Chapter 20
The night air carried the scent of roast meat and spiced wine, rising from the courtyard below in visible waves of warmth. The merchant estate blazed with torchlight, every window aglow, every door thrown open in celebration. Laughter and music spilled into the darkness like stolen gold.
On the rooftop above, Nyraxa Varkesh lay flat against the tiles, her dark clothing making her near invisible in the moonless night.
Beside her, stretched in either direction along the ridge line, her girls waited, fifteen of them, the best she had, each one with their hair and mouth wrapped, eyes lined, and harnesses stocked.
They slipped in the upper room windows, crouching and crawling until they were directly above the main gathering. Through the gaps in the wooden floorboards, the banquet unfolded like a stage play.
Merchants in Kemetian linen and Thessaran satin crowded around low tables piled high with roasted fowl, honeyed dates, and bread still steaming from the ovens.
Servants wove between them, refilling cups with wine that had travelled further than most men ever would.
At the head of the hall, on a raised platform that marked him as master of this house, sat a man with a booming laugh and rings on every finger.
He raised his cup.
"To Orda Naiman!" His voice carried, thick with wine and satisfaction. "May his shadow stretch across the Grass Sea and his name be feared from Kuraltai to Kemet!"
The hall echoed his toast, cups lifted, and wine poured in libation. Men laughed and clapped each other on the shoulders, already counting the coin this alliance would bring.
Nyraxa's lips curved.
Orda Naiman. The warlord who had been making noise in the north, swallowing territory as if it were beads, growing fat on the fear and chaos he caused. The same Orda Naiman had somehow found allies here, in Tarsyn.
She looked left, then right. Caught the eyes of her girls—Zara, Yelena, and little Amara with her knife already in hand. They nodded, one by one.
She raised three fingers.
One.
Below, the host was telling a story, his hands gesturing expansively, his audience laughing on cue.
Two.
“—And of course!” The host howled. “To the King of Kings!”
Three.
Nyraxa's fingers closed into a fist.
They dropped through the roof, the sound of wood splintering disrupting the jubilation.
The first anyone understood of the attack was the scream—high and cut short as Zara's blade found the throat of the guard nearest the door. He crumpled without a sound, his blood painting the wall behind him.
Then the torches went out.
Nyraxa had planned it that way—her girls positioned above the lamps, ready to smother them at her signal. Darkness fell, disorienting the prey in the room, sealing their victory.
You can't kill what you can't see. Nyraxa had taught them that. And you can't fight what you can't find.
In the chaos, her girls moved like wraiths.
Deadly, vicious, and stunning. Amara worked the edges, her small frame slipping between panicked merchants, her knife finding kidneys and throats with sharp brutality.
She was seventeen, the youngest of Nyraxa's inner circle, and she killed like she'd been born to bring about Ukhel’s will.
Yelena took the centre. Men swung at shadows and hit nothing; she swung at flesh and never missed. Zara guarded the exits, gutting anyone that tried to run, be they merchant or customer, slave or free man.
Nyraxa walked through the slaughter. Her blade was in her hand, but she barely used it, finding her girls more than capable of taking care of mere men.
Twelve guards down.
Fourteen.
Nyraxa noted. The merchant's personal protectors are rallying by the platform—Yelena sees them.
The host himself had crawled under his table, his fine robes dragging through spilled wine and worse. Nyraxa could see him there, a lump of terror, rings glinting in the faint light from the dying embers of the torches that lined the walls.
She crouched, her head tilting to peer beneath.
"Come out," she said pleasantly. "I won't bite."
The merchant whimpered.
Nyraxa sighed, reached under, and dragged him out by his hair.
He was heavier than he looked, but she'd hauled worse. She deposited him in the centre of the hall, amid the bodies of his guards and guests, and stood over him with her blade resting casually against his throat.
The torches flickered back to life now that the killing was done.
Amara wiped her knife on a dead man's robes, restocking her harness, unwilling to part with her precious silver.
"Now then," Nyraxa said, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Let's talk about Orda Naiman."
He talked. The words poured out of him like wine from a shattered amphora: names, dates, quantities, destinations. Weapons moving north. Coin moving south. Information flowing both directions like blood through veins.
Nyraxa listened, and when he finally ran dry, she thanked him politely and cut his throat.
She rose, stepping over his corpse, and crossed to where Zara was studying the ledgers, retrieved from inner rooms by torchlight.
"Well?"
Zara looked up, her expression unreadable. "There's more here than just trade agreements."
"Show me."
Zara pointed to a series of entries in the margin—notations in a different hand. "These are correspondence records. The letters may be gone but it seems they kept this bit of evidence. Someone's been writing to them; it seems this one was on the day of the ambush."
Nyraxa's blood went cold. "Kasimir."
"Looks like it." Zara flipped pages. "These match his handwriting from the messages we found. But there's something else." She pointed to a different set of notations. "These records don’t match; they aren’t from him."
Nyraxa leaned closer. “Did they burn those ones?”
Zara’s eyes glinted. “Naturally, they weren’t that smart.”
A letter found its way to Nyraxa’s hand. The script was elegant and flowing—a woman's hand, unless she was mistaken. The notations were sparse but it was signed with a small drawing of a viper.
“Borjigin?” She guessed. “In the shape of an O.”
"I am a bit concerned; the letter references something I’ve not heard before," Yelena said, appearing at Nyraxa's shoulder. "Invocation?"
Nyraxa stared at the writing. "Invoking the god of the Udamili. Opening the Third Gate.”
But even as she said it, something niggled at the back of her mind. "Copy these pages," she ordered. "All of them. I want every notation, every marginal note, every scratch that might mean something. Send a set to the Great Khan; he might wish to call Varok."
Zara nodded, already reaching for fresh parchment.
With a little pressure, the skull crumpled in on itself. Grey and white matter oozed out and mixed with the blood of its owner.
The Djinn stood in the centre of the room, his chest heaving, his onyx claws dripping.
At his feet, the slave trader's body dropped, his blood mixing with the filth on the floor.
The man had begged, of course. They always begged.
They never seemed to understand that the begging only reminded him why he'd come.
Glowing blue eyes swept the room.
Steel cages were stacked three high on every side.
In the dark he could clearly see the watery eyes of children, their bodies pressed against the black wall as fear wracked their bones.
Borjigin children. All of them. Their skin, their features, the shape of their bones, some even Anyali, but those seemed to be stored in their own cages, special merchandise.
They cowered as his gaze passed over them. Some whimpered, but most were simply silent, as they had long since learned that sound brought only more pain.
He did not speak to them. He could not. What words existed for this? Should he apologise for their oversight? Even then, the only reason he felt compelled to apologise was because they were Borjigin children, who should’ve been protected by their own laws.
Behind him, the door crashed open.
The Elder of Justice filled the frame, his sword drawn, his men fanning out behind him. He stopped as the stench hit him, making him heave.
The room was a slaughterhouse. Blood sprayed the walls, pooled on the floor, and painted the cage railings. And in the centre of it, a creature out of a nightmare—tall, scaled, horned, tail lashing—stood amid the carnage like a god of vengeance given flesh.
The Elder's sword lowered slightly. His eyes found the children.
His own people. His own blood. Trafficked like animals, caged like beasts, waiting to be sold to foreigners, to unknown fates.
A laugh escaped the Elder's lips. It was not a pleasant sound—ragged, broken, rising from somewhere deep and wounded. He laughed and laughed, and when he stopped, his face settled into something cold.
"You couldn’t wait, could you?" He asked; his voice would’ve struck fear into the hearts of normal men. "Your Highness?"
The Djinn’s glowing eyes sent a chill down his men’s spines. "My Kihaana wished to impeach him today; you were taking too long."
The elder held his gaze, then pulled away. "Send word to the Igwe. Sound the gong." His voice was iron. "And send a detachment to the Iyom's family home. Arrest him. If he resists, kill him."
The men hesitated only a moment—long enough to register the order, long enough to understand what it meant. Then they scattered.
The Elder turned back to the children who stared at him, shaking so badly the whole room rattled.
"We've come to save you," he said quietly. "Thanks to his Highness’s grace."
The children turned to look at the Djinn, his bones snapping as his height decreased by a few inches. His scaled arms returned to their usual brown, and the blue light in his eyes faded.
It was best they remembered his human face, rather than the other.
“Inspect and clear this place,” Borji ordered. “I will return soon enough.”
Chidinma moved one inch at a time. Somadina's breathing continued its deep, satisfied rhythm behind her, undisturbed as she climbed out of bed.