A Veil of Spears Read online

  “Take care of yourself, Tariq.”

  Tariq seemed disappointed, more than Emre would have guessed, but then he nodded. “You as well, Emre.” And then he was gone, back to some rich place near the pits.

  Hopefully somewhere safe in the arms of a woman he loves, Emre thought as he strolled past the oud parlor. He recognized his thoughts for the foolishness they were. There was no such thing as a safe place in Sharakhai. Not anymore. Not for the Host, nor Osman and his crew. Even the innocent men and women who walked the streets each day were as likely to get bloodied as anyone else.

  Emre wandered the west end, making sure he wasn’t being followed. Only when he was sure it was safe did he head for the back of a weaver’s shop, stepping into the small yard from the back alley. A pair of women holding bows crouched on the roof, watching, waiting.

  Frail Lemi’s tall form lifted from behind a pile of crates. “You get it, Emre?”

  “I got it.”

  Even in the darkness Emre could see Frail Lemi’s wide grin. “We’ll be leaving soon, right?”

  “That’s right. Just need to talk to Macide about it.”

  “Right.” He balled his fists, released them. “Right. Best you do that, Emre. It’s important. Real important.”

  “I know, Lem.”

  Inside, twenty looms were spread across a mostly open space. Several men and women slept on the floor along one side, but on the other, near the door to an office, was Hamid’s stocky figure. He waved Emre over.

  When Emre reached the small office he was surprised to find a man he recognized, though not from his dealings with the Host. The thin man was sitting at the desk in voluminous purple robes and a beaten pakol the color of the desert sunrise atop his head. This was Adzin, the old soothsayer. Scattered over the desktop before him were more than a dozen scarabs. They crawled, constantly moving, skittering toward the edges of the desk. Whenever one came close, Adzin would reach over, pluck it up, and set it back in the center of the desk.

  Macide stood by the desk. Darius was there as well, plus several other men and women, elders of the Moonless Host. They all watched Adzin, transfixed.

  When Emre came closer to the table, Macide looked his way. “Emre,” he said with a note of relief. Gods, he looked terrible. Sunken eyes. Stooped posture. And on his face a look of worry and weariness that seemed wrong on a man who projected confidence at all times, and whose reserves of energy had always seemed bottomless. “We thought you might have been taken.”

  “No idle chitchat,” Adzin said, picking up another scarab and setting it practically on top of another. “Now is the time for haste.”

  When Macide glanced Adzin’s way, it was clear that, for now at least, worry was winning the war against weariness. “Come,” he waved to Emre, “tell Adzin your tale.”

  “Tariq came to the boneyard—”

  “From the beginning,” Adzin snapped. “In detail.”

  Macide nodded. “Start from your walk to the oud parlor.”

  Emre launched into the events of the evening, from his walk north through the city, to the people who went in and out of the oud parlor, to his uneventful watch from the boneyard’s archway.

  “Was there a sign above the oud parlor?” Adzin asked, his arms moving like a juggler’s, keeping all the scarabs in play. They had become more animated, moving with more speed, but Adzin kept pace with ease.

  “Yes,” Emre answered.

  “The device upon it?”

  “A rearing goat.”

  With those words, Adzin picked up one of the beetles, but instead of setting it down in some other place atop the desk, he popped it into his mouth and began to chew like it was a honey-coated almond from the spice market.

  Gods, the crunching sounds. Emre couldn’t help but grimace. He’d eaten a scarab once. On a dare. Çeda had told him she’d eat one if he did. When he said no, she’d raised her stakes to two as long as he ate his first. He still refused, but when she upped her bid to three, with Hamid and Tariq both watching, he’d finally agreed rather than lose face. He’d managed to get the squirming thing down, but only after retching a half-dozen times. He’d thought Çeda would stand and run, make it a big joke, but she hadn’t. Her face screwed up as she summoned her courage, she’d picked all three up and shoved them in her mouth. Her eyes had watered, but she’d chewed as if she were on a mission to save the world.

  Afterward, she’d opened her mouth after to prove she’d eaten every last bit. Emre was already queasy, and the sight had pushed his stomach over the edge. He’d thrown up right there on the dusty street, to the laughter of all his friends, none louder than Çeda’s.

  Emre stared in horror as Adzin continued to chew, until Macide made a hurrying motion with his hands. Emre told them about the sober men marching in, the drunks stumbling out.

  “The songs being sung?” Adzin asked when he mentioned the music coming from the oud parlor.

  Emre had to think. “‘The Trollop and the Tinker.’ ‘The Beggar King of Ashdankaat.’”

  Another scarab popped into Adzin’s mouth like a Savadi treat. “The sorts of graves?” he asked when Emre came to the boneyard.

  “Old. Tightly packed. Crumbling pillars.”

  Another beetle, the crunching sound making Emre’s teeth itch.

  And so it went, Emre talking, Adzin downing more of the beetles until only three were left. Adzin inspected them very carefully, moving closer until they were mere inches from his face. “How long did the two of you speak?”

  At this Emre paused. If he told the truth, Macide might wonder why they’d chatted so long, whereas a lie might doom the entire undertaking. “A quarter turn, perhaps.”

  Macide turned to Emre, his gaze becoming more intent, but he remained silent.

  “So long?” Adzin pressed.

  “We grew up together,” Emre said.

  Adzin shrugged, then picked up both remaining scarabs, one in each hand. “Lastly, the appointed time you were told to meet the ship.”

  “An hour before sunrise.”

  The scarabs crawled over Adzin’s fingers, and he flipped his hands back and forth like a Mirean teacup dancer. “And so we arrive at your two choices,” he said to Macide. “Do you take the offered ship or do you steal a ship of your own?”

  Macide watched Adzin and the scarabs intently. “That’s why we’ve come to you!”

  He held his hands out to Macide. “That is for you to choose. But know this: Lives will be lost either way, and on one of the paths, yours is lost.”

  Macide blinked. He licked his lips. Emre had never seen him look so haggard. “If I die, will more live?”

  Adzin pulled his gaze up from the scarabs to stare deeply into Macide’s eyes. “If I delve too deeply, Macide Ishaq’ava, it will foul everything. I’ve given you all I can give.”

  Macide closed his eyes, took a deep breath. As he released it, he opened his eyes, plucked the scarab from Adzin’s right hand, and stuffed it into his mouth. As he chewed and swallowed, Adzin studied the one remaining scarab. “The decision is made,” he said. “Take the ship that was offered.”

  Macide looked to the rest of those gathered. “We’ll rest for a time, then head to the harbor. Hamid and Emre, come with me.”

  The three of them took the stairs up to the roof. The two archers Emre had spotted earlier bowed their heads to Macide, but at a wave from him they cleared the roof.

  Hamid began speaking as soon as they were gone. “I still think we should—”

  But at Macide’s raised his hand, Hamid’s words trailed off and his expression turned to one of sullen silence.

  “Do you know why we chose Adzin for this?” Macide asked Hamid.

  “Because he can see the future,” came Hamid’s sharp reply.

  “There is that”—Macide shrugged, the weariness in him showing even in that one smal
l gesture—“but Adzin cannot know all. His divinations have been known to fail, or only proved accurate using the narrowest of interpretations.”

  “Then why use him at all?” Hamid pressed.

  “Because we are nearly done here. With Hamzakiir’s spies and the King of Whispers hounding us, we won’t last long. There’s no shame in retreat, my young falcons, as long as the fight is kept alive. We must make sure of it, the three of us. Now.”

  “What can we do?”

  He motioned downward, indicating the room below. “We’ve spoken now. Despite all our preparations, the King of Whispers may have heard us, or the Jade-eyed King may have seen it, perhaps written of it before he died. We cannot know. But we must get as many safely out of Sharakhai as we can. So I ask that you two stage an attack on a ship as planned. Take the ship if you can, retreat on skiffs if not, then meet us in the desert.”

  He didn’t say where the Host were gathering; he’d shown them the name three days ago then burned the paper: Faramosh, a large oasis beyond the caravanserai of Tiazet in the far eastern corner of the Shangazi. It was where most of the higher ranking members of the host were headed, Macide among them. Others were headed elsewhere, returning to life among the desert tribes where they could act as spies or garner support. At the least, they’d help stem the flow of blood that Hamzakiir was exacting from the Moonless Host.

  It was hard to remember what a tremendous victory they’d achieved on the Night of Endless Swords, especially knowing how few had remained loyal to Macide and his father, Ishaq. But the greater the victory, the more desperate the enemy. They’d always known a terrible storm would descend; now that it had come, they had to weather it as best they could.

  “Take another man each,” Macide told them, and before they could protest: “It’s all we can afford.” Then he left them to talk and to plan.

  Two others, Emre thought. Gods, there were few enough in Sharakhai left, and he knew this was only a feint to throw the Kings off their scent, but this was suicide.

  “Let’s go,” Hamid said sharply, his voice, at least, still full of fire.

  They went down to ground level and chose Frail Lemi and Darius to join them. Darius seemed appropriately afraid when they told him. Frail Lemi, however, looked as though it were nothing more than stealing a pile of copper khet from a lone, blind beggar. “Which ship?” he asked, stretching his neck as if he were about to fight.

  “Doesn’t much matter,” Hamid replied, and off they went, heading for the southern harbor by way of the Corona, the street that hugged the outskirts of the city.

  “Which one, though?” Lemi called from behind them, confused.

  “I’ll show you when we get there,” Emre replied. “Strange how Tariq was acting tonight,” he said to Hamid, who jogged by his side. “Offered me a place with Osman if I stayed.”

  Hamid glanced his way with a self-satisfied grin. “For as much hot air as came out that jackass mouth of his, he was always soft.”

  Emre shrugged. Tariq had always felt like a brother to him, more so than Hamid. Tariq had gotten Emre out of plenty of scrapes; little matter that he’d gotten him into half of them. It made Tariq’s offer all the more curious.

  Frail Lemi caught up to them, looking like he had something important to say. “I know Tariq.” They ignored him, hoping he wouldn’t launch into a litany of the times he’d seen him. It was a thing Frail Lemi did often, as if it showed how good his memory was. “Gets around, Tariq does.”

  Hamid and Darius remained silent, their pace steady, but Emre began to slow, and when he stopped, Frail Lemi did too.

  “What did you say?” he asked Lemi.

  “Tariq. He gets around.”

  Darius and Hamid had started walking back. Hamid glowered at both of them. “This is no time for your nonsense!”

  Emre raised a hand, focusing squarely on Frail Lemi. “What are you talking about, Lem?”

  “He came by Adzin’s ship when Darius and I were watching it.”

  All eyes turned to Darius.

  “That true?” Hamid asked.

  Darius shook his head. “No.”

  “Sure,” Lemi countered. “When you were off taking a piss.”

  A stunned silence fell over their group.

  Darius looked aghast. “Nalamae’s teats, Lemi, why didn’t you say something?”

  Emre and Hamid shared a look.

  “We’ve got to find him,” Emre said.

  “We have orders,” Hamid shot back.

  “Not anymore we don’t.” Emre was running toward the Well, where Osman’s pits were situated. “I smell a rat, Hamid. Best we find it before it leads the Kings right to us!”

  “Gods damn you, Emre,” Hamid rasped, “come back!”

  But Emre kept running, and the others soon followed.

  Chapter 9

  RAMAHD WALKED ALONG a busy street in the Shallows with Amaryllis by his side. Cicio led the way, fixing anyone who came near with that dead-eye stare of his, daring them to challenge him. Vrago, his long hair pulled into a ponytail, brought up the rear, his peacock strut on full display.

  Amaryllis tipped her head to an alley on their right. “Right there.”

  Without slowing, Ramahd shot a glance down the alley. A dozen paces up, three toughs squatted in the dirt, playing bones. One whipped the dice against the wall, then grinned as he took half the coins from the pile of copper near his feet. The other two hung their heads and groaned.

  “They’re the ones who stopped you?” Ramahd asked. The day before, Amaryllis, Cicio, and Vrago had come on Ramahd’s orders to get Tiron, but they’d been stopped by the toughs who ran the drug den.

  Amaryllis nodded. “Those three and one more. He’s probably inside, tending the addicts.”

  A year ago he would have walked right up to them and demanded to know where Tiron was, but this business with King Kiral had made him nervous. The last thing he and Meryam needed were rumors that Qaimir was starting trouble in the streets. “There’s another entrance?”

  Amaryllis pointed up the street. “Around the back.”

  They continued to the choked intersection, the crowd squeezing past an open area where tourists and fools were tossing money at a con artist sliding chipped ivory bowls over the dusty street. Ramahd and the others pushed past, then continued until they’d reached a small courtyard selling incense and scarves and vests. They got dirty looks from the vendor and her husband as they pushed through the stall and headed for a gap between the buildings. A boy wearing a dusty woolen cap was leaning against the wall, whittling a stick into the form of a snake. The vendor’s son, perhaps, but he was blocking their way.

  “Best move on,” Ramahd said.

  Wide-eyed, the boy made way, and Ramahd, Amaryllis, Cicio, and Vrago squeezed themselves into an alley barely wide enough for them to sidle along. They reached a window with boards nailed haphazardly across it. Ramahd took out his stout knife and pried the lower boards off. Ducking low, he angled himself in, knife at the ready as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  The smell in the room was thick. A haze of lotus smoke hung below the ceiling like a rare winter fog passing over the city. All about the ramshackle room, dozens of men and women, a few children as well, lay sprawled across the dirt floor in varying states of delirious repose. Some leaned against walls or corners. Others sat cross-legged or with one leg stretched out, heads lolling as they rode the dark waves of the lotus. Most simply lay on the floor, eyelids heavy as they stared at the ceiling. Their limbs occasionally twitched.

  A few paces from Ramahd, close to a broken set of stairs leading up, sat a massive shisha with eight tubes snaking out from it. Six were occupied. A woman sat near it, a beaten tin cup sitting forgotten between her legs. Her eyes were the most alert of those lying about the room. Even so, when she turned to Ramahd it took several long seconds before her gaze drifted d
own to his knife.

  The whites of her eyes shone as she snatched up her tin cup and began to rise. She stopped, however, when Ramahd put a hand on her shoulder. Words of alarm died on her lips as Ramahd tapped the blade of his knife against his lips and made a long shushing sound. The woman dragged her gaze to Amaryllis, then to Cicio, who had folded himself practically in two to slip through the window. After a pointed stare toward the front door where, just outside, the three toughs were still playing at bones, she lowered herself back down.

  The four of them moved quickly after that, searching for Tiron in the choked rooms along the ground floor. Then Ramahd pointed upstairs and motioned for Amaryllis to follow. Cicio and Vrago remained at the foot of the stairs, fighting knives drawn.

  The stairs groaned as Amaryllis and Ramahd headed up. Near the top, another tough with a shaved head met them.

  “Hey!” he shouted, reaching for the long knife at his side. “Hey!”

  Ramahd charged, grabbed his sword arm, and punched him hard in the throat. The tough coughed and tried to snatch Ramahd’s shirt, but he’d lost his leverage. Ramahd shoved him hard against the wall, one forearm pressed against his throat while holding the knife to the man’s stubbly cheek. The tip came to rest along his twitching eyelid.

  Amaryllis checked the four adjoining rooms for Tiron. “He’s not here!”

  “Was this one here yesterday?” Ramahd asked her in Qaimiri, indicating the tough he was holding.

  “I wasn’t—” the man began.

  “I asked the lady.”

  “He wasn’t here,” Amaryllis replied.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she snapped, annoyed.

  “Down,” Ramahd said in Sharakhan. The young tough looked petrified, but he didn’t move a muscle. Ramahd hooked his ankle and threw him to the floor. He fell with a thud, grunting, but remained silent.