The Straits of Galahesh (The Lays of Anuskaya Book 2)

In the southern gallery of the capital’s sprawling kasir, Hakan ül Ayeşe, the Kamarisi of Yrstanla, stood at a marble balcony. The day was warm. Gardeners below tended to the rows of trees—lemon and fig and plum—that filled the southern acres. Far to the south, beyond the gardens, was a tall stone wall that had never been touched in battle. The wall was exactly three leagues long, and it separated Kasir Irabahce from the vastness of Alekeşir.

From beyond the wall, if the winds were calm and the noise from the palace was low, Hakan could hear the calls of hawking and barter that came from the spice market to the east, or the bazaar to the south. Today, however, was not such a day. Today, he heard the sounds of industry. Beyond the walking paths and the ordered rows of the vineyard, a dozen masons were spending their sweat on a gazebo that would house a bronze statue being made in his honor. He would not have wished it, but the city they’d taken in the ceaseless war with the Haelish barbarians to the west demanded celebration, even if the victory had been hollow. In weeks, perhaps months, the Haelish would have it back, for the Empire’s resources there were too thin, spread too far along their border with the lands of the Haelish kings.

Behind him, the doors to the gallery opened. He kept his eyes on the rows of red grapes, nearly ready for harvest. Mingled with the sound of approaching footsteps—hard leather scraping lightly over the white marble floor—was the faint patter of bare feet and the jingle of tiny bells.

The sounds stopped a respectful distance behind him. The leather uniforms of his guardsmen creaked.