‘No one.’ I glance at her fist and the boy who had the satchel. ‘Please, continue on. But away from me. This is my trifecta’s training grounds.’
‘Training grounds?’ The pazktab girl seethes.
The injured boy whimpers. I scoop up my onyx, ignoring that whimper. ‘Besides, if you are going to thieve food from this boy, at leastfinish the job with dignity. You want to kick his leg? Smash his kneecaps instead. One quick blow. He won’t be able to walk.’
‘Why would I cripple him so violently? I havesomemorals.’ The girl drops her fist and takes in the gold-threading below the sleeves of my tunic; recognition settles in that gaze. ‘It’s the Azadnian recruit from last eve.’
My gaze, too, narrows. ‘Was it you who poisoned my meal?’
Without replying, she charges me with her companions hooting behind her. My eyes widen. I duck from her wild hook, spin and send a quick palm strike to her kidney. There was little force but it sends her crashing into the poplars. She does not stand again.
Her companions stare at me. ‘It is true. Azadnians are child killers,’ one mutters. They haul up the girl between their arms and run off, the apples and melons all but forgotten in their haste.
The target of those children scrambles to his feet. He’s a stout boy and sun-browned, thick curls grazing his head.
‘How did you do that to Arezu?’ he breathes, limping toward me.
‘Your movements... are like water.’
The other little boy, sporting a broken lip, merely watches us wide-eyed.
‘It was simple, really. Even Azadnian arts have palm strikes, and combined with iron-bone training, it hurts.’
The boy throws himself at my feet. ‘O master, I’ve read of iron-bone only in the martial tales.’
I blink down. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You went likethis, and she went flying likeahhh!And she did not get back up!’
I retreat toward my almond tree, but he follows. I grimace. ‘Please, get away before my overseer sees me with you –you pudgy thing.’
‘You must teach me, esteemed Azadnian master—’
I nearly sputter out my tea. I am as far as one can be from a master. The opposite, actually.
‘–please, I need your help. Pazktab schools are made up of martial clans, and the children without a clan or its protection are the rats. I know I am young but I hear the Sepahbad was recruited at only thirteen years. His youth never hindered him. Train me!’
‘No.’
‘Please!’
‘No.’
He decides on flattery. ‘With your unpredictable style, the others will envy me. If you train me, I will do your bidding. You are Azadnian; I can ensure the others do not spoil your meals again!’
My cheeks heat at the thought of allying myself with a pazktab child, as if I am that desperate. He steps forward but I shove him back.
‘You are simply confused. In fact, if they thrashed you black and blue, I’d have watched from my tree, content. I want nothing to do with disgustingbone-reekingpazktab children in Sajamistan. Pester another recruit to train you.’
With that, I retreat to the opposite end of the fountains until my trifecta arrives.
Throughout sunrise, as we train, I catch the same young boy peeking through the gardens, observing our stances.
Yabghu allots me a week of curricula to memorise before I join other unranked rukhs in the Easkaria institute. The scholars teach subjects ranging from arithmetic and old Adamic linguistics to theories of Eajizi and martial history. But like the meal in the pavilion, my first week of classes becomes its own torturous trial.
‘To be on time is to arrive early,’ Yabghu advises me at midday, pointing to a school of bone-stone masonry of hexagonal patterns that glows above Za’skar City. Mist clings around its trifecta of bronze domes atop tall pillars like a white shroud, with a topiary of sweet lemon trees at its gates.
‘This was the first school in the history of mankind, patronised by the wives of royal clan leaders long after Adam, containing centuries’ worth of knowledge. A fine education but really every initiate’s place of torture,’ he warns me.
