The Black Khan

Struggling to remember his purpose, he whispered, “Please, Lania, I can’t—”

The Khanum blinked. After an uncharacteristic hesitation, she clapped her hands. Two of her attendants bowed before the pearl throne. “Bathe him,” she said. “It does not please me to see the Silver Mage in this state.”

Daniyar remained still as basins were brought to his side by two exquisite young women from the south. His face, his chest, and his back were bathed, washing away the stink of the Pit and easing the bloodmarks of the whip. Inadvertently, he glanced at the six-tailed whip hanging over the dais; the Authoritan’s laughter mocked his fear. Lania’s lips tightened.

“Soothe him,” she said to the attendants. The travesty of a smile edged her lips, her eyes tracing Daniyar’s face. Glancing at him demurely, the Khanum’s doves ran delicate hands over the ruined flesh of his back. The salve they used brought him a measure of relief. After a moment, his thoughts cleared. “Khanum,” he murmured, “I would dress.”

Her crimson lips stretched wide over her sharp white teeth. She waved a hand and her attendants whirled to obey her in a rustling commotion of silk.

“Not just yet, I think.” She rose from her throne and descended from the dais, nodding at Nevus to bring the Silver Mage to his feet. When she reached him, she trailed one scarlet-tipped hand down the expanse of his powerfully muscled chest, exploring its dips and ridges. Her hand lingered just beneath his ribs, tracing the hard planes of his stomach.

“You please me, Daniyar,” she said. She glanced up into his eyes and murmured beneath her breath, “You would please any woman who witnessed the gifts you offer.” Her explorations grew more intimate, her movements concealed by the outspread wings of her robe.

He could have mistaken her voice for Arian’s speaking his name, but he could never mistake her caress. When Arian touched him, he was brought to his knees by the honesty of her desire—by the trust in her eyes when she reached up to kiss him, aflame with an unexpressed love. But Arian’s bright innocence and shimmering hope were missing from Lania’s touch; what she offered him merely a shadow. She read the thought on his face and her sensual trespasses ceased. Her scarlet nails scored his chest, and grudgingly, he groaned.

She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, the plumed headdress swaying with the gesture. “Would you fight for me, Keeper of the Candour? Though my touch offends you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Fight, then.” She let her hand fall, climbing the dais with an imperial majesty. She spared a cold smile for the Authoritan, who had watched her actions throughout.

“The whip no longer interests me. I would have the Silver Mage dance. Nevus,” she snapped at the Ahdath captain, “give the Silver Mage a sword and clear some room for him to fight.” She paused, directing her next words at Daniyar, an enigmatic warning in her eyes. “He is said to be skilled with his hands, though my sister will not answer to the point.”

A wave of laughter rippled through the room.

Daniyar didn’t rise to the bait. He felt a sense of relief mixed with an elation he tried to tamp down. With a sword in his hand, he was on his own ground again. A chance for deliverance at last. A chance to strike at the Authoritan, here at the heart of his citadel.

But he’d mistaken Lania’s intent.

She motioned to Nevus to choose a fighter to stand against him. The man who stepped forward loomed over Daniyar, twice as heavy in muscle. He wore his fair hair long, his features obscured by an overgrown beard. He brought up a double-edged sword, his eyes steady and watchful.

Daniyar extended his chained hands to Lania, searching for any sign that his life was of value to her. And regretting now that he’d missed the chance to express his response to her touch. “If you would have me fight.”

A peal of steel-edged laughter escaped from Lania’s throat. At her side, the Authoritan smiled. “My lord, do you mistake me for a fool? Would I unchain the Silver Mage even if I had a company of soldiers to stand against him, as I do?” Her smile hardened on her face, and any resemblance to Arian’s luminous beauty was erased. “No, my lord. You wished to fight for me, so you will fight. Exactly as you are.”

Daniyar tested the sword in his hands, running one hand along the blade to see if the contest was otherwise equal. The edge was sharp, the sword balanced in his hands. When he looked at Lania to signal his thanks, he sensed her apprehension.

“Your sword is well suited to your hand.” There was something in the words besides her honesty, yet he couldn’t deduce her meaning.

She nodded at the Ahdath. “You may begin, Spartak. Do not underestimate the Silver Mage.”

Anticipation whispered through the throne room. Spartak recited the ritual words of the challenge, and Daniyar echoed them back reflexively. He touched his sword to Spartak’s; they drew away from each other. With a surge of power, Daniyar raised his sword. He retreated a step and Spartak followed, silent and persistent, his own sword raised in one hand. He lunged and Daniyar ducked, missing his footing and stumbling into Spartak’s path. Spartak’s sword slashed down, glancing off Daniyar’s left arm. Spartak brought it around, slashing Daniyar’s other arm with his blade. Sweat broke out on Daniyar’s forehead. He retreated again, the pain of the wounds burning through his thoughts. Spartak stalked him across the floor, pushing him back toward the wall where the whip was poised below the Authoritan’s motto:

STRENGTH IS JUSTICE.

Daniyar knew he would lose this battle unless he could get the other man to speak. “What kind of warrior takes a double-edged sword into battle against an enemy who is bound?” He raised his voice. “How much protection does an Ahdath require against a prisoner?”

A rumble of anger met his words. Spartak nodded, accepting the gibe. “These are not my terms, Keeper of the Candour. But then, where is your Candour now?”

The anger melted into laughter. The Authoritan nodded his appreciation of the insult. A hiss of excitement filled the room as Spartak advanced again, pushing Daniyar back against the dais. Their swords met in the air, steel clashing against steel.

His tone conversational, Daniyar considered Spartak’s insult. “I suppose the Candour would be insignificant to an illiterate.”

A rustle of feminine laughter answered the words. Angry now, Spartak shoved Daniyar against the dais with a powerful thrust of his arm. “I read your death in your eyes.”

Now Daniyar had what he needed. Spartak had said he’d seen Daniyar’s death, but in turn the Silver Mage had read his opponent, discovered his vanity and arrogance, and understood his weakness. He called the Claim to answer it, his nearly soundless hum slowing Spartak’s speed, giving him the chance to meet each new parry of his sword with an answering feint of his own. They danced as Lania demanded, and Daniyar’s confidence grew.

But his enemy was not easily bested. He swung his weight around, one leg tripping the Silver Mage, forcing him back against the wall to recover his balance. Daniyar’s arm brushed the hitch of the six-tailed whip even as Spartak’s sword arm skimmed his throat. The crowd of courtiers gasped. The Silver Mage no longer had the space to maneuver.

Daniyar dropped his sword, backing up against the dais. Spartak raised his arm for the killing blow, a gloating pride in his eyes, the victory assumed before the battle had concluded—a hubris that served him ill. Caught by surprise, Spartak staggered back as Daniyar’s chained hands flexed against the wall, unmooring the six-tailed whip. A quick flash of his wrists coiled the tails around the other man’s throat, just above his armor. With a sharp yank, backed by all the strength his weakened body could muster, Daniyar collapsed the Ahdath’s larynx.

Spartak dropped to his knees, sputtering for air. Daniyar kicked their swords aside, yanking the whip tighter. He flashed a look of contempt at the Authoritan. The room fell as silent as the giant warrior before him. “Is strength truly justice?” he demanded. He eased his grip on the whip.

“No!” Lania called. “Do not release him, my lord. In the Ark, we observe the rites of Qatilah. One or the other must die. Here our custom is the sword. Bury it in his chest.”

Daniyar looked down at Spartak, humiliated and defenseless at his feet. Could this be the custom of the Ark? Had the Authoritan corrupted the High Tongue? For in the High Tongue, Qatilah meant “murderer.”

He knew he’d forsaken his honor to get himself to this point, but he would not kill without purpose. He threw down the whip, Spartak gasping at his feet.

“Do you dare to defy the laws of Qatilah?” The Authoritan glided to his feet, his robes whispering in the silence. He pointed a bony finger at his captain. “Bring her,” he said.

Daniyar waited, watchful and wary. Nevus disappeared, and in his absence the throne room seemed to hold its breath. He returned minutes later, thrusting Arian before him, and Daniyar drew a quick breath, joy hammering his heart. Then he realized she was dressed in transparent silk that bared her loveliness to the court in a manner he had never seen. It inflamed him—his desire warring with an anger fueled by the Ahdath’s speculation.

His emotions consumed him for the span of a breath, until his attention was claimed by a sight that shattered him. Fitted about Arian’s neck was a leather collar that tightened about her lower jaw and throat, leaving her face half in shadow. The exterior of the collar was studded with spikes and linked to her wrists by iron chains.

They had dressed the First Oralist of Hira as a slave, debasing her rank as Companion. Demeaning the Council of Hira. Demeaning the woman he loved.

He raised his head, his silver eyes pinning the Authoritan in place. Calmly he said, “This Ark will burn and you along with it.”

The Authoritan’s rigid expression didn’t alter. An unholy glee lit his eyes. He raised a narrow white hand in reply, tightening it into a fist. And unimaginable pain burst through Daniyar’s skull.

“No!” The curt command came from Lania. “The rules of Qatilah must be observed.” She lowered the Authoritan’s hand with her own, her skin whispering over his like the rustle of brittle parchment. “We will suffer no insult before our court. Pick up your sword, my lord.”

Reeling from the pain, Daniyar was unable to comply.

“Nevus.”

At the Authoritan’s command, the captain of the Ahdath unsheathed his dagger. With a calculated flourish, he pressed its tip to Arian’s heart, his fingers lingering on the soft swell of her breast. A smile stretched the tattoo on his face. “If the Authoritan should grant me this prisoner, I will tattoo a matching bloodmark on her breast, so all might know who owns her.”

Propelled by a staggering rage, Daniyar threw himself at Nevus. He was brought down by half a dozen Ahdath.

The Khanum spoke again. “Bring the Silver Mage to his feet and place his sword in his hand. If he will not observe the Qatilah, let him taste the First Oralist’s blood.”

A pair of Ahdath dragged Spartak before the Silver Mage, forcing the Khanum’s champion to his knees. Daniyar’s eyes met Arian’s over Spartak’s head. A silent message passed between them, each offering solace to the other. Arian’s eyes blazed with purpose. And seeing her undiminished fire, desire set fire to his veins in a raw conflagration of need. There was no trial the Authoritan could devise that would keep him from reaching her side.

As if she’d heard the vow from his lips, her eyes became heated and dark. She made him a promise in turn. My love, these torments will pass. We will find each other again.

His gaze dropped to Nevus’s hand, with its cruel hold on Arian’s breast, and he knew there would come a time when he would sever it from his arm. Shaking off the grip of the Ahdath, he scowled at Lania on the dais. “You permit this offense against the First Oralist? With your insistence on protocol? I thought better of you, Khanum.”

Now he brought the full force of his attraction to bear, using the thrall he suspected he cast over Lania’s thoughts. The Claim hummed between them, turbulent and bold, urging her to remember herself as a girl stolen from her home, to be ravaged by Talisman commanders. The strength in her voice faltered. Her eyes locked on Daniyar’s, she jerked Arian free of Nevus.

Satisfied, Daniyar raised his sword. He murmured a prayer of the people of Khorasan. “From the One we come, to the One we return.”

He plunged the sword into Spartak’s chest, stepping clear of the path of the blood spray.

“Prepare the bloodbasin.” The Authoritan’s command didn’t penetrate the reality of what Daniyar had just done. What he would do, night after night, to purchase Arian’s life. He didn’t have time to upbraid himself for his choice; a strange white foam began to bubble at the corners of Spartak’s mouth. His breath rattled from his body on a gasp, his limbs twitching in their armor. The bloodbasin shattered at the first touch of his blood.

Daniyar had driven the sword tip-first into Spartak’s body. Aghast, he stared up at Lania.

A smile vanished from her lips so swiftly, he wasn’t certain he had seen it. In her weakness for him, she had meant to confer an advantage.

Your sword is well suited to your hand.

The tip of the blade was poisoned.

10

LARISA AND ELENA CLIMBED A TOWERING RED DUNE, FEELING THE SAND shift beneath their feet. Shapes loomed out of the darkness, their edges limned by the light cast down by thickly tangled stars. The strange shapes shifted against the patterns of the desert as if they crested gold-flamed waves.

To the north, a giant nothingness claimed the horizon, a vast black pit whose farthest edge was outlined by a wraithlike blue, starlight reflected in a surface that shimmered like a huge silver mirror. It was an improbable note of beauty against the bleak walls of the prison.

Both women had covered their faces to protect themselves from the grit of blowing sand. Now they lowered their scarves to speak.

“What are they?” Larisa asked. “Some kind of weapon?”

“Ships of the old world, run aground some time before the wars of the Far Range.”

“Ships? Then that blue—

“It was once a lake. Ruined by the wars. What do you think he does down there?”

Elena brought a spyglass to her eye and scanned the rusted hulks of the ships. As light skittered over the helm of one, she caught a trace of movement against the night, a black shadow that darted between the keels. A circular light flashed against the bulkhead of a ship. A tangle of dead vines ran down one side, and rusting underneath it was a baffling set of runes.

“It’s Russe,” Elena told her sister. “They used to name these ships.”

Larisa looked at her curiously. “How do you know this?”

“It took months of preparation to break you out of Jaslyk. The Crimson Watch was loose in its talk.” She frowned as the shadow dipped under the hulk of another ship. “I should be down there, not him. I know the sands of the Kyzylkum better than he ever will.”

“You don’t know that,” Larisa answered. She was weary of defending a man she barely knew, a man she relied on only because the Silver Mage had used his gifts at the Registan to assure her Illarion could be trusted. “We don’t know that,” she amended. “We don’t know who he is or where he came from, or whose purpose he serves.”

The gritty fall of sand warned her they were not alone. Illarion had returned. He held out a canteen, encouraging the sisters to drink. Larisa took it from him with thanks. Elena turned away, striking a timbaku root, sheltering its burning end with her palm.

“It was right where you said it would be—stowed in the hold of the ship closest to the lake. They haven’t discovered your cache.”

Ignoring his words, Elena drew smoke into her lungs. She had yet to speak a word to Illarion on their journey, communicating solely with her sister. The peppery scent of timbaku wafted over the dunes, too remote from Jaslyk to betray them.

The sisters made an exchange, the canteen for the roll of timbaku. Just as Elena had done, Larisa sheltered the tip of the roll from giving away their position.

“Do you smoke?” Larisa asked Illarion.

“No. You shouldn’t either. Timbaku is a poison. It just kills you slowly.”

He waited for Elena to pass him the canteen, though she looked as if she had no intention of ever considering his needs. Larisa prodded her sister. “Elena, I’m sure the captain would like to ease his thirst.”

Not bothering to look at him, Elena held out the canteen. She held herself still as he brushed her hand in the exchange. He drank with evident thirst, then offered it back to Elena.

“Thank you, Anya,” he murmured.

She glared at him. He knew her name was Elena—he was taunting her with a reminder of their first encounter. She demanded the roll from Larisa and took another puff.

“You will ruin your beauty,” he warned her.

“You said I have no beauty to ruin.”

“True,” he agreed with a smile.

Larisa watched them, disquieted. The tension between her sister and the Ahdath augured uncertainty for their attempt to rescue Sinnia, now at Jaslyk ten days. But she needed them both if their plan was to succeed—a paradox she’d have to reconcile.

Even if Elena and Illarion were in accord, the rescue could still go awry. She knew from her own experience that the Technologist would have been summoned, and if that had happened, Sinnia would be in no position to assist them. If she’d had the Claim at her disposal, she would already have freed herself.

“Will you present us as your captives?” Larisa asked Illarion. “Will you say you’ve brought the daughters of Salikh for the Technologist’s trials?”

“No.” With a casual movement of his hand, Illarion flicked the timbaku from between Elena’s fingers and ground it out beneath his boot. “I’m known as Araxcin’s second. They’d know I wouldn’t be escorting prisoners on my own—there’d be a full patrol with me. We should go under cover of night, if Anya is certain of the route. We can’t afford a mistake.”

“Worry for yourself, Ahdath. Whether you return from Jaslyk is of no importance to me.” She spoke to her sister, impatience rising in her voice. “I won’t show him the passages. We must protect the resistance at all costs, and I won’t risk the Basmachi on the word of an Ahdath who survived the fall of the Registan. I doubt he was even there.”

Derision colored her voice; Illarion stiffened at the imputation of cowardice. He turned to Larisa. “I don’t need you to guide me in. I’ll say I was sent by Araxcin to assess Jaslyk’s security after the attack on the Registan.”

“Impregnability, not security.” But Elena wasn’t speaking to him. The words were prodded from some distant memory. She brooded over the sight of the prison, its black walls rising like a cliff against the night. Here there were no traceries of stone or iron, no glazed tiles or patterned bricks. No vegetation grew along the high stone walls, no creepers abloom with desert flowers. Jaslyk was a place whose ugliness couldn’t be borne, a place of unremitting death. And she knew each watchtower, each guard, each passage the Basmachi had tunneled underground like others remembered a lover’s face. The memory of it was suffocating.

They discussed the plan once more. Finally Illarion said, “Let’s go.”

But as they picked their way down the dune, he was left in no doubt that it was Elena who was in charge.

11

SINNIA NO LONGER NEEDED THE RESTRAINTS. HER LIMBS WERE FILLED with a wondrous languor, and the dark skin she prized was outlined with radiant flares of gold. Her arms were weightless. She was floating above the world, buoyed on a wave of inaudible sound.

She smiled at the man in the gas mask, trailing her fingers along the tray of needles. The floor of her cell was crimson and gold, colors and patterns bobbing along the Sea of Reeds. Her hands were filled with delicate spiny shells. She flung them to the shore with a smile.

“Please,” she said to the man in the gas mask. “It’s wearing off. I need more.”

A thunderous sound filled her ears. It was Salikh and the others banging against their cell doors. Salikh’s oddly insistent murmurs whispered through Sinnia’s mind, shattering the needle’s delights. She knew the others were jealous. They craved the white needle as she did—they’d do anything to steal the tall man’s attention, but she was the prisoner of choice.

Her full lips pouted. She was—what was she, again?—the words seemed difficult to recall. A woman of the Negus. A Companion of a stronghold on the banks of the High Road. She wore a pretty silk dress and—intricate bands on her arms. She tossed her head. It didn’t matter. Why should any of it matter when she was black and gold and weightless? She would soon be cast upon a sea of languid bliss. If she could ignore Salikh’s imperceptible cautions in her mind.

“The needle,” she begged again. “Give me the white needle.”

The tall man in the mask moved his head from side to side. He had three heads, each equally beautiful. He stroked a gloved hand down Sinnia’s arm, setting her on fire. When he grasped her upper arms, the tiny barbs on the palms of his gloves felt good. They scored a path on the place on her arms that had lately come to feel bare. Scarlet drops were added to the pattern of black and gold that engulfed Sinnia in an airless cocoon. Her dazzling smile indicated her sense of transcendence. But was it the white needle? Or did some other power soothe her senses? A power that was inexplicably familiar, as though rooted deep in her soul. She could feel it flickering before her—she needed to reach for its promise, knew it offered her salvation.

“More,” she said. “Please, more.”

A new sound reached her ears—not the clamor of the other prisoners. Nor was it Salikh shouting strange names at her, as he did with such persistence.

“Companion, remember yourself. Remember Hira! Remember who you are!”

It was the horrible sound, the sound that intruded on her daydreams: the sputtering hiss of the hose. The tray of needles was gone, replaced by the canister she had come to know with horror. She returned to her body with a thump. She gazed at the tall man in confusion. Now there were other men with him. Three men instead of three heads.

“What’s this?” she asked. “What have you done with the needle?”

A hollow voice echoed through the gas mask. “This is a test,” it said. “The white needle amplifies the effects of the gas. Some die on its first application; others last for months. We are attempting to accelerate its effects.”

“No,” Sinnia whispered. “Give me the white needle. Can’t you see that I need it?”

“Oh, yes, I can see.” She heard a sickening anticipation in the eerie throb of the tall man’s voice. “But this is my first experiment on a Companion of Hira. I want you to live through the night.”

12

AN INHUMAN SCREAM PIERCED THE WALLS. IT REBOUNDED THROUGH the prison’s courtyard, followed by a flurry of activity and noise. It sounded like an animal, twisted and broken in the savage rites of death. But Elena knew the scream—she’d heard it from her own throat, as a source of infinite horror, and also from Larisa, a sound that had almost killed her.

The Technologist had come.

The scream sounded again. It was a woman’s scream; it could have been one of the followers of the Usul Jade.

But in her heart, Elena knew it wasn’t. She knew it was the Companion of Hira, the woman she’d never met—a woman she was risking their lives for. All at Larisa’s bidding, while Illarion paced like a hungry jackal at their side.

“What’s that noise?”

Elena looked at him with hatred in her heart. “That noise is you and everything you stand for. The Ahdath, the Crimson Watch. Torturers who now inflict their savagery on a Companion of Hira.”