by Zamil Akhtar
I could understand if some clumsy girl fell, hit her head, and put a bloody print on the wall. But how badly did you have to hurt your head to draw a picture with your own blood?
Strange and alarming, but what wasn’t these days? I’d enough on my plate, anyway. People hit their heads and died all the time, so best to shrug it off and get on with things.
I needed a break, so went into the city with an escort of two gholam. Less than usual, but I didn’t want a crowd around me. Part of me wanted to head outside the gate to see my brother, but what would I say to him? More reminiscence? No, I wanted to bring something of substance, something that would solve his standoff with Tamaz, next we met.
The sun glared at its annoying afternoon angle. Sunshine bounced into my eyes from every shimmering surface. At Laughter Square, the lines were thinning — usually by afternoon, the poets’ fresh morning verses decayed into easily plucked cliches and banalities. I moved to the front of the grass-covered pig’s line, hoping he could cheer me up with clever praise.
“Mistress!” he said upon eyeing me. “The sun has broken through the clouds—”
I turned and walked away before he could finish. Fuck the sun and the moon and the stars and the rivers and the oceans and pomegranates and cypress trees and love and death and resurrection and the light and the dark. Enough with that trite nonsense.
The Himyarite sat upon his brass throne, just across the square. By the time I’d walked to him, he was up and stretching and yawning, as if weary from a long day. He kicked his coin-filled treasure chest shut.
“Closed,” he said.
I dug my hands in my coin pouch and jingled the gold and silver.
“I’ve made enough money to fill my stomach, buy a good vintage date wine, and more,” he scoffed. “Come back tomorrow.”
“I’m straight from the palace. You’ll make verses for me.”
The Himyarite chuckled. “From the palace. If you were a Seluqal or the woman of one, you would have said it. But you’re from the palace — the canteen barmaid, perhaps?”
My fists formed instinctually as the young, dark-skinned man grinned.
He continued, “Pissed because the princes don’t grab your ass when you serve their drinks? You need to have one for that to happen, my dear.”
My eyebrows flared. Then it dawned: these were his verses. This was what people paid him for.
He pointed at my chest. “I’ve known grapes that are more fondleable.” Was fondleable even a word?
“Is that all you do?” I said, unimpressed. “Insult appearances? Ever go any deeper?”
“Deeper? You’re as deep as a eunuch’s thrust.”
I nodded. “Better. What else?”
He waved me away. “That was a taste. Come back tomorrow for more.”
“Tell me who I am, Himyarite.”
He sighed and sat upon his brass throne, then picked at the fake ruby on its armrest. “I happen to have a name.” He put a hand through his utterly curly, though short head of hair. “Eshe.”
“I’ll forget it by morning.”
He stared into me and tilted his head, then relaxed into a sincere, almost sympathetic gaze. “Want to know who you are? You’re here three times a week, with your more voluptuous friend. You hang off her like a leech, without a purpose of your own. You wouldn’t be here if you knew what you wanted, but you don’t, and you fill the chasm with whatever you can — because, at the end of the day, you’re a quivering little girl, the cold fingers of despair wrapping your neck like a noose.”
I felt those cold fingers now as I shivered, despite standing amid the declining sun’s warmth.
“Have you been watching me?” I asked. “Do you know who I am?”
Eshe shook his head, got off the throne, and stepped off his dais. Face to face, we were the same height, and I could see patches in his beard.
He held out an open hand. “You know the going rate. Pay me and go back to your palace, lady. Tomorrow is a new day. And don’t even think of jumping my line. In front of this throne,” he pointed to his cheap brass chair, “all are equally worthless.”
4
Zedra
One thing you didn’t do in Qandbajar: forget to return books. Specifically, books borrowed from the Tower of Wisdom.
For failing to return a book, the punishment was ten lashes for each day late. And, unless you were a Seluqal, the palace wouldn’t save you. Sultanas, pashas, and peasants — all had endured the Philosophers’ whip. The Tower even had an executioner on retainer, and believing the more outlandish tales, he wasn’t all that bored. According to the Order of Philosophers, losing knowledge was worse than losing life because ink is weightier than blood.
Why so punitive over heaps of ink and paper? Because some tomes in the Tower were among the only copies in the world, and the printing presses couldn’t reproduce them fast enough. A true wonder, those presses — among many inventions that dazzled me since arriving here. I could hate them all I wanted, but by allying with the Philosophers, the Seluqals had not only amassed knowledge — they’d purposed it.
Thankfully, I was in good standing with the Tower, and as a sultana, only the top two floors of twelve were forbidden. Today, I climbed the winding stairs to the eighth floor. Looking down upon Qandbajar from the stairwell windows reminded me of the black drongo. What a feeling to fly freely, to be but feathers on air. These bodies of skin and meat and bones that we dragged and clothed and armored now seemed a curse from the star that created us. How sad — even if mankind staved off the Great Terror, we were doomed never to fly.
Defeatist thoughts weakened my already weary knees — climbing seven flights left me huffing and aching and feeling like an old woman again. I took a break and peeked into the seventh-floor reading room: full of brightly turbaned men with serious mustaches and flowing robes, some crowding around book niches, others lying on their sides upon wooden divans while resting their elbows on pillows the color of lapis lazuli. This entire floor was for military tactics, so they must’ve been khazis and gholam and order men.
I recognized someone: gholam commander Kato, in a golden turban and bronze caftan. He lay on a divan, book in hand; the cover read Subduing Mounted Archers: Gunpowder Tactics to Counter Feint Retreats and Lightning Flanks — Volume Five. Did such a specific topic really require five volumes? A stack of books lay next to him, probably with similarly hefty titles. Well, you didn’t become a gholam commander by being an ignorant fool. But if he was here reading, had he done what I’d asked?
He put the book down and stretched his arms. I stepped back so he wouldn’t notice me. Best he not see another of my many sides, lest he discover the whole. I climbed to the eighth floor.
Shelves covered the circular room. Each shelf was divided into square sections in a three-by-four grid. Within each section, three or four books lay flat in a pile. A Philosopher had told me that this arrangement allowed “each book to breathe, relax, and luxuriate.” They really did value them more than lives.
Flavors of Blood Volume Two by Aligar of Zunduq ought to be on shelf seven, column two, row three. I circled around the room until I found shelf seven. But, curiously and concerning, only dust sat in column two, row three.
I made my way to the librarian standing behind a giant ledger. He wore the tower-like felt hat of the Philosophers and a blue silk robe with a black trim.
“Checked out,” he said when I mentioned the book.
“By whom?”
“We do not share that information.” Not a hint of courtesy on his dull, old, pockmarked face.
The words I am beloved of the Crown Prince almost came out of my mouth. But I realized the librarian hadn’t even referred to me as sultana. He simply didn’t care for my title.
“When will it be back?” I asked.
“One week.”
So the usual term, which meant it had been checked out this morning. But who else in this city was interested in an old, outdated medical tome? Should I be worried?
For now, I could make do without it. The first volume had refreshed my knowledge of blood: it came in flavors, like sherbet. Each flavor had its own unique recipes — though some recipes could be written with more than one flavor. The second volume supposedly described the tastes of the rarest flavors, which could help me identify them if ever I came across more.
Disappointed, I left the Tower of Wisdom and returned to my room. At midday, I proceeded to the great hall of the Sand Palace. The simurgh guarded the palace entrance, its wolf head gazing down above the ornate, sandstone arches. Its eagle wings spread out across the garden, providing more shade than the surrounding palm trees. The Seluqals were too proud of their bird standards. It was said two hundred artisans labored to create this single statue, and it took them six years, such was the detail, though hyperbole bloated most stories in this city.
Sunshine streamed through the great hall’s glass dome. The Sylgiz khagan stood at the head of twenty warriors, each wearing hard, maroon laminar, as if coming to a battle. Opposite them, Tamaz sat upon his golden divan and glared fire at the chained, shriveled man who trembled beneath his dais.
“Let the world bear witness,” Tamaz said, “say it again.”
The trim-bearded man wore a dirty caftan and stunk even from this distance. The tips of his hands were cut like half-sausages. He couldn’t hold a pen, not anymore.
“An emissary of the Jotrid khagan ordered me to write it,” he said.
“You are…were my scribe,” Tamaz said with disgust, “not Khagan Pashang’s. So why did you?”
The scribe stared at the floor, lips trembling yet silent. Good.
“Seems we’ll need to do more to get the truth out of him.” Tamaz waved his hand; two gholam approached the scribe, golden batons in their brawny hands.
“I’ve a question,” boomed someone in the crowd. A hardwood voice that seemed to echo on its own.
“Approach, Grand Mufti,” Tamaz said.
Khizr Khaz pulled down his hood: his cropped white hair and rough brown robe seemed out of place amid this Seluqal majesty.
“What sins were they punished for?” he asked. Of course, the letter the scribe had written simply said payment for your sins.
The poor scribe continued to shiver on the floor. Then he looked up at the Grand Mufti and said, “They burned all the flowers.” Hmm? What was he talking about?
“Flowers? Where?” Khizr pressed.
The scribe sobbed as he stared into the sheikh’s eyes, then muttered, “An emissary of the Jotrid khagan ordered me to write it.”
He could say little else. Good.
Shah Tamaz said, “Khagan Cihan, you may take this man into your custody. Do what you will to arrive at the truth and find those who unjustly beheaded your men.”
Cihan stepped forward and gazed with ice on the trembling scribe. He really did resemble Cyra — both were tall, though while Cyra’s height made her rather lanky, Cihan was broad enough to intimidate. His long hair curled less than hers, though wasn’t it disrespectful for men to sport long hair in the Shah’s presence? Perhaps he didn’t care. “This scribe is ready to shit himself,” he said in Sylgiz, which was similar enough to a dialect I knew, spoken by a tribe that neighbored mine. “And yet, he didn’t kill anyone. He merely did his job — he scribed. Justice demands killers, not this empty, fingerless fool.”
“Perhaps Khagan Pashang can tell you more,” Tamaz said, now speaking Sirmian, which was also similar enough to Sylgiz.
Cihan shook his head. “Pashang and I were once friends, believe it or not. Bosom friends, even. Couldn’t get enough of each other. One day while we were wrestling, he hit his head on a rock. Has been a bit light up here,” he tapped his head, “ever since. It’s true, he’d love for the Sylgiz and Alanya to be at war…but clever ploys are not his thing.”
“Someone else could have come up with the idea,” Tamaz insisted, “and he merely gave the order.”
“Someone else. That’s what you so want it to be.”
Tamaz raised his hands, palms up. “Do I look like I care what Sylgiz traders are doing at the market?”
“Spice traders,” Cihan said. “Since I took over, we Sylgiz have secured the land routes to several spice-bearing kingdoms. Who else here is a spice trader and stands to lose, I wonder?”
A gasp spread throughout the crowd. I eyed Ozar somewhere in the middle, dabbing his sweaty, pink face with a golden cloth. Everything was progressing as I’d hoped.
Tamaz sighed. The old man had clearly digested enough intrigue for one day. “You don’t want to accept the confession. You don’t want blood money. What else can I do for you, Khagan?”
“Seems you’d rather not clean your house. Are you so ready to accept murderers in your court?” Considering Ozar was married to his sister, Tamaz had little choice.
“And what are you?” Tamaz sniggered. “Don’t pretend your hands are bloodless. Driving a hard bargain, I can respect, but your love of justice is wearing thin. What do you want, Cihan son of Yamar? Speak plain or go in peace.”
My gaze caught on Cyra, who stood against a calligraphy-covered pillar near the front while fidgeting and biting her lips. Too much to lose for her if this negotiation soured. As for myself, I had a reserve plan — several, actually. Foolish to rely on one outcome in a world birthed by chaos.
Cihan whistled and pointed toward the exit. He and his warriors walked out with an even march. As they left, chatter erupted among those remaining. Tamaz grabbed his cane and limped toward the exit, a gholam escort surrounding him.
“I’m being framed!” Ozar exclaimed to a fellow vizier. “I’m being framed!”
As I made for the exit, I eyed Kato leaning against the wall, holding a sack of what must’ve been gold. He noticed me, nodded, and smiled. I nodded back, satisfied.
While walking the palace halls on the way to my room, I thought about blood: specifically, the seventeen flavors of blood that ran through the veins of mankind. But almost all alive possessed one of four flavors: seeker, sower, settler, or soldier.
While Aligar believed there was a medical significance, in my opinion, these names were nomenclature and didn’t describe any qualities of those possessing them. Not that the actual distinctions between the four common flavors — their magical uses — interested me much; I was far more concerned with the rarer flavors. One flavor, in particular: conqueror’s blood.
But, as I’d gleaned from my studies, conqueror’s blood was becoming impossible to find. At the time of Seluq, it was widespread in the Endless — which was why Aligar gave it that name — with about ten in a hundred there possessing it, compared to one in a thousand Alanyans. But now it was in decline everywhere — supposedly a hundred times rarer than when Aligar lived — and I needed it to write my special runes.
I opened my room door to see the chief eunuch Sambal standing barefoot on my bed and thrusting a broom from the wrong end as if it were a spear.
“What are you doing!?” How dare he intrude upon my chamber without permission? I wanted to grab that broom and break it over his head.
He bent his neck. I was no Seluqal, so it wasn’t appropriate, but who cares. “My apologies, sultana. A rat inspired by Ahriyya ran into your room — I had to give chase, so I could finally kill it and end its pantry-raiding spree.”
Oh no, he’d seen my rat. Stupid thing was always getting into trouble. What else had he seen? “Get out!”
I slammed and locked the door behind him; they’d put in a fresh lock after the last one broke at the worst time. I looked into the crib — empty. My heart almost beat out of my chest. Then it flickered into my mind — obviously, Mirima was looking after baby Seluq today. I sighed in relief; the fear that it was all happening again eased.
I pulled off the false wall behind my bed and took out my wares: a box of tiny, blood-filled bottles, various wooden containers with bits of chewed food, and my notes.
The food I ought to probably throw out. By tasting someone’s spit, I could also ta
ste their blood flavor, so now knew that Tamaz and Kato were both seekers. I, too, was a seeker, making their blood worthless to me. Our first kiss told me Crown Prince Kyars was a sower — among other things — a similarly worthless flavor, since most runes that could be written with sower’s blood could also be written with seeker’s blood. The four common flavors overlapped too much for anyone possessing them to be useful, which made almost everyone worthless.
I put the bottle of conqueror’s blood to the reddening, midday sunlight streaming from my balcony; mere drops of watered-down blood remained. But a replenishment would, I hoped, be forthcoming.
I slid onto my bed, the weight of the world pushing me into my silk sheets. Sniffed the red tulips in the emerald-studded vase by my bedside — knowing how much I liked them, the eunuchs daily brought me fresh ones from the pleasure garden. They smelled oddly like home, though they didn’t grow when and where I’d lived.
The gate to fanaa is nothingness. God is only drawn on a blank slate. Father Chisti had spoken these words, though you wouldn’t find them in the Recitals of Chisti. If I could burn every copy of that falsehood, I’d even burn myself. How saddening that rage shattered my fanaa so easily. Anger was why I was weak, but something had to fuel me.
An hour later, a gentle knock sounded on the door. I arose with a stretch and opened it. Vera, the adorable, strawberry-cheeked handmaiden I’d made Kyars gift to Cyra, greeted me and came inside. From her dress pocket, she pulled a blood-tinged silk kerchief and presented it to me with a grin.
“This is unexpectedly quick,” I said. “How are you so good?”
“I do as my sultana commands.”
“No, really, how did you get that? I hope you didn’t hurt the girl.”
“I would never hurt her.” Said with such sincere, smitten eyes. “She’s as lovely as a lily in the thaw.”
