Khalij Alrimal, or the Bay of Sands, has served as the gateway to the Maghreb Wastes since before the coming of the Etalan Empire. For centuries, the desert tribes have come out from the wastes to trade in the night market, sharing their tents with all the peoples of the world.

* The Commentaries of Aram ibn Bashear

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2nd Day of High Summer’s Moon, AC 297

Ismet had been to the Bay of Sands many times before, with her father, but this was the first time that she was coming under duress. Omar ibn Ajmal had all but shackled her to the bed in Captain Cyrah’s cabin, which the Pārsan mariner had given over to the Exarch upon agreeing to the voyage. Fazil was able to come and go freely enough, but whenever Ismet attempted to go up on deck, Omar or one of his men would be stationed at her door.

With many courtesies and an obsequious manner, the guards who had been sent to ferry her to Maʿīn had made it clear that Ismet would need to resort to violence if she wanted to overcome their objections. They were charged with her safety, of course, and it was not that they did not trust the Pārsan sailors - of course not, never say such a thing! - but that a woman of Ismet’s stature would be more comfortable without being exposed to such uncouth people. And, of course, it was so cold on deck, without the sun to warm the world, she would not enjoy it. No, truly, she was lucky to have the comfort of her cabin.

The prospect of running first Omar, and then the rest of his men, through with a sword became more tempting by the day, but Ismet restrained herself.

“I cannot believe they have the gall to treat you in such a manner,” Fazil groused, as he helped her pack the last of her things back into her trunks. “Why have we not simply tossed them all overboard?”

“Like it or not,” Ismet said, “they came under the orders of the Caliph, and I will obey his commands. We were fortunate they found me at Rocher de la Garde,” she admitted. “The presence of Lionel and the other Narvonnian nobles put them on their best behavior.”

“Not to mention they would have had to contend with thousands of men who would die for you in a heartbeat,” Fazil remarked. “They are like hyenas stalking the gazelle. They did not have the nerve to attack a herd, so they wait until we are alone to show their teeth.”

“What a wonderful metaphor,” Ismet remarked. “Have you ever tried your hand at poetry, Fazil?”

“Perhaps once or twice, but that is not the point. Are you confident that Wāli Marwan will help you?” the young warrior asked, fussing over her last trunk.

“Marwan ibn Khalil and I are of the same tribe,” Ismet said. “He fought at my father’s side against the Raiders of Botis before I was born, and he has always been like an uncle to me. He will not turn me aside now.”

“If Captain Omar allows you to see him,” Fazil objected. “I think if he could have forced the ship to change course, he would have taken us around Skandia and into the Outer Sea.”

“Thankfully, Cyrah would not allow that,” Ismet said. “But you are correct that we would be fools to give Omar a choice in the matter. Epinoia,” she called, and with a rustle of bronze wings, the Angelus appeared.

“You would have me go ahead, would you not?” Epinoia asked her, with a smile. The two of them had grown so close, Ismet reflected, that the Angelus of Mothers could often tell what she was thinking before she ever spoke aloud.

“I would,” Ismet confirmed. “I know that you and I have never visited this city together. Can you find him?”

“It is true that we went directly from the university north to the Tower of Tears,” Epinoia responded. “But you are not the first Exarch I have taken under my wings, lovely Ismet. I have been to Khalij Alrimal many times since the Cataclysm. I will find the governor, and he will hear your message.”

“Thank you,” Ismet said. “Now, this is what I would like you to tell him.”

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With the excuse of bringing their things up on deck, Ismet and Fazil were finally able to push past the men Captain Omar had stationed at the door to her cabin. After weeks at sea, the familiar Bay of Sands should have been a comforting sight, but instead, it only drove home to Ismet how much devastation the Sun Eater was responsible for.

Instead of a sun drenched city, and the feel of her skin first baking in the heat, then being refreshed by the sea breeze and salt spray, Ismet could only dimly make out the Maghreb highlands behind the city beneath the light of the stars. The rising land was as nothing more than shadows, and the city, spread out across two peninsulas that embraced the sea, sparkled with the light of lanterns and torches despite the hour, which Captain Cyrah claimed was close to noon.

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Ismet could not help but scowl, and was only comforted by the fact that her veil hid her expression. She wore the piece of scarlet silk that Lionel had bought her when the Simorq landed, as a private sort of rebellion, and to remind her of the Narvonnian King. Beyond that, with the exception only of her helm, she wore her armor and her sword buckled at her hip.

“Ah, Exarch,” Omar ibn Ajmal greeted her, the false affection in his voice already cloying. “As you can see, we have arrived at Khalij Alrimal. When the ship has docked, I will send my men to arrange for spare horses, and we can ride for Maʿīn.”

“We will ride for Eayn Zarqa' Oasis,” Ismet corrected him. “Where my father will escort us across the Maghreb.”

“I can well understand the desire of a filial daughter to see her beloved father once again,” Omar said, inclining his head in a pantomime of respect. “And yet, the sea voyage has already taken longer than I had anticipated. I fear that we must ride directly to Maʿīn, to fulfill the command of the Caliph.”

“It was my understanding that Captain Cyrah made very good time,” Ismet protested. “In any event, we can speak more of this after I see my Uncle Marwan.”

Omar shrugged. “While it would no doubt be an honor to be received by the Wāli, he is a man with many cares, and an important port to oversee. I fear we will not be able to wait for him to schedule an audience, as our journey is pressing.”

In spite of herself, Ismet’s eye twitched in irritation. What kind of fool did the man think she was, to be put off by such excuses? She comforted herself with the knowledge that Epinoia would not fail her.

Indeed, by the time the Simorq was tied up at the quay, Ismet was pleased to see a reception already awaiting them. She was even more delighted at the expression on Omar ibn Ajmal’s face when the plank was lowered, and Marwan ibn Khalil, surrounded by half a dozen of his city guards, marched up onto the deck, arms spread wide.

“Can it truly be that my beloved niece has at last come to visit?’ Marwan said, with a grin nearly as broad as his shoulders. “My Desert Rose, it has been years! Look at you!” The Governor of Khalij Alrimal swept her up in an exuberant embrace, lifting Ismet off the ground as he had when she was but a child, and spinning her around on deck. In spite of herself, Ismet could not help but grin.

“Uncle!” she exclaimed. “Put me down!”

“In a moment,” Marwan murmured as he spun her. “Your messenger reached me. We will go directly to my palace, where I will put these fools off.” He set her back on her feet, and then raised his voice so that it carried across the deck and down to the docks, as easily as he filled an audience chamber.

“It brings me great joy to see my beloved niece again!” Wāli Marwan proclaimed. “And such pride. When you set off to the university, who could have expected you would return an Exarch! I will welcome my niece with a feast this evening! Come, come my little rose,” he said, throwing an arm across her shoulders and steering her down the plank to the dock. “My men will bring your things. Who is this young man who accompanies you?” He threw his left arm out and tugged Fazil after them, and as if rehearsed, Marwan’s men moved in to cut off Omar by lifting Ismet’s trunks and carrying them in her wake

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The next hour was a whirlwind, which deposited Ismet in a suite of rooms at the Wāli’s palace, with her Uncle’s own guards at her door, who steadfastly refused to admit Omar or any of his men.

“How can they refuse my hospitality after such a long journey?” Marwan asked, with a twinkle in his eye, as he plucked a fig off the tray which had been set out in Ismet’s sitting room. “It would be impolite, and dangerous to insult a governor in such a way. Do not be worried, little one. I have set my vizier to the task, and he has a thousand ways of distracting them. Now that we can speak freely, tell me what you need.”

“I am arrested in all but name,” Ismet explained, from her place at the window. “I went north with General Shadi, to fight at the Tower of Tears. But when we arrived, Uncle, I found that the Narvonnians were not our true enemies. We were beset by daemons - Adrammelech, who came down out of the mountains and killed the general. Agrat, who assaulted us in the pass. And finally, Sammāʾēl the Sun Eater, the Great Cataclysm itself, brought down the walls. It was only by allying with Narvonne that Adrammelech was slain, and the other daemons driven off.”

“You faced the Sun Eater?” Marwan asked, fig forgotten in his hand for the moment.

“Faced it?” Fazil grinned. “Wāli, she put its eye out herself and forced it to flee.”

“I wish I could have killed it then,” Ismet said. “If I had not let it go, the world would not be plunged into darkness, now. Uncle, that is not the end of it. There have been half a dozen more daemons unleashed, at the very least, and the man who caused the Cataclysm now sits the throne in Lutetia. I cannot afford to be forced out of the fight, to waste my time in Maʿīn, when my soldiers are already marching north to confront the greatest evil our world has ever known.”

Marwan grimaced. “I see that news has not yet reached you, my flower. If you think that Maʿīn is safely out of danger, you are wrong. The city is wracked by plague. Three weeks past, Rashid ibn Umar went into the outer city to heal the sick, and lost his life in a great fire that consumed the hospital.”

“What?” Ismet’s mind ground to a halt, like a wagon wheel caught on a stone. “The Caliph is dead?”

“He is,” Marwan confirmed. “And his son Nasir confirmed as his successor.”

“Isrāfīl would never choose that man as the next Caliph,” Epinoia said, appearing in the room with such abruptness that Marwan jumped.

“Honored Saint,” he said, bowing his head to the Angelus. “Forgive me. It has been announced that Isrāfīl is too busy fighting the plague to take an Exarch, and has commanded that Nasir ibn Rashid is to lead the Caliphate. In the meantime, Nasir has declared that the title of Caliph is now hereditary, and will pass to the oldest male heir.”

“You say all this began with a plague?” Ismet asked, and her uncle nodded. She shared a glance with Fazil, and then with Epinoia.

“Agrat,” Ismet spat, and put her hand to the hilt of her sword. “This has to be the work of the Plague Dancer.”