‘Has my own lieutenant turned against me?’ Fayez snarls. Yabghu’s hand eclipsing my wrist tightens but he cannot disobey his superior before the entire squadron.
‘Enough,’ I say with an equally ironclad tone. My fingers ready, clammy, and my legs crouch. But I cannot throw a fist. My breath slows and I count upwards then downwards. ‘Captain, you brought me outside of Za’skar so the senior officers will not see this offence. But you mistake me for someone with pride. Tell me, how do I show you that I deserve a place in your Marka squadron? You asked me to lick the kahvah. Shall I do that?’
The captain looks down his long nose, scrubs his rough, splotchy, henna-dyed beard. I meet his gaze. My legs bend until I am on my knees, moving toward Fayez’s feet. I think about my scattered clan; about Hyat Uncle waiting for me to feed him information; about Older Brother Yun, surrounded in Arsduq, facing Sajamistani incursions at the borderland.
My overseer blinks in naked astonishment. ‘Usur-Khan? Have you no self-preservation?’
‘None at all.’ I smile.
‘Your ambitions will cost you your life,’ Yabghu hisses. ‘No one in this army will respect you.’ Then he glares behind me. ‘Grab her.’ He grasps my left arm; a small hand takes my right. To my bewilderment, it’s Katayoun attempting to drag me back, her right hand holding her kebab. I shove both of them away, lowering back down like an onager, face hot even in the wet. My pulse pounds militantly against my throat.Pride does not matter in my battle.
The captain grins through my humiliation. His sandal comes to rest atop my head, forcing it into the dirt. ‘See, she loves it. AndIlove an Azadnian begging. It simply proves our theorem. You are Azadnian. Lesser.’ His hand raises. ‘Bring it.’
Overseer Negar thrusts forward the object shrouded by a shawl. Fayez whips the cover off. A surge of bile fills my mouth. It’s a cage. Inside is a delicate white creature smeared in russet brown. A crane. Three longtalons dig into its belly... a raven, pecking at its rotting flesh, which swarms with brown locusts, legs curled into its matted feathers.
‘See that. This is natural. Just like this.’ His foot hammers into my neck and I spasm out blood-tinted saliva. ‘Like your natural inclination to bow at my feet. To never resist. To obey. A hierarchy of power; this is good for order. You are trying to break that order. Cemil is two ranks above you; a stronger martial artist.’
In the captain’s shadow, Cemil wavers. He takes one step toward me but does not move closer. Once again, his gaze settles on my forearms, so like his own with its gold whorls, yet so different. His gaze hardens with an imperceptible anger. It is laughable: our fates on opposite ends. What separates us is an arbitrary border stroked in sooty ink that puts his tribe into Sajamistan and my maternal tribe into Azadniabad, both from the Camel Road. Yet, no one blinks an eye, accepting him as their own. Perhaps I should be grateful, saved from the fate of being him.
‘The difference between you two is pride. Cemil would never beg as you do, below me,’ Fayez says.
‘No.’ I splatter blood into my hand. ‘Pride is chains to a warrior. I have no pride. I do not need it.’
‘Pride keeps order.’ Fayez glances round the bazaar, a reflection of his words: an orderly metropolitan that deceived even the jinn into labouring away to produce the riches of this city. ‘If you proved yourself stronger, if Azadniabad conquered our lands, I would not hate you. I would accept the natural outcome,’ he crouches, finger grazing the blood against my lips, ‘and I would respect you. Not begging. Not petty tricks.’ He recedes. ‘For this, I will ensure no squadron will ever select you.’
‘You are worse than Qabil.’ I spit at his feet the curse of Adam’s son. ‘Violence is your natural order.’
‘Tell me, do the bites of fleas affect the might of a flying serpent? No. Your anger, your attacks, do not affect me. I am an azhdahak. A flying serpent.’
I feel so small that I kneel lower, though I yearn to stand at his level. The illusion of equality is better than the truth of inferiority. My fists bury in the wet sand. Months of grovelling in this army and I haven’t managed a single rank, while my brethren are cornered by this empire and vultures like Warlord Akashun.
I’ve tired of this helplessness. I will force my way into the Marka even if it requires a squadron of my own. My throat burns as I swallow hardand look between Fayez and Cemil, smearing the blood from my face on to my palm, presenting my vow: ‘You force my hand. And you will regret this. My kind does not forget a blood oath.’
From behind them, Katayoun sighs, and lifts her skewer of sumac lamb, indifferent. ‘This is the outcome when you have useless ambitions,’ she says before her teeth tear into its meaty flesh.
20
In the gardens of Little Paradise, I perch on a soft hill and await the pazktab students. Below, the city of Za’skar awakens under the newborn sun. Dawn strikes through the dark in the sure command of the Divine, as He approves the celestial’s rise after her prostration at His throne. Under its light, the gold vistas of the land carry warriors in trifectas in imitation of their revered raven who promises obedience at the feet of its master. I think of Captain Fayez and how the soldiers gazed on him with that same conviction. I will break it.
No-Name treks around the oases, shifting her form until her body flows in robes hemmed in crane feathers, dark hair shorn across her head. She crouches at the fountains, petting the soft blue pelts of ababil birds. My heart thunders at the spirit of my past.
‘I despise when you take this form, when you appear ashim,’ I tell her, unable to utter my dead brother’s name.
‘You need this reminder, because what you intend to do is imprudent.’ She voices my doubts.
‘I have no choice,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve come too far to stop now.’
Soon Sohrab, Yasaman and Yahya arrive. I tamp down my nerves and declare with no preamble: ‘I will continue training you. On the condition we become a squadron for the Marka of Za’skar.’
My captain has ensured no other superior will draft me, but there is a different gullible class to exploit.In fact,an eagerness swells,children are the easiest to manipulate. And that is the kind of squadron I need: one that is easily controlled.
The younglings look blank. ‘Marka?’
‘Yes. Marka, the tournament in four Fridays, on the winter solstice. A strategy battle of squadrons. Imagine the ancient art of mountainpolo – in this game, whoever collects a majority of enemy banners wins. We will register on the eve before, so it is too late to stop us.’
Sohrab laughs. ‘Very funny. Why would you have children help you on your team?’
‘I waste little time on jokes. And I would not waste yours, either. I need this – in the Marka, the well-performing warriors are rewarded. It’s the only way for me to move up a rank.’
