A good part of Altair thrived on refusal, and it came alive the moment the Jawarat imparted its eerie message through Zafira. He refused to believe one of his lovely aunts’ hearts was fading to black inside his father.
Sultan’s teeth, he had quite the family tree.
Regardless, he would wring this for what he could. He had been desperately searching for a match to light a fire beneath the dignitaries’ arses and rally their aid, and this new revelation was it.
“What did Ghada say?” Kifah asked as he unfurled the Pelusian calipha’s missive.
“If her answer was affirmative, she wouldn’t have sent you a letter,” Nasir said, sharpening his sword. “She’s down the daama hall.”
“I cannot wait until you and your impeccable ability to rouse hope are crowned king, brother boy,” Altair drawled. “What a gloomy day that will be.”
Nasir’s reaction was a downward turn of his mouth.
The prince was right, but Altair read it aloud for Kifah’s benefit. “‘Pelusia is all that stands between Arawiya and starvation. We cannot, in good conscience, invite the Lion’s wrath. Regards, Ghada bint Jund.’”
“A better excuse than the Zaramese caliph’s, at least,” Kifah consoled herself. The reed of a man hadn’t even offered an excuse.
This was it, then. Two caliphs had refused to join their efforts to defeat the Lion. Leila was on her way to claiming her mother’s throne in Alderamin, while Sarasin’s throne
remained empty still, the man most promising for the job dead before he could claim it.
Altair threw open the doors and stepped into the hall, spotting a servant tossing almonds into his mouth. “Oi, you there. Where are Haytham and Ayman? Make haste.”
The boy responded with a gesture that would have had him decapitated, had Nasir been on the receiving end. But Altair was only a general, and the boy answered to his caliph.
“Is that so?” Altair drawled. “Do it now, pint. By order of the true sultan.”
“True sultan,” Nasir repeated when he stepped back inside. “If you aren’t going to use the title for anything useful, I
will.” Altair rubbed his beard. “What else can we do? Summon a nice feast? A few bodies to keep us warm?”
Nasir’s ears flushed red.
“Kifah, dearest?” Altair called. She retracted her spear. “Remind me to check on Nasir’s ears the next time Zafira’s around, eh?”
She smirked as Haytham entered, his checkered keffiyah off-kilter. A servant girl followed with a tray. The nutty and spicy aroma of qahwa filled the room, awakening Altair’s senses as the girl poured him a cup from a silver dallah, breaking the silence with an awkward trickle before offering him a platter of cubed honey cake that Kifah stole away.
“Zafira still hasn’t returned,” Nasir reminded them as Haytham took his seat.
“She’s a big girl,” Altair said to pacify him. For his part, Altair could only think of that cake, glistening and soft and not in his mouth. “She knows her way back.” He frowned at the Demenhune wazir. “Where is Ayman?”
“Currently engaged in other matters,” the wazir said.
The only time that particular phrase sufficed was when a man was in his bedchamber, engaged in matters that were decidedly not rest. Altair lifted his one visible brow, unconvinced.
Haytham’s shoulders dropped, disappointment curving his mouth. “He refuses to come … He refuses to meet with you.”
Understandable. Altair was, after all, the general who had led several armies against Ayman’s own. He wouldn’t have wanted to meet with the old man, either, had he been on the losing end.
“I am here in his stead,” Haytham said, and cleared his throat, lifting a bundle of missives. “Several reports have come in.”
“Let’s hear them,” Altair said, leaning forward.
Haytham slid forward a sheet of papyrus covered in neat scrawl. “Sarasin’s smaller cities have fallen to darkness.”
“Already?” Altair asked. He hadn’t thought his father would act this quickly. They’d barely had time to recover.
“It will make travel difficult,” Kifah said, gears turning as quickly as Pelusian mechanics. “We intend to return to Sultan’s Keep, don’t we? If Sarasin has been blanketed by shadows, ifrit are bound to be there. The darkness isn’t for nothing. He’s creating a home for his kind.”
“What’s this about a new caliph?” Nasir asked, tapping a finger on the missive.
“Ah. Yes,” Haytham said. “They’ve appointed the caliph elect—Muzaffar. He was present at the feast.”
On the low table, Nasir’s fingers turned white, and Altair remembered that moment, months ago, when the prince had received his orders to assassinate the previous caliph of Sarasin.
“Muzaffar is dead,” Nasir said. “I saw him lying in a pool of his own blood.”
Haytham didn’t seem surprised. “I had a feeling the timing did not align. The Lion has little reason to appoint someone as beloved as Muzaffar. Even if there was a reason, I cannot see the man idling as ifritkind overtook his lands. Possibly worse, several Sarasin contingents have been sighted shifting to Sultan’s Keep. I assume they are reinforcements.”
Kifah toyed with her lightning blades. “If they’re claiming it’s Muzaffar on the Sarasin throne, there’s only one way it could be possible: An ifrit is wearing his face.”
Altair dragged a hand down his own face.
“It’s a near-perfect solution,” Nasir commented. “The Sarasins are subdued, both human and ifrit armies answer to the caliph, and the caliph answers to the Lion.”
“You said ‘reinforcements.’ Reinforcements for what?” Kifah asked. “Us? He’s put too much faith in our leaders if he thinks we’ll march at him with four armies.”
Down three different halls of the palace, Ghada sat with her Nine Elite, the Zaramese caliph dozed, and Ayman lounged with his ancient bones. Altair wanted to grab them all by the shoulders and shake sense into them.
Haytham leafed through his missives. “I’ve also had men scoping the grounds near the Sultan’s Palace.”
Nasir shared in Altair’s surprise. It seemed there was at least one other competent man in Arawiya aside from himself.
“They’ve reported a mere handful of sentinels, barely enough to withstand a full-blown attack. If the Lion truly does believe we may march in with an army, why remain short- staffed?”
“Magic?” Kifah assumed, plopping another honey cake in her mouth. Altair scowled.
“There are spells that create protective barriers,” Altair pondered. “It’s what you were supposed to use in Sultan’s Keep to prevent the Lion from taking the Jawarat.”
He still felt the guilt of that moment, the horror of seeing the book in his father’s hands.
“We were, until we ran out of blood,” Kifah said.
“There is one good note,” Haytham said, handing him another missive that looked to have been steeped in snow one too many times. “Rebel forces have been gathering in Sultan’s Keep.”
“Rebels?” Kifah asked, taking the soggy sheet. “They may very well join us.”
Us. Altair liked the sound of that word from the wazir.
“Depends on what they’re rebelling against.” Nasir was as optimistic as ever.
“But an army nonetheless,” Altair said, spreading the missives across the table. He stared at the map pinned to the wall, gray lines and navy rivers. The silver streaks of palaces reinforced by might and magic, the curve of the Great Library.
The Great Library.
Altair straightened and grabbed a reed pen. “Gather round, children. I’ve got a plan.”
