She smiled bitterly. ‘It’s not to fight, foolish child. When they capture you, they will use you – as a servant, and a body. They’ve done it before, to plant fear in the rest of us. Our enemies are the bordering clans allied with the rival empire. They want to conquer these lands, so they conquer the people first, including their bodies. When they take you, grab this knife, my child.’
‘And then what do I do, Uma?’
‘Slice it right here,’ she said, gentler and warmer to ease the cold suggestion, pointing at her own throat. ‘It will end your life, and that is better. The enemy will never be able to keep you.’
I nodded, but a profounder thought hit me. Studying the sorrow lacing Uma’s eyes, had the enemy once captured her?
Instead of asking, I accepted the blade.
Her words haunted me in the gloaming that evening as I was fastening rope around stone, my twin buzzards soaring in circles from my shoulders to the fir trees.
Babshah Khatun came beside me. ‘Enough with this.’ She pulled my hands aside. ‘Today is a festive occasion, and our tribe is mourning. They need hope.’
I hesitated, glancing around. Because of the first raid, the flooded dam spoiled our pastures. A drought followed. With harvest diminished, trade with nearby villages at a loss, tributary taxes heightened, settlers from the west eating away at any good grasslands, and our herd thin. ... famine was becoming a mounting problem.
‘Hope will not feed the animals nor line our stomachs.’
In response, Babshah kicked the stones, and the buzzards cawed above us.
‘Babshah,’ I protested. ‘Uma says to prepare stones for the elders to tie around their stomachs, to stop hunger pangs.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said and stifled a yawn. She kicked at more rocks.
‘Nonsense?’ I gawked.
Earlier, I had caught Sheeth, my elder cousin, catching worms near the stream to fry. Without being able to trade for stalks of milled wheat, we dried grass and white mud to a powdery dough and used it to make dumplings. Two children died that night from hard stools. My stomach felt heavy, as if a rock protruded from my gut. Our only relief came from a flock of thin mares and pearl wheat cultivation around our river canals.
We’d always migrated in a circular pattern from southern winter to northern spring grasslands around Lake Xasha. The khan had discussed migrating further for better pasture, but the rival clans at the end of the pass would never let us settle further. Already they were hungry to conquer us, sniffing our weakened state.
‘Why does the khan not ask my dada, the emperor, for help?’
Babshah stilled. ‘Not that greedy fool.’
‘The emperor cannot be a fool.’
‘Gah.’ She batted her hands. ‘An overseer, a king – he could be God’s chosen one and my words will not change. He needs us more than we need him. We’re the important ones, guarding the routes here for his goods and tea trade, while fighting his enemies.’
‘Do you hate him?’
She looked thoughtful. Her girlish lashes cast shadows beneath her eyes. ‘No. As long as he leaves our tribe be after we pay him our tributaries. See, child, these emperors love our lands but are troubled atwhat to do with the people living on them. The seasons change, a new conqueror sweeps in, uses our trade, turns our clans against each other, tells us to attack for their sake and defend their borders, and when they’re overthrown, the next overseer comes in and does the same. I’ve had enough of empires and soldiers.’
‘You married a khan.’
She ducked her head, smiling behind a curtain of dark braids. ‘I was thirteen years and he was as young too. But my khan swore he was an honourable boy and look at him now. Unlike the emperor, the khan’s greed has limits. He is a good man.’
‘The emperor must be a good man too. He’s my dada.’
‘Perhaps. I once reasoned with your uma to refuse to wed him, but if she hadn’t wed him, would you be born?’
I couldn’t understand much of her words at the time, about the politics of conquerors. I did understand though that only Babshah was daring enough to slander the most powerful man of our lands. I lifted my hands to hide my grin. ‘I’m happy I was born.’
Babshah smiled wistfully. ‘As am I. Now what of my idea, child? Let us feed the tribe hope with a story.’
‘A story won’t feed us,’ I grumbled.
‘Hope is its own sustenance,’ she said softly. Her grey eyes, like weak milk-tea, warmed my soul. ‘Tonight, we’ll remind them about the tale of the Raven and the Crane.’
I sighed and flattened my hand on my chest. ‘Order me, Babshah Khatun.’
