Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  Tavi said, a little too brightly, “Why don’t we go to her together? Later today, after midday meal, eh?”

  There was silence as Sabra and I glared at each other. Spending my limited time with Sabra was the last thing I wanted to do, but my older sister nodded and said, “Mama would like that.”

  My shoulders dropped. If she agreed, then I had no choice. “The sounds nice, Tavi.”

  Tavi combed through my hair again, happiness weaving through her words like her fingers through my hair. “This will be great. Mama will love seeing all of us together.”

  I began picking at my fingers again. Raheemah reached over and used her hand to separate mine. “So tell me,” Raheemah pressed quietly, “what did you wear?”

  Grateful for the change in direction, I told my sisters, whose dewy faces had turned toward me. “Oh, that one is my favorite!” one exclaimed as I shared details of the outfit Hadiyah had chosen for me.

  “Emerald pales you,” Sabra said from across the room. She pretended to fuss with her weaving threads, but her eyes kept flicking up to mine, and her mouth murmured words I could not hear.

  Tavi exhaled.

  “Well, I certainly think Aashiq will propose,” Raheemah announced, clapping her hands together.

  “We will see,” I said, still scowling at Sabra. I took a long drink of the sage tea, trying to rekindle the excitement I had felt moments before. It did not take much, as I realized that by leaving the palace, I would also be leaving Sabra. Bless Eiqab for the gift of Aashiq.

  Chapter Three

  The midday horn’s low blare sounded through the settlement. Some of my sisters rose to go to the rama—sun-scorched sand in the palace where they could pray to Eiqab. The longer they held their palms and brow to the ground, the more likely the god would hear their prayers.

  “How about praying,” Tavi said loudly to the backs of the ahiran that exited the tent, “for our damn meal. I hope whoever’s bringing our food doesn’t stop to gossip on the way. She should know I’m starved after someone,” she peered pointedly at one of the girls’ backs, “ate more than her share this morning.”

  “I hope Aashiq requests you again tonight,” Raheemah said as she splashed her face with the browned basin water. It needed to be thrown out, but we would keep that basin until the air had sucked it dry. Then, maybe, we’d get another bowl of fresh water to clean. Our father’s small charity for being an ahira was the luxurious baths we received before the suitor.

  “He said he might wait until the third night before he makes a decision,” I said. Raheemah appeared so stricken by the notion, I changed the subject. “A caravan arrives today, so maybe the attendant will tell us of a new muhami, eh? You could have your chance.”

  Raheemah gazed dreamily at nothing, a lazy smile playing on her lips.

  Tavi groaned. “Hope not. I want to eat until I look like I’m with child.” She held her hands before her belly. “No chains are fitting around my waist tonight if we’re to go to court.”

  The tent entrance was peeled open. A young woman peered in. “Nothing, girls.”

  “Eiqab answered my prayers!” Tavi rubbed her palms together. “Let there be stacks of bread so tall, they’re charred by the sun.” She turned to me. “Wait, Emel. Let’s eat first. Then we can go see Mama.”

  Already standing, I had retrieved my sack of salt and was moving to get dressed, having forgotten my promise to Tavi and Sabra. “Oh . . .” I hesitated. So eager to please Tavi, I wasn’t thinking when I agreed earlier. “See, I forgot about the caravan.”

  Tavi narrowed her eyes. “It won’t take long,” she lowered her voice, “and it’s a chance to mend things. For all of us.” She did not need to say before Sabra is gone forever.

  Holding the leather sack firmly in my hand, I grimaced. “Caravan, Tavi. You know I can’t miss it.” A caravan’s arrival was one of the biggest events in the settlement, and I loved seeing the people and the things they carried from other parts of the desert.

  “Yes, just a caravan,” Tavi said. She understood nothing about it. She did not have the courage to leave the palace. “There will be more.”

  She did not know that Aashiq had promised to propose, and I did not want to tell her. I did not want any of them to know until we had my father’s approval. So how did I tell her there wouldn’t be more? It would be one of the last times I saw our settlement, that I saw Firoz.

  Shaking my head, I pleaded with Tavi, “I have to go. I’m sorry. We’ll go when I get back, eh?”

  “What kind of example do you think you’re setting for our sisters?” Sabra said from behind me. “They look up to you, and you run off at every opportunity. What are you teaching them? To run from their problems? From their family?”

  I pressed my fingers against my temples. “Does everything have to be a fight?”

  Sabra leaned in so Tavi wouldn’t hear. “When I am gone, you are the only thing she will have.” Tavi couldn’t bear hearing about Sabra’s impending banishment.

  “Mama isn’t dead,” I spat. “She’ll have her, too.”

  “Don’t forget about Tavi when you’re chasing whatever it is you seek.”

  Tavi interrupted, a little too brightly. “It’s actually fine. Today probably wasn’t the best day. We’ll go tomorrow.”

  When an attendant brought our midday meal, Sabra left me to join Tavi, who eagerly grasped a handful of dried dates, babbling about how she would want to nap after the meal anyway and really, there just wasn’t enough time to see Mama that afternoon. I swallowed my guilt.

  At the bottom of a basket I shared with Raheemah, I found my servant’s abaya and veil. They were plain, no fancy embellishments nor rich colors, and would allow me to sneak from the palace without suspicion.

  “Don’t you want to eat first?” Tavi asked as she spat a date seed into her palm.

  Raheemah grasped my ankle. “Stay for a bit. We can finish our game.” She and a few other sisters had begun a new game of cards, and though I wanted to revisit my win, market day was far too alluring.

  “Can’t miss anything,” I said, shaking the sand out of my clothes, already thrilling at the prospect of the bazaar. My fustan was too long for me, so I used my leather belt to hold it up from the ground so none of the bright edges could be seen beneath the abaya’s hem. I dressed until I was covered from my hair to the tops of my feet, taking care that I tied my scarf to adequately protect me from the sun and to conceal my face.

  “See if you can find me a handsome and rich merchant while you’re out. These noblemen are overvalued,” Pinar said, staring down at her cards, then put her finger on her chin as she considered something. “I think I’d prefer rich . . . over handsome, you see. Just in case you’ve a few to choose from.”

  My worn sandals slid easily onto my feet. “I will tell him of your erotic prowess and he will come bursting through our tent to steal you away.” I clasped the salt tightly in my palm.

  “Tell him I’m a virgin; he’ll come sooner.”

  It was almost always the same two men who guarded our home during the day, and the same two who were there at night. Stepping out of the tent, I glanced at Jael and Alim.

  “Blessings of Eiqab, brothers.” It was our signal. Perhaps it was because they actually knew us—standing by our tent for years, hearing our hopes and sufferings—but aside from my full brother, they were the only two of the King’s men who were kind to us.

  “And of Wahir,” Jael replied, nodding his head and holding out his hand.

  To anyone who saw, it looked like a simple greeting, but quickly, I pressed my leather pouch into his palm. The salt was a small bribe when split between the two, but it was enough for each to bring home several decent meals to their families. It was worth it.

  Fussing with my sleeves, I let Jael stride ahead of me, then I followed. He walked quickly, and I felt my tucked dress slipping from beneath my belt. I clasped the fabric at my waist tightly, praying it would hold until I found somewhere to better secure it.
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  We walked along the sandy lanes, then through the rings of tents. The less vital the person or task, the further they’d be on the periphery. Finally, we reached one of the two entries into the palace: the servant’s access. It was heavily guarded, the men fervently questioning those entering and leaving, inspecting the wares they were bringing to and from. But it was also congested on caravan days, so I would slip through easily. Especially with the help of Jael.

  He approached a cluster of the soldiers—all identifiable as King’s men with palace-white ghutras tucked around their faces and camel wool secured around their crown—and pointed at me. He muttered something about King’s business, and they waved me through. All the servants were similar in their plain coverings—arms curved forward, eyes downcast. I mirrored them and followed four men carrying baskets of goods to sell at the market.

  Suddenly, the basket slipped from one man’s arms, spilling glass beads all over the sand. The camel being led into the palace startled at the commotion, and the people clamored, moving to get out of its way. Distracted by the chaos, and eager to slip through, I ran into the man in front of me, stumbling backward. And then I felt my fustan slip from the belt. Glancing down, I saw the green sparkling with golden thread from beneath my abaya, drawing the attention of any who was looking at the ground. Which was everyone as they stepped over the spilled goods.

  “Stop!” A guard shouted.

  I didn’t turn, taking quicker steps through the people. Just let me get through.

  “Stop slave!” he yelled again.

  Glancing back, I saw him approaching me quickly, his hand outstretched. My breath was hot against my cheeks, sweat dripped down my neck. No, no, no.

  Abruptly, Jael stumbled into the guard.

  “Forgive me, brother,” he said, wiping at the guard’s pristine tunic. He moved swiftly so that he stood between me and the approaching man. “This is much too chaotic. Help me get this cleared up. Everyone stay calm!” Jael shouted, spreading his arms wide so that one was on the guard’s chest and the other was shooing me toward the village. “Those leaving, go now so that we can clear this space.”

  I did not waste the opportunity. I fled.

  The first time I decided to leave the palace was four years ago. I learned a banished ahira had died, and the news came at the heels of another rejection by a muhami. My mind spun with my fate, and I was nauseous with its lack of promise. Would I follow in the footsteps of my dead half-sister? I could not stay another moment idling with the other ahiran or wandering through the kitchens or praying to a deaf god at the rama. That leaving the palace was forbidden by our father mattered little to me. The prospect of change was alluring, and the freedom became addicting. The consequences of being caught became more immaterial with each uneventful outing.

  Whenever I had the salt, I would leave the palace on caravan day. There was nothing that thrilled me more than seeing the rest of the world brought to our home. Traders from across the desert traveled far to reach our settlement with their hundreds of camels, brimming bags, and stuffed vats hanging from the animals’ strong backs. The people would heave them to the bazaar, and the whole settlement would flock to hear impossible stories, savor delicious food, and collect magical treasures. After a day or two, the traders left with heavy pockets that clinked from coin—dha and fid and nab—and more importantly, slabs of salt teetering on their camels’ humps.

  Since the Salt King’s rise to power, my settlement was the only place people came for salt. Old salt mines were lost to the wind that filled them with sand, so the movement of the desert, the routes of trade, all were oriented around my home. It had to be; people needed salt to live.

  The sun blistered against my back, and I delighted in it. Outside of the palace, I was grounded, like a clay doll cut from strings. I found a secluded niche between two tents and adjusted my fustan until it was better secured. Then, I went to the bazaar. In my excitement to reach the marketplace, I nearly ran, weaving through villagers, anonymous in my plain clothes. Imagining that this would be what life was like with Aashiq, I giggled, ecstatic with the freedom that was soon to be mine forever.

  Twangy strums of the oud and the percussion of the bendir reached me before I saw the bazaar. When I turned into the marketplace—the winding labyrinth of tents—I stopped and stared, giddy with its pulsing energy.

  People pushed past me, rushing to their favorite shops, finding the rare spice or treasured gift or even relative from afar. I fell in line behind them, joining the swarm of the market. The chaotic chatter of shop-goers rang in my ears. From the tents, men and women yelled to the shoppers, calling for their attention. Those who did not arrive early enough to snag a tent stood in the middle of the lanes, rushing to people to shove exorbitantly priced jewels onto their wrists or a shining reflecting glass before their eyes. A woman sang a heartbreaking love song down the lane from a man who sang of Masira’s capriciousness—street performers competing for coin. Barterers clamored as goods were exchanged, and wafting through the lanes was the aroma of roasted meats, spices, and scented waxes and oils.

  Hurriedly, I navigated through the market until finally, I found the shop for which I searched. Sitting on a large blanket under a threadbare tent was a man not much older than me. His gaze flicked through the people passing by, following each for a few steps before looking to the next. I tutted at his dishevelment—could he not even dress up for market day? Cloak on the ground behind him, tunic untucked from his sash, turban unwound beside his bare feet. His mother would be horrified. Thank Eiqab she stayed home to take care of her young children.

  “Spare a drink for a poor girl?” I said as I approached, nodding to the nearly empty drum of opaque, milky liquid.

  He placed his hand protectively over his goods as he surveyed me with a skeptical frown. Then the tension eased in his face. “Emel?”

  “Of course, you fool.”

  He broke into a wide grin, his joy at seeing me mirroring mine. Firoz was my best friend. My only friend.

  “Come and sit.” He scooted aside and ladled the liquid into a small bowl for me.

  I sat beside him. “Thank you.” I carefully lifted my veil and took a swift drink of coconut juice. It was almost cool, and deliciously sweet. I closed my eyes as it ran down my throat. “You’re almost out?”

  He nodded. “It’s been a good day. I just need to sell a bit more for Ma, then we can go. They’re from the north.” He grinned knowingly at me.

  “I know! Have you seen Rafal yet?”

  “Not yet, but people are already talking.” He filled a man’s goatskin for a handful of copper nab. “So, the rumors you met with the prince Aashiq last night true then?”

  “How you hear of these things so quickly baffles me.”

  “Those in the palace like to talk.”

  I swirled the drink in my hand, watching white flecks spin.

  “What was he like? Was his snake long—”

  “You brute!” I met Firoz a few years ago when Jael walked with me into the village. He worried about my safety outside the palace, so he introduced me to his friend. If trouble found me, I was to seek out Firoz. We had been friends since, and there was nothing in my heart that he did not know.

  “Tell me he lasted longer than that other guy.” Firoz’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

  “Firo!” I said sharply, my face hot. “I am not talking about this with . . .”

  Two guards, with bright white uniforms gleaming in the afternoon sun, turned down the lane. I scooted back and discreetly adjusted my scarf so it hung lower over my eyes. Firoz saw them too and shifted so that he was close to my side. He took my hand in his.

  They stopped in front of Firoz’s shop. I stared at their feet, clutching Firoz’s hand tightly. My heart pounded against my chest, and I worried they could hear my terror.

  “Eiqab has blessed us!” Firoz exclaimed at their arrival, his voice brightening as he transformed from my friend into a salesman. He pulled my hand up to his mo
uth to kiss my knuckles. “My love, the King’s men desire our goods!” He turned back to the guards. “These coconuts were from a settlement afar and saturated by Eiqab’s blazing sun. I cut the fruit myself at dawn, and my wife here poured them while singing Eiqab’s prayers.” I bowed my head more deeply, further hiding my face.

  “Fill two,” one said as he handed Firoz their goatskins. I did not recognize his voice.

  “How will you pay, my fearless soldiers? You bravely protect my wife and our magnificent King, so I will only find ease if I give you a deal—no one will beat my price.” Though blood roared in my ears, my lips quirked at his ridiculous exclamations.

  The men pulled their pouches from their belts, coins jingling.

  “We’ve salt and coin,” the other guard said. Few paid in salt. Though my father’s palace contained piles of it, the rest of the settlement was poor. Through the guard’s spending, salt was dispersed through the settlement in small quantities, most people choosing to use it in their meals or to preserve their meat. For some, acquiring salt was an obsession—they were the salt chasers.

  Firoz lowered his voice and leaned into them, never letting go of my hand.

  “For both—now, tell no one I’ve given you this deal—I will take one palmful of salt or ten fid.”

  I nearly choked. Either price was outrageous.

  “I will not hear your thanks,” Firoz carried on, shaking his head gravely.

  The guards grunted in agreement. There was an exchange, and they walked away.

  Firoz chuckled, cupping the silver coins in his hand. “Ma will be happy with this.” I scooted away from him. “Can you imagine me as a husband?” Firoz said, suddenly concerned by the prospect.

  “Not for a moment, but you played your part well. You are a skilled peddler, though. ‘Saturated by Eiqab’s blazing sun’? Where do you come up with this?” We declared more and more ridiculous things Eiqab did to the coconuts prior to them being cracked for juice. Some more salacious than others.