He coughs. ‘No.’
I glance at his arms, blue-threading obscuring the gold. I study the motifs of Sajamistan – three-headed ravens, seventy-seven bonds in swirling lines and even a three-tiered ziggurat.
The words leave my mouth before I stop my curiosity. ‘And where is your tribe in the Camel Road?’
His expression darkens. ‘We were not nomads. My people settled long ago in Khor’s township.’
He abandons me in the centre of the courtyard, crossing toward Captain Fayez, who takes him to a group of senior officers. I go still at seeing who is amongst them.
The Sepahbad. He’d observed the Wadiq tests? My brows furrow further when a scholar leads a gathering of pazktab students eagerly toward him. I lean forward and watch the Sepahbad speak to Arezu. What could he have to do with her?
I turn away. After stuffing my parchments into my satchel, a shadow falls across me and I look up.
‘Usur-Khan,’ his voice greets me.
My fingers tremble in anger, and it takes everything to keep my tone flat. ‘My Sepahbad.’ I muster a palm up to my chin.
His hazel eyes study me, a courtly raven perched, as ever, on his shoulder. A tight silence ensconces us. As he glances at the space between us, the bonds carved into my soul thrum like that of horsehair strings on a fretted lute. I frown, wondering what he perceives – that I am the same girl who knelt in the frost at his mercy, or now a soldier who is subsisting against all odds in his violent army?
His next words take me aback. ‘You still have it.’ He nods at the khanjar strapped around my upper arm. The very blade he accorded me.
Keep my blade as a reminder. If your oath is broken, your last duty ends with this blade and your blood running through your fingertips.
‘Of course. It was my oath.’
His mouth twists wryly, a little bitter.‘Was.’He steps past me. ‘Indeed. You did well today, but a shame about the outcome.’
22
My pazktab students seek me out in the early dawn near the Great Library. Alone, I linger beneath a pair of wide gold gates obscured by the wings of parî guarding its entrance. It’s silent, save for the occasional shriek of fiery huma birds curled upon the crumbling stone steps. The Sepahbad’s khanjar twists between my fingers as I stare at its naked marbled hilt. Last eve, Cemil earned another slash for winning the Wadiq tests; he is now Third-Slash.
‘Master.’ Arezu treads up the stairway reluctantly. ‘I did not expect you to have the mind for passing the examinations. You were in third placing.’
‘Third means nothing.’
Yahya pulls at my waist cord. ‘Victor to me,’ he says.
‘I do not wish to beyourvictor. I wish to bethevictor. And don’t touch me.’ I stand with a frown, dusting off my trousers. ‘All the more reason to train in this last week, for we have a Marka tournament to ruin.’
During the predawn before trifecta training, to the students’ delight, I introduce martial stances to complement their Qabl meditations.
We begin with horse-stance, the mother of all stances and the foundation of martial arts. I demonstrate the basics before they practise it for hours alongside orbital training, the art of circling your limbs through different planes. For the true challenge, the next day, after rummaging through the vegetation, I produce four sticks.
The children stay silent as I attach the stiff branchlets to straighten their spines and balance their shoulders.
‘Walk,’ I order. To their pain but my pleasure, they hobble, the sticks creasing into the smalls of their backs.
‘We look ridiculous,’ Arezu says after several minutes.
‘Become used to it, because the stick will be your new companion. Go now and fetch your rationed waterskins, teacups and incense sticks.’
They arrive back reluctantly with the requested items.
In the deeper horse-stance, they crouch painfully low with knees out, feet parallel and palms clasped in front of their chests. I tie the stick once more with flax rope.
‘Master.’ Sohrab shifts from toe to toe. ‘We do not train like this in the pazktab.’
‘Quiet,’ I say after I double-knot it. ‘That is the purpose of the stick. Your spine cannot collapse.’
