I’d thought of him as a step-father of sorts. He’d given my parents and myself a fair amount of business—sending surplus grains to ports down the coast—despite how his people saw us and our ways. I couldn’t believe he didn’t care about Avi at all. He knew Calev was close to us. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know every time he sent his son to study with Old Zayn that I would most likely be there. But our relationship with Calev wasn’t enough to put us above a harvest celebration.
A tear leaked from my eye and I dragged a quick hand over it, erasing it.
Fine.
I’d go to the amir on my own. I’d remind her of the constant service my parents and I’d provided for Jakobden’s trade and economy. It probably wouldn’t work. She’d probably serve my impertinent head to the kyros on a silver tray next time he came to visit. But I had to do something.
The massive doors into town were rough under my fists. “Entry!” I shouted up at the man in the tower.
Leering, he cranked the gate open a slice, and I slipped through. “Hurry up, scrapper,” he called down.
Calev ran up behind me, his hair tangled and his sash still missing. “Kinneret!”
When I walked on, he grabbed my sleeve.
“Wait,” he pleaded.
“I’m going to see the amir.”
“You can’t. It’s late. She won’t see anyone right now. Let alone…”
“Let alone a low-caste like me?” I laughed meanly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It is.” I turned and rubbed more salty tears from my face.
Calev let out a growl of frustration and began mumbling under his breath. “He loves to dress me up and show me off, but he never listens when it’s important.”
He was talking about his father.
I took a breath. “He does sometimes. Like when that soul-teacher died and you named his replacement.”
“Okay. Once, he listened. He probably had Isaac in mind for the position anyway. Kinneret.” He touched my sleeve. “Tomorrow, we can go to the amir together.” His words hummed like a good drum. I closed my eyes, reveling in their comfort.
“All right. Tomorrow.” It was selfish. Dangerous. But we could handle it. I wouldn’t do anything that would show my feelings for Calev. We’d just make a reasonable argument, touching on Avi’s future contribution to the amir’s town and maybe play on her pride. The oramiral took one of her people without proper cause and all that.
In tense silence, Calev walked me to the tavern’s undercroft. I gave him a quick nod before shutting the door to his concerned face. I didn’t want him to see me cry anymore. If I was ever going to be respected, I couldn’t weep like a child. Even though everything inside wanted nothing more than to crumble against Oron’s snoring form and do just that.
As I lay down to sleep, Oron rumbling at my feet, I sighed. I shouldn’t have snapped at Calev. He didn’t think I was less than him because of caste. When we were still children, he’d struggled with it, but he’d risen above the prejudice.
A memory tugged me away from my cold, dark fear for Avi.
When Calev and I were ten years old, we stole a bowl of tatlilav from the old tavern’s kitchen.
In that memory, Calev had held the container of fermented mare’s milk in both hands. “I could’ve bought this, you know.”
I’d shamed him with a look. Even then, I’d been good at that.
He stared at his sandals. “I’m only saying…”
“Stealing is more fun and you know it.”
Taking the drink from him, I gulped the almond-tasting alcohol. It warmed my throat on its way down.
“True.” Grinning, he took the bowl back. When the horse milk touched his tongue, he spat and made a face like he’d just tasted dung.
“Not your favorite, huh?” I said. His face was too funny. Like a rooster who’d had his tail plucked.
The tavern’s back door banged open, and Calev and I yelped as the hefty keeper shouted, “Ah!”
The tatlilav ended up in the dirt, the bowl overturned beside a set of broken wagon wheels.
“What is this?” the keeper demanded, his gaze on Calev.
I stood between them. “You can’t prove anything.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, scrapper. Witch.” The keeper made a circle on his forehead with his thumb, the Fire’s sign.
My cheeks burned hot as the manure-scented, summer air.
“My father is Old Farm’s chairman,” Calev said. “He…needed a drink and—”
Furious at the keeper and my own humiliation, I pushed Calev back a step. “His father will pay for the tatlilav.”
Calev scowled at me. “I was talking to the merchant.”
“So?” I crossed my arms.
“Step away, low-caste, and let the Old Farm speak,” the keeper said.
My gaze flew from the man to Calev, who didn’t look like himself at all. Haughty. Proud. Separate.
“Yes, low-caste,” Calev said, his chest moving up and down too quickly. “Don’t interrupt.”
“What?” I was going to be sick right here, on their feet, on my feet, on that delicious bowl of tatlilav we’d dropped.
Calev’s face fell. He put a hand on my arm. “I’m so sorry. It’s just you always interrupt… and I thought maybe—”
The keeper growled, but his eyes had gone soft. “Go on, the both of you. Before I change my mind and have your hands lopped off!”
I started to argue, but Calev pulled me down the dusty road.
“Mind your companions, Old Farm!” the keeper called out.
At the town gate, Calev urged me into the wall’s shadow, his eyes bright in the darker space. People passed, on their way to the market, to their homes, to business, and all their faces seemed to turn to us and wonder why someone like Calev would be talking to someone like me. I shuddered.
“Say you forgive me.” Calev was pale. His hand tightened on my arm. “Please.”
My stomach twisted.
Calev leaned his forehead against mine. His eyelashes were so, so long, and his breath was warm and soft. “I don’t care about castes and you know that. If anything, you should be high and me low. I’m the one who forgets my own mind the second we get in trouble.”
I thought of his grimace after tasting the tatlilav. “You can be pretty dumb sometimes.”
“Often,” he said.
“Daily.”
Leaning back, he held up his hands. “Deserved.”
“But only when you’re awake,” I said, eyeing him.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
“For now.”
The memory faded as I rubbed my forehead. Calev wasn’t perfect, but he was good. I closed my eyes, thankful I had him on my side.
My throat tight, I reached under the bedding on Avi’s side and retrieved one of her collected seashells.
My heart snapped like it might break into two. I clutched my shirt, breath hitching as the tears I’d fought poured down my cheeks.
The shell’s outer surface was sharp and rough, bitten by the shore rocks. But inside was unmarred, smooth and fragile.
If the oramiral destroyed my sister’s sweet soul, he was as good as dead.
I’d murder him slowly, painfully.
I was still plotting when dawn burned through the cracks in the door.
CHAPTER NINE
On our way to the amir’s manor house, Calev and I passed the Holy Fire worship house and its minarets. It was meant to mimic the look of Akhayma, the Empire’s capitol city. The spindly towers seemed to hold the sky up, making a tent of blue above us.
My sandal crashed into a mud puddle. I growled and swished my skirt, slinging brown onto the vegetable seller’s cart.
“Eh!” The seller threatened me with an onion, then with a respectful nod, offered the vegetable to Calev.
I was too tired—body and soul—to care about a veg seller’s slights. My elbow and side throbbed from the fight with the oramiral’s men. And it was nothing compared to the ch
ill of Avi’s absence.
Calev veered left, out of the way of my muddy stomping. His hands were scratched up and one was swollen and red.
“The amir, of course, honors the Holy Fire, but it’s not a true priority to her,” he said quietly. He’d been giving me information since we met at the tavern. “She only really believes in battle tales, high-caste bloodlines, and her treasury.”
“I’m going to work her pride.”
Calev grinned. “Ah. Yeah. We could even throw in some of the slanderous remarks the oramiral’s slaves made against her.”
“They didn’t—oh.” I smiled, whispering. “Yes. I must’ve forgotten. We told the oramiral’s men they shouldn’t take a Jakobden citizen without the amir’s approval, and they said The amir can approve this.” I made an obscene gesture.
Calev choked, almost laughing. “That might be taking it a shade too far.”
A high-caste man, a hooded falcon perched on his arm, blinked at us and stopped mid-stride. “Old Farm, you should demand the low-caste walk behind. Don’t shame your family.”
Face clouding, Calev started toward him like he was going to fight him—not a winning plan. Before he could make whatever wonderfully brave, albeit asinine move he wanted to make, I dropped two steps behind.
The falcon’s owner moved on and Calev heaved a sigh. “This is why you didn’t go with me to the archery contest,” he whispered over his shoulder.
“Nah. It’s your insufferable company,” I said, my humor falling flat. The breeze pulled the hem of Calev’s tunic back toward me as we started forward.
It’s not like I’d wanted to skip the contests the amir held for the harvest. Calev always nudged elders aside so I could stand beside him and actually see the competitors’ yellow and black fletched arrows hit the targets lined up along the horse track.
But we couldn’t do that anymore. It was too formal of an event for us to appear together. His father would never have approved. Not anymore. Worse, someone could report us to the amir. Someone like Berker. Then Calev and I both would be well on our way to being Outcasted. I couldn’t put Calev in that position for a contest. I wouldn’t threaten myself either.
“We’re growing up. We’re not knee-high anymore. I won’t be the reason you’re Outcasted.”
He stopped and faced me. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Calev. Think about it. You, an Outcast? It would kill you.”
I stared into his honest eyes, thinking of him sitting beside his father and Eleazar as they brainstormed ways to curb root rot. I’d been there, waiting to speak with Y’hoshua about what ports he wished me to visit. Calev had pounded on the table, pushing his points as his father argued with Eleazar bouncing between the two stances. But they’d broken into joking before it could turn into a fight.
If Calev were Outcasted, he’d never be allowed in his home ever again. At best, he’d be with the livestock, mucking stalls and sleeping in the open. At worst, he’d be on the streets along with me, begging.
“We need to fight the system,” he said, eyes blazing.
The anger in his eyes made my chest swell, but I had to tamp it down. Rebellion had to wait for another day. “Think I don’t know that? But first, we save Avi.” I waved him to walk on, so I could trail him like a pathetic little donkey.
I couldn’t wait for Ayarazi. Silver in my hands. The world at my feet.
“We will,” he said. “I promise you. When this is over, I’ll demand that my father listen.”
“We need a back way in to fight the system. Something subtle,” I said. “Someday we’ll figure it out. If you yell about it, everything will be ruined.”
Calev blinked. “Did you just suggest being subtle?”
“Told you we’re growing up.”
He smiled. “Sure.”
“Thank you for doing this.” My tears reflected in his eyes, and I looked away.
“Avigail is mine too,” he said. “My family. You know that.”
A light glowed in my chest. His family.
I remembered how quickly they’d become friends when she was small.
Once, when Calev and I were eight, I’d dragged him from Old Zayn’s weather lessons and down to the boat. Father was arguing shipping prices with a farmer’s agent who pointed at the marks on his wax tablet. Father did pretty well hiding his shock at Calev being there. The agent pulled off his straw hat, frowning at the bells on my sash. Calev took my hand and I squeezed his fingers, my pulse beating in the tip of my thumb.
A muscle in Father’s jaw twitched. “They’re young yet,” he said quietly to the agent. “Now about the grains…”
The agent put his hat on and went back to arguing.
Onboard, Avi hurried over. “Kinneret, play the shell game with me.”
“I have things to do, little girl.”
“I’m only two years younger than you!”
Calev took one bright shell. “How do you play?”
She stole the shell back.
“Come on,” Calev said. “I’m good at games. At home, I win all the time.”
That didn’t surprise me.
“Well,” Avi started, “you throw the shells. Like this.” She tossed them into the air. “Andguesshowmanylandupsidedown—four!” The little crescents and circles clattered onto the uneven decking, only two of the four showing their shiny insides. “I win!” Her eyes narrowed. “No one beats me.”
She threw the shells again.
“Six!” Calev called out.
Avi glared. “Five!”
All six shells landed belly-up and Avi’s mouth dropped open. “Kinneret is right. You are lucky.”
Calev put a hand on her shoulder. “Will you play with me every time I visit?”
Avi grinned. “Deal.”
I shook off the memory. I had to focus if this little impromptu meeting was going to accomplish anything.
The walls of the amir’s manor house loomed above us. They were made of the cloudy, white stone from Quarry Isle, the sole product the oramiral exported, the material Avi began cutting and hauling last night.
I walked faster.
Wondering if I was about to stride right into a death sentence—although it wasn’t technically a law, low-castes never pleaded their case here—I rounded the corner and followed Calev into the amir's courtyard.
Smoke from a fire crawled into the blue morning sky, and a slave tethered a dun mare to a post outside the mud-brick stables.
At least the amir didn’t force her slaves to wear the high bell over their heads. They wore a large, copper one on a metal ring around each ankle. Three more slaves carried baskets of what looked like mushrooms and olives from a storage shed. Like worker ants, they made a line, each one eyeing me—the obvious intruder in my many bells, just one measly step above their status.
Where Calev’s home was a simple but large stone structure, the amir's enormous place rose three full stories above the churned earth of her courtyard. Made of the same white rock as the outer walls, it boasted arches with orange stripes over a patio done in mosaic tiles.
Manning the arched openings, two fighters wore onion-shaped helmets that pressed one strip of metal along their noses. Long, sharp yatagans hung sheathed at their sashes beside the ten bells that marked them as middle-caste.
I glanced at Calev, wondering for the millionth time what it would feel like to be an Old Farm and free of the system of slave, worker, warrior, leader. As part of their ancient agreement with the kyros and his amirs, Old Farms were considered high-caste from birth, though they didn’t have to wear the bells. They’d worked hard to make themselves indispensable to Jakobden by working the soil in ways that were as much magic as my salt prayers.
When Calev—recognized here from his father’s dealings with the amir—received a nod from the guards, we walked into the cool receiving hall.
The absence of the sun’s soaking heat made me shiver. An ozan sang quietly of an ancient warrior’s battle at sea, his voice warbling like a b
ird’s. Men and women in silk draped the lower half of the walls like curtains. We waited at the door near the Fire in the bronze bowl. The flames flickered and sent the smell of oil into the air. Calev pricked his finger with his dagger and dropped his blood into the Fire. I passed a hand respectfully over the dancing orange and blue, feeling the heat on my skin.
Inside the main section of the receiving hall, Chairman Y’hoshua sat at the end of a long table, opposite the amir. Tapestries covered the top half of the walls. Colored threads wove together to show former amirs’ conquests of borderlands, fleets of boats fighting the Great Expanse’s waves to search for foggy, lost lands like Ayarazi, and bloody battles with western Invaders.
“You agree to our terms, Amir Mamluk?” Chairman Y’hoshua said.
Calev sucked a breath, frozen in the act of sheathing his dagger. “I didn’t know he was here.”
“Obviously.” This wasn’t good. Y’hoshua would stop our supplication before it could even get started.
The amir cut an imposing figure, dressed in red leather the color of blood. I loved the color red, never bought or stole clothing in a color too far from it, but this was a darker shade. Deeper. I swallowed.
She regarded Y’hoshua’s beard with cool eyes. “I agree to all except the price of your barley.”
“What should I do?” Calev whispered.
“It is a fine crop,” Y’hoshua said, “and will make a great deal of silver in trade for us and for you.”
“I will not pay like a trader.” The amir’s braid pulled at her light blue eyes. She cocked her head. The single, pure silver bell at her forehead—tied to a thin strip of leather similar to Old Farm men’s headties—reflected the arched windows’ morning light.
“Maybe you should get in there,” I hissed back, ignoring a house slave’s shushing noise.
The amir was too light-eyed and fair-skinned to be of the kyros’s race and born high-caste, so at one point in her family’s history, one of her ancestors had served as a slave. Now, she ruled this area, with only the kyros outranking her and far enough away to be more dream than reality. She was pretty much my hero. Not because of blood, but because of her power.
“You hold those lands because of my generosity, and the generosity of the kyros’s ancestors,” the amir said. “Do not forget, Chairman Y’hoshua ben Aharon.”
Waters of Salt and Sin: Uncommon World Book One Page 7
