Of Sand and Malice Made (21 page)

Seeing no reason to wait, she stepped from the alley and made her way across the street, mouthing the words she'd cobbled together—an apology of sorts, though it sounded clumsy and patronizing at best, insulting at worst. When she came to a stop before him, her throat suddenly constricted.

The silence yawned between them. To say that it was
uncomfortable would be like saying merchants in the bazaar were moderately skilled in the art of negotiation. She knew she should say
something
. She just had no idea what.

“Could we walk?” Brama asked.

It didn't help her conscience that his words were still horribly slurred—also strange since it hadn't been so when Rümayesh wore his skin—but she nodded anyway, grateful. They fell into step alongside one another. Though Brama walked with purpose, he also walked gingerly, with the gait of a man on the mend. He wove them through the streets of Sharakhai, this way then that, clearly heading toward the heart of the city. Soon they had reached it: the massive circle known as the Wheel, where the Trough and the Spear and Hazghad Road and Coffer Street all met in a great, ceaseless cavalcade. They made their way steadily across the flow of traffic toward the grand pool at its center. Several hundred men and women—most from foreign lands—stood along the edge of the pool. Some marveled at the great, bronze statue of the shield and the twelve shamshirs fanned around it. Others braved the pool itself, walking with their trousers rolled up or their skirts pulled high.

Brama found an unoccupied space along the pool's marble retaining wall and sat down. Çeda joined him and
pulled out a fine leather bag filled with coins, money she'd received from Osman only yesterday. “One hundred rahl.”

He took the bag, weighed it in his hand. “Half,” he said. “I'm well impressed.”

“I'll get you the rest as I can.”

“We might call it even.” His voice was less slurred than it had been, which made her feel a tiny bit better. He looked out to the children playing in the water, as if he couldn't quite face her as he spoke his next words. “You freed me from Rümayesh when you could have left me to rot.” Çeda made to speak, but he talked over her. “Had the tables been turned, I can't say I would have done the same for you.”

“Well, I don't know about that”—she pulled from the pouch at her belt a bundle of cloth—“but perhaps this will even the ledger.”

Brama took it as if he knew exactly what was wrapped within, indeed, as if he'd been waiting this whole time for her to take it out and show it to him. He unfolded the cloth, then stared at the smoky facets of the sapphire. Neither the stories nor Ibrahim had said to do so, but she'd taken more of her blood and burned it, covering the last facet of the gemstone, the one through which Rümayesh had been captured.

Nearby, a boy in the pool caught sight of the gem,
which despite the soot seemed to glow from within. The boy's eyes were wide as they lifted to meet Brama's, at which point Brama, his ruin of scars clearly visible, put his finger to his lips. “Our little secret, yes?” The boy swallowed hard, nodded, then rushed away, splashing water as he went. It was good to see Brama smile, but the look was gone in a moment. As he stared at the gem, worry began to replace the ill-concealed fascination that had colored his features until then. “Do you suppose it will keep her chained?”

“I suspect so. Until freed by the hand of man.”

“Probably you're right. But why give it to me?”

“Because you know what's hidden inside. Because you won't be tempted by her. Because you, even more than me, will safeguard it”—she motioned to him, his torn face, his torn body—“so that this never happens again.”

To this he merely nodded, as if it were not only what he'd expected, but
hoped
to hear. He folded the cloth and stuffed it inside his rich clothes.

“What now?” Çeda asked. “Will you find Osman? I'm sure he can find work for you.”

He shook his head. “I don't know what I'll do, but not that.”

“What then?”

“I don't know.”

“You can come to me if you ever need help.”

He stood and nodded. “Very well. Perhaps I shall.”

Then he leaned down and kissed the crown of her head.

He took in the pool, the people gathered here. The look on his face . . . He'd grown up in Sharakhai, and yet his look was like someone who'd been struck by the grandeur of the city for the very first time.

He caught himself, seemed embarrassed for a moment, but then he gave her one last smile—a grimace on his scarred face—and strode away. The crowd parted for him like sand around stone. As he walked, more and more came between them—horses, carts, people, children. It obscured her vision, until at last there were too many and Brama was swallowed by the city.

This project ended up being the little book that could. I had no idea what would become of it when I started. I simply wanted to tell a few more stories about Çeda, a hero I'd become really invested in over the course of writing
Twelve Kings in Sharakhai
. The three parts of this tale each grew in the telling—a thing that happens to me often, it seems—but they also became deeper and more meaningful because of it. And I didn't do it on my own.

Thank you to Gillian Redfearn, Paul Genesse, Bill O'Connor, and Carol Klees-Starks for reading the early versions of these stories. Thank you to Marylou Capes-Platt, not only for copyediting these pages, but for putting a bug in my editor's ear about them. Speaking of which, thank you, Betsy Wollheim, for believing in this story and bringing it to a wider audience. Thank you, René Aigner, for creating such great pieces of art, and to Shawn King for your killer cover design.

I'd also like to put in a thank you to the gaming gang from way back when: Terry, John, Dave, Tim, Ty, Chris, and Brad. Thanks for all the fun times and for exploring all those new worlds with me. Little did I know, but all those gaming sessions were stepping-stones on the path to becoming a writer.

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