Chapter 20
In the gardens of Little Paradise, I perch on a soft hill and await the pazktab students.
Below, the city of Za’skar awakens under the newborn sun.
Dawn strikes through the dark in the sure command of the Divine, as He approves the celestial’s rise after her prostration at His throne.
Under its light, the gold vistas of the land carry warriors in trifectas in imitation of their revered raven who promises obedience at the feet of its master.
I think of Captain Fayez and how the soldiers gazed on him with that same conviction. I will break it.
No-Name treks around the oases, shifting her form until her body flows in robes hemmed in crane feathers, dark hair shorn across her head. She crouches at the fountains, petting the soft blue pelts of ababil birds. My heart thunders at the spirit of my past.
‘I despise when you take this form, when you appear as him,’ I tell her, unable to utter my dead brother’s name.
‘You need this reminder, because what you intend to do is imprudent.’ She voices my doubts.
‘I have no choice,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve come too far to stop now.’
Soon Sohrab, Yasaman and Yahya arrive. I tamp down my nerves and declare with no preamble: ‘I will continue training you. On the condition we become a squadron for the Marka of Za’skar.’
My captain has ensured no other superior will draft me, but there is a different gullible class to exploit. In fact, an eagerness swells, children are the easiest to manipulate. And that is the kind of squadron I need: one that is easily controlled.
The younglings look blank. ‘Marka?’
‘Yes. Marka, the tournament in four Fridays, on the winter solstice. A strategy battle of squadrons. Imagine the ancient art of mountain polo – in this game, whoever collects a majority of enemy banners wins. We will register on the eve before, so it is too late to stop us.’
Sohrab laughs. ‘Very funny. Why would you have children help you on your team?’
‘I waste little time on jokes. And I would not waste yours, either. I need this – in the Marka, the well-performing warriors are rewarded. It’s the only way for me to move up a rank.’
‘The whole idea is a joke. You waste all of our time. We would perform awfully.’
‘Have I not helped you? I will train you every day.’
A new voice chuckles behind them. ‘So they owe you a debt because you trained them for a few weeks?’ I glance over, recognising the bruising girl. Arezu. Her jade eyes glare into my own. ‘You risk your reputation, leading a squadron of pazktab children. Is that even permitted by our masters?’
‘Reputation? I’ve none. No captain recruited me for the Marka. And the captain said it himself: any inhabitant of Za’skar may create a squadron. As Eajīz – young and weak though you are – you are still inhabitants of Za’skar.’
Sohrab mulls it over. ‘A battle . . . a real battle. It’s—’
‘Frightening,’ Yasaman suggests.
‘Rare,’ Sohrab says, deciding, and I note, for all his impulsiveness, he might be clever. ‘We have nothing to lose, but she,’ he points to me, ‘has everything to lose, and gain.’
The youngest, Yahya, shakes and then nods his head rather unhelpfully.
‘I promise, we will not be humiliated in the Marka. Any effort is better than how we are seen now,’ I say.
‘How are we seen?’ Arezu prods.
‘Well, I am a loser in Za’skar. And you are pazktab students without a patron from the royal courts. You are losers as well.’
She studies me so scathingly gooseflesh erupts down my arms. ‘No. We are different than you.’
‘How?’
‘You are a debt collector. I’ve met your kind.
My family are plant-dyers from the lands of Khor.
Our landholders give cheap promises by advancing ingots, to keep us borrowing cotton.
You are like that. Cheap promises tricking us into crippling debt.
Everything is a bargain with you, master.
’ With a perturbing look, Arezu walks away.
A cold feeling jolts into my stomach, that of an icy truth. ‘My idea will not change. I want you in my Marka squadron.’
Something resonates amongst the other three students. Sohrab’s lips twist mischievously. ‘On one condition.’
‘You are in no position to offer conditions to me.’
‘You admit you need us for your plan. Listen to our condition.’ I stiffen warily as he says, ‘Beat us at our games and we shall play yours, master.’
With a chorus of laughs, Yasaman and Sohrab leave me dumbfounded in the gardens, taking Yahya with them. The mountains splotch pink from the sunrise. My cheeks heat with it.
‘How dare they?’ I say to No-Name.
‘Patience, Khamilla.’ She speaks in the familiar tone of the brother I once knew, still stroking the head of an ababil bird. ‘They are merely children. Impatient, and young. Not all children are like you, living under the thumb of a ruler. Not all worship their pain.’
As I leave the hills for monastic training, my braids prickle and I rip off my silk tassels to find a cockroach prowling on them, two hairs clutched in its little legs. It is so small, I half muse. The urge to squash it consumes me.
No-Name looks bemused. ‘A cockroach?’
‘Those little asses,’ I say, seething, recognising what they have done. This is Sohrab’s condition. Just like the first day they spoilt my meal. These tricks and ploys with bugs . . . I know what I must do.
In the pavilion during mealtime, Yabghu intentionally sits between Cemil and me; we have not spoken since the night of Fayez’s humiliation. Earlier, during trifecta studies in the Great Library, I spoke through Katayoun instead of directly addressing Cemil.
I turn away while Yabghu forces a wooden conversation between Katayoun and Cemil.
Surrounding us are pazktab students crossing to and fro between tables.
My eyes latch on to Sohrab and Yasaman, Arezu at the front.
As they pass me, I lift my cup of kahvah, dumping it in their paths, causing Sohrab to slip on the bone-stone tiles.
‘Usur-Khan?’ Yabghu berates me. When the pazktab students pass me, I do it again; my actions confuse my trifecta but I do not explain them.
In return, during the dawn breaking of fast, the pazktab students retaliate with ants squirming in my barley porridge, where I mistake the bugs for specks of cinnamon.
After trifecta training, I spend hours collecting cockroaches in teacups before releasing them in the kitchens during the breaking of eve fast.
When I find bitter anise powder in my waterskin, I leave the pavilion early and lace the children’s sandals in roughly ground chili collected from the Za’skar gardens to blister their feet.
When I am at the women’s quarters of the bathing river, I discover mounds of mushed figs and dates inside the tunic of my uniform, moulding my small chest into the opposite of modesty.
I will not be outdone by their ridiculous games. And in games, I always win.
And that is exactly what transpires. The next morning, my path to the monastery’s terrace is intercepted when the students sprint toward me, dark blue and white tunics splattered in turmeric, armpits stained mortifyingly mustard as if with day-old sweat.
‘We concede!’ Yasaman breathes out heavily.
‘Oh?’
She glowers. ‘Fine, we agree to be your squadron. But it’s madness!’
‘A good kind of madness,’ I promise.
Without wasting time, I pursue training the pazktab students that day. They ask me many questions, some as a product of curiosity and others of their ineptness.
‘Meditation is a bore; when do we learn iron-bone?’ Sohrab asks.
‘Boredom is the failure to pay attention and meditation is the cure for boredom. Breathing is half the war. Controlling your breath determines who lasts longest in battle, and—’
‘Master, enough with the parables,’ he moans out.
Beside me, No-Name leans against a citrus tree and leaps up to grab a fruit that swings out of reach. She speaks with each jump, becoming increasingly impatient. ‘Training these. Foolish students. Cannot work.’
If I knew of a faster way to create my own squadron, I wouldn’t be helping them at all, I counter.
Her pale lips curve up bitterly. ‘There are many ways if you open your mind. But you choose to block your mind, relying on children, rather than me—’
A growl rumbles from the citrus groves behind us. I still. ‘What was that?’
The students rouse from their meditation, glancing around for the source of the sound.
‘Help!’ a voice cries. From the orchards, I spot a karkadann sniffing near the trunk of a tree.
‘Get up,’ I hiss at my students, and they oblige. ‘Back away slowly to the pond and continue meditating.’
The beast’s conical horn shines above a bullish blue torso, jaw hung with a sagging, scaly dewlap. It’s both majestic and terrifying and my head pounds at seeing its red eyes. Even the birds from the Paradise fountains warble excitedly at the commotion.
‘O, Divine!’ the voice cries again as the karkadann grunts toward the tree. I follow its direction. It’s Arezu.
She hangs from the top branch of the citrus tree, her fingertips clinging for purchase, blood streaming down her hand where she must have scraped it.
Attracted by her voice, the karkadann charges the trunk, shaking the tree, and Arezu slips to a lower branch, her feet now only a handspan away from its head.
‘Arezu?’ Sohrab asks, but I cover his gaze.
‘Do not stop meditating, no matter the distraction,’ I snap, as an idea comes over me. Teaching pazktab students is a difficult challenge – unless I have a primed student to inspire them, to lead with ambition and to make them complete.
What are you doing? No-Name follows me as I face Arezu.
I have found it. I point. My solution. I want it. I want the angry one.
As if she’s . . . a thing.
Yes. She is rude. I like her rebellion. It means she craves a fight.
But it will break your order. Worry sweeps through No-Name’s gaze. You need me. Not these foolish allies. Besides, the girl is almost sixteen, wiser and more stubborn than the rest.