‘And remember to wrap your arms.’
‘Already done.’ I lift my forearms; my wrapping covers the gold-threading. And there is blue-threading of the crane symbols that I’d done with my half-siblings. Quickly, I blink away those memories.
‘Be discreet. Wealthy clans in these parts of Sajamistan have Azadnian servants, stolen from raids. Worse, there are snatchers around these parts, with villagers disappearing.’
Though other Azadnians live in the Ghaznian borderland, like my uncle – some even venturing here to Sajamistan for richer trade, better pasture – it’s always a risk to wander. It’s common for tribes to be divided in their loyalties to each empire, or simply uncaring of empire affairs, tucked away in their small villages to survive yet another black winter. But the garrison soldiers lurk through the borderlands, and they are who I must watch out for.
I stand, wrapping my woollen shawl around my head. The shadow untucks itself from the corner of the room, following at my side.
‘Do you have your blade?’
I tap my waistband, the khanjar tucked down my baggy trousers. Touching it evokes a pang in my chest. ‘Of course.’
The journey to the peripheral hamlet is an hour down the mountainside, in the damp, bitter air of midday, chill puckering my skin in gooseflesh. The air is rough, freezing the goo in my nostrils so I can no longer inhale. Deep in the brambles of the blue expanse, cold fingers tickle my spine like that of an old witch woman, the air reeking with warning. Using my wooden crook, I bat along the goat and yak flock, pointing their henna-dyed heads down as the thick conifer forest unravels and twists.
Eventually, I reach a settlement sprawled down the steep slopes of the mountains, alluvial paths cutting into the rock side, overlooking rooftops of stony hovels and glacial river gorges. The central bazaar is on the edge of a lake, hosting all sorts of textiles traded from the Camel Road, but also smuggled goods from border townships. Knots of sleepy husbandry grunt outside the caravanserai, as shepherdesses break fast on sweet halva.
A priest greets the midday crowd at a temple’s gates. He places a lamb bone into an offering pile, making me grimace.
Sajamistan’s odd obsession with death is still as jarring as the first time I saw it. It’s a custom – animal bones are collected in baskets every eve for the jinn-folk to feast on, though the Unseen creatures are imperceptible to our eyes. Even the temples are constructed from bone-stone, a masonry chipped from animal bone.
Shivering, I weave my herd past the priest, toward the stalls in front of the three-gated monastery.
A merchant manning one bellows to the crowd, ‘We have pure water from the fiery wells of the Unseen world, said to be used by the jinn’s ancient prophets millennia ago!’ She waves the jar; shards of bone-pendants and raven feathers woven through her thick braid jingle with her movements. A sable cap holds her hair in place. All the embellishments to improve a nondescript face.
After securing my animal herd at the nearest apricot tree, I sell yak cheese to a baker for six meagre ingots. Then I wait at the apothecary stall behind a tall cloaked man. He trades for musk before stepping aside to make room for me.
The merchant greets me in the Ghaznian dialect. ‘My sister, may the peace of death be upon you.’
Even speaking with a Sajamistani, a familiar rage presses against my ribs, but I swallow it down. ‘And you,’ I answer.
Two black cats purr around the clustered stall, jewelled and glittering in rich velvets and bone jewellery. Before the furred creatures, I glance at my peasant garb, a silk kerchief tied around my curls reeking of black seed oil. The thick calico of my robes, the colour of a weak winter-orange sun, is stained with poisons, and from the way the merchant purses her lips, she notices.
I tighten my shawl to shield my face before lying to the seller: ‘My master is ill and requires preserved black seed in honey.’
‘Ah, yes! Brewed into a tea of phoenix wings, a great salve for longevity—’
‘Just honey,’ I cut in impatiently. Her cats begin to hiss at one of my wayward goats, and I nudge it back toward my flock.
The merchant shakes her head. ‘I insist, our phoenix wings for a discount.’
‘No.’
‘We have the best prices, sister!’
‘I don’t care.’
Beside me, I note the cloaked man’s lips curving into a small smile. The merchant busies herself, wrenching open a glass jar, splashing in black seed oil and raw honey.
I hand the merchant the copper ingots, but she clicks her tongue upon weighing them. ‘This won’t do, sister. This is only three idriq, a third of the price.’
I frown. ‘You must be overselling.’
She grins. ‘No bargaining.’
‘But this is overpriced!’
‘AndIwant more riches, but we all are hopeless against higher powers, aren’t we,’ she retorts smartly. ‘Border raids! Blame them for the steep price of harvesting honey.’
