by David Hair
The look on her face was pure disgust. ‘Not this again. I am so tired of your half-arsed ignorance.’ Her face wrinkled up in indignation. ‘The gnosis is a tool, just like a sword is a tool. It’s not inherently evil in itself—’
My gnosis is. ‘It is unnatural.’
‘It’s not—’ She shut her mouth and slapped the stone railing. ‘If it were unnatural, it would be impossible.’ This latest argument had been going around in circles for a hour or more, and their delicate peace was fraying. They’d survived any number of falling-outs, but this threatened to be the worst. And clearly she felt just like Gatoz or Sabele, that if he refused to use his powers, he was of little use.
He saw Elena almost visibly making an effort to put the matter to one side. ‘Listen, we’re running low on stores. We’re going to have to go to the nearest village and purchase more.’
He frowned. ‘I thought we had plenty.’
‘At the rate you eat?’ She wiped her palms on her thighs. ‘There’s a small village a few miles away. We’ll take the skiff to the foot of the mountains, then walk in. We can take a handcart to use in the village.’
Perhaps in the village there will be someone I can contact … He nodded his agreement. Then came the guilty thought: There will be other souls I could replenish from … He buried the notion deep, scared by how easily it had come to him.
‘You will do nothing to draw attention to us,’ she warned. There was little trust in her eyes. ‘Meet me at the skiff in ten minutes.’ She walked away, then paused. ‘The gnosis can be used defensively. You could learn that, surely?’
He rubbed his face, tired of the feuding. He felt his position was being eroded steadily. Sooner or later she’s going to lose patience with me. Then what?
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said grudgingly.
*
Three hours later, wrapped in robes and with a turban about his head, Kazim stopped hauling the empty handcart up a rocky slope and turned to Elena. She was wrapped in a black bekira-shroud and only her eyes and hands were visible, the exposed skin dyed darker with tea-stain, her eyebrows blacked with charcoal. A red ribbon adorned her arm to signify that she was bleeding. He didn’t know if she truly was bleeding, or whether it was part of her disguise, and he wasn’t going to ask.
‘You must take the cart now,’ he said, and at her quizzical look, patted the sword at his side. ‘You are a woman. You must pull this now. A warrior does not labour. In this disguise you are my woman and must do this. We will soon be in sight of the village.’
She glared at him. ‘I presume there is some verse in your holy book about this.’
‘Alhana,’ he replied, using the Keshi equivalent of her name, ‘there are whole chapters. A warrior must stand ready to protect what is his; the woman labours at his side. It is our way. In the eyes of the villagers, you belong to me.’
He studied her, then tucked a stray strand of her pale hair back into her cowl. ‘Do not speak to anyone but me. Your accent is atrocious.’
Her nostrils flared, but she swallowed her retort and picked up the handcart’s handle. Muttering curses under her breath, she followed him as they topped the rise and descended towards the village. He lengthened his stride to a casual swagger, deliberately leaving her ten yards in his wake.
The village was tiny, a few dozen mud-huts baked into the stony valley. Paddy fields had been hewn into the lower southern slopes, on the far side of the houses. Most of the villagers were working there, apart from a couple of goat-herders who were tending their flock on the nearer side of the mountain.
‘Sal’Ahm,’ a voice called, and a small man in dun robes emerged from the nearest hut. Two women, one young and one old, were bundling roofing thatch in the shade of the verandah and two naked little boys were playing some game at their feet, using stones for pieces and lines drawn in the sand as the board.
‘The light of Ahm be upon you,’ Kazim replied, putting his right hand to his sword-hilt and his left palm forwards in the traditional greeting: I bid you peace, but I am ready to fight.
‘Welcome to Shimdas,’ the man called, standing slowly. Another man, perhaps his son, emerged from the hut, holding a spear. ‘Are you alone?’
‘There is just my woman and me. We are travellers, seeking the shihad.’
The man made a dutiful reverence when the shihad was invoked, but his face did not become any more friendly. ‘The harvest has been poor, and Emir Tamadhi’s soldiers took what little surplus we had.’ He pointed through the village to the south. ‘There is a larger town that way, not far. A major road goes through. There will be news of the shihad there.’
‘It is only food we need.’ Kazim produced a battered leather purse. ‘I have a little money.’ It was filled, but only with copper and a little silver; the trick was to look wealthy enough to buy, but not so wealthy as to be worth killing.
The man gave an oily smile. ‘Then welcome, my friend.’ He indicated the dirt road winding into the village. ‘Beside the well is a blue building; that is my brother-in-law’s shop: his name is Dhani.’ He tapped the younger man’s arm. ‘Hatim, my son, will show you.’
Kazim nodded his thanks, then made a peremptory gesture at Elena, enjoying the livid glare he got in return. The two men watched them go past, their eyes curious. He supposed strangers were infrequent here. The son, Hatim, took the lead, walking in a strutting manner Kazim recognised: it was the way he’d walked back in Baranasi, before his life had been torn apart.
The buildings surrounded a small square, where a few trees in the middle shaded a well. There was a crank-pump to draw the water from below, and a clutch of women gathered in a small group, talking animatedly. The little blue-daubed shop had an awning out front and its window doubled as a shop-frontage, and most of the women were there. The villagers all fell silent as they became aware of Kazim, and Elena, walking behind him.
Hatim grinned, revealing yellow teeth, half of which were missing. ‘This is the shop,’ he said, putting out a hand. Kazim scowled; their ‘guide’ had led them down the only available road for fully sixty paces. He gave him a copper anyway. He was beginning to notice the men sitting in the shade. It wouldn’t do to draw any more attention to themselves than they already had.
Do the Hadishah have anyone stationed here? Surely not. He exhaled heavily.
The villagers backed away as he went to the shop. He eyed Elena critically again; her nails were too clean and she was too straight-backed. He stepped closer. ‘Hunch over more,’ he whispered, then, aloud he said, ‘What do we need, woman?’
She joined him at the shop window where a man with grey stubble and an orange turban waited. They exchanged greetings while Elena examined the meagre display. Behind the man she could see many sacks; the display was obviously just to show the range of goods available.
‘Welcome, my friend,’ the shopkeeper rumbled. His eyes flickered over him with apparent disinterest, but if he was anything like a Baranasi shopkeeper, he could probably now describe Kazim and Elena in minute detail. ‘My name is Dhani. How may I help you?’
Kazim looked about him, checking that no one had come too near. A widow in a white bekira-shroud went past. She had big doe eyes framed with long lashes that she fluttered as she hauled two heavy buckets towards the well. No one else was close. ‘We are camped nearby, journeying from the north. We need food – plenty, for the road.’
‘Then you have come to the right place, my friend.’
‘My woman will choose.’ Kazim showed his purse. ‘But you negotiate with me, yes?’ The shopkeeper smiled with apparent warmth. Perhaps he found men easier to bargain with than women. ‘What is the news from Brochena?’ Kazim added casually, while Elena bent over the display and began picking out seeds, each representing a sack.
‘Ah, Brochena,’ Dhani said. ‘It is not good. The traders say that the young Dorobon is harsh. He gives the soldiers licence to do as they please.’
Kazim stiffened, and so did Elena. The Dorobon?
‘I have been out of touch for a long time,’ he said apologetically. ‘Why do you speak of the Dorobon?’
The shopkeeper looked at him curiously. ‘Where have you been hiding, my friend? How can you not know?’
‘Uh, I took hire with the Kestria.’ My accent is wrong, too, he realised. These Jhafi speak strangely.
The shopkeeper pursed his lips, then shrugged as if he didn’t really care what Kazim might pretend. ‘The Nesti went to Hytel with many of their soldiers, and many Jhafi led by Ilan Tamadhi,’ Dhani told him. ‘But the Dorobon set a trap. They rule in Brochena once again.’
Elena had frozen, her eyes wide. ‘Woman, attend,’ he said gruffly, and she started, then went back to her work.
‘What of the queen?’
Dhani looked like he might spit, but being surrounded by his own goods, he swallowed instead. ‘The Nesti whore is part of the Dorobon’s harem.’
Kazim flinched at Elena’s mental distress, but asked, ‘The Dorobon has a harem? Has he converted to the Amteh?’
Dhani sniggered sourly. ‘They say he plans to take a woman from every high family, both Rimoni and Jhafi, and plough each of them nightly. Even his own people are outraged.’ He shrugged at this lurid gossip. ‘So some say.’
‘He is magi.’ Kazim turned to one side and spat.
‘He is. Brochena is awash with devils.’ The shopkeeper peered at the stores Elena had placed before him, and raised his eyebrows. ‘You are purchasing much, my friend. The next town is not so far away. Not that I am complaining, you understand.’
‘I prefer to avoid the larger towns,’ Kazim replied, in what he hoped was a mysterious way. What had felt like a simple enough lie when he started was proving a little complicated.
They haggled until, conscious of the many eyes on them, he settled on a price that felt fair to him. The widow was still struggling with the crank-pump, but no one had gone to help her. As he tried not to stare at her, he realised she was wearing little beneath the white garment.
The shopkeeper looked pleased and Elena somewhat disgusted at the bargain he had agreed, but he ignored her, paid the man and thanked him.
‘It is my pleasure,’ Dhani replied, pocketing the coins. He glanced at Elena. ‘Your woman has fine hands,’ he commented.
Kazim pretended annoyance as he sought a credible response. ‘She thinks herself a princess. She is lazy and good for nothing.’
The shopkeeper laughed. ‘I have a daughter like that. Two years married and still my wife must help her cook.’
‘This one’s cooking is barely fit for jackals,’ Kazim declared, and Elena deliberately trod on his toe.
‘Is she at least pleasing when on her back?’ Dhani enquired, winking lasciviously.
Kazim eyed Elena, who was looking at him with eyes like daggers.
‘She is flat-chested and bony,’ Kazim said dryly. A little revenge for all the beatings he’d taken.
The widow was still tugging ineffectually at the crank-pump. She was small, but even beneath the bekira-shroud he could see her breasts were ample. When he got closer he could see there were stains on the white fabric, and she smelled of babies and milk. Widows had no status, so he simply pushed past her. She shrank from him as he took the pump-handle and cranked it, then bent his head to the gush of water, cupping it in his hands and drinking deep.
When he had finished, he wiped his face and looked up to find the widow was staring at him curiously. She was young to be a widow; and from the light creeping through her shroud, he could see she was shapely. She twisted, coyly preening, and with her left hand, lifted her skirt a little, showing him her left ankle, which was narrow and graceful. Her foot was painted with swirls of henna and he felt a sudden stirring. The display of an ankle was an offer.
Widows in Amteh society had a precarious, vulnerable position. They were permitted to remarry, but any children under the age of ten were usually sold into slavery so no man would have to tolerate raising another man’s child. The Kalistham were not explicit, but most interpretations agreed that a widow was nefara until purified by remarriage. They survived however they could.
He picked up one of her buckets, put it back beneath the pump and hauled on the handle. Water flowed strongly and the two buckets were filled in no time.
She reached out and touched his bunched bicep, making an admiring sound. She was barely five feet tall and maybe half his weight, but she had lovely eyes.
‘These are heavy. Would you like me to carry them for you?’ he asked in a low voice. Beneath the smells of motherhood she had an enticing musk; it reminded him of the way Elena smelled when they sparred. He felt his loins stir dangerously.
I’ve been cooped up with the Rondian bitch too long, he told himself. I need a real woman, to purge these urges.
Once he’d rationalised his actions to himself he didn’t care what Elena might think. He glanced over his shoulder to where she was still loading the handcart, hunched over like a typical middle-aged woman.
Which is what she is.
He hefted the buckets, then called, ‘Wait for me here.’ He looked enquiringly at the widow, who shared an intimate smile with him and indicated an alley between two huts. He strode in front of her from the square.
The widow led him to a hut, in poor repair and downwind of a midden. He wrinkled his nose, but when he carried the buckets inside, there was fresh lavender hanging from the ceiling in bunches, sweetening the air. There was one sleeping pallet, a tangle of sheets wound about a young boy of maybe seven, who was dozing; a newborn mewled softly beside him. The elder boy’s eyes flickered open and he stared in fright at Kazim, his expression gradually changing to one of wordless disgust.
He is young, but he knows what is happening here. Kazim suddenly felt ashamed of himself.
The widow snapped at her son, who fled to a back room. Kazim felt his desire waver, but then he smelled her again, and his belly rumbled with that new, other desire. For an instant he pictured her dead, blood welling from her mouth, and a smoky, nourishing bubble of energy—
‘Where do you want these buckets?’ he mumbled, his face colouring.
The widow pointed to the stove and he placed the buckets beside it, then turned to face her. It would be so easy …
‘Three or five,’ she said matter-of-factly: three to pleasure him, five for intercourse. A gross overcharging, most would say, but he pulled out six coppers and dropped them on her table. Her hand flashed out, swept them up and secreted them in a pouch hanging amidst the lavender. Then she turned to face him and started to disrobe.
The hole inside him where his gnosis sat was screaming to be filled, making him waver in his decision. She looked at him, puzzled, and then he saw fear blossom behind her eyes – that was enough to bring him back to sanity. He exhaled and released the hilt of his sword, which he had not even realised he’d been grasping, and sagged inside with relief and self-disgust.
Was this what my father went through every day after giving up the gnosis? he wondered. Or did someone chain his power to ease the struggle? The thought of his father strengthened him. He could be stronger than his need.
She dropped her eyes. ‘We eloped. I have no one, and I cannot go back.’
She is doubly nefara, he told himself, but the condemnation felt cruel. She had married for love. This could have been Ramita and him. He backed away. ‘Keep the money,’ he told her. ‘I will not do this to you.’
She looked confused, troubled even, unsure if she were being condemned, pitied or patronised. ‘You are a good man,’ she said carefully. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Far away,’ he said softly.
‘Will you visit Shimdas village again?’ she asked. Her voice sounded needy. ‘We do not have many men here.’
He studied her face, seeing the pox scars, her unhealthy eyes and lank hair. But she had a quiet dignity that even the debasing life she was forced into had not broken. ‘Perhaps,’ he told her, surprised to find that he meant it. But I could never stay …
She read that final thought in his eyes and her face went imperceptibly flat: a tiny dream that he might perhaps be the man who made her a wife again, restoring her to decency, winked out. He wondered if she harboured that hope every time; wondered how she lived with what she did – how she went on.
Abruptly she was all business. ‘Thank you for the water,’ she said, as if that was the most profound thing that had taken place. But six coppers would help her through, for a while at least. He turned and left.
Elena was sitting in the village square on her own, exuding hostility. No one was near her. The shopkeeper was staring at her intently, perhaps wondering if she was as free with her body as the widow was.
he retorted, and went back to Dhani the shopkeeper while she simmered, clearly disbelieving. An idea had occured to him. ‘My friend,’ he said to the man in a soft voice. ‘A favour, please?’
The shopkeeper cocked his head warily.