The Steel Seraglio

by Mike Carey

  I was prepared for anything, except happiness. I returned to him a warrior. I fought my way to him through an army and across a desert, and arrived to find he had been waiting for me, with a house and a garden made ready. It should have made me glad. But I could not make him understand why the house felt like a cage.

  He took my desire to work for mere restlessness at first, then for a lack of faith in him, a fear of relying on his skills. How could I rely on him? I lay on our bed through all those endless afternoons, and watched everything that I loved about myself drifting away like dust motes in the changeless light. He asked me if I was jealous, but I never doubted his fidelity. He brought me back fruits and necklaces from the market, and could not understand why I wept.

  I cannot blame it all on his narrow-mindedness; he loved me the way he had always loved me, back when I was the daughter of a concubine, and had never dreamed of a greater joy for myself than the love he gave me. In the end, I grew up and he did not. I could not put my weapons down, and he wouldn’t see that I never raised them against him. I couldn’t make him understand that I left not because I thought his love had faded, but because it was not enough. He wanted me to feed on it and grow strong, but it was not enough, it could never be enough, to sustain me through a wasted life. In the end, I was prepared for anything except the thing I had crossed deserts to regain. So I left, to find out what I really came back for.

  Warudu

  The best part was seeing my children learn to read. I could never have afforded to apprentice them to a scholar, but after Rem built the schools, everyone learned to read.

  Efridah

  I suppose it was fifty years I worked here, since my husband died. I swept the floor for Al-Bokhari’s father before him. Sometimes I thought the broom would stick to my hands. But it was a home, and the girls were kind, mostly. Then that murderer came. When he turned us out I thought, there’s nothing to do now but pray for death. And death wouldn’t have me.

  And then it all got turned around. I came through the desert, lived in the mountains. I grew strong again. And now here I am back where I started, and it’s all different. I don’t have to hold a broom till I drop and then starve, or live off charity. They’re even building me my own house. Think of that!

  Well, I did think of it: I thought that after fifty years of slavery I would end my life as a queen. But no. It turns out they have more work in mind for me. Gursoon wants me to sit on their city council, and make laws.

  I’m not sure. I did think they might let me rest at last. But it’s only two days a week in that old bakery they’ve set up; they’ll give you tea, and Fernoush bakes her pastries there, apparently. She’s a nice girl and a good cook. So I might say yes. Perhaps I could insist that that bitch Imtisar brings me my tea.

  At all events, someone else can do the sweeping.

  Zeinab

  The things you need to order to build a city: it’s astonishing! Bricks, to rebuild the places Hakkim destroyed. Building tools; spades to dig sewers and plant seeds; pipes to carry water. And that precious material, wood—which turns out to cost nearly as much by weight as gold, but how else do you make cattle-yokes, spindles for scrolls or stools for students? I was in charge of finding it all, and working out how to get it back to us. Issi helped, of course, and ran the caravans, but I was the one who did the trading. And then after the building work, there were all the other tools. Needles and cloth. Chisels. Paints. Pens. And this new writing material that Rem loves so much: paper. You can make it from old cloth, or from wood shavings; we’ll be able to produce our own soon. Rem says it takes ink better than skins, and it certainly smells less foul when you’re preparing it.

  We’re going to be a trading centre, I can see it happening all around us. Sometimes I feel that my head can’t take all the things I need to learn: the different grades of thread; the names and market rates for precious spices. I worry that I’ll bring back too much or too little, that I’ll be cheated or buy the wrong thing entirely, and wreck a vital project. But Gursoon says there’s no one who’s better qualified, and I suppose it is going well so far.

  You know, it’s strange. My parents were poor traders: they rejoiced when I was chosen by the sultan. They thought I’d be set up for life, and my daughter too, that nothing they had given me could compare. I wish they could see me now, see how I’m valued for the skills they taught me.

  Soraya comes with me on some of the trading journeys: I want her to see how it’s done. She doesn’t have to follow in my father’s footsteps. But she’ll learn some kind of skill in Bessa. She’ll have a trade.

  Issi

  Camel-man’s a job for life, my father always told me. You’ll always be needed. Well, I don’t know about that. The past year or so I’ve been through more occupations than I knew there were. Nursemaid, farmer, builder. Trader and diplomat, now. Camel thief, too, though I haven’t told my wife about that one. Still, I can’t complain. I got back to her and the boys in one piece. And it seems I’m a big man in the city these days—they’re always calling on me for something.

  I don’t know what the hurry is with all this trading. They sent us all the way to Sussurut last month just for a load of cloth and some spices. Zeinab got a good price, of course: the girl’s a marvel. But she ought to have a rest, maybe settle down. A couple of the men have their eye on her, I know that. But you can’t tell girls what to do, these days.

  Anwar Das

  I don’t spend much time in Bessa. My work takes me to many places: Perdondaris, Agorath, Yrtsus, once or twice. I always smile when I hear I’m going there. They don’t know what a lucky escape they’ve had.

  All the cities I have visited are beautiful. Perdondaris has immense, spiralling prayer towers, and Agorath a magnificent gold-domed palace. Nor are they without their wonders. The vertical gardens of Jawahir bloom lush and green, and tower high above the arid desert all around. The sultan of Galal-Amin has carpeted the land round about his city for a mile on all sides with miniature date palms, so small they grow only to the height of one’s ankles. Visitors walk among them and think themselves giants, while the city looms above, a mother of giants. I have seen this sight with my own eyes, and it is marvellous to behold.

  More miraculous by far, however, is Lilliath, the siren-city. I see from your faces that you have never heard of this place. Few have, for its inhabitants all died long ago. It is a sad story:

  A large tribe, wandering through the desert, came across an abundance of large rocks. They seemed uncommonly well-suited for use as a building material: thick, even slabs, flat and sturdy. Their only fault was a slight jaggedness at their edges, as though they had once been joined together and had since shattered.

  The leaders of the people took these stones as a sign from the Increate, and used them to build a city, vast and mighty, on the site. They called it Lilliath, and for a time they prospered there, laying waste to the surrounding tribes and plundering their wealth. Their city, although it was perfect in all other respects, was dry as a bone, and the people had to fetch water from a spring far outside its gates.

  One night, there was a great storm over Lilliath. The next morning, the city was filled with a low rumbling sound, quiet and ominous. At first, people thought the noise merely a continuation of the thunder from the night before. When they glanced out of their windows, and saw the sky was clear, they feared it was an earthquake. But the noise continued throughout the day, and the city stood firm.

  Gradually, their terror turned to jubilation. Clearly, the rain had woken a dormant spring hidden beneath the streets. A source of water within the city gates! That evening, a vast crowd thronged through Lilliath, greedy for water. They reached the centre of the city, where the noise was loudest, and began at once to tear up the stones that paved the street there.

  Once they had removed the stones, they dug deep into the sand, searching for the spring that they were sure lay just below the surface. They
dug for a long time, and as they dug, the rumbling became louder. It had, they realised, a sort of rhythm to it. They kept digging. The rumbling rose in pitch, as if the water they sought was building in pressure on its way to the surface. Finally, a gaping hole opened beneath their fingers, and they stepped back, expecting at any moment a rushing fountain to appear. But it was no spring that the hungry rain had woken in the earth. Instead, from the dark hole, the people heard a voice. It sounded like no human voice they had ever heard, but it sang with such piercing sweetness that the crowd began to weep, at a beauty pitched to the intensity of pain. The voice gushed from the hole, filling the city with its ethereal notes, and now the buildings trembled, the ground shook. The inhabitants of Lilliath were so filled with the song pouring from the earth, that they did not notice. They did not think to run as their own city fell upon them and crushed them to death.

  I myself have never been to Lilliath, for they say that all who hear the music that still flows from the ruins of that city are driven mad. I heard the tale from a cousin of mine, who the Increate saw fit to strike deaf as a young man. It was a bitter sorrow to his parents, but as you see, for every desert storm, a date palm!

  I have, however, visited a place that was even stranger. You do not believe it is possible? Listen. Have you heard of Sah, the city of sand? You laugh: you think it no more than a fable. I did too, until experience taught me otherwise.

  It was during a trip to Jawahir, and I was hopelessly lost. My water had run out the day before, and I staggered across the featureless desert, sure that death would be my lot if I did not find a spring or an oasis soon. I had just fallen, exhausted, to the ground, when a terrific sandstorm blew up around me. The dust stung my eyes, so I flung up an arm to shield my face.

  When I risked a look to see if the storm had died down, where the swirling sands had been a great city stood, its gates just a few feet from where I lay. I walked up to it like a man in a dream, wondering that it did not crumble at my very breath. For I saw quite clearly that the pale material from which it was made was not stone but sand, gritty and fine. I ran my hand over the surface of its walls, and felt the tiny grains shift and stir beneath my fingers, much as they would if I ran my hand along the sand at my feet. Yet the city stood before me still, as real and sturdy as if it were built from granite.

  I stepped back and surveyed it. Its whole surface seemed to shift and change, a motion I had taken to be an effect of the heat-haze at first. I could see now that it was the wind, rippling the surface of the city as it passed. The storm raged on, but the sand that it once moved had been transformed. These reflections occupied me for some moments, but as you can well imagine, by this point I had more pressing matters on my mind. A city, even a shimmering spirit-city borne through the desert by a sandstorm, might offer some source of water.

  I stumbled through the deserted streets, calling out for help in a hoarse voice. The denizens of that strange place waited until dusk before they graced me with their presence. I saw several little drifts of sand rushing towards me, and a fragrant breeze caressed my cheek and ruffled my hair. The ribbons of blown sand seemed to fountain up into the air, and all at once I was surrounded by a crowd of ghostly forms, who peered at me with gentle interest.

  They never spoke, but they laughed sometimes: rustling, whispering laughter. They were very welcoming, and wanted me to stay and marry the sultan’s daughter (a story for another occasion, I think). I have to say, though, that their tastes were quite different from my own. All they drank was a curious wine, distilled from the desert heat haze, that seemed to bring about intoxication very quickly. They offered me a flask of it, and after I had taken it, and thanked them gratefully, the winds that blew perpetually outside the walls rushed in, and the entire place dissolved again into the sandstorm. It was gone before I could raise a hand to cover my eyes.

  Thankfully, the contents of the flask were enough to last me the rest of my journey. I arrived in Jawahir, considerably inebriated but alive. Unfortunately, no one believed my strange tale, for the flask, as soon as I had drained its contents, crumbled back into the sand from which it had been crafted. I keep its remains still, in a bag which I carry always on my person. Have a look if you like, and witness for yourselves the truth of what I say.

  Ah, my friends! I have visited Khyir, and eaten the fruits that grow there: the sun fruit, grown from seeds sown at dawn, and the moon fruit, harvested on the nights of the full. I have been to Fikri, the great city underground, and to Safa-al-Din, the city built on stilts. In Qismat, they hailed me as a hero, and I departed laden with many treasures, while in Tish-Barat they chased me with spears, and I barely escaped with my life. I could have settled in any one of those cities. Most (with perhaps the exception of Tish-Barat) would have welcomed me. On my travels, I have seen a thousand marvels, and I see more with every cycle of the moon.

  But in every city I visit, when I tell the people there of the wonders of Bessa, their eyes go round and wide, and they listen like little children, struck dumb with amazement. And of all the beauties of all the cities I have ever seen, the best is the sight of Bessa’s gates, standing open like great arms in the last light of the evening, welcoming me home. There is not another city like Bessa anywhere on this wide earth, my friends. Not a one.

  Bethi

  No doubt about it, life is more interesting now. But you know what, outside the palace there isn’t nearly such a call for hairdressers as I thought there’d be.

  A friend of mine says I have a talent for storytelling, that perhaps I could make a living that way. It’s certainly a thought.

  Rem

  We are ahead of our time. So far ahead, that sometimes it seems we’re in the wrong millennium entirely. It doesn’t matter a damn. The city was built on a fault line, dropped into the middle of a spider’s web. It shook things up, and the tremors of its coming reached backwards and forwards and out on all sides.

  I always saw it, as a child, glowing in the distance as if in the desert at night, a day’s journey away. Its light transfixed me then, and it has been drawing me to it ever since, across that desert of years. I see it still, now that I am living in it, and it flows over and around me like a river.

  It is a masterpiece of fragments, spangled light and colour that fills my mouth with song and my eyes with tears. I can cry here, finally. I bottle the ink, give it to Zeinab to sell in the market. It is popular.

  So are my poems. I sign them, as I sign everything, with an eye, proffering a single tear. Rem the weeper. One who fashions all things from her sorrow. I knew, I have always known, that I would one day be in a position to laugh at that prophecy. It does not deaden the sharpness of the joy I feel now. Nor does the knowledge that it will one day be fulfilled again deaden it. I have always known this to be the case.

  The city shines in the centre of time, a solid ruby hung on a string of driftwood beads, floating in a landscape of black on black. Everything that came before was a crescendo, and everything that comes after a tailing off. It will fall, in the end, into that darkness, and all its works will turn to dust. It doesn’t matter a damn. It exists now, it will always have existed. It is enough.

  Zuleika

  No one said it would be easy, and it wasn’t. We did it anyway.

  Book the Second

  The Gold of Anwar Das

  “You know why I asked you to come, Anwar Das?”

  “If I may speak my heart, Lady Gursoon, I think it’s because the City of Women finds it expedient to have a man for its ambassador—and you don’t know that many men who you actually trust.”

  “Do you think you could take on this role for us?”

  “Of course. My previous job involved a great deal of diplomacy and protocol.”

  “You were a camel thief.”

  “Yes. The diplomacy and protocol arose more in the fencing of the camels afterwards. But tell me, lady. What does Bessa need most at this point i
n its trajectory? Wealth? Influence? Accurate intelligence as to its rivals’ doings?”

  “Stability, Anwar Das. We need something that will ensure we can survive, and thrive, in a future that is uncertain and likely to be stormy.”

  “And now I have my brief. Thank you, lady.”

  “Thank you, Anwar Das. When can you start?”

  “I was on payroll, wise and beauteous one, from the moment when I bowed to you.”

  Arriving in Heqa’a on the back of a camel whose name was Muzra, the Whirlwind, Anwar Das of Bessa took up residence in the Imtil. From there, he sent gifts of wine and dates to the esteemed and noble house of Omran Injustari. He did not, at this time, present himself at that house, but announced his willingness to do so at a time that might be mutually convenient.

  Only silence in reply, but Anwar Das was not discouraged. He obtained privy access to Injustari’s sister, the celestially beautiful Siyah Sireyah. Extremely privy access: they made love for the best part of an afternoon, in a great variety of positions, and afterwards lay in each other’s arms, spent and sweaty and highly satisfied with the day’s labours.

  “You are a strange man,” Siyah Sireyah murmured.

  “Am I?” Anwar Das affected dismay. “I thought I was a comparatively well formed one.”

  “Oh, as to that,” the lady murmured, “I have no complaints. But it’s strange that the City of Women should send us such a . . . what’s the word? . . . such a virile ambassador.”

  Anwar Das frowned judiciously. “Bessa, lady, is far more than that sobriquet suggests,” he told her. “A city whose populace were entirely female would be doomed to last only a generation, unless women like bees could find the secret of reproducing their kind without the intervention of the male sex. Until that happens, we men will always be at your side, ready at need to play our part in the propagation of the species.”