When Jackals Storm the Walls Read online

  When Nebahat had questioned him, Altan had spoken a name: Cassandra, another student at the collegia. She was a charming young woman with straight black hair, a pert chin, and a nose slightly too big for her face. Her glow was bright. Not so bright as some, certainly nothing like Altan’s, but it was pretty enough. Willem took to watching her as she walked along the halls of her dormitory. He watched her eating dates and cheese on the esplanade with the other students. He watched her sneaking out to visit the oud parlors along the Trough. He watched her studying the texts of history in the halls of records and jotting notes into a small book with a finger on the page of whatever massive tome happened to be laid in front of her.

  Nebahat had asked Altan who he’d spoken with about his findings.

  What findings? Willem wondered.

  Those were the key. Altan’s findings had led Nebahat to summon him. They were the reason Nebahat had sent Altan away. They were the reason the glimmer around Altan had dimmed, a clear sign of impending death. And Cassandra had been part of it. Watch her long enough, Willem thought, and he would find out what it was.

  “Today,” Cassandra was saying to her study mate, who sat across the table from her inside the collegia’s largest library.

  Willem watched them from a dark passageway behind one of the floor-to-ceiling shelves. The tiny door through which he peered was built just high enough that he could see over the books to their table.

  “What?” the other said absently. She was a dull woman who hardly glowed at all, but basked in the glow of others.

  Like you, a voice whispered in Willem’s ear.

  No, Willem thought. I would glow if I could. It’s just, I’m not allowed to shine.

  “The battle of the books,” Cassandra explained. “It starts again today.”

  Willem sat perfectly still. This was precisely what he’d been waiting for. Why else would the glow around Cassandra have changed so much? With those words the light around her had become scintillant, shifting toward green. And it fractured more, like a gemstone under firelight.

  “Have they found Altan?” the other student asked.

  “No. I think he’s chasing after that boy he met.”

  “And you don’t think he’d tell anyone about it?”

  Cassandra shrugged. “Boys do strange things for love. All I know is Altan’s gone and I’m the one left to pick up the pieces. He started two months before I did. He had all the house names in his head, who married whom, which children came from which mothers.”

  “How dull.”

  “You’ve no idea. It’s like following trails in a dung beetle’s nest,” Cassandra said. “It’s enough to drive a woman to drink.”

  The other woman laughed. “As if you didn’t drink already.”

  Cassandra’s lips curled in a lascivious smile. “I didn’t realize you were watching me so closely. Perhaps you want to come by my room tonight and watch me some more.”

  “You’re such a whore,” the other whispered, then added, “What time?”

  Both of them laughed, which elicited a thorough shushing from the harridan sitting behind the central desk.

  “I don’t see why the chancellor cares,” the dull one said a while later.

  To which Cassandra shrugged. “He said the records were incomplete.” Cassandra stiffened her back and made her voice go mockingly low. “Lineage is important. We should know who the members of the thirteenth tribe are, particularly among the highborn.” She relaxed and leaned over her book. “But I think the orders are coming from the Kings.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Who was it that ordered the thirteenth tribe to be murdered in the first place? Who fears their return to Sharakhai with the rest of the tribes at their back? Likely whoever it is wants to know who they can use as bargaining chips when the day comes. Or perhaps they plan to massacre the people of the thirteenth tribe, like they did after Beht Ihman. Who knows?” Cassandra, whose face had shown more and more annoyance, slapped several large books closed. “I can’t concentrate. I might as well head over there now.”

  Cassandra left, the glimmering around her brighter than ever. Willem didn’t bother scrabbling up to the roof to watch where she was going. He knew perfectly well she was headed to the hall of records. After closing the tiny door in the shelves, he paced seventeen steps to his left, took the spiraling stairs down to the longest of the collegia’s underground tunnels, and flew along it until he felt the telltale curving that indicated he was close to the hall of records.

  He climbed the seven flights to the hall’s uppermost floor, the one set aside for records of marriage and birth, and reached his usual hiding spot behind an iron grate. Eventually Cassandra walked into the hall, approached a rolling cart, and began sorting through a massive stack of books that Altan had compiled before his abrupt departure.

  For several hours, Willem watched Cassandra read through the books, tracing the roots of lineage from the days of Beht Ihman to modern-day Sharakhai, trying to identify the descendants of the thirteenth tribe. Willem could tell her at least forty of them. He adored tales of lineage, not because he thought there was power inherent in blood, as so many others did, but because it held so much sway over life in the desert. He’d spent several months in this very hall, poring over the same tomes Cassandra had stacked before her now.

  But he’d spit at Bakhi’s feet before he gave Cassandra anything. This was what had got Altan killed.

  Willem felt a tug inside him. It was a summons from Nebahat, a summons he couldn’t refuse. He could delay it, though. And delay he would. His anger over all that had happened, for what might still happen—more bright lights of gifted students being snuffed out—gave him the strength he needed to deny Nebahat’s call.

  Even so, Nebahat was impatient today. After only a short pause, the summons came again. Willem was about to leave when he noticed something most strange. Another light. A bright one. Bright like Altan’s. Brighter maybe.

  It floated through the room, wavering ever closer to the table where Cassandra sat. It hovered in the air behind her, as if someone were reading over her shoulder.

  And then Willem realized he knew that light, though he hadn’t seen it in over two years. The last time was during the graduation ceremony just before the massacre, the one led by the Moonless Host and orchestrated by the blood mage, Hamzakiir. How Willem had wept that day. How he’d grieved for those lost souls, taken before their time.

  He’d thought Davud had been taken just like the rest, but he hadn’t. Here he was even though Willem couldn’t see him. The question of how he’d survived flared in Willem’s mind, but it was dimmed by the sheer joy of seeing his light shine once more. More important than how he’d lived was the question of what he was doing here. How was it that he’d come to watch Cassandra just as Willem was? Did he know about the list of descendants? Did he know about Altan?

  Willem wanted to wait and find out, but just then Nebahat called again, and this time it was painful. Willem gave one last look at the hovering light, picturing Davud bending down over the pages of Cassandra’s book, then left, moving silently, returning to the darkness of the collegia’s hidden arteries.

  When Willem reached the hidden archives, Nebahat asked, “Where were you?” in that way of his, a calm manner that made it perfectly clear he expected the truth, and quickly, or Willem would be punished.

  Nebahat had always taken solace from the fact that Willem was forbidden from lying. He’d never guessed Willem had learned ways of telling the truth without telling the whole truth. Using his most typical reply, Willem put his palms together and unfolded them, like the covers of a book falling open, a thing that might be interpreted as him reading or going to the hall of records or any number of other activities. Most often, Nebahat didn’t much care what Willem had been doing, only that he’d been inconvenienced by Willem’s late arrival.

  S
cratching his chin absently, Nebahat sat behind his desk near the hearth, unfolded a wrap of cloth, and took out half of a massive sandwich of meat and cheese and what looked to be dried tomatoes. After taking a large bite, he spoke, the words muffled by the food. “Did you get the texts I asked for?”

  Willem’s mouth watered. He wanted desperately to return to the room where Davud was but he could hardly take his eyes off the airy crumb of the bread, the creamy golden hue of the cheese.

  “Yes, yes, I brought some for you as well,” Nebahat said, and held out the other half of the sandwich.

  Willem shook his head. He felt his face go red a moment later as his stomach rumbled. Luckily Nebahat seemed more preoccupied than normal and took no note of it.

  “Did you get the texts?”

  Bowing, Willem motioned to the nearest of the tables that complicated the archive’s central, open space.

  “Very well.” Nebahat chewed, and proceeded, as he often did after one of his forays into the city, to rattle off a series of alchemycal agents that he required, including the amounts for each. This time the list included copper filings, sand drake scales, and lye, three of the primary ingredients used to create a potion that could lure and pacify an efrit, at least long enough to extract a favor from it. Dealing in such things was a specialty of Undosu, another blood mage and a member of the Enclave, a group of magi who’d formed primarily for mutual protection against the Kings, to share in knowledge, but also to do precisely what Nebahat was asking of Willem: gather and distribute the rare ingredients necessary for the creation of certain serums, potions, and elixirs.

  Though Nebahat had never volunteered it, Willem knew he was a member of the Enclave as well—a high ranking member, in fact, one of the inner circle. Only three others held that title, one of them being Undosu. Even with all Nebahat had done to him, Willem had taken pride in Nebahat’s achievement. Willem might be a lowly servant (some might call him a slave) but he was working for one of the most powerful men in Sharakhai—no, in the entire Shangazi Desert.

  Since Altan had left, however, Nebahat’s light had taken on a different hue. His light still shone strongly, but it was now ominous. Dangerous. Willem had despaired in the days after Altan’s departure, thinking he’d failed to recognize the signs of Nebahat’s evil nature, but after pondering it, he reckoned it must be due to the recent changes, the chancellor’s sudden interest in the descendants of the thirteenth tribe.

  The notion that he hadn’t been serving a murderer his entire life made Willem feel better, but it did nothing to ease the sting of Altan’s death.

  “Well, if you’re not going to eat,” Nebahat said, “you might as well get to it.”

  With a nod and a bow, and one last longing look toward the half sandwich he was leaving behind, Willem stepped backward until he reached the darkened tunnel outside the secret archives. Then he was sprinting headlong for the hall of records. Gods help him, he considered taking a shortcut over the lawns of the collegia grounds, but one of his many compulsions forced him to remain hidden, to keep his life in the collegia secret from everyone, so he kept to the dark, winding ways and eventually returned to the space behind the iron grate.

  He was breathing heavily, something he always made sure to let subside before approaching a peep hole. Not this time, though, and his heavy breathing made Cassandra look up. It was a terrible, terrible mistake. But for once he didn’t care, because Davud was gone, and he’d taken his light with him.

  Chapter 15

  DEEP IN THE DESERT, Emre stared as the crowd parted before him, revealing Hamid, Frail Lemi, and a woman in a wheat-colored battle dress who it took Emre a moment to recognize as Sirendra.

  Hamid, clearly confused and angry, addressed Shaikh Neylana, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Neylana waved to Emre. “This man, Emre Aykan’ava, has filed a grievance against you. He came to me on a skiff, but he was wounded, nearly dead of exhaustion, exposure, and malnutrition. He claims to have been attacked while on his way to rendezvous with a ship named the Amaranth”—she pointed over Hamid’s shoulder—“the very ship you now sail.”

  Hamid stared with those sleepy eyes of his. He looked heavier than when Emre had last seen him. Or maybe it was just that Emre’s memories had distorted, turning the man who’d tried to kill him into a mad, twisted creature like the asirim. Except the asirim, even the worst among them, have more humanity than you, Hamid.

  Hamid was still staring at Emre, his mouth working, no words coming out. “Perhaps we should retire to our ships to discuss this,” he finally managed.

  He was looking at Emre, but the words were meant for Neylana.

  “No,” she said flatly. “Emre has leveled dire claims against you. They will be settled here, now.”

  “Any grievance Emre has should be brought before our shaikh.”

  “The alleged crime was not committed in Tribe Khiyanat’s territory, but on Halarijan’s. Therefore, you will be tried here, by us.” She waved to the other shaikhs.

  “What does he claim?” Hamid asked.

  Neylana had requested that Emre remain silent, but he couldn’t. “That you attacked me without provocation.” He strode forward as he spoke. “That you dug a hole and threw me into it. That you buried me alive.” He stopped beside Neylana, hoping Hamid wouldn’t see how terrified he was. Not a day passed that he didn’t relive those harrowing moments when he thought he was going to die, and now the fear buried deep within his psyche was storming up, blowing like a foul wind, threatening to send him into a panic. He calmed his breathing, stilled his quavering hands. “You sought to murder me in cold blood for actions that saved Sharakhai from the Malasani threat.”

  “A lie!” Hamid took in all those watching with a look of shock. “I don’t know what happened to you, Emre, but that isn’t true. After leaving camp on that skiff with King bloody Ihsan, you never came back. We waited, but the Malasani fleet was on the hunt for us and we were forced to leave. We thought Ihsan must have killed you, or you were taken by the Silver Spears!”

  “No,” Emre said. “Darius was there. Frail Lemi was, too.”

  Hamid turned to Frail Lemi, who was staring at Emre in naked wonder, his jaw hanging open like a winded jackal. “Do you remember us looking for Emre?”

  Frail Lemi nodded. “We looked, Emre. I swear we did.”

  “I know, Lem. It wasn’t you. I heard them rushing to keep you from reaching from the grotto where I landed my skiff. You couldn’t have known.”

  Hamid, seeing how hard Frail Lemi was trying to piece together the past, turned to him. “Don’t believe a word he says, Lemi. You remember how he was. Wrong about Haddad. Wrong about King Emir. Wrong about King Ihsan.”

  Frail Lemi’s brow creased even more. He looked like a child who’d taken a wrong turn and become lost in a bad neighborhood and was desperately trying to retrace his steps.

  Sirendra looked warily between Hamid and Emre. “If it went as you said,” she said to Emre, “how did you escape?”

  “By the grace of the gods.”

  Emre had been in a state of panic as Hamid and Darius threw shovelfuls of sand on top of him. Emre had felt it pressing down on him, but the layer of sand must not have been very thick by the time Frail Lemi interrupted them. Emre had fallen unconscious shortly after. The air seeping in from the surface above must have been enough for him to breathe. He’d awoken some time later in darkness, and his panic had risen to new heights. No longer stunned from the blow to the back of his head, he’d been able to twist and writhe and work enough of the sand around him that he could take proper breaths. Finally he’d been able to squirm like a rattlewing grub, up from his sandy grave, and untie his bonds.

  Hamid spread his arms like some magnanimous lord to the masses. “We’ll call Darius here. You can question him yourself. He’ll confirm he has no memory of this.”

  “He is your lover, is he no
t?” Neylana asked.

  “He is, but no one is more trustworthy than Darius.”

  “It matters not,” Neylana said. “Emre has asked for, and been granted, trial by combat.”

  Hamid was staring hard at Neylana. Emre was certain he was about to deny her—why should Hamid fight? He had the upper hand—when his gaze shifted to Emre. Pain was building at the back of Emre’s skull, where Darius had struck him with the shovel. Despite Emre’s attempts to hide it, the pain was starting to show through. One eye pinched shut as a particularly sharp wave of pain passed along the left side of his head. It set his hands to shaking. Hamid was surely oblivious to Emre’s condition—he couldn’t know that Emre had suffered from debilitating headaches since freeing himself—but he guessed some of it. His smug expression was proof of that.

  “I accept,” he said.

  Neylana, perhaps expecting more pushback, paused, then said, “Very well.”

  Within the circle of ships, the warriors of Tribe Halarijan created a clearing ten paces across and stood with spears at the ready, a makeshift arena in which Emre and Hamid would fight.

  Hamid stepped into the clearing and drew his shamshir. As Emre followed, Darius rushed between a ketch and a ramshackle galleon. When he saw what was happening, he raised his arms, his good one going higher than his injured one, and yelled, “Hamid, no!”

  But Hamid merely raised one hand. “Don’t worry, Darius.” He smiled and flourished his blade. “This will all be over in a minute.”

  As Emre was stepping between two of the warriors to enter the makeshift arena, his eyes met Darius’s. Darius betrayed himself in that moment, a look of shame overcoming him, but a moment later it was gone and his fearful eyes swung back to Hamid.