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“I have no Tribe, Aubarit,” I remind her. “However, I do have a problem. One that only the Tribes can help me with.” Admitting it is frustrating. But it is the truth and cannot be avoided. “Who escaped Aish?”
“Tribe Nasur. Tribe Nur. Tribe Saif. Tribe Rahim. A few others. Theyare scattered through the canyons, wherever the water is. In the immediate vicinity, there are perhaps three thousand.”
“Call theKehannisand theZaldars.” I refer to the Tribal leaders. “Call theFakirsandFakiras. Tell them the Banu al-Mauth has need of them.”
“Many are still in mourning.” Aubarit cannot hide her shock at my callousness, but I shake my head.
“There is no time to mourn,” I say. “Not if they wish to survive and not if they wish their dead to pass on in peace instead of torment. Harness their anger,Fakira. Call them to me.”
Within the hour, the area around her wagon is crowded with people. Some are vaguely familiar, like a tiny woman with black-and-red braids and a beautiful face. Her arms are crossed over a mirrored dress of gold and green, and she stands with a young man who looks like the taller version of her.Afya. I remember her from my memories of Laia.And her brother, Gibran.
I find I am relieved to see him. A memory ricochets through my mind—him attacking me, possessed by a ghost. Trying desperately to stop him, and the fear that in doing so, I’d damaged him irrevocably.
Mamie Rila arrives with a cauldron of tea and passes cups around to ward off the chill wind blowing in from the north. She nods silently to me, but keeps her distance. A tall man steps out from beside her. His curly hair is half-hidden beneath a scarf, and his skin is lighter than mine. He closes the distance between us in two steps, arms wide for a hug.
“Ilyaas—brother—”
I extricate myself from him carefully.
“Ilyaas,” he says. “It’s me—Shan—”
I know the name now. He is my foster brother. Mamie’s other adoptedchild. I nod at him stiffly. He wears the tattoos of aZaldar, freshly inked. Behind him are other faces I recognize. Mamie’s cousins and brothers, her nephews and nieces. My old family.
They eye me with awe and a touch of wariness. Only Shan looks at me like I am one of them.
Mamie Rila touches his arm gently, whispering something into his ear, and his smile fades. After a few moments, he steps back. “Forgive me, Banu al-Mauth,” he says. “If I overstepped.”
You didn’t, the trapped voice inside me calls out. I crush it.
“FakiraAra-Nasur.” I find Aubarit speaking to Gibran. “Is everyone here?”
At her nod, I look out at the crowd. Conversations hush, and the only sound is the sand susurrating restlessly against the canyon walls.
“The Nightbringer steals spirits,” I say. “He keeps them from crossing over.”
Gasps arise and Aubarit looks sick. Afya Ara-Nur’s hand goes to the blade at her waist. “Those in Aish—” she says. “All of our dead?”
I nod. “All have been taken, and—” I stop before mentioning the maelstrom, my old Blackcliff training kicking in.Share only what is necessary. Telling them what the Nightbringer is using those spirits for will frighten them. And frightened people make poor foot soldiers.
“Why?” Mamie Rila says softly, her tea forgotten in her hands. “Why do such a horrible thing?”
“The jinns’ strength is more limited than it appears.” I let them draw their own conclusions. “They are powerful, yes, but in short bursts only. When their power is spent, they heal slowly. A side effect of their imprisonment, perhaps.”
“So—they are feeding off the spirits?” Shan says.
“In a manner of speaking,” I say. “The Nightbringer seems to want ghosts who have suffered. Those who would have come to the Waiting Place. That is why it is empty. He is taking them.”
“But what does he do with them?” A youngFakirI don’t recognize speaks up from the back of the crowd. I can barely see him—the torchlight near Aubarit’s wagon does not extend so far.
“I do not yet know,” I say, because Talis did not explain the mechanics of the Nightbringer’s plan. “But the jinnneedthe ghosts, which means they need dead humans. The jinn terrify a city, make a populace panic and capitulate. Keris Veturia sends her army in to butcher at will. The Nightbringer gets his suffering, and Keris claims another city.”
“What can we do against the jinn?” Gibran says, and his sister answers.
“It’s not the jinn we’re after.” She glances at me. “You want the Martials. If the jinn don’t have their foot soldiers, there would be less butchering. Less suffering. Fewer ghosts for the Nightbringer to steal.”
Beyond the ring ofZaldarsandFakirsandKehannis, the crowd expands. Their fear spreads like an insidious fog.
“If we battle the Martials,” Mamie Rila says, “will that not simply make more ghosts?”
