Chapter 13 #2
Eventually, like in any meditative state, my seventy-seven bonds materialise through points on my body, gold lines stretching to the Heavens. With each breath, they thicken like shimmering roots, pulsing with Heavenly Energy.
‘At each remembrance, focus on your Heavenly bonds like a muscle. Only then can you strengthen the spiritual muscle of your soul, called the ruh, and each bond within it. Breathe conservatively, to gather kinetic energy and transmit it in small doses, until, outside of training, you subconsciously save energy even while sleeping. A true Za’skar martial artist masters how to move merely by shifting their weight rather than using muscles that are not needed; the best fighters never lift their feet. ’
Yabghu’s hands move like the soft aches of the breeze, pushing upwards to the Heavens before clasping downwards at the end.
Some are variations of common martial stances even in Azadniabad, and others are new .
. . and strange. Like an awkward-limbed child, I follow along while breathing in the reeking, stale bird bones.
Yabghu cocks his head. ‘You are not a complete novice.’ I straighten at his thin compliment and note Cemil’s watchful gaze on me. ‘What is this style?’ He puts down the staff. ‘Like water flowing through roots.’
The blood drains from my cheeks. It’s the Seven Gentle Paths of Dawjad.
‘You’ve trained in martial arts for how long?’
Hyat Uncle advised me to accept any suspicions boldly. Better to speak less; only liars speak often. ‘For years. It’s common for servants to learn with the children of their masters.’
He unties the black muslin of his turban, wiping sweat from his temple. ‘Here, we follow Eajīz arts. We’ll improve how you summon Heavenly bonds in due time.’
Throughout the day, my muscles quiver and when I pause to catch my breath, Yabghu slams his foot into my back, sneering, ‘I did not order rest. Repeat it, twice as long.’
He circles us, his staff batting Katayoun, Cemil and me if we dare slouch.
Until midday, we sweep our arms and recite the sound, channelling into the movement of our forward-facing palms. We carve X shapes in the air, or trace loops.
We do nothing else but this – five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred – almost eight hundred times.
After two hours of aching movements, he assigns stretches to practise in the evenings, for no martial artist is adept without flexibility. With an amused expression, he hands me an iron whisk to beat myself morning and night.
‘This will develop your corporeal form into the martial phenomenon of iron-bone. Tap lightly but rapidly in striking motions.’ He points to Katayoun, who demonstrates by brushing a whisk across the length of her arm in an upwards motion.
‘Emphasise the collarbone because it’s the easiest bone to break but the hardest to heal.
The iron whisk bruises skin and raises welts, but it causes the body’s tissue to become dense without increasing muscle mass.
Your bones will be as tough as iron. It will hurt. But pain yields great reward.’
Experimentally, I tap my knuckle and wince.
‘Today were principal breaths. Tomorrow, we begin Stratum training to supplement the forms. I don’t expect a rukh to memorise the nine stances today.’ Before relief kicks in, he grins smugly. ‘I expect you to memorise their order by tomorrow. Cemil and Katayoun will help you.’
Once, the young girl in me was curious about the true nature of Eajīzi. Now it feels like the cost of fulfilling that desire was my clan. That part of me should stay dead.
‘You truly think the captain would draft you in his Marka squadron? He despises Azadnians,’ Cemil asks me, as we stamp away sand and remove our leathery clogs to break for evening fast.
After a long silence – filled with the clanks of thousands of warriors drinking tea, when we have taken our seats on floor cushions – I take Cemil in slowly.
‘The captain said he looks at power. So it depends on if I prove my worth over you. And I will. But I wonder, do you feel threatened by a mere novice?’
Across from me, his fingers tighten over a ceramic teacup before his lips turn up. He grabs a copper jug, and pours rose kahvah into his cup. ‘Time will tell. For now, let us drink tea, rukh.’
The pavilion is a long hall of slanting roofs carved with red embossed calligraphy; filigreed lanterns with raven carvings and coloured glass, blown by jinn, throw out smokeless fire in a haze of copper, courtesy of what I assume to be the jinn-folk’s energy.
Scents of fresh flatbread, smoky incense, stale bones and rose permeate the air in a strange blend.
Marbled low-tables for the trifectas, with hemp mats and rose cushions, stretch over bone-stone flooring layered in thick crimson kilim rugs.
The geometric vaulting shines in hues of greens and golds, with strange paintings of ichor-wilted flora growing along tombs of martyrs, francolins dancing along the edges as if at any moment they might soar free from their cages.
Older pazktab children carry large platters as they dart between low-tables at the instruction of their masters.
The furthest end of the pavilion is divided off by a great latticed partition with a stunning array of divans for higher ranks and visiting bureaucrats with courtly ravens perched on their shoulders.
At the edge of the room is a marbled slab with carved niches, into which many pazktab children scrape piles of picked meat bones and food scraps.
‘The local jinn-folk dine on bones and leftovers,’ Yabghu had said when we entered. No-Name delights in this tradition, her shadow curled into a niche as she pokes her tongue into the jinns’ scrapings, while I sit with my trifecta.
Eventually, Overseer Yabghu speaks up, ‘Careful, underlings, I could have the captain pick Katayoun over you for the Marka,’ which sends Cemil choking on his tea. Katayoun, as I’ve noticed, remains silent, merely observing our exchange with an inscrutable look.
Before Cemil can reply, a sea of trifectas filters into the pavilion, many staring at me. Word must have got around. I watch a familiar woman sit to our left.
‘Overseer Negar,’ Yabghu greets. Another crouches to his right, the same from the amphitheatre. ‘Captain Madj.’
Pazktab children rush forward, serving rationed food of turmeric and saffron pilaf simmered in lamb yakhni, a spiced lentil stew, and a long black-sesame-coated flatbread with a quill-stamped raven symbol carved into the centre.
It’s smeared with aged garlic so sharp it stings my nose.
After a prayer by a priest, and bones picked from the lamb pilaf into the offering piles, warriors begin to break flatbread into a spiced stew of lentils, barley and fenugreek.
I pick at the bread, prodding my tongue into clay-oven-charred bits.
‘What are you doing?’ Cemil interjects and I drop the bread, realising that I’m instinctually checking for poisons.
‘Losing her head,’ Overseer Negar says from my left, resting her head on her palm. ‘The poor girl’s starved; she’s never seen food like this before.’
‘I agree, I’ve seen better.’
Negar’s voice stays pleasant. ‘Watch your mouth, rukh.’
Yabghu clears his throat. His glare tells me, enough. Making enemies like this is rash. Foolish of me.
I bow my head, wondering how to navigate this. If I concede, I appear like easy prey; if I speak hastily, I incur the wrath of my superior.
‘The rukh’s teacup is empty. She needs fresh kahvah. Give it to her.’ Captain Madj plops a dark sugar cube under her tongue before raising her cup. ‘We have a new initiate. Seems appropriate to drink kahvah to it.’
I ignore that jab. ‘Yes,’ I say hastily. This breaks the tension.
As I pour new tea, she waves down our long communal table.
I learn she’s captain of Squadron Three, and – I quietly note – probably Fayez’s rival.
I tuck that information away for later. She introduces a mix of low-ranks and high-ranks, whose names I hardly remember – Aizere, Yima, Sharra, and more and more – who hail from across the empire in various tribes and shades, and who pass clay pots containing fennel and mint bitters before the meal.
How dare they act as a clan . . . like my clan.
Though it would be well for me to greet them, no words come forth; I’ve never spoken with students, especially an Eajīz of my age. Hyat Uncle prepared me for many things regarding war and violence, but nurturing relations – even basic civility – this, my clan could not teach me.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Yabghu frowning at my lack of effort.
My mood darkens and I lift my teacup of kahvah. As the rim grazes my lips, instinct tells me to look down.
Cemil’s eyes darken. ‘Wait.’ Before I can react, he lunges across the table and knocks the cup from my hand. It flies backward, shattering against the wall beside Overseer Negar.
The pavilion dampens, nearby conversations falling into silence. From my right, Yabghu lifts my plate, cursing. Red scorpions skitter under it. Near the wall, my shattered teacup scurries with tawny beetles blending into the same shade as the tea.
At the commotion, No-Name leaves the jinns’ offerings and rushes to the low-table, staring at the scorpions.
Cemil calmly recrosses his legs on his seat and sips his kahvah. ‘Do not be surprised, Overseer. Of course she has enemies.’
‘Those are poisonous,’ Yabghu snaps. ‘The pazktab children must have tainted her dishes while serving her meal.’
‘See it as a gift,’ a gruff voice says with a chuckle. I turn and an old crone of a man in scholarly robes leans against the teak partition, lips turned up mockingly. ‘The pazktab students are simply welcoming her to our city with what her kind prefers – to be one with Brother-Nature.’
Laughter threatens to spill from my throat, to tell the scholar that this is nothing to the threats of the eight great clans of Azadniabad.
I built resistance to red scorpion poison at the age of fourteen.
Instead, I push back from the table and stand, the nearby soldiers and overseers staring up at me.
My neck prickles from the weight of them. No-Name comes to my side.
‘I will go,’ I tell Overseer Yabghu, but privately, there is a quiet relief. Now I have another reason to cling on to my anger.