I have.
‘If you even survive,’ he adds, with a rough laugh through his teeth. It slithers into my ears long after he departs.
27
On the Duxzam evening, the amphitheatre is crammed; it is an event more eagerly anticipated than a Flood Festival. Thick wagers fly amongst the onlookers. The bone-stone complex can hold over 20,000 people, and tonight it’s full to the brim. The wind is too calm for the promise of violence.
‘Those are not only Za’skar warriors.’ I slow outside the tunnel entrance, gazing up in awe. From soldiers to scholars, bureaucrats and the great noble clanhouses of the capital, they mill about the eight tiers of the amphitheatre in elegant emerald and gold and crimson brocaded tunics stitched with raven seals. Their hands glisten with whorled black-threading, an indication of their status. Some have donned oxidised headdresses and bone-pendant jewelled gauds. Seated in the topmost row, shadowed against the constellations, chins resting on their palms, I discern advisers and strategists from the royal palaces. ‘Why would noble clanhouses watch a First-Slash duel a high-rank?’
‘This duel is about what you represent as an Azadnian. When man’s pride is wounded, the only path to salvation is vengeance. Why not too the violence of a duel?’ Yabghu answers me.
‘And gambling,’ Katayoun interjects, from the sandstone tunnel. She kicks away from the wall and crosses to me. ‘Our overseer’s honour didn’t allow him to tell you—’
‘Katayoun,’ he says, glowering.
‘– the noble clans make a sizeable fortune from gambling on Duxzams, despite it being outlawed in our faith. They even gamble on the time it takes for a warrior to win.’
My stomach turns at the stale stink of my own fear. ‘I imagine the stakes are low. I cannot imagine anyone gambling on my victory.’
‘To my knowledge, three have.’ She slugs an arm around my shoulders. ‘Make me a wealthy woman tonight, comrade.’
Yabghu glares at her. ‘You use gambling as an excuse. You do care.’
‘You go too far, Overseer.’ She pushes back with reddened cheeks, and I find myself almost smiling at them before I stop myself.
Yabghu straightens his turban and glances up at the sky with a thoughtful look. ‘Though you march into defeat, if I was a sinner, I would gamble on you as well.’
I look to him in surprise. ‘That is your honour speaking.’
A softness enters his gaze. It cools my heart. Still, I resist any hope. Hope is but a bit of gilding, obscuring the horrors of a ghastly world. It changes nothing. I remind myself of that before he suddenly pulls me into an embrace. White clover and jasmine pervade my senses. In a panic, my eyes dart to Katayoun, who looks on awkwardly. What is this odd touch? I stave away confusion and try not to shove him. A part of me wonders: what do I do with my arms?
‘At ease,’ Yabghu whispers into my braids.
My shoulders drop and I stay so very still. With shut eyes, for a wavering breath, I am no longer in Sajamistan but in Azadniabad, with my half-siblings, the scent of firelotus and blue poppy engulfing me.
Yabghu breaks away just as a voice calls out, ‘Fool, you would side with her over Fayez?’
‘She’s still my student.’ Yabghu faces Overseer Negar who leads her trifecta, Aina, Aizere and Dara, near our tunnel.
Overseer Negar shakes her head, henna-stained braids swinging with the momentum. ‘She is an outsider. Whoever dared to let her into our city was a fool—’
‘Then I am the fool,’ a voice adds pleasantly, and I feel someone warm step up beside me. Everyone bows, save for Negar who looks on in surprise before hastily following their lead. But she is not wrong in her distrust.
The Sepahbad, flanked by an old man, glances at them. His head turns over his shoulder and our gazes meet. He still speaks pleasantly, but his eyes are cold, ‘Shepherd girl.’
Confusion floods me, and with it, a familiar rage. ‘Sepahbad,’ I force out.
‘Let us pray this is a promising duel.’ The older man hardly spares me a glance.
‘By the Divine, Adviser Arash,’ the Sepahbad answers as they stride past us, climbing the steps of the amphitheatre.
‘We should go,’ Yabghu says gruffly, but his expression has dimmed.
We walk through the clay-rammed tunnels of the amphitheatre side by side. My overseer bestows a final lesson. ‘Fayez has nearly mastered the iron-bone. If he reaches the zone of enlightenment,’ his lips press together, ‘the duel will be as good as over for you. But your strength is your durability. And your creative use of the environment. Remember that.’
With that dour advice, he climbs to his seat on the bone-stone rows beside other high-ranks.
‘Master!’
