Rhidan gave a low growl and tried to shove his way through.
“Rhidan, stop!” She grabbed his arm. “The guards are coming. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“No, I can’t. You heard what Sinbad said.” Rhidan’s voice rose with each word. “On the Black Isle there are people who look like me … just like me.”
“I know, I know,” Zardi soothed, even as fear pinched at her skin. In the distance, she could see the steady advance of the sultan’s guards marching along the riverbank. Curved sabers hung from their waists, and Zardi knew that they needed little reason to use them. Crimson tattoos of staring eyes covered their faces, necks, and arms. The ink left their expressions stiff, a red mask of judgment that told every man, woman, and child that the sultan’s guards were always watching. They moved in perfect unison, standing shoulder to shoulder like bricks in a wall. The wall! That was it. That was how they could get to Sinbad! She dragged on Rhidan’s arm. “We need to get to the sultan’s arch.”
He looked at her in confusion.
“Don’t you see?” she said. “All ships have to pass under the arch to leave Taraket. If we get on it, we’ll be able to see the Falcon go through.” She paused, not quite believing she was about to say her next words. “And when it does, we’ll jump down onto the deck. We’ll be able to ask Sinbad everything he knows about the Black Isle!”
“You’re a genius.” Rhidan’s violet eyes blazed. “Let’s go!”
Pushing along with everyone else, they eventually broke free of the frantic throng and sprinted along the riverbank, but the way ahead was heaving with yet more people. Beggars pulled at sleeves and held out hands for a coin, while skinny urchins in rags watched the crowd with calculating eyes. Traders from all over Arribitha had traveled along the Tigress River to Taraket, eager to sell their wares, and Zardi and Rhidan found themselves dodging street sellers proffering mirrored glass from Azra, sidestepping women trading animal skins from the northern Ice Plains, and finally barging past men selling musk, fireworks, and porcelain from the distant kingdom of Mandar.
Over her shoulder, Zardi could see Sinbad’s ship. The Falcon was striking a course down the middle of the Tigress, doing its best to avoid the other boats. For a moment her breath was stolen as she looked at the majestic vessel. Its sails were jade, ruby, and amber, and the hull was made of a rich ebony wood that proudly reflected the eddies and swirls of the river. Zardi blinked hard. She didn’t have time to be mooning over the ship. She and Rhidan had to get on top of the sultan’s arch before the Falcon passed through it.
They charged on, the soft ground of the riverbank squelching beneath their sandals, and finally arrived at the arch. It reared up in front of them—a huge stone structure stretching over the Tigress. Its curving surface was made of massive, spaced columns that jutted upward. The arch had never been stepped on; it was a whim of the sultan’s, a symbol to show that all were beneath his greatness. Under their breaths, some dared to call the arch the widow reaper because of the countless men who had died during its construction, some slain by the guards for not working fast enough, others crushed beneath falling rocks.
Rhidan’s and Zardi’s fingers instantly began to search for handholds to climb to the top of the first pillar, but they found none. Zardi hunkered down and formed a cradle with her fingers. “Hop up,” she said.
Rhidan didn’t hesitate and placed a foot in her hand. As Zardi vaulted him up onto the widow reaper’s lowest column, she marveled at the transformation of her usually cautious friend. He normally had his nose in a book of riddles or mathematics and certainly never climbed walls. He hadn’t even questioned what would happen to them if they were seen on the arch or how they were going to get off the ship once they got the answers he needed, not that she’d quite worked that out either. He seemed so different that, for a heartbeat, she wondered if he might leave her behind. But without pausing, Rhidan offered his hand and pulled her up beside him.
With a glance Zardi saw that Sinbad’s ship was coming swiftly to the widow reaper, its multicolored sails swelling with the wind. She surveyed the columns ahead, each one sitting a bit higher than the last, huge rocky steps rising upward.
All we need to do is reach the middle. She looked down at the river and the spiky clusters of rocks that stabbed out of the water within the shadow of the arch. And not fall off…
Zardi took a deep breath and leaped for the second column. She landed safely, and after a moment Rhidan appeared beside her. Without pausing, she jumped for the next column of stone and then the one after that. The river wind buffeted them fiercely, doing its best to bully them off the edge of the arch, but they gave it no quarter.
They climbed higher, their pace slowing as the columns began to get narrower. Zardi took the lead but found that she had to be even surer of her leaps, her footwork more controlled. Mid-jump, a strong gust tore the silk scarf from her head and pulled some of her hair from its long braid. The strands blinded Zardi for a moment, forcing her to use instinct rather than sight to land safely.
She watched her silk scarf dance away on the breeze. On the same wind, from the tallest watchtower of Taraket, she could hear the sultan’s praisemaker reciting the rules of Arribitha in a high, pure voice:
Subjects will think not, know not magic.
Subjects will report any that seek to undermine the sultan’s will.
Subjects will not walk the streets after dusk.
Sultan Shahryār shall be respected at all times—for even with his eyes closed he can see.
All will praise him. Praise him all.
There was a sharp blow of a horn and then came the daily call of names of those who had disobeyed the sultan’s rules. Names of those who’d been executed that morning.
“Maysa Amari… Aida Kalil… Jamal Temiz… Salam Nas—” The praisemaker’s voice faltered on the last name, as if the horror of all these deaths flowing and tumbling over each other had stolen her ability to speak.
Zardi turned to stare at the watchtower. She could see the silhouette of the praisemaker standing on the ledge of the window, the shadow of a guard looming behind her. The wind that came off the river made the girl’s dress flap around her like an angry bird, and her shoulders were hunched as if she was trying to fold into herself.
A blade of anger slipped beneath Zardi’s ribs, making her gasp. She hated that the praisemaker had no choice but to be in that tower. She hated that the names of the executed had already faded on the air, never to be spoken again. She would honor them by her actions. The sultan could not be defeated, but with every step she took on the widow reaper she was rebelling against his orders. Feeling braver, she tucked her hair back into its braid and leaped faster toward the middle of the arch. As the Falcon began to pass under the widow reaper she found herself standing directly above the ship. They’d made it! The thought of jumping aboard a real ship made Zardi’s heart pound like a stonemason’s mallet.
Over her shoulder, she saw that Rhidan was still a few columns behind. “Hurry!” she called. “The Falcon’s coming through!”
Zardi felt a surge of pride as she watched her friend grit his teeth and leap for the next stone pillar. He landed awkwardly—arms spinning like windmills. Springing forward onto the column closest to her friend, Zardi reached out and steadied him.
“Thanks.” Rhidan’s hands were shaking.
They both looked out at the water. His stumble had cost them dearly. The Falcon was now on the other side of the arch and in full flight.
“He’s gone.” Rhidan’s voice was flat, but Zardi felt the ache of his disappointment.
He did not move a muscle as he watched the Falcon sail away with the answers he’d been seeking his whole life.
3
The Impatient Seed
Zardi pushed open the door of the kitchen, her toes curling in pleasure as she breathed in the scent of baking bread.
“Smells good in here,” Zardi said, spotting her grandmother over by the hearth.
“
I’m glad you approve,” Nonna replied, turning away from the two cauldrons that sat over the fire. Wispy gray tendrils stuck to her forehead and her cheeks were flushed. “I’m just about to start the soup. Did you get the sesame seeds for the tahini?”
“I got everything but the pomegranates.” Zardi tumbled the contents of her sack onto the kitchen table.
“No matter, my dear,” her grandmother said. “Maybe your sister will be able to get them. Where’s Rhidan?”
Good question, Zardi thought to herself. “He had some things he needed to do,” she said. “He’ll be along later.”
Rhidan had been strangely calm once they had gotten off the sultan’s arch. They had been lucky that no one had seen them from one of the many watchtowers of the city, and they were quick to leave the widow reaper far behind. Rhidan had told her to finish running the errands for Nonna and promised he would catch up with her at home. When she’d asked what he was planning to do, he’d replied that he was going to find Sinbad.
“Someone’s bound to know where he’s heading next,” he had gone on to explain. “Sinbad’s not exactly the shy and retiring type. All I need to do is a bit of investigating.”
“Well, he had better not be late,” Nonna muttered, interrupting Zardi’s thoughts. “I’m making chorba soup tonight, and I don’t want its flavor to dull from overcooking.”
“You know that’s Rhidan’s favorite,” Zardi replied. “His nose will lead him home.”
Nonna chuckled, walked over to the table, and started to sort through the ingredients. Zardi watched her grandmother fondly. She was a round woman with a face well worn from smiling and laughing. In other wealthy families, it was unheard of to have a member of the family doing the cooking, but her grandmother didn’t give two hoots about status or what other people thought.
Zardi grinned to herself, remembering all the cooks her father had tried to employ in the past. Somehow, Nonna always managed to drive them away. Putting dead mice in their stews or adding too much salt to dishes while they weren’t looking were her favorite methods, but she had a whole range of pranks in her armory. Unsurprisingly, Nonna’s views on nannies were very similar to her opinions on cooks, and her methods of expulsion equally ingenious.
The door swung open, and Zardi turned to see Zubeyda skip into the kitchen. Her sister’s name meant “little butter ball” and she was exactly that—soft and round with skin as smooth as buttermilk. Zubeyda’s heart-shaped face was glowing, and she brought the smell of lavender and excitement.
“Nonna, isn’t it a glorious day?” Zubeyda greeted her grandmother with three kisses on alternate cheeks. She turned to face Zardi with a grin. “Hello, birthday girl. Thirteen years old today—you’re practically ancient.”
Nonna laughed at this and bustled over to the hearth at the far end of the kitchen to begin adding ingredients to the soup.
“You’re four years older than me, Zub,” Zardi pointed out to her sister.
“But never too old to enjoy sherbet. I’m going to make some. Watermelon and mint flavor suit you?”
Zardi’s mouth watered. She loved the fruity iciness of sherbet. “That sounds perfect.”
“Wonderful. Maybe O—” Zubeyda stopped, her long lashes becoming a fan on her suddenly blushing cheeks.
“Zub, why have you gone pink?” Zardi asked suspiciously. “What’s going on?”
Her sister smiled shyly. “Well, I’ve got some good news,” she whispered, glancing over at Nonna. “But I want to save it for later so we can celebrate properly.”
Zardi looked at Zubeyda closely. Her sister’s green eyes, with their flecks of gold, sparkled like dew on riverbank reeds. “It’s something to do with Omar, right?” she asked.
Zubeyda’s mouth opened in surprise. “How’d you know?”
Zardi snorted. “He’s the only one who can make you look this sappy.”
Zubeyda put a hand to her chest, right over her heart, and sighed dramatically. “He’s going to ask Baba for my hand in marriage. Omar is going to be my husband!”
“Oh, Zub, he finally asked.” Zardi hugged her sister, the sweet scent of lavender water surrounding her. “I knew he would.”
“You know how shy Omar can be,” Zubeyda said. “He just needed a bit of time to work up to it. He’s only lived next door to us our whole lives!” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you all the details, I promise, but don’t tell Nonna yet. I want it to be a surprise.” She picked up Zardi’s empty sack from the table. “Nonna, I’m off to get the ingredients for the sherbet,” Zubeyda said loudly. “Do you need anything else from the market?”
“Your sister couldn’t find any pomegranates—get me two if you can,” Nonna called back.
“Will do.” Zubeyda turned to leave the kitchen, but Zardi caught her hand.
“Be careful, the sultan’s guards are out today,” she said. “Stay out of their way.”
“Those tattooed bullies don’t frighten me.” Zubeyda raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Besides, our father would have something to say if they bothered me, and they wouldn’t want to annoy him now, would they?”
Distaste made Zardi’s lip curl as she thought of Shahryār and how her father was his most trusted advisor. “Just be careful, Zub. Those guards are as mean and as mad as the sultan.”
Zubeyda tapped Zardi on the nose. “I’m the older sister, and I’ll do the worrying, all right?” And with a swift triple-kiss farewell, she was gone.
Zardi gazed round the room at the steaming cooking pots and the delicate pastries that were all ready to go into the clay oven. She let out a sigh. It felt like everyone else in the world liked cooking except her. It was Zubeyda or Rhidan who normally helped Nonna out with the meals.
Rhidan, Zardi thought with a jolt, and with half a mind to head to the docks to find him, she began to creep out of the room.
“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?” Nonna asked, not looking away from the soup she was stirring. “I need you to chop up a few onions.”
“I hate chopping onions!” Zardi exclaimed. “They make me cry.”
“Scheherazade, you have plenty of tears to spare. Now get dicing.”
Still grumbling under her breath, Zardi peeled the skin from the onions. Her grandmother was the only person to ever call her by her full name. Baba never did. But why would he? It was the name of his dead wife. His beautiful Scheherazade, who had died to give Zardi life thirteen years ago today…
When she thought about it, Baba didn’t say much at all, really. According to Nonna he used to be full of words and fire, determined to change the regime and depose the sultan. But then his wife had died, and something had died inside him too. He was now one of the sultan’s key advisors and spent every day trying to discourage Sultan Shahryār from his never-ending impulse to destroy and devastate. It kept him busy. Too busy to be a father…
She felt the sting of tears. Stupid onions, she thought as she began to slice through their crunchy whiteness.
Zardi blinked away the wetness and concentrated on the task, her fingers becoming deft and quick.
“Good knife control,” Nonna commented, walking toward her.
Zardi liked the praise but felt the sting of guilt at the same time. She was pretty good at anything that involved hand-eye coordination; it had nothing to do with burgeoning culinary skills. “Can I go now?” she asked as she finished chopping her third onion.
Her grandmother sighed. “I’ve never met a girl who hates the kitchen as much as you.” She picked up a handful of sesame seeds from the table and let them run through her fingers. “Did you know that sesame pods burst open when they’re ripe, almost as if they can’t wait to be eaten? You’re just as impatient, Zardi, but you must learn caution. We all must.”
Nonna stared into the distance. She did this sometimes when she was deep in thought. Rhidan called it going to Nonnaland. Zardi swiftly put her knife down—a chance to escape! She hurried toward the kitchen door.
“Always outside pra
cticing with that bow and arrow or getting me to tell you about magic, ogres, and djinnis,” Zardi heard her grandmother murmur to herself.
“My impatient girl, I failed you.”
Zardi stopped and turned. “What do you mean, ‘failed me’?”
Nonna blinked hard before looking at her directly. “It’s your thirteenth birthday today, Scheherazade. You’re on the brink of adulthood, but I have failed to prepare you for it.” Her eyes were serious. “Not very long from now, your father will have to start thinking about a husband for you and—”
“Nonna, stop right there! I don’t want to talk about this.” Panic crested in Zardi’s chest, threatening to swamp her. Her sister might be ready to get married, but she certainly wasn’t.
“My darling girl, I am old but not deaf.” Nonna spoke softly. “Omar will ask for Zubeyda’s hand in marriage, and it is well past time. Your sister will be safe now, but what of you?” Nonna’s face creased with worry. “You understand why you need to get wed sooner rather than later, don’t you? It is the only way you will be kept safe from the sultan. Safe from the Hunt.”
Nonna’s words pummeled Zardi like waves, but she couldn’t swim away from them. The truth was simple. The sultan of Arribitha was a killer. Every season, Shahryār took a young woman, still unwed, and turned her into a praisemaker. He held his praisemaker prisoner in the tallest watchtower of the city and forced her to sing his praises in public each morning. Then, after the season was finished, he released the girl into the grounds of his vast palace before hunting her down like an animal. It was his favorite sport. A praisemaker for each season—four praisemakers a year—four Hunts a year. It had been like this ever since Shahryār came to the throne after murdering the last sultan, his wife, and their newborn child, Aladdin, fifteen years ago.
Silence lay heavily between Zardi and her grandmother.
The Book of Wonders Page 2
