The Black Khan Read online

  They looked around, searching for another means of escape. Between two giant cauldrons, Illarion spied a small square hatch. With his gloves on, he felt around its edges.

  “Wait!” Elena choked. “That’s not one of the Basmachi’s tunnels. I don’t know where it leads.”

  Illarion showed her the pipes that disappeared into the wall on either side of the hatch. “These pipes are emptied outside the prison, into the desert wasteland.”

  “The Plague Lands, you mean,” Elena muttered. She was beginning to distrust the known history of the Plague Lands. The Wall had been erected to create a boundary between the Plague Lands and the rest of the north. But what had poisoned those lands to begin with? She had heard it was the alchemical effects of the unending wars of the Far Range. Whatever poisons those wars had unleashed, the Technologist had put them to use.

  “Perhaps.” Illarion found the opening to the hatch with his fingers. It was rusted through and difficult to maneuver. Elena shouldered him aside, jabbing at the rust with her knife until the lever that opened the hatch came loose. She yanked it down. The hatch was a chute of some kind. It sloped downward into a constricted space obscured by a nebulous gloom. The pipes that ran beside it burbled through the walls. A terrible stench permeated the chute. It reeked of human waste. She choked behind her mask.

  “Are you sure about this?” she asked.

  “I’ll go first. With Lilia.”

  The thought flashed through her mind that this would allow Illarion to leave her in the room with the cauldrons.

  “It’s too narrow for you. You won’t be able to take your sister.” Before he could protest, she said, “I’ll take her—I’m smaller than you, I can carry her on my back.”

  He hesitated at the proposal, a flash of anxiety on his face. Whatever else this Ahdath was, he clearly loved his sister. She gathered Lilia gently from the floor, linking the girl’s arms around her neck.

  Somewhere on the other side of the door they’d entered through, she could hear the sound of the Ahdath’s voices echoing through their gas masks.

  “Hurry,” she said. “They’ll track us here any moment.”

  Illarion didn’t need to be told twice. He wedged himself into the hatch, feeling the sides with his hands, measuring the distance ahead. The hatch sloped down and then sharply dropped off. He looked back at Elena, taking Lilia’s weight on her shoulders, waiting to climb up after him.

  A whiff of burning smoke rose through the empty cylinder of the chute. What if Elena was right and this was the route to an incinerator? Would she have time to turn back with his sister? But what would she have to return to? The further horrors of testing that sloughed the skin from her bones? Even if fire awaited them at the other end of the chute, it was a kinder fate than the manifest cruelties of the Plague Wing.

  He said a prayer Mudjadid had taught the Salikhate and dove headfirst through the chute. Moments later he was in free fall. There was nothing to support his weight. His body arrowed down through darkness, a fall that didn’t seem to end. He put his arms out and encountered empty space. The scent of smoke died away, the vastness of the dark purifying it. He tilted his head up, searching for Elena as he fell. He could just make out another shape against the blackness. And still he plunged through the air, his body received by silence.

  He brought his arms back against his body and tucked his knees to brace for impact. He landed on a shifting surface that gave way, knocking him off his feet. He rolled out of the way in time to avoid the impact of Elena’s fall. She fell face-first, propelled by the weight on her back, and he feared they might both be injured. Her mask was splintered, and her hose came loose.

  He feared she might be dead.

  Shaking off Lilia’s body, Elena noted the spider-web cracks fanning out from the center of her mask. Feeling about, she discovered the hose had been severed from the mask—her fear became tinged with panic. She scrambled to reattach the hose, her hands trembling at the thought of inhaling the Plague Wing’s poison. It could blind her, deafen her … destroy her.

  Then she realized. The air was cool and clear, the blackness in her vision easing to a midnight blue, lightened by the distant glow of stars. They had left the glare of the searchlights behind to reach the boundary of the desert. Far ahead, she could make out the outline of ships cast adrift on the sands.

  She wrested the mask from her head, breathing in the air with huge, shuddering gasps, Lilia and Illarion forgotten. The mask dropped from her hand with a strange thud as it hit the sand beneath her feet. She took a step and the sand crunched beneath her boots. She looked down at the sand and faced another horror.

  The ground beneath her feet was powdered and littered with bones.

  34

  WHEN ELENA AND ILLARION HAD CROSSED TO THE SAFETY OF THE SHIP’S graveyard and reached the shelter of a ship, Illarion relinquished his sister’s weight, setting her down on the forward deck that sloped into the sand. He drank water from his canteen, passing it to Elena, who was crouched beside Lilia, searching her face for signs of the effects of poison.

  “She might still be saved,” she said with a note of doubt.

  Illarion wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He shaded his forehead against the wind that raised whorls of dust all around them.

  “It’s too late. She wasn’t masked in the Plague Wing; neither were the others. That means she’s been exposed; it’s just a matter of time before she experiences the more extreme symptoms.”

  He knelt beside Elena, taking his sister’s hand within his own, a contact of skin upon skin that was infinitely careful. She didn’t respond, her head lolling back upon her neck.

  “Then why did you risk yourself to free her?”

  “Why did you return for Larisa after everything you suffered at the Technologist’s hands?”

  “You’ve just answered your own question. Better to kill her myself than let her suffer as I did.”

  “Yes,” Illarion agreed. “That is the only choice.”

  Elena looked at him with a sudden comprehension of his words. “Illarion—no. I was able to save Larisa. You’ll do the same for your sister.”

  He shook his head. “Larisa was never exposed to the plague. Lilia’s fate is certain. It’s only a question now of how much pain I choose to spare her.”

  Her troubled eyes searched his face. Behind his studied neutrality was a harrowing weight of sorrow. It sang to her. It haunted her, but she couldn’t argue against his choice. Ending Lilia’s suffering required the kind of courage very few men possessed.

  She looked back at the way they had come where Jaslyk’s walls stood tall, the light from the minzars spinning out in pursuit.

  “I should have burned it down,” Elena said. “Just as I promised I would.”

  “You saw what I did with the pipes. No one in the Plague Wing will survive that.”

  With the gas mask discarded, Elena could see the grim decision in his face, and the traces of what it had cost him. Her father had been right, she realized. Illarion’s efforts mirrored hers. He was faced with the same harsh choices, and he braved them without regret.

  “If I’d known about the pipes, I would have done the same.” Her voice was pitiless; she spoke without looking at him. “But it isn’t a permanent solution. The Ahdath will bring others to suffer here. The Companion told Larisa as much. The Talisman have been accelerating their delivery of the slaves. And if the slavechains fail, there are always the Khanum’s doves.”

  Illarion kept his attention on his sister, stroking her hair, easing the lines of pain in her face, his fingertips lingering on her scar.

  “You’re planning something,” he said, his voice rough. “But you’ve seen Jaslyk. You can’t take on the Crimson Watch by yourself.”

  “Are you offering to come with me, Salikhate?”

  “The opposite, Anya. You should come with me to the Wall. The Khanum doesn’t know about you. We can use that to our advantage.”

  Elena frowned. “The Khan
um is an Augur—how does she not know about me? Or you, for that matter? How did she not foresee everything that happened at Jaslyk and send her guard to stop us? Why weren’t they waiting for us?”

  She rose to her feet, navigating the tilt of the forward deck with grace. Her hands found the railing: she measured the distance back to the prison.

  “I should have told you,” he said.

  She waited, her tense expression giving little away.

  “Your father spoke of you often, but when I met you that first time in the Gold House, I didn’t know you were his daughter. I didn’t know I could trust you.”

  Elena’s lips tightened in a grimace. “You shouldn’t trust me. You don’t know me.”

  “I know you follow the Usul Jade. Even if you weren’t his daughter, that would be enough for me.” He joined her at the railing. One hand reached out to move her hair aside, exposing a tattered ear. She stiffened under the touch. “You thought the Claim had been stolen from you, but the Claim cannot be stolen—your father will recover it for you.”

  She listened to him closely, her eyes narrowed to slits against the grit of blowing sand.

  “His mastery of the Claim is something you can’t imagine. He uses it to block the Khanum’s Augury. She cannot perceive those who serve him. And since you crossed my path, she cannot see you either.”

  Elena wasn’t sure she believed this, though what else could account for their escape? Or for the continued success of the Basmachi’s raids? What reason would the Khanum have for not cutting off the head of the resistance?

  “Come with me to the Wall,” he urged. “As long as you’re with me, you’re safe.”

  It was the wrong thing to say to Elena. She brushed his hand aside, gripping the top rung of the ladder that descended to the sand.

  “I’m sorry about your sister, Salikhate. And I wish you well at the Wall. But I am not in need of being saved by you or any man. The Basmachi have work to do.” Yet even as she said it, she faltered, no longer quite as fierce in her defense.

  Illarion studied her, his eyes bold on her uncovered face. She met his gaze without flinching, giving him back the look, seeing the strength she had mistaken as arrogance.

  “What is it, Anya?”

  “If you see my father again, tell him—”

  “Come with me,” Illarion urged. “If only because he needs you.”

  Elena was surprised. “Needs me? He hasn’t needed me in all this time. He could have sent word—” She choked off the rest. Illarion wasn’t her confidant. Exposing her weakness to him would serve only to make her weaker. “Just keep him safe, Salikhate.”

  She swung her body over the side and fluidly slipped to the ground, drawing her scarf up over her face.

  She lifted her hand in a wave, her thoughts reclaimed by her unfinished mission. “Farewell, Salikhate. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

  “Come to Black Aura, Anya. If you need me, you’ll find me at the Wall.”

  She didn’t correct him this time. She’d come to understand that he used the name as a term of affection, almost as an endearment. She felt an unaccustomed spasm of emotion. As she slipped away over the ridges of the desert, she identified this newest source of pain.

  It was a longing for human connection. And a warmth that took her by surprise.

  35

  IN THE BLACK KHAN’S PRESENCE, NO ONE ELSE DARED SIT UPON THE Peacock Throne. In his absence, it was the duty of the Nizam to reign on the Khan’s behalf. Now at the news of the Khan’s return, he descended from the throne to take a position at the head of the reception for the Khan. The Khan’s cousins and aunts and nieces formed two rows, each bearing in their hands beautiful enameled trays decorated in the Khorasani style of turquoise blue and green motifs. The trays were burdened with delicacies: rosewater-flavored sweetmeats, sticky orange loops of hardened syrup, layers of flaky pastry studded with pistachios and almonds, trays upon trays of fresh fruit. The Khan’s youngest niece bore the tray that held his favorite dish: the ruby seeds of pomegranates piled high inside a chalice engraved with an onyx rook.

  The elders of the Khan’s family carried garlands of roses in their hands, yet something was amiss. The Nizam realized what it was and frowned at Darya’s absence. The Princess should have been at the head of the reception, but Darya had always shown a regrettable lack of respect for Ashfall’s centuries-old traditions. It was unsurprising that she’d chosen to do so again.

  When the Khan entered the Divan-e Shah followed by his commander, the women began a joyful ululation. They scattered rose petals in the air, and as the Khan bent to embrace the women of his family, each of his aunts raised a garland and draped it over his head.

  The Nizam frowned. The Khan was dressed in his armor and still bore the grime of the road. Though he smiled and kissed his aunts on both cheeks, the smile was absent from his eyes. He accepted the rituals patiently, tasting something from each of the dishes proffered and fondly kissing the top of his niece’s head before taking a spoonful of pomegranate seeds. He fed her a spoonful in turn, reminding the Nizam that the Khan was prone to these gestures of affection when it came to the women of his family.

  Darya was the only one whose behavior unsettled the Prince. She’d earned his suspicion by petitioning for the release of their half-brother Darius from Qaysarieh. And she’d made plain her desire to leave the capital and make common cause with Hira. To the Nizam of the Khan’s empire, the Council of Hira was not a sisterhood to be revered: it was a nest of conspirators, one of whom slithered in their midst. He was waiting for his moment to advise the Khan along those lines. He would also have to account for Darya’s discourteous absence.

  It was at his urging that the Khan had prevented Darya from leaving the palace. He had refused her request to study at Hira, and as a punishment for her disloyalty he had banished her from the scriptorium … though somehow Darya managed to slip back into it whenever he was absent from the palace. Now that the Khan had returned, his rules were more likely to be upheld.

  The sooner the Princess married Arsalan, the better. The marriage would settle them both, for Arsalan was not a man to permit any wife of his to set foot outside the palace. He guarded his honor jealously. Though why he’d refused the marriage to begin with was a question that not even the spies of the Nizam had been able to answer, though rumors of Darya’s visit to the tower had reached the Nizam’s sharp ears. The girl had disgraced herself by running to Arsalan to discuss his offer of marriage, an unthinkable impropriety. But hardly surprising when nothing Darya did was in accordance with the etiquette of court. She was a changeling, out of step with the refinement of her cousins … out of place in the court of the Khan.

  It angered the Nizam that she had laid her foolishness bare to a commander of Arsalan’s stature. Another woman endowed with half of Darya’s beauty would have had Arsalan eating pomegranate seeds from her palm. Instead, her impetuous behavior had driven Arsalan away. To repair such a breach and hasten the marriage was another source of annoyance and an infringement on his time.

  His gaze sharpened. Darya slipped into the Divan-e Shah in the wake of Arsalan and the Khan, retreating to the women’s seating area. She should have taken her seat in the front row of the pavilion, showing off her costume and her jewels to the eye of the Khan’s commander. Instead, she placed herself on a cushion at the back, tripping over her silks, dwarfed by the collar and headdress she could never seem to manage with anything resembling grace.

  All this, not only before the Prince of West Khorasan, but also before the commander of the Zhayedan. Worse yet, in the presence of the intruder from the Citadel.

  The Black Khan reached his side. Wrenching his thoughts from Darya, the Nizam made the customary obeisance, which the Khan was quick to protest. The Nizam was his teacher, the Grand Vizier of West Khorasan, and the Khan had always treated him as such. His boyhood courtesy and solemn respect characterized their interactions. The Nizam treated him like a son.

  The Black Khan placed hi
s hand on his chest and bowed to the Nizam. “Nizam al-Mulk, I thank you for honoring my trust and for guarding Ashfall in my absence.”

  An elaborate ritual of courtesies was observed, the women of the Khan’s family hastening to add their praise to the Khan’s, extolling the Nizam’s many virtues. The Nizam wasn’t fool enough to believe in the legend of his own glory: he knew the machinations of the court. Any woman who had his ear knew she had the ear of the Khan and could use him to maneuver for position. They were all engaged in these schemes—every woman, every courtier the Khan paid notice to, and a host of others besides. Even the Begum, the Khan’s aunt. As the eldest woman of the family, the Begum presided over the court, her seat at the Khan’s side elevated above the Nizam’s.

  In this, the Khan distinguished himself from the Talisman: the women of his court were independent, exalted in their place and honored by the customs the Khan insisted be observed. Darya was the only exception to his rule, and for Darya, neither the Khan nor the Nizam had found an answer.

  “Excellency,” the Nizam said, “you have not yet rested from the rigors of your journey. Should you not refresh yourselves after so difficult a ride?”

  He indicated the commander of the Zhayedan. Arsalan made the same obeisance the Khan had made, but it lacked the warmth of Rukh’s gesture, speaking to his formality at court.

  “Arsalan has summoned the commanders of the army. I come to ask you to preside over a council of war. The matter is urgent and cannot wait.” The Khan’s eyes flicked over the courtiers gathered in the Divan-e Shah. “I’ve brought a boy in my train from Black Aura. You will need to question him.”

  The Nizam bowed his head at the honor conferred, noting the discomfort that appeared in Arsalan’s eyes. Arsalan was commander of the Zhayedan; he should have been called to preside over the council.