Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  “The scribe!” she exclaimed as she hurried to him. She fell by his head to cradle his head in her lap. “Do not go! Not yet!”

  “Sister, he is gone.”

  “But if there is just a little life left in him...”

  “There is not.”

  Ashallah turned from Darya at the sound of others moving in on them. Behind her, Caleb and the others neared, their gazes fixed squarely on Yaromir.

  “You are certain?” Caleb asked of Rahim and Darya. “He has passed.”

  “He has,” Rahim replied.

  “You could not have saved the scribe even if there was breath still in him,” Ashallah assured.

  “His life is secondary in my concerns,” Caleb stated. He knelt before Darya. “Did you read any of his thoughts? Could you dreamscape?”

  Darya, tears streaming from her eyes, shook her head.

  “Very well,” Caleb said. He faced Ashallah. “How much of what he taught do you remember?”

  It suddenly occurred to Ashallah the reason for his inquiries. “You want to know if I can read the ancient script. If I can speak the languages of the seventy-seven?”

  “Can you?”

  “I was hoping for more practice.” She looked down upon Darya. “You showed me his thoughts. His experiences. Can you show me again? Or do all those go away with death?”

  “That which I presented to you does not disappear at once with death,” Darya responded. “But it does fade. Never to be reclaimed. Along with the ancient languages... They are so hard, so complex in their nature. We do not have room for error in their recitation. For the jinn will know the words misspoken, those said falsely. You saw what that does. Remember? In the Canyonlands? With the Tirkhan warriors?”

  “Yes,” Ashallah recalled as she closed her eyes. “I remember.”

  “Then you know why we are concerned?”

  “But you are Turquoise. What’s more, you are Firstborne. How much knowledge do you have of the language of your forefathers?”

  At that, Caleb stared down, in shame.

  “The language that commands our fathers is but a mystery to us. We hear it as any man or woman does when listening to a foreign tongue. You could speak it now and mispronounce or speak poorly, and we would be none the wiser. Only the jinn would understand. And judge you for it.”

  Ashallah knelt beside Darya, who still held Yaromir’s head in her lap.

  “Is there anything more you can teach me? Either from your experience or his?” she asked of Darya.

  “Very little. Whatever dreamscapes you and I share going forward... They will repeat the lessons already imparted on you. There will be no new information. Only repetition.”

  “Then that will have to do.”

  Ashallah stood. The Firstborne, all of whom now concealed both their stature and skin, had gathered around, along with the remaining Tirkhan.

  “Darya,” Rahim urged. “We must go. The line into the city moves. We must enter with the rest before the gate closes at nightfall.”

  “No, no,” Darya insisted. “We can’t leave him.”

  “We won’t,” Ashallah assured her. “He is coming with us.”

  “I must object,” responded Caleb. “We cannot afford the distraction.”

  “The distraction is what we need. So many hidden faces, covered for no apparent reason, may attract unwanted attention.”

  Rahim, knowing of Ashallah’s intention, nodded in approval. “I’ll find the Kafan Sisters.”

  Chapter 19

  “That was quick,” Ashallah said to herself.

  The doors of the East Gate laid open, allowing Ashallah to catch a glimpse of the funeral pyres outside. There, only the night before, half a hundred fires had raged. Flickering light cast itself on hundreds of onlookers, the crackling of wood complementing the chants of imams as the flames consumed the dead. Ashallah, Darya and the others of their odyssey had gathered to pay their respects, staying until the roaring fires had subsided to embers. With mostly smoke before them, their group had left last, the doors of the East Gate closing behind.

  In the wake of the fires, Ashallah expected to find bone and ash. Though when she looked through the open doors the next morning, she found no hint of the previous night’s funerals. Fresh palm wood and straw marked new pyres, as did a new procession of Kafan Sisters, no doubt preparing for the next wave of the lifeless.

  Such is the way of a decoy, Ashallah thought.

  Yaromir’s body had proved useful. Rahim had little difficulty convincing the Kafan Sisters for assistance. After all, oaths bound the Women of Eternal Mourning to serve the dead, regardless of the corpse’s allegiance or background. Yaromir’s wounds, from his bloodied face to his torn limbs, had furthered their cause, for they reflected consistency with other unfortunate souls who had perished during the storm. His gashes and lacerations continued to seep blood and fluid even after the Sisters wrapped him in Kafan sheets, resulting in blotches that spoke of the dead man’s demise. Another distraction, Ashallah considered. One that sold any sentry or guard who glanced their way on the plight of the dead and those who mourned him.

  A wave of white passed by Ashallah’s line of sight. Aliya. Ashallah watched as the clad women hurried toward a nondescript building with little more than a bleached kerchief hanging from the window. Six in all, they marched through the street, with many pedestrians giving way in respect, knowing that someday they would be in need of their services. It was not until two janissaries approached from the opposite direction that the Aliya changed their gait.

  The six in white slowed. They separated, with three stepping to one side of the street as the other three moved to the other. The janissaries, conversing with one another, scarcely noticed the six women in white. The Aliya, in turn, gave the two soldiers little reason to pay attention to them. That is, until one of the Aliya glanced at the shorter sister in white next to her.

  Damn, Ashallah thought. Damn, she nearly whispered, wanting to breathe the words into her veil.

  The janissaries halted. The one closest to the Aliya who glanced studied the woman for a moment, before turning his sights to the shorter one. Neither Aliya dared to look back.

  The janissary came up to the shorter one. Even from her vantage point, Ashallah could tell the smaller Aliya was the most beautiful of the six. The alabaster skin around her eyes was devoid of even one wrinkle or line. The hair of her eyebrows and lashes were a soft brown, complementing the tone of her eyes. Stark white clothing – from the hijab on her head and across her face to the abaya that hung from her shoulders to the base of her ankles – covered the rest, but could not conceal her curves.

  “What do you think?” asked the janissary closest to her.

  The other soldier looked the woman up and down, then nodded.

  The janissary wrapped his fingers around the Aliya’s arm. He turned to the other two.

  “We’ll give her back once we’re done,” he stated with a grimace.

  The other Aliya stood by silently, looking down at the ground. The one in the janissary’s clutches pulled back instinctively. The janissary, in turn, slapped her. She gasped. The other soldier grabbed her other arm to guide her through the street. With his grip, the Aliya relented, offering no further resistance.

  Ashallah watched as they came her way. She turned her back to them and closed her eyes, not wanting them to see her fury. She cracked her knuckles, wishing she still had her khukuri blades.

  The janissaries passed. Ashallah heard the shuffling feet of the Aliya between them. She clenched her hands.

  I can do this, she told herself. I am midnight.

  The normal bustling of the streets resumed. Ashallah opened her eyes. She fought the urge to look in the direction that the janissaries were heading with their spoils or towards the building where the Aliya last stood.

  The tavern, she told herself. The tavern.

  She headed down the alleyway across from her, to a street bustling with merchants and patrons. Dwarfing the bazaar
of Yasem tenfold, Ashallah knew this scene was far from being the main market of the city but stood as one of many that dotted Rilah. Specific to this venue were the spice traders of Greater Dyli, who chose the area for its proximity to the bakeries of the city. Herbs and seasonings of every kind, for every appetite and culinary palette, rested in great heaps along the road. Green sea salt from the Emerald Bay of Atil and blue sugar from the Southern Owaji Isles shone like polished stones. Silver saffron and violet peppercorn attracted stares as well, along with black mustard seeds, burnt vanilla pods, and blood orange chilies. The scents of all wafted into the air with each breeze, further drawing the crowds to the vendors.

  Had it been the hour of midnight, Ashallah would have considered indulging in such smells and sights. But the day was still bright; the light continued to shine. All remained the domain of men.

  Then she spotted it. A small alcove tucked away from the street in another alley. The sign hung motionless while two patrons beneath scuffled, their drunken brawl spilling into the street.

  Ashallah turned her lip in disgust as she reached into her loose sleeve to pull a hermit’s mask from her dishdasha.

  Let’s get this over with, she told herself.

  ***

  The midday heat was at its worst by the time Ashallah emerged on the rooftop. Fortunately, the fortunes of Rilah had left the city well prepared that afternoon - as it had in countless others – by providing shade to its residents in the form of marquees. Wide expanses of dyed wool stretched over roofs. Like kerchiefs, they flapped and waved with the slightest of breezes. Violet and indigo shades rose and fell, as did those of pomegranate red, golden yellow, and pearwood green. Large poles of imported ash, cedar and jasper dotted the roofs of the more prestigious, while lesser poles of palm or driftwood served the purposes of the working class.

  Ashallah stared on at the many marquees, which by comparison made those of Yasem look paltry. How can we defeat this city? she asked herself. This leader that supports it? The Grand Sultan? Doubt edged into her mind until she spotted her partners in war seated at the far end of the roof, and with them, Darya.

  To hell with my hesitation, Ashallah told herself as she took a seat amongst her comrades.

  “What did you discover?” asked Caleb, still bearing the mask of a hermit along with most of the others.

  “Only a little, I’m afraid. Those that drank had few details to speak of that did not concern a woman’s valley or mountains. Those that didn’t – and there were few of them – had the sense to sit amongst themselves and speak in whispers.”

  “So you learned nothing?”

  “No. I found out that workers are in short supply. Many men have been conscripted to the coast, to build and work the Grand Sultan’s fleet. Those here in Rilah command good pay, the kind that attracts the pilgrims we saw lined outside the city. And the Grand Sultan currently has a need for them all. Even the less desired... such as the hermits... are able to find work.”

  “That is good, is it not?” asked Darya.

  “It is,” Caleb affirmed. “But our task still proves difficult.”

  “Not too difficult, my friend,” Rahim replied behind his mask. He removed it, to reveal the smile that had curled on his lips.

  “What makes you so sure?” Ashallah inquired.

  “Because the drunks I visited were more helpful than the ones you did.” Rahim rose. “The Sultan is a cautious man, but a proud one. He would not dare travel across the ocean to conquer the coastal empires without the seventy-seven jinn. Or their tombs.

  “One of the workers I bought a drink told of how he secured a job as a porter. A menial job and one not deserving mention, except that he kept bragging about seeing the underground lair of the Sultan. He and his cousins, along with a small army of men, had been tasked with carrying a bunch of long, heavy coffins to the palace’s workshop to be fitted on special wagons.”

  “But why trust men?” Ashallah interrupted. “Why not have the jinn move their own tombs? Or the turquoise?”

  “Because the turquoise and jinn are forbidden from touching the sacred sarcophagi. Only those of true human form, whether man or woman, can touch the tombs. Can read aloud the words etched in the sarcophagi. Can command those of blue skin.”

  “This drunk of yours,” Caleb began. “Did he say if his crew is in need of more porters?”

  A smile widened on Rahim’s face once again. “Always. For the load of the tombs is heavy and a burden not even the strongest can endure for long. He said that just yesterday, three of his relatives endured injuries while lifting. They are so desperate for men down there that they are even willing to accept less-desired help.”

  “Such as women?” Ashallah inquired.

  “Such as hermits.”

  ***

  One, two, three, four...

  Ashallah lowered her other arm to the roof. Her arms shook under her weight. She felt as strong as ever. However, for some reason, her balance remained off.

  “Focus, bitch,” she said, chastising herself under her breath. “Focus.”

  She straightened her body into a plank. She shifted her weight to her left side this time, raising her right arm in the process.

  One, two, three...

  Her feet fell to the ground. Ashallah whipped around onto her rear, swinging a fist into the air.

  “Damn it to the Five Doors!”

  Ashallah scanned her surroundings to make sure her outburst had not garnered attention from other rooftops. She reached for her veil, to ensure it still hung, in case anyone chose to look at her. She found no eyes staring back at her, no gazes, no one watching.

  At least I had some time to myself, Ashallah thought as she stood.

  She crossed a walkway and skipped over two adjoining roofs to join her comrades once more. Many of the Firstborne, with masks and all their disguises, reclined on pillows as they fanned themselves. The remaining Tirkhan on the roof laid back, snoring. A fine sight. Only Darya remained upright, her legs dangling off the edge of the roof as she nibbled on a blood orange, her veil concealing her chewing.

  “That is a rare treat,” Ashallah declared as she plopped beside her.

  Darya extended the fruit but recoiled once Ashallah shook her head. “My brother gave it to me. Said he picked it up from one of the stalls.”

  “Did he pay for it?”

  “Not likely. I rejected it outright, but he insisted. He said he didn’t know if our plan would work, so he wanted me to indulge, to lift my spirits.”

  “You have the gift of dreamscape. Certainly, amongst us, there is no one more confident about the future than you.”

  “Dreamscape is but an illusion. Like strategy. Like plans. They lead you on the right path to the future. I’ve had the advantage of being right so far regarding events to come. But like everything, the future can change.”

  “That is a bold statement. Does your brother share the conviction of your words?”

  “He isn’t much of a talker. A little more brutish, if you were to ask me. More of a man of action. He walks the streets now, to track down the porter he met earlier and coax him – or bribe him – for a chance to work in the tombs.”

  Ashallah stared down the side of the building, pretending to admire the shutters and window planters below. “I don’t know if I can do it. If I can recite my lessons with certainty. If I’ll be able to read the script of the jinn.”

  “I know.”

  “And yet we’ll go through with this?”

  “We will.”

  “Aren’t you...”

  “I am nothing if not afraid.” Darya threw the fruit and its peel from her hands. “When was the last time you went into battle knowing you weren’t the strongest? The fastest? The best?”

  “I, I’m not sure.”

  “I am. In my dreamscapes with you, I shared my thoughts, but I also experienced yours. I’ve felt your emotions, your feelings, on the eve of battle. In the moments before your blade met another’s. During the heat of war. I
n all of it, you were not afraid. Except for once. Your first. Do you remember?”

  Ashallah did. It happened only a month after she had completed her basic training, in the bogs of Saltlands. Some fifteen years earlier, her unit had been sent to suppress an uprising of Nasian tribes who had declared autonomy and stopped paying tribute to Dylian tax collectors. The Nasian collective responsible for inflicting the greatest damage on Dylian soldiers and property was an army of female soldiers, brutal in their tactics. They regularly burned villages in front of their kneeling captives before executing them, all while taking the name of Jaha in vain. So incensed was the Grand Sultan at their insolence that he sent every unit of midnight warriors to the south, including green recruits such as Ashallah.

  Her contingent was one of the first to arrive on the edge of the Saltlands, where a group of Nasian women warriors had already amassed. With little time to strategize, the directive Ashallah and the others received was simple: advance on the enemy in bull-and-horns formation.

  As a newly minted warrior, Ashallah marched within the head of their advance. Those more proven in terms of agility and battlefield experience fanned out from the center. In unison, they moved forward. The enemy beckoned them with taunts and insults. They waved the scalps and heads of their enemies to instill fear.

  They succeeded.

  Those in front of Ashallah and to her side paused, only to be struck by those behind. A warrior trailing her vomited, the contents of her stomach soiling her greaves and sandals. One even shat herself. Ashallah, remembering her training, remained composed on the outside. All the while though, her nerves gnawed at her confidence, filling the void they created with fear and doubt.

  Then Ashallah found herself splattered with blood. Her khukuri blades hung in her hands, dull from overuse. Corpses of her enemies laid at her feet, some hacked beyond any hope of recognition. As did the bodies of her sisters-in-arms. It was over. The battle. Her fear. Her doubt. Any innocence she had left. Gone.

  Ashallah’s reflection faded as her mind returned to the present. She stared into Darya’s hazel eyes. “I remember.”