Rambles | A Short Story Collection

The Jackal

Tuya Khulan ran a thumb over her seal of office. Tonight would be the last time she wore it, and the bronze weighed heavy in her hand. Still, her fingers did not fumble as she pinned the medallion to her deel, and it gleamed brassy in the lamplight of her tent. Khulan pressed her eyes closed. This was another battle, and she would prepare for it as she had always done. She blew out a breath through her nose.

Though she wore no armor, she felt dressed for combat. Khulan cast a sidelong glance in the mirror and frowned—there was something missing.  After a moment, she looped a strand of rubies around her neck. Better. She tilted her chin and slid a thumbnail to the hollow of her throat.

An hour from now, a slash of blood would grace it instead of gems. It would be quick.

A muscle jumped in her jaw. It would be quick, and her debt would be paid. Khulan jerked her chin up and rolled her shoulders back. It would be quick. Her palms itched for a bow, a blade, but she would be allowed no weapons when she went before the empress, and they would be useless in any case.

It would be quick.

Khulan stole into the night like a winter fox, but she did not avoid the gazes of her soldiers. Their eyes flashed as she passed, and her lips curled. Let them know their general smiled for death.

The tent in the center of camp watched her progress, and sweat slicked her skin by the time Khulan finally reached it. She snapped at one of the guards, and he came forward like a whipped dog. He slipped a perfunctory hand over her forearms, her outer waistcloth and hipbones, into her boots and up her calves. He found nothing.

Khulan smiled grimly.

When the guard flicked aside the tent flap, the torches guttered; Khulan swept inside. It took only a moment for her eyes to adjust to the funerary gloom, and her cloak whispered across silk as she picked her way deeper into the tent.

Inside, a few braziers burned low with incense, and a woman lounged at a long table.

Khulan grimaced; she knew that pose. It was not that of a woman, but of something with talons and teeth. The boneless grace of a predator lying in wait. Her limbs were in an easy arrangement; she could leap to her feet in a second.

Instead, the woman gestured to a slave girl who stoked up the grilles until they crackled with flame. When the light flared, it threw the predator into high relief. Shadows lingered under her eyes, and though her dark hair was shot through with silver, there was an ageless quality to her face. Until this afternoon, Khulan would have followed her off the edge of the world.

"Come, sit." The woman—the Jackal—beckoned to the seat across from her.

Khulan's eyes narrowed as she weighed the command. After a breath, she sank into the chair, her elbows crowding over the table.

"I had hoped your son would join us. I'd been counting on Batu's appetite." The Jackal tipped her goblet towards the table.

It was laden with food and drink, far more than two women could eat. Steam curled from platters of roasted meat and sweet dumplings. Clove and cardamom from the Durhaani Coast dusted fried barley, and a stew of salted milk tea ribboned over a salver of rice.

Khulan pressed her lips into a tight line. "His fever rose. The shamans don't know if he will last the night."

She fixed her gaze on the Jackal and willed the lie not to show on her face.

While a fever had kept Batu from this morning's battle, there was little risk of his death. In fact, the moment she had returned to camp, Khulan had thrown him from his cot. He had sprawled on the ground, and before he could regain his footing, she had thrust a pack at him.