Wiping her eyes, Nirah turned from the walls and hurried back into the palace.

  With every step, hurt turned to rage in her chest. That bitch. That bitch. Tilhar acted as though the matters she spoke of were out of her hands, as if bribes and favors were as immutable as the sun’s path in the sky. As if she was not the one who charted her own steps. Tilhar could have properly warded the palace gates without a second thought, but, if she sought only her own enrichment, why would she? It had nothing to do with piety or a desire to serve.

  Nirah grit her teeth until the muscles in her jaw ached. There were few places she could fume in the palace without scrutiny. Her feet marched her back inside the safety of the palace walls, navigated through the halls as if performing some dance her mind had forgotten but her body remembered, and, without her own biding, took her where she needed to go. It wasn’t until Nirah looked up that she saw the tucked away reflecting pool before her.

  “Is everything alright?”

  She knew who it was before she even turned her head. There, against the far wall, was Ahsan, seated on a plum cushion and with a tablet in hand. His brow was knotted in worry. Of course he was up, reading, when he should have been asleep. She met his eyes. Had they always had so many flecks of green?

  He wasn’t crying. If anyone in the palace had the right to cry, it was him. He had it worse, objectively so. Somehow, that only made the dam within her waver.

  Then, it broke.

  Before, her tears had been but a leak in the dike, and now the waters sprang free. Tears began to stream down her face, her nose running and shoulders quivering. She slid to her knees, hands clapped over her face. She couldn’t stop. Instead she only cried, harder now, the pent-up pressure within her spilling out. Doubtlessly she was worrying him, but the thought still did not halt her tears. She dared to peek through her shaking fingers.

  Ahsan looked at her, wide eyed, and for a moment she worried he might leave. But instead, he scooted closer until he was less than an arm’s length away. His mouth opened and closed, then he put a hand on her shoulder. If he said anything, she didn’t hear it.

  It is not fair, she wanted to yell. As if Ahsan himself did not already know how unfair his position was.

  With a sting through her chest, she remembered when she had called him a coward for not facing his death head on, said that he was incapable of seeing the bigger picture his death would paint. She had seen it, once. Now she no longer wanted to. Ahsan wrapped his arms around her heaving shoulders and stroked her hair.

  “It is not fair,” she finally choked out.

  But no one with the power to set things right, not men nor the gods, cared to listen.

  16

  Ahsan hadn’t been able to get much information from Nirah on account of her sobbing, but he had known enough women to guess that she wasn’t in the mood to talk about whatever troubled her. As her tears eventually let up, he recognized the glazed look in her eyes; her emotion and energy had both been thoroughly spent. Though she supported her own weight as he shuffled her up to their quarters, as soon as she drew the linens up to her chin she was fast asleep.

  Ahsan reached for the comb securing her low bun in place, then stopped. It felt strangely intimate to do, but left in it could snarl in her curls or give her a headache. He removed the ornament and placed it on the low bedside table. He left the room, and again found the guards by his side. While they had remained at a respectable distance when he escorted the crying Nirah upstairs, now they kept him within arm’s reach, as if he might choose now of all times to make a break for freedom.

  “I am merely collecting my tablets,” he said. There were still four or five texts he had left in the solarium.

  “An attendant would be honored to collect them for His Highness,” Yarum said.

  “I left my tea behind.”

  “A new pot will be made for His Highness.”

  Ahsan resisted the grimace that tried to curl against his mouth. As the hours drew Sippar closer to the eclipse and the palace busied itself with its preparations, all Ahsan wanted was time to himself without being watched. It was like he had a pack of hyenas on his tail. He had that silence for about a half hour in the solarium, but it did not seem his guards would allow him to return to it. He would have to settle for stretching his legs—and pretending he wasn’t being followed—instead. He meandered through the halls, trying to follow the route he knew was least busy this time of day, which meant staying clear of the kitchens and the halls leading to the laundry. Though the palace buzzed with people on most days, there was a great deal of it left unoccupied. Once cleaned, the rooms sat empty, in reserve for entertaining and special events. Ahsan couldn’t help but think it was a waste.

  He walked down one of the corridors near the central dining hall. It was his favorite of the dining rooms the palace held, with an attached courtyard where he had taken his breakfast most mornings since he’d been here. He didn’t use the dining hall itself—he could not justify the manpower and attendants’ time to set it up, no matter how they insisted otherwise—but just the attached courtyard, sitting between the ferns and feeding whatever leftovers he had to the peacocks.

  He stopped to look up at the hall’s carved door, its lacquered swells and ridges catching in the middling light, and then at the murals flanking each side. In the carved stone, gazelle struggled to flee their pursuing chariot and hunter. Wearing a crown Ahsan had become quite familiar with, the king advanced on one of the straggling animals, bow in hand. Ahsan couldn’t help but feel a mote of sympathy for the gazelle. Though it was nothing more than an artist’s rendering, Ahsan could see the whole scene play out before him: the king, visiting his hunting reserve. The animals, contained in luxury until the king decided to kill them. Not for food either, but sport. What an absurd concept.

  Shaking his head, Ahsan turned to continue down the hall—and started. An unpleasant face from his past greeted him, more like a specter than a fond reminder. The most senior of the Assembly members and the one who had been none too hesitant to sentence Ahsan to death: Ibnatum. He shuffled down the corridor, heading Ahsan’s way. When the old man saw the contingent of guards coming his direction, he stopped and looked up. He squinted, then went bug-eyed before squinting again. Ahsan had a feeling the second squint was less out of necessity and more out of disgust. He could feel the expression on his own face, too.

  “I wish my eyes deceived me on this day, but I worry they do not,” Ibnatum sniffed.

  Ahsan cursed that he hadn’t worn his fake beard today. While he never did unless he had a royal function, he knew that without it, Ibnatum would recognize him immediately.

  Though Mistress Tashlitum was not here, Ahsan wasn’t sure his guards would keep any unkingly behavior to themselves. Belshun, maybe, but he had no relationship with the other Mesdi.

  He forced himself to straighten and plastered on the best smile he could manage. “Greetings, Assemblyman Ibnatum. What brings you to my halls?”

  “Enough nonsense.” Ibnatum readjusted his hold on the three tablets in the crook of his arm, but the sour pinch of his lips remained. “What a sham this all is.”

  Ahsan squeezed his fists tight at the small of his back. It wouldn’t matter if Yarum or Apil saw; they knew he tended towards cowardice. “I have done nothing—”

  “Oh, stop. You’ve made a mess of things, even if no one knows it yet. Your family always does as much.”

  Ahsan opened his mouth to snap back at him, but held his tongue. Of course the old man was being critical of him. If he recalled correctly, Ibnatum never had a problem with his father’s gifts nor his many parties—until his bribery and ill-gotten goods came to light. Was that why Ibnatum regarded Ahsan so disdainfully? Because he thought he was the same kind of man as his father? Ahsan swallowed.

  “I take pride in not being like my father, Assemblyman.”

  Ibnatum regarded him for a moment, before harrumphing and deciding better of it. “Say what you will. Thanks to you, I now have a murder on my hands—”

  Ahsan held up a hand. The old man must be going mad, or was making up outright lies to slander him.

  “I can assure you I have committed no murder, Assemblyman,” he ground out.

  “Interesting.” The man cut his eyes at him. “Because a case that was formerly in my hands was passed up to higher courts, and eventually royal deliberation. A case of two luxury crop landowners who disputed over their canal access.”

  Ahsan went cold. He could still remember their faces, their names: Namhanni and Puzrish, one a pistachio crop owner and the other a pine nut and mulberry crop owner. Before he could ask what had happened, Ibnatum continued.

  “Rumor has it that the king, he who has final say in all matters, told one landowner that if he was caught stealing water again, his lands would be forfeited in their entirety to the other landowner. It seems to me that, if this king were wise, as all kings must be, he would have had the wisdom to foresee the tragedy this would cause.” Ibnatum leveled his gaze at Ahsan, pinning him to the spot. “Or, he would have realized that he is playing pretend among his betters, and that he ought not to make himself of consequence in the lives of good, ordinary people.”

  Dread hung over Ahsan. Without a single quip on his tongue, he waited for Ibnatum’s final blow.

  “In the end, the mulberry crop owner killed his neighbor. Poisoned his dogs, snuck in, and murdered him in the night. In fear that he would be stripped of his land if reported a final time, he ensured his neighbor was never able to file a report—or any other complaint—ever again.” He sighed and rubbed his brow with his free hand. “I now have a murderer to be put to death, and two widows with children whom I have no idea what to do with. To say nothing of the doubt this has placed in the minds of Sippar’s people.”

  Ahsan stood rooted to the spot. It felt as if the earth was pulling him down, down until it consumed and buried him. The world spun beneath his feet, and heat rose up in his throat, burning his eyes. His head pounded.

  “I hope you are happy, playing pretend,” Ibnatum said, voice distant. It was as if Ahsan’s ears were full of water.

  He didn’t see Ibnatum leave, only dimly heard the slap of sandals die away as the stone floor continued to pull him towards it.

  Was this what it was like to be king? To have this kind of influence over the lives of others, this kind of power? How terrifying it was. Terrifying that he could plant such seeds that could morph into weeds outside his control. Weeds he had never intended to take root. If he had not said he would punish Puzrish so severely in the event of another infraction, would Namhanni still be alive? Was his ruling one a good king would have had the wisdom not to make? Meshki-Angasher must have truly had some measure of greatness, were that true, to live with so many lives dangling between his fingers. How did he cope with the weight of human souls and fates hanging onto his every word and judgment?

  It was too much. There were plenty of times Ahsan felt unworthy to be in these halls or to sit in the royal seat, but this was the most he had been made to confront his utter inadequacy. His ineptitude. Uselessness. He could put on the crown, don a fake beard, and order men to kneel, but he would never be worthy of kingship—nor of the responsibility and power that came with it.

  And this murder. It was his fault. Ahsan had been the one to place a volatile man in such a position—without pausing to regard his rival’s safety.

  Eyes lost, Ahsan stood motionless in the hallway for a long while. He vaguely heard the guards behind him clear their throats, and began walking forward without direction, but still he saw nothing. Said nothing. All he had to do was get through this. The more he did, the more he ruined things. For the royal household, for Nirah, and for untold others.

  Perhaps, for the betterment of Sippar, it was a good thing his time as imposter king was coming to an end.

  17

  Two days passed. Though there was still one moonrise left between the people and the inauspicious event, Sippar had already fallen into silence. Even in the morning, when the squares would usually begin to stir with peddlers hauling out their wares and bakers shoveling dung into their firepits, it was quiet. As if sensing the tension that hung over the city, the livestock had gone silent as well, no braying, no stomping, only the nervous chewing of cud and hens scratching at the dirt.

  Though hushed, the city still busied itself with preparations for the coming eclipse. People painted their entryways with red ochre, buried miniature statues and amulets of Pazuzu and other protective deities under their thresholds, and spent drops of blessed oils in the corners of their houses to guard against whatever the cosmic event might bring. Though an eclipse did not guarantee ill-fortune, caution never hurt. There would just as certainly be feasting and revelry once it passed. For her part, Nirah had done what preparing she could. She only hoped that, when the eclipse was over, she would be celebrating too. Her chest tightened.

  Part of her preparations saw her shaping, drying, painting, and blessing flat clay pendants in the spare time she found. She’d even stayed up late last night to finish her most recent batch. Her perfectionism would have normally seen to it that she had a large discard pile, but not this time. This time, she would grant protection to as many as she could.

  She told herself it was merely for a job to do, something to occupy her hands and mind, but part of her hoped the pendants would do something. Help protect where she could not. It wasn’t as if she had the skill in magic Tilhar had, after all, nor the brute strength of Belshun. Merely her hands.

  Nirah went throughout the halls, the pendants looped around her arm clacking against one another, and handed them out to the palace staff she encountered. Scullery maids, attendants, launderers, provisioners, gardeners, the gamut. Everyone had taken the charm from her with broad, if surprised, smiles. She had but ten left, and no time to make more before the eclipse came.

  “Finished your duties early?” came a flat but familiar voice.

  “Huh?” Nirah turned to see Ahsan. Before she could stop herself, she cocked her head in a way she knew looked pitying, but then straightened. Even if she did worry more about his rapidly approaching fate by the hour, she didn’t want it to be obvious. “Oh. Hello.”

  Though the sun from the high windows cast bars of light across his face, he looked dimmer. Like someone had thrown water on his embers. He’d been like that these past few days, spending most of the day on their room’s settee. While her interactions with him since her bawling session had none of the awkwardness she expected, they didn’t have much else, either. With every day that passed, it seemed he became more withdrawn. More distant. She couldn’t blame him. He could be dead in a matter of days—if he didn’t escape first, something she was also becoming increasingly nervous about. Or, perhaps she was simply projecting her own emotions onto him.

  “On the day before the eclipse? I wish I had duties at all.” She snorted in an attempt to downplay her own anxieties, but it sounded more like a sniff. She prayed he didn’t mistake it for yet more pity. “Nevermind that. Here.”

  She reached for his hand and—though he sputtered at her—he looked at what she folded into his palm. The charm’s white surface was plain, save for the simple blue pattern cutting across it in the shape of an eight-pointed star. It would at least grant him more protection than the bastardized six-point star around his neck.

  “Wear it,” she said. “Please.”

  “Is this something of the king’s you found?” He squinted and brought it to eye level. It was the most attention she’d seen him give anything in two days. “Wait a minute, I’ve seen these. This is that new palace trend.”

  “Uh, trend?”

  “Everyone’s wearing them. A lot of the people I’ve seen, at least.” Ahsan held up the pendant to inspect it closer. “I thought I was the odd man out.”

  She scoffed, but made no digs at his fashion sense. He was remarkably well-dressed, but she always assumed that had more to do with his role as fake king than his cosmopolitan tastes.

  “It’s… an amulet,” she said. A pause. “I made it.”

  “Oh!”

  Ahsan stared at her for a moment, mouth a perfect circle, and she looked away with a knee-jerk huff. Being so closely looked at made her feel prickly. It made the pity she was trying not to feel that much sharper.

  He gave a coy smile, the most emotion she’d seen from him in days. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone cares.”

  “Good thing you do know better.” She tried to grin back, but her face didn’t budge. She swallowed. “I’m serious, Ahsan. Just— Don’t let anyone see it, alright?”

  His forehead creased as he studied her, then the amulet in his hand. If people knew she was trying to protect him from misfortune, they might see her gift as treason. Would Ahsan see it that way? Would he know what it was for? She breathed a sigh of relief as he dipped his head to loop the pendant around his neck, swept loose curls away from his nape, and tucked it into the collar of his tassel-sleeved tunic. Her crude painting skills were at odds with the splendor he was clothed in, but her chest warmed to see him wearing it. Warmed—and stung.

  “Safe and sound.” He placed a hand over where it sat, hidden, and gave her a wink.

  She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

  Perplexion wrinkled Ahsan’s face, but Nirah turned away.

 

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