‘A thief in common clothes,’ I spit, and unfasten my satchel. Arguing would be reckless. She must hear my clumsy Ghaznian accent; knows I am a foreigner, frugal with her master’s coin. Sajamistan’s many dialects have several unvoiced consonants and glottal stops that I’ve yet to master.
As I’m turning, her cats suddenly leap from the stall toward my flock. Instinct alone makes my arms raise, intercepting them. Their talons rip into the white bandages around my right forearm, so quickly I hardly feel the pain, but the force makes me stumble back. It isn’t until a pair of arms catch around my waist that I regain my footing.
‘Are you well?’ a cool voice asks into my ear.
It’s the cloaked man who traded for musk. Ignoring the sting in my forearm, I quickly straighten away.
The mountain yak hardly arouse at the commotion but my goats skitter toward me on the wet path, splashing dirt which streaks across my cheek. I use my crook to bat my flock back into place before glaring at the merchant.
‘Control your feline ruts,’ I snap at the merchant.
Her eyes are curious as they survey my arm. ‘My cats rarely provoke patrons unless they sense you are trouble. If you do not wish to pay,leave, Azadnian.’ She is no longer warm. Unlike my cheeks that heat with fervour.
Scowling, I go to close my satchel—
A hand hovers above my exposed wrist, halting my movements.
‘Will this do, sister?’ the man offers softly. The merchant’s eyes widen at the sight of two silver ingots, as do mine. From my shawl, I steal a glance at his features, making out a hard jaw over his collar, the rest indiscernible for the sheep furs matted around the hood of his cloak.
The merchant snatches at the silver. ‘A wise bargain, my friend.’ She hands him the honey and turns to the next client to cheat.
I stare at the silver and remember to bow, though more for the performativity of gratitude. ‘Is it wise to brandish silver ingots? You will be a target for thieves.’
‘Thieves,’ he repeats before offering me the salve. ‘You are not a native.’
Tension bristles up my neck as he glances at my right forearm. Unmistakably, the peeking of gold- and blue-threading of circular cranes is a clear mark of the empire I hail from.
His voice is cold but contemplative. ‘In these mountains, the land’s offerings are considered a gift from the Divine. The tribes say blessings cannot be owned, they must be shared, so thievery is rare from such communality. I am only extending their generosity,Azadnian.’
A faint nausea floods my throat. My voice unsticks, and I make it as small as possible. ‘I... am only a servant.’
The young man considers me and pushes down his hood. ‘There is no need to fear me.’
But that makes it worse; better for the violence to be crude and blunt than the threat to be soft, hidden. I glance about, wary. ‘Then I am in your debt.’
‘Consider this to be my charity toll. It’s Friday, the blessed day of Prophet Adam’s death.’ His small smile is almost self-deprecating as his hand reaches down, scruffing the neck of my wandering goat. ‘And I admire shepherds.’
I blink at the soft words. There is no beard on his clean-shaven jaw, nor even long hair or a felt cap to stave frostbite. Instead, his raven black hair is a short crop of curls. With his tranquil words and bare face, I realise he is from the monastery.
‘Very well. You have my prayers, monk.’
He turns fully, hazel eyes falling upon me. He is tall; my head comes to the height of his chin. His angular features are symmetrical and cold, eyes framed by lashes so thick, one would mistake them for sormeh. His skin is light, the apples of his cheeks faintly flushed, not unlike the local tribes exposed to the cold altitude. He could be the sole product of the Divine architect, whereby when He divided mercy into one hundred parts, and bestowed a slice to this world – leaving seventy-seven – a portion had been sculpted upon this monk, leaving the infinitesimal leftovers to the rest of humanity.
He is Sajamistani, I marvel, but he is still a monk, and I find monks more tolerable, in their quiet empathy, than any other person.
‘It has been a long while since anyone has prayed for me. I welcome your prayers, shepherd girl.’ His smile grows.
Before my mind can finish the thought,he is a beautiful monk then, the reminder that he is Sajamistani is louder, and the anger dampens the marvel.
He inclines his head and disappears into the bazaar toward a white gelding. A raven soars to his shoulder, making snug against his neck. For a wavering instant, my mind recedes into a sharp valley that tastes of wet and grasslands, of hunting buzzards cooing against my neck, but I shake loose the memory.
Then I am back to the present where the late crowd presses againstme from all sides like a pilgrimage, the sweet aroma of fresh barley porridge and apricot-oiled flatbreads tempting me forward. My stomach growls but my hands turn over the jar.
There are no prayers in the business of deception. All I have is the blood oath I made to my clan. I hope it’s enough.
10
The next day, at dusk, my uncle leads me to the Ghaznian citadel to enlist. The journey to the border of the central village feels short with the heat of fear pressing against my breastbone. The cold is merely a nip against my skin, time a blink, before we catch sight of thick, intricately curved walls of mud brick and bone-stone. The shadow follows at our heels, so silent and steady that I almost convince myself it truly is the blackness of my own shadow.
