“Clumsiest girl in all Khetara—yes, I know you.” Her father chuckled, giving the zebu a pat on the rump and closing the narrow wooden gate behind her. He fumbled with the latch, cursing, and Rae hurried forward to help him.
“I got you more salve from the market,” she said, pulling a small clay pot from her pack after securing the gate. She opened the plug to show him the white ointment that smelled of beeswax and olive oil.
“It certainly took you long enough,” he said, giving the salve a cursory glance. “It seems like every week it takes you longer.”
“The market is… ah… busy this time of day,” she lied, poking at the ointment with her finger. Her father had a way of seeing straight through her, and she couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. “Why don’t I put some of this on your arm before we get started? It will keep your skin from chafing.”
“Later,” her father said, waving away the pot. “I’ve already got it secured.”
Rae looked down at his right arm, where a curved wooden sickle had been fitted onto the stump where his right hand hadonce been. Years ago, after he’d expressed his frustration about reaping wheat one-handed, Omari’s father had fashioned the special tool for just that purpose, and her father had been using it ever since.
“I’ll say this about you, Ankhu,” the carpenter had said the first time they’d tied it to his arm, “You’re as stubborn as your zebu.”
It was true. After the end of the Great War, Father could have easily become one of those broken men, like the one she’d seen on the street. He’d lost so much in the aftermath—his lofty position as a palace scribe, his home in the city, and his right hand at the wrist. He hadn’t written a single word since—the High Khetaran soldiers had made sure of that.
As a rule, Khetarans often collected the hands of their enemies as a way to account for the number slain, but for some reason, they’d allowed Ankhu to live. Perhaps the soldier who’d done it thought it a mercy, but Rae knew that although he’d escaped with his life, a part of her father had still died that day.
Several years after that, he’d lost his wife too.
He was left with two things, and two things only: a bit of land outside the city and a motherless little girl. So instead of losing himself at the bottom of a jug of beer, her father had tied a sickle to his arm and nurtured them both.
Rae loved him for that. Of all the suns in her sky, he shined the brightest.
“Come now, Rae,” her father said. “The day grows short, and we have much to do.”
Sighing, Rae took up a length of rope and followed her father to the northern field. “I wish you would let me help with the reaping.” She slapped at a mosquito on her neck. “It would go so much faster…”
“No, it wouldn’t,” her father replied impatiently, as he didevery time they had this argument. “Someone would still need to gather and bundle the wheat, and you know I can’t. Besides, reaping is a man’s job. Let me have my pride, won’t you, woman?”
Rae rolled her eyes. She knew he was right about the gathering, but she also knew it would feel good to wield a sickle, to cut the stalks with sweeping strokes and watch them fall at her feet. Maybe, if she could do that, she wouldn’t feel the need to pick fights in the street.
Don’t you ever wonder why you’re so angry?
Omari’s words nagged at her like an itch she had to scratch.
Don’t you ever think about it, Rae?
It was a stupid question. She thought about it every day. Everyone did. Sakesh was falling to ruin, more rapidly than ever before. But what could she do? What could anyone do? She might as well have tried to stop the wind from blowing.
Omari was wasting his time. Worse, he was endangering his family. Rae glanced over at her father, already glistening with sweat as he swung his sickle across the wheat. Despite her weekly treatment with the salve, she could see that the skin around the rope harness was raw and weeping. She hated to see him struggle, but she couldn’t see that there was an alternative. Her father had nearly lost his life in the war with High Khetara. What could possibly be worth risking it again?
***
The sun was low on the horizon, a golden disk burning in a pool of bloodred light. From the middle of the northern field, Rae and her father saw a large sailboat coming up the river. Its white sail was taut with a bellyful of wind and boasted the sigil of a ram’s head painted in black and red ochre. The boat sliced swiftly through the water, nearing the edge of their land.
Rae’s father shielded his eyes to squint at the approachingcraft. “It’s the nomarch.”
Rae dropped the wheat she’d just finished bundling on top of the pile and stood panting, her arms akimbo. “But he’s not due to visit for ten days. We’re not ready!”
“I’ll handle it,” her father muttered, and began walking to meet the boat.
Rae followed close on his heels, wiping the sweat from her brow.
The nomarch and his retinue of soldiers and scribes were already disembarking when Rae and her father reached the river road. Sakesh’s representative to the crown was a short, stooped man with chin-length black hair—probably a wig—and a bulbous, florid nose. He wore a long robe made of fabric so fine and so white that it made Rae and her father’s clothes look gray. He stopped in front of them, his men assembling themselves in formation behind him.
“Ankhu,” the man said by way of greeting. He chewed a glob of mastic, his lips making a smacking sound.
“Nomarch,” Rae’s father replied, bowing his head.
