She glances at the pazktab students flanking us. ‘Look at the discord of your flock first. One of them will wet themselves.’
‘For spiritual calm, I ordered them to perform ablution in the way of Adam, and to slather incense and black seed oil over their limbs,’ I explain.
She grips the layers of leather gird around her hips. ‘You must do more. You must speak to them.’
‘I explained the stratagems—’
‘No. You must inspire their loyalty.’
‘You speak as if you care,’ I say curiously.
‘I have my own earnings on the line.’ She speaks in a low tone. ‘And I am thinking of Yabghu. He always gives a talking-to, until my ears bleed. But he does not quit, even when I quit him. Embody our overseer.’ She looks away with blushing cheeks.
I dwell on her words as we arrive at the Marka battlefield, where desert creatures crawl across the six territories that are cleaved onto a separate plane within the salt desert, between the immaterial and material world. Katayoun explained that the parî blow a psychospiritual Veil upon the Marka. In its dimension, the sun beams hotter and the air becomes vibrant, sizzling with otherworldly energy. Cypress and vegetation dot the pale terrain in a green shock of flora along thin gurgling streams.
The seventeen pazktab soldiers align in three uneven rows in Territory Six, adorned in the martial tradition of white and red wolfish raven masks. In the nick of time, Aina and Sharra sprint toward us and I sigh in relief.
‘Go on.’ Katayoun nudges me.
I take a deep breath. ‘Warriors,’ I face them, ‘we are the smallest squadron in a battle to capture enemy banners. The squadron to capture a majority offourbanners is the victor. The challenge is the trade-off between stealing another squadron’s banner or protecting our own. There are six squadrons. Enemy squadrons, when they discover our presence, will target us to get an easy banner. Only abide by the strategy we discussed: do not engage directly.’
‘Like pesky rodents,’ Arezu speaks out.
I shrug. ‘Rodents are thieves. They play dirty, never fair. But they survive.’
Firat, the same age as Arezu, shifts uneasily. He is short, hardly a quantifiable person, merely a bundle of thick skin and bones. ‘I cannot do this,’ he says doubtfully.
‘Well, I already paid you,’ I repeat.
Katayoun tugs at my waist cord, leaning forward. ‘I told you to inspire them,’ she hisses.
‘I am.’
‘He might piss himself,’ Sohrab mocks the student.
‘I will,’ Firat admits. I decide I do not like him.
According to Katayoun, I suppose I am to speak comforting words. Shall I compliment him? Or coddle him? Disgust surges through me. I am not Yabghu.
‘That could be a problem,’ I admit. ‘But your pathetic weakness can have worth. Hold it in until the enemy is in range, then piss on them.’
‘I will be scrub to the enemies,’ he gasps. I search myself for sympathy, even a smidgen, but discover none. For months, my training has amounted to this: my only chance to climb up the army’s ranks.
Across the blue salt desert, squadrons scurry to their respective territories, but incredulous eyes find us: Overseer Negar with Yabghu and Captain Fayez, Captain Osman of Squadron Four. It’s not until all of Squadron One spots us that the daunting task of the Marka needles me painfully. It’s obvious: our chances of success are as thin as a horsehair.
Yabghu jogs over, ripping off his martial mask. For the first time, I glimpse his true anger. ‘You were training these students beneath my nose forthis?’
‘I vowed to participate in the Marka.’
‘Listen to yourself. You are picking a battle with high-ranks with the scraps ofthe pazktab?’
‘These are the finest warriors the pazktab has to offer.’
‘Finest warriors?’Yabghu seethes, moving around me. ‘At least I should reason with these children. Why would you agree to her mad idea?’
‘She paid them,’ Sohrab offers.
Yabghu’s neck strains against his collar, veins stark against his brown neck. ‘Thisis why you borrowed from my stipend? I am not a patron to fund your madness!’
