Experimentally, I tap my knuckle and wince.
‘Today were principal breaths. Tomorrow, we begin Stratum training to supplement the forms. I don’t expect a rukh to memorise the ninestances today.’ Before relief kicks in, he grins smugly. ‘I expect you to memorise their order by tomorrow. Cemil and Katayoun will help you.’
Once, the young girl in me was curious about the true nature of Eajizi. Now it feels like the cost of fulfilling that desire was my clan. That part of me should stay dead.
‘You truly think the captain would draft you in his Marka squadron? He despises Azadnians,’ Cemil asks me, as we stamp away sand and remove our leathery clogs to break for evening fast.
After a long silence – filled with the clanks of thousands of warriors drinking tea, when we have taken our seats on floor cushions – I take Cemil in slowly. ‘The captain said he looks at power. So it depends on if I prove my worth over you. And I will. But I wonder, do you feel threatened by a mere novice?’
Across from me, his fingers tighten over a ceramic teacup before his lips turn up. He grabs a copper jug, and pours rose kahvah into his cup. ‘Time will tell. For now, let us drink tea, rukh.’
The pavilion is a long hall of slanting roofs carved with red embossed calligraphy; filigreed lanterns with raven carvings and coloured glass, blown by jinn, throw out smokeless fire in a haze of copper, courtesy of what I assume to be the jinn-folk’s energy. Scents of fresh flatbread, smoky incense, stale bones and rose permeate the air in a strange blend.
Marbled low-tables for the trifectas, with hemp mats and rose cushions, stretch over bone-stone flooring layered in thick crimson kilim rugs. The geometric vaulting shines in hues of greens and golds, with strange paintings of ichor-wilted flora growing along tombs of martyrs, francolins dancing along the edges as if at any moment they might soar free from their cages.
Older pazktab children carry large platters as they dart between low-tables at the instruction of their masters. The furthest end of the pavilion is divided off by a great latticed partition with a stunning array of divans for higher ranks and visiting bureaucrats with courtly ravens perched on their shoulders. At the edge of the room is a marbled slab with carved niches, into which many pazktab children scrape piles of picked meat bones and food scraps.
‘The local jinn-folk dine on bones and leftovers,’ Yabghu had said when we entered. No-Name delights in this tradition, her shadowcurled into a niche as she pokes her tongue into the jinns’ scrapings, while I sit with my trifecta.
Eventually, Overseer Yabghu speaks up, ‘Careful, underlings, I could have the captain pick Katayoun over you for the Marka,’ which sends Cemil choking on his tea. Katayoun, as I’ve noticed, remains silent, merely observing our exchange with an inscrutable look.
Before Cemil can reply, a sea of trifectas filters into the pavilion, many staring at me. Word must have got around. I watch a familiar woman sit to our left.
‘Overseer Negar,’ Yabghu greets. Another crouches to his right, the same from the amphitheatre. ‘Captain Madj.’
Pazktab children rush forward, serving rationed food of turmeric and saffron pilaf simmered in lamb yakhni, a spiced lentil stew, and a long black-sesame-coated flatbread with a quill-stamped raven symbol carved into the centre. It’s smeared with aged garlic so sharp it stings my nose. After a prayer by a priest, and bones picked from the lamb pilaf into the offering piles, warriors begin to break flatbread into a spiced stew of lentils, barley and fenugreek. I pick at the bread, prodding my tongue into clay-oven-charred bits.
‘What are you doing?’ Cemil interjects and I drop the bread, realising that I’m instinctually checking for poisons.
‘Losing her head,’ Overseer Negar says from my left, resting her head on her palm. ‘The poor girl’s starved; she’s never seen food like this before.’
‘I agree, I’ve seen better.’
Negar’s voice stays pleasant. ‘Watch your mouth, rukh.’
Yabghu clears his throat. His glare tells me, enough. Making enemies like this is rash. Foolish of me.
I bow my head, wondering how to navigate this. If I concede, I appear like easy prey; if I speak hastily, I incur the wrath of my superior.
‘The rukh’s teacup is empty. She needs fresh kahvah. Give it to her.’ Captain Madj plops a dark sugar cube under her tongue before raising her cup. ‘We have a new initiate. Seems appropriate to drink kahvah toit.’
I ignore that jab. ‘Yes,’ I say hastily. This breaks the tension.
As I pour new tea, she waves down our long communal table. I learn she’s captain of Squadron Three, and – I quietly note – probably Fayez’s rival. I tuck that information away for later. She introduces a mix oflow-ranks and high-ranks, whose names I hardly remember – Aizere, Yima, Sharra, and more and more – who hail from across the empire in various tribes and shades, and who pass clay pots containing fennel and mint bitters before the meal. How dare they act as a clan... likemyclan.
Though it would be well for me to greet them, no words come forth; I’ve never spoken with students, especially an Eajiz of my age. Hyat Uncle prepared me for many things regarding war and violence, but nurturing relations – even basic civility – this, my clan could not teach me.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Yabghu frowning at my lack of effort.
My mood darkens and I lift my teacup of kahvah. As the rim grazes my lips, instinct tells me to look down.
Cemil’s eyes darken. ‘Wait.’ Before I can react, he lunges across the table and knocks the cup from my hand. It flies backward, shattering against the wall beside Overseer Negar.
The pavilion dampens, nearby conversations falling into silence. From my right, Yabghu lifts my plate, cursing. Red scorpions skitter under it. Near the wall, my shattered teacup scurries with tawny beetles blending into the same shade as the tea.
At the commotion, No-Name leaves the jinns’ offerings and rushes to the low-table, staring at the scorpions.
Cemil calmly recrosses his legs on his seat and sips his kahvah. ‘Do not be surprised, Overseer. Of course she has enemies.’
