Twelve Kings in Sharakhai Read online

  “I said no jokes. What happened?”

  “What would you like me to say, Emre? I was a fool. I was heading through the Shallows, and someone jumped me. A couple of someones, I guess. Never got a good look at them.”

  “What were you doing in the Shallows?”

  The Shallows was a swath of land just outside the western reaches of Sharakhai’s ancient walls, land that had long ago been swallowed by the ever-expanding city. It was undesirable land, though, and so had never been settled properly. It was nestled in a gentle curve of the River Haddah, land that tended to flood in those rare times when heavy rains came to the central desert. It was filled with ramshackle hovels, one piled on top of the other, a forgotten place where the lowest in Sharakhai went to scrape a living. It was a dangerous place, not leastwise because many of those who lived in the Shallows were fresh from the desert. They were members of the wandering tribes who had given up their nomadic life to find fortune in Sharakhai. The trouble was that the city had neither forgotten nor forgiven the treachery of the tribesmen, how they fought years ago, how some still fought to destroy Sharakhai and return control of the desert to the shaikhs. The Kings had long allowed any from the desert to come to the city, because doing so weakened their numbers. But no one in Sharakhai made them welcome, none save their brothers and sisters in the Shallows.

  “I already said it was foolish, didn’t I?”

  “You were beaten in the streets?”

  She groaned, looking embarrassed. “There’s always someone stronger, Emre. Someone quicker.”

  “We’ll find them, then. Someone will talk if we lay out a bit of coin.”

  “You know very well that they won’t. No one in the Shallows is going to talk to you or me or anyone else, so get it out of your mind now.”

  “Why were you even there?”

  With supreme effort, she pulled herself higher until she was leaning against the headboard. “I was taking a shortcut. Now leave it alone.”

  Emre sat back in his seat, grimacing every bit as much as Çeda.

  Çeda looked at him and suddenly started to giggle, and when he looked at her, confused, it turned into a full-fledged laugh—how he loved the sound—and then she held her ribs, grimacing and laughing at the same time.

  “What?” he asked.

  “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Like two beaten dogs.”

  He chuckled at that, and in return she laughed even harder, though it was clearly causing her pain. Despite the pain, it felt good, the two of them, sitting here like this. They hadn’t talked—truly talked—in what felt like months.

  “And what of you?” she asked when their laughter had died down. “Do you remember anything from the other night?”

  He shrugged. “I made it to the southern harbor and met a man there, near the two-story warehouse, the one with the wind chimes.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  He shook his head as he fought to remember more beyond that early meeting. “He wore a veil. I don’t even remember hearing his voice. I spoke the words Tariq had said to, and he handed me the canister. Simple as that.”

  “And then?”

  He tried to remember, but the memories of that night were still lost to him, and the more he tried, the more confused he became. “I can’t recall.” He focused on her then. “It was you who saved me, wasn’t it?”

  She answered him with a sober nod. “I found you along the Haddah with two dead tribesmen nearby.”

  Her words reminded him of his dreams—lying there in the dry riverbed, the asir atop him, pressing its claws deeper and deeper into his chest.

  The dream was like a doorway leading to his memories—his real memories—of that night. Like a scroll being unrolled for the reading, more and more was revealed. The things he’d done, the cowardice he’d shown . . . Little wonder it had reminded him of his dead brother.

  “Emre? You remember, don’t you?”

  He looked at Çeda, not really seeing her, instead seeing a man lying on the ground, pleading with Emre to help him. But he hadn’t helped. He’d stared as if made of stone.

  “Emre, talk to me.”

  He couldn’t tell Çeda the truth. Were it anyone else, someone he didn’t care so much about, then perhaps, but not Çeda. So he did the only thing he could do: He lied, mixing in just enough truth so she wouldn’t suspect.

  “I was headed north from the harbor, and near Yerinde’s fount I heard someone following me. I ran, but there were two of them ahead.” He shook his head, feeling angry with himself. He should never have allowed himself to be caught so easily. “They trapped me near the ruins of Nalamae’s temple. I fought them, cut one across his legs, but not before I’d been cut myself. I ran and took to the canals, hoping I’d lose them, but one of them found me.” Emre stopped, the true memories of the night’s events echoing the lies like macabre shadows. “We fought and . . .”

  “What is it?” she asked, and when he didn’t respond, she reached out and took his hand.

  However warm her hand might be, it did little to banish the chill running through him. “It’s just that I’ve never . . . I’ve never killed anyone, Çeda.” It wasn’t the truth, but it was a truth, and for now, that would have to do.

  She squeezed his hand. “They would’ve killed you.”

  “I know.” He stood up from the bed with an awful grimace. “Can I get you anything?”

  “For what?”

  “For anything.”

  “No. Nothing.” Çeda frowned as her gaze flitted from him to her bedroom doorway. “Why? Where are you going?”

  “I need to get out of the house.”

  “Absolutely not. Your stitches, Emre.”

  He stopped at the archway. “Just up to the bazaar and back, I promise. I just need a bit of air.”

  She looked him up and down, then gave him a sharp nod.

  When he made it to the door and grabbed the handle, he heard Çeda say, “Mule,” from the other room, more than loud enough for him to hear.

  He smiled and opened the door. “Ass,” he shot back, and closed the door behind him.

  ÇEDA TRIED TO SLEEP, but that look on Emre’s face . . . He hadn’t merely looked afraid; he’d looked haunted. By what, she had no idea, but she could tell he hadn’t told her the whole story, which made her feel all the worse for lying to him as she had. But how could she tell him the truth?

  Yes, Emre, I opened the canister you’d promised to deliver safely and was caught by Osman doing it. You’re welcome.

  No matter that it had been partially due to worry over Emre that had driven her to open the case. It was still a betrayal of Osman’s trust in Emre, and Emre’s trust in her.

  After a while—forcing herself to a state of relaxation that also served to minimize the pain—she got up and poured herself a good helping of water from the large ewer she’d filled the day before. After removing her clothes—the ones she hadn’t had the strength or the will to take off the day before—she washed slowly and carefully, cataloging her wounds along the way. She had dozens of aches and scrapes and bruises, some deeply painful at the moment, but she’d received worse in the pits. The ribs she’d thought cracked seemed to be whole, if very tender.

  It was the marks on her face that were the worst, for they made a public statement. Few enough knew that Çeda had been working for Osman, and fewer still would know of Çeda’s betrayal, but for those who did, Osman wanted a visible reminder of what happened to those who crossed him, even those as close as Çeda had been to him.

  It was well over an hour before she finally managed to dress herself in a purple jalabiya, wrap herself in a black niqab, and veil her face. It was a rich dress, one she’d worn only twice since buying it a year ago, which was exactly why she chose it today. The fewer who recognized her over the next few days, the better. She didn’t want to answer questions about
it, and she didn’t want anyone asking Emre questions about it, either.

  She might have waited, given herself a chance to heal, but the stone she’d found in the canister, and the desert tribesmen that had tried to intercept it . . . it was all so strange, and she refused to let it rest.

  She considered waiting for Emre—he should have been back before now—but it was clear he wanted time alone. Let him have his space, she decided, as she headed out toward the bazaar. She glanced up at the sun while walking gingerly down the alley. Gods, she’d completely forgotten. Her second class met this afternoon. She’d send word. Osman or someone at the pits would probably inform them of her absence, but she owed them a message with her apologies.

  The crowd was not thick today, but there were enough wandering the lanes that she wasn’t conspicuous as she wound her way toward Tehla the bread baker’s stall. Tehla was crouching down, staring into the glowing red interior of an ancient brick oven that looked as though it had been built from bricks left over from the world’s making. Using a flat wooden peel, she expertly rotated four loaves of bread, turning the side that needed the most browning toward the low-banked flames.

  When she stood, she started at Çeda’s presence, and then smiled easily, her relief showing as she spun the peel with an experienced twist of showmanship and set it into its holder alongside the oven. “I’ve got some loaves nearly ready, and two are unspoken for. Or if flatbread is more to your taste, I’ve got some laced with fennel and coriander, and another—”

  She stopped, for Çeda had pulled down her veil, just enough for Tehla to see more of her face.

  “Nalamae’s teats, Çeda, what’s happened?”

  Çeda merely smiled. “Never you mind, my sweet. That’s not why I’ve come.”

  “Are you sure? I could fetch Seyhan. He sells a few poultices along with his spices.” Çeda merely shook her head, and Tehla nodded. She knew that Çeda had lived in Dardzada’s home for a time, and that being so, Çeda would know how to make anything that Seyhan could manage and much more besides.

  “I’ve come to ask about your brother,” Çeda said.

  “Yosan?”

  “Davud.”

  Tehla’s face pinched as the hot desert wind kicked up, lifting the roofs of the tents throughout the bazaar and tugging at her lazy curls. “What would you want with Davud?”

  “I have a few questions I’m trying to answer. He’s still apprenticing at the collegia, isn’t he?”

  Tehla’s look of confusion transformed into a bemused smile. “He is, Çeda. He is. But why—”

  “Can you get a message to him?”

  Çeda remembered Davud as a boy. He’d been an utter terror around the bazaar. Always running around, tipping over barrels, stealing bits of mince pie when he thought no one was looking, even running small scams on the visitors to the bazaar, a thing none of the vendors took a shining to. It had earned him more than one beating from the stall owners, a thing his father had grown angry about at first, but had eventually been reconciled to as long as no one beat him too badly. Even Tehla herself—one of the kindest women Çeda had ever known—had taken a switch to his backside more than once.

  But no one would deny that Davud had always been bright. When he’d finally got it into his skull that he’d eventually lose a finger or an eye to the Silver Spears if he didn’t stop, he’d started working at the family stall. Realizing he had a knack for numbers, his father gave over the money handling to Davud, and while he worked, he would tell stories, grand stories from poems he’d read. Everyone heard them from their parents, or from the storytellers up and down the Trough, but Davud had a way with words, and with drama. He remembered the tiniest details and would use nuances of voice and gesture to play out the piece in ways even the poet might never have thought of. Some even said he told stories better than old Ibrahim—a thing no one would tell Ibrahim to his face—and his skill became renowned. And one day it got him noticed.

  A master from the collegia’s scriptorium had come to try the honeymead biscuits he said he’d heard so much about, and instead of moving on, he’d stood there in his white, ankle-length habit, listening to Davud tell his story. When the story was done, he’d remained for a long while, and when Davud asked if he’d like to hear another, he’d merely shook his head and said he’d heard enough. He left soon after, and Davud had been disappointed, but the next week the master had returned and asked Davud’s father if he’d ever thought about entering him into the collegium historia.

  “We’ve no money for the collegia,” he’d told the master.

  The master, a man named Amalos, had merely bobbed his head and smiled. “Let me worry about that.”

  The change in Davud since then had been remarkable. Çeda hardly recognized the young man who strode in to the tea room she’d chosen for their meeting. The tea room itself was far enough from the bazaar that she doubted she’d see anyone from Roseridge, yet near enough to the Trough and the collegia that no one would raise an eyebrow if they were spotted together.

  Davud had grown. He had always been tall for his age, but now he was taller even than Emre. Where Emre was muscular, though, Davud was slender. He had bright brown eyes and a brighter smile, but more than this, he was composed and respectful, so different from his younger self. He stopped at the front of the house and spoke politely with the host, bowed his head at the host’s answers, revealing bright teeth as he smiled, and followed him to the low table where Çeda was sitting. She wore a cream-colored abaya and a matching shemagh that covered all but her eyes. His smile widened when he spotted her.

  As he wound his way through the patrons, ceiling fans turned lazily, squeaking ever so slightly over the roar of conversation. The fans—a must for the poshest establishments along and near the Trough—were powered by some ingenious, belted contraption commissioned by the owner to keep a breeze moving over the teahouse patrons. Many in the teahouse wore outlandish clothes—merchants and visitors especially. But their custom of wearing layers of heavy cloth would last no more than a week or two in this heat-baked city, little matter that it would be considered immodest in their homeland.

  When Davud reached Çeda’s table—the one farthest from prying ears—he bowed most formally and said, “A good day for old friends to meet!” He motioned to the table. “May I?”

  “Of course,” Çeda said, hiding a smile. Davud had been smitten with her when he was younger, and it was clearly still the case. A thing I’ll need to watch for. I want information, but it won’t do to have him mooning after me.

  Davud folded himself onto the pillows opposite Çeda, that wide, boyish smile still on his face. His smile vanished, however, when she pulled back her shemagh, revealing the bruises and cuts on her face. More than a week had passed since the attack. She was still sore in a few places, especially her ribs, but she was feeling much better after taking the time to let herself heal. She’d also stolen a few sips of Dardzada’s foul draught, what little she thought she could spare from Emre’s supply. It tasted like jackal shit, but there was no denying it helped the body heal. The bruises, though, were lingering. She’d thought of leaving her face hidden, to keep Davud from worrying, but it would be a rude gesture, and she didn’t wish for Davud to become uncomfortable when she was asking so much of him.

  “Çeda, what happened?”

  She waved away his concerns. “A disagreement with a particularly surly tree branch.”

  “A branch? A bough is more like it, and its older brothers as well!”

  “Well, in their defense, I was in a rather fiery state of mind. Likely I startled them.”

  Davud laughed, his look of concern fading. Çeda patted the pillows next to her, and he shifted so that the two of them were side by side, backs to the wall, each of them now with a wide view over the entire bustling room—an arrangement that let them keep their voices low and speak in relative privacy. But she was doubly pleased he wouldn
’t also be able to stare at her bruises every second of their meal.

  A young boy wearing a bright blue kufi came and stood next to the table, waiting patiently for Davud’s selection.

  “Order anything you like,” Çeda said over the din. “They have wonderful teas, dozens I haven’t even tried, from all corners of the world. And the owner’s husband is a wonderful chef. He has these pastries with berries that make your tongue tingle when you bite into them.”

  “Her tea smells wonderful,” Davud said, motioning to the beautiful inlaid teapot sitting before Çeda.

  “Orange peel with cinnamon and mace,” the boy replied easily.

  “And do you have any of those lotus seed buns?” He held out a hand, forming a circle with thumb and forefinger.

  The boy nodded, and when Davud held up three fingers, the boy bowed from the waist and fled to the back of the house. He returned a short while later with Davud’s tea, a painted porcelain cup, and a plate of three small pastries that were pasty white, perfectly round, and looked more akin to poisonous white mushroom caps than sweets you’d willingly pop into your mouth. But pop Davud did, stuffing the first one in whole and chewing it with relish. “Have you tried them?” he asked between the sticky smacking sounds.

  She shook her head. “They look foul.”

  “They’re from Mirea,” he said, and stuffed the second one into his mouth, “and they’re wonderful.”

  When Davud had wolfed all three sweets, the two of them sipped their tea as the sounds of the teahouse enveloped them. “I’ve never been,” Davud said, taking in the room. “It seems the Trough has new tea rooms and cafes and smoke dens sprouting up every week.”

  “That’s because it does.”

  “Which in a way is nice, isn’t it? Where else in the world can you get lotus seed buns and kefir and paella and grilled lemon octopus all in the same restaurant, much less the same city?”

  “The city provides,” Çeda said, the words traditional when discovering yet another new wonder in the byways of the Amber City.