Mirage

by Somaiya Daud

  Maram stood in the center of the courtyard, her cloak pooled on the ground around her feet and her veil thrown over her shoulder. She examined the open space with a distant curiosity. The sparsely planted courtyard paled in comparison to her lush garden. But she didn’t sneer, which I found a small victory.

  “Your Highness?” I called, announcing myself. “What are you—what can I do for you?”

  She looked a little longer before settling her gaze on me. “No,” she replied. “Nothing you can do for me. I realized I’d not been to this part of the palace in a long while and wanted to look.”

  “Oh.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you covered in flour?”

  “It happens, Your Highness, when one is cooking bread.”

  At that she seemed delighted. “I thought I smelled food,” she said and wandered past me. “You cook. How provincial.”

  “Your Highness,” I called, trying to stop her; the data packet was hidden in my chamber, but her proximity to it raised a hundred alarm bells. Instead she made her way past my chambers, to the kitchen.

  “Don’t!” I cried when Maram reached for the tajine.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is it a bomb?”

  “It’s hot,” I said and picked up a towel. “But only food, see?”

  “Is that fruit?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Feeling exacerbated with Maram was new. I was used to frustration, rage, a great deal of hate. But right then it felt as though a child had entered my kitchen, determined to cause some mayhem.

  “Well,” she said, taking a seat. “Don’t stop on my account. I’ve never seen a villager cook.”

  I imagined she’d never seen anyone cook, but I kept the thought to myself. The bread was all there was left to make, and the easiest part of the meal. I’d planned on making a single loaf, but if Maram decided to stay, I thought she would balk at having to share with me. With two loaves in the oven, I set water to boil and pulled out glasses, a teapot, and plates for the food.

  “Do you mean to feed me?” Maram said, balancing her chin on her fist.

  “If you like,” I said, hoping my voice was noncommittal.

  She hummed. “I’ve never had meat with fruit before.”

  “The Vathek idea of good food is unseasoned and dry, Your Highness.”

  She grinned.

  When the kettle whistled, I gestured to the glasses I’d set out. “Tea?”

  She shrugged.

  “Tea, then.”

  * * *

  “I never thanked you,” she said when we’d moved to the courtyard.

  I paused, one plate half in front of Maram. “Thanked me?”

  “For your performance with Galene, and at the council meeting,” she explained. I set the plate down. “My father was quite pleased. Thanks to you he believes perhaps I’m more suited to the throne than he previously thought. In fact, he’s decided that it should be me and not one of the city magistrates who will give the speech to open up a new library.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Walili is getting a new library?”

  “Is that so surprising?”

  “I didn’t think the Vath valued that sort of thing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Reading,” I answered dryly.

  “I do like your sharp tongue, girl,” she said with a grin.

  “Are they replacing the Fihri library?” I asked.

  “The what?”

  “The two-hundred-thousand-year-old library they sacked,” I said flatly. “And burned to the ground.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, strangely somber. “I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”

  At my look of confusion she clarified. “I don’t go among Andalaans outside the Ziyaana. Ever. I … worry … I’m not up to the task. Of facing the people who have made it abundantly clear they hate me. Who have no ulterior motives to pretend to like me.”

  My eyebrows continued to rise in surprise.

  “Oh, you needn’t look so put out,” Maram snapped. “It’s me they hate, not you.”

  “I just find it hard to believe.”

  “Why? You hate me.”

  “I don’t!” The words tumbled out of me louder than I meant, and surprisingly true.

  Maram began to laugh. “You’ve gotten quite good at lying.”

  “I’m not lying,” I insisted. “I mean. I did. It’s very difficult to like someone who has you mauled by a bird.”

  “But now that I’m not having you beaten half to death you find me charming?”

  I winced. Put like that it sounded beyond absurd. “It’s just—you have no need of me liking you. But in general I’ve found that when you are not cruel to people, they have a chance to like you.”

  “I’m not a child,” she replied. A cross of affection and amusement filled her face. “You’ve been here months now and you’re still soft.”

  “You enjoy being hated then?”

  “Fear and hatred are good deterrents against murderers.”

  It was my turn to snort. The sound made Maram grin, wide toothed like a shark.

  “Oh, do share.”

  “Far be it from a village girl to advise Her Royal Highness.”

  “I can’t tell if you’ve always had such a sharp tongue,” she replied. “Or if you’ve picked that up here. I’m asking, village girl.”

  “You will find it difficult—as difficult as your father does now—to rule over those taught to despise you. In my experience, fear and hatred are great motivators for great evils.”

  She was watching me closely, her amusement nearly gone. “And what experience does a village girl have with statecraft and the motives of men?”

  I shrugged. “Very little. But I do know that I hear your grandmother spoken of with a great deal of love and admiration. And the only time the Vath come up in commoner conversation is when they’re being cursed.”

  She was playing with her ring, though her eyes had not left my face. “You can’t be suggesting that my grandmother’s rule of this planet was peaceful. I know she went to war with her brother.”

  “Her brother went to war with her,” I replied. More and more I felt the ridiculousness of such a conversation. As though I could change her here and now. As if I could undo all she’d done. “And when it was over, the Dowager helped those who suffered under the war rebuild. The years that followed the war were not filled with rebels and dissidents. They wanted her to rule over them.”

  “Yes,” Maram drawled. “Let’s let goat herders and farmers decide who should rule over them.”

  Yes, I almost replied, but kept my mouth shut. I had said enough. And even as sarcastic as she was, I could see her thinking it over. I did not expect change, not immediately. Likely, I would see no change at all. But if there was hope, if she would listen, I wanted to try.

  To my surprise, Maram cleared her plate and finished her loaf of bread. I had hoped to have some left over to share with Tala, but it seemed I’d have to cook again. When the table was cleared and the food put away, Maram rose to her feet, then paused.

  “Yes?” I said when she remained silent.

  “You’ll help me. With the speech. Won’t you?”

  I fought back a smile. Asking was not in Maram’s nature. “Of course, Your Highness. I have nothing to do now, if you’d like to start.”

  29

  “Hopefully the rabble is quiet today,” Maram said grimly, on the morning I was meant to give the speech at the unveiling of the library.

  She appeared to be making a joke, but she did not smile. It was curious to look at her—was she imagining me dead? Was she imagining herself? I wondered what it would mean for Maram if I died for the whole star system to see. Would it be difficult for her to watch me die, or would she see only herself?

  “Be safe,” she added, looking at me. This time, there was warmth in her eyes.

  I left Maram and made my way to the departure bay. Her words echoed in my head as Idris handed me into the
closed coach and climbed in behind me. I didn’t like having to wonder about Maram—about what it was like for her to know she could not leave the Ziyaana today for fear of death. That half her heritage adamantly despised her as a symbol of their oppression. That she had bid me goodbye knowing that whatever I faced out there was meant for her. Did she feel it—was a war being fought in her blood every time she looked at me?

  I watched through the tinted windows as the courtyard disappeared, and the coach turned to the enormous gates of the northern wall and into the wide, main boulevard that would lead into the rest of the city. As always, Idris had his hand over mine, his chin balanced on his right hand’s fist.

  If Maram were in the northern territories of Andaala, I imagined it wouldn’t matter as much. They were safer, the anti-Vathek sentiment nearly nonexistent. They had few resources, and their integration into Vathek society had been quick and sure. But the capital city of Walili had been a royalist city. Its people, the poor and the wealthy alike, loved Queen Najat. She had been an idol, young and beautiful and fierce.

  To them, Maram constituted the height of violation. She was their blood corrupted. I imagined, more than anything, this was why Mathis enjoyed parading her around when he did. If he couldn’t have a pure-blooded Vathek child rule over us, then he would remind everyone of the cost of occupation.

  Idris looked sadder than I had ever seen him, a flat approximation of the man I knew. “Idris?”

  “My family—what’s left of it—is based out of Al Hoceima.” He’d looked away again.

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “The Vath call it the Eastern Reach.” My hand tightened around his. “Ah. Now you understand.”

  “I took Maram’s place in the council meeting,” I said. We’d shifted closer, so that I could feel the warmth of him through the folds of my qaftan. It had only occurred to me peripherally that Idris’s family was based there, and I hadn’t thought of how it might impact him. A pang of guilt went through me again as I remembered the part I’d played.

  Idris drew a hand over his face. It seemed that now that he’d told me, the worry and fear had amplified. “I don’t understand why anyone there would risk a second purge. It wasn’t so long ago that they might not remember. I know no one has forgotten.”

  Better death than slavery. Husnain had said it once in a fit of fury at Aziz—it had been a point of contention between all of us, but between Aziz and Husnain most of all. I’d thought then such a declaration was a product of youth and its bravado, that a few more years would temper Husnain’s fire. But—there were people who believed that. Who would rather die than suffer under our occupation. People who would rather risk their lives in the hopes that their children might live to see a better tomorrow.

  I’d become one of them.

  “It’s no problem of yours,” he said suddenly. “It will turn out as it turns out.”

  “Of course it’s a problem of mine,” I said. I turned his face so that our eyes would meet again. “Friends care about one another.”

  He grinned. “Friends?” he said quietly.

  “More than friends,” I said as he kissed my palm. “Why not visit them? It would help, wouldn’t it?”

  My hands closed over where he’d kissed. It felt as if ages had passed since I last saw him, and I hated how restricted we were. Whether I saw him or not relied on where Maram or Nadine sent me and whether or not he would be there. I wished I could see him more, but I’d known from the very beginning that it would be this way. I spoke softly, lest the guards outside the carriage hear us—another constraint.

  “I … I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “It would help with morale, at least. It’s my aunt’s one hundred and sixth birthday soon—Maram wouldn’t deny me leave for that.”

  “Would she go?” I asked, careful to keep my voice even.

  “I don’t know,” he replied with a frown. “I imagine you know how she feels about her Andalaan family.”

  I nodded. “Still—it will be good for you and for them.” I squeezed his hand. “Your presence would reassure them. And you’ll be safe in Al Hoceima—they’re concentrating further on the coast.”

  He brushed his fingers over my cheek then leaned forward and kissed my forehead. For a few moments the only sound in our carriage was the tide of noise from the city itself. There was some struggle on his face, as if he couldn’t marshal his emotions.

  “What is it?”

  “You—” he began. “You are a great comfort, Amani.”

  I struggled not to laugh. “A comfort? Is that all?”

  He opened his mouth and I shook my head.

  “I was only joking. You don’t have to say more.”

  “Come with me,” he said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “To Al Hoceima,” he said. “Please.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him why it was a terrible idea, then shut it. It wasn’t a terrible idea. We had so little time together and this—it would be wonderful. And perhaps I would be able to get away and hand off the information to one of Arinaas’s agents in the Eastern Reach.

  “Alright,” I said at last. “I’ll try.”

  * * *

  The speech—my address to the people of Walili—was to take place in a declining part of the city. According to the map Tala had shown me, at one point it was the merchant sector, prosperous and booming. But business had moved elsewhere, into majority Vathek hands, and while many of the merchants could get by, it was a far cry from what it had once been. The library wouldn’t help.

  El Maktabatil Fihri had stood for two hundred thousand years and served as an archive for the literature of the world. It had held the largest collection of Kushaila poetry before the Vath had bombed it out of the city. Its replacement was nowhere near its original site, and would hold census data and histories of the occupation.

  Idris and I stood just off the elevated platform, the crowd below. Everyone in this quarter was required to attend, and they’d lined up in their somber clothes, silent and filled with resentment. I could feel the buzz in the air, recognized it from my own time in these mandatory assemblies. On either side of the thoroughfare where Andalaans were assembled were elevated seats, as if the Vathek who sat there were prepared for a spectacle.

  Looming over the platform was an enormous statue of Massinia. I took an involuntary step forward. There were many ways of depicting her—in ecstasy, with an open book in her lap, her eyes heavenward, and so on. But I had never seen her depicted thus, her hands raised up toward heaven, a veil pulled forward over her head, and draped over her body down to her feet. It was the Book at her feet that made me sure it was meant to be Massinia.

  The statue was beautiful, made of carved stone, and yet eerie to look at, too. I felt that at any moment she might lift the veil and walk among us. It was untraditional and unusual, and instead of eliciting the joy I normally felt when seeing her, it made me feel uneasy. Perhaps that was why the Vath had allowed it to remain standing.

  I took a deep breath, and gripped Idris’s hand.

  “Easy,” he said into my ear. “You’ll be fine. I’m here with you.”

  I nodded, took a deep breath, and climbed the stairs to the platform with Idris close behind me.

  “Fellow Andalaans,” an Andalaan official said, leaning over the podium. “It is a great honor to welcome Her Royal Highness, Maram Vak Mathis, into our midst. We are grateful beyond imagining for our protector’s constant benevolence and generosity.”

  The Andalaan crowd was unmoved and silent. What little applause there was came from Vathek spectators and Andalaan makhzen on either side of them. I watched, my face devoid of emotion, as the official completed his introduction, then beckoned me up to the podium.

  The murmuring grew as I climbed the steps, and eased into an eerie silence as I tapped the holoreader before me, bringing my notes to the screen.

  “Today marks an auspicious occasion,” I began. “The first of many such auspicious o
ccasions—the opening of the first Walili library in over a decade. A mark of the prize that is knowledge and our ability to move forward, united as one in the face of adversity.”

  It was Maram’s voice that came out of me, but my sentiment had shaped the speech. I’d avoided mention of the Vath and hoped that in hearing Maram, in seeing her—me—wearing the old Andalaan seal, those who witnessed the consecration of the ground would leave with hope. Would think of our endurance and our survival. More than that, I hoped that Maram would think back on the words she’d helped me craft, and envision a world without the cruelties of her father’s reign.

  It was a small hope, I thought, looking out over the crowd. But an important one—if Maram could be the ruler that her father had failed to be, that her mother had wanted to be, then there was hope for us—for all of us.

  Wasn’t there?

  I had to believe it.

  30

  Today seemed to be passing slower than most. Tala had checked on me in the morning, but when she’d seen the faraway look in my eyes, had left me with a pot of tea. I’d all but given up beating the shatranj AI when the royal bell rang, announcing a member of the royal household.

  “Your Highness,” I said, when Maram appeared, and rose to my feet. “How can I be of service?”

  I was surprised when she lowered her eyes, as if embarrassed about what she was about to ask me. “I can’t ask the kitchen staff to cook for me—not. I don’t even know what to call it.”

  I bit back a smile. “Ah. You’re hungry?”

  She tossed back her head, daring me to laugh. “Yes.”

  “The same dish?”

  “Surprise me,” she said.

  * * *

  I made harira and miloui—they were easy, fast, and would hopefully not raise notice with the kitchen staff. Maram sat in the same chair and watched me as I brought the soup to a simmer, then turned my attention to the bread.

  “You should let me help,” she said, then made an impatient noise. “You needn’t look so shocked. Fine, I rescind my offer.”

  “No,” I said, struggling not to laugh. “Please. Come, you can flip the bread.”

  “I can do more than flip bread.”