THE SHAMSHIR
GET UP.”
Shahrzad moaned and drew the pillow over her face in response.
“Get up. Now.”
“Go away,” Shahrzad grumbled.
At that, the pillow was unceremoniously snatched from her grasp and slammed against her cheek with a force that shocked her.
She sat upright, sheer outrage eclipsing her exhaustion.
“Are you deranged?” she shouted.
“I told you to get up,” Despina replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
Not knowing what else to do, she pelted the pillow back at Despina’s head.
Despina caught it with a laugh. “Get up, Shahrzad, Brat Calipha of Khorasan, Queen of Queens. I’ve been waiting all morning for you, and we have someplace to go.”
When Shahrzad finally rose from the bed, she saw yet again that Despina was flawlessly garbed in another draped garment and polished until every facet of her pale skin was artfully rendered in the light flowing from the terrace.
“Where did you learn—that?” Shahrzad asked with begrudging admiration.
Despina positioned her hands on her hips and peaked an eyebrow.
“The clothes, the hair, the—that.” Shahrzad raked her fingers through her tangled mane as she clarified.
“At home in the city of Thebes. My mother taught me. She was one of the most famous beauties in all of Cadmeia. Perhaps in all of the Greek Isles.”
“Oh.” Shahrzad studied Despina’s glossy curls and then proceeded to toss
back the snarled mess in her hands.
“I wouldn’t.” Despina smirked.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Attempt to bait me into complimenting you.”
“Excuse me?” Shahrzad sputtered.
“I’ve encountered your kind many times before—the effortlessly lovely ones; the green sylphs of the world. They flail about, without concern for their charms, but they suffer the same desire to be liked that we all do. Just because you don’t know how to make the best of your many gifts does not mean they go unnoticed, Shahrzad. But I could teach you, if you like. Although it seems you don’t need my help.” Despina winked. “Obviously, the caliph appreciates your charms as they are.”
“Well, he’s not a very particular man. How many wives has he had in the past three months alone? Sixty? Seventy-five?” Shahrzad retorted.
Despina quirked her mouth. “But he hasn’t gone to see them at night.”
“What?”
“Usually, they’re chosen at random, he marries them, and . . . well, you know
what happens the next morning.”
“Don’t lie to me, Despina.”
“I’m not. You were the first bride he sought out after the wedding.”
I don’t believe her.
“In case you were wondering, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” Despina
admitted.
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe I just want you to like me.”
Shahrzad gave her a long, hard look. “If you want me to like you, help me figure out what to wear. Also, where’s the food? I’m starving.”
Despina grinned. “I already laid out a long qamis and matching trowsers. Get dressed, and we can leave.”
“But I haven’t bathed! Where are you taking me?”
“Do you have to spoil everything?”
“Where are we going?” Shahrzad insisted. “Tell me now.”
“Fine!” Despina exhaled. “I’ll tell you while you’re getting dressed.” She shoved the clothing at Shahrzad and directed her behind the privacy screens.
“So,” Despina began, “last winter, the caliph went to Damascus to visit the Malik of Assyria and, while he was there, he saw the malik’s new bathhouse . . . it’s this huge pool of water they keep warm with these special heated stones. The steam is supposed to do wonders for your skin. Anyway, the caliph had one built here, in the palace! They just finished it!”
“And?”
“Obviously, I’m taking you there.” Despina rolled her eyes.
“Obviously. I just don’t understand why this is such cause for excitement.”
“Because it’s amazing. And new. And you will be one of the first ones to try
it.”
“So he wants to boil me to death?” Shahrzad said acerbically.
Despina snickered.
“I’m ready.” Shahrzad emerged from behind the screens clad in simple pale green linen with matching jade earrings and pointed gold slippers. She plaited her hair in a single braid down her back and strode to the door of the chamber.
The Rajput was nowhere to be found.
“Where is he?” Shahrzad asked.
“Oh. He was dismissed for the day.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re going to the bathhouse. He can’t very well accompany us there, can he?”
Shahrzad pursed her lips. “No. But . . .”
As Despina pulled the doors shut, Shahrzad saw her chew on her carmine- stained lower lip.
As though she were concealing something.
“Despina. Where is the Rajput?”
“I told you. Dismissed.”
“That’s fine. But where does he go when he’s dismissed?”
“How should I know?”
“You know everything.”
“I don’t know this, Shahrzad.”
Why is she lying to me? I thought I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without the Rajput. Where is she really taking me?
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where my bodyguard is.”
“By Zeus, you are a nuisance, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran!” Despina cried.
“It’s good you know that. It will save you time. Now, answer my question.”
“No.”
“Answer me, you wretched Theban!”
“No, you horse’s ass!”
Shahrzad’s mouth fell agape. “Listen to me: we can either stand in the hallways of the palace and shout at each other, or you can let me have my way now and spare yourself the trouble. When I was twelve, my best friend and I were falsely accused of stealing a necklace. The shopkeeper’s fourteen-year-old son said he would let us go for a kiss each. I broke his nose, and my best friend shoved him in a trough of water. When we were confronted by his father, we denied the entire incident, and I had to sit outside our door for a whole night. It
was the best sleep of my life.”
“And your point is?”
“I never lose, nor am I afraid to spill blood.”
Despina stared down at her. “Fine! The Rajput is—he’s in a tournament. The men are having a swordsmanship tournament this afternoon.”
A calculating gleam entered Shahrzad’s hazel eyes.
“See! This is precisely why I didn’t want to tell you!” Despina groaned. “And you can’t go, anyway. If the caliph sees you there, he’ll—”
“Is he fighting in the tournament?”
“Of course.”
Then there is no way you’re going to stop me.
“He won’t do anything to me,” Shahrzad announced, though her voice was laced with uncertainty.
“I can’t say the same for myself,” Despina retorted.
“Fine. Is there a way to watch it so no one knows we’re there?”
“Can we please just go to the bathhouse?” Despina pleaded.
“Of course. After the tournament.”
“Holy Hera. I’m going to die as your handmaiden.”
• • •
“This is, by far, the most asinine thing I’ve ever done in the six years I’ve lived at the palace,” Despina said quietly, as they crouched behind a wall of tan stone.
The latticework at its top afforded them a vantage point from which to see the sand-filled expanse below.
“You can blame me,” Shahrzad breathed back.
“Oh, I will. Make no mistake.”
“Have you ever seen one of these tournaments?”
“No. They’re not meant for an audience.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe because—” Despina gasped as the first soldier stepped onto the sand.
“That might be the reason,” Shahrzad joked with a slight hitch in her voice.
He was clad in nothing but sirwal trowsers and a burgundy tikka sash.
Barefoot. No qamis. No rida’. His bare chest glowed with sweat in the hot afternoon sun. In silence, he withdrew a large scimitar from his left hip. Its blade was narrow at the hilt and widened as it curved outward before tapering to a
lethal point.
The soldier raised the scimitar high.
“Where is his opponent?” Shahrzad asked.
“How should I know?”
The soldier began swinging his blade in the air, performing an extended drill.
He danced across the sand, the silver sword cutting arc after arc through the bright blue sky.
When he was finished, cheers and whistles of approval emanated from the sidelines.
“They must start with drills before they launch into fighting,” Despina
decided.
“Ever the smart Theban.”
“If I push you over, you’ll look decidedly unqueenlike.”
Several more soldiers showcased their drilling techniques before a hulking form materialized in the sand. His shoulders were immense, and every muscle appeared to strain beneath his copper skin.
“My God,” Shahrzad said. “He could crush my skull with his bare hands.”
Despina snickered.
When the Rajput drew his talwar into the sun, he paused for an eerie moment, the sword poised above his head.
Let’s see what it means to be the best swordsman in Rey.
The second he brought the blade down was the last time Shahrzad remembered seeing it for the entire duration of the Rajput’s demonstration. The slender talwar whipped through the breeze, curling over its master’s arm as the Rajput stretched and dove into the sand.
Then, near the end of the drill, he lifted his free hand to his mouth . . .
And blew over his open palm.
A stream of fire extended onto the sword.
The talwar was ablaze.
He whirled it over his head, slicing the screaming dragon of a weapon downward. With a final thrust into the sand, he extinguished the flames.
The soldiers raised an earsplitting chorus on the sidelines.
Shahrzad and Despina stared at one another in shared amazement.
“I—I . . .” Shahrzad attempted.
“I know,” Despina finished.
Lost in their wordless conversation, it took both girls some time to recognize the next figure striding onto the sand. When Shahrzad looked down, she was dismayed by the instant tightening sensation in her chest. She knitted her brow and pressed her lips into a line.
The caliph’s shoulders were tan and lean; each of the muscles in his trim torso shone, defined and well articulated in the afternoon sun.
Despina sighed. “Despite everything, I have to admit I’ve always found him
quite handsome. Such a shame.”
Again, Shahrzad felt the strange reaction spike within her core.
“Yes. It is a shame,” she spat.
“There’s no need to be angry at me for admiring him. Trust that he’s the last man I’d ever have designs on. I don’t enjoy gambling with my own life.”
“I wasn’t angry at you!” Shahrzad protested. “I don’t care if you or anyone
else admires him!”
Despina’s eyes danced with amusement.
And then the caliph drew his sword.
It was a unique weapon. Not as wide as a scimitar, nor as sharply curved. The blade was thin, and its point tapered to a more severe angle than all the other swords Shahrzad had seen so far.
“Do you know the name of that weapon?” she asked.
“It’s called a shamshir.”
As the caliph began his drill, Shahrzad found herself gripping the top of the wall, seeking a better vantage point.
Like the Rajput, he slashed and arced so quickly it was almost impossible to discern the location of the blade. But where the Rajput’s superior strength granted him the ability to radiate menace without shifting a muscle, the caliph’s far more agile form underscored the subtle grace—the cunning instincts—behind every motion.
Halfway through the drill, he placed both hands on the hilt of his shamshir and twisted the handle apart.
The sword split in two, and he began swinging one in either hand. The blades tore through the air like a dust devil in the desert, whistling about his head as he made his way across the sand.
Shahrzad heard Despina catch her breath.
The twin shamshirs rained a shower of sparks as he struck them against each other and brought the drill to an end with a sword positioned in each hand at his sides.
Again, a riotous cheer rang through the throng of soldiers standing witness to the spectacle. Whatever one’s personal feelings about the caliph, it could not be denied he was a masterful swordsman.
Nor was he a king solely reliant on the protection of others.
He would not be an easy man to kill.
And this presents a serious challenge.
“Well, does that satisfy your curiosity?” Despina asked.
“Yes, my lady. Does it?” A gruff voice announced its presence behind them.
Both girls scrambled to their feet, still trying to remain unseen by the soldiers
below.
The color drained from Shahrzad’s face.
The Shahrban of Rey was standing across the way, his face a mask of false composure, and his eyes filled with . . . frustration.
“General al-Khoury.” Shahrzad brushed the debris from her hands and her clothes.
He continued studying her, some kind of war raging behind his eyes.
When the battle was over, it was obvious Shahrzad had lost.
“What are you doing here, my lady?”
“I was . . . curious.”
“I see. And may I ask who gave you permission to be here, my lady?”
At this, Shahrzad’s indignation rose. He might be the Shahrban of Rey and a good deal older than she, but she had done nothing to warrant such disrespect.
She was his queen, after all—not a child to be scolded for misbehaving.
She strode forward. “I did not seek permission from anyone, General al- Khoury. Nor shall I seek permission from anyone in the future. For anything.”
He inhaled carefully, his brown eyes, so like Jalal’s and yet so dissimilar, narrowing invectively. “I’m afraid we can’t allow you to behave thus, my lady.
You see, it is my job to protect the king and this kingdom. And you—you conflict with my job. I’m sorry. I can’t let you continue to do this.”
Does he—does he know?
“I thank you, General al-Khoury.”
“Excuse me, my lady?”
“It’s never been a question of who is going to let me behave a certain way; it’s always been a question of who is going to stop me. I thank you for answering it.”
The older gentleman leaned back onto his heels for a moment, staring down at the impudent girl with the flashing colors in her hazel eyes and the small hands positioned on her hips.
“I am sorry, my lady. Sorrier than you will ever know. But threats against the
caliph . . . must be eliminated.”
“I am not a threat, General al-Khoury.”
“And I intend to make sure it stays that way.”
Oh, God. How does he know?
