Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  Orzala reclined back onto the bed, her hand wrapping around Ashallah’s. “I hope your next mission won’t be so long.”

  “Me too,” Ashallah added as she laid next to her sister, stroking her hair with her other hand.

  Ashallah lied next Orzala until she had fallen asleep. By then, dawn was creeping through the slits of her window shutters, the light a series of small shapes that grew bolder with each passing minute. Ommah will awaken soon, Ashallah told herself. For the time of prayer is soon at hand. Best to leave now.

  ***

  Like desert squirrels on terebinth trees, Ashallah’s feet danced over the roofs and sky courtyards of the city. The day was not yet strong, but the streets below teemed with all manners of stimuli. The scent of fresh pita and naan wafted on the breezes of the morning, along with the aroma of pressed lotus flowers and oasis roses from the local perfume shops. Shouts and cries, beckoning the earliest of risers, echoed from the narrow corridors. The voices were those of men, brusque and rough. Ashallah would have sneered had she stopped long enough to consider them. Let them have the day, she told herself. The night is ours.

  Even more intoxicating than the scents and sounds were all the sights Ashallah found. Shawls, robes and scarfs of dyed wool, animal hides, and even cotton swarmed through the narrow alleyways beneath. Many were bland tones of brown or gray, but now and then Ashallah caught a glimpse of green, blue or violet weaving through the crowd. Lining the herds that gathered were even more hues and shades, from stalls carrying every good and ware imaginable. Grains, ranging from gold to brown to crimson, caught the light of the early sun, as did the open baskets of spices, with their dark ebony of crushed pepper to the startling white of Pithiac sea salt. Then there were fruits and vegetables from as far as the Qtur Islands in the East to the Great Continent in the West, sporting every color known to the lands of the Grand Sultan.

  A lesser warrior would have found such sights so distracting as to lose her footing to trip or fall. But not Ashallah. The heights were her best-known companions, seeming to cradle her feet with ease. No ledge nor step held ill will toward her. No brick nor tile gave under her weight. Most importantly, Ashallah met no one. The rooftops and sky courtyards she traversed were empty, by no coincidence or mistake. Ashallah chose this route for this purpose, knowing the inhabitants were late risers. She anticipated their absence, wanting the tranquility of solitude; the peace of being alone, for this was her time of meditation, her heaven.

  Ashallah’s sprints and jumps slowed when the white linen sheets came into view. She hopped and skipped over alleys and walkways. By the time she slipped between the waving cloths, the sounds of the city of Yasem were but whispers. No vendors, no peddlers, and no beggars there were. For even men and women of the coin respected the preparation site of the dead.

  Chapter 2

  Her skin began to itch. She wanted desperately to scratch, to dry herself, to stretch and rest.

  She resisted her urges. As she always did.

  Disciplined, Ashallah held her position as the kafan sheets stirred. The cloths flapped as the breeze caressed Ashallah’s skin. Although warm, she was grateful for the relief the air provided her, as it dried the sweat that had coalesced on her nose, her arms and the area just above her navel. That is enough, she told herself. Now switch.

  Ashallah lowered her right arm to shift the weight from her left. Focused, she made sure the palm of her hand was firm and flat before lifting her left arm to her side. The rest of her body was a horizontal plank, with no other part of her touching the sky courtyard.

  Ashallah closed her eyes. She breathed.

  There she remained. A plank of flesh and muscle, suspended in the air on her right arm, as the late morning sun beat down to further bronze her skin. Her trousers and short vest were nearly soaked through with sweat, despite being of linen that was thin and porous. Moisture ringed the knife sheath strapped to her right leg. Then there was her veil...

  Her niqab hung vertically, perpendicular to Ashallah’s face, revealing her nose, cheeks, and lips. Like the nearby sheets, it fluttered with the breeze, careless and unperturbed that it was not serving its purpose. Ashallah, for her part, ignored her veil just as she ignored the sun and her sweat. While she knew the chances of anyone visiting the sky courtyard at that time of day were scant, she kept her veil attached to her hijab. Not out of respect for tradition, nor out of fear of being caught exposed, but because in all her exercises she wanted to mirror the real world – with all its difficulties and restrictions – as much as possible.

  Beneath her, Ashallah watched as the dry dust of the roof absorbed her sweat. Each drop fell onto the grains below, becoming lost nearly at once. Ashallah counted each drop, committing every sudden disappearance to memory.

  “One hundred and thirty-eight,” Ashallah counted. “One hundred and thirty-nine.”

  That is more than yesterday, she noted. I am holding my position longer than before. Good. Good.

  Slowly, Ashallah lowered herself to the ground.

  ***

  Cool air met Ashallah’s radiance as her sight adjusted to the low light. Although the sun had been up for hours, the flat had yet to warm, for the taller building next door had shadowed theirs for much of the morning.

  Leftovers from breakfast laid on the table: candied dates, mint hummus, and pita. The last was soon gone as Ashallah wolfed down the bread.

  The echo of footsteps in the hallway outside gave Ashallah pause. The pattern was recognizable at once. One quick step on her good leg and a slightly slower one on the other. Ashallah considered slipping into one of the rooms and out of a window but thought better of it. This conversation needs to end, she told herself as she settled into one of the chairs at the table. Besides who is my ommah compared to the real enemies I have faced?

  Ashallah slumped into the chair before the table to resume feasting. She shot a cursory glance when her ommah entered, before turning her attention back to the food.

  “Manners, Asha, manners,” Niyusha said, her scowl subtle but disapproving nonetheless. She set her makeup kit down on the table across from Ashallah, its contents within thumping.

  “There is no one here to impress,” Ashallah replied as she slouched further.

  Niyusha slid away the candied dates. “Why do you test me, Asha?”

  “I’m not testing anyone. I’m tired. And hungry.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “My work kept me occupied. There was little time for eating and sleeping.”

  “Oh, Ashallah...”

  “Don’t.” Ashallah raised her hand, not caring if the gesture would stop her mother’s ranting or spur her to respond with anger. Although the two had been down the road before, Ashallah knew that her mother’s response was as predictable as the wind. At times, her ommah would well up with emotion and curse the heavens for giving her such an insolent daughter. Then there were moments when she would soften and let Ashallah have the final word, an act of submission Ashallah never quite understood.

  For a second, it seemed as though Niyusha would lean toward the latter tendency. Ashallah, satisfied at having won, undid the small purse strapped to her hip. She tossed the pouch, the coins inside clanking against the table.

  “That is why I was gone. For you. And Orzala.”

  At that, Niyusha upturned the dish of dates before swiping the coin purse off the table. “What in the Five Doors of Hell do you think of me?! That I am one of your concubines? A whore you can just buy off with your blood money? Is that it? Is it?”

  Ashallah straightened in her chair. “Blood money?” She stood, her fists clenched. “So there it is. Your truth. You think so little of my work, don’t you?”

  “Your work? Ha! What you do...”

  “Protects this city! It protects Yasem! The Grand Sultan sends our regular army on patrol nine months out of the year. You think it’s by chance that without protection our people survive? Yasem would be sacked and burned if not for warrior sisters like me.
”

  “And what of your real sister, huh? Is it because of your work that you discount her as your blood?”

  “Orzala is fine.”

  “Is she? She is not... You. But she has her secrets. Especially as of late.”

  Ashallah rose from her chair. “How so?”

  “She steals away more and more. She sneaks off, with no mention of what she does when she returns.”

  “Maybe she has a suitor,” Ashallah said with disdain, as the very thought of her sister with a man made her stomach turn.

  “No. I tried following her once. I lost her, but not before I saw her exchanging words with two Shadya.”

  “Shadya?”

  The lock turned and the door creaked open. Niyusha and Ashallah looked to the gathering room to find Orzala entering, a prayer rug under each arm. Their stares gave Orzala pause once she was inside.

  “What’s the matter?” Orzala asked.

  Ashallah looked at her then her ommah. She did not know whether to continue her argument with her mother or to interrogate her sister on her recent outings. “Nothing,” Ashallah finally said, choosing neither option. The day has grown long and I have duties to attend to, she told herself. I will deal with each separately.

  “Ohhhhh...”

  The sound reverberated through the kitchen and gathering room. The imam’s voice vibrated the table, and with it, Ashallah’s hand. The common chant, a fixture in Ashallah’s life since the time she could remember, still made her shudder.

  Oblivious to the feelings of their kin, Niyusha and Orzala moved to the gathering room. Orzala handed one prayer rug to her mother so that together they unfurled them on the open floor. As soon as the rugs flattened, they fell to their knees to bend down in prayer. Ashallah watched as their heads bobbed, their eyes closed, their lips moving yet their voices silent.

  With that, Ashallah retreated to the hall. She had little stomach for seeing her mother and sister – or any women for that matter – subjugate themselves like sheep, especially to a voice calling out in the distance. As the chant continued, Ashallah went into her room where she proceeded to change into fresh clothes. Although she had ample time to prepare before meeting her commander, she hurried nonetheless, not wanting to speak any further to her family. She was nearly done and out the door, the last verses of the chant ending, when she stopped in the doorway.

  “Almost forgot,” she said to herself, her hand resting on the knife sheath on her leg.

  She went back to her room to reach under her bed. Her hand found the loose tile and deftly moved it aside. From within, she pulled out her dagger holster.

  Chapter 3

  Wisps of smoke danced with one another as they rose and faded. Three floated toward Ashallah, disbanding as they drew closer, leaving only the trace of their scent. No, Ashallah thought. Not scent. Scents can be pleasant at times. This is different. It is a stench. Yes, that is the word. Stench.

  Ashallah peered through the haze to find the source of her disgust: her royal commander, Shaheen.

  Linen shirt and trousers, soiled by days or even weeks of sweat and grime, laid in folds over his body as he reclined in his seat. Over that, Shaheen wore a breastplate and bracers of boiled leather, armor so worn and cracked that Ashallah doubted they afforded much protection. Just a show of force, she thought. For when he collects his bribes and visits his whores.

  Although dusk had yet to settle into night, the two oil lamps on Shaheen’s table burned. The glow they cast on Shaheen, coupled with the soft light that still poured in from the windows behind him, made every one of his flaws stand out to Ashallah. His arms, which were at one time strong but now flabby, rested at his sides. His gut created a small hill from under the leather scales of his breastplate. His matted hair was coarse and greasy, as though it had not felt a comb in days. Worst of all was his teeth. Jagged monstrosities stained black and brown, the product of years of shisha tobacco.

  A cloud of smoke wafted toward Ashallah. Shaheen blew another one toward her. Then another. His lips parted after every blow to reveal his crooked smile. At my expense no doubt, she told herself. He mocks me. He is having fun with this. Ashallah shifted her weight. Not out of discomfort from Shaheen’s stares, but to feel the dagger holster that hung from her shoulder. If I could only slit his throat...

  With that, Shaheen cleared his. “You’ll excuse my long silence, I hope.” He coughed a bit. “You came early and caught me off guard.”

  Here I thought that the royal commanders were always on guard, she wanted to say. Instead, she responded curtly. “My apologies.”

  Shaheen pushed his chair away to stand and stretch. His small gut protruded from under his shirt and breastplate to reveal the small, black hairs on his belly. Ashallah fought the urge to turn away as Shaheen scratched his gut. “Your last assignment took a while.”

  Because of you. “Intelligence had to be gathered. The target was not where we expected when we arrived. Nor did we know his true appearance.”

  “Trivial details I accounted for when assigning the task. You still spent too long in the field.”

  You miserable swine. “I saw the mission through the end.”

  “Yes, you did. Thankfully, my superiors were not in any rush to see results. Otherwise, you and your fellow warriors would have suffered the wrath of the Court.”

  Not before you suffered mine. “I see.”

  Shaheen studied Ashallah up and down, the way she had seen other men do to concubines who sold themselves outside their brothels. Her stomach turned at the thought of what Shaheen wanted to do to her. “My next assignment. Has it been issued?”

  “It has,” Shaheen replied.

  “And you know it?” As if you know anything.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell me?” Before I open your gut.

  Shaheen reached into the side pocket of his trousers. He pulled a small roll of parchment. “Read for yourself,” he said as he tossed the paper on the table before her.

  Ashallah saw the seal of the Court of the Grand Sultan, which consisted of two crossed kilij swords over a date palm tree, pressed into velvet wax. The open parchment had split the seal in two, but it was still recognizable. Ashallah opened the rolled letter to find the directive.

  She managed to scan a few words and understand its intent when a familiar emotion, a type of instinct, struck her. The thin hairs on her neck rose. She straightened. Her gaze sharpened. All this happened with the realization that something was not right.

  Ashallah pulled a dagger from her holster. She swung around to find Shaheen approaching her from behind. Her blade, deft in her hand, found the soft flesh of his neck. The whole of her steel should have run red with his blood. His body should have slumped to the ground like so many countless other she had felled. Instead, Shaheen stood, holding his breath. Ashallah’s blade rested against his neck, impressed against his flesh, as close as a dagger could come without drawing blood.

  Shaheen quivered with dread while Ashallah remained as stone. She fought back the urge to smirk, even when the thought of him wetting himself crossed her mind.

  “You, you will pay for this...”

  Ashallah rounded the tip of her dagger to the front of his neck. “Poor choice of words.”

  “You know better,” Shaheen started again. “The Court will flay and hang you for killing a superior officer.”

  “Superior? You think yourself better than me?”

  “No. I mean, my status... I simply mean that I outrank you.”

  “Yes, I know.” Ashallah pressed the tip of her dagger forward so that a drop of blood emerged. “Tell me: my sisters-in-arms, how many have you turned to whores with your lecherous deeds?”

  “I, I...”

  “Tell me?!”

  “Five. I’ve had five.”

  Ashallah considered. Five of her midnight warriors laid with this beast. Five women she fought with in battle. Five she drank with, conversed with and sharpened her knives alongside. Some may have even bee
n those she slept with.

  Am I that surprised? she asked herself. Not all midnight warriors were as choice as she was, fortunate enough to train from an early age. Some started their development later on in life, after having worked other professions. A few were even former concubines. Many had laid with men, both willingly and against their will.

  Shaheen’s labored breathing on her hand broke her trance. She turned her full attention to his eyes. His beady, black eyes. She stared into them, her full hatred meeting his cowardice.

  Ashallah pulled her dagger from his neck. Shaheen lowered his head and shoulders in relief as he sucked in the smoky air of his den.

  She would have loved nothing more than to gut her commander. The sight of his corpse would have brought her immense satisfaction. She had had so many opportunities before. Such an action would have also had dire consequences. She would face arrest and the execution Shaheen had threatened. Even worse, her family would have suffered, first eviction, then begging followed by starvation.

  Still, Ashallah could not forgive her commander for having five of her sisters.

  She swung her dagger across his face. The tip found his right cheek, cutting a line straight through it. A thin one to be sure. A mark deep enough to scar.

  Her commander cried out and grabbed his cheek, more out of shock than in pain. Only then did Ashallah allow herself the pleasure to smirk.

  “Five is all you shall have. No more. Understand?”

  Shaheen nodded.

  She moved past him to the door, with the letter from the Court in her hand.

  Ashallah returned home to find her mother and sister asleep. Dark had settled by then, and Ashallah knew only four hours remained until the night was theirs. She settled into her bed, content to only close her eyes and meditate. Her body, however, relented, subject to the toll of her recent travels. When she awakened the imam’s voice was once again reverberating through the walls of her home.

  This time, though, Ashallah was content to hear his chant. For it was the last one of the day, the one that signaled only minutes before the midnight hour.