‘If a comrade gives advice, rukh, better to answer rather than posture there like a mule.’
‘Am I your comrade?’ I raise my brow back.
‘No. But I’d rather best my rivals, than have them taken out before the battle begins.’
‘How honourable. Katayoun exists too. What of her?’
He snorts. ‘Know her long enough and you quickly learn she has no ambitious bone in her body. She doesn’t care for rankings; she’s in the battalion for the meals, shelter, the land benefits. At least she’s honest in her goals; I can admire that too.’
‘Well, I am fine in my goals.’
His smile is sharp. ‘Fine by me. Isolation attracts the worst of jinn – a shai’tan. As the Qabl sages always warn: a lone wolf in a valley is more susceptible to the devil’s mischief than a creature in a pack. But your kind knows that well, fractured by warlords who refuse to unite.’
My jaw clenches and I shoulder past him to my next halqa.
The rest of my classes are other versions of failures. Scholar Hawja in ethics disapproves when I flounder in my interpretation of Easkarian philosophy. I realise my upbringing only taught me the metaphysics of the 1000 Wings of Crane Monastic School, unlike Sajamistan’s zeal for the Heavenly Raven.
In quadrivium, astronomy and metaphysics, my work is plausible but the scholars pay me no attention, leaving me to fade amongst the initiates. Lexicography is good, a small win. Cartography is a disaster when the scholar finds my drawing of the map’s borders highly unusual.
‘Yalon belongs to Sajamistan. And half of this territory in Tezmi’a is administrated by Sajamistani clans.’
It was as if all my life, I’d studied a different version of knowledge.
No, I want to cry as the rukhs receive the approval of superiors.
Failing, as usual, the emperor’s voice slithers in my mind, and I sink low in my seat, my eyes burning.These death-worshippers achieve the correct answers. They climb the ranks of this army. Is this how you will avenge me?
Somehow, it’s my ability to complete the tests on time that saves me from harsher punishment. The ones who do not are punished so severely, their chances of climbing the ranks of this city slim by the day; imperfection cast out.
16
My last hope lies in trifecta training. We iron-whisk our limbs in rapid tapping motions until red dots wink through our pores. As rukhs fracture their bones and split their fingers, our masters extend little care for the injuries. By night, my skin blotches purple from the iron. But to procure the iron-bone for which Za’skar martial artists are notorious, we continue.
Slowly but surely, my muscles tighten into dense sinews to maintain the nine stances. The transformation encourages me as I trade from a measly training knive to my sharper khanjar. We grow eager to mimic Za’skar high-ranks who seem to make the air clap and explode from the sheer force of their stances.
Our next lessons are conjoined with Overseer Negar. I recognise the warriors under her trifecta: the first is Dara, a lithe man of Second-Slash ranking, with deep-set eyes smudged in black sormeh; then Aina, a clever Zero-Slash from my classes and one of Katayoun’s cousins; last is Aizere, with a delicate face, dark, pretty eyes and brown skin except where a thick pink scar bisects her cheek to collar.
‘Pair up,’ Overseer Negar orders with a crude smile. She points at a copse of date palms nestled between shrubs of mugwort behind the Easkaria school. The sun beats against our heads in a ferocious heat, the light rays bending the air.
‘One of you will hold the trunk of the tree, while the other will punch it. Do this, and you pissing seedlings of Adam will become real warriors.’
Katayoun and I exchange cautious looks and just as I step toward her, Aina appears at her side, pulling her toward a tree. I blink at them, despite knowing that Katayoun has family, acquaintances –comrades-outside of classes. A bond my fellow rukh and I most definitely do not have. As if strength is not her sole purpose, as it is for me.
Dara and Cemil stand together before a tree, both of equal ranking... leaving Aizere with me. She wears an expression of disinterest as we walk to a tall gnarled date palm, the trunk two handspans wide. Aizere positions herself behind it, and, by instinct, my eyes drop to her scar before quickly averting.
‘Do not be a coward.’ She seems to read my thoughts, sounding dour. ‘Stare away. It’s your people who paid me in kind.’
I’m given no chance for an appropriate reply because Overseer Yabghu barks, ‘Hit the tree with one finger.’
Right. I’ve never been one good with words. My hand claws back and I let my hips guide me. In a whooshed breath, I obediently jab the tree with my finger.
Snap. My hand rebounds back at a sickening angle. I lift my mangled finger for the overseers, while Aizere watches on.
‘D-did I do it right?’
Yabghu examines the fracture indifferently. ‘Yes.’
Behind him, Overseer Negar laughs darkly at the other pairings nursing similar wounds, finding sick pleasure in our pain.
