The City of Silk and Steel Read online

  When I spoke to the women of the seraglio about retaking the city, I planted an idea in their minds. It was an idea of freedom and beauty and power, of women leaving the bedchamber and entering the throne room. It was the embryo of a political ideology at least six centuries before its time, but that does not even begin to explain its potency. It was not the newness of the concept but its familiarity which moved them. They had all seen the rights to their own flesh passed from one man’s hand to another, and all had felt keenly their own powerlessness in those exchanges. In such situations, a version of the same concept has formed many times in many people’s thoughts, and most of the time fear, or reason, or a sense of overwhelming odds, has stifled it before it can be uttered. A thousand stillborn revolutions are buried a thousand times over for every day that the world has endured. It is very seldom indeed that one is delivered alive.

  For an idea of the general effect my words produced, imagine a bomb going off in four hundred minds at once. And if the story I am about to tell now seems as strange and unbelievable to you as it does to me, then I can only say that the fallout from such arcane explosions is never the same twice, and most likely is beyond the power of human minds to anticipate.

  At first the party who had visited the djinni spoke little on the return journey. Their memories, not only of the djinni’s words, but of their own and each other’s speech and actions, differed in such fundamental respects that for the first two days after their departure all their conversations foundered into uneasy silence. More than this, for many leagues each one of them was haunted by the sneaking conviction that the djinni watched them still, and though none dared voice the suspicion, all could feel that tightening sensation at the base of the skull which suggests the gaze of unseen eyes. It was not until a little before noon on the third day, when they reached the flat rock which lay a half-day’s journey from the bandits’ cave, that they began tentatively to discuss the djinni’s mysterious instructions, and the gifts they had been asked to exchange.

  ‘Well, that was a waste of six days,’ Imtisar proclaimed. The others shushed her hurriedly, even Jamal looking alarmed at this blatant disrespect.

  ‘Please, lady, do not insult them,’ Issi hissed, glancing behind him as if he expected a djinn to rise up from the sand at his back.

  ‘Why not? We’re far from them now. Besides, I’m only speaking the truth. Why they decided not to help us is beyond me, but whatever their reasons, they have given us nothing we didn’t have already. All this trip has achieved is the redistribution of our own belongings.’

  ‘Perhaps the djinni have enchanted them, so that they will help us in the battle,’ Issi suggested. Imtisar shot him a disdainful look.

  Gursoon was of the opinion that the function of the gifts was symbolic; perhaps they were meant as clues to how the seraglio should proceed or warnings of the dangers they would face along their way. Imtisar seemed more convinced by this argument, but still eyed the objects sceptically.

  ‘They don’t look symbolic to me,’ she said. For the hundredth time her gaze fell on the ruby Gursoon had given her, and lingered there with pleasure.

  ‘Take this stone for example,’ she pursued, her tone dubious. ‘Granted, it’s very beautiful, and one of the biggest I’ve seen, but what could it possibly signify?’

  To her surprise, Gursoon laughed. ‘I can answer that, after a fashion. That ruby has a very specific significance, though only to me, it must be said. It was given to me by Bokhari Al-Bokhari, who had received it from a visiting legate of the city of Sakhradin. It was during his fractious phase, when he used to make war with every city-state within a hundred leagues, and the gift of the ring threw him into a monumental rage. As you have doubtless noticed, its centre is scored with a thousand cracks. Bokhari declared that such a flawed stone was an insult to his dignity: none but a perfect gem was a worthy gift for the Sultan of Bessa.

  ‘Well, the night the legate left, Bokhari called me to him, and learning the source of his anger, I decided to do what I could to avert a disaster. After I had called for a bowl of mahalabiyyah to soothe his temper, I asked if I could see the trinket which had provoked his most righteous and entirely justifiable ire. He flung it onto the bed, whereupon I immediately made my eyes go round with awe. After a few moments, he glanced up to see my reaction and noticed my pose of exaggerated astonishment. ‘What is it?’ he asked petulantly.

  ‘ “Oh, Majesty, this is a rare thing,” I replied, my tone reverent. I told him that in my dancing days, a fellow-performer from Sakhradin had told me about such rubies, known as the stones of diplomacy because their internal fault lines, rather than causing the whole gem to shatter, instead produced beautiful displays of coloured light. I demonstrated this fact with the lamp on his dressing table, and the stone duly filled the dim room with kaleidoscopic points of brightness. To the wise, I explained, these stones taught that the best among us must always view a cause of strife and difficulty from many different angles; in this way, we may come to find that it is actually a source of bountiful opportunity. The metaphor was well chosen. Sakhradin is famed for its jewel mines, and after a few days of thought and sulking, Bokhari abandoned hostilities with the city in favour of trade negotiations. He gave the ring to his senior queen to wear the next time the legate came to stay, and when she did not want to keep it, he gave it to me.’

  Imtisar sniffed, but she was looking at Gursoon curiously. ‘That’s a meaning that you attached to the ruby yourself,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Well, the djinni are supposed to be able to see all things,’ Gursoon replied. ‘Maybe they knew the story of this ring, and wished to remind us all of the uses of diplomacy. Certainly we will have need of it if we succeed in taking the city.’

  For a while, Imtisar walked along in silence. She appeared to be thinking, and the delight in her eyes when she looked at the gem was mixed with a sharper note of interest. Eventually she spoke up again, in the same disgruntled tone as before.

  ‘Well, whatever its meaning, it’s a far finer gift than the one I gave you,’ she said, glancing bitterly at the wooden comb in Gursoon’s hair. ‘Ever since we went into this blessed desert, my hair has been so full of sand and grit that whenever I even attempt to comb it, it only throws up great clouds of dust. That thing is no use to anyone out here, unless they wanted to choke themselves with it.’

  Zuleika left the rest of the group to their conversation, striding ahead until she walked on her own. She was locked in deep thought, and had been, intermittently, since before they departed for the djinni’s cave. It took a lot to rouse strong feeling in Zuleika. She was cool and impassive by nature, and having chilled her blood, after long practice, to the requisite temperature for reasoned murder, she found but few things of sufficient moment to warm it again. She understood the evils and vicissitudes of life in the same way that she understood the twelve different ways of breaking a man’s neck, and it had been a long time since either point of knowledge had inspired her with any emotion deeper than indifference.

  Since Rem’s speech, however, a change had come over the assassin. Like a spark, the prospect of liberating Bessa caught in some shadowed corner of her mind, flaring up into a desire which burned with an uncharacteristic intensity. Her thoughts had been filled with training schedules, the procurement of weapons, intricate tactics and stratagems, even before the council voted for war.

  And then there was Rem herself. Zuleika had a new admiration for the slight librarian, whose eloquence had touched her with that thrill of recognition born from seeing the shapeless mists of our own impulses bodied forth in the words of another. It was that elation which had moved her to kiss Rem when she first suggested retaking the city, a loss of control that slightly unnerved her whenever she thought of it. Rem puzzled her. She was reserved almost to the point of silence, but when she did speak her words were wonderful and strange, with an electric charge to them which made Zuleika’s skin prickle.

  Rem was one of the matters which occupied her mind
now. The atmosphere of numinous unreality which had permeated her encounter with the djinni still filled Zuleika; though she had not been in favour of the visit, she could not now deny the djinni’s power, nor did she feel that she could afford to ignore their advice.

  She had spent the entire journey considering the gifts that she and Rem had exchanged, but still she could see no way in which they might help them to take back the city. A pen and a word: they were not weapons, and they had no story attached to them as did Gursoon’s ruby.

  The more Zuleika thought about it, the more convinced she became that their significance was not to the battle ahead, but to its aftermath. A knowledge of reading and writing, after all, was essential to the rulers of a city. If they gained control of Bessa, treaties would need to be drawn up, new laws recorded, and correspondence exchanged with neighbouring sultanates. Bokhari had been engaged in such matters all the time. But in this area Zuleika felt herself to be on uncertain ground. The swirling characters that the other women seemed able to discern so easily all looked alike to her, and her progress in Rem’s lessons had been slow. Asking for favours did not sit well with her, yet the gift of the pen, and her own reason, persuaded her that in this case she must. She quickened her pace.

  Rem had not said a word to anyone since asking Gursoon for a rag to wipe the tears from her face, and had walked far ahead of the others for the whole journey, lost in anxious reflection. She had seen before the effect her tears could have, when she stayed at her grandfather’s house as a child, and she was still very young when she had learned how to stifle them. Now everyone had seen the black rivulets flowing from her eyes. Zuleika had seen them. She only hoped that, if they did not see her cry again, the women would think the tears a temporary affliction, sent by the djinni for some unguessable purpose of their own.

  She was jolted from these thoughts when Zuleika fell into pace beside her, bringing with her that tightening in Rem’s chest, composed in equal parts of pleasure and apprehension, which always accompanied her presence. She straightened a little and smiled. Zuleika did not notice. As often happens when we are forced to rely against our inclination on the goodwill of others, she approached Rem expecting to be refused, and so put her request in the form of an order.

  ‘Now that we are to prepare for an attack on Bessa, your lessons will have to stop. Our time will be taken up with other things.’ The assassin spoke with more than her usual bluntness.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right.’ Rem seemed unperturbed. ‘Most of the women and children have learned all that I can teach them, for the time being at least. There’s not much more I can do without actual scrolls.’

  Zuleika was rather discomfited by this response. She had spoken in the anticipation of hostility or at least dissent, and Rem had not only agreed with her, but substantiated her agreement with all of the arguments Zuleika had intended on using to beat her down. Thrown from her expected course, she paused for a few moments before replying.

  ‘You say that most of us have learned all we can.’

  ‘For the moment, yes.’

  Zuleika gritted her teeth. ‘I am an exception. You probably have not noticed – I am one among many – but I am finding it more difficult than most to master what you teach.’

  Rem, who had noticed everything, from the first flicker of consternation in Zuleika’s dark eyes to the latest furrow in her brow, feigned surprise.

  ‘I think it important that I become more proficient,’ Zuleika continued, a note of belligerence creeping into her tone. ‘In preparing to take the city, my talents are necessary, but the gifts we exchanged seem to indicate that yours, too, will be called for. So while there will no longer be time for you to teach everyone—’

  Rem’s eyes widened. Suddenly seeing where this was heading, she cut Zuleika off. ‘You wish me to give you private lessons,’ she finished.

  Zuleika misread the incredulous delight written on Rem’s face as indignation at this request for special treatment.

  ‘I need to learn,’ she snapped. ‘In the early days many of the women will be looking to me to—’

  ‘Of course, the others will expect you to play a leading role—’

  ‘The governance of a city requires—’

  ‘—good literacy skills. Yes, I—’

  ‘I cannot acquire such skills without your instruction,’ Zuleika interrupted.

  ‘Well, exactly.’

  The voices of the two women had risen to the point where the rest of the group could easily overhear their conversation, and were starting to glance in their direction.

  ‘So. You won’t do it,’ Zuleika growled.

  Rem stared at her in dismay. ‘But I’ve just said that I will.’

  There was a brief pause during which they both noticed the four curious stares directed towards them. Rem blushed furiously.

  ‘Oh,’ Zuleika muttered. ‘Fine, then.’

  ‘Shall we start tonight?’ Rem asked.

  ‘I would appreciate it.’

  Seeing that the argument, if it had been an argument, was at an end, the others resumed their conversation. Rem turned her attention back to Zuleika, and continued in a more even tone, ‘I can teach you every evening if you want, or in the middle of the day, when it becomes too hot to train. The others won’t miss out. Most know enough now to continue practising themselves, and those who don’t can learn from those who do. Anyway, I can restart the regular lessons once we’ve taken Bessa.’

  Zuleika raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem confident that we will take Bessa,’ she commented.

  ‘I’m not. But if we don’t, then reading lessons will not be our most pressing concern.’

  Zuleika laughed. Quietly, companionably. ‘Very true. If we do, though, you will likely find many others who wish to learn from you.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. We’ll need to build a few schools. Houses of learning,’ she added, seeing Zuleika’s expression.

  The two women conversed in this wise for a full turn of the glass before Zuleika moved off to ask Issi whether he had spotted the next marker yet. Rem watched her retreating back, the delicate arch of her neck and curve of her hips, waiting until she was quite sure that she would not turn around. She hugged her joy to herself, afraid to give it utterance.

  The evening that they returned to the camp, there was a meeting of the seraglio. After Gursoon had briefly related what transpired during their visit to the djinni, Zuleika stepped forward to explain their future course.

  An attack on Bessa would require extensive preparation and training; Zuleika estimated that a year would be sufficient for this. During this time the seraglio would remain at the bandits’ caves, where Zuleika would train them in the arts of war and develop a more detailed plan of attack.

  The production of goods for sale would cease: though not everyone would have to fight, all the women and men of the seraglio would be needed for the war effort, and there would be no more leisure for other activities. This would not bring them to hardship and deprivation, however. During the now abandoned preparations for the journey to Yrtsus, they had amassed sufficient savings to support them for almost a year.

  At many points while she spoke, Zuleika was interrupted by raised voices, their tones ranging from fear to indignation. Many among the seraglio pointed out that the vote for war had been precipitated by the threat of discovery, yet Zuleika’s plan left them no less vulnerable to that danger than they had been before.

  Zuleika allowed that this was so, but repeated what she had said in the council about preparing the deep caves to hide in, and positioning scouts a day’s ride to the south and east, so that any movement towards them from the direction of Bessa would be detected. To this she added the further precaution that they should stop trading for food and supplies in Agorath, travelling instead to Beyt Kirim or Jawahir, which they would visit for brief periods only, and with their faces heavily veiled. Enough people were satisfied by these assurances that the discussion was able to move on to other matters, an
d before long the meeting drew to an end. Before the women dispersed, Zuleika spoke once more.

  ‘When the vote was cast for war, you chose me as your general,’ she said, ‘but although I can teach you how to fight, I cannot plan this attack alone. I am not a native of Bessa, and have seen very little of the city outside of the seraglio compound. But many of you grew up there. You know its squares and buildings, the layout of its streets and the location of its gates, and we will need all of that knowledge if we are to succeed in capturing it. I need to know these things. So I want to form a council to discuss them, and ultimately to decide on the means by which we should take the city.’ She paused, as it occurred to her that some of the women might misinterpret this brief. ‘Its role will be advisory only,’ she said firmly. ‘Battles cannot be waged by committee, and the final decision on the tactics we adopt must rest with me. However, I would value advice, and anyone who feels they can provide it should come forward at the end of this meeting.’

  It was a diverse and unusual collection of people who volunteered for the war council. There was Gursoon, of course, as well as four of the nine who had helped Zuleika to defeat the guards, Umayma, Dalal, Nafisah and Zeinab. Rem offered to act as a scribe, and Issi and Bethi also placed their knowledge at Zuleika’s disposal. Unlike the women of the seraglio, their work had taken them all over the palace compound: Issi knew the grounds and stable block like the back of his rough hands, while Bethi had been everywhere in the palace itself, from the royal chambers of Bokhari’s wives to the servants’ quarters. Jamal argued that he, too, should be included.

  ‘I am of the lineage of Al-Bokhari,’ he proclaimed, drawing himself up to his full child’s height. ‘Military strategy runs in my veins.’

  The women, who well remembered Bokhari’s love for military strategy, laughed at Jamal’s pomposity. Still, he had been present at the cave of the djinni, so perhaps he was entitled to a voice. In the end he was admitted to the council.