‘No, I don’t!’ Yahya cries.
Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed. ‘I hold him for aquarterof the time because he cannot handle the training as much as the others.And he’s four years old.’
‘Whatever. Watch now.’ She readies her fists.
Yasaman, sensing what’s to come, shoots to her feet. ‘Arezu, do not—’
Arezu barrels toward me but I catch her fists. ‘I will snap those fingers. Know that I’ve made good on worse threats before.’ Another lie. Not a single threat I’ve made in this city has ever come true.
‘But why doIneedyou? I am fine by myself.’
‘It’s a matter of heuristics. An Azadnian monk once said: one cannot learn to be a warrior by inaction. A tactician does not learn sufficient warfare through study only. There is no substitute for experience—’
Arezu rolls her eyes, saying, ‘O, Master, thank you for that parable. Please quote more sagely scrolls,’ before clambering up into a tree. ‘I will do nothing with you.’ Like a sparrow, she hops away branch to branch.
‘She left,’ Sohrab points out.
‘She will be back.’
The next morning, she marches up the hill. Sohrab grins widely.
‘I’m here to observe,’ Arezu snaps. I catch her fingers curling into her blue tunic as if she awaits my scorn.
‘I see. Would the new pupil like to introduce herself?’
‘We are well acquainted. I enjoy thrashing Sohrab,’ she mutters. The others wince. Arezu glances at my kerchief.‘O, master?’
‘Yes?’
She bows extra mockingly. ‘There is a cockroach in your hair.’
I stare. Sohrab looks accusingly to Yasaman, who shrugs mildly. ‘It’s my affinity.’
If I show scorn, they will use it against me. But if I ignore it, I set an ill precedent. Children, I have learnt over the weeks, must be handled strategically.
‘I am the fool for not noticing.’ I fling the cockroach at Arezu, and she screams.
21
The final examinations of the lunar year – the Wadiq tests – arrive a week before the Marka tournament, a public affair for the low-ranks to demonstrate their potential. The first set are of martial affairs under the proctoring of Scholar Mufasa.
Yabghu sits our trifecta on the first tier of a limestone pavilion, where a sehan boasts clear oases and lush roses blooming under the cool day, the white and red flora like embroidery. Palm-wood rahle are arranged in neat rows, holding ink pots, soft moulded clay tablets and nipped bamboo reeds on date leaves. Unfamiliar faces mill about, hundreds of notables and bureaucrats from the royal courts greeting scholars and students, the ranks of their status dyed in black-threading on their palms.
Before we go, Yabghu passes around a sloshing mug of goat milk, steamed with turmeric and crushed almonds. ‘It sharpens the mind,’ he says. ‘Like last year, I give the same advice. Many rukhs falsely assume your performance in the Easkaria holds no importance on rankings. But the scholars influence it as much as a Marka, or martial duels like a Duxzam. May the Divine bless you with the knowledge to succeed.’ His eyes settle on Katayoun. ‘Please, at least put in the effort to pass.’
As I trudge to my rahle, Cemil intercepts me. ‘Khamilla,’ he begins. I stiffen at the informal use of my name. It does not belong on his tongue.
‘Usur-Khan,’ I correct and sidestep around him. His decision to speak to me now, on the day of the examinations, is intentional – to throw off my attention.
He reaches for my shoulder. ‘I was unaware of what Captain Fayez would do to you. I’d invited you to the bazaar because of camaraderie.’
‘I prefer Katayoun. She is livelier to converse with.’
Katayoun glances at us from her low desk as we get to our seats. ‘I do not prefer either of you. We do not converse ever, at all.’
‘We will after this,’ I promise her.
‘Khamilla, I warned you on your first day, the captain despises Azadnians.’ Cemil is blunt but sounds solemn. ‘He would never let you compete in the Marka.’
