Hero at the Fall (Rebel of the Sands #3)(35)

‘Yes, well.’ The captain cleared his throat. Even with those few words I could tell his Mirajin was near perfect, tinged with even less of an accent than Sam’s. ‘I hope you’ll forgive the attempt at deception. It was not for your benefit. I learned your language in the first Mirajin war, two decades past, when we regrettably lost this country to your current Sultan and his Gallan allies.’ The captain picked up a pitcher and started to pour wine into a clear glass. ‘And my wife makes sure we use Mirajin at home, of course, for the children’s sake. They should speak both their parents’ languages.’ He extended the glass of wine out for me. ‘Do have some; it really is very good.’

I took a sip of the wine. He wasn’t wrong. It really was very good. And I was thirsty. ‘And this is your second stab at taking the desert is it?’ I asked. ‘After you lost the first time? That’s why you’re using Bilal, and pretending you can save him?’

‘We’ll certainly do our best to cure him.’ He stepped neatly around my question. ‘Our druid is trying to draw the sickness out of his blood. Though it may be in his bones now, in which case … But it is not my intention to let an ally die for no good reason. Though, as you say, sometimes intentions mean very little when death comes to the door.’

‘So, what is your intention?’ I asked.

The captain didn’t answer right away, pouring himself a glass of wine to match mine, buying himself time to think. ‘Miss Amani,’ he said finally, in a very proper tone of voice that didn’t sound like he was going to answer my question straight. ‘I heard with great interest what you said to good Lord Bilal. But – and I hope you won’t mind me putting this so indelicately – according to our intelligence, the Rebel Prince is dead.’ Ah, damn. I hadn’t exactly meant him to know that part. But it was too late now.

‘Well, your intelligence isn’t all that intelligent then.’

The captain turned his laugh into a polite cough. ‘If our intelligence is indeed flawed … do you truly believe your Rebel Prince can win the throne?’

That was the question, wasn’t it? Did I believe that Ahmed was capable of something his father reasoned he wasn’t? Did I believe that he could be the ruler this country needed, both for his people and against our enemies? When all logic said that a regime change now would doom the desert? But belief was a funny thing, foreign to logic. ‘If I didn’t believe that, it would be an awfully strange thing for me to risk my life trying to save him.’

‘I see.’ Captain Westcroft contemplated. ‘And am I right in understanding you need assistance to rescue him?’ I watched him warily, not sure exactly what he was getting at, but I nodded.

‘You asked me our intentions.’ Captain Westcroft sighed. ‘I don’t know how much you know about the history of Albis, Miss Amani, but we have a mutual enemy.’

‘The Gallan Empire.’ The same enemy that was sitting at the gates of Izman.



‘Yes. We have held off a Gallan invasion for a thousand years because ours is a country founded on magic. I expect you better than anyone understand what Gallan occupation means for … those whose ancestry is not entirely mortal.’ I understood exactly. It meant death for Demdji, for anyone and anything they considered touched by a First Being. It meant our country being bled dry of labour to fuel their crusade against other countries who used magic, and towns like Dustwalk being wrung out for all their worth. It meant soldiers running amok and lawless, killing and raping in my country and turning it into part of their hideous empire.

‘Many fled your country in fear of the Gallan twenty years ago, my wife among them. She and others, they came to us because they knew we were a country that has held fast against the enemy for centuries. When the Gallan army first marched on Albis a thousand years ago, carrying their swords and bows, our first queen raised the very land against them.’ He puffed out air through his moustache. ‘When Gallandie sent an armada against us, our queen swept the ships from the sea with one hand. But blood thins, magic fades and technology advances. That was why our Queen Hilda came to your Sultan so readily to make an alliance during Auranzeb. And he killed her.’

I remembered the night of Auranzeb, the foreign leaders burning at the hands of Abdals, a declaration of independence from all these enemies clamouring at our borders, offering friendship and hiding manacles behind their backs.

They came for an alliance. The Sultan gave them death. I had considered everyone that night enemies of Miraji. But I supposed some were more enemies than others.

‘There are terrible rumours, since Queen Hilda’s death, that the new young queen, her daughter, cannot even light a fire without falling into a dead faint.’

‘And your enemy has matches,’ I said.

‘Precisely. Put magic against swords and magic wins every time. Magic against guns, we stand a fighting chance. But a mortal queen against the might of the Gallan, well …’ He smiled faintly. ‘She has been left with very little choice but to ally or to fall. Young Queen Elinore is crafting a treaty with Gallandie, a marriage alliance with one of their own young princes. If it is ratified, we will fight alongside our oldest enemies against your Sultan. We are waiting here, poised for instructions before we join them.’

I understood suddenly. The notes scribbled in the papers Jin had found in the Sultan’s office – he was waiting until the whole might of our enemies was gathered outside our walls. ‘You’re the reinforcements that the Gallan are waiting for in Izman.’