Hero at the Fall (Rebel of the Sands #3)(106)

I’d never owned a piece of jewellery before, and I would’ve happily carried on that way if Ahmed hadn’t given me this medallion. It marked me as one of the new Sultan’s advisors on the temporary council he had formed to untangle the business of making a new country. It was symbolic, which was exactly why I was supposed to wear it.

I tilted my head forwards, making the hair Shazad had so artfully arranged fall over my face. It had grown out since it had been shorn in the palace all those months back. It was long enough now to snag in the clasp of the necklace if I didn’t take care. Long enough that I could’ve put it up, but Shazad hadn’t allowed that. Instead she’d run her hands through my dark locks a few times with that knack she had, and a hint of oil on her fingers, until they looked artfully dishevelled to her satisfaction. She’d done my make-up, too, smudging dark kohl hastily around the eyes and red across my mouth so that it matched the khalat I was wearing, which was the colour of a sunrise. Red like the dawn, but edged in gold braiding twisted into the shape of the skyline of Izman along the hem. I looked like I’d come fresh from battle. Which I realised, as she left, was the whole idea. Shazad looked slick and sleek – a leader, a general. I was playing the part of the Blue-Eyed Bandit, roguish and not entirely fit for polite company. We were all half-character now, for the rest of our lives, any time we appeared in public. It was a fair price to pay for victory.

Finally the clasp closed with a satisfying snick. I tossed my hair back over my shoulders and ran as fast as I could without losing my shoes, heading to the gardens.

The Shihabian celebrations had begun at dusk. Here and throughout the city, the night was made bright by lanterns. Lit with oil this time, not stolen Djinni fire. There had been talk, though, of replicating what Leyla did without needing to murder First Beings. Of having light without fire. Of making some more Abdals who could defend us if we needed. We were still at war with Gallandie, after all. Though I guessed it would be a long time before they rallied together and came for our country again. There was talk that their empire in the north was crumbling. The marriage alliance and peace with Albis had failed. They were a falling empire surrounded by enemies. Including us. And Albis. Ahmed had forged a tentative peace with the Queen of Albis. Fighting for a different peace than his father had forged with the Gallan. One where we still ruled ourselves. We had allies now. Not occupiers.

Meanwhile the Gallan Empire’s easternmost regions were rebelling for independence. For freedom and the right to a country where the Gallan religion, and the hatred of First Beings that came with it, wasn’t imposed on them.

But if the Gallan did come again, we would need to be ready. Leyla’s creations had changed the world, and there was no going back.

Even Ahmed, who fiercely resisted doing anything that might remind his people of his father, had used Leyla’s Zungvox once more. To announce the election.

His father, and his father before him, all the way back to the first Sultan, had ruled without the people’s voice. He wanted to change that. He would let them decide if they wanted to allow him to stay as Sultan. He did not want to be a conqueror of his own country. He asked them to choose.

And so an election was held.

Nobody was surprised when Ahmed won. We had declared that anyone could put themselves forward as a contender for the throne. Several of the Sultan’s other sons had stepped up against Ahmed, along with one or two of the emirs. A dozen men against Ahmed in all. We spread the word around the whole country, sending out the men and women we trusted most to collect votes from every city, town and tiny village. In some places where they couldn’t read or write, they had to vote with objects instead of names. It was a strange collection that was brought back to Izman to be counted: names scrawled on paper by the hundreds next to bags of coloured stones and pieces of painted wood. But in the end it was easy to know the outcome. We were Demdji – after we counted, when we said that the most votes had been cast for Ahmed, it was true. We didn’t make mistakes.

Ahmed was elected the leader of Miraji for the next decade. Long enough to build the country he had promised, but not so long that power might corrupt him.

*

In the garden, men and women milled around in spectacularly coloured clothes. They were people whom Ahmed needed to support his rule now. Emirs and their wives and children, Rahim of Iliaz and Haytham of Tiamat among them, setting a good example for others to follow. Though we knew there were already mutters of dissent behind Ahmed’s back. Captains who were now serving under a general both younger and more female than any among them, who needed to be wooed into obedience. General Hamad had stepped down in favour of his daughter. He was growing older and had fought two great wars. Seen two Sultans die. One of whom he had betrayed. Ahmed was arranging for him to be paid a handsome retirement. He said that it was a rare privilege to retire instead of die on the battlefield. And it was time for a new generation to rule.

Shazad had started to change things already. One of the garrisons had been set aside for women, and it was filling up slowly. Many of the new female soldiers were rebels who had fought with us in the battle of Izman and decided not to go home. But a few were new recruits, trickling in from the city, a few even from Sara’s Hidden House. The captains would not accept their new general or their new recruits overnight. But they weren’t exactly being given a choice. The world was changing; they would have to change with it.

We had won the war, but we all knew there were still a thousand little fights like this waiting for us. But tonight, there were laughing voices drifting through the garden on the cooling night air, and there was good wine. And for a few hours, there was rest.