The Bloodprint

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Black Aura Gate, taking its name from the road that led to the capital. And the entire bazaar remarkable for chattering teahouses . . . and for the absence of women.

  “Why has that market been covered over?” Daniyar asked, pointing to the artery that led to Black Aura Gate.

  Suspicion flared in Semyon’s eyes.

  “Did your master not tell you? It was done at his request, as part of his agreement with His Excellency, the Authoritan. It was the kaghez market.”

  When Daniyar made no reply, Semyon interpreted the word for them.

  “Paper milled from mulberry trees.” He gestured at the empty bazaar. “The calligraphers’ market.” An unpleasant smirk crossed his face. “Scribes, calligraphers, Inklings—all burned in the square at the Preacher’s request.”

  An unparalleled loss that couldn’t be recovered. Something a lieutenant of the Preacher should have known.

  Arian risked a glance at the Silver Mage.

  His jaw was set, his face otherwise expressionless.

  “That is not what I asked. The Preacher requested the market be burned to the ground. Perhaps your men were not thorough enough. The market still stands. It may provide cover to the scribes.”

  Semyon spat at the ground, just missing his own boots.

  “My men hunt that market every day in search of Basmachi. You can assure the Preacher that not a single soul survives there.”

  This time the Silver Mage was careful not to reveal that he had no knowledge of the Basmachi, even as he read the falseness in Semyon’s voice, giving the man away.

  The city around them was quiet. Isolated from the street life of the teeming bazaars, they had reached the Registan, an enormous square on the scale of theater, its turquoise domes throbbing softly with light.

  The portals formed three sides of the square.

  In the center was the Tilla Kari or Gold House, the last of the structures to have been erected upon the square. Its retaining wall was decorated with mosaic insets and underglazed painted tile. From its spiral columns sprang a motif of stars and flowers worked in gold and lapis lazuli blue, the stone of heaven for a heavenly structure.

  As they approached its resplendent façade, a wondrous discovery thrilled through Arian’s thoughts.

  The blue-and-gold columns were inscribed with notations in the language of the Claim, the written word reaching as high as the stars.

  Glory to the One. Praised be the One.

  And a phrase she prayed would see them through the night.

  May the end be well.

  She could feel the weight of dozens of pairs of eyes pressing down from the double arcade that flanked either side of the entry to the Gold House. But from within its interior, not a single soul could be spied, nor the faintest murmur heard.

  To the left of the Gold House stood the splendid structure that had once been a conservatory, where generations of students had studied the heavens’ sciences.

  Arian caught her breath. The flanking pylons of the conservatory’s central pishtaq were worked in the script of the Claim, just as the sides of the building were covered in the Claim’s calligraphy. The labor of generations, the accumulation of innumerable lifetimes.

  There was so much to read, her eyes could scarcely take in the words.

  Sinnia’s braceleted hands reached out to squeeze Arian’s, the gesture swift and stealthy.

  If they had more time, the Companions would lose themselves in the Claim—a longing they had to be careful not to betray.

  And there were other things to consider, a realization that couldn’t have escaped the Silver Mage or Turan, the Shin War captain.

  The paper market had been destroyed to satisfy the Preacher, yet the monuments of Marakand had escaped unscathed. Even a depiction of gold lions chasing after a pair of gazelles—a depiction prohibited under the Talisman—shone freshly against the Shir Dar’s façade, an indication that the objectives of the Preacher and the Authoritan were not as aligned as Arian had feared.

  The Talisman had taken the south; the Authoritan claimed the north.

  And an army was preparing for war, while somewhere between a deserted House of Wisdom and a crypt that housed the shattered bones of the Authoritan’s enemies, the women of Khorasan were trafficked through the Gold House.

  As the square was claimed by the shadows of night, nothing could be seen of the portals’ interiors. Facing the Tilla Kari, an ominous black structure with a bloodred door menaced the horizon. A five-point star was etched upon the door, a duplicate of the emblem stamped upon the Lion’s Gate.

  Semyon knocked at the Tilla Kari, a smile playing about his lips, his eyelids heavy with contemplation of the night ahead.

  “You may take your ease here,” he said to Daniyar.

  It was a lie so little disguised it didn’t need the gifts of an Authenticate to read it.

  “What of the women?” Daniyar asked, his voice cool, weighing.

  Semyon snaked an arm around Sinnia’s waist.

  “This one is mine,” he purred into her ear. “The Khanum will want to meet the other. What you do with the boy is up to you.”

  Another lie. Two guards stepped into the courtyard. At a nod from Semyon, they sprang upon Daniyar and Turan, giving them no chance to react. Both men were disarmed and bound.

  “Zelgai must take us for fools.” Semyon seized Arian by the arm, gripping her chin. “You are no emissary from the Preacher, not when you bring this one with you. Search them.”

  Their packs were stripped from them, the contents scattered at their feet. Semyon and Alik pushed aside the cloaks the Companions wore. As soon as they saw the circlets on their arms, the Ahdath went still. Then with ruthless efficiency, Arian and Sinnia were gagged.

  It was too late for Arian to reconsider her decision to withhold her use of the Claim until they had reached the cover of the Gold House. It would have been her first time attempting the Claim on such a scale—she had thought better not to risk it. Now she no longer had the option.

  The bracelets at their wrists were tested. A snort escaped Semyon as he found the shackles unlocked. He removed them, binding their wrists with rope. Alik confiscated their weapons.

  The guard who’d searched Daniyar’s pack held up the Candour.

  Semyon took a step back, his face pale. The sight of the black book seemed to shake him.

  “Quickly. Gag him also. It’s the Guardian of Candour, the Silver Mage. Take him to the Mausoleum for questioning. Lock the Talisman and the boy in the Blood Shed.” He spared a cruel smile for the women. “There is never enough blood for the Authoritan.”

  Wafa struck out at Semyon with his crop. Semyon dodged the blow by pivoting on his heel. He broke the boy’s grip on the crop with a single hand, sending him sprawling with a blow from the other. Wafa fell to the ground, unmoving.

  “Take them to the Blood Shed,” Semyon repeated. “Bring the lajward and the book of the Silver Mage. They brought these things into Marakand for a purpose. The Khanum will wish to see them.” His lip curled in contempt, he approached Daniyar. “I did not think you would yield so easily, Guardian of Candour. The Immolan usurps your authority, so perhaps this has left you weak.” He rolled back on his heels, his hands easy at his sides. “Nor have you encountered Ahdath before—no wonder you were taken. Still, I would not have risked two as beautiful as these in a city full of soldiers.” He nodded at the Tilla Kari. “You will have plenty of time to consider their fate before Commander Araxcin arrives.”

  Daniyar strained against his bonds, his silver eyes ablaze. Semyon chuckled.

  “Which one concerns you most, I wonder?” He trailed a hand down Arian’s bare arm. “This one’s fate will be decided by the Khanum. Take her to the Gold House. The other—” He switched his attention to Sinnia. “The other I will not share. As captain, that is my right.”

  Arian’s muffled cry drew Daniyar’s attention to her. She gestured at Wafa, motionless at Semyon’s feet. Turan answered Arian before he could be g
agged.

  “I will protect him, Companion. You need not worry.”

  Semyon’s fist struck Turan across the face, raising a welt on Turan’s jaw.

  “Worry for yourself, Talisman. No one survives the Blood Shed.”

  43

  Arian wasn’t worried for Daniyar. He was more adept at survival than the Ahdath could predict. He’d spent ten years living a double life under the Talisman. If he’d allowed himself to be captured, it must have been for a reason, much as she now waited to be admitted to the Gold House, Alik as her guard. She could escape, but the Gold House was where she had wished to be taken.

  It was the Blood Shed that worried her. How would Turan rescue Wafa? Her hopes rested on her observations of the Ahdath as soldiers. They were careless in their assurance of martial strength. They’d been bred to indolence by the Authoritan’s absolute rule.

  Or perhaps there was something more sinister about their power.

  No one survives the Blood Shed.

  Was that why the Registan was so quiet, empty of signs of human habitation?

  A mirrored door beneath the Tilla Kari’s portal gave way. The mirrored inlay of the door was patterned in six-point stars.

  From six to five, Arian thought, remembering the puzzle box. For Daniyar had forgotten the sixth attribute described in the Verse of the Throne. Something significant, something that mattered—something that would serve them because there was always more to Ilea’s plotting than was first apparent. She wished Ilea had chosen to share her secrets. And Arian asked herself if the Black Khan was privy to those secrets now.

  Alik nudged her forward, into a palace of wonder.

  The Tilla Kari’s interior was stuccoed with spectacular artistry in gold leaf and periwinkle blue, its ravishing motifs climbing skyward, until they were lost to the heavens themselves.

  Corner squinches ascended to a glorious cupola whose extravagance dazzled the eye. The transition from walls to dome was achieved by a sight that for a spell of unbroken time robbed Arian of thought or calculation, wonderstruck into silence.

  A band of inscription, its gold calligraphy shimmering against a blue so pure that it put the sky of Marakand to shame, and above this, a second band to crown the first, stenciled in immaculate white.

  The Claim.

  The Claim she had been taught to memorize as a child.

  She read fluently, recognizing verses and benedictions that her mother had promised her were a gift, a gift that would serve all of Khorasan one day.

  And here the Talisman hand had been stayed. No violence had come to this beauty.

  She was lost in contemplation of a ceiling constructed entirely of stars.

  A sob caught in her throat.

  As it registered, she became aware of her surroundings. As she had been led to the dome by her captor, she had passed an assembly of women.

  Hundreds of women, the most beautiful she’d ever seen, painted and decorated, with long, lustrous hair, their full lips pouting, their eyes large and bright and vivid with interest, marking Arian’s progress through the hall. They murmured to each other as she passed.

  They were dressed in gleaming silks in shades of blue and rose and peach so lovely they resembled a garden of flowers. Their costumes were elaborate, yards of fabric wound about their figures, intricate pieces of gold and silver shining from their hair, their wrists, their throats. Their fingers sparkled as they motioned to each other. The thrum of their laughter filled the hall.

  Around them, jeweled plates of sweetmeats were arranged. Silver platters garnished with lilacs were piled with apricots, peaches, and plums. Figs, dates, almonds, and pistachios spilled from crystal bowls. Rose petals were scattered on the carpets, imbuing the air with sweetness. Samovars of lemon-scented tea perched on small gold stands.

  The sight of Arian, bound and gagged, guarded by Alik—whose attention was fixed on the women who surrounded him—was unremarkable to them. There was curiosity in the delicate faces, not fear.

  Arian’s heart thundered in her chest.

  From a contemplation of the sublime, she was brought to this moment, this endpoint of the slave-chains. This place where Lania at last might be found.

  But the women gathered in the great hall were young, too young to be Arian’s sister. In the first bloom of youth, they were younger than Arian herself.

  Most were of Arian’s bloodline. Some were of the mixed races of the east, others from the Transcasp. They did not appear under threat, though a languor about their eyes dimmed their radiance.

  It seemed to echo the indifference of the Ahdath.

  There were no soldiers in the hall.

  If these women had been trafficked by the Talisman, they should have borne signs of ill-use and hopelessness. Instead, their flesh was pampered and rounded, not tautened like hers and Sinnia’s from the famine in the south.

  And here behind these walls, while the people of the south starved, was abundance. Of food, of comfort, of luxury. Of beautiful girls chattering together like doves in a royal dovecote.

  Where were the women of the slave-chains?

  Two women approached Alik from one of the hall’s alcoves. He shoved Arian at them with an ungentle hand, turning over Daniyar’s pack.

  “This one is for transport,” he said. “She’s to be taken to the Khanum. She doesn’t look like much, but she’s dangerous—keep her gagged.”

  He focused on them for no more than a moment, his attention skittering away.

  “Understood,” said the taller of the two women, securing the pack. “You should return to your post.”

  With a grimace, Alik ambled back to the portal. He made no mention of Sinnia.

  Arian turned to the women who had taken her into their custody. One was a dark-haired beauty whom Arian recognized at once as a woman of the south, a woman of one of Candour’s tribes. She wore a bright gold dress with an overlay of coral silk, gathered at the waist. Gold bracelets chimed from her wrists to her elbows. Her hair was dressed in a coronet of curls. She made a moue of distaste as she reached out to take Arian’s hand.

  The other woman was nothing like her companion. Taller, thinner, older, with pale, lank hair and watery, suspicious eyes, she wore an ill-fitting dress in an unflattering shade of pink. Her jewelry was limited to a set of jade bracelets on her arm. Her left arm was tucked out of view, but not before Arian had glimpsed the line of pinpricks that stippled her blue-veined skin. There was a strange round mark on the side of her neck.

  Before she could consider what the woman’s appearance meant, the two women shepherded Arian down a long corridor that led from the dome into darkness.

  The woman with the scarred arm reached out with a jagged, abrupt gesture to remove the gag from Arian’s mouth.

  “At least let her breathe while we move her, Gul.”

  Her voice was gruff, and though she spoke to the other woman in the Common Tongue, the clipped accents of her speech marked her as a woman of the Transcasp.

  “Who are you?” Arian asked as she worked her jaw loose. “Where do you take me? Who is the Khanum?”

  They ignored her, jostling her down the corridor. They had almost reached the wooden doors at its end, where there was a dimness that failed to echo the magnificence of the Tilla Kari’s portal and starry door, when the pale-haired woman drew them off to one side.

  “What are you doing?” the woman named Gul demanded.

  Her companion answered her with another of her sudden gestures—a quick blow to the temple. The woman in the gold dress sank to the floor. Her assailant dragged her into the shadows. Then she freed Arian’s hands.

  “Quick,” she whispered. “Take off your clothes, we don’t have much time.”

  She bent over Gul’s body, stripping it of its clothes.

  “Hurry,” she insisted, when she saw that Arian hadn’t moved. “You have to change places with her. If we don’t supply someone to the Khanum, they’ll tear down the Tilla Kari searching for you. We need to buy time.” She
nodded at Arian’s arms. “Keep your circlets, Companion. Take off the rest.”

  As she spoke, she worked the bangles free from Gul’s arms, adding them to the pile of silks. Slippers followed, then her hands were in Gul’s hair, pulling it free of its coronet, leaving it long and loose.

  “Put on her dress. Do as I say,” she said impatiently. “My name is Elena, I’m here to help you.”

  The fear in Elena’s voice caught at Arian. She began to undress, shrugging off her cloak, peeling the armor from her body. Elena dressed the dark-haired woman in Arian’s clothes.

  She tied the woman’s hands with the same rope that had bound Arian, forcing the gag into her mouth. As Arian dressed in Gul’s costume and bangles, Elena joined her. She arranged Arian’s hair as the other woman had worn it. She passed Arian a small blunt stick.

  “Line your eyes. Bite your lips and pinch your cheeks. It’s the most we can do to make you look like one of them.”

  Elena knelt down to Gul, applying a rag to the other woman’s face, smudging her kohl to create an impression of shadows. Gul came to consciousness with a gasp. Elena shouldered her to her feet and covered her with Arian’s cloak. She scooped grit from the soles of Arian’s boots, and rubbed the dirt over Gul’s hands before forcing the boots onto Gul’s feet.

  Gul’s struggles intensified. Elena whipped out a silver dagger from her belt, pointing it at Gul’s throat.

  “I don’t need you,” she said. “I could kill you and leave you here. If you’d rather take your chances with the Khanum, you’ll have to stay quiet, understood?”

  She nicked Gul’s eyebrow with her knife.

  Terrified, Gul nodded.

  “Good? Are you ready?” Elena studied Arian’s transformation. “You look—too military somehow. Try to seem subservient. When we get to the doors, don’t talk. Whatever you do, don’t raise your head. They’ll see what they expect to see. If they ask you to talk, use the Common Tongue and say your name is Gul. Leave the rest to me.”