As he turned, the guards approached to close the doors behind them.
“You will note that the guards do not follow us,” he said as he walked through the arched hallway toward the garden. “There are no guards within the building. No men are permitted within the harem.”
Kala blinked and turned to tap Asima on the arm surreptitiously.
“Why is he allowed in then?”
Asima sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Once we’ve had a little rest, Kala, and we’re alone, I’ll explain it to you.”
In which advancement is earned
The Dark Empress rode through choppy waters. Samir stood near the prow. He had been aboard for several weeks now and things were not improving. That first morning he had taken the beating of a lifetime, though he still remembered with satisfaction how, when they had been pulled off him by the first officer, he had inflicted enough damage on his attackers that four of them were unable to take their place rowing for a few days.
Now, as he prepared to haul on the rope when the shout came, he was still a little bruised and numb. That first day had been a lesson to his ‘equals’ on board. They had attacked him a number of times since then, but these days they did so in small groups with someone on lookout and they only attacked when they were sure of catching him off guard. On the bright side, they stuck to body blows these days in an attempt to keep their bullying hidden from the elders.
Such behaviour was a double edged gift or burden for Samir. He had to be watchful and had avoided several attacks through his quick wits, and periodically suffered a flurry of clandestine blows. But despite this, he still considered there to be upsides. That he was worthy of such effort suggested that they felt threatened by him, which was a powerful thing to know. It also cleared his conscience. There was nothing that would stop him using them when the opportunity presented itself. And thirdly, he was pretty sure that one of the crew, a man called Marcus with one eye and a scarred scalp, was aware of the troubles. He had caught an occasional look from the man and was at fairly sure he had a potential ally there.
So now it had become a waiting game. He just needed the opportunity to present itself and give him the ‘leg-up’ he was looking for. In the meantime, the enmity of these boys was useful in ways they were unaware of.
He peered into the spray and the mist, which hung low over the sea here and meant they were nearing Lassos. Samir was eager for a glimpse of this almost mythical place. The ship had docked there four days after his arrival but, at the time he’d been suffering rather badly, with three broken ribs, a puffed up and closed eye, an immobile arm and numerous cuts and bruises. The ship’s doctor had refused to let him leave the room put aside for him until he could pass three very simple tests of strength and agility. He’d almost passed one at the time and been put back down by the doctor until he was better healed.
Since then, the Dark Empress had been back out on another, unfortunately unproductive, patrol for weeks, before returning to its home port.
As a child in M’Dahz, he and Ghassan had heard of Lassos, of course. The pirate isle was infamous in legend of the southern continent. Somehow, though within only a few days’ striking distance of numerous ports, the mysterious island had remained hidden from the navies of two empires and numerous inquisitive explorers. Some said that the island moved; that it drifted on the mist. Samir had his doubts.
He’d always had his doubts about the ‘reefs of the dead’ also, though weeks onboard had now shaken that from him. Subtle and careful questions around some of the older sailors made it perfectly clear that, whatever he might think, they themselves were in no doubt. And so, as they now approached this most mysterious island, Samir realised he was holding his breath in anticipation of what he might see.
“You: get aloft!”
Samir turned in surprise, but it seemed the pirate’s command had been addressed to one of the other young mates nearby. Samir returned his attention to the prow and tightened his grip on the rope.
“All hands prepare!”
There was a long moment of ominous silence, made all the more uncanny by the mist that was now beginning to envelop the prow of the ship. Samir listened desperately and kept his eyes peeled. He could now see only twenty yards in front of him and, as he quickly turned his head, at most a third of the length of the deck stretching out behind him before it became lost in the wispy grey.
He whispered a quick prayer to the luck goddess and peered ahead once more.
“Bring to!” the cry went up from the stern. Commands were relayed in short order around the ship, but Samir was already hauling on the rope and beginning to furl the sail before he was told.
As the rope tightened, he found himself drawing close to one of the men he didn’t know, who was busy doing something arcane with a rope on the other side of the mast. Samir smiled at the man, but was ignored as he continued about whatever the task was.
He continued to haul on his rope and turned briefly to look out over the prow. The ship was slowing to a halt now as the sails, already deprived of wind in this still environment, were furled. The twenty or so rowers who had been sent to their seats ten minutes ago were rowing gently against the direction of travel, bringing the whole ship to a halt.
Samir dropped the rope in an instant, the cord burning his hand as it ran through his palm until he caught it again.
“Back!” he bellowed as loud as he could.
The man nearby looked up in surprise and then followed Samir’s gaze and dropped his own rope, cupping his hands round his mouth.
“Abaft! Take her abaft!”
The man rushed over to Samir, who stood, gripping the rope, mesmerised with fear at the jagged, black, glistening rock that drifted toward them with slow and deliberate momentum. Behind them, desperate orders were bellowed out.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…”
He looked around at the voice and realised the man next to him was making signs to ward off evil.
“Gods won’t help now”, Samir said quietly and grasped the tip of one of the half dozen spare oars that were sheathed beneath the rail down the side of the ship near the front. Hauling on it, he heaved it over the rail, surprising himself with the strength he appeared to find from nowhere.
Gritting his teeth, he jammed the oar in a dip between the rails and aimed for the rock that was now almost upon them. Throwing all his weight behind the oar. With a worrying cracking and crunching noise, the oar struck home on the rock. For a horrifying second Samir was convinced it had broken at the end of the blade and they would run afoul of the hazard. Then the full, solid wood of the oar shaft hit the rock and Samir was physically lifted from the deck by the blow and hurled several yards back against the mast.
As he picked himself up, he realised the other man had gripped the oar and was desperately fending off the rock. The now desperate rowing and careful manoeuvring, combined with the push of the oar, turned the ship slightly and the rock came alongside, drifting along the side of the hull like a menacing sea beast. The man let go of the oar and the item dropped into the water and bobbed away. Slowly, once again, the ship came to a halt.
The man was saying something to Samir, but his attention was otherwise engaged. The young man stared out from his position at the rail into the mist.
This was no solitary rock. The reefs were here and as dangerous as imaginable. Glistening obsidian points rose from the turbulent waters, white froth dancing around them and fading, only to be replaced by more as the next wave hit. The rocks were everywhere. Ahead of them and beside them, behind them somehow and, he turned to confirm this… yes, at the other side too. How in the name of the seven faces of Ha’Rish had they got here, right amid the rocks?
His mind reeled. It was, he supposed, theoretically possible for a ship to fit in some of these narrow gaps between the pointed hazards, but the Empress was not a small ship and it would be difficult under even the best circumstances. In the mist? Never.
But the reefs, regardless
of their danger, were only rocks.
Samir’s gaze only took them in in passing.
Figures stood on the shards. All around them. Figures in dark, wet, drab clothes. Many appeared to be wearing grey robes like those of a priest, but duller and darker. And wetter. And infinitely more frightening. The silent figures watched the Dark Empress as she sat, motionless, among the rocks and the mist.
Toward the rear of the ship someone was shouting orders. Sounded like the first officer. The commands were very precise; how many degrees the wheel needed turning; how many rowers should begin and in which seats; how many strokes a minute the man at the drum should beat out.
None of the commands would affect Samir in his role here, not that he would be listening even if they did. His attention was riveted on the figures staring at the ship; staring, he felt, directly at him, or into his soul. He shivered.
The nearest figure he hadn’t noticed at first and let him to question his eyes. A girl of perhaps seven years of age sat in her ragged clothing on the very rock that had almost fouled them. Her arms reached up, outstretched; beseeching? Inviting? He shuddered once again as he realised he could just make out the reflection of his silhouette at the boat rail in the girl’s glassy, black eyes, sunk deep in her grey face.
This was clearly impossible. Not only could he not imagine the ship managing to get into this strangely cramped position, but the girl had not been there when he’d pushed the oar at the rock. Somehow this whole thing must be some kind of illusion.
Frowning, he picked up a spare belaying pin and cast it at the rock, smiling as he realised how simply he had seen through this trickery.
The wooden pin bounced from the glistening rock with a noisy ‘crack’ and disappeared into the water with a plop. Samir sagged slightly. Impossible, yet definitely real.
The man nearby thumped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Don’t throw things at them. You hit one and you’ll have some bloody bad luck…“ he looked around nervously. “Maybe we’ll all have some bloody bad luck!”
Samir blinked.
He’d been looking forward to seeing this mythical place and suddenly now, while he was this close, something was making the hair stand up on the back of his neck and he would just as rather be almost anywhere else. It felt like he would never be warm or see the sun again, such was the damp cold of the mist that stuck his shirt to his chest and the dismal grey all about them.
“Fucking captain!”
Samir blinked and turned to look at the man that had just smacked him on the shoulder.
“What?”
“Captain Khmun! Came in too fast. Should know better.”
Samir bridled, though he wasn’t sure why.
“Someone with an ounce of sense ought to knock him down and take over. Someone who actually knows how to sail!”
Opportunity knocks so rarely that sometimes you miss it. Samir had seen opportunities slip past him several times in his life, unaware at the time that they were important. The events of the last year, however, had taught him the value of luck and opportunity, and he had been actively waiting for a moment like this for weeks of agonising beatings. Luck presents opportunities, but you still have to grasp them.
“Shut up!” he said, vehemently, and louder than he’d intended.
Without waiting for a reply from the surprised man, he turned, the other belaying pin he’d been grasping on the rail now gripped tightly in his hand. He spun with no warning, his arm swinging out with its heavy timber weapon. His aim was true; his aim was always true.
The narrow end of the foot-long, heavy wooden pin smashed with force into the man’s face. There were two instantaneous cracks. Samir was agonisingly aware that one of them was his finger, caught between the man’s cheekbones and the timber. The other, judging from the explosion of blood that showered his own face, was the man’s nose shattering beyond repair.
Samir straightened and watched as his victim, unconscious instantly from the blow, toppled backwards onto the deck, landing like a sack of grain.
Without turning, he closed his eyes, biting his lip against the pain in his hand. The captain was so close behind him he could feel Khmun’s eyes boring into his neck; almost feel his breath. Opportunity knocks.
“Why?”
“Borderline mutiny, sir. With respect, you need to watch him.”
The captain fell silent, though Samir could almost see him nodding thoughtfully.
“When we’ve docked, clean yourself up and tell the watch that I want to see you.”
Samir turned slowly and carefully, keeping his eyes deferentially low and nodded.
“Of course, captain.”
Khmun laughed.
“The bowed head is a nice touch. You I can use.”
Samir smiled to himself.
All you have to do is answer…
In which pecking orders are established
Asima stood by the golden latticework window and peered down. There were precious few external windows in the royal harem, and most of those were inaccessible to the girls. It had taken her a long time to find a window that looked out toward the rest of the palace complex rather than over the sea. Such a window was to be found in the antechambers of the mistress of the gates.
The woman, whom the girls had privately nicknamed the ‘Witch of Akkad’ was in charge of the security of the harem and the keeping of order and, initially, Asima had run afoul of her several times. She had been trying hard to fit in and to become a model occupant and yet the rules were so strict, or at least, those enforced by the witch were, that Asima’s natural curiosity had led her into conflict until she began to learn how to play the game. Fortunately, over those first few weeks a greater problem arose for the mistress of the gates, in the form of the continually rebellious Sharra who seemed to have little regard for personal safety and no fear of punishment. The girl had made four bungled attempts to leave the harem in the first week, including a laughably traditional ‘blanket rope’ down the walls to the precipitous sea cliffs.
And so Asima’s curiosity had begun to go overlooked. She had explored every place she could get to within the harem, though there were a number of doors that were securely locked and barred that sealed off whole areas.
In this time of adjustment, her opinions of the whole situation here and of the nature of the Pelasian royal household had been changed rapidly, as her eyes had opened to what Pelasia had to offer other than the wicked satrap Ma’ahd. She had taken the natural leap in assumptions that the harem was little more than a decorative prison to contain those women the God-King took to his bed.
How wrong she had been; the harem was so much more. Truly, it was home to those women who were wives and concubines of the God-King or lovers who had the potential to become one of the official companions. But the harem was more than this. It was also the home to the female members of the God-King’s family, including his mother, four aunts, two sisters and six girl children. More than a prison, the harem was a place of protection and seclusion for the royal women, and a place where girls were taught the ways of the court and Pelasian society in order to make them fitting brides for the God-King, or for other nobles or princes if the God-King decided not to take them.
So Asima had learned over those first few weeks that most of her waking time was already allotted to lessons in etiquette, history, deportment, the application of makeup, massage and the use of oils, the geography of Pelasia, literature and so much more. She had never dreamed there could be so much to learn.
It had been at least two weeks before she had settled in enough to plan her time efficiently. There were twelve hours of lessons each day. Given that the daily routine for bathing, dressing and making up took a little over two hours, that meals took up at least an hour of the day, and that the girls were expected to sleep for eight hours to prevent unsightly shadowing of the eyes, that left Asima with less than an hour of freedom each day.
Careful planning had led to a streamlining of the preparation
process, which granted her an extra hour in the morning and to the discovery that there were three hours in the late evening, once the girls were assumed to be settled in bed, when the witch and her cronies would play games of dice, drink sweet wines and smoke the water pipe, and the corridors were free to roam.
And so it was the late evening when Asima did her exploring.
Three weeks or so after her arrival, Asima had been sneaking around the upper galleries above the gate area; the night indeed when she had discovered the very window she now stood at, when she had bumped into Yasmin for the first time. She had nearly died of fright as she slowly and silently crept around a corner, walking on the sides of her feet to keep the pressure she applied to the floorboards as narrow as possible, and collided with a smaller girl coming the other way.
They had both made an involuntary squeak; the sort that someone who is where they know they should not be makes when they manage not to shriek.
As the two had picked themselves up, they had looked one another up and down, appraisingly. Yasmin was beautiful, and obbviously lithe. She had to be a little older than Asima, but was clearly still a student here, as Asima had seen her in classes. In a mere glance, the girls had instantly summarized one another, both clearly aware of what the other was up to. A smile had broken the moment and a wary alliance had quickly formed between the two girls.
As the older girl, Yasmin would be presented to the God-King a year before Asima. She would therefore have seniority and a full year to ingratiate herself before Asima became a threat. Thus Yasmin was comfortable with the newcomer for at least a couple of years. Similarly, Asima knew there was nothing she could do about her new ally at this point, short of physical violence, and that Yasmin would know many things about the harem and could be of use. For the moment, the two girls recognised that they were the ‘cream of the crop’ among the young ladies waiting for their time.
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