Chapter 17
I have a plan: collect information on the captain. The next day, when the heavens above are the barest candlelight of dawn, I go to Little Paradise gardens, climbing up the citrus trees to train, while I mull over my objective.
Halfway into my stances, a tall girl shoves someone into the gardens.
‘Leave me be!’ A cry resounds through the air, almost awakening the slumbering karkadann bulls.
I glance below to see a familiar-looking pazktab girl, her fingers digging into the arm of a boy – the same boy I’d saved from an attack months ago.
She has wide jade eyes, a necklace of buffalo bones tight around her collar, and dark hair braided with raven feathers into two spheres on her head.
She looks fifteen or sixteen years at most.
‘Did you bring it?’ The girl kicks at the boy’s satchel, loose barberries and apples strewing about.
‘Yes! Leave me be, Arezu!’
Your success here is determined by alliances, rukh, Overseer Yabghu had advised me, and, seeing the boy, it shines a great deal of light on to my dilemma.
I leap down from the branch. The boy’s eyes meet mine over the girl’s – Arezu’s – shoulder, lighting up in recognition. Before she can react, I clench her by the collar, turning her. My leather-sandalled foot connects with her torso, sending her flying into the bramble.
‘Be gone,’ I warn her.
‘What the Hells.’ She staggers to her knees and spits phlegm at my feet, but when I step closer, she runs off. Then I turn on the simpering boy.
‘I’ve saved you twice now.’
I watch in bewilderment as he throws himself at my feet.
‘You are most generous, even for an Azadnian,’ he says. ‘I promise to never spit on nor spoil your meals again.’
My mouth gapes open. ‘It’s been you? You’ve been putting beetles and scorpions and sand in my food—’
‘And my spit. Forgive me. The other pazktab students do it too. It wasn’t my idea!’
I work my jaw. ‘Now you owe me another debt.’
‘Debt? Me?’ He glances around.
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘What is your name?’ I ask impatiently.
‘Sohrab.’
‘You will do my bidding?’
‘Anything if you train me.’
‘Train you?’ I repeat to Sohrab. ‘You owe me.’
‘The monks say pazktab children are too young to learn the advanced ways of Eajīz arts. But if I become your apprentice, the other younglings will think twice before hurting us. You can teach us Azadnian martial arts.’
‘Who is us? There is only one of you.’
He turns and I spot two more pazktab students, younger than him, crouching behind the glass fountains. ‘Yahya and Yasaman are siblings. The other students force us to steal from the kitchens.’ At Sohrab’s gesturing, they walk tentatively forward.
‘That boy is hardly five years old,’ I say, seeing the gap-toothed child named Yahya.
‘Four years,’ Yahya corrects, standing shly behind his sister.
‘And I am thirteen,’ Yasaman adds, as if it’s a proud fact while she gnaws on a long strand of her ebony hair. By the Divine. I grimace at the sight of them. But I need discreet allies for this task, and children will do just fine. The more numbers, the better.
‘I only have the Friday and Saturday free from trifecta training. If I agree to train you before dawn prayer, here in the gardens, will you fulfil my task?’
Sohrab speaks for them. ‘Yes.’
‘Then swear an oath on the Heavens that you will speak of this to no one. I assure you, my task is not treason.’
They exchange glances but swear the oath.
I reveal the task: ‘When you serve food to the warriors during mealtime, go to Captain Fayez and his low-table. Anything the captain speaks of, you must convey to me. If you hear word about the Marka tournament – any strategy, who he intends to draft for his squadron – inform me immediately.’
‘I have heard Captain Fayez mention your name, Usur-Khan, and something about the Marka,’ Sohrab says slowly, and my pulse hitches at the possibility that he’s considering me over Cemil. ‘But if we’re found telling you information, we’ll be lashed. We deserve to know the reason.’
I sigh. ‘Getting selected for a squadron and performing well in the Marka is an opportunity for low-ranks like myself to move up one rank. I need this information, as a last assurance. In exchange, I will train you . . . as my ally.’ I can hardly force the words out.
‘Is this as the martial tales go – the loner master adopts pathetic students who become worthy?’ Yasaman blinks up at me.
Usually, masters are leathery things from old monastic schools. I hardly qualify to call myself anyone’s master. But if they’d like to believe this . . . I squint at the three stupidly ambitious children who look like stalks of barley.
‘Yes, stalk of barley.’
‘Barley?’ Yasaman echoes.
‘Yes. To me, you are barley. Thin, small and pathetic. Line up.’
Sohrab grins. ‘You will train us, Master?’
I wince at the honorific. ‘Something like that. Now say your prayers and promise.’ Sohrab merely smiles wider.
At my instruction, they begin orbital stretch kicks to loosen their muscles. Yahya watches us, clumsily following his sister, given the four-year-old he is.
‘O Blessed, save us from this evil eye.’ A voice comes through the citrus trees. I follow the sound, spotting Arezu sitting on a branch, tapping her cheeks as if to ward me away. So she never left.
‘Evil eye?’ I ask. ‘Well, I did thrash you twice.’
Arezu laughs, the sound rough for her age. ‘You are training Eajīz children? Azadnians are child killers.’
‘I love children.’ The claim burns in the back of my throat.
‘You love children?’
‘Yes. Look around you. These students can be exemplars of young martial artists—’
Yahya quits after his second attempt. ‘This hurts.’
‘Do not be so soft,’ I scoff and nudge him. It is a mistake. He falls over. Then he bawls, the gasping, wet kind that sends disgust through me. His sister stoops low and lifts him in consolation but his weight makes her stagger.
‘This is your training?’ Arezu tuts her tongue. ‘These exemplary martial artists?’
I ignore her comment. ‘How do we stop that . . . sound?’
‘You mean his weeping? He likes to be held,’ Yasaman explains.
‘Something else.’
‘Food.’
‘Which kind?’
Yahya pauses in his tears. ‘Lamb-stuffed non.’
Inwardly, I curse. Lamb-stuffed non? How could a child have such expensive tastes? I grip him gingerly by the shoulders, my robes a barrier to his tear-induced snot. His fists wrench violently near my curls.
‘Be careful,’ I hiss at him and his eyes well again, before I add, ‘I will bring you non.’
With a lingering look of disgust, Arezu recedes into the bramble of citrus trees surrounding the clearing. Above her, No-Name drifts on to a branch and watches the students, occasionally making faces and sticking out her tongue.
Yahya squirms, hitting my injured arm, so I prop him higher. ‘Today you can watch, but this is the only exception. Next time, you must do ten orbitals.’ I pray that if all goes well and I am chosen for my captain’s squadron, there will not be a next time.
Sohrab pauses in his kicks, pointing forward. ‘Who is that?’
A voice barks out, ‘Who am I? Who the Hells are you?’ Overseer Yabghu stalks up the slopes of Little Paradise’s hills, his eyes thunderous on me. ‘Rukh, you have a babe in your arms!’
Panic twinges in my chest. I drop Yahya on his bottom. ‘No, I do not.’
We stare, in a standstill as the pazktab younglings, slick in sweat, gaze in dread between us, little more than chirping crickets scampering in the grass.
‘You just dropped the babe.’
‘I do not know this child. He was lost and crawled into my arms.’
Sohrab raises his hand. ‘Mast—’ He cannot call me master in front of Yabghu.
‘Young students,’ I interrupt. ‘This scolding man is Overseer Yabghu. A high-rank.’
The flimsy distraction works. Sohrab’s eyes latch on to the etched lines across Yabghu’s khanjar. ‘He is a Fourth-Slash!’
Yabghu only addresses me. ‘I do not know what possessed you to speak with pazktab students.’
My expression does not shift. ‘Overseer, I saved these students from an attack. They asked me how to defend themselves.’ This, in truth, is not a lie.
He thinks otherwise. ‘Ah. You lie, drawing a line between yourself and your only ally amongst the high-ranks.’
‘What do you mean?’
He studies the children. ‘Do not let her sweet appearance seduce you. I am her master; I know her well. You learn quickly – in Za’skar, sweetness is disguised behind a cloak.’
I glower at him with no sweetness as he drags me away from the gardens.
For the second part of my plan, I must win over the scholars.
The next eve, after tongue-fasting, I resolve to find and use Cemil.
He sits on the stairway to the Great Library, a bundle of scrolls surrounding him.
His turban is untied, the muslin tossed round his neck, his dark hair gathered in a small topknot with raven feathers.
His eyes are squinted in concentration, sormeh sharpening them.
When he perceives my approach, a weariness slips into his gaze before he returns to his parchments.
I clear my throat.
He does not look up.
I clear my throat harder.
‘What?’ he snaps at last. Then his eyes drop to my bandaged arm and he hesitates.
I prey on his remorse and speak fast. ‘Scholar Mufasa challenged me to memorise the five annals on the Jazatāh Era. Only then will he permit me back into class. Yabghu advised me to come to you for your . . . genius. I need—’
Help. The request lodges in my throat, unwilling to be admitted. Cemil waits. ‘I need your help,’ I choke out.
He leans back in a casual stance. ‘Such respect. Where were these proverbs of my genius when I spoke to you in the school to help you?’
He will not let me live this down. ‘Please,’ I say in disgust. ‘You won’t refuse my grovelling. You enjoy it.’
Cemil is silent for a long moment. Then he gestures with his chin. ‘Your arm? Has it healed?’