When I speak, my voice cracks but I smooth it out, knowing better than to parade my fear in front of scholars.Be the clay, I will myself.Smooth and hardened beneath the sun.
‘The Camel Road—’
‘Speak louder,’ he snaps.
I clear my throat. ‘The trade nodes of the Camel Road between the empires to the north and south and east are guarded by the Dawjad, Usur, Khor and Qan frontier tribes. In the Tezmi’a gorge, the Xasha and Qan clans allied beneath the banner of Usur-Khan through proposed marriage alliances,’ I pause but he gestures at me to continue, ‘until the raid of 508.’
‘Stop.’
My lips clamp.
‘Sit.’
My knees collapse like an obedient dog. The room suffocates with a warring tension.
Scholar Mufasa holds my gaze for a long moment. Years of paying attention to the emperor’s every action clue me to his foul mood. His eyes, though calm and steady, do not trick me because his knuckles tighten on his staff. I have done something terribly wrong.
‘You believe the words you’ve just uttered,’ he says, pressing me.
‘Yes, scholar.’ Because hesitation would upset him more.
His grip tightens further on that staff of his. He punished one student today. I wait for a hit, a strike. Around me, students exchange glances. Still, he does not speak.
My lips almost part to beg punishment. I’ve learned fear stems not from pain itself but from the inability to foretell what form it will take, even as you sense it is forthcoming.
‘You have read the manuscripts for this week?’ he finally asks.
‘Of course,’ I answer.
‘And this was your interpretation? Marriage alliances, instead of raids across the borderland to bring the clans to submission and force the allyship? What else prompted the final raid that annihilated them?’
‘Famine,’ I state carefully but my fingers dig into my ankles as my head begins pounding.
Mufasa snorts but simply steps past me, green scholarly robes swishing against my shoulder.
From my right, Katayoun shakes her head. ‘Do not speak more.’
After listening to the rest of the rukhs’ answers, flogging only two more pupils, he passes the class. He addresses the chamber. ‘These prompts prepare you for the final Wadiq tests at the end of the winter, the most difficult examinations in the entire institute. Today, after my lesson, you will be expected to scribe my lecture again, to test your rate of retention. To prepare you for the Wadiq tests, in the last quarter of the hour, we will run through strategy simulations about a chosen battle. Who will go first?’ he asks.
When pupils raise their hands, I grit my teeth. Yabghu had said the scholars’ classes influence rankings in the city. So I raise my own, before Katayoun grabs my arm, yanking it down.
But Mufasa sees it. A malicious glint flits through his gaze. ‘Oh, the Azadnian has more to say? Taking the curricula we’d assigned and warping it to your own conclusions?’
I drop my hand. ‘Scholar, I don’t follow.’
‘You fool.’ Katayoun briefly shuts her eyes.
The scholar points to my parchment. ‘You answered the question, which saves you from punishment, but you interpreted it to fit a narrative typical of your kind.’
‘What narrative?’ For years, I’d had the tutelage of the Azadnian scholars, but being in Sajamistan, none of that education seems of any worth. ‘I was born in Tezmi’a. I know my own history.’
‘Bias and pride.’
‘I have no pride.’
‘Then tell me,howmany raids had the Usur clan instigated for the Azadnian emperor?’
‘None.’
