safety of the palace specifically so that Sümeya could meet her, and Çeda had ruined the moment.
When it became clear Nayyan wasn’t going have Çeda’s throat slit—not yet, at least—Sümeya waved to the tea merchant and signaled for two more cups. “What’s her name?” Sümeya asked when tea had been poured. She’d asked almost casually, which told Çeda just how much she cared.
Nayyan surprised Çeda when she let down her guard and gave an unabashed smile. “Her name is Ransaneh Nayyan’ala, heir to the Throne of Thorns.”
Sümeya shared a look with Çeda as the sound of the market washed over them. Nayyan had given the matrilineal version of her daughter’s name, which meant she considered herself the child’s sole provider, or enough that it made no difference.
“Will her father be pleased to hear it?” Sümeya asked.
“Her father wasn’t there to witness her birth”—the fire in Nayyan’s eyes was plain to see—“nor has he been attentive enough to warrant his name’s precedence over mine.” She kissed the crown of Ransaneh’s head. “Now tell me why you’ve come. I have no wish to sit in this traitor’s presence for a moment longer than I need to.”
Sümeya, apparently oblivious to the seriousness of Nayyan’s words, stared at Ransaneh with a forlorn expression, as if with her presence one of the hopes Sümeya had secretly harbored had been dashed. Çeda had known of Sümeya’s feelings for Nayyan—she just hadn’t realized how strong they were.
“She’s beautiful,” Sümeya said with a melancholy smile.
Wary at first, as if unsure whether Sümeya had some ulterior motive for paying her daughter the compliment, Nayyan’s look eventually softened. “Why did you ask me here, Meya?”
“Because Sharakhai is in trouble.”
Nayyan snorted. “Do tell.”
“It’s the gods,” Sümeya went on. “They’re playing a game, and have been for four hundred years. How can we win that game if we refuse to acknowledge we’re even playing it? How can we make a move when the rules have been hidden from us?”
“And how do you think I can aid you?”
“In the mountains, something happened that few outside the thirteenth tribe have heard about. You know King Beşir led a battle against the thirteenth tribe. You know he failed. You know that the goddess Yerinde arranged for that battle. She wanted Nalamae to die.” Sümeya leaned closer. “Yerinde succeeded, but was slain in the process.”
Nayyan scoffed. “Yerinde cannot die.”
“She fell to Night’s Kiss, a sword of Goezhen’s making.”
At this, Nayyan sobered. “Who killed her?”
“Çeda.”
Up to this point, Nayyan had seen fit to ignore Çeda, but now she took her in as she might a west end trollop brought in for questioning. “This one killed the goddess?”
“Yes,” Çeda replied, “this one did.”
“Yerinde was slain,” Sümeya went on quickly. “I saw her body with my own eyes. Nalamae fell too, but she will return, or has already, as she has done since the days of Beht Ihman.”
“Well, which is it? Has returned, or will?”
“We don’t know,” Çeda interjected. “We’ve been searching the desert since the battle in the mountains.”
Nayyan’s nostril’s flared. “Your betters are speaking, child.”
“The wise would not silence me. What we search for is nothing less than a way to stop the gods.”
“From doing what?”
“I don’t know,” Çeda said, “but I know this much. Ihsan is searching for the same information. He wants a solution to this riddle of the gods’ desires and what they mean to do with the crystal. He told me as much in the desert.”
“Yes, well”—Nayyan pulled Ransaneh from her breast and tugged the rich fabric of her dress back into place—“the more time passes, the more I think Ihsan is a fool.”
“He isn’t, though,” Çeda said. “He was right about the gods hunting Nalamae. And he was right not to kill me when he had the chance. Nalamae will return, and when she does, we must be there to meet her. Only then do we have a chance of learning what the gods mean to do.”
Nayyan laid the baby’s head against her neck and patted her back. “Then why aren’t you off finding her?”
“We’ve tried.”
Ransaneh squirmed, then whined, the sound barely audible above the roar of the market. Nayyan, meanwhile, was about to speak, but Sümeya cut her off. “Before he died, King Yusam told Çeda he’d seen her, Çeda, kneeling beside his mere, peering into its depths. He said she was caught in a vision, rapt.”
Nayyan waited for more. “And?”
“Çeda has never done so.” Sümeya shared a look with Çeda. “We think that time is now. We think she uses it to search for Nalamae.”
“We . . .” Nayyan was looking at Sümeya in a new way.
Nayyan still loves her, Çeda realized.
Sümeya stepped into the silence. “We need this, Nayyan. For the good of the city, we must find Nalamae.”
Nayyan responded, “I’ve spent years getting to where I am, Sümeya. And I’ll be fighting until the day I die to remain there. I’ve made many mistakes along the way. I’ve learned hard lessons.” Nayyan held her baby close and stood. “I decide what’s good for the city, not you.” She turned to Çeda. “And certainly not you.”
She turned, ready to walk away, but before she could Çeda stood and snatched her wrist. Nayyan’s eyes went wide, and the veiled women who’d accompanied her began to close in. They stopped when Çeda released her and Nayyan signaled them to back away.
“This isn’t for me,” Çeda said, “It isn’t for Sümeya, either. It’s not even for you. We’ve lived our lives and could be content with them.�
�� Çeda’s gaze drifted to the soft bundle in Nayyan’s arms. “This is for her.”
Nayyan stared into Çeda’s eyes as if she’d never heard anything so foolish in her life. She looked ready to slap Çeda for it. Holding Ransaneh close, she turned and strode away. As one of her Maidens led the way through the crowd, the other two watched Çeda and Sümeya carefully, then followed in their queen’s wake.
“You were right,” Çeda said, her head hanging low, “I never should have come.”
“Well?” Kameyl grunted as she and Jenise joined them.
Sümeya shook her head.
Kameyl suddenly put one hand on the hilt of her shamshir. One of Queen Nayyan’s escorts was striding quickly toward them. “Return here tomorrow,” the Maiden said, “at the same time. I’ll have instructions for you then.”
As she turned and lost herself in the crowd, a wave of relief washed over Çeda.
Chapter 2
AS KING IHSAN guided his golden akhala over the dunes, the wind pressed against him like a drunk lover. His eyes were reduced to slits. The veil of his turban, now hopelessly soiled with amber dust, was pulled tight across his face. It left only a slit through which to see, yet time and time again the tireless, biting sand found its way in. He turned away from it, blinked the grit from his eyes, then scanned the amber-streaked horizon ahead, praying he was near his destination.
His golden akhala and stalwart companion, Barkhan, plodded ever onward, as much a victim as Ihsan was to the unrelenting storm. No, it was worse for the horse, Ihsan reasoned. The poor creature had no say in it; Ihsan certainly did.
He would have apologized for it had he not lost his tongue to Surrahdi the Mad King. With my own bloody knife, too. In place of words, he patted Barkhan’s neck, flaking away some of the sand caked into his coat. I am sorry, Barkhan. Truly.
The horse threw his head back and nickered, sending a baleful look Ihsan’s way.
It couldn’t be helped! Ihsan thought. And besides, if you want someone to blame, blame Yusam. Or the gods. Or even the fates, but don’t blame me! We are both but puppets in their schemes.
Barkhan plodded on, cresting a dune and taking to the shifting surface of its windward side.
In the months since Nayyan had delivered Barkhan to him in the blooming fields, he’d considered selling the horse. Barkhan was purebred, and many, upon realizing this, would inevitably think of Sharakhai, purebreds being somewhat rare anywhere but in the city. It was the sort of association Ihsan needed like he needed his eyes put out. But Barkhan was an amazing animal. Nayyan had personally chosen him for Ihsan from her own stock—he was a horse sired from two of the finest beasts ever to gallop across the Great Mother. No one could pay him what Barkhan was worth. And the simple truth was that Ihsan had come to trust the horse more than anyone he’d ever known. He’d part with the grapes between his legs before he’d sell Barkhan.
The wind suddenly changed direction, and Ihsan was caught in a powerful squall. Sand scoured him from the left, threatening to throw him from the saddle. Barkhan, accustomed to such things, stopped, lowered his head and, when the squall had passed, resumed his stoic pace.
Ihsan hoped they were still headed toward the caravanserai known as Çalabin but was no longer sure. Earlier that day, when he’d left from the slopes of the nearby hills, the caravanserai had been distant, a smudge along the horizon. The wind had been meager then, but had picked up shortly after they’d embarked and hadn’t let up since. He’d decided to let Barkhan find their path on his own.
But gods, the wind. It was so fierce it was hard to breathe. He was just about to rein Barkhan over, lay him down, and use him for shelter when a dark shape loomed ahead. A ship, Ihsan realized—a ketch, perhaps one of the fleet he’d seen anchored near Çalabin that morning. He might have considered it bad luck had he not read about this meeting in the Blue Journals, left behind by Yusam after his death, where Yusam had recorded his visions.
In a small caravanserai, Yusam’s entry had read, to the north, I reason, Qarthüm or Çalabin. A King of Sharakhai wanders through a haze, surrounded by ships, searching for hints of his past. He is looking for a key, or perhaps many keys. Keys to saving Sharakhai. He enters a dark pit, a place one goes to forget. There he meets two others: one who preens, another with the mark of a traitor.
In the margins, written beside the primary entry, was a note:
The vision seen again, but this time the three of them speak in a small room with two beds. The sound of an oud warbles. The air is heavy with fragrant smoke. A parlor?
Ihsan urged Barkhan on. He was confident in his purpose, confident he wouldn’t be stopped even when a squad of Kundhuni guardsmen with dark clothes and bright blue turbans appeared before him and one of them, a leggy tree of a man, raised his hand. He shouted at Ihsan, though his words were swallowed by the wind.
Ihsan snapped Barkhan’s reins, refusing to slow. When the tall soldier grabbed the reins roughly, Barkhan threw his head back, but the man held tight. Ihsan nearly put his fingers to his lips, ready to whistle an order for Barkhan to rear up and club the man for his presumption, but he thought better of it and instead pulled his veil down to allow the man to see his face. He set his lips to quavering and put on a look of raw, honest intensity, as if he counted himself fortunate to be alive.
The soldier glared at him from behind his bright blue veil, took a good look at Barkhan, then released his hold on the reins as if the horse had offended him. He jutted his chin toward what Ihsan assumed was the caravanserai itself, and in a thick Kundhuni accent shouted, “Go!” as if he were lord of the Great Shangazi itself.
Ihsan spurred Barkhan on. He passed several ships. There was a prize hidden somewhere inside those ships, Ihsan knew, a man who might very well be scared off if he learned of Ihsan’s presence. It was a worry for another time, though. There was something he needed first, and it lay in the caravanserai ahead.
When he reached the caravanserai’s outskirts, he guided Barkhan between walled-off gardens and clutches of mudbrick homes, all barely discernible through the roaring amber wind. He finally reached the heart of the caravanserai: a blocky expanse of sandstone where the wells were kept and a dozen ships were moored. In the far corner of this structure was an oud parlor known simply as The Abandon.
After giving Barkhan over to a stable girl, Ihsan stepped inside the parlor and shook himself off. The sound of the wind dropped, mixing with the hubbub of the tight crowd and the mournful melody of the oud being played in one corner. Many eyes shifted to him. He let them look—they’d only been drawn by the sound of the wind—but how strange it felt to be on display; indeed, to be back among humanity after a full five months in the desert with only a horse and a set of cryptic journals for company.
One by one, the patrons returned to their conversations. Hookahs, liquor bottles, and glasses complicated the surfaces of the low tables. The people surrounding them sat on dusty, mismatched pillows, the bright colors muted by the clouds of pungent tabbaq smoke. Ihsan wove his way to the bar, where a dozen patrons leaned or sat on stools, and ordered a glass of araq, not in the customary way, but by pointing at the drink of a burly man sitting on a stool nearby.
The barkeep, a goggle-eyed fellow with deep wrinkles webbing his face, leaned in and shouted, “You sure, friend? It’s expensive.”
With a nod, Ihsan dropped two silver six-pieces onto the bar. The barkeep smiled, grabbed a bottle of liquor from the highest shelf behind him, and poured a glass. Ihsan, meanwhile, swept his gaze over the crowded room to a corner table he’d noticed on his way in.
At the table were two men. Both wore weathered khalats and turbans with their veils hanging loose. The lighting was dim enough that their faces were shadowed, but he recognized them from their postures alone.
One was imposing, the sort of man you’d think twice about offending, then once again for good measure. He was Husamettín, the King of Swords. H
e had his turban pulled down over his forehead, so low it practically swallowed his eyebrows. One with the mark of a traitor, Yusam’s vision had read. Was that what he was hiding?
The shorter of the two, King Cahil, looked cockier. He had the same look he’d worn for four hundred years, like he was ready to challenge anyone in the room for looking at him the wrong way.
His drink poured, Ihsan took a sip and shrugged. It was expensive all right, but it was nothing compared to the blends that could be found in Sharakhai. Even so, he savored it. He’d long run out of Tulogal in the desert.
When the front door opened again, Husamettín and Cahil looked up expectantly. The stable girl entered, ran up to the bar, and waved to the barkeep. When the barkeep bent close, the girl cupped her hand over his ear and spoke, too low for Ihsan to hear.
“When?”
“Just now,” the girl said. “They’re still leaving.”
The door opened again, and a Kundhuni, the very same man who’d stopped Ihsan earlier, waved sharply to a table of his countrymen, who immediately stood and left with him.
“Take care of the drinks,” the barkeep said to the girl. With a worried expression on his lined face, he ducked through a gap below the bartop and headed into the howling wind.
In the corner, the pair of mislaid Kings had watched the exchange carefully. When Cahil nodded, Husamettín stood and slipped through a nearby archway. A woman bearing a shamshir, who’d blended well into the crowd, stood from her stool and followed Husamettín. The sheath was of poor workmanship, but Ihsan would bet that the sword inside was made of ebon steel. It was Yndris, Ihsan realized, Cahil’s bloodthirsty daughter and one-time warden of the Blade Maidens.
When they’d gone, Ihsan took up his drink and wove through the crowd toward Cahil. Of the two men, he would vastly have preferred speaking to Husamettín who, though rigid as sandstone at times, had always listened to reason. Cahil, on the other hand, often acted like a child who’d missed his last meal.
When Jackals Storm the Walls Page 4