Chapter 23
On the morning of the Marka, angels gaze down from the Heavens at the white salt-blown desert, its clay cracked open to reveal hideous scars.
The whole of Za’skar arises in a bustle for the ancient tournament, bureaucrats scramble into the gated city to place bets, wizened warriors wonder which soldiers would rise to take up their mantle next, and clanhouses scout promising Za’skar strategists to patronise in their armies.
As my squadron pads across the sand dunes, a shock spreads like wildfire through the ranks of the city. Soldiers halt in their trajectories, gazing at the bevy of pazktab students at my back.
‘This is madness! A mockery of Za’skar customs!’ Scholar Hawja squawks out as we trek along the paths of the Easkaria school. ‘Summon the Sepāhbad at once!’
‘He would never dare interfere in the customs of the Marka,’ Scholar Mufasa says from an open balcony, staring down at us. ‘Not when he led a Marka not much older than a pazktab student himself.’
Katayoun shifts beside me, ducking her head until her russet braid falls forward, bone-pendants clinking. ‘I told you this is madness.’
‘I bribed you,’ I remind her.
‘You didn’t pay me to keep my mouth shut.’ Her lips crack into a grin. The humour soothes the nerves fluttering in my chest.
From the bottom of the Easkaria, Squadron Three stands in formation around Captain Madj. At seeing us, the captain nods subtly in my direction.
‘What was that?’ Katayoun asks, bewildered.
‘Captain Madj is Fayez’s rival. A clever strategist sows discord in their opponents before the battle begins,’ I tell her.
She glances at the pazktab students flanking us. ‘Look at the discord of your flock first. One of them will wet themselves.’
‘For spiritual calm, I ordered them to perform ablution in the way of Adam, and to slather incense and black seed oil over their limbs,’ I explain.
She grips the layers of leather gird around her hips. ‘You must do more. You must speak to them.’
‘I explained the stratagems—’
‘No. You must inspire their loyalty.’
‘You speak as if you care,’ I say curiously.
‘I have my own earnings on the line.’ She speaks in a low tone. ‘And I am thinking of Yabghu. He always gives a talking-to, until my ears bleed. But he does not quit, even when I quit him. Embody our overseer.’ She looks away with blushing cheeks.
I dwell on her words as we arrive at the Marka battlefield, where desert creatures crawl across the six territories that are cleaved onto a separate plane within the salt desert, between the immaterial and material world.
Katayoun explained that the par? blow a psychospiritual Veil upon the Marka.
In its dimension, the sun beams hotter and the air becomes vibrant, sizzling with otherworldly energy.
Cypress and vegetation dot the pale terrain in a green shock of flora along thin gurgling streams.
The seventeen pazktab soldiers align in three uneven rows in Territory Six, adorned in the martial tradition of white and red wolfish raven masks. In the nick of time, Aina and Sharra sprint toward us and I sigh in relief.
‘Go on.’ Katayoun nudges me.
I take a deep breath. ‘Warriors,’ I face them, ‘we are the smallest squadron in a battle to capture enemy banners. The squadron to capture a majority of four banners is the victor. The challenge is the trade-off between stealing another squadron’s banner or protecting our own.
There are six squadrons. Enemy squadrons, when they discover our presence, will target us to get an easy banner.
Only abide by the strategy we discussed: do not engage directly. ’
‘Like pesky rodents,’ Arezu speaks out.
I shrug. ‘Rodents are thieves. They play dirty, never fair. But they survive.’
Firat, the same age as Arezu, shifts uneasily. He is short, hardly a quantifiable person, merely a bundle of thick skin and bones. ‘I cannot do this,’ he says doubtfully.
‘Well, I already paid you,’ I repeat.
Katayoun tugs at my waist cord, leaning forward. ‘I told you to inspire them,’ she hisses.
‘I am.’
‘He might piss himself,’ Sohrab mocks the student.
‘I will,’ Firat admits. I decide I do not like him.
According to Katayoun, I suppose I am to speak comforting words. Shall I compliment him? Or coddle him? Disgust surges through me. I am not Yabghu.
‘That could be a problem,’ I admit. ‘But your pathetic weakness can have worth. Hold it in until the enemy is in range, then piss on them.’
‘I will be scrub to the enemies,’ he gasps. I search myself for sympathy, even a smidgen, but discover none. For months, my training has amounted to this: my only chance to climb up the army’s ranks.
Across the blue salt desert, squadrons scurry to their respective territories, but incredulous eyes find us: Overseer Negar with Yabghu and Captain Fayez, Captain Osman of Squadron Four.
It’s not until all of Squadron One spots us that the daunting task of the Marka needles me painfully.
It’s obvious: our chances of success are as thin as a horsehair.
Yabghu jogs over, ripping off his martial mask. For the first time, I glimpse his true anger. ‘You were training these students beneath my nose for this?’
‘I vowed to participate in the Marka.’
‘Listen to yourself. You are picking a battle with high-ranks with the scraps of the pazktab?’
‘These are the finest warriors the pazktab has to offer.’
‘Finest warriors?’ Yabghu seethes, moving around me. ‘At least I should reason with these children. Why would you agree to her mad idea?’
‘She paid them,’ Sohrab offers.
Yabghu’s neck strains against his collar, veins stark against his brown neck. ‘This is why you borrowed from my stipend? I am not a patron to fund your madness!’
My heart hammers. ‘I-I will pay that back.’
‘Khamilla,’ he nearly growls, and I step back.
He has never broken formality like this.
‘We both know you won’t. Besides, do you understand what this will do, my own trifecta defying me in such a mortifying manner?
’ He turns on Katayoun, his glare lashing her until she flinches.
‘And you. The girl who could not even pass the Easkaria suddenly finds herself in a Marka?’ He prods her forehead.
‘Has the Azadnian spun black magick on you?’
‘Enough.’ I yank Katayoun behind me, shielding her from his glare. ‘Today, there are no trifectas. Only the order of a squadron. You will not speak to my underling like so.’
With a curse, he backs away, but my heart twists in something close to remorse. No matter what I think of Sajamistan, my overseer has always been a kind, forthcoming teacher. The only kindness afforded in this city.
As I turn my back, a hand wrenches me forward.
It is not Yabghu’s fingers gripping my tunic. Cemil’s thunderous gaze pins me in place. ‘Khamilla,’ he hisses.
‘Peace unto you, Fayez’s dog,’ I greet him.
He tightens his fingers and I cough from the fabric creasing around my neck. ‘Are you one for insults before a battle?’
‘Not an insult when I only speak to what I perceive before me.’
‘Ah, so polite,’ he grins sharply. He studies the trembling children and laughs. ‘I told you allies are good, but this is hardly what I meant.’
‘And?’
‘And? You have not an ounce of dignity nor honour: you are unfit to be a Za’skar warrior. You’ve children waddling after you like roosters at an uma’s back.’
That snaps me. I grip his chin and lean close, until he is forced to acknowledge the long-dormant rage simmering in my gaze. ‘If they are roosters,’ I whisper fiercely to him, ‘they are my roosters. And only I am allowed to insult them, not you.’ I press my palm to his chest until he steps back.
‘If you thought he despised you when he ordered you to crawl, then you will face his true hate now. He will murder you.’
‘I assume that includes you? You love when I crawl.’
‘No mercy,’ Cemil promises, before reproaching Katayoun. ‘And how much did she bribe you?’
‘Glad you can see through Khamilla’s methods so clearly.’ Katayoun’s smile is as sharp as his.
‘More like you’re so transparent,’ he tuts at her. ‘Fools, my comrades.’ He spits at our sandals and goes to rejoin his squadron.
‘I have had worse,’ I call out to his receding back. ‘You can piss on us.’
‘No thank you. At least I preserve my honour. We are still a trifecta,’ he replies without turning back.
‘Ass,’ Katayoun mutters. ‘This is why I prefer Aizere. She is angry but not a fool like the both of you.’
‘You are here,’ I remind her.
‘I guess I am a fool too.’
‘Did he mean that?’ Yasaman cries from behind me. ‘They will murder us?’
‘It’s intimidation. Standard in any battle,’ I attempt to comfort her. But it’s working.
The group of students cling together, eyes wet, uniforms hanging loosely over thin frames. Perhaps I am in over my head, a mad girl indeed. But what choice did this Hells leave me? To scrape at my superior’s feet? To wait years and never climb one rank?
Arezu steps across the flanks of young warriors. ‘I warned you. Her own captain stomped on her in the bazaar. He made her kiss his feet.’
I pause. The rumours have reached even the pazktab schools.
‘Imagine what he will do to us. I’ve seen battles before,’ Arezu continues, blank-faced.
‘What will he do?’ Firat asks.
‘In a raid, I saw enemies take a babe as small as Yahya, all jiggly with rolls. And they stretched him apart until he burst. Children are the easiest prey.’
I hurry forward. ‘Arezu.’ I take her by the arm. ‘You are scaring them.’
I begin to drag her to the side as she struggles in my grip. ‘I am only preparing them.’
She is one of the oldest amongst them but, I’d forgotten, still a child.
And though I do not understand children – hardly recall being one myself – I understand this, the need to speak your fear out of existence, pretending it does not matter.
To share the burden of those scars. I know how to deal with the beginnings of a monster.
‘I see why you warn them,’ I reassure her.