Yahya quits after his second attempt. ‘This hurts.’
‘Do not be so soft,’ I scoff and nudge him. It is a mistake. He falls over. Then he bawls, the gasping, wet kind that sends disgust through me. His sister stoops low and lifts him in consolation but his weight makes her stagger.
‘This is your training?’ Arezu tuts her tongue. ‘Theseexemplarymartial artists?’
I ignore her comment. ‘How do we stop that... sound?’
‘You mean his weeping? He likes to be held,’ Yasaman explains.
‘Something else.’
‘Food.’
‘Which kind?’
Yahya pauses in his tears. ‘Lamb-stuffed non.’
Inwardly, I curse.Lamb-stuffed non? How could a child have such expensive tastes?I grip him gingerly by the shoulders, my robes a barrier to his tear-induced snot. His fists wrench violently near my curls.
‘Be careful,’ I hiss at him and his eyes well again, before I add, ‘I will bring you non.’
With a lingering look of disgust, Arezu recedes into the bramble of citrus trees surrounding the clearing. Above her, No-Name drifts on to a branch and watches the students, occasionally making faces and sticking out her tongue.
Yahya squirms, hitting my injured arm, so I prop him higher. ‘Today you can watch, but this is the only exception. Next time, you must do ten orbitals.’ I pray that if all goes well and I am chosen for my captain’s squadron, there will not be a next time.
Sohrab pauses in his kicks, pointing forward. ‘Who is that?’
A voice barks out, ‘Who am I?Who the Hells are you?’ Overseer Yabghu stalks up the slopes of Little Paradise’s hills, his eyes thunderous on me. ‘Rukh, you have a babe in your arms!’
Panic twinges in my chest. I drop Yahya on his bottom. ‘No, I do not.’
We stare, in a standstill as the pazktab younglings, slick in sweat, gaze in dread between us, little more than chirping crickets scampering in the grass.
‘You just dropped the babe.’
‘I do not know this child. He was lost and crawled into my arms.’
Sohrab raises his hand. ‘Mast—’ He cannot call memasterin front of Yabghu.
‘Young students,’ I interrupt. ‘This scolding man is Overseer Yabghu. A high-rank.’
The flimsy distraction works. Sohrab’s eyes latch on to the etched lines across Yabghu’s khanjar. ‘He is a Fourth-Slash!’
Yabghu only addresses me. ‘I do not know what possessed you to speak with pazktab students.’
My expression does not shift. ‘Overseer, I saved these students from an attack. They asked me how to defend themselves.’ This, in truth, is not a lie.
He thinks otherwise. ‘Ah. You lie, drawing a line between yourself and your only ally amongst the high-ranks.’
‘What do you mean?’
He studies the children. ‘Do not let her sweet appearance seduce you. I am her master; I know her well. You learn quickly – in Za’skar, sweetness is disguised behind a cloak.’
I glower at him with no sweetness as he drags me away from the gardens.
For the second part of my plan, I must win over the scholars. The next eve, after tongue-fasting, I resolve to find and use Cemil. He sits on the stairway to the Great Library, a bundle of scrolls surrounding him. His turban is untied, the muslin tossed round his neck, his dark hair gathered in a small topknot with raven feathers. His eyes are squinted in concentration, sormeh sharpening them. When he perceives my approach, a weariness slips into his gaze before he returns to his parchments.
I clear my throat.
