Hunted by the Sky

by Tanaz Bhathena

  12

  CAVAS

  There’s a saying in Ambar that you aren’t truly grown up until you’re caring for more than yourself. Until you’ve found your place in the world.

  “As the king’s revered acharya likes to say: ‘The greater your powers, the better your chances of progress. With the sky goddess’s blessings,’” Govind announces one morning to a chorus of laughter from the other stable boys. “This is why the rest of us are so downtrodden, while the high priest convinced the Ministry of Treasure to hire his beloved son—with a cartload of swarnas and rupees, of course.”

  I slowly trudge by, carrying two full buckets of water from the palace well to fill the trough of water outside. I always act like I’m never listening to these conversations—and Govind always pretends that he never sees me.

  “It might be the only way the acharya can keep him out of trouble,” one of the stable boys says. “To surround him with gold and silver instead of pretty dirt-licking boys.”

  Their laughter crawls up my spine. I dump the water into the trough. By the time I carry the empty buckets back to the stable, my hands are shaking from gripping the handles so tightly.

  “Boy.” General Tahmasp’s curt voice breaks through my reverie.

  I carefully place the buckets on the floor and bow. “Shubhsaver, General.”

  He doesn’t wish me a “good morning” in return. His dark eyes narrow, as if in assessment. I try not to squirm. “How are you?” he asks.

  I blink. The general has never stopped to chat with me before, our interactions limited to cold and simple instructions about his horse. “I’m well, General.”

  “You haven’t seen Major Shayla again, have you?”

  “No, General.”

  It has been two months since I last saw the general or the major—even in passing. Latif hasn’t been too pleased with my reports.

  “Good.” The general tugs on the stiff collar of his white jacket. “That’s good to hear. Be careful, will you? With her.”

  As if the other boys the Scorpion has preyed upon weren’t careful. As if it’s care and not a freakish stroke of luck that has prevented Major Shayla from seeking me out so far. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, wondering why I feel the need to assure General Tahmasp that I’m all right.

  Tahmasp clears his throat. “How’s your father doing?”

  “He … he’s much the same, General. With the Fever … sometimes he’s better, sometimes worse. We’ve learned to take things day by day.”

  “We were born into this life, and we must make the best of it,” Papa always says, and though his voice is gentle, I know it’s also a reminder of who we are—and who we can never be.

  Tahmasp stares at me for a long moment. “There are houses at the other end of the city. On the outskirts, away from the firestone mines. They’re reserved for army personnel only, though, and usually in high demand.”

  I wonder why he’s telling me this. Though the king still allows non-magi to enlist in the army, it’s generally for the position of loadbearers, who carry equipment and pitch tents. Houses outside the tenements are strictly reserved for army officers, all of them magi.

  “Naturally, I can’t give you any guarantees, but there have been exceptions made in the past,” Tahmasp says. “On rare occasions, non-magi who show immense loyalty to the kingdom are made captains, sometimes even awarded a house. I’m not saying it will be easy. You’ll have to start off small—as a loadbearer perhaps. If you work hard over the next year or two and show some aptitude in fighting, perhaps you can move up the ranks as well.”

  I stare at him, stunned. While a small part of me appreciates that the general thought of me and my father, I can’t help but notice how late this offer has come—and what a poor solution it is. How am I supposed to wait a whole year or two when I don’t even know if the Fever will let Papa live for the next month?

  “Your wages increase as well,” the general continues, completely unaware of my thoughts. “That could help, I’m sure, with the medicine. Enlisting takes place every year in the Month of Tears.”

  Which is this month. Sweat coats the back of my tunic. “I’ll have to talk. To my father. I need to make sure … that he’ll be all right if I go.”

  “That’s not a problem.” The general’s hard face softens. “I’ll be out of the city for the next couple of weeks or so. If you decide to enlist, come find me in the barracks before the month ends. I can put in a word.”

  I watch him lead his horse away, my mind abuzz with a hundred different thoughts. I could have rejected his offer on the spot, could have told him exactly what I thought, punishment be damned. But petty reactions do not have a place in a world where my father’s life is at stake. Where any little thing may help him survive.

  I pick up the shovel lying in the corner next to the buckets and begin cleaning manure out of a vacated stall. As a child, I would dream of other things at times. Of new clothes, of sweets, of flying on the back of a giant simurgh. The last dream—one of the few vivid ones I had back then—I still remember, but with the wistfulness of a childhood long gone.

  When Papa fell sick, I knew that my life would be limited to a simple set of rules: Keep your head down. Work hard. Come home every night, no matter how bruised. In the army, though, there is every likelihood that I may not come home. I’ve heard more than one person talk about deaths in the army—how more loadbearers die from thirst and starvation in the desert than from any actual fighting.

  I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. The sweet smell of freshly raked hay rises in the air. In the background, horses let out low whinnies, the sound nearly as soothing to me as a lullaby. Outside, there is more laughter among the workers. Now they’re talking about the new indentured laborer in the king’s palace, and how he was recently seen carrying the Scorpion’s armor to the Walled City. My lungs fill with a breath of relief.

  Better him than me.

  The thought is instantly followed by a sick feeling of guilt.

  I pick up the shovel again. Yes, the army may not be my first choice of work—but it is still a choice. And that is something I have never been given before.

  * * *

  Later that evening, I nearly walk past Ruhani Kaki’s hut in the tenements, not initially hearing the old lady call out my name.

  “It does not do to be so lost in your thoughts that you forget the world around you, Cavas!”

  “Sorry, Kaki. I really didn’t hear you.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Young people these days don’t hear anyone except other young people they’re interested in.” But Ruhani Kaki’s eyes are twinkling, so I know she isn’t being serious with her scolding. “Wait here. I’ll get you something to eat.”

  She emerges from the hut shortly with a plate of hot onion kachoris in one hand and a scroll in the other.

  “Someone came to see your father today. An old friend of his from outside the tenements,” Ruhani Kaki says as I eat a pastry.

  “What?” The kachori nearly gets stuck in my throat. “Which friend?”

  Ever since Papa got the Fever, we’ve had no visitors apart from Ruhani Kaki. No one from the tenements has come to see us and certainly no one from the magical world.

  Ruhani Kaki hesitates before answering. “Her name is Juhi. Your father knew her when he worked at the palace. I knew her as well. I didn’t know if your father was up to taking visitors today, so I simply told her he wasn’t at home and asked her to leave her letter with me. I said I would make sure it was delivered to him.”

  Unease muddies my insides. Papa never talks much about his former life working at the palace stables. Whenever a conversation would lead there, he would divert the topic by asking me questions about my day.

  “Who was this woman? Did my mother know her as well?” I ask, taking the scroll from Ruhani Kaki. It glows faintly silver in my hands. With magic.

  “Juhi and your mother never had the chance to meet,” Kaki says after a pa
use. “But she was one of the few people from the magical world whom your father trusted completely. It has been long since I saw Juhi myself. Until today, I thought she was dead.”

  I frown. “What does she want now? Why try to contact Papa after all this time?”

  “She didn’t tell me. But perhaps it’s in there.” Ruhani Kaki gestures to the scroll. “She didn’t stay long. Magi in the tenements usually draw unwanted attention. As a Southerner, Juhi would draw even more notice—and that wouldn’t be good for your father or for you.”

  A Southerner. Meaning someone from the kingdom of Samudra.

  “What about you, Kaki?” I ask. “Wouldn’t you get into trouble if you were seen talking to her?”

  Ruhani Kaki gives me a smile reminiscent of the ones she often gives to young children, amusement lining every wrinkle on her face. “I’m too old to be taken much notice of, my boy. I could sing lullabies to a donkey, and people would still ignore me.”

  I examine the seal on the scroll. Red wax. Plain. Not the kind used by the palace for sending official notices, which has an emblem similar to the one on my uniform.

  “Thanks, Kaki,” I say finally. “For everything.”

  “You never need to thank me for anything.” Her hand brushes my cheek, the touch paper-soft. “Go home now. And next time, pay attention when I call for you.”

  I force a grin. After wishing her a quick goodbye, I make my way home, my feet gaining ground now that I’m alone again, the scroll hot in my sweaty hands.

  It’s not until I’m back at the threshold of our house that I feel safe enough to break the seal and read the first few lines of the letter.

  Papa glances up when I step inside, his smile slipping when he sees the scroll in my hand. “What is it? Is it from the palace?”

  “No,” I say, waiting for the tension in his shoulders to ease. “It’s a letter. For you.”

  “A letter for me?” Papa sounds bemused. “I haven’t had a letter in seventeen years. Not since your mother died anyway. Are you sure it isn’t a prank by one of the blacksmith’s boys?”

  “The blacksmith’s boys aren’t literate.” I release a breath. “Ruhani Kaki gave it to me. It’s from outside the tenements. From a woman named Juhi.”

  Papa’s eyes, as placid as Sant Javer’s pond on a normal day, grow sharp. “Juhi. She’s still alive, then. I haven’t heard from her since…” His voice trails off. “Read it to me.”

  “Who is this person?” I ask. “How do you know her?”

  “Read it, Cavas. It won’t do to have you getting rusty.”

  When I was a boy, people from the tenements came to my father to read their letters for them—usually ministry documents and scrolls they weren’t able to comprehend themselves. Schooling for non-magi isn’t forbidden, but shortly after we were segregated into the tenements, schools dropped non-magi enrollment by half. As the years went on, by even more. “The work is too advanced for your children,” they told our parents. Or, more simply: “You are rebels and traitors to the kingdom. We have no place for your children in our schools.” By the time I turned five, not a single school in Ambarvadi accepted non-magi students.

  Ruhani Kaki tried to start a school for non-magi children in the tenements a couple of times. I went to her classes once or twice. But Kaki wasn’t a great teacher and couldn’t control a group of boisterous youngsters. Her attempts at a school fell apart. Eventually, as taxes on non-magi increased further under King Lohar’s reign, more and more families were forced to send their children to work. There was no time to spare for school—not with so little food at home and so many hungry mouths to feed.

  “You will not remain uneducated,” Papa told me firmly. “Not while I’m alive.” He spent his days working at the palace and his nights teaching me to read and write Vani. It has been, to date, his only act of rebellion against the kingdom.

  Now I begin reading Juhi’s letter out loud, my frown deepening as I get further into the contents. I hope I see you tomorrow, old friend, Juhi says in the last line of the letter. I don’t trust anyone else.

  Right, I think. Sure, you don’t.

  “What is it?” Papa asks. “Why did you stop reading?”

  “It’s impossible, what she has asked you for! How dare—”

  “It’s not impossible.” My father’s calm reply cuts me off.

  “You cannot even step out of the house without falling ill!”

  “Which is why you must go in my stead.” There is a look in Papa’s eyes that reminds me of the time he told me about the importance of learning Vani. “You must do everything you can—everything that is asked for in this letter.”

  I shake my head angrily. “Why should we care about this? Magi have never done us any favors.”

  My father pauses before answering, almost as if weighing his words first. “There was a world once,” he says finally. “Before the tenements. Before the Great War divided the four kingdoms of Svapnalok and turned friend against friend, neighbor against neighbor. This might be our only hope of seeing something like that world again.”

  I grow quiet for a long moment and think of the vile words Bahar’s father and others spewed about my mother. People Papa once considered his friends and neighbors.

  “If there is a world like that”—I rise to my feet again and walk to the door—“it only exists in dreams and in stories for children. We are born into this life, remember? Isn’t that what you’ve told me all along?”

  “Son, listen to me. I know I said—”

  “General Tahmasp says the army needs new loadbearers,” I interrupt. “He asked me to enlist. And I think I might.”

  The clay cup holding Papa’s medicine falls to the floor and shatters. “You cannot! People die thankless deaths in the army every day!”

  “And they don’t die in other ways?” I hold up the scroll again. “Do you think I’d be any safer if I was discovered doing this? At least the government pays fifty swarnas to the families of each deceased soldier.”

  “If you join the army, Cavas, you’ll see me dead.” Papa’s voice is quiet, his face paler than I’ve ever seen it before. “By all the gods and the saints, you will.”

  “I’m going to clean this up,” I say, ignoring the empty threat and kneeling to pick up the broken cup’s pieces.

  Papa doesn’t talk to me for the rest of the night. He refuses the boiled vegetables I’ve cooked for him—harkening back to a form of protest I used when I was a boy of six or seven.

  “Fine!” I shout. “Starve, then!”

  I storm out and throw myself on top of the battered old cot by the door—one I sometimes use when the weather is good. Stars have appeared next to a lonely yellow moon, and I slowly pick out the shape of the sky goddess constellation, characterized by the triad of stars forming the tips of her trident.

  “You’re wrong, Papa,” I whisper. “There is no such thing as hope.”

  13

  CAVAS

  Even though I know I’ve made the right decision, I can’t sleep that night. Choices and hope are dangerous words. They draw you in like a moth to a torch; they burn you alive if you get too close.

  Yet, long before dawn breaks, I find myself slipping into my shoes again. Instead of my usual orange turban, I tie a checkered scarf around my head the way firestone miners do, angling it so it covers my day-old stubble and fully grown mustache. As a final touch, I drape an old blanket over my shoulders. The fewer people who recognize me, the better, even though no one is awake at this time of the day, not even the city sweepers.

  Dawn in Ambarvadi breaks slowly. When I leave the tenements, it’s still dark, pale-blue light barely edging the sky. Here, the weather isn’t as extreme as it is near the Desert of Dreams. But mornings are still cold, and by the time I reach the outskirts of the city, I’m chilled to the bone. The earth is wet with dew and sticks to the thin soles of my jootis as I make my way to the main square, past darkened havelis and boarded-up shops. I circle the perimeter of the enormous marble t
emple devoted to the sky goddess, offerings of fruit and flowers heaped outside its gilded gates.

  Behind the sky goddess’s temple there are more havelis, though many have fallen into disrepair. Women hang clothes to dry on lines on balconies; monkeys perch quietly on the rooftops. If a wealthy magus stepped into this quarter at any time of the day, they’d find themselves looted—either by monkeys or by common thieves. But no one bothers me or even looks as I slip into the alley between a boarded-up apothecary and a bicycle shop. No one cares that I am a non-magus headed to the shrine that lies at the alley’s end, dedicated to Sant Javer—a man who spent most of his life healing people without asking for anything in return. Javer had followers among magi and non-magi alike. When Svapnalok was still united, Papa said, pilgrims came from the farthest reaches of the continent to offer Sant Javer their respects or to seek cures.

  “Sant Javer never turned anyone away,” Papa told me. “Rich or poor. Magus or non-magus.”

  It’s the only reason the offerings placed in front of the closed doors of the saint’s temple have remained untouched: a box of chandramas wrapped in gold placed right beside a full bowl of betel nuts and safflower seeds. Even thieves consider stealing from Sant Javer inauspicious.

  The sky lightens further to a dusty blue by the time two other figures emerge from the alley leading to the temple. A tall woman in a gray sari walks toward me, her face partly veiled with a thick blanket. She’s followed by another woman, shorter in stature, similarly garbed. Their jootis, I observe, are not nearly as mud-encrusted as mine; they must have ridden to Ambarvadi. The taller woman pauses a few feet away from me, watching. Sensing her hesitation, I pull away the edge of the blanket covering my face, revealing it to her.

  “Are you Juhi ji?” I ask, adding the honorific at the last moment, some old remnant of the manners Papa drilled into me when I was a small boy.

  “Yes,” the taller woman says, sounding surprised. “But you’re not Xerxes.”

  The blanket covering the lower half of her face drops. Juhi might have passed for another Ambari woman if not for her midnight eyes and the deep-blue tinting of her hair. She looks younger than I expected, or perhaps it only appears that way because of the magic suffusing her blood and the privilege that comes from living in a place that is not the tenements.