Bradley P. Beaulieu
The Straits of Galahesh
PROLOGUE
In the southern gallery of the capital’s sprawling kasir, Hakan ul Aye s e, the Kamarisi of Yrstanla, stood at a marble balcony. The day was warm. Gardeners below tended to the rows of trees-lemon and fig and plum-that filled the southern acres. Far to the south, beyond the gardens, was a tall stone wall that had never been touched in battle. The wall was exactly three leagues long, and it separated Kasir Irabahce from the vastness of Aleke s ir.
From beyond the wall, if the winds were calm and the noise from the palace was low, Hakan could hear the calls of hawking and barter that came from the spice market to the east, or the bazaar to the south. Today, however, was not such a day. Today, he heard the sounds of industry. Beyond the walking paths and the ordered rows of the vineyard, a dozen masons were spending their sweat on a gazebo that would house a bronze statue being made in his honor. He would not have wished it, but the city they’d taken in the ceaseless war with the Haelish barbarians to the west demanded celebration, even if the victory had been hollow. In weeks, perhaps months, the Haelish would have it back, for the Empire’s resources there were too thin, spread too far along their border with the lands of the Haelish kings.
Behind him, the doors to the gallery opened. He kept his eyes on the rows of red grapes, nearly ready for harvest. Mingled with the sound of approaching footsteps-hard leather scraping lightly over the white marble floor- was the faint patter of bare feet and the jingle of tiny bells.
The sounds stopped a respectful distance behind him. The leather uniforms of his guardsmen creaked.
“Leave her,” Hakan said.
More creaking, the guards bowing to their Lord, and the footsteps resumed, this time fading away until the door closed with a click that pierced the room.
Hakan turned and found the woman he’d summoned from the tower of the wives. She had joined his harem some three months ago. She was tall, nearly as tall as he, and beautiful beyond measure. She was graced with golden hair and striking blue eyes, so rare among the women of the Empire. Only far to the north, among the mountain tribes, were such women to be found, but they were too often coarse and unlearned. Arvaneh was refined, with a soft touch and a softer tongue-in both senses of the word.
The supple cloth of her white dress fell along her frame like a waterfall. From her ankles and hands hung chains with golden bells and ruby gems. On her head was an intricate gold headdress. Somehow it had never suited her.
“Remove the headdress,” he said.
She bowed and complied, setting the headdress on a nearby table. When she regarded him again, it seemed to him that her smile was too satisfied, as if removing the finery had been her idea all along.
He moved to the table and from a small glass pitcher poured raki into two golden chalices. He handed one to Arvaneh and kept the other for himself, motioning for her to follow him to the balcony. She complied, calm and confident, as she had always been.
At the balcony, he brought the raki to his nose, smelled the anise and clove that infused it, then took a healthy swallow. He saw Arvaneh do the same, and the tension inside him eased.
“Tell me, Arvaneh, from what part of the empire do you hail?”
“From a village near the western border of the Gaji.” She waved, as if it were nothing. “It is named Kohor, though you’ve probably never heard of it.”
“Is it not in the Empire?”
“It is, Kamarisi.”
He smiled. “I know of Kohor. What I don’t know is how you came to Aleke s ir.”
She tilted her head, staring out over the garden as he’d been doing only moments before, except in her there was a clear hunger, a lust for life and the world that stood before her, whereas he had grown… perhaps not weary, but certainly dissatisfied with life in the palace, in the city.
There was more as well. He couldn’t quite define it, but she seemed to be looking beyond the horizon. She seemed, in fact, to be looking beyond her years toward distant ages past. But then the look was gone, and she turned to him with a steely glint in her eyes. “There was nothing for me in the desert. I wished to see the world.”
“And yet you told me that you’ve remained here in the capital since your arrival six months ago.”
“That’s true”-she beckoned him with a smile-“but when one finds herself in the very center of the world, is there anything that might compel her to leave?” Upon saying these words, she studied him-she weighed him- deciding whether or not she should approach. She seemed to decide against it, perhaps sensing his mood, and he realized he had best be careful how much he revealed. Arvaneh was no one to fool with, not if what his seneschal had told him was true.
He watched as she took another drink. He mirrored her, if only to keep pretenses up.
She turned back to the garden, jaw set, apparently giving his question more serious thought. “Aleke s ir is calm. Peaceful. Her roots dig deep into the earth. Why would I want to leave?”
“Perhaps there are places you don’t wish to return. Did you leave someone there? In Kohor?”
Her head snapped toward him, her blue eyes cold and judgmental. But then they softened. “The people of Kohor have long since forgotten me.”
“That I doubt.” He finished his drink. “I doubt it very much.”
As she stared, her eyes lost focus, and she shook her head to clear it.
“Do you feel very well?” he asked, taking her nearly empty chalice from her quivering hands. “Would you care to sit?”
She nodded. The bells on her wrists jingled. Her whole body began to shake. She didn’t go three steps before she collapsed to the ground, golden hair splaying across the floor.
Hakan crouched on the balls of his feet, staring into her eyes, which had gone soft, unable to focus. “Now, would you like to tell me who you really are?”
She blinked. Her body shivered.
“You can speak if you want to. It simply takes more effort. Devrim has been watching you, as have the other women. They know that you leave the tower at night. That you spy upon my room from the gardens. Why? Why do you do this?”
“I…” A horrible shiver ran down her frame, preventing her from speaking. She closed her eyes tightly and opened them again, somehow managing to fix them on him once more. “I only wished to know you.”
“For what purpose?”
She took a deep breath and released it in slow, halting increments. Blood trickled from beneath her left temple from where it had struck the floor. It trailed along the tile until it found a crease, and then it spread along the seam between the stones. “I wanted to know the sort of man you were.”
“Who sent you?”
“I came of my own free will.”
“Don’t lie. You may yet live. There is a counter to the poison, but I cannot use it if I think you’ve spoken even one more lie to me.”
She blinked, a slow and measured movement. Her breath was shallower than it’d been only moments ago. “I wouldn’t lie.” The words were soft, like the dying breeze of dusk.
Hakan cleared his throat, which felt suddenly constricted. He cleared it again. “There is more to the story. I would know, Arvaneh.”
“My name… is Sariya…”
He was surprised to hear fire in her words. He had underestimated her reserves of strength. “Sariya. I would know before you pass. Are you an assassin? Were you sent by the Haelish kings? Or the crones who live in the
