Chapter 21
The final examinations of the lunar year – the Wadiq tests – arrive a week before the Marka tournament, a public affair for the low-ranks to demonstrate their potential. The first set are of martial affairs under the proctoring of Scholar Mufasa.
Yabghu sits our trifecta on the first tier of a limestone pavilion, where a sehan boasts clear oases and lush roses blooming under the cool day, the white and red flora like embroidery.
Palm-wood rahle are arranged in neat rows, holding ink pots, soft moulded clay tablets and nipped bamboo reeds on date leaves.
Unfamiliar faces mill about, hundreds of notables and bureaucrats from the royal courts greeting scholars and students, the ranks of their status dyed in black-threading on their palms.
Before we go, Yabghu passes around a sloshing mug of goat milk, steamed with turmeric and crushed almonds.
‘It sharpens the mind,’ he says. ‘Like last year, I give the same advice. Many rukhs falsely assume your performance in the Easkaria holds no importance on rankings. But the scholars influence it as much as a Marka, or martial duels like a Duxzam. May the Divine bless you with the knowledge to succeed.’ His eyes settle on Katayoun.
‘Please, at least put in the effort to pass.’
As I trudge to my rahle, Cemil intercepts me. ‘Khamilla,’ he begins. I stiffen at the informal use of my name. It does not belong on his tongue.
‘Usur-Khan,’ I correct and sidestep around him. His decision to speak to me now, on the day of the examinations, is intentional – to throw off my attention.
He reaches for my shoulder. ‘I was unaware of what Captain Fayez would do to you. I’d invited you to the bazaar because of camaraderie.’
‘I prefer Katayoun. She is livelier to converse with.’
Katayoun glances at us from her low desk as we get to our seats. ‘I do not prefer either of you. We do not converse ever, at all.’
‘We will after this,’ I promise her.
‘Khamilla, I warned you on your first day, the captain despises Azadnians.’ Cemil is blunt but sounds solemn. ‘He would never let you compete in the Marka.’
‘Then it is very well that I don’t need him to do it.’
He cocks his head. ‘No squadron would have you.’
‘That is what you assume. Because you prefer when we are like this: you above me, chiding, while I am below, relying on your hand.’ To make my point, I gesture at his hunched shoulders, his head bent so I can make out the dark flecks in his grey eyes.
Then I nod to his empty rahle. ‘You should have a seat before the scholars notice. As you remarked once before: I would rather best you myself, than have you taken out before the battle begins.’
‘Master!’ A voice rings out and Cemil turns to it. A throng of pazktab students, led by a scholar, straggle around the courtyard. Sohrab and Yasaman break from the group, running toward me. Arezu lingers behind them but does not come forward.
‘That pazktab child addressed you,’ Cemil accuses.
‘No. Get on.’ I shove him away. Reluctantly, Cemil takes his seat at the rahle but, in unabashed suspicion, watches Sohrab and Yasaman arrive at my station.
‘Master, what are these tests?’
‘An examination for low-ranks.’ I bend toward my desk. Sohrab’s eyes light up. Aware of Cemil watching, I give short replies.
‘Will it be difficult?’
‘No,’ I say, deflecting.
‘Have you studied?’
‘With my trifecta.’
‘Are you nervous?’
‘No,’ I lie, beginning to regret acknowledging Sohrab at all.
‘Why do you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘That. Not actually answering.’
I straighten my reed pen. ‘I feel sorry for anyone who insists on speaking to me at all.’
‘You are odd, master.’
‘I promise to apologise after this conversation.’ My eyes catch on the scholars lining up in the courtyard, including Scholar Mufasa. ‘Which is now. My examinations are beginning. Sorry. And farewell.’
‘Well, we pray for your success,’ Yasaman adds meekly.
My hand stiffens around the reed pen. No one has ever wished for my success. I am accustomed to my clansmen anticipating my inevitable failure – even the emperor. My lips twitch but I pray I do not do something ridiculous, like almost smile.
The scholars pair students for the first round and Scholar Mufasa veers toward my low desk. I put down my reed pen and glance to No-Name, who curls up beside my rahle, tucking her face into my neck. I need you to change, I urge her.
Her changes are becoming quicker; in a breath, she resembles my father again, his black gaze pressing against my own. To the emperor, memories, feelings were useless. He raised me to be his vizier, to be his prodigy, to be cool and calm, deft in tactics. Strategy is my domain.
My mind clings to that conviction as in lightning-attack simulations, I winnow through the first few rounds with ease, beating Sharra, Aizere and other Zero-Slashes.
‘What were the principles of the Al-Haut siege during the first wars between the Sajamistani and Azadnian clans?’ Scholar Mufasa asks.
‘Fire was concentrated on one point, and a breach was made, and the equilibrium imploded. And thus, a concentrated blow must be aimed at the enemy’s strongest point in order to achieve a decisive result,’ I answer first over Aina.
He asks in the next test, ‘How should besieging Azadnian forces collapse the defences of Al-Haut?’
‘The logical step is to dam the stream that leads into the confluence, depriving the city of water,’ Yima, the First-Slash explains, continuing on about commando tactics.
The scholar cocks his head. ‘That does not mean condemning as many as you can to death?’
A trick is woven deftly into his words, for of course death matters in a war – but he’s speaking strictly in absolutes.
It does not matter how many die; it matters who dies.
It’s the difference between cutting off an emperor’s head or slaughtering mere subjects.
The best generals strike a balance in every calculus of death when conquering.
‘Poisoning the stream affects the same supply lines that feed our forces,’ I rebut and cross my arms. ‘I would order half of our mules poisoned instead. Then I’d melt half our weapons.’
‘Of course you would speak of poison,’ Yima smirks.
‘In the past, siege engines flung poisoned cattle, causing rampant disease. Order fifty of your soldiers to launch cannons filled with the sick animals’ entrails.
It’s biological warfare when the catapults fling disease at the enemy.
That would be enough to weaken portions of their forces.
Then, retreat with your flanks behind the moats of Al-Haut – as the enemy notes the movement, they will conclude you are repositioning because of the fear of disease.
But this allots our forces time to dig, then blast, molten lead inside the fortress.
When the metal has cooled, scale the walls and invade.
You must obtain surrender by the enemy. Complete, utter surrender. ’
Scholar Mufasa nods but his frown lines are like wizened cracks against dirt. For the first time, I wonder how much war he’s seen and how many decisions he regrets.
I fight through a dozen more rounds. It’s not until an examiner tallies them all up that I realise just three of us are left.
We are brought to the centre of the courtyard, where hundreds of bureaucrats and warriors gaze on us.
Scholar Hawja looks at my khanjar with bulging eyes, like I am a theorem to puzzle out.
No one knows that I was learning martial tactics under the tutelage of Azadnian viziers.
‘A Zero-Slash. The last time such a feat was achieved by a novice rukh was when the Sepāhbad was a recruit.’ The scholar is not alone in her bewilderment.
My two opponents sit cross-legged on the kilim, around a rahle.
‘Odd, indeed,’ the Third-Slash echoes, Dil-e-Jannah.
Beside her, Cemil’s face looks both sharp and pleasing, his body taut beneath his tunic. Our eyes meet and he raises both his brows twice at me.
I raise a brow back as if to say what of it? before I consider what I’ve done – cheeks burning – like we are allies.
He smiles but I catch a swell of embitterment. ‘Nervous?’
‘I’ve come this far with few nerves,’ I respond flatly.
The scholar fiddles through her parchments and a hush falls upon the crowd.
‘Study this map made after the fall of the Jazatāh Era.’ She taps with her reed pen.
‘At Azadniabad’s encampment, located in eastern Arsduq, the khan, ahead of the Tezmi’a River, plans a campaign through the mountain pass that connects with our summer capital in Khor.
In the north-east, Sajamistan’s frontier troops have discovered the bulk of Azadnians allied with Zayguk.
The frontier troops have scant time to stop the enemy forces from crossing through the Black Mountains, which would open a two-pronged invasion.
The tribes along our Ghaznian border have fallen, leaving the Black Mountains undefended.
’ She spreads the parchment between us. ‘You have four nights until they reach the pass.’
The three of us lean in, drinking in the map’s contents. The encampment is detailed with steeds, sleeping tents and a winding qanat irrigation system fed by the river channels.
After a moment, Cemil shrugs at us. ‘I suppose we are expected to ambush this encampment, burn their supplies.’