Hero at the Fall

The twins and Leyla had been knocked down, too. They stayed there looking dazed as Jin, Sam, Tamid and I traded looks from our new positions on the ground. Sam didn’t need to translate what they were shouting across the short distance. I knew what to do when a gun was pointed at my head. I’d been on the other side of it often enough.

We raised our hands in surrender.



Chapter 12

Lord Bilal, Emir of Iliaz, looked like what he was: a dying man.

We’d been marched the rest of the way to the fortress at gunpoint by the Albish soldiers. Leyla cried and protested the whole way that she was a prisoner, that they had to help her. But her words were falling on ears that either didn’t care or didn’t understand Mirajin. Finally Jin leaned into her and quickly whispered, ‘Do you really want our country’s enemies to know you’re a princess?’ After that, she fell into sullen silence. She might want an escape, but an escape into enemy hands was worse than no escape at all.

If Iliaz was occupied by foreign soldiers with enough authority to arrest us, it must mean the fortress had fallen. I’d figured we’d find Iliaz invaded, Lord Bilal and his men dead or imprisoned.

But when we reached the gates to the fortress, they were opened by Mirajin soldiers wearing the uniform of Iliaz. No words passed between the Albish soldiers holding us at gunpoint and the Mirajin soldiers, only brusque nods. The Iliazin soldier standing at the gate took us all in, one by one. If he was surprised by the rabble that we were, he was too well trained to show it. Beyond him, I could see into a large courtyard that encircled the fortress.

Dozens of Albish soldiers milled about in their dark green uniform, methodically cleaning guns, sharpening blades, or running through drills. And beside them, though not among them, were the men of the Iliaz garrison. Mirajin men coexisting with these foreigners on their territory.

Not invaders, then. Allies. Well, that was an unexpected development.

‘Identify yourselves,’ the Mirajin soldier at the gate had demanded, talking to us all at once.

I didn’t bother lying to him about who we were. We’d come here looking for Bilal, after all. Evidently we were expected. Before I knew what was happening, I was being ushered into Bilal’s chambers. The others came only as far as the long stone hall just outside his rooms. I could feel Jin’s eyes on my back just before the door slammed between us.

On the other side, Bilal was waiting for me as if I were an invited guest instead of a prisoner. He sat flanked by a servant and one of his soldiers, propped up by dozens of pillows at the end of a low table that had been set with dozens of dishes so decadent I wasn’t sure I recognised most of them.

Bilal was the same age as Rahim. They had grown up together, both raised by Bilal’s father, as brothers. Both of them were still shy of two decades. But now, with the illness destroying him, Bilal looked as if he might be ninety rather than nineteen.

To his right sat a man in an Albish uniform more elaborate than those of the younger men who’d brought us here. He didn’t have vines all over his uniform, but there were gold tassels on his shoulders and gold buttons that marked him apart. I guessed he was their general or captain. He seemed to be suffering in the heat, his pale face slightly flushed. His hair was a reddish colour, one I’d only ever seen before on foxes, and a carefully trimmed moustache adorned his upper lip. He was shifting uncomfortably on the pillow next to the low table, as if he’d prefer a chair. He wouldn’t find one here.

I guessed this was the outer receiving chamber of Bilal’s set of rooms, but it didn’t look like it was really meant to receive anyone. It reminded me of Tamid’s room back in the Hidden House, crowded with tables, stacked up with books and jars of powders labelled in a language I didn’t know.

‘Amani,’ Bilal greeted me. At least he was calling me by my name instead of Demdji. ‘Please –’ he waved one thin hand at the meal laid out around the table – ‘do join me and Captain Westcroft.’ I didn’t move, glancing from Bilal to the Albish officer at his right. ‘I should get to know my bride, after all.’

There was no mistaking that Bilal was closer to the end than he’d been a mere month ago in Izman, when he’d issued his ultimatum to us. He’d wanted a Demdji wife to tie his life to, in order to keep that life going. So it figured Bilal thought he knew why I was here.

I didn’t sit. ‘I’m not here to marry you.’

The servant to Bilal’s left flinched. I didn’t blame him. I waited for Bilal’s anger. I remembered Prince Kadir’s barely restrained violence when he’d been told he couldn’t have me. Men raised in privilege were not accustomed to being refused. But Bilal simply dropped his shaking hand to his plate, then smoothed out a crease in the cloth draped over the table, buying himself time to compose his features

‘Well, then, to what do I owe the dubious honour of this visit?’ He was thinner than he’d been when he left Izman, and his eyes looked sunken with pain and lack of sleep. But that imperious look hadn’t left him. Even now, on the edge of death, he wasn’t going to admit defeat.

I glanced at the Albish soldier to his right again, who was still watching me. ‘Don’t trouble yourself.’ Bilal waved a hand. ‘The captain here doesn’t understand a word of what you’re saying, and I will instruct Anwar not to enlighten him.’ He motioned to the soldier standing between the two of them. ‘Anwar’s Albish is as flawed as any man’s who learned it from a woman.’ The soldier, Anwar, looked embarrassed as his emir said this, but he held his tongue. ‘But it’s passable for our present purposes. And it’s the best we have at the moment.’