‘And this is natural, that jinn-folk live side by side with man?’ I swallow uneasily, a memory pricking my thoughts. Something about the karkadann... but I will it away.
On the other side of Little Paradise, I sight children spilling out from a three-tiered sandstone structure carved out from the rose-gold bedrock. Yabghu follows my questioning gaze.
‘Children live here?’
‘They are young Eajiz, below the age of puberty – some orphaned, some from elite clanhouses. They study in fundamental pazktab schools sponsored by the sultana to control their affinity. For discipline, they do the chores in our kitchens. When they come of age, they enlist or are patroned under clanhouses of the royal courts. Cemil here was brought up in a pazktab school.’ Yabghu nudges him and he rolls his eyes. ‘And despite being an unpleasant ass, because of his time in the pazktab, he rose in the ranks quickly. In this city, many Eajiz hail from martial clans, trained first in pazktab schools to excel in Za’skar.’
I fight a grimace, understanding that I am against Eajiz initiates who’ve prepared for this their entire childhoods.
We near the apothecary quarters, a long ceramic pathway of ark statues, toward sun-brazen gold temples with prayer niches across the courtyards, though monks had beaten rows into the dirt from many prostrations. We pass two hammam used once a week; the baths are the only luxury afforded to warriors who otherwise bathe in partitioned rivers.
Yabghu shows me the training valleys, where squadrons practise battle simulations while terse officers scribe their formations on salt tablets. On sand fields, martial artists trade blows. Dunes tower high, unyielding in their might, concealing snakes, scorpions and perhaps the fossils of ancient beginnings lost beneath motes of sand. Uma once proclaimed deserts exist as warnings to the arrogant, punishing the curious by tempting them nearer. But in Za’skar, such warnings go unheeded by warriors who bury their fears in its terrain as they spar and roll before getting up and dusting off their tunics.
Yabghu explains that Za’skar follows a trifecta principle – unlike Azadniabad, halqas are not circles but a sacred trinity, where knowledge is studied in clans of three.
‘In a matter of time, you will be fighting like them.’ Yabghu nods forward. ‘From a pathetic son of Adam’s tribe to a knife-fighting warrior.’ He unsheathes his khanjar. I realise every warrior possesses a sleek blade on their arm, the blue marbled hilt marked with slashes.
‘See this?’ His thumb guides my sight to the four white lines. ‘Six years of training has made me a Fourth-Slash. Most do not surpass Fifth. This is the ranking system in the army. When you achieve four slashes, you graduate from the institute unless you wish to specialise under the scholars. Or you partake in larger military assignments. You have seasonal rotations at outposts, and the other half is off duty, or in Za’skar, as an overseer. If you receive the highest rank – Seventh-Slash – you’ve reached the standing of a Qabl master in the spiritual arts, and perhaps might even become part of the Sepahbad’s elite Alif. There are only thirteen active Seventh-Slash warriors.’
‘Thirteen,’ I echo.
The overseer smirks as though he can sense my greed. ‘We wear the blades proudly to our knife fights, but you, trifle initiate, are a journey’s time from holding one. You mustgraduatefrom your training blades. As a rukh, you begin at Zero-Slash.’
I seize this information. ‘How long does it take for an initiate to climb rankings?’
He laughs like the question is from a child. ‘It’s cumulative. The scholars’ assessments at the school; military simulations with our captain; your duels in Duxzam; how much one sucks up to a superior. These factor into reports to rank officers unless you are a genius – a rarity, really.’
Yearsis what he does not utter. Time I do not have. And being from Azadniabad... my breath rattles inside my chest.
I glance at Katayoun, who bears no slashes yet on her blade. And Cemil... he has two.
Before I could ask more questions, Yabghu holds out an arm. ‘Understand the trifecta schedule at once. Every Friday and Saturday, we have no training and rukhs receive rationed waterskins to last seven days. You become sun sick, no one will help you. You fail examinations, do not whine to me or, Adam’s sin, by offending a superior, you will beg the Divine for the jinn to curse you. You skip a class at the school or monastery, you are flogged. Every fifth day is tongue- and dry-fasting, no speaking sunrise until sundown. If caught breaking therules, another bloody flogging. See the watchtowers,’ he points to the city walls, ‘one step outside past curfew, well... I will laugh over your dead body the next day when I find the arrows embedded in your heart. And remember, on the last day of each month, you receive a stipend. If you climb the ranks, you receive land or even an estate from clanhouses.
‘The schedule is simple: twice a week, low-ranks have classes at the school. The other days, you will spend at the Qabl monastery to strengthen your Heavenly bonds. In the early mornings, each trifecta trains in martial arts. On Sundays, trifectas train with their squadron led by a mock captain to practise battle simulations in the tagmata – a regiment. Three squadrons form a tagmata. Za’skar is old. But behind it is blood, death and sacrifice. You wish to become a Heavenly warrior, to win Heaven’s favour? You want this?’
My teeth grind together. ‘Yes.’ I force myself to bow my head.
‘Then you must live and breathe her behemoth until Za’skar becomes a part of you. When one asks what your clan is, you say not lineage but Za’skar. When you embrace her wisdom, she will embrace you back. In the time of war, we dare not bow our heads and become fodder. Allow the unblessed mortals of the royal citadels to do that. We protect our empire. If you’re here to become a mere foot soldier...’ His lips pull down. ‘Get lost.’
12
Before trifecta training begins, Yabghu hands me a pearl and crimson martial mask and takes me to the eastern quarters accessed by the outer brass gates. The mud-brick communes vary according to status; the lowest-ranked warriors are in segregated groups of fifteen while the Fourth-Slashes get rooms of two. A bone-stone wall partitions off the western quarters of Za’skar; a separate fortified enclave housing a taxonomy of retired warriors, senior officers, scholars, the Sepahbad, his Alif warriors and the most senior Fifth-Slashes.
With a tight chest, in my communal room, I change into martial uniform, the same linen clothes as Katayoun: an ochre tunic, a sleeveless embroidered amber vest and dark baggy trousers with a raven-feathered hem, and a tawny shawl kept at the hip, to don for the hottest days. There are outer robes only required in classes.
A part of me is in disbelief that I am here, in the empire’s capital. Through quivering hands, it takes two tries to tie my mask on my waist cord. The mask, hanging limply on the hemp string, reflects their lore; Sajamistanis claim the third face of their Heavenly Three-Headed Raven was in fact a she-wolf. Evident by a blend of wolfish and raven features on the mask.
A tremor brushes up my spine. Surrounded by enemies, I must do this alone.
‘You are not alone.’
I jump and glance around the room, empty of other initiates. My stomach spools a thread of knots. Then I seeit. Inside the hearth, the black shadow rests.
From years of observing it, fear does not race through me. That is, until the shadow shifts, from a gangly form into – impossibly – a ghoulish young...girl?
‘Peace upon you,’ she greets.
She has a white, bloodless face with pupil-less eyes. Her body is thin, translucent skin stretched over knobby skeletal bone, webbed in black lines like cracked porcelain. Her eyelids carved in blood red gawk at me. Her mouth parts, a tongue flickering out to wet her thin lips.
