by Mike Carey
Zuleika was equally adamant that this plan would be their downfall. A ruler under armed guard, she argued, was still a ruler, and in this case a trained assassin as well. The palace was large, and stocked to withstand a lengthy siege. Hakkim would mount a counterattack from within the safety of its walls, and defeat them even as they celebrated his overthrow.
As with the debate over how to take the city, ultimately it was one of the djinni’s gifts that provided the council with a solution to their predicament. Ironically, it was Issi who first suggested that they use the stable yard key to enter the palace.
“I know that in our first meeting, I told you all that the key couldn’t help us,” he admitted, “but I’ve been thinking about it, and perhaps I was wrong. Our problem is that the palace is hard to breach from the outside, but it would be much easier for one person to get in than a whole army. If someone could do it—and I’m not saying I know how they might—but if they could do it, and get down to the stable yard in one piece, then they could unlock the gates and let everyone else inside. And then there’d be no siege.”
His proposal was greeted with cautious optimism. “That’s all very well,” said Imtisar, “but it doesn’t answer the question of how exactly someone would get inside the palace in the first place.”
“Run the walls,” Zuleika replied promptly. She had been considering the matter while Issi spoke. “The ramparts connecting the palace to the city fortifications. They’re narrow, but it could be done. Then it would just be a matter of climbing in through one of the palace windows.”
“What about the guards?” asked Zeinab.
“Zuleika and I could provide covering fire from the nearest watchtower,” Umayma answered. “We’ll take them all out before the runner even reaches the palace.”
“Runners,” Nafisah corrected her. “We’ll need more than one if this plan is to have a chance of success.”
There were nods of approval from Gursoon and some of the other women, but Imtisar remained unconvinced.
“Simply climbing through a palace window is not as easy as you make it sound,” she said. “They’re very small and narrow—there are not many of us who would be able to fit. Unless you were planning on using children?” she finished, with heavy sarcasm.
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Zuleika shot back.
“I doubt that will be necessary.” Rem spoke so seldom during council meetings that everyone turned to stare at her. “There are several women who are slight-figured enough to pass, I think,” she continued. “I count myself amongst that number, so let me be the first to volunteer. I will run the wall.”
It took Warudu a fortnight to construct the wooden platforms, each one an ell in length and placed a cubit apart along the sand. Zuleika weighted them down with stones, and oversaw their arrangement into a curve. They were to be the practice wall, and at their end a rectangular frame was placed, the practice window. Warudu had built it to the same rough dimensions as the windows of the palace, based on what the servants could remember of their size and shape.
The selection of the volunteers was more problematic. Imtisar wanted none but the adults of the seraglio to be considered for the task, but in spite of what Rem had said, only a few of the women, and none of the men, could fit through the narrow frame. On top of this, there were several amongst the seraglio children who offered to act as runners. Soraya and Huma came forward, arguing quite reasonably that they had both come into their change some months ago, and were more than old enough now to make their own decisions. Jamal, too, loudly and indignantly asserted his right to play a part in the overthrow of the treasonous Hakkim.
Eventually it was decided that all those over thirteen years of age could train to run the wall if they wished to, and that at the end of a month’s space, those volunteers who had excelled far beyond the rest would be chosen as runners.
The next day, twenty or so volunteers gathered before the rough wooden wall to begin training. They ran the wall in small groups several times a day, with the council members watching carefully to see who among them showed the most promise.
Some had no aptitude at all for the task, and were swiftly persuaded to abandon the attempt. Others could balance well enough, but not run at the requisite speed, or vice versa. Taliyah sped along the wall so swiftly that she would have far outstripped the other runners every time, but invariably fell off the narrow ledge long before she reached the window. All these volunteers were turned away from the wall before the end of the week, until only the most agile members of the seraglio remained. Soraya and Huma were two of the better runners, as was Jamal’s friend Zufir. Fernoush and Nasreen also rapidly distinguished themselves.
Jamal, however, outshone them all. He was swift, sure-footed and fearless, and never faltered in his balance. Time and again he reached the window frame and plunged through it without even slowing down, earning approving nods from many of the women watching the training, and even the occasional round of applause. Jamal basked in his newfound success, feeling that it repaid him in some wise for the humiliation that he had suffered when he had been thrown out of the council, and there was a swagger in his step as he strode through the camp.
The only other runner who showed enough skill to be considered for selection was Rem. Zuleika found that she was perturbed by this prospect, though Rem made light of it whenever she raised the subject.
“You’re putting yourself in danger,” Zuleika said, not for the first time, as they lay together in her tent one evening, Rem’s head cradled on her arm.
“We’re about to go to war. Every one of us is in danger,” Rem replied.
Concern made Zuleika terse. “Yes, but you know you’ve chosen the riskiest role in this entire plan. You’re putting yourself directly in the line of fire.”
Rem raised her eyebrows. “I’ve got you to cover me, haven’t I?”
“It’s just as well,” Zuleika grunted. “Your combat skills are appalling. I don’t like the thought of you running around in the palace, especially armed. You’ll be more of a danger to yourself than anyone else.”
Rem laughed, and snuggled closer to Zuleika’s chest. “Train me then. Go on, I’ve been giving you private lessons for the best part of a year now. It’s about time you returned the favour!”
Zuleika smiled reluctantly, joining in with the game. “All right then, I will,” she replied. “What do you want to learn?”
“The art . . . of murder,” Rem said dramatically. She rolled away from Zuleika, sat up, and seized hold of her pack, which lay in the corner of the tent. “Let’s see . . . where are the tools of your trade?”
Zuleika made a playful grab for the pack, but Rem jerked it out of the way, dangling it just out of her reach. She pulled a small grey box from the recesses of the bag, and flicked it open.
“What are these?”
They were ten tiny white spikes, each about as long as Rem’s little finger, and wickedly sharp. Zuleika got up to look over her shoulder at them.
“They’re finger daggers,” she replied, “made of white zirconia—virtually unnoticeable in a poor light. You stick them onto your nails with a special glue, use them like claws. I was going kill Al-Bokhari with them actually, before I changed my mind. They’re a very useful weapon in situations where you can’t carry arms.”
Rem nodded in mock solemnity and snapped the box shut, carefully replacing it in Zuleika’s pack. “My first lesson,” she said sombrely, pulling Zuleika back down onto her bedroll and kissing her.
“You have far to go, my child,” Zuleika replied, yielding to Rem’s embrace.
The two women laughed, and turned to other games.
As the end of the month loomed, the volunteers who remained began to train with increasing energy and commitment. Jamal especially considered himself to be in open competition with the other runners, vying against them for a position in the arm
y which would bring him both glory and a chance to avenge his father’s death. Even Zufir, his closest companion amongst the seraglio children, found that the prince would no longer sit with him at meal times; Jamal considered him too much of a rival to associate with him, at least until the runners had been selected.
During practice runs, he began to run faster than he ever had before, urged on by the sense of admiring gazes fixed upon him. One day, in his enthusiasm, he ran too fast, and caught up to Zufir, who ran ahead of him. With a movement of impatience, he swept the other boy aside. Jamal was a strong child; Zufir toppled from the wall and crashed onto the sand below, landing awkwardly on his right arm. Jamal barely noticed that his friend had fallen. He bounded along the remaining crenelations, diving through the window at the end with more than his usual grace and rolling up onto his feet. For a moment, he fought down the ridiculous urge to bow, and a broad smile spread over his face.
His moment of triumph was short-lived, however. He looked behind him to see a cluster of concerned women gathered around Zufir, who was sniffling quietly. The boy had been more shocked than hurt by the fall. Still, he had grazed his arm on a stone, and it had left an angry red mark. Jamal glanced at him in contempt. “Stop crying, you baby,” he said mockingly, “it’s only a scratch.” Umayma, kneeling by her son, fixed Jamal with a glare that could have stripped paint. He shrank back.
After that, any hopes Jamal might have had of being selected as a runner were dashed.
“Imagine if he had done that on the city wall,” Umayma exclaimed in fury in the meeting that night. “My son would be dead by now!”
Zuleika spoke out in his defence, but there was little she could do but go and inform Jamal of the council’s decision. She found him sitting by the practice wall, his expression morose.
“They’ve done it again, haven’t they?” he said bitterly as Zuleika approached him, “Prevented me from playing my part. For one mistake!”
The disappointment was almost more than Jamal could bear. Zuleika maintained a tactful distance while his shoulders shook with sobs. Then she came and sat down beside him.
“The runners will be Soraya, Huma, Fernoush, Nasreen, Zufir and Rem,” she said. “Had the decision been mine alone, it would not have fallen out thus. I’m sorry, Jamal.”
He glared at her through tearful eyes. “I could have done this! I’ve fought before. I saved your life!”
“I have not forgotten that. No one has. And you should remember it too. Jamal, as far as I am concerned you don’t need to fight in this battle to prove your bravery. It is a recognition you have already earned.”
After sitting on beside Jamal for a few minutes longer, Zuleika rose stiffly to her feet and departed. But long after she had left, Jamal was still replaying her words in his mind.
The date set for the attack drew steadily nearer, and the day came when the fighters had all been trained, the last outsized wooden comb had been constructed, and the volunteers had practised running the wall until they could do it to Zuleika’s satisfaction. Soon, the encampment at the caves would begin to empty out, the army departing for the posts assigned to them. It would be safest, Zuleika had decided, if they left in small groups, travelling at night and avoiding the major trade routes. Once, most of the concubines would have turned pale at such a prospect. Now, they were armed against the desert and the dangers it held, both with weapons and with the knowledge of how to use them. For the first time in most of their lives, the means of their deliverance had been placed into their own hands.
Zuleika agonised over the time of her own departure, torn between staying as long as possible to oversee the evacuation of the camp, or leaving with an early party to supervise the deployment of the army. Neither option was ideal; Zuleika hated having to choose in the first place. She had found it hard enough to delegate when her forces were all in the same location, and she could check on their progress as frequently as she wished. Now that the time had come for them to split up, she was infinitely frustrated that she could not be present to see the execution of every detail.
Eventually, and with great reluctance, she decided that she would go with the first group of fighters, leaving Gursoon in charge of the camp at the caves. She spent the day before her departure with Rem, training and reading, and at sunset they lay in each other’s arms inside Zuleika’s tent. The golden light seeped through the cloth, spilling over their entwined forms.
Rem looked at Zuleika steadily, drinking in the contours of her body, the lines and curves of her face, as if she could take hold of her with her gaze and keep her there. Zuleika ran her hands over the curling script across Rem’s breasts and down her arms, pausing when she encountered her own name to give it a gentle squeeze. They clung to each other. They studied each other’s faces. Neither of them spoke. They had said all that they could think of to say over the course of the day, and that was little enough. Silence flowed between them, richer than words.
When dusk fell, they parted, and Zuleika called the last full meeting of the seraglio. She stood on the same stone platform from which she had first spoken four years ago, and watched the women, bandits and camel men gathering before her. If they were successful, then this would be the last time they all met together until after they took the city. If they failed, there would never be another meeting. Tearful farewells were exchanged with the group of fighters due to leave, who would depart the next day before dawn. When the noise of the crowd had subsided, Zuleika spoke.
“A few months ago, our future was as frail as the memory of a dream after waking,” she said, “but we whetted our swords upon it all the same.” She was a black silhouette against the lighter black of the sky, her voice ringing out as if it were the only sound in the desert. Her words sank down into the valley like the cooling air and the gathering dark.
“We go forward because the path ahead is of our own crafting, and in the labour that forged it we also have been remade. When we left Bessa, we were a seraglio of silk and fragrance and soft music. Now the time has come to return, and we are become a seraglio of steel.”
The Taking of Bessa, Part the First
Hakkim Mehdad was in the throne room when news of the approaching army was brought. “They’ll be here in less than a watch, majesty,” the watchman panted, “judging by the size of the dust cloud.” The intelligence came as no surprise to the Ascetic leader. He employed many spies, not just to monitor the activities of those who posed a threat to his rule, but to identify those of his subjects who, whether through heresy, impiety or wantonness, threatened the supremacy of his doctrine.
Rumours of this attack had been circulating among the people of Bessa for months. Though his guards had not yet managed to arrest anyone who possessed knowledge of a more reliable provenance than what their brother’s son had overheard at the market, Hakkim had learned enough to convince him that he would do well to prepare. He felt nothing so base as fear at the prospect that his city was soon to come under attack. Hakkim was armoured with the certainty of religious conviction, and besides, years of actively seeking conflict on a more personal level had inured him to any spasms of apprehension he might once have felt upon entering this larger fight. He would respond to it, as he responded to everything, without deviation or pause, following unflinchingly the way of the one Truth and cutting down whatever obstacles fate placed in the path. There was no hesitation in his voice as he replied.
“Summon Captain Ashraf,” he said.
From the watchtower to the left of the Northern Gate, Zeinab looked out over Bessa and adjusted her helmet. It had taken her three months of constant pestering and a faked letter of recommendation from the watch captain of Saruqiy to get the position, but her persistence had paid off, and she was now employed, under the nom de guerre of Zahir, as junior watchman on the left north watchtower.
She had spotted the cloud of dust a short way into the afternoon watch, pausing before she alerted the more seni
or watchman on duty, a nervous man called Masood, to pull a red headscarf from her breastplate. While Masood sounded the three long blasts on the horn which signified that an enemy was approaching, she held the scarf over the edge of the tower so that it streamed out in the breeze. As she released it, a slight figure took off running. A little after that, Masood dispatched a guard from the right watchtower to the palace, and since then, Zeinab had been watching the city, tracking the currents of activity which carried its people to and fro. The sound of the warning bugle had cut through the normal hubbub of streets and squares, bringing the rhythms of leisure and commerce to a halt. Now, many people were scurrying into houses and packing up market stalls. Around the walls, the other gates were being closed and bolted, one by one. Only the Northern Gate remained open, ready to emit the troops that Zeinab could now see being massed in the palace courtyard. Every moment, more black-garbed soldiers were flowing through the city to join them.
Behind Zeinab, Masood peered anxiously at the cloud of dust on the horizon. Not for the first time, he rounded on his shift partner and wailed, “Zahir, you’re looking the wrong way! In the name of the Increate, pay attention- there’s an army coming towards us!”
Zeinab glanced round at the sound of his voice, then turned her attention back to the city. Technically, Masood was her superior, but after more than three months of sharing the afternoon shift with the fussy, timid man, she knew how little that counted for. She really felt rather sorry for him; any watchman who failed to notice that his own shift partner was a woman in disguise would probably be better off seeking other employment. Beneath her, Bessa spread its wonders, intricate and finely wrought as a tapestry. In the rapidly emptying market, two tiny figures haggled over loaves the size of peas. A crowd of black-veiled women hurried past them like gnats. Toy soldiers guarded the palace gates. From what used to be the seraglio compound, a man in a black headscarf strode rapidly toward the main palace.
