by Micah Yongo
“I wasn’t going to take it.”
“I know. You just surprised me, is all.”
Zahia stood by a jamb of the shack watching him. He was a strange creature to her, he could tell. Which was fine. In a way, she was just as strange to him. She had long awkward limbs that, by habit, she hugged to herself; her knees against her chest when she sat, one hand around her elbow if she stood, as though trying to keep their corners and lengths out of the way. And her mouth, always poised in a querying half-smirk, like she was amused but unsure whether she was allowed to let it show, as though hearing a joke she wasn’t sure she understood.
She stepped beneath the shelter and reached a hand to fiddle at the back of her scalp beneath her hair. It was nearly time to leave. The sharíf’s wedding would soon begin. There’d been announcements and heralds that morning and Neythan could already hear crowds of people beginning to fill the streets. He planned to go along with the rest of them, a chance to observe the sharíf’s bodyguard – especially the man who’d wounded him – before returning to Hanesda to find the brothel the blind elder had visited.
“Were you reading?” Zahia said.
“No, not really… just thinking.”
“You do a lot of that.”
Neythan looked up at her.
“I mean, you seem to. Off in your head all the time. Pa used to say I’m that way too. Too much and too often. One day I’ll go off and not know how to get back. That’s what he’d always tell me, but it was never true. You always come back.”
“Yes… I suppose you do.”
She took another step in and sat down a few feet from him in the dust by an empty grain pot, hunching her knees to herself as usual.
“Used to hide under here when I was a girl,” she said. “Pa would do his work outside the door of the kitchen and I’d always want to see, and touch. I didn’t know you had to wait till it was dried to do that.”
“Must have been annoying for him.”
“No,” her lips curled to a slight smile, tugged by memory. “No. Not really. The clay’s as easy to mend as harm when it’s wet like that. He’d just tell me not to do it, but he’d be smiling when he said so. He was only warning me because Mother told him to. It was like a game we played…” She had large ears where she folded the black lank flop of her hair to keep it out of her eyes when she worked, she did so now with her fingers as she watched him. “You never speak of your family,” she said.
Neythan glanced sidelong at her, then back toward the street in front of them. “No. I don’t suppose I do.”
“Are you an orphan?”
The question amused him somehow. “No… well… not really.”
“I’ve said something funny?”
“No… Sorry… It’s not something I’m used to being asked.”
The thing Neythan had grown to like about Zahia was the way she could remain so politely incurious. Just like Gaana, her mother, with her quiet though generous fussing, checking his wound, serving him food, talking sometimes but from a tidy inward distance, an invisible arm’s length that kept things mundane, maternal and neat. Unlike Yoani, Zahia’s younger sister, who was always laughing and teasing, shyly with him at first but now with a certain cruel smiling abandon. A price of familiarity, Neythan supposed. No wonder she and Caleb were so fond of one another – they had the same sense of humour. Then there was Petur with his questions – “Why is the sky blue?” “Why’s your elbow scarred?” Like an old man in a child’s body. “Head too big for the rest of him,” Yoani liked to say. Always wanting to know. Never shy to ask. Neythan had spent the morning with him, taking him out onto the water in the skiff for the first time, a small and dirty raft of mossy oak with gashes of chipped timber where the wood had split with wear. Hardly a boat at all really, not at all like the one Uncle Sol would use when taking Neythan as a child on their fishing trips back in Eram. He’d told the boy as much when he’d asked yet another question of where and how he’d learnt to fish.
“And I was about your age too,” Neythan had told him. “But in Eram the water is not like this. Here it is still. But Eram is by the sea.”
“What’s so different about the sea?”
“The sea… it is its own thing. Like a creature, an animal, the way it moves… it has moods, you see. Every day she is different.”
“She?”
“It’s what my uncle would call it. Because of its moods, I think.”
“Just like my sisters.”
Which made Neythan laugh. He brought the boy back in time for lunch, Petur talking the whole way and continuing to talk whilst they all ate, telling of how he’d learnt to toss and pull in a net though he couldn’t yet throw it as far as Neythan but one day would, isn’t that right, Neythan. To which Neythan had smiled and nodded and ruffled the boy’s hair the way Uncle Sol used to ruffle his. The boy was a lively soul, just like his sister, Yoani. But not Zahia, the eldest. Long and awkward, the quieter of her siblings, smart like her brother but coy like her mother. Her gaze often held questions her lips did not speak. Not today, though. Today she was different, curious, her gaze sticking to him, awaiting an answer.
“So you are not an orphan?” she said.
“I suppose you could say my family is a strange one,” Neythan said.
She nodded thoughtfully. “What does your father do?”
“My father?” Neythan thought about it, turned to shuffle the scroll away to buy time. He tugged the tether over the scrollcoat to bind it shut.
“Is he… a potter, like me? Like my pa was? Or a mason, or a smith, or a tanner? Not a goatherd, I hope. Mama says you can never trust a goatherd.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you can never trust a goat. She says the kind it takes to manage them must be as sly as they are or more so. She says a man always works with what he knows.”
Neythan smiled. “Never thought of it that way.”
“So what does he do, your father?”
“Maybe he is a goatherd.”
Zahia smirked. “No. I’d know if you were a goatherd’s son. I’d smell it on you.”
“Only if I herded with him.”
“What goatherd’s son doesn’t?”
“Maybe I ran away… Maybe I didn’t want to be a goatherd anymore.”
Zahia gave that a try in her head, then gave that wry uncertain smile of hers. “No… I don’t believe you. What did he really do?”
Neythan just looked at her, smiling he realized. He let it fade and went back to watching the street.
The strangest thing about being here was it made him think of Ilysia; of Josef and Daneel squabbling at mealtimes by the dandelions whilst Arianna sat silently and ate, the only thing she would take seriously really, her eating, hardly talked when doing it. And then there’d be Yannick with those little wooden toys and ornaments of his that he’d spend hours carving and shaping to give to Yulaan, who’d smile and fuss, arms waving happily as though he’d brought a pearl or ruby and not a wooden toy. Yet Gaana was nothing like that, for her there’d be no more than a pursed smile or thoughtful touch of thanks on the shoulder. Like when Neythan fixed the table the day before last, or when he daubed shut the gap along the upper beam of the house’s roof with pitch and some of Zahia’s clay. And that’s what was so strange, there was little here to resemble Ilysia, and yet being here he somehow couldn’t help but think of it, and miss it, which in turn was beginning to make him miss being here too, even though he was yet to leave.
“It is because you’ve no family of your own,” Caleb told him later that night on the way to the square. They let Gaana and the others walk on ahead of them. The dusk was coming in with a chill as the streets continued to fill with more people on their way to the ceremony.
“Think about it. You’ve known no kin but the Brotherhood,” Caleb said. “They steal you away from your own whilst you are a child and–”
“We are volunteered, Caleb. Redeemed out of honour or by debt. You know this.”
Caleb waved a hand. “Whatever. Thing is, you are taken from your own, so the Shedaím may make themselves your kin. But there is no kin like blood, Neythan. Whatever they may pretend. And now, your Brotherhood is… well, broken, has turned on itself, and so here you are, spending days with a real family. One that does not hunt and kill its own. One who would need you as you would them.”
“They do not need me, or I them…”
“Oh come, Neythan. I’ve watched you all this week, I’ve been here. I’ve seen the way they all look at you. Gaana is a widow. You think there could be any greater comfort for one like her than to have a son who is grown? Or what of Petur, with no father? You think Gaana doesn’t think of that when she sees you teaching him to fish, or to mend a table, or playing with him? You are as a prize to them, Neythan. You are their very need, and yet you cannot stay here with them. It is almost cruel if you think about it. May as well hold freshly baked bread before a starving beggar, let him ogle it, let him fill his nostrils with its warm comforting scent, then toss it away to the gutter.”
“You told me to work for them.”
“I’m not saying it’s your fault. Just how it is. You cannot help but be blind to it. Your sha’s as needy as they are, after all. It’s the way of the Brotherhood. It is what they do. How else to make men slaves to their bidding if not by making them needy also? A man trains his beast the same way. Your fondness of Gaana and Zahia and the others is no crime. But it’s better you know your own fictions, Neythan, the weaknesses of your sha, the better to keep from being deceived by them.”
Neythan didn’t answer. He looked away to the crowds as they roamed on ahead of them toward the square.
“You will ignore me, then?”
“There are better things to talk about,” Neythan said. His voice was calm but distant. The same cold distance Caleb saw frost Neythan’s gaze that first time he witnessed him kill, as though he was watching from some great height within himself, the way a man might watch an insect at his feet.
“Yes,” Caleb said. “I suppose there are. Like this elder of yours for one.”
They turned the corner onto the main thoroughfare. The crowds were even thicker here, almost filling the road.
“You still doubt me?” Neythan said.
“A harlot sees a blind woman in a brothel. A strange thing certainly, but hardly proof she’s witnessed an elder.”
“You didn’t hear the way the harlot described it.”
“I could well say the same of you for all the wine in your stomach when you were told the tale. And besides, why would she be there, this elder? To enjoy the view?”
“What better place to meet and not be seen?”
“A brothel? Hardly the height of discretion.”
“But it is, especially for an elder. It’d be the last place anyone would think for her to be.”
Caleb paused. “Anyone, you say… But you can only mean the Brotherhood. It would be the last place the Brotherhood would think for her to…” And then it dawned on him. He smiled. “You think the elder hides her meeting from them. The Brotherhood.”
Neythan just kept walking.
Caleb looked up at him. “Ho. You do, don’t you? Now that is quite something. You’re beginning to impress me, Neythan… An elder for a betrayer…”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But it is what you are thinking. Or as good as. An elder meeting someone secretly in a brothel. Without the Brotherhood’s knowledge. Even seeking to conceal that meeting from them. How did I not think of that? Of course, the question then is, who was she there to meet?”
“None of this is certain. We’re just speculating.”
“You’re right. We can come to that later. First things first… I admit I never thought I’d say this, Neythan, but I’m beginning to like the way you think. I mean this is really… what? What is it?”
Neythan had stopped walking. He stood stock-still in the street, staring.
“What is it?” Caleb asked again.
Neythan was looking past him. “Her… It’s her.”
Thirty-One
B R I D E
Truth be told, Sidon didn’t much like the garment. It chafed at the neck and no matter how many times Iani tried to loosen the threading it still felt too snug around his torso and pressed against his chest, squeezing his midriff. The slavegirl tugged again, yanking at the thick lacing that fastened the back of the vesture. The garment had a stiff prim feel not unlike the tunic he’d worn at his anointing a year ago; the woven goat hair, the polished leather. They were the only fabrics tough enough to hold the multicoloured array of neatly cut amethysts and emeralds stitched into the breastpiece.
“May as well be wearing armour,” Sidon said. “Although that would likely be more comfortable.”
“But not as seemly, Sharíf,” Iani said.
“Seemly be hanged. I’d rather be able to breathe. And walk without sweating, or breaking a rib.”
He grunted as she yanked again, standing behind him, and pulled the lacing fast, tying it to his cincture.
“How’s that?”
Sidon took a breath. “Better… I suppose. How does it look?”
The slavegirl walked around him, tracing her hand around his lower back to his stomach and waist to make sure of the fit. She stood square on and looked him over, then smiled. “You look like what you are, Sharíf. A king of kings.”
He allowed himself a wry smile back and turned to look for his crown, propped on a cushion in the corner by a woodstool. He was moving to collect it when a knock came at the door.
“Come,” Sidon said.
Elias, the chamberlain. He entered and stood by the jamb decked in a long, ornately patterned tunic of scarlet-dyed wool. Fine whorls of white stitching marked the baggy sleeves, curling in extravagant arcs around the forearms like the traced shapes of sea waves. A style familiar to his High Eastern homelands. His rheumy gaze slid from Iani to Sidon. “Majesty. It is time.”
Sidon nodded and followed the chamberlain out, fidgeting with the jewelled breastpiece and the silken robe draped over his shoulder as they walked along the passage. For months this night had been stalking him, the night he would meet his bride, see her face to face, learn her name and then, that same hour, be wed. Elias had said he didn’t need to worry but Sidon couldn’t help it. What would she be like? What would they talk of when they were alone? Sidon had never been with a woman before. And what if the girl didn’t like him?
Childish thoughts, Elias had said when Sidon asked. A sharíf does not trouble himself with the opinions of his lessers. Leaving Sidon to be troubled by the opinion of the chamberlain instead. For that did trouble him. Sidon had noticed a sense of admiration from the other man when he’d witnessed him reproach his mother the night before. He had no wish to see the newfound regard exchanged for disappointment, and so kept his questions to himself.
“Nearly a year ago exact you were anointed sharíf, my king,” Elias said as they moved along the corridor. The chamberlain had drawn near to him, walking shoulder to shoulder, voice lowered, confiding. “But tonight, in taking a wife to be your queen, your mother shall cease to be sharífa and you shall become ruler in truth, the one elder and head of the Sovereignty. All remnants of your father’s throne will be past. From this night your words shall be as law. What you command shall be.”
Sidon weighed the chamberlain’s words as they continued to walk. The torches on the wall were placed too far apart, carving the corridor into blocks of shade, dark to light, dark to light, the pair moving through from one to the other like a rite of passage. “My father used to say a king is a sage with a throne,” Sidon said.
“Your father was wise, Sharíf. Made more so by his willingness to bend his ear to counsel.”
“It is not a habit I will neglect, Elias.”
“Then this truly is the most joyous of days, my king, for wisdom’s voice speaks from your lips as it did his.”
It was kind of the chamberlain to say that, Sidon thou
ght. He allowed his gaze to drift to the dim lit walls and the images of Talagmagon and Markúth that were painted there, forbidden gods from a forgotten time.
Elias saw him looking at them. “Sharíf Kaldan,” he said. “He couldn’t keep from growing fond of some of these stories. There used to be similar paintings on the walls outside before your father removed them.”
One of the images depicted Markúth swimming in the Swift beside a whale, although in the image the god and the fish were the same size. “Why didn’t Father also remove these ones?”
“Your father used to say, as Kaldan did, that there was a kind of truth to some of these tales.”
“Truth? About false gods?”
“There are no men without gods, Sharíf. They are always among us, and we are always given to worshipping them, even if we now call them by other names – thrones, riches, wine, women. Your father always understood this, knew how to use it. I think, were he here now, he’d say the old faiths, for men, were merely a kind of childhood, and that it doesn’t matter whether there were once gods or not. He used to say that perhaps there were, acting as guardians, departing only when they saw men had gained the power to guide themselves. You see, to your father, the throne was the greatest symbol of this power. He used to teach that to the people like a doctrine. An ingenious thought if you think about it. Because it makes the sharíf who sits that throne more than a man. In a way, a new kind of god. Just as you shall be. Tonight.”
When they reached the end of the corridor and entered the vestibule the two Shedaím were waiting for them by the main door. The noise of the gathering city was louder here, leaking through the walls. Sidon felt his gut clench and chest constrict, as if the months of nervous anticipation had suddenly gusted in with the noise, adding weight to the tight fit of the vesture he was wearing.
“The sharífa waits in the carriage,” Abda said, stepping forward as they neared the doorway.
“Very good,” Elias said. He turned to Sidon and seemed about to say something more, to offer some counsel or affirmation, but paused.
