The Steel Seraglio

by Mike Carey

  “But I leave the final count, and of course my fate—the fate of all these men who kneel here—to you. Baraha barahinei. And may your days on Earth be strewn with blessings as thick as blossoms in spring.”

  A smattering of applause broke out among the women, and voices could be heard returning Anwar Das’s blessing. Discomfited, Zuleika fell back to confer with Gursoon.

  “I’m going to lose this vote, aren’t I?” she muttered.

  “I think it’s very likely,” Gursoon said. “And you could argue that he’s paid us back in our own coin. We took them in with a story—and here he’s done the same thing to us.”

  “It’s only because he’s good looking! I should have let one of the ugly ones speak.”

  “It’s partly because of that, but also because of his ready tongue.”

  “Yes,” Zuleika agreed gloomily. “I’m sure many of them are thinking of his ready tongue.”

  “He could be an asset to us,” Gursoon pointed out.

  “He could be a pain in the arse,” Zuleika countered.

  They both had many weighty matters on their mind right then, and might have come to other conclusions if they had had the leisure to think longer on the matter. But they were both right.

  Reading Lessons, Part the First

  In the evening of the same day, the seraglio had its first meeting. An outcrop of flat rock outside what had previously been the bandits’ cave formed a natural stage, and when the air cooled, the concubines, the serving women, all twelve bandits, and Issi and his team all congregated in front of it, sitting on the sand, which was still warm from the sun’s heat. Gursoon climbed heavily onto the rocky platform and addressed them all in a voice that remained loud and carrying, despite her age.

  “We have come far today,” she said. “This morning, we had nothing but our thirst. Now, we have a home, or at least something that will serve as one for the time being, and”—and here she gave Anwar Das and the brigands a meaningful stare—“some new allies, who have promised us their aid.”

  A few of the girls blushed and giggled at Gursoon’s words. The thieves had already attracted considerable attention, and Anwar Das, with his charming smile and winning manners, was proving particularly popular. Standing together towards the back of the group, the brigands were beginning to reconsider their earlier reluctance to surrender to a bunch of women, and swelled a little at getting a mention in the lady’s speech. Some of them were returning the interested glances of the women around them with what they optimistically hoped was a smouldering animal magnetism.

  Gursoon, as far away as she was, noted this with a wry smile. The closer the group became, the easier it would be to prevent friction and schisms when the difficulties of their new life began to bite. She continued, however, in a stern tone. “Let me be clear about our situation, and what it means: we are in the middle of the desert. The very nearest village is many days’ journey away. Out here, those of us who were in the sultan’s seraglio are no longer concubines. The term has no meaning any more.

  “But that is not the only thing which has no meaning. Farhat, Bethi, Thana.” The serving women stirred in surprise as they heard some of their number mentioned. “If I am no longer a courtesan, then you are no longer servants. We all of us served the same master, in our different ways, but he is dead, and the man who killed him would have killed all of us, too. His rules do not apply to us here, and neither do the hierarchies he created for us. In order to survive, we are all going to have to work until our fingernails bleed, and if the hundreds of us who were concubines sit around waiting for the few of us who were servants to do all the work, whining at them to brush our hair and put up our tents, then we’re lost before we start!”

  Gursoon’s voice had risen towards the end of her speech. Some of the girls, she noticed, had bowed their heads in shame at the sharpness of her rebuke. “From this point on,” she concluded, speaking more gently, “we are all equals. Now, we must decide what we are going to do next.”

  “And I suppose you’re the one to tell us, are you?” Imtisar’s voice cut viciously through the crowd. She had been seething throughout Gursoon’s speech, first at the way Gursoon had swept in and taken control, then at the personal insult she had felt implied in her comments. Imtisar remembered all too vividly how she had told Bethi off for waking her roughly that morning, and then shouted at Thana for drinking from the spring before she herself had had her turn. What was more, she felt that she had every right to act in this way, and bitterly resented Gursoon’s interference. What could a dancing girl know of the correct way to treat servants?

  “Actually, I was going to suggest that Zuleika give her counsel,” Gursoon replied mildly. “Without her presence of mind, we would be in a shallow grave right now. She has protected us this far, and I think she will have more idea than I of how we should proceed.”

  Zuleika needed no further encouragement. “We need to find a new city,” she said, striding to the front and mounting the stage as she spoke. “A city which will take us in, and which is far enough from Bessa that we will not be sought there.” This was met with a general murmur of assent, though there were those who looked a little disappointed. Umayma’s face fell at the thought that she was so soon to relinquish her newfound freedom, but she held her peace in deference to Zuleika’s wisdom. Zuleika noticed Zeinab getting hesitantly to her feet.

  “Zeinab?” She motioned for the girl to speak.

  “If we need to find a city that’s far from Bessa, then our best chance of success is Yrtsus,” she said shyly. “It’s a good six months’ journey to the east. Even my father has only been there once.”

  Her announcement caused consternation. The murmurs of agreement turned into alarm, and several people stood up at once to speak. Imtisar was first.

  “Yrtsus? Are you sun-struck? That’s leagues away, you stupid girl!”

  “We can’t go all the way there,” Layla wailed. “We would die on the journey!”

  “If we don’t try it, we’ll die here!” Zuleika silenced the group with a motion of her hand. “What do you think will happen if we go to Perdondaris or Agorath? Do you really think that Hakkim will stop looking for us? We have with us an heir to the throne!”

  Jamal glanced up in sudden interest from where he was sitting by the cave mouth, surrounded by a small circle of other children. The meeting had already moved on, however, so he returned to impressing them with tales of his father’s power.

  “Zuleika is right.” Gursoon spoke from where she sat, on the edge of the stage. “Agorath has always had strong diplomatic relations with our city, while Perdondaris cares for nothing save its own security. If we looked for sanctuary in either, they would send us straight back to Hakkim. But Yrtsus has hardly any dealings with Bessa. In all the time I spent at Al-Bokhari’s side, listening to the reports of his envoys and watching him receive foreign visitors, I never met anyone from there, or even heard the place mentioned. It’s a small city, forgotten by most.”

  “Then it’s perfect for our purposes,” Zuleika continued, “But such a long journey will be extremely arduous. We must prepare carefully. We need enough food and water to get us fairly on our way. Buying that many provisions will be costly.”

  Zeinab stood up again. “I know how to drive a bargain. My father was a tradesman. Let me sell some of our camels in the market at Agorath. We have a few more than we need, now,” she said, though she shuddered slightly as she thought of the men who had once rode those spare camels, and their grim fate. “If we sell them off we can use the money to—”

  Issi stood up hastily. “Zei, those camels are not yours to sell,” he interrupted. He had already admitted to his men what had really happened on the night the guards disappeared, and to his surprise, their reactions had contained more anger at the sultan’s cruelty than at him for lying to them earlier. A few of them had been chosen by the women of the s
eraglio as their companions, and other bonds had grown up between them over the few weeks they had been travelling.

  Issi himself, notwithstanding his antipathy to Zuleika, found many of the women very good company. Bethi the serving girl made him laugh with her dirty songs, and he often gossiped with her about the scandals and secrets of the servants they had left behind them in Bessa. For Zeinab he had an almost fatherly affection. She had a remarkable memory for the routes she had taken with her father on his trading journeys, and Issi had started to teach her the markers and layouts of the other trading routes he was familiar with, as well as the trails to Galal-Amin and Jawahir along which he used to drive his camels as a younger man. She listened to his recollections with real interest, asking lots of questions and making him sketch out the paths he described in the sand whenever they stopped to rest. Privately, Issi thought she had more potential as a camel-driver than any of his own boys. Her daughter Soraya had started coming to him and begging for piggybacks. All things considered, his loyalties, and those of his men, lay more with those who were now their travelling companions than with the new ruler they had left behind. Still, he felt he must speak up.

  “My men and I have families back in Bessa,” he pointed out, “and the camels you speak of belong to the sultan. If we return home with fewer than we started out with, what are we going to tell him when he asks what has become of his livestock?”

  “You forget, Issi, you are travelling with murderers and fugitives now.” Umayma, who sat at Issi’s side, flashed him a slightly frightening smile. “We dispatched Hakkim Mehdad’s soldiers; I doubt he’ll have trouble believing that we stole a few of his camels into the bargain.”

  That silenced Issi, though it left him wondering anew that such beautiful women could be so perverse and unnatural in their behaviour.

  “Even if we sold all of them,” Zuleika said, “they wouldn’t fetch enough. We need something else.”

  There was silence at that. Then, a bandit stood up and eyed the group awkwardly, going red under Zuleika’s quizzical gaze. “Well, it probably hasn’t occurred to ladies of your pedigree, but me and the lads have some—well—we have some less—umm—legitimate ways of making money.”

  The suggestion was met with howls of outrage. He sat down again hurriedly.

  “We appreciate the offer,” Gursoon addressed him with stony dignity, “but the crimes we have committed were forced upon us. We’re dealing now with choices, and I doubt that any of us would choose to save ourselves by attacking and despoiling others.”

  Sitting beside the humiliated bandit, Anwar Das put his head in his hands.

  “Increate preserve us, Rahid,” he muttered, “now is not the time to be reminding everyone of why we’re not to be trusted. We need to direct their attention elsewhere.” Suddenly, his eyes lit up. He considered a moment, head on one side, and leapt to his feet.

  “How many of you know how to weave?” he asked. There were confused looks, then all of the servants and most of the concubines raised their hands.

  “Good! Then I think I see something you can do. Both Zeinab and Zuleika have spoken with wisdom. Selling a camel or two would raise you some money, but not enough to buy all the provisions you need. The thing about money is that it is shy and skittish, like a jerboa. It won’t come of its own accord; it must be coaxed from its hiding places, and it is rarely at ease unless it is surrounded by more of its kind. You shouldn’t squander what little you can make from the camels on provisions, you should use it to lure more money in. If you spend it on a few reels of thread, some weaving tablets, and a loom, then you can make tapestries, woven belts and bracelets, and sell them in Agorath. The money from the camels will vanish as soon as it is spent, but you can keep weaving until you have enough to fund a journey to the ends of the earth!”

  Anwar Das had hit upon an ideal plan, and the group rippled with approving murmurs and nods as he spoke. When he finished, there was a flurry of voices. Warudu, one of the older women in the Seraglio, exclaimed with some excitement, “Why stop at weaving? I can whittle some of those little wooden animals that I make sometimes for my sons. They’re not much, I know, but they would probably fetch a few dirhams.”

  Maysoon got up next. “My father is a potter,” she said, in her quiet, accented voice. “If we buy some clay, I can make bowls and jugs as well, and I’d be happy to teach others the craft.”

  Farhat listened to the chorus of eager voices uneasily. She was thinking of her mysterious conversation with the sick woman, Rem, when she was raving from the heat. It felt presumptuous to offer her services as an embroiderer, yet she did have a certain talent—all the women said so. She rose uncertainly to her feet, her face heating under the force of the gazes that turned upon it.

  “For what it’s worth, I do a little needlework in my spare time,” she mumbled. Gursoon smiled at her old friend encouragingly.

  “I would say more than a little, Farhat. Your skills are admired by us all, and they would be a welcome addition to our efforts”.

  In the general hubbub, at first no one noticed the slight figure approaching from the cave mouth. Farhat had left Rem to sleep, judging her too weak still for much exertion. The noise of the group had woken her, however, and she knew already the subject of their discussion. Now she walked slowly, still dizzy from sleep, to the stage.

  “Rem!” Gursoon hesitated, then helped the girl up. “Do you have something to say?”

  “Yes, lady. It won’t take long, I promise.” Rem turned to face the group, who had quieted in anticipation of her words.

  “Most of you don’t yet know me, but believe me when I say that I know all of you better than I know the lines on my own hand. My name is Rem. I give you all my grateful thanks for allowing me to accompany you. Without your kindness I would have died. There isn’t much I can offer you in return, but I heard you all talking about your crafts, and thought of one thing that I might contribute. I’m afraid that it will not make you any money, but I think it valuable nonetheless. I have no skill at weaving or embroidery, but back in Bessa I worked in the library disguised as a boy, and I know how to read and write. I would like to teach any of you who are interested, to make myself useful, if you will permit me.”

  There was a buzz of excitement. Few women in Bessa knew how to read, and most of the concubines had simply never thought of it before. With the offer laid before them, however, there came memories of brothers poring over scrolls or sent off to learn under an older scholar, fathers who read aloud in the evenings, older cousins speaking with offhand arrogance about their latest visit to Bessa’s magnificent library. Most had not the faintest idea of how one even went about reading, but suddenly it had all the savour of a forbidden thing.

  Zuleika frowned; in her opinion, anything which did not generate money would only serve to distract them all from their immediate and pressing business. But Rem’s idea had stirred a thought in her own mind. She remembered the messenger arriving in the tent, the scroll he read out, the news it contained. If he had not decided to read that scroll aloud, things would have turned out very differently. It discomfited her, even offended her sense of her own professional competences, to think how close they had all come to death. So she answered Rem with a curt nod, rather than the dismissive refusal she had originally intended. “Yes, being able to read might prove useful,” she agreed.

  “Then let us carry it so,” Gursoon said, cutting off further discussion. “For now, though, the night is far advanced, and we must rest. Issi, Zeinab, you two should start for Agorath tomorrow at first light to sell the camels and buy everything we need. Keep your heads down, and Zeinab, wear a veil to avoid being recognized. It’s an outside chance, I know, but still possible. Anyone who wants something bought, speak to these two before they leave tomorrow!”

  With that, the group dispersed.

  The selling of the camels was accomplished without drama or incident
, but it was a full week before Issi and Zeinab returned, hot and exhausted but triumphant. They had retained two of the beasts, which were loaded down with the goods they had purchased.

  During their absence, Warudu had already cut down one of the stunted wild acacias which grew by the side of the pool next to the cave, and was busy instructing a large group of women in the techniques of carving. A couple of bandits were loitering nearby, trying to overhear as much of her advice as they could without appearing too interested. On the other side of the small valley, Rem was deep in her reading lessons. Anwar Das, Zuleika, and a cluster of others sat in front of her, while she scratched characters in the sand with a sharp stick borrowed from Warudu’s tree. Issi’s men had cut down some more acacias, and were constructing some sort of rough framework of wooden stakes.

  “It’s for drying strips of meat,” the chief camel-driver explained to Zeinab when the workers came into view. “They want to go out and hunt oryx tomorrow. Their meat doesn’t taste too bad, and their horns sell like white gold to the ivory traders.”

  An air of intense concentration hung over the small groups as they worked, talking quietly amongst themselves. To Rem, it felt as if the silence which had always saturated her library had risen from out the gutted building like a spirit sent forth from a corpse, drifted over the desert till it had found her, and settled where she was.

  When she saw Issi and Zeinab approaching, she gestured to her students, and went over with them to unload the camels. Sounds of movement came from the caves as the women sleeping inside woke up and came to help. They emerged stretching into the pleasant evening air, running across the sand with eager voices to greet their friends and ask what success they had had. Through a mixture of Zeinab’s wily haggling and Issi’s stubbornness, the two had managed to return with six reels of thread, a bag of weaving tablets, a block of clay, and some fabric for embroidery, as well as grain to eat. Gursoon grinned at the sight of their haul piled up outside the cave mouth.