The Steel Seraglio (35 page)

“The runners will be Soraya, Huma, Fernoush, Nasreen, Zufir and Rem,” she said. “Had the decision been mine alone, it would not have fallen out thus. I’m sorry, Jamal.”

He glared at her through tearful eyes. “I could have done this! I’ve fought before. I saved your life!”

“I have not forgotten that. No one has. And you should remember it too. Jamal, as far as I am concerned you don’t need to fight in this battle to prove your bravery. It is a recognition you have already earned.”

After sitting on beside Jamal for a few minutes longer, Zuleika rose stiffly to her feet and departed. But long after she had left, Jamal was still replaying her words in his mind.

The date set for the attack drew steadily nearer, and the day came when the fighters had all been trained, the last outsized wooden comb had been constructed, and the volunteers had practised running the wall until they could do it to Zuleika’s satisfaction. Soon, the encampment at the caves would begin to empty out, the army departing for the posts assigned to them. It would be safest, Zuleika had decided, if they left in small groups, travelling at night and avoiding the major trade routes. Once, most of the concubines would have turned pale at such a prospect. Now, they were armed against the desert and the dangers it held, both with weapons and with the knowledge of how to use them. For the first time in most of their lives, the means of their deliverance had been placed into their own hands.

Zuleika agonised over the time of her own departure, torn between staying as long as possible to oversee the evacuation of the camp, or leaving with an early party to supervise the deployment of the army. Neither option was ideal; Zuleika hated having to choose in the first place. She had found it hard enough to delegate when her forces were all in the same location, and she could check on their progress as frequently as she wished. Now that the time had come for them to split up, she was infinitely frustrated that she could not be present to see the execution of every detail.

Eventually, and with great reluctance, she decided that she would go with the first group of fighters, leaving Gursoon in charge of the camp at the caves. She spent the day before her departure with Rem, training and reading, and at sunset they lay in each other’s arms inside Zuleika’s tent. The golden light seeped through the cloth, spilling over their entwined forms.

Rem looked at Zuleika steadily, drinking in the contours of her body, the lines and curves of her face, as if she could take hold of her with her gaze and keep her there. Zuleika ran her hands over the curling script across Rem’s breasts and down her arms, pausing when she encountered her own name to give it a gentle squeeze. They clung to each other. They studied each other’s faces. Neither of them spoke. They had said all that they could think of to say over the course of the day, and that was little enough. Silence flowed between them, richer than words.

When dusk fell, they parted, and Zuleika called the last full meeting of the seraglio. She stood on the same stone platform from which she had first spoken four years ago, and watched the women, bandits and camel men gathering before her. If they were successful, then this would be the last time they all met together until after they took the city. If they failed, there would never be another meeting. Tearful farewells were exchanged with the group of fighters due to leave, who would depart the next day before dawn. When the noise of the crowd had subsided, Zuleika spoke.

“A few months ago, our future was as frail as the memory of a dream after waking,” she said, “but we whetted our swords upon it all the same.” She was a black silhouette against the lighter black of the sky, her voice ringing out as if it were the only sound in the desert. Her words sank down into the valley like the cooling air and the gathering dark.

“We go forward because the path ahead is of our own crafting, and in the labour that forged it we also have been remade. When we left Bessa, we were a seraglio of silk and fragrance and soft music. Now the time has come to return, and we are become a seraglio of steel.”

Hakkim Mehdad was in the throne room when news of the approaching army was brought. “They’ll be here in less than a watch, majesty,” the watchman panted, “judging by the size of the dust cloud.” The intelligence came as no surprise to the Ascetic leader. He employed many spies, not just to monitor the activities of those who posed a threat to his rule, but to identify those of his subjects who, whether through heresy, impiety or wantonness, threatened the supremacy of his doctrine.

Rumours of this attack had been circulating among the people of Bessa for months. Though his guards had not yet managed to arrest anyone who possessed knowledge of a more reliable provenance than what their brother’s son had overheard at the market, Hakkim had learned enough to convince him that he would do well to prepare. He felt nothing so base as fear at the prospect that his city was soon to come under attack. Hakkim was armoured with the certainty of religious conviction, and besides, years of actively seeking conflict on a more personal level had inured him to any spasms of apprehension he might once have felt upon entering this larger fight. He would respond to it, as he responded to everything, without deviation or pause, following unflinchingly the way of the one Truth and cutting down whatever obstacles fate placed in the path. There was no hesitation in his voice as he replied.

“Summon Captain Ashraf,” he said.

From the watchtower to the left of the Northern Gate, Zeinab looked out over Bessa and adjusted her helmet. It had taken her three months of constant pestering and a faked letter of recommendation from the watch captain of Saruqiy to get the position, but her persistence had paid off, and she was now employed, under the nom de guerre of Zahir, as junior watchman on the left north watchtower.

She had spotted the cloud of dust a short way into the afternoon watch, pausing before she alerted the more senior watchman on duty, a nervous man called Masood, to pull a red headscarf from her breastplate. While Masood sounded the three long blasts on the horn which signified that an enemy was approaching, she held the scarf over the edge of the tower so that it streamed out in the breeze. As she released it, a slight figure took off running. A little after that, Masood dispatched a guard from the right watchtower to the palace, and since then, Zeinab had been watching the city, tracking the currents of activity which carried its people to and fro. The sound of the warning bugle had cut through the normal hubbub of streets and squares, bringing the rhythms of leisure and commerce to a halt. Now, many people were scurrying into houses and packing up market stalls. Around the walls, the other gates were being closed and bolted, one by one. Only the Northern Gate remained open, ready to emit the troops that Zeinab could now see being massed in the palace courtyard. Every moment, more black-garbed soldiers were flowing through the city to join them.

Behind Zeinab, Masood peered anxiously at the cloud of dust on the horizon. Not for the first time, he rounded on his shift partner and wailed, “Zahir, you’re looking the wrong way! In the name of the Increate, pay attention- there’s an army coming towards us!”

Zeinab glanced round at the sound of his voice, then turned her attention back to the city. Technically, Masood was her superior, but after more than three months of sharing the afternoon shift with the fussy, timid man, she knew how little that counted for. She really felt rather sorry for him; any watchman who failed to notice that his own shift partner was a woman in disguise would probably be better off seeking other employment. Beneath her, Bessa spread its wonders, intricate and finely wrought as a tapestry. In the rapidly emptying market, two tiny figures haggled over loaves the size of peas. A crowd of black-veiled women hurried past them like gnats. Toy soldiers guarded the palace gates. From what used to be the seraglio compound, a man in a black headscarf strode rapidly toward the main palace.

“Zahir!” Masood shook his head in consternation. “For the last time, you’re looking the wrong
way
!”

“That all depends on what you’re looking for,” Zeinab replied mildly.

Her eyes flicked to the street directly beneath the watchtower, where a steady trickle of people, mostly women, had been congregating since that morning. It was unusual to see such a crowd in public, especially since the Ascetics had taken the city, but such gatherings were not unheard of, even in these austere times. Traditional weddings in Bessa saw friends and relatives lining the street to the couple’s new home and showering them with petals and comfits; many of the veiled women in the street carried covered baskets which could have been intended for just such a purpose. Hakkim Mehdad and his followers did not look kindly on such indecorous traditions, but the new sultan was too much occupied with other, more important matters to take the time to issue an outright ban on the practice. As Zeinab watched, one of the women readjusted the basket she carried, drawing the covering over whatever lay inside.

Masood gave a despairing sigh. He liked Zahir well enough most of the time: he was a good worker, quiet, and asked few questions. Today, though, he was being completely impossible. “Really,” he said reproachfully, “you’ve never had trouble understanding your job before. I hope you’re not being deliberately insolent.” Still muttering, he turned back to his post.

Zeinab’s cudgel hit him squarely in the back of the head. Glancing around to make sure that none of the guards on the other tower had seen, she knelt to tie his hands with a small sigh of relief. Knocking him out now had been a risk, one that could have endangered the success of everything they had worked for. But she had spent many months in Masood’s company, and if he was obtuse and ineffectual, he was also polite and good-natured. When the storm hit, she wanted him out of harm’s way.

Even had he been prone by nature to surprise, Captain Ashraf would not have been unduly alarmed by his urgent summons. Since its capture, Bessa’s purification in the cleansing fires of the one Truth had been an ongoing process, unceasing by night as by day, and he had been called upon to perform his duties at far stranger times. He was with his men in their quarters, the former women’s chambers, when the messenger reached him, so he arrived in the throne room minutes later. Hakkim began talking before the man had even straightened up from his low bow of obeisance. Ashraf’s face darkened as he heard the report, but Hakkim had chosen his captain well, and he made no comments as he listened other than to inquire as to the Holy One’s pleasure.

“How soon can your men be made ready?” Hakkim asked him.

“Immediately, Majesty. There are already archers patrolling the city walls, and I can have both infantry and cavalry regiments assemble on your order.”

The sultan considered this for a few seconds before he gave his orders. The time which elapsed between Ashraf entering the throne room and Hakkim’s commands passing his lips was not sufficient for a handshake, or the drawing of a sword from its scabbard. The entire force of the city of Bessa was nocked as to a bow, its trajectory decided in a bare moment. Armies fall and leaders are toppled from the honed edges of such moments. When he had assured the Holy One that his will would be executed, in this as in all things, Ashraf bowed again and departed.

In an alleyway beside the Eastern Gate, Rem’s eyes widened. “I have to talk to Zuleika,” she said abruptly, cutting through the whispered conversations of the women around her. Umayma glanced at her in puzzlement. “So? You don’t have long to wait. She’s due here for the second phase,” she replied.

“No, you don’t understand. We’ve made a mistake, she needs to know.” Rem started to leave without waiting for a reply. Umayma dashed after her, grabbing her arm as she reached the mouth of the alley.

“Rem, you can’t,” she hissed. “The soldiers will be leaving any minute now. You’re needed here. Whatever this is, it can wait.”

Rem almost screamed with frustration. “No, it can’t. I have to talk to her now, Umi!”

The urgency in her tone must have alarmed Umayma, for her grip slackened and she opened her mouth as if to enquire further. Rem immediately darted from her grasp and took off round the corner, calling back as she went, “I’ll take a different route to the soldiers. They won’t see me, I promise! I’ll be back in plenty of time for the second phase!”

Umayma made as if to run after her, but stopped at the top of the street, torn between conflicting impulses. It would not be long now before the army marched out of the city. She could not abandon her post. Rem’s footfalls died away as she hesitated, and she turned back to the other women, throwing up her hands in frustration.

“Do you think she saw something?” Bethi asked her as she returned to the bottom of the alley. “I mean—you know.
Saw
it?”

“She’d better have,” Umayma growled. “For anything less, she’s going to have a lot of explaining to do when she gets back.”

Taliyah pounded up the street of Silversmiths, her breath sounding loud in her ears. She had been loitering outside the Northern Gate all morning, sweltering under her heavy robes as she watched for the little scrap of red cloth which was her signal.