“Fine. You owe me thirty rounds,” Raheemah said brandishing the cards. She smiled, but it vanished quickly.
It was obvious the caravan had arrived—foreign people dressed in beautiful robes and exotic headscarves and turbans occupied many of the bazaar tents. But it was emptier. Villagers did not press through each other bumping shoulders and jostling sacks full of wares as they passed. Still, people were there, and they were exchanging coin.
Cursing, I found Firoz’s family shop empty. The sun was already past its peak, so he had likely gone home. Not wanting to waste the opportunity to learn something of the caravan, I strolled through the lanes. There was a small line of people who waited outside one shop. Inside, a man was sitting in a chair while another inspected his teeth. Further, a man sat under dozens of woven baskets displayed on metal hooks. A woman with a basket of iron spearheads caught my eye. She was familiar, as were her wares. I approached with my head tilted up, like coin was my unlimited resource.
“Tell me of these.”
“The finest iron mined from the mountains to the north, smelted by my husband’s fires, and honed with obsidian from the south. These are sharp enough to piece the toughest flesh and light enough to throw.”
“The north?” I repeated. “You’ve come from the north?”
She nodded and pushed the sharp spearheads toward me. “Twenty dha or a fist of salt.”
“The price is too high,” I said and rushed off as she called after me, saying she was willing to bargain. She did not know she had already given me what I wanted.
I tore through the lanes, walking as fast as I could without appearing as though I was running off with stolen goods. Finally, I saw the people surrounding Rafal, the man standing on his makeshift stage at the center of them all. The ghutra wound around his head and neck was the color of an amethyst. I could not see his friend through the crowd, but I heard the drum pattering. The mass of people was no smaller than normal, despite the marketplace being quieter. None wanted to miss the fantastical tales Rafal brought to the bazaar.
“They seek to restore the desert,” Rafal said. “Change the paths of trade.”
“Who?” I whispered to a woman.
“The Altamaruq,” she said excitedly.
“You see, there was a time when caravans did not travel to the heart of the desert to acquire salt. They used to travel to the salt mines or to the desert’s edge.” He waited while people gasped and oohed. Then he continued. “But the desert’s edge is impossible, and the salt mines have been lost under sand from disuse. Who could find them now? The maps are faded; so long has it been since we have needed them. The paths here are easy. The oases are known. Why change?
“People are angry with the trade. Why should one man control all of the salt? The heart of the desert is punishing, the price of the salt high. But others shake their head saying they’re fools. Even if they wanted change, how could they bring it about?
“Do you know what the Altamaruq call themselves?” Rafal asked. The people shook their heads, enraptured by his talk of change, of rebellion. Putting questions in their mind they never knew to ask. “The Dalmur. The believers.” He paused, and the drummer pounded his fists.
“They’re believers of the legend of the desert’s edge. That there is a better desert hidden beneath the one we are now—hidden beneath magic.” The drum thudded. “They seek to restore the desert to what it was.”
“Even if what you say is real, how could they do it?” a man asked from the front.
“Rumor is that the Salt King found magic in the oasis. It is what the Dalmur seek. Why the King’s men keep dying. They try to stop them, but the King’s guards are no match for these desperate believers.”
I looked around, uneasy. Rafal was speaking too loudly, too freely. If the Salt King knew of his words, he would certainly have Rafal killed.
“They want to know why the oasis is protected, of course. Why are none allowed there except those approved by the King and his vizier? Are secrets kept there?” Rafal continued. I wondered how he could know so much about the motives of the Altamaruq.
A woman scoffed. “But secrets can’t alter a desert.”
“No,” Rafal agreed. “But what else could erase magic? What could prevent dunes from swallowing the Salt King’s settlement? What else could create an inexhaustible supply of salt when no salt mines lie beneath the earth?” Rafal asked the sky. His accusations were too much. I feared for him, for all of the villagers around him. My heart thudded, and suddenly I was very hot. I began pushing out from the crowd, desperate to get away.
Rafal continued. “Except a wish-granting jinni.”
The people gasped loudly as the ground slipped from under me. The clouds spun over my head, and I heard people shouting in fury that he would so casually mention something so dangerous. A few laughed at the silly children’s story.
Suddenly, there were hands on my arms, fingers against my brow.
“Is the girl alright?” Rafal called, and I saw his face over the crowd, peering on tip-toes down to me as I lay on the ground.
Pushing the hands away, pulling my veil up my face and tugging down my scarf over my eyes, I stood in a rush. “I am fine, I am fine. Leave me be.” I looked at no one, keeping my eyes to the ground, and I rushed home, praying none saw my face nor the bright edges of my fustan beneath my abaya.
The Altamaruq sought a jinni—sought Saalim. How could they know of his existence? My father hadn’t told a soul.
Taking deep breaths, I thought of Matin who died trying to kill my father. Did he know that Father possessed the jinni? Or was it a guess? I thought of the guards who died defending the oasis from the invaders. The poor boys who didn’t know why their lives were worth the oasis’ protection. They didn’t understand there was nothing to shield except my father’s vanity and mirage of power.
When I got home, I saw that Sabra had not returned. Raheemah smiled at me and waved the cards in my face again. “You’re very lucky. She’s still out, so I didn’t have to lie. Pinar said she and Tavi went to visit your mother after the rama.”
I sat down, exhausted and relieved.
Raheemah asked, “What’s wrong? You look as if something terrible has happened.”
Chapter Twelve
The days stretched on after Rafal claimed the Altamaruq were looking for a jinni. I worried about what the Altamaruq was doing, where they waited. People said that the King was keeping us safe, that everything was fine. But I did not believe the men wouldn’t return. What would they do next?
I spent mornings wondering about Saalim—my mind straying to him when I saw the white-peaked tents from the rama or when my small friend asked me to tell her more stories. Did he know the Altamaruq sought him? I longed to talk with him again. Like we did that last day in the prison, easy and uninhibited. I wanted to hear his voice, and I was surprised that I even craved his touch. I grew restless and agitated, thinking of all that I wanted and couldn’t have, knowing that if I wished it, it could be. But I was afraid of Masira and how my words would be twisted, so my lips stayed closed, no wishes passed through them.
“. . . never get married now,” Adilah whispered behind me.
Thoughts of the Altamaruq and Saalim dropped away.
Hadiyah arranged my hair so that it fell in thick waves down my back. “We’ll cover them. He won’t notice.” Her voice equally quiet.
It did not matter how they concealed me for the courting, if the muhami chose me, he would see everything tonight. And tomorrow, he would choose another ahira. I thought of Aashiq with little pangs of grief. Every day I missed him less, but each day I yearned more for what he could have given me. It felt like it was so long ago. How different things had been then—fewer secrets, a smaller world.
“Here, this will help, too.” Hadiyah wrapped a gossamer scarf around my neck so that it, too, flowed behind me and covered my back.
It did me no good to dwell on what could have been, though. Weakness was not an option. I could n
ot yet give up—not like Sabra. Even if I had no hope that a muhami might find me suitable, I could not stop trying to win his favor. The necessity for marriage to a muhami had been ingrained in me since I was a child. What I wanted and what I knew my family wanted was a convoluted web of emotions that still required detangling. All I knew for certain is that a marriage to a suitor would free me from the palace perhaps more surely than a wish for my freedom. So I could not stop fighting for that. Not yet.
As we walked to the courting, I stared at my sister’s back, heart pounding and sweat sliding down my neck. It would be my first time seeing my father since he lashed me.
When we arrived, the King was drinking with the suitor. His glassy eyes swiftly passed over us as he introduced his ahiran by a sloppy wave of his goblet. He did not seem to notice that I was there, and when the afternoon proceeded without a word from him, my unease gave way to immense relief. Saalim had been right.
The King drank, guffawing loudly about this and that, toasted to the suitor, and sat his prized daughters atop his lap. He ignored me as I ignored him. When my father stood to announce the courting had ended, I huffed, looking one last time to all of the servants and guards. I had seen my father’s glass vessel. It was empty, yet I had not seen Saalim.
We were walking back to the zafif when Raheemah stopped suddenly. Her hands flew to her stomach, and she lurched forward. Vomit the color of red wine spilled from her mouth.
“Emah!” I turned, placing my hands on her back.
Raheemah righted herself and continued to walk. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Too much to drink. How embarrassing . . .” She fluttered her hand and attempted a smile. She looked ill—her skin pale, temples damp. Once inside, I sat her down on one of the mattresses while my sisters changed back into their dresses.
“Hadiyah,” I said, “Raheemah has had too much to drink. She should go home, lie down.” I looked around at my sisters—slowly disrobing, some lying down to rest for a bit away from the sun before walking back to our tent. Hadiyah clucked her tongue and squinted at the ahiran who moved like they waded in honey.
“Yes. Take her home. Be more responsible, child!” Hadiyah admonished my young sister whose head rested on her knees.
She tossed us our coverings and sent us out. We walked as quickly as we could, guard in tow, small flashes of pink and purple peeking out from under the swishing fabric at our shuffling feet.
Arriving home, Raheemah pitched forward again, and more of the afternoon’s wine streamed onto the ground. I hurriedly kicked sand over it.
“What’s wrong with you? I know you’re not drunk, so don’t lie to me again.”
“I think I’m with child.” Raheemah mumbled the words so quietly, I had to ask her to repeat them.
“How is that possible?” It should not have been. We were taught to meticulously monitor our cycle and know when we were susceptible. We knew that during those times, we were supposed to sit out the courtings and remain with the attendants. This was the only allowance the King made for absences when a suitor had arrived. It worked. Most of the time. The first ahira to get pregnant had told her attendant. It had caused a wild frenzy in the palace, and she was sent away as a failed ahira. To be cast out and left with a child? No ahira wanted that fate for herself. So subsequently, ahiran learned to take care of it on their own.
“I don’t know,” she sighed. “It hasn’t been normal, I have been unable to predict accurately.”
I paced in circles around the tent, kicking sand up with every step. I was frustrated; I was trapped. Taking care of a pregnancy was not difficult. There was a village healer that my sisters had seen in the past, but I could not take Raheemah there with Sabra’s looming threat, and I certainly couldn’t ask anyone else to lie for me.
“How long have you known?” I asked finally, stooping down in front of her with a goblet of tepid tea. She leaned against a table leg, face wan.
“I have not bled in almost two moons.”
How had she been able to hide this from us, for so long? I pinched the bone of my nose remembering the times she seemed unwell. And we all ignored it.
“How long were you going to keep it secret, Raheemah?” I pleaded. “We can help you, but you must tell us.”
“I worried.”
In the aftermath of what happened with my punishment, that was no surprise. I rubbed her back. After a while, the rest of our sisters trickled in, tossing their veils and abayas into their baskets. They cast worried looks at Raheemah, asking after her health.
“Too much wine,” I said, wishing that there was some way I could get her to the healer before our attendants, her mother, and our father discovered her secret.
The twilight horn rang, and we waited. Before long, the tent opened, and an attendant poked her head inside.
“Sabra.”
There were audible gasps as we exchanged surprised glances. Sabra herself looked stunned, her eyebrows arcing ever so slightly above her eyes. It had been over a year since she had been requested, and all assumed she would never see a muhami again, the commencement of her twenty-third year less than a moon away. Tavi burst into thrilled tears and ran to Sabra, hugging her happily.
Sabra patiently listened to Tavi’s advice, despite Tavi being six years her junior, before she left to be prepared for the suitor.
I grabbed Raheemah’s hand in excitement.
“Tonight,” I whispered, thanking Eiqab for the fortunate turn of events. We scrambled up. Pulling my servant’s coverings from my basket, I readied myself to leave, discreetly tying the salt around my waist. I motioned for Raheemah to do the same, and when she pulled out her ahira coverings—adorned with beads and embroidery—I realized we were trapped.
We had one pair of servants’ clothes, passed between the few ahiran who escaped the palace before me. The clothes had been here long before me, so I had no idea where I would find more. I briefly thought of the clothiers, the parents of the neighboring little girl, but I did not want to put them at risk for helping me. Could I go to Raheemah’s mother? I did not know her well. What if she told the attendants?
I certainly could not send Raheemah to the healer by herself, yet I had no idea what he needed to do for Raheemah, so I was not sure I could go on her behalf.
“Hold on,” I told my sister as she covered herself. “You can’t be seen in those.” I pressed my hand to my head, now considering if it would be worthwhile to ask my mother. She had friends who were servants—Amira and Yara—maybe they could help me.
“Wait here,” I told Raheemah, who sipped tea.
I hurried to the kitchens, praying I’d find one of the women there.
There were not many left in the kitchen, my father’s dining and entertaining ending with the day, and the fires were unoccupied except for one. I approached the cloaked figure.
“Might you help me?”
The face that turned up to me belonged to a man. “What do you want?” He scooped sand over the hot coals.
“I am looking for Yara or Amira.”
He nodded. “Yara lives four homes that way.”
I thanked him and scurried off to find her. The home was open to the dusk, and there was very little inside. I saw her and three others sitting at a low table eating and talking quietly.
“Yara?” I asked tentatively.
The woman rose from the ground. “What is it?” She was wary until I told her who I was. “Emel! Come in, share our meal.” She took my hand and began to lead me in.
“No, I cannot.” I pulled away and explained that I needed an abaya and veil like the ones I was wearing. I did not say why, and she did not ask. She went to a rope strung across the wall and pulled down the only two things hanging from it. “You have another?” I asked as I took the clothes from her. I could smell the cookfires on them.
She shook her head and smiled. “No, but it seems you have greater need.”
Imagining her sitting all day in the sun without them, I promised I would return them that night, and
I went back to fetch Raheemah.
Disguised as servants, we slipped out of the tent. I turned to one of the guards. He was unfamiliar and very young—perhaps one of those sent from another settlement. I looked to the other and exhaled in relief. The normal nighttime guard.
I rarely had reason to speak to him, but he had returned my leather sack to me many evenings. “My sister is very sick,” I whispered to him, thinking of the dwindling time we had as the sun set. “We must seek a healer. I only ask for an escort out of the palace. We can get back in on our own.”
He looked at his feet and said, “We have been ordered to keep all children of the King in their home unless we receive word directly from the King himself.”
Children. He was not much older than I. “I will pay you well. Two handfuls, since there are two of us. And a little extra when we return to ensure your silence.”
He swallowed.
Inwardly, I cringed. I did not want to sacrifice that much salt knowing the healer would require a large sum, but I could not risk him saying no.
There was a long pause. “Okay.”
I delivered my payment to his open sack of coins. His eyes greedily watching the salt fall into his possession. Then he escorted us out of the palace.
With Raheemah’s hand in mine, I led her down the narrow village aisles, through the twisting lanes. Orange twilight seeped onto everything and made the fires glow warmly despite the cooling night. Raheemah was in awe, her curiosity slowing us down with each turn.
“It is so alive,” she breathed. Every turn she stopped to watch what someone was doing, peering into the few homes that were open for the night. She would pause to peer at yoked camels alongside a small tent or a shop that held shelves of glittering vases.
If only she could see it when the people weren’t so full of fear, if she could see it when it really was alive. “Don’t stop,” I said. “We should get to the healer’s before dark.”
The healer’s tent was tall and lopsided. A patchwork of various fabrics sewn together to create a covering long enough to reach the ground. On both sides of the entrance were two wooden stands that each held an untethered bird. We paused when we saw them, admiring their beauty. The brown griffon on the left was still, her orange eye following us. The other, a sparrow hawk, was unconcerned with our approach, his wings spread wide as he dug his beak through the black and white speckled plumes on his chest.
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