Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  I understood later that those promises were like pipe smoke, weightless and gone with the slightest whisper of air. So in my quiet way, the only way I could, I made my map. If I wouldn’t visit by foot, I would visit in my dreams.

  When my tears slowed. When, finally, I felt the weight of my grief had lessened even just a little, Mama spoke. “Let’s go to the rama, eh?” She helped me stand, then dressed to leave with the most stunning abaya and veil only a king’s wife could wear—no villager could afford to decorate their veil with shining, golden dha.

  We walked until we reached the wide, empty area surrounded by palace tents. Aside from the guards that stood at its entrance, it was empty. Most waited for prayers until the sun was at its highest—when the sand was hottest.

  “Let us speak to the Sons,” she said as she led me to the center of the rama.

  I knelt next to her and pressed my hands and brow into the sand. It was warm, but I did not wince. My prayers would be quiet that morning.

  We were silent for some time before, finally, Mama spoke.

  “Your father will address the people today,” she murmured beside me.

  I opened my eyes, seeing each tiny grain piled to make the modest dunes.

  “Tell me what he says,” she continued.

  “I—I don’t understand,” I said, tripping on my words.

  “I know that you leave. I know what you do.”

  I tilted my head to look at her, my pulse quickening. What else did she know? Of the salt I stole? Of the jinni?

  “Don’t look at me,” she hissed in warning. “They can’t know we’re speaking.” I did as she said. “Your father has told us nothing about the attack, and I want to know more. Can you go?”

  “I will.” I swallowed hard, unsettled by what she knew. Who had told her? Who else would they tell?

  Bribing my way out of the palace was not as easy this time. The guards were on edge as much as the villagers, and they stood with more to lose should they face the King’s wrath. And though they would admit it to none, Alim and Jael worried about me, too.

  “It’s not safe for you,” Alim said. But because of the jinni, I had deep pockets. There was no guard that could not be bribed, and after much persuasion, and a heavy payment, I headed toward the market to find Firoz.

  The air crackled with nervous tension as I wound my way through the settlement. Passing villagers shot me uneasy glances before returning their eyes to the ground. People spoke quietly in tight circles, peering distrustfully around them. Nearly every face was covered, and the anonymity made me uneasy.

  The people had grown complacent living under the Salt King’s rule. Desert tribes attacked each other often, eager to absorb other tribes and grow more powerful. It was the life man knew, it was how nomads survived. But that unpredictable and violent life was abandoned when the settlement and the Salt King’s reputation grew to such a stature that none dared strike. Most who came to live in our settlement did so for stability and safety. Matin and his soldiers ripped away that illusion and provided a stabbing reminder that nowhere was safe. We, too, were vulnerable.

  With the caravan gone, and most of the villagers hiding away in their homes, the marketplace was a stark contrast to when I saw it last. It was eerily hushed with so few shops open, the lack of street performers, and only a handful of people making purchases.

  Firoz sat with his arms propped behind him, indifferently watching the villagers pass. His basin of coconut juice was disconcertingly full.

  “Firo,” I said as I ducked into the tent. Our eyes met, and he jumped to his knees.

  “Thank Eiqab!” he said, too loudly in the hushed market. In two kneeling steps, he had his arms wrapped around me, his fists clutching the robes at my back.

  “Shhh!” I pushed him away. His affectionate display would draw attention.

  “No one is looking at us,” he said, gesturing at the empty lane. He did not take his eyes from me as we sat on the blanket. He was so relieved, I felt guilty I had not sent Jael to tell him I was okay. “The guards are probably assembling for the address. I haven’t seen one in some time. That’s why you’re here, I assume?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sons, Emel. I wanted to ask after you but didn’t want to cause trouble.” His fingers tore at his hair. “Were you there? I heard rumors . . .”

  “Yes. I saw enough.”

  Despite his frown, his eyes sparked. “Come on. Business has been slow anyway. Let’s go talk.” We carefully carried the basin home to his disappointed mother.

  We walked through the village until we arrived at the only area that seemed unaffected by the rising tension. Music floated through the air and met my ears as we approached, and when we turned down the lively byway, the sounds engulfed us completely.

  The baytahira—the part of the settlement where people were paid to do the same thing I did for suitors.

  Besides the loud music, the garish fabric suspended from shoddy tent framework declared we were amongst the village whores. Scantily clad women and men draped themselves on stools and blankets scattered outside open tents hoping for business. Some tents were closed, the sounds from within muffled by the music. Those who were unoccupied called seductively as we passed.

  “I’ll take two for the price of one.”

  “Handsome boy, I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  The first time Firoz brought me here, I was horrified. It was the last place I wanted to be found if I were discovered outside the palace. I had stomped away, but Firoz had talked me down.

  “There are no people better at keeping secrets than those that live here. There is also no better place to talk. We won’t be overheard.” The loud music was a testament to that. I never asked him why he was so familiar with the baytahira. I did not want to know.

  “One private tent. Until the twilight horn,” Firoz said to a formidable woman who owned an aggregate of tents. He handed her five bronze nab. I felt a small prickle of guilt letting him pay for the tent when I had a brick’s worth of salt attached to my hip, but I said nothing. Passing salt to palace guards was less of a risk because they were already paid in salt at times, but a servant woman paying in salt would lead to questions I was not ready to answer.

  We were directed to a small tent covered in a zig-zagging red pattern on black fabric with its front tied open. The tents for hire were arranged so the entrances faced a small sandy passage. In the middle of the lane, two young men sat under a lean-to playing loudly a rhythmic melody with their oud and darbuka.

  I followed Firoz inside. Atop the thin, filthy sheet that covered the sand, a tan scorpion reveled in the darkness. I backed away swiftly, bleating like a goat. Firoz rushed in and chased it out.

  “What is your problem?” he asked, laughing.

  “Stung when I was a child,” I said, tucking my legs beneath me once I was seated. I pointed at my foot as if the red mark was still there.

  Once Firoz sealed the tent, the closed space grew unbearably hot. We unwrapped our faces, and I untangled myself from my abaya until I was only in my fustan.

  “Tell me what happened?” Firoz took off his tunic and fanned himself with it.

  I told him of the afternoon.

  “So you were going to marry him,” Firoz said in disbelief.

  I nodded, feeling the pit open up in my stomach again. I wiped the sweat from my legs with my dress.

  He exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

  Tears welled in my eyes. It seemed that one day soon, I would be dried of all my tears.

  Firoz watched me closely. “There will be someone else.”

  “He was the first in seven years.” That invisible fist again tightened on my throat, and I fussed with my nails.

  “So? Another could arrive tomorrow.”

  I glared at him. “It does no good to give me hope, when we both know that I’ll be out on the streets in a year.” The pit in my stomach yawned wider, filling with sorrow and fear until it brimmed over the edge.

  “I’
ve been thinking I’ll need a helper at the shop.” When I didn’t smile, he softened. “You forget that with hope, we can be the most dangerous people here.” Firoz took my hand and squeezed it. “Tell me what happened after,” he said, and I told him of the attack. Of the swinging blades, the death and gore. Of my father’s escape, of Nassar’s oblivion. That I remained by myself in the throne room. I did not mention the jinni. The secret too big to trouble him with.

  “How’d you get home?”

  I picked at a loose thread on my robe. “I found my way back.”

  “It wasn’t so easy for some.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “By the time the bells clanged, the streets were already swarmed with the Altamaruq—”

  “The what?”

  He sighed, exasperated by my ignorance. “The rebels, the soldiers. It’s what the villagers call them. It was like the Altamaruq waited for something, and I assume it was like that in the palace. Of course, we didn’t know what was happening with the King.

  “I was in my shop when everything started. As more and more of those men arrived—lurking like jackals—I knew something was amiss. I went home. There were so many along the way. So many fools approached them. They seemed peaceful, really. They didn’t attack unless a villager tried to fend them off . . .” He shook his head and pressed his fingers to his eyes as though trying to rub away the memories. “Eventually, more of their men came sprinting down the lanes, running away from the palace, hollering to flee. The King’s guard chased them out.”

  “And I was worried about the few soldiers I saw . . .”

  “So many more got away. Though I’ve heard there are still some hiding amongst us. I think they’ve got one in the prison. Ma said they are searching for something, but no one knows what.”

  “I know what they seek.”

  “You do?”

  “My father’s throne. Matin tried to kill him.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose. Someone else said there’s a spy among the King’s men, so they’ll surely be back.”

  “Spy?” I thought of what my mother knew of my leaving. Was she informed by this spy?

  He shrugged.

  “What else do you know about the Altamaruq?”

  “Not much. They’re suspected to be from the north since they arrived with the caravan, but we don’t know where.”

  “My father said Matin was from far north. Do you think the desert’s edge?”

  Firoz looked at me skeptically.

  I continued. “Do you believe the legends? The ones that talk of the magic there? Do you think they are true? Do you think Rafal is to be believed?”

  “I don’t know. If there is magic, it doesn’t seem to have found us here. Besides Rafal, I have not met a traveler nor trader from the edge that claims to have seen it.” Aashiq had said the same. “Rafal is a storyteller. I’m sure most of what he says is imagined.”

  I peered around the tent, then leaned close into Firoz. “Do you believe,” I lowered my voice, “jinn are real?”

  Firoz turned to me, confused. It was not something settlers often spoke of. Many of the elders cautioned against mentioning jinn, as though the word itself might summon one.

  “Why ask that?”

  I hesitated. “Since we’re talking of dream-tales, you know.”

  “I remember those stories.” He smiled sadly. “My favorites were the ones where they granted wishes. What would you wish for?”

  “I wouldn’t trust one enough to wish,” I lied, realizing how foolish I had been with the jinni. I shouldn’t even have spoken with him when I learned what he was. The salt grew heavy against my hip.

  Firoz frowned. “That would be foolish. What would you have to lose?”

  I stared at my feet, saying nothing.

  He went on. “I would wish to be gone from here. Live somewhere I can be myself—where I don’t have to act in this absurd charade.” Firoz tossed his scarf across the tent, suddenly enraged.

  I wanted to distract him from his ire.

  “I’d wish for a bath to use every single day. Unlimited flatbread for Tavi. Rain.” For Aashiq. To be free of my father’s court. To be able to say no without consequence.

  “This is childish,” he spat. “Imagining what we would wish for. Living in some dream world, hoping for things that cannot be.”

  “Now where’s that dangerous hope?” I said softly.

  I saw a spark of a smile.

  We were silent for a long time, enduring the heat to bask in the luxury of privacy. Then, the twilight horn sounded, so we left to watch our king address his people.

  Shoulders pressed together in the great tent that sat adjacent to the King’s palace. We stood huddled around an impromptu, wobbling, wooden stage where my father would make his speech. The tent felt cool, despite the number of people that squeezed in to see their king, because atop the platform, a swarm of slaves tirelessly swung palm fronds to circulate the air. Around the perimeter of the stage, the King’s soldiers stood side by side, blades poised to strike.

  We tunneled our way through the people to stand toward the back of the tent.

  An excited murmur spread through the crowd, and I knew Father had arrived. Garbed in extravagant maroon robes studded with rubies, he was followed closely by Nassar, who carried with him a tightly wound scroll, a jar of ink, and a large, feather quill.

  Nassar. How could a man who had arrived in our village unknown and alone climb the ranks of my father’s sycophants so quickly? Three, maybe four, years ago, he come to our settlement with only the clothes he wore and a pack of things he had on his camel’s back. My father was impressed, so much so that this past spring, Nassar had become the Salt King’s partner and counselor, his first vizier. Nassar’s ruthlessness and wicked cunning—and his saccharine flattery—certainly were attractive to my father, but Sons, where was that when Matin arrived? If he had been paying any attention at all, he may have saved some of the guards. He may have saved Aashiq. Anger sparked in me as I watched him.

  Father climbed onto the stage holding up his bulbous turban with its heavy jasper stone as he bent forward. Nassar scurried up behind him. The room was silent, all held their breath as they awaited the address from their king.

  His chest and belly jutted out, testing the strength of his shirt buttons, as he reveled in the praise. I watched him with disgust, remembering his sloppiness, his drunkenness when Matin attacked. There was no demonstration of his famed sword-skills that afternoon, and the same anger infused by Nassar’s incompetence burned in me again.

  Aashiq had died because they failed. My future had crumbled because of them.

  “My loyal and beloved people! I hope Eiqab has seen to it that your days are warm and your olive trees generous!” the King bellowed. His oily face shined like polished silver, and his wide smile showed his stained teeth, glistening like wet stones. His people roared. Bile rose from the depths of my stomach, sour and acrid. Which god did these people cheer for: Eiqab or their king?

  “I know you are afraid. I know that you have heard vile rumors of these people who challenged me—the Altamaruq.”

  Villagers hissed and heckled at the mention of Matin and his soldiers.

  “Never fear,” the King continued. “These people are nothing.” He slammed his fist against an invisible barrier.

  They cheered.

  Nassar wrote furiously on an unfurled scroll, the feather spinning along the parchment.

  “They are no threat. They were a small army and were squashed like a mosquito between the tips of my fingers. They are a worthless tribe and launched their attack like children, unprepared and weak. My strong army—your army—chased them out of our settlement and killed every last one of them. The cowards who surrendered have been imprisoned.”

  My father continued on about his strength and his soldiers’ bravery. I grew tired of listening. There was little I was going to glean from his speech suffused with lies. My attention wandered to the people surrounding me, as I s
earched for the supposed spies.

  Two dozen guards protected the King. None would be so foolish to attack him now. I scanned their faces, and my gaze snagged on a man, familiar yet strange. An uneasy tingling traveled down my neck. He stood close beside my father. I had not seen this guard before, yet something nagged at me, telling me I had. As if he felt my stare amongst the hundreds in the crowded room, the guard’s eyes met mine, and the gentle tingling exploded into a fire that burned through me down to my toes. I gasped. His eyes were a flaming gold. His stare was unrelenting until, with the utmost subtlety, he gently dipped his head into a nod.

  Firoz heard my gasp. “Are you okay?”

  The jinni. Another who couldn’t help, whom I couldn’t trust, who failed to save Aashiq. My chest heaved with seething breath, my anger molten. I nodded to Firoz, but did not take my eyes from the masked soldier. He did not take his eyes away from me.

  At first glance, he did not appear remarkable. He was just a man: gone was his golden skin and chestnut hair pulled back in golden bands. He was another one of the King’s men: short, black hair, tanned skin, a pristine white uniform of the guard. But now that I knew who he was, I could almost see the radiating glow of his magic, the carved features of his deity-like face. I could even see the gold clasped to his wrists, seeping into his skin, peaking out beneath his sleeves.

  The speech blurred by. I heard the King’s words but could not make sense of them. I stared at the jinni, heart pounding in my chest, anger clouding my vision and every single thought.