‘Then it is very well that I don’t need him to do it.’
He cocks his head. ‘No squadron would have you.’
‘That is what you assume. Because you prefer when we are like this: you above me, chiding, while I am below, relying on your hand.’ To make my point, I gesture at his hunched shoulders, his head bent so I can make out the dark flecks in his grey eyes. Then I nod to his empty rahle. ‘You should have a seat before the scholars notice. As you remarked once before: I would rather best you myself, than have you taken out before the battle begins.’
‘Master!’ A voice rings out and Cemil turns to it. A throng of pazktab students, led by a scholar, straggle around the courtyard. Sohrab and Yasaman break from the group, running toward me. Arezu lingers behind them but does not come forward.
‘That pazktab child addressed you,’ Cemil accuses.
‘No. Get on.’ I shove him away. Reluctantly, Cemil takes his seat at the rahle but, in unabashed suspicion, watches Sohrab and Yasaman arrive at my station.
‘Master, what are these tests?’
‘An examination for low-ranks.’ I bend toward my desk. Sohrab’s eyes light up. Aware of Cemil watching, I give short replies.
‘Will it be difficult?’
‘No,’ I say, deflecting.
‘Have you studied?’
‘With my trifecta.’
‘Are you nervous?’
‘No,’ I lie, beginning to regret acknowledging Sohrab at all.
‘Why do you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘That. Not actually answering.’
I straighten my reed pen. ‘I feel sorry for anyone who insists on speaking to me at all.’
‘You are odd, master.’
‘I promise to apologise after this conversation.’ My eyes catch on the scholars lining up in the courtyard, including Scholar Mufasa. ‘Which is now. My examinations are beginning. Sorry. And farewell.’
‘Well, we pray for your success,’ Yasaman adds meekly.
My hand stiffens around the reed pen. No one has ever wished for my success. I am accustomed to my clansmen anticipating my inevitable failure – even the emperor. My lips twitch but I pray I do not do something ridiculous, like almost smile.
The scholars pair students for the first round and Scholar Mufasa veers toward my low desk. I put down my reed pen and glance to No-Name, who curls up beside my rahle, tucking her face into my neck.I need you to change, I urge her.
Her changes are becoming quicker; in a breath, she resembles my father again, his black gaze pressing against my own. To the emperor, memories, feelings were useless. He raised me to be his vizier, to be his prodigy, to be cool and calm, deft in tactics. Strategy ismydomain.
My mind clings to that conviction as in lightning-attack simulations, I winnow through the first few rounds with ease, beating Sharra, Aizere and other Zero-Slashes.
‘What were the principles of the Al-Haut siege during the first wars between the Sajamistani and Azadnian clans?’ Scholar Mufasa asks.
‘Fire was concentrated on one point, and a breach was made, and the equilibrium imploded. And thus, a concentrated blow must be aimed at the enemy’s strongest point in order to achieve a decisive result,’ I answer first over Aina.
He asks in the next test, ‘How should besieging Azadnian forces collapse the defences of Al-Haut?’
‘The logical step is to dam the stream that leads into the confluence, depriving the city of water,’ Yima, the First-Slash explains, continuing on about commando tactics.
The scholar cocks his head. ‘That does not mean condemning as many as you can to death?’
