The City of Silk and Steel

by Mike Carey

  Some had begun stripping off their swords and daggers before the woman had even finished speaking, and had laid them in a little pile by her side. Now, they gazed at her with a strange amalgam of compassion and eagerness as Yusuf Razim stepped forward, bowing respectfully.

  ‘Your tale is deeply moving, my lady. My brothers and I are truly sorry for all that you have suffered.’

  The woman sniffed mournfully. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Yusuf coughed once or twice, awe and pity fighting a losing battle in his mind against the greed and concupiscence that made up most of his comfort zone. He continued with as much courtesy as he could manage: even bandits have some pride.

  ‘Meaning no offence, my lady, I don’t suppose you might oblige us by bestowing the benefits of your powers upon my brothers and myself?’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure. You have been so kind to me!’

  Anwar Das looked uneasy, and laid a restraining hand on Yusuf’s arm.

  ‘Brother, I’m not sure that’s a good—’

  ‘Shut up, Das.’

  ‘At least let one of us keep hold of his sword, in case she’s lying.’

  ‘How dare you impugn her good faith! Besides, are you insane? That way we get less gold!’ With an impatient movement, Yusuf Razim tugged Anwar Das’s sword from his resisting grasp and tossed it onto the pile at the woman’s feet.

  Immediately, her face lit up, all traces of tears vanishing.

  ‘It worked, everyone!’ she called.

  Eleven of the bandits looked confused. Das looked horrified. He dived for his sword at the same moment that what looked like an army of women erupted from the surrounding rocks and rushed upon them from all sides.

  ‘It’s a tra—’ he started to yell. Then a fist or a cudgel slammed into the back of his head, and for a while at least he was untroubled by worldly matters.

  The women flooded into the thieves’ valley, chattering excitedly. They were elated from their success, and cheered Bethi, the servant girl who had pulled off the stunning deception. She grinned back at them, using the edge of her robe to wipe from her arm the hand mark that Farhat had drawn there in kehal paint.

  When Zuleika had suggested that they kill some jackals to add weight to the story, the other women had thought it impossible. But the assassin had a tiny vial of clear liquid in a lace pouch at the bottom of her pack, and once they had added a few drops to five raw camel steaks, they were soon rewarded with five jackal carcasses with not a mark on them, quite plausible victims of Bethi’s death touch. Issi and Zeinab had protested a little at the prospect of killing a camel, but with almost four hundred of them in the train, they agreed that one could be spared.

  Now that they had assumed control of the valley, the women and the camel-drivers took it in turns to wash in the pool, letting out little cries of relief and pleasure as they did so. Then they filled their water skins from the spring as it flowed over the rounded stones. After sniffing doubtfully at the dank air inside the cave, they pitched their tents as near as possible to its opening and, leaving a small group to guard the thieves, ventured inside.

  It turned out on exploration to be not one cave but a whole network, running under the mountains for what could have been many miles. The braver women ran in with whoops of excitement, calling out to see how their voices echoed. At the cave mouth, Jamal and his friends had begun a game of hide and seek, with the older women looking sternly on to make sure that they did not stray too far.

  Apart from the group of bound men under armed guard in a small room off the main cave, the scene seemed almost like an afternoon of leisure back home in the seraglio. Laughter and conversation, such as had not been heard since they were first sent into the desert, drifted through the air.

  ‘You know we’re going to have to do something about them,’ Zuleika said to Gursoon as they collected wood for the fire. She jerked her head in the direction of the bandits.

  ‘I know,’ Gursoon sighed, ‘but look at everyone now. It will sadden them greatly when we tell them. They’re good girls, Zuleika, and brave too, but it’s not in their natures to be violent. Let’s give them this evening, at least, to celebrate – and leave the killing, if killing there must be, until tomorrow.’

  Tales Whose Application Is Mostly Tactical: Anwar Das

  Now there was among the thieves one Anwar Das, who had this much of virtue in him: he wasn’t very keen on killing, and had sometimes dissuaded his colleagues from unnecessary massacres by resorting to the pragmatic argument that it drove away repeat business.

  Anwar Das was used to winning arguments. He had a keen mind and a smooth tongue – the latter cultivated in Ibu Kim, where in the course of a woefully misspent youth he had plied the trade of a professional gambler. It was a tribute to his eloquence, his persuasiveness and his charm that he had come out alive; in Ibu Kim, let’s not forget, disappointed gamers who feel themselves cheated will often lop a limb from the suspected trickster so they’ll know him the next time they see him.

  During the day after their defeat and capture by the women, Anwar Das pondered his likely fate – and, to a much lesser extent, that of his comrades. He wanted to live to see another dawn, but it was clear to him that the women were renegades of some kind, trying to evade pursuit. In such a situation, he had to admit, it made solid sense for them to kill the men outright, and thereby avoid any possibility that their precarious refuge might be compromised.

  He tried to think of some stratagem that might save him, but inspiration didn’t come. In the meantime, while the other thieves muttered sullenly to each other about what they’d do to these whores if they once got the upper hand, Anwar Das chatted to their guards – who were changed frequently – about their origin, their adventures and their reasons for being in this remote mountain fastness.

  Most of the women were only too willing to talk. Anwar Das was handsome as well as eloquent, and when he put himself to it could charm the pants off anyone. He had fair hair, a rarity in that region then as now, fine features, and eyes like wells in which a woman saw herself reflected ten times more beautiful than she was. In some ways, charm and subtlety were his stock in trade, and it had felt like a come-down for him when he finally made Ibu Kim too hot to hold him and had to join the bandits, whose idea of subtlety was to say ‘look behind you’ before they whacked you on the head with a club.

  So the women poured out their hearts, or at any rate their recent histories, and Anwar Das listened with very flattering attention, occasionally throwing in an interjection of the ‘how you must have suffered’ variety. He was not proud of himself for doing this: the women were still disoriented from the recent collapse of their entire lives, and full of fear to boot. Their guard was down.

  Only the tall, wiry one with the hooded eyes refused to rise to Anwar Das’s bait, and had no words to give him. Not even her name, although he learned from the other women that she was Zuleika. She would be the one, he thought – the one who finally gave the order to cut throats, or more likely got stuck in and did the job herself. She had the look, somehow: the stare that takes cold count of all it sees, and does not shrink from the tally no matter how it comes out.

  So how to win clemency from the women, when their very existence depended, for the moment, on ruthless pragmatism?

  He considered a verbal seduction: one of the guards might be persuaded by sweet words and proffers of love to cut his bonds and set him free. But he’d still have to get out of the caves, through many chambers no doubt filled now with women. There would be other guards on duty elsewhere in the tunnels – since this Zuleika, at least, was no fool – and it was likely they’d make short work of him.

  A mass escape, then? Get his own hands untied, then free his comrades and try to fight their way out? But they were too heavily outnumbered, and in any case the bloodshed, once started, would play out by its own logic. Even if they escaped, they’d escape with blood on their hands, and they would be pursued, brought down, slaughtered like dogs.

&nbs
p; The tricks by which Anwar Das had made his living, back in Ibu Kim, mostly depended on making the mark see something that wasn’t actually happening, or making him fail to see something that was obvious. He had to do the same thing here, in a sense, but without the benefit of any props. He had to do his heypass-repass with words alone.

  At sunset the guards came for them and brought them out from the supply hole into the larger chamber where, in happier times, they had been wont to enjoy their supper. The chamber was cool, even on the hottest of days, and it had a large smoke-hole through which, if one lay awake at night, one could watch the stars wheel across the sky.

  The bandits were made to kneel, and the tall woman walked along their ranks. Many other women lined the walls of the room, staring at them from all sides. Anwar Das could sense their tension. He noticed one in particular – older than most of the others and with a kind of authority in her bearing. When she raised her hand, all conversation in the room died away.

  ‘Whatever we decide,’ Zuleika said into the silence, ‘we decide it now, without debate. It’s not mercy to let these men linger with their fate in the balance, tormented by hope as much as despair. Vote now, and let it be done. If the vote is for death, I’ll do it myself – and I’ll give these thieves the same mercy I’ve shown to kings and noblemen. I’ll kill each of them quickly and cleanly, with a single stroke. When it’s done, I’ll need a detail of twenty to help bury them.

  ‘If for life, bear in mind that if even one of these wretches escapes, he’ll go straight to the nearest town and tell the story of what happened here. A chain of whispers will start then, and in the space of days or weeks it will reach Hakkim’s ears. From that moment on, we are as slaughtered cows, their throats already cut, that yet stand and believe themselves alive.’

  The stark image caused dismay across the room, and Anwar Das saw in the faces that surrounded him a few dozen votes for clemency summarily torpedoed.

  The older woman frowned. ‘I don’t like to pay for our freedom in the coin of atrocities,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’ Zuleika asked bluntly. ‘Trust me, Gursoon, it’s the currency most commonly used.’

  ‘Then why did we go to such lengths to take the men alive?’

  ‘To spare our own numbers,’ Zuleika said. ‘For no other reason.’

  They held each other’s gaze for the space of some three heartbeats.

  ‘A vote, then,’ the older woman said at last. ‘Life or death. But you will not take this on yourself, Zuleika. All who vote should be ready to bloody their own hands, rather than another’s. We’ll draw lots. Twenty throats, twenty hands to cut them. So each of us has an equal chance of coming out of this a murderer.’

  Zuleika acquiesced with a curt nod. ‘I vote for death,’ she said. ‘All those who agree with me . . .’

  ‘I wish to speak!’ Anwar Das called out in a ringing voice. All eyes turned to him, and he went on without a pause. ‘Esteemed ladies, I beg you to let me speak. I have words in my breast to which I must needs give utterance. And since, if I tactfully wait out your deliberations, I might be somewhat handicapped by having my throat cut, this present moment seems opportune.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Zuleika told him sternly.

  ‘No, let him speak,’ Gursoon countered, and there was a murmur of agreement from around the room. Anwar Das was pleased to discover that his day’s schmoozing had not been wasted. ‘What is it you want to say to us?’

  Anwar Das climbed to his feet. With his hands tied behind his back, it wasn’t easy, but he felt he cut a better figure upright than on his knees. It was clear from the wistful looks he saw on many faces that he was not alone in that opinion. But they were wistful glances, not merely admiring ones; the women thought this was a waste, which meant they were resigned to his destruction.

  ‘He just wants to beg for his life,’ Zuleika said impatiently. ‘Any man will make any promise when death’s hanging over him, and then break it after. Don’t listen.’

  ‘A confession,’ Anwar Das said, to the room at large. ‘I’ve done terrible things, and now, as I leave this life, I yearn to unburden my conscience. Let me do so, ladies, and I’ll die with a light heart. I don’t plead for life. Far from it! I’ve deserved death no fewer than three times, and only wish to tell you how.’

  Gursoon looked around the room. Most of the women were nodding or murmuring assent. It seemed a reasonable request, from a young man of such fine features and attractive build, whose time on this Earth was about to be so tragically cut short.

  ‘Go to it,’ Gursoon told him. ‘But be brief.’

  ‘I ask that my hands should be untied,’ Anwar Das said. ‘I give you my word, I won’t try to run or offer violence to anyone here.’

  He was speaking to Gursoon, and Gursoon nodded. Zuleika rolled her eyes, but came around behind Anwar Das and cut the rope that bound his hands.

  ‘If you offer violence,’ she murmured to him, ‘you make this quicker and easier. You’ll be dead before you draw two breaths.’

  ‘Thank you, lady,’ Anwar Das said, massaging his swollen wrists. ‘Your candour is appreciated.’

  He struck a stance and began his story.

  The Tale of the Man Who Deserved Death No Fewer Than Three Times

  ‘There was once a young man,’ Anwar Das said, ‘of noble birth, good family, honest character and astonishingly attractive features, who nonetheless had been marked by unkind fate for vicious and unexpected reverses.’

  There was a shifting and shuffling among the concubines. Several sat down, crossed their legs and rested their chins upon their fists.

  ‘Stick to the point,’ Zuleika suggested tersely, but this injunction was met with reproachful glances from many quarters, and Anwar Das felt sufficiently encouraged to continue.

  ‘This young man,’ he said, ‘was the son of a great merchant in the city of Yrtsus. And when I say a great merchant, I don’t just mean a wealthy one. Isulmir Das had a generous heart, and was always mindful of those less fortunate than himself. He held this opinion: that the holy duty of zakaad, the giving of alms, is the most important of the commandments laid upon us by the Increate. He never passed a beggar’s bowl without blessing it with silver. Never cheated a trader. Never made a bargain by lying to or tricking those he dealt with. Why, once I saw him give back to a wine merchant a barrel of brandy that had been sent to him by mistake when he had ordered small beer. Your mistake, he told the man, shall not be my advancement, nor your loss my profit.’

  Zenabia, whose father was a wine merchant, nodded vigorous agreement with this sentiment.

  ‘But alas!’ sighed Anwar Das. ‘Virtue must be rewarded in Heaven, for on Earth it is trodden underfoot every day by triumphant vice. My father – I’m sorry, I mean the merchant, of course – was murdered by an unscrupulous courtier, the Most Upraised Nilaf Brozoud, who hated his goodness and had a covetous eye on his properties. Worse! The innocent son was falsely accused of the father’s murder. So not only had he lost a parent, but he stood guilty in the world’s eyes of the foulest crime there is – patricide! He fled into the desert with nothing but the clothes he stood up in, a bare inch ahead of the baying mob, who pursued him with swords and cudgels and, if they had caught him, would have deprived him summarily of his life.’

  The concubines were agog. Zuleika tutted and fingered her dagger. Gursoon looked wryly amused, but did not intervene as the camel thief got fairly into his stride.

  ‘Pity him!’ he cried. ‘This noble youth, brave but untried, barely old enough yet to wear a beard. Thrown to the mercies of the world, he was. Every man’s hand raised against him, and every door closed in his face. He wandered long over the dunes, in the heat of the day, his tongue parched, the tears of filial grief evaporating unfallen from his eyes.’

  Zuleika could not withhold a profane oath at this point, but Anwar Das rode right on over it, his glance flicking from one of the women to another, always holding each one’s gaze until he received some hint of a response. �
�For days and nights he staggered on. Lost, alone, closer and closer to death. And at last he fell among thieves, who roamed wild in the deserts of the west and considered all who came there to be their rightful prey.

  ‘They would have killed the young man. He had no means to defend himself, and his clothes, though ragged and dusty now, were of rich cloth. That would have been enough to damn him in their eyes, and indeed the leader – the infamous Vurdik the Bald – raised his sword over the young man’s head and made to bring it down.

  ‘But the Increate watches over all things, baraha barahinei, and in that moment he sent a shaft of light into the bandit chief’s soul, so that he was struck with unwonted compassion. Instead of cutting the young man into four pieces, he took his own water skin from his belt and gave him to drink from it.’

  ‘A good way of picking up all sorts of unsavoury diseases,’ Zuleika growled. The women furthest from her line of sight shushed indignantly, but fell silent when she turned to look in their direction.

  ‘They made him one of their own,’ Anwar Das said. ‘And though by nature he recoiled from the terrible acts by which these ruffians earned their daily living, still he owed them his life, and he paid that debt by participating in their depredations.’

  ‘This is starting to sound like a plea for the defence,’ Gursoon said sternly.

  ‘By no means, lady,’ Anwar Das protested. ‘It is, as I said, my confession – and here we have already come to the first mortal sin. The young man had been raised to value life and respect property, and now he became a bandit, a canker, a depraved and reckless thief, practising on the goods and livelihoods of his neighbours and fattening on their misfortunes. Is this not terrible? And yet, what choice did he have, since to defy the miscreants who’d found him meant certain death at their hands?