Chapter 9 #6
Pirates. Apprehension snaked through my body.
Those weren’t my men: I counted neither fifty warriors nor captained two ships.
But the mystery only lasted another moment .
. . before the advance guard of the pirate princes of Kish—my oldest enemy—flooded through the door.
They were instantly familiar with their helmets of plaited reeds and curved swords.
And a great, great many swords those were.
It was instant commotion. With the smell of sulfur and pine, something flashed in the air near the woman of the Burning Grasses and the arsonists rushed the brawlers who had insulted them.
I flew to my feet. Sasan’s men were already hauling him away, Dalila abandoned on the ground. I rushed to her side.
The sheikh called out once more. “Creative, nakhudha—truly!” he complimented, clearly working out what I’d done. “My commendations.”
I spared him a glance while cutting Dalila’s ropes, not liking the tone of his voice.
Sasan met my gaze, smiling. “But I had what I wanted before I even set eyes on your face.”
Raksh cackled. My husband had been silent, observing all that was playing out before him like a bemused leopard watching adolescent gazelles lock horns before pouncing to devour one.
But he laughed now, a sound so rich with supernatural malice that it seemed to briefly pierce the violent tension, to draw attention from the brewing melee like water dragged back before a tidal wave.
The crimson line in his eyes had grown to overtake the pupils, bright as a scorching sun as he gazed upon the madness poised to envelop the meetinghouse.
The brawl could probably still be tamped down.
We were outlaws; criminals and thieves and murderers, yes.
But it was discretion that gained one admission to Sarilaglag, and we were the elite; nothing like the careless, thoughtless vagrants that plagued and loitered.
Sheikh Sasan was correct: I had arrived with a wild plot, a hope and a prayer that enough of my old adversaries could be tempted out, that they might desire vengeance enough to cause a distraction in which I could slip away with Dalila.
However, I had not given thought to what the presence of a ravenous spirit of discord might do.
Raksh laughed again, his head thrown back. Then he brought his hands together in a single clap and true chaos erupted.
Al-Uqab lifted his spike and roared a battle cry. “By the time night falls, I shall be King of Sarilaglag!”
The Malay forger swayed on his feet, his eyes and those of his comrades dreamy. “Oh, but the pickings are ripe here . . . Men, fan out! Think of secrets we might seize. We shall build an empire of gossip and gold!”
Taumuriya was already lighting a torch, her comrades doing the same as flames glittered against their azarshost vests. “Burn it all down! Our name shall be feared from Samarkand to Sri Lanka!”
Unfortunately, the pirate princes of Kish were more focused.
“After al-Sirafi!” screamed a man brandishing their banner. “We shall finally be the ones to hang her from her heels!”
But they weren’t the only ones affected.
Raksh’s magic was strong, feeding my head and my heart with absurd notions: Might I not slay all my enemies right now, become a buccaneer queen to rival even the notorious pirate fleets of Socotra?
How people would fear and spread my name, the legend of Amina al-Sirafi carrying on the wind . . .
Do not let him seduce you. Not now. Gasping as though resurfacing from a watery plunge, I shook away the cravings rushing through my body. I cut through Dalila’s last rope and dragged her to the bar.
“My swords!” I hissed, ducking a scimitar and kicking a low table at an assailant. “Behind the counter!”
“Your clothes,” Dalila wheezed. “You’re too distinctive!”
“Al-Sirafi is over there!” a voice cried. Through the smoke and flashing weapons, I had been spotted.
Dalila passed me one of my swords, keeping back the second for herself, though she appeared hardly capable of hefting it, let alone fighting.
“Stay close,” I warned. “We make for the door.”
She shook her head. “It’s too far.” We were on the other side of the anarchic meetinghouse, the distance between us and the exit packed with grappling bloody figures, swiftly spreading tongues of fire, and choking smoke.
“Then let’s hope my luck holds.” Said source of luck was still cackling, a high cold noise I had never before heard from Raksh; a mad king gorging himself on cruel spectacle.
I very much did not wish to be here when my husband returned to his senses. So with a prayer, I threw myself into the fray.
Now, I have never been the smoothest of fighters, particularly in those early years of adjusting to the new strength my time on the peri island had granted me.
Yes, I am a trickster and a con artist, capable of lies like melted butter and schemes as complicated as an astrolabe’s working.
But when it comes to fighting, I’m a brawler first.
So I brawled, punching and kicking. People were fleeing, fighting, or both at the same time.
I might have been the intended target of many, but it was chaotic and hazy, the bloodlust in the air enough to make half the men turn on their own.
I yanked off my colorful robe, pulling an abandoned gray cloak over my head and taking one of the reed helmets off a fallen fighter, then gave Dalila the azarshost vest of a slain arsonist. Raksh might not have been hunting me, but I could feel his presence in every too-fortunate thrust; in the way crowds seemed to part around me, a burst of fire catching the man with the mace when he got too close.
I hadn’t taken Raksh’s offer, but we were still bound, his magic rubbing off on me.
Until it met someone even more determined than him: Ishaq.
Sheikh Sasan’s men must have let my ex-husband go, more preoccupied with getting their leader safely away.
They certainly hadn’t stopped Ishaq from getting his hands on a bloodstained crossbow—one of the many weapons my brute of a former spouse was quite adept at handling. A bolt was already loaded.
I froze. Not even I was fast enough to disarm someone from this distance. Which judging from the bitter satisfaction that twisted across Ishaq’s face, he knew damn well. He lifted the crossbow . . .
With an unhinged bellow, Dalila barreled forth. But it was not Ishaq at whom she lunged.
It was me. She struck so hard and so fast, like a war projectile in the form of a tiny woman, that she knocked me clear off my feet and against the thatched wall.
No, not a wall. A window. Which I realized as we went crashing through several layers of shutters. There was a moment of sweltering air, of falling . . . then we hit the water.
I emerged, spluttering and coughing, then abruptly ducked back under when a brick came flying at my head.
Dalila, where is Dalila? Finally I spotted her, writhing and red-faced. I swam fast, grabbing my friend and dragging her to the surface.
“Two breaths!” Gasping for air, she obeyed and I pulled her under again, putting another pier between us and the tavern.
I did not spare even a moment to see if we were being pursued, not a single glance back as the screams grew louder.
All that mattered was getting the hell out of the maze that was Sarilaglag, where everyone would sell us out.
But Dalila was starting to go limp, her grip around my neck weakening.
Holding her with one arm, I paddled awkwardly to the shade of an abandoned houseboat, half sunk upon a large rock that still had it pinned in place.
I heaved her up and then pulled myself onto the rotting deck, grateful that it held our weight.
“Dalila?” I lightly slapped her cheek when her eyes lolled around, as though struggling to place me. Her face was the color of parchment and splotchy bruises covered her arms. “My friend, we cannot stay here. I need you to move.”
“Go,” she croaked. “I will slow you.”
“Ay, I came all this way to rescue you and now you wish to be abandoned?” I tried to keep my tone light, but she flinched.
It was strange to have Dalila reliant upon me, reliant upon anyone.
In our years together, she’d been extremely ill twice and vanished during each bout, unable to be vulnerable around people, like a cat that would prefer to hide and die alone.
There was shouting in the distance and curious chatter from a nearby vessel in a language I didn’t understand.
Just beyond, two men in leather aprons appeared to be boiling and sharpening handsaws and pliers, and I blanched.
The canal of the barbers then, or rather butchers: those who made a living trading in human parts, often for the most desperate of medications and foulest of sorceries.
We very much did not want to get caught here. I took a waterskin from my belt and put it to her lips. “Drink. Rest a minute. And you know I’m not going to leave you so do not waste time we don’t have arguing.”
She scowled but drank the water and then leaned back against the moldering wood, briefly closing her eyes.
The smoke was getting thicker in the air, the fire spreading.
More of Sarilaglag’s denizens were starting to panic, calling for companions and hurrying to ready boats that hadn’t moved in years.
Dalila seemed to read my concerns. She coughed, struggling to sit up. The moment to catch her breath seemed to have done her well enough. “This place is going to go up like dry kindling.”
Guilt snared me. Though the threat of arson was not unknown in Sarilaglag, I could not help but feel some responsibility. “Should we try and warn—”
“Amina, this is a town of criminals. If anyone is capable of quickly fleeing, it is those who dwell here. And trust that Sasan would be only too happy to see us roasted like a pair of stuffed pigeons.”