The officer returns with a scroll. ‘Are you sure this assignment was your stake?’
‘Yes, my officer. I asked for Fayez’s highest-ranked military assignment.’ My ribs constrict. Had Fayez retracted his stake? Impossible, given the Heavenly Oath.
‘Your Duxzam was rather pointless. According to the scroll, you were chosen for this assignment months ago.’
‘What?’
She smooths the yellow parchment on the cedar table. There, in stark calligraphy, is the faded soot ink of my name, and a wax seal by a senior officer named Adel in a cuneiform of three ravens.
‘No,’ I say louder. ‘Why would they approve me for a high-ranked assignment? I am only a First-Slash.’
She shakes her head. ‘Missions are divided into several constituents. The superiors assigned Fayez for this, but that does not mean low-ranks cannot play a part. Every mission needs translators, pages, cryptographers – these smaller auxiliary roles are given to promising low-ranks as a test of their potential. A scholar must have written a favourable rank report and recommended you after the Marka. You were to be briefed end of this month, a standard practice. But regardless, you are here now.’ Still smiling, she drips wax, confirming my placement.
I am an Azadnian. They would never approve me so soon. With trembling hands, I grip the parchment. If I had known, I would not have—
Destroyed myself.I grow light-headed, nearly falling over. I am unable to stop staring at the parchment.
The officer bolts forward. ‘Usur-Khan?’
Then new footsteps. And a familiar voice repeats the question, stirring my anger. ‘First-Slash, are you well?’
How can this be?
‘First-Slash, your martial-vizier is asking, are you well?’
My gaze flickers up in slow realisation.
Above, the Sepahbad cocks his head as if he is concerned, his hand outstretched like a false promise. But there is something gathered inthat expression. What, I am not sure. The bone-pendant at his throat winks between us, catching the filtered light from the balcony.
‘Are you well,’ I repeat in a daze. His hand moves closer, and I force myself to take it, his skin calloused and warm. I bow my head. ‘I am well, my Sepahbad.’
It must have been him. He gazes at the scroll between my fingers, lips turning up almost knowingly. ‘You look unwell.’
I can only stare, reducing my face to something cold. Anyone may mistake the Sepahbad’s expression for one of genuine regard, but I do not. My liver roils at a new fear: the Sepahbad did this. But why?
He drops my hand and I tap the parchment. ‘I earned an assignment. For that, I am pleased.’
He nods slowly and returns to the officer.
At his back, I bid farewell: ‘Blessings of death upon you,’ my words as clear and true as the promise of Paradise’s rivers to martyrs. For once I mean the salutation. My blessings are only disguised curses.
Ten soldiers in auxiliary roles are granted access to White-Pillar briefing chambers, across from the Sepahbad’s intelligence complex. In the eve, senior officers direct our gazes to the goatskin map pasted against the walls.
Officer Samira says to us, ‘Your posting will be north of Ghaznia province in the mining borderlands.’
I reel back at the circle of fate – to return to the place that brought me here.
She points to the map. ‘Ghaznia province is located south of Arsduq prefecture in Azadniabad. The Black Mountains are a natural border, leading to the alpine pastures of the Camel Road. All of you will pose as labourers in these borderlands under the ortoq-caravan Dhab-e, to trace the disappearances of our villagers from the five settlements here, and the three there,’ she says, guiding on the map. ‘The bulk of vanished workers were either semi-pastoralists or miners under Dhab-e.’
The ortoq trade once consisted of aristocrats selling goods to peripheral governorships along caravan routes between Sajamistan and Azadniabad.
‘In the past six months, villagers have disappeared from schools and monasteries in Ghaznia province and the western Camel Road,along with many labourers in the onyx mines. At first, there were excuses about collapsed mines or illnesses, but the pattern correlates with raids along the settlements, near Arsduq, connecting up to the north-east Izur prefecture in Azadniabad. Our troops’ presence grows. If this continues, an invasion is the only option. We’ve sent spies to two mines on our north-western border. For this assignment, we are sending ten informants to infiltrate Dhab-e’s recruitment of miners from northern SajamistanintoAzadniabad. Each of you will be assigned to a high-rank—’
Arsduq is the prefecture where Yun, my half-sister Bavsag and other Zahr clansmen reside. If the disappearances continue, Sajamistan would invade through Arsduq, into Izur. In fact, an invasion is the likely outcome.
My thoughts flatten. I have no choice. I must learn every name of Za’skar’s informants in the mines to pass to my clansmen; even the positioning of their border troops.
The officer continues to tap at the map. On it, three bases are outlined with embossed circles, and troop routes are indicated in red streaks. The officer distributes scrolls containing the command signals, the defensive plans in the event of a raid and our covers as infiltrates.
