The Steel Seraglio

by Mike Carey

  “Yes.”

  “Whose throat you forbore to slit, despite my earnest pleading.”

  “Even him.”

  “So divine a thing is mercy.”

  “Go ahead and gloat.”

  They drank in silence for a minute or two, musing on the implications of this. Then Anwar Das resumed.

  “Depressing as that is, it’s not the worst news,” he said. “From Ibu Kim, I followed the Lion’s trail westward.”

  “Westward? There’s nothing west of Ibu Kim but the sea.”

  “Aye, exactly. And on the sea, a fishing port, so small it doesn’t even have a name. And yet, in that negligible place, I met a great many slab-faced men with their own weapons and armour, not one of whom could get his tongue around a simple ‘good morning.’ I know, because I am uncommonly polite and exchanged the time of day with dozens of them. Whatever their native language was, it was not one I knew. Some of them may not even have had a native language.”

  Zuleika so far lost control of herself that she stood, and took an involuntary step towards Anwar Das. “Mercenaries,” she said.

  “Barbarians,” he countered coldly. “Call them what they are. Men from the lands north of the Tigris, who never knew until now that civilization resumed beyond the desert’s reach. How our young Lion made contact with them in the first place, we may not guess—still less, how he was able to negotiate with them or in what coin he pays them. But he has bought himself an army, nonetheless, and an army of indecent size. He hasn’t bought it to let it lie unused.

  “He will bring it here. He will bring it against us. I think he only waits now because in the plan he has formulated he will come to Bessa when Bessa is already on its knees—and for the moment, though we stagger, we still stand.”

  Zuleika put her free hand to the hilt of her sword, and half-drew it from its sheath. Her own words from another time rose in her mind. “We must become once again the seraglio of steel,” she said.

  “Ah,” said Anwar Das. “But that was another battle, against a lesser enemy. Will steel suffice, this time? I think it may not.”

  “Then we’ll become that thing on which steel breaks,” Zuleika said.

  The Making Ready

  Even though Anwar Das had located and identified Jamal’s army, it was no easy matter for the Bessan polity to chart its progress. At first, Zuleika sent agents into the field to locate and follow the horde; she abandoned this approach after the third such agent failed to report back. Clearly, whatever else they were, the barbarians whose loyalty Jamal was renting were no fools. They had scouts out around the main body, and the scouts had sufficient experience to blood their own tracks.

  The next attempt, which entailed trying to get one or more of her people recruited into Jamal’s forces, fared no better. Anwar Das had heard rumours that the Lion of the Desert had been recruiting followers from Ibu Kim and Susurrut, but it was soon evident that his muster was full. Zuleika’s agents wasted weeks trawling the taverns and whorehouses of those cities, without encountering a single press gang or even a bandit on a weekend pass.

  The truth was that Zuleika’s skills, as far as warfare went, had always been tactical rather than strategic. Gifted though she was with intelligence and animal cunning, it still didn’t come naturally to her to think on these scales. It took a combination of the four of them, Gursoon as well as Anwar Das, Rem alongside Zuleika, to find a way past this impasse. It was unsubtle, but it was effective, providing an accurate picture of Jamal’s forces which—though it came with a built-in time delay—entailed no risk.

  It worked in this wise: Zuleika set her spies to wait at the waterholes, and to ask the refugees who came through there, fleeing ahead of the horde, from whence they had come and for how long they had travelled. There were more than enough people there to ask, for though the Lion’s forces did not lay siege to any of the cities they passed, and indeed skirted as wide of them as was feasible, they had no choice but to live off the land. Their quartermasters and acaters pillaged the goat herds of the mountain peoples and the tent villages of the plains nomads, and those people moved on before them in a great wave of the displaced and the pauperised.

  Debates ensued in the Jidur as to whether these refugees should be offered sanctuary.

  Farhat: I don’t think we can let them go on into the deep desert. They’re exhausted already. They won’t survive.

  Khelia: But we have no room. Where would they live?

  Imtisar: Some of them could live in the barracks. Don’t we need soldiers? Well, here are soldiers in plenty.

  Zuleika: Untrained, undernourished, and terrified. They wouldn’t be soldiers, they’d be oxen in a fire pit, waiting to be roasted. Take them in, by all means, but if you’re thinking of enlisting them into the city guard, then you might as well save time and effort by cutting their throats as soon as they sign their names.

  Issi: We should at least make the offer. Compassion demands that we take them in, if they want to come here.

  Gursoon: There’s no compassion in inviting these wretches into a war zone.

  This last was unanswerably true. Judging by the combined accounts of the refugees, there could no longer be any doubt: the Lion’s army was heading towards Bessa, steadily and directly. Even its slow progress was bad news rather than good, because Gursoon and her lawmakers knew exactly what it meant. An army that wanted only to raid, as some of the plains tribesmen had once raided across the northern reaches of As-Sahra, could move with spectacular speed and be at the gates of a city almost before the watchmen had raised a cry. But an army that meant to lay siege required solid lines of supply, and therefore moved more slowly, cementing in place the support structures that would later keep it alive. Jamal’s measured progress was an indication that he meant business.

  More handwringing and heart-searching in the Jidur, but on this point very little argument.

  Risheah: This is our home, and we love it. Of course we’ll fight for it, and die for it. If we lose Bessa, that will be like death in any case.

  Lying at Zuleika’s side, Rem listened in silence to long accounts of the preparations that she already had in train. She had a score of fletchers turning out arrows, and two score blacksmiths forging swords at a fantastic rate, and despite her sour words about making untrained people fight, she had instituted a voluntary training regime for the ordinary people of the city, who were being drilled in the use of these newly delivered weapons by sergeants selected and overseen by Zuleika herself.

  There was an unspoken question in all of this, which Zuleika forbore to ask. Do we win? Do we prevail here, and go on as we have done before, or do we end now in blood and fire?

  Rem could not answer. Because her own survival was directly involved, and because of the inverse square law already described elsewhere in this narrative, the answer changed from moment to moment and seemed to hinge on things that made no sense to her. So she did not speak but only listened, her head resting in the crook of Zuleika’s shoulder, breathing in the musk of her sweat and watching the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. Before the library fell, it had been the place of all her happiness. Now the place of all her happiness was here, in this room, in this bed, and in these arms. If a word she could speak would save the city, or save Zuleika though the city burned, she would speak that word though it burst her lungs and cleft her heart.

  But there was no word. All of her visions agreed on the blood, the pain, the slaughter that was to come. All converged on a scene in which Jamal, older but still recognizable, walked through Bessa’s streets and was met at every door post, every turning, by the bodies of the dead. With that sight painted on her inner eye, Rem was blind to all else and mute in the face of Zuleika’s logistical commentaries.

  Their lovemaking, also, was desperate and clumsy, as though they had forgotten the rhythms of each other’s desire. They had not forg
otten, but the future lay like a pit between them: fearful of falling into it, they misjudged every word and foreshortened every gesture. It was a terrible time.

  The response of the city at large, meanwhile, was more equivocal or at least more nuanced than Zuleika’s. There were still some speakers in the Jidur who believed that a truce of some kind might still be possible, and that negotiators should be sent to meet Jamal’s armies on their way. Gursoon did not subscribe to this view, but the vote went against her and she dutifully assembled and sent forth a diplomatic legation. Jamal’s old friend from their desert-wandering days, Zufir, volunteered to lead it, and after some discussion was allowed to do so. But when fourteen days had passed and the delegation still hadn’t returned, even the most optimistic began to see war as inevitable.

  It was at this point that the city suffered another blow.

  Gursoon’s illness had been advancing slowly, leaving her each week a little stiffer, a little more easily tired. Her mind was as sharp as ever, but much of the day to day running of the city she now left to her trusted lieutenants. Anwar Das handled most of the diplomatic missions, Zeinab the trading agreements (her mentor Issi having long since retired), while the public works were overseen by Huma, who had a remarkable head for figures, and Mir Bin Shah, one of the chief builders. Gursoon’s opinion was still valued, and her good sense and experience as an arbiter were as much in demand as ever. But she spent more of her time than before drinking coffee outside the bakery, or walking the streets of the city, stopping every now and then as if to fix some familiar scene more firmly in her mind.

  The week after the delegation had been expected to return, the council sat as usual, discussing matters both weighty and mundane. A motion to send a second party after Zufir’s was defeated; there were too many reasons to fear the worst. A report on the state of the city’s provisions was satisfactory: the year’s grain and date harvest looked promising, and the weapons-store was well maintained. The small schoolhouse to the east of the city needed pens and a wooden bench, and a new sewer was required by the cattle-market. The meeting broke up early, with the uncertain fate of Zufir and his party weighing heavy on everyone’s mind. The other council members clustered around Umayma, Zufir’s mother, as they left the house, offering what cheer and reassurance they could. But Gursoon remained in her seat, and Zeinab returned to see what the matter was.

  “Zeinab,” the old woman said in a low voice, “I can’t move.”

  They made her up a bed in the House of the Lawmakers. Nafisah was called at once, along with Gursoon’s son and daughter. Farhat, grey-faced, ran to the spice warehouse and scrabbled through the jars and sacks for remedial herbs. But before nightfall it was clear that the Lady Gursoon was dying.

  She could still speak. She called Zeinab to her first, then Huma. Zeinab’s daughter Soraya, who had just returned from a trading journey, accompanied them. Gursoon was propped on pillows, with her daughter Mayisah and Farhat at her sides to hold her upright. She gave each of her two lieutenants instructions on the matters she thought most urgent—securing the crops and looking to the repair of the city walls—then fell back against her attendants, closing her eyes. “Thank you, my dears, for everything,” she whispered. The three women kissed her and left weeping. It was only Soraya who replied.

  “Thank you, Auntie, for your stories.”

  Gursoon’s interview with Anwar Das was shorter, and she sent away her daughter and her friend while she spoke to him. He left stony-faced, and would tell no one what she had said. By this time the square had filled with people, friends and gawpers in equal measures. Among them were the crowd of Gursoon’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but even the youngest waited patiently until they were called, knowing that their grandmother had a duty to the whole city.

  “She wants to see you,” Anwar Das said shortly to Rem and Zuleika as he emerged. He did not indicate which of them he meant, so they went in together.

  Gursoon was still alone, leaning against her pillows, eyes closed. But as they approached they heard her gasp, as if in pain. It came to Rem with a sudden horror that the old woman was crying, and she left Zuleika’s side and ran to embrace her.

  “How can I leave you?” Gursoon sobbed. “War is coming again—after all I tried to do—and I don’t think we can keep them out. I could have done more. Why must I go now?”

  She looked into Rem’s face, and Rem knew she was asking for reassurance. She wished with all her heart that she could lie convincingly.

  “We won’t . . . the future’s not fixed,” she stammered. “We may yet drive Jamal off.”

  Zuleika knelt at Gursoon’s other side. “It’s no time to despair,” she said with surprising gentleness. “We have a strong army, we’re well supplied, and we have good people, who will make the right decisions and know what to do. You’ve taught us well. You’ve built a city that can go on without you.”

  Gursoon seemed a little comforted. She had stopped sobbing, but her eyes were still bright with tears.

  “It’s true,” she said. “And yet, Bessa will fall.”

  “Yes,” Rem said.

  Zuleika looked at her in shock. But she knew what to say now. The words flowed from her as smoothly as prophecy.

  “It will fall, in time, as all things fall, and the sand will close over it. That happens to all cities. But Bessa is not like other cities: nothing like it was ever seen before. It won’t be forgotten. We’ve brought a new possibility into the world; that’s your achievement.”

  Gursoon sighed.

  “I spent my life holding back the sandstorm,” she said. “I suppose that’s an achievement too.” Her voice was growing weaker. “Well, then, that’s how it will be.” She gave an irritable twitch. “But I can’t move my arm. Wipe my eyes for me, dear. And then send my family in.”

  Lady Gursoon, Speaker of the Council, was given the kind of funeral previously reserved for sultans. All of Bessa, it seemed, wanted to attend. The procession wound through the four main streets and finished in the Jidur, with addresses by the council, her daughter and friends, and anyone else who wished to speak.

  “She said not to make a fuss,” Danyar complained as he watched the crowd file past his mother’s body. “She didn’t want any of this carrying-on. No more did my dad!”

  His eldest granddaughter, who had been clinging to his hand with both her own, turned up a tearstained face.

  “But everyone else wants to honour them,” she said. “And they both deserved it.”

  Imtisar came out of the crowd, walking slowly on two sticks. Mayisah came forward and helped her to a seat beside them.

  “Thank you for your generous words, just now,” Danyar said to Imtisar.

  The old woman made a dismissive gesture. “No more than her due. I have something for you here.” She fumbled in her clothes, and handed something to Mayisah. “I always meant to give it back to her. I delayed too long. But it was only ever borrowed.”

  “Her ruby,” Mayisah said in wonder. “The one the sultan gave her.”

  Imtisar nodded. “The diplomacy stone,” she said. “Did your mother ever tell you the story of how it came to her? It could have no better owner.”

  The mourning had to be short-lived: there was too much work to be done. Zeinab took over Gursoon’s role as Speaker, and she and Huma consulted widely on the state of Bessa’s defences. In some ways, they were robust. The palace, though it had been allowed to fall somewhat into disrepair, was still for the most part intact. With the Jidur’s approval, Huma commissioned repairs so that it could serve as a final redoubt if the need arose. The walls, though, were another story: they had been neglected during the long years of the peace, as other civic building programmes continually took precedence. Now that there was so little time left to work in, it became apparent that in some areas the damage and dilapidation were more severe than had ever been imagined. The Southern ga
te, which at one point had been converted into a cock-fighting pit by one of the city’s dodgier entrepreneurs, was scarcely defensible.

  There was the problem of the water supply, too, but here it seemed little could be done. As the city’s population had grown, it had come more and more to depend on three new wells dug some quarter of a mile outside the walls. Those wells would become unreachable on the first day of a siege, and from that day onward the city’s daily needs would outstrip its secure supply by some two thousand gallons.

  Zeinab gave orders for water to be drawn from the external wells and stored in tanks and jars in the warehouses left depleted by the Lion’s raids. Grain not yet quite ripe was nonetheless being harvested and stored too, and rationing had already been introduced in anticipation of the coming siege.

  All was bustle and activity, and on the surface it was hopeful and purposeful enough. Beneath that surface, though, and not a long way beneath, there was a great knot of fears and forebodings, a sense that the city was facing a crisis it was ill-equipped to weather, and that the Increate (for whatever inscrutable reasons) had turned His face from Bessa.

  “Bugger the Increate with an iron bar,” Zuleika snarled when she heard such thoughts expressed. “The Increate doesn’t live locally.” Because she was much admired, it was an opinion that was much quoted. But the fears and forebodings persisted, nonetheless.

  On the day before the Lion’s army was expected to come into sight, Zuleika held a final meeting. It was closed to those outside the circle of the lawmakers, not because there was any great fear of spies within the city but because some of what was on the agenda had profound implications for morale. Present were Zuleika herself, Imtisar, Anwar Das, Farhat, Zeinab, Huma, Umayma (by then Zuleika’s deputy) and the master builder Mir Bin Shah, who had been made responsible for overseeing the repairs to the walls and fortifications.

  Mir reported first, and the others heard him out without interruption. He was a somewhat overweight man in his late forties, with a hectic red complexion and a tendency to sweat heavily, which combined to give him, perpetually, the look of a man who had just finished a five-mile run—but since his alarming appearance was matched by a keen mind and an absolute discretion, he had come in recent weeks to inherit a set of responsibilities far outside his usual area of expertise.