The Unconquered City

by K A Doore

But the merchant grabbed her wrist as she reached, a warning in his eyes. “No, ma. He’s a dangerous sort. I’ve heard dreadful things about what he does on that platform of his. I shudder to think what he might do if you displease him.”

  That caught Illi’s attention, as well as her anger. All at once she knew exactly who the merchant meant. It was the hour Heru typically ran his errands, after all: right after the market set up, but before it really got started, so he could dart in and buy everything he needed without any unnecessary conversations.

  Illi jerked her wrist from the merchant’s grip but didn’t leave. Plenty of people knew only enough about Heru to fear him, but Illi couldn’t help herself. “If you’re so afraid of this man, why do you do business with him?”

  “Better than letting him hoard baats and water,” said the merchant darkly. “I’d rather not do business with him at all—who knows what foul, dark things he really does, but he can’t do any of that with my herbs. G-d would never allow it.”

  Illi glanced around at the merchant’s stall again, recognizing several different twists of herbs and roots that she knew Heru used for binding. She bit her lip, gaze drawn back to the thorns, torn between her anger and her curiosity.

  “Why the drum chiefs don’t do anything about him is a mystery, sure is,” continued the merchant.

  “Maybe because he’s the only one who’s known how to stop the guul,” snapped Illi, her anger burning through any remaining curiosity.

  “Our own people stop the guul,” said the merchant with a smugness that only gave fuel to Illi’s flame. “We don’t need some jaani-stealing iluk to save us. And what has he really done to help? The guul still come. More and more of them. Maybe he’s the one bringing them. Wouldn’t surprise me. Wouldn’t be the worst of his blasphemies, either.”

  “He’s the only reason Ghadid still stands,” said Illi, fighting to keep her voice even.

  “Seems to me he’s not done anything the marab can’t.”

  “Seems to me you don’t know anything about marab.”

  The merchant crossed his arms. “My brother’s a marabi, ma. Besides, there’re lots who agree with me. Won’t matter what the drum chiefs think if he ever shows his true colors. Ghadid will protect itself.”

  “Because we sure did a fine job of that last time, huh?” If Illi closed her eyes, she’d see the flames, smell the smoke. So she kept her eyes open and fixed on the merchant.

  But the merchant only nodded, held her gaze. “We did.”

  Illi’s hands tightened to fists and she had to fight her anger just to take a deep breath. Then she shook her head and turned and left, not trusting herself with another word.

  She knew when someone didn’t want to hear and it wasn’t like this was the first time she’d run into someone so blindingly ignorant about Heru. As much as she wanted to pick a fight with this man, it’d be just as bad as picking a fight with a wall. Even though it’d make her feel better, she couldn’t change the merchant’s opinion and she’d be the one carrying the bruises. If anything, it’d only make him like Heru less. And Heru had enough of an image problem already with the rest of Ghadid.

  It wasn’t her place to make them understand.

  She walked without any real direction, blind to the stalls around her, trying only to calm her anger. Then her gaze caught and snagged on a table displaying iluk knives, and her hand immediately went to her baat pouch. The weight of coins told her she had more than enough.

  She weaved through the crowd toward the table. When she got closer, she noticed throwing knives in the mix. Perfect: something to distract her from her anger. The woman behind the table was still laying them out, her loose trousers and wide belt marking her as an iluk from the far east. Another person was already there, perusing the blades.

  As Illi approached, she assessed the person browsing. They wore a tagel that was thick and long like the Azal, the people who controlled and ran the caravans, but this tagel was the color of dried blood instead of the more common shades of blue and they wore too many weapons at their belt to be just another iluk merchant. Not an Azali, but still an iluk—maybe one of the caravan’s hired guards?

  Learning something new from a guard would be a far better use of her time than arguing with an ignorant merchant. Illi sidled up to the table, nerves replacing her lingering anger. She had to walk a narrow railing to convince this guard to teach her. She couldn’t be too competent or eager, but she also couldn’t let them think she was just a know-nothing wannabe.

  The guard glanced at her as Illi examined the knives. She looked to the merchant for permission, then picked up one of the smaller blades. It was barely the length of her finger, but it had a heft to it that made Illi want to throw it right then and there. Being so small, it wouldn’t do much damage, but it’d feel nice.

  The guard cleared their throat. “Do you compete?”

  Their voice was a soft, medium timber and Illi couldn’t decide if they were a man or a woman. Even up here and away from the sands, all the Azal and many iluk wore tagels, not just the men, so that wasn’t enough to go by. It didn’t matter; Illi could learn from anyone.

  Pinching the blade lightly between her fingers, she spun it. “No, sa.”

  “Then you should know: any weapon you throw is a weapon that’s no longer in your hand,” said the guard. “These are perfect for a show, but if you’re looking for something to actually defend yourself with, you should find Hatham. He has a wide range of axes and machetes.”

  “Do you compete, sa?” asked Illi.

  “No,” said the guard.

  Illi turned, still spinning the knife between her fingers. “Then you should know it’s always good to be prepared.”

  She moved, quick as a snake. One second the knife was spinning between her fingers, the next it was at the guard’s throat. Or, it would have been, if the guard hadn’t deflected her attack with their own, arm driving the blade off course while their fingers came at her eye. Illi blocked just in time. But the guard only slapped her hand out of the way and continued driving their own at her.

  The merchant gasped. Illi jerked back. The guard’s fingers grazed her eye and pain bloomed, bright and distracting. She blinked, trying to refocus as the guard came at her again. She slashed the air in front of her to keep them back, but they grabbed her wrist, twisting until she dropped the knife. It clattered to the stones.

  That was all right. Illi had more. With her other hand, she freed another dagger and slashed at the guard. This time they didn’t block, but jerked away. Illi moved into their space, feinted with the knife, and planted her foot against the guard’s stomach. She kicked. The guard stumbled back. They regarded each other warily, the guard with their fists up, Illi with her knife out.

  Then the guard laughed. They relaxed by a degree, but Illi waited another heartbeat before lowering her knife. She nodded at them, still blinking away tears from her smarting eye.

  “You’re quick,” said the guard.

  “So are you, sa,” admitted Illi. “And either brave or foolish, to take me on without any weapons. Can you teach me how to block like that?”

  “You won’t always have time to get a weapon,” said the guard.

  “Is that a yes?” pressed Illi.

  The guard regarded her for another long moment. Then they smiled. “Only if, in return, you show me some of what you did.”

  Illi slid the knife back into its sheath and held out her open hand. “It’s a deal.”

  The guard took her hand, shook. Illi picked the throwing knife up from the ground and returned it to the table. The merchant was regarding them both with a mixture of amusement and wariness, as if she still wasn’t sure whether she should call the watchmen. Some of Illi’s exhaustion had been wiped away by the fight and now her body thrummed with energy.

  “What’s your name, sa?” she asked.

  “Canthem.” They bowed deep, touching a closed fist to their forehead while their other hand extended behind them, fingers splayed wide. It w
as an absurd gesture, like a bird flaring its tail. Illi laughed once, a soft heh.

  When Canthem straightened again their eyes danced with amusement. “I pray you’re not laughing at my name.”

  “No, sa.” Illi quickly shook her head. Then, to cover up any awkwardness, she announced, “Illi Basbowen. Uh … just Illi.”

  “From the way you fight, I don’t think there’s any ‘just’ about you.”

  Illi’s cheeks warmed. She cleared her throat. “Did the caravan hire you?”

  Canthem shook their head, a sharp motion. “I’m part of the general’s guard. We accompany any caravans that go through Hathage. It’s our mission to see them safely through the Wastes. You might not be aware, but this area is rife with guul.”

  Illi snorted. “Sa, I behead guul on a regular basis.”

  “Do you?” asked Canthem, eyebrows raised. “Then perhaps you’ll have more to show me than a few moves.”

  Illi smiled and this time it was genuine. “You have no idea.”

  Canthem glanced up and down the growing market. “The market will still be here in another hour. A little introduction won’t take much longer than that. Do you know a place we can practice?”

  Illi’s smile widened. “I do.”

  * * *

  Illi kicked off her sandals, savoring the warmth of the stones on her bare feet. Across from her, Canthem was busy shedding their weapons, setting them each on top of a compost barrel. So far Illi had counted two swords, one short dagger, a set of brass knuckles, and a leather bag. They pulled another knife from their boot and dropped it on top with a final clatter of metal.

  The wind curled lazily across the rooftop. Past Canthem, the market bloomed and spread, adding light and voices to its tangle of colors and motion with every passing minute. She wasn’t missing anything, though; the market would be there when they were done. Besides, the market couldn’t sell her anything more useful—or more interesting—than what this guard had to offer.

  The way they’d parried her attacks, as if a blade hadn’t been a hair’s breadth from their face. As if her attacks were just nothing.

  Canthem finished tightening the knots of their tagel. Illi sighed her disappointment. She’d hoped they’d take it off for the fight. She was becoming increasingly curious about whether or not they were a man. On the one hand, they wore a tagel. But on the other hand, Canthem moved with the fluidity and grace of a woman. And on the third hand—

  “You can ask.”

  Illi started, then her cheeks grew warm. She’d been staring and Canthem had caught her. She unclipped her own weapons and dropped them one by one on the stones, their leather sheaths muffling the clatter.

  “I don’t know what you mean, sa,” she bluffed.

  “You want to know if I’m a man or a woman.”

  Illi set her collection of small knives down with care before straightening. “That’s none of my business.”

  “You’re right,” said Canthem. “But you’re going to keep wondering anyway. And you keep using ‘sa.’”

  Illi winced. “I was trying to be respectful—”

  “It’s all right. You can drop the ‘sa.’ And the answer is: neither. I’m not a man. I’m not a woman.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “Me.”

  They struck, fingers jabbing at Illi’s eyes. She jerked back before she realized it’d been a feint. Canthem caught her leg with a kick that turned and caught and swept her off her feet. Illi hit the ground hard. Canthem held out their hand.

  Illi jumped up on her own, a smile warming her lips. “Do that again.”

  Canthem did. When Illi fell this time, she immediately sprang up and tried the maneuver on them. Canthem knocked her down with ease, but then showed Illi what they were doing, moving with her through the motions step by step.

  So they progressed, round after round. Canthem slowed enough so Illi could copy their movements, and then they traded jabs and feints. Illi laughed every time she messed up and Canthem got the better of her. It’d been too long since she’d had a real challenge.

  Sweat dripped down her back and into her eyes. Her arms burned from the repeated motions. Illi lost track of time. She realized night had fallen with a sudden jolt.

  “Once more.” Illi stepped back and put her empty hands up as Canthem had shown her. “It’s growing too dark. I’ll have to put off my turn to teach until tomorrow.”

  Canthem nodded. “Let’s make it count.”

  They lunged. Illi blocked. They traded blows, circling around each other on the rooftop as Illi tried and tried again to get close enough to Canthem to drop them. It was much harder without a weapon to force distance. They kept Illi back with aggravating ease. Already exhausted from fighting guul earlier and collecting skulls and then a full hour of training, Illi knew she didn’t have much left in her. So she circled and then pressed her attack, opening herself up to Canthem’s fists in a desperate effort to drive them back.

  Back—and into the glasshouse. When their back hit the glass, Canthem hesitated for the briefest of moments, but it was enough. Illi got close, then swept their legs out from under them. They fell and hit the stones with a noise that was half grunt, half laugh. Illi fell with them, driving her knee into their stomach. Then she slipped into a grapple, pressing her body against Canthem’s so that their arms were locked and they couldn’t get up.

  She grinned at them, her face only inches from theirs. Through their wrap, she could feel Canthem’s taut muscles relax.

  “You win,” they said.

  But Illi didn’t let them up. Canthem smelled like honey and cinnamon, and their hot breath brushed her cheeks. Their warm, dark eyes watched her carefully, hungrily. Suddenly, Illi was very aware of how alone they were on this rooftop. Of how long it’d been since the last caravan had stopped by.

  She really didn’t want to let Canthem go.

  Beneath her, she felt Canthem move but didn’t do anything to stop them. Their arm slid up and between Illi’s and with a single push, broke her hold. Then the world was spinning and the air was pushed from her lungs, her back connecting hard with the stones as Canthem switched their positions, their arm pressed into her throat, their body against hers. Illi’s heart beat harder, but not from exertion.

  Canthem’s other hand brushed up her leg. They clicked their tongue as their fingers found one of Illi’s knives.

  “Not playing fair after all.”

  “I didn’t use it,” said Illi.

  “How many other knives do you have?”

  “Why don’t you find out?”

  Canthem met her gaze again and Illi held her breath. It was hard to measure Canthem beneath that tagel, but she enjoyed the challenge, enjoyed the uncertainty. What was the worst that could happen? Rejection? Canthem would be leaving in a few days anyway.

  And if Canthem didn’t reject her, they’d still be leaving in a few days. She couldn’t learn too much about them and they couldn’t learn too much about her and—most importantly—she couldn’t fall in love. Either way, Illi won.

  “Are you always so forward?” asked Canthem. They hadn’t moved off of Illi, but their hand was still trailing up her thigh, fingers as light as feathers.

  “Life is short,” said Illi. “I don’t see the point in playing coy.”

  Their hand found her hip, where it rested for a heartbeat before moving inward. Illi sucked in a breath, but didn’t dare break eye contact.

  Canthem removed their hand from her leg and their arm from her throat and sat up, straddling Illi. Looking down at her, they reached up and began slowly, methodically, undoing the knots of their tagel. Then Canthem pulled it off.

  Skin tingling and heart pounding, Illi drank in Canthem’s features. They weren’t what she’d expected, not by a long shot, and yet clearly they belonged to Canthem. Illi noticed their hair first, impossibly straight and black and—released from the tagel—cascading over their shoulders like rainwater. Their hair contrasted neatly with their skin, which i
n the darkness seemed to glow on its own. Then there was their sharp nose and apple-round cheeks and—

  Canthem bent and pressed warm lips to Illi’s and any other thoughts vanished like water on stone.

  4

  Illi stirred and stirred and stirred her porridge, lost in memories of the night before. She kept trying to replay her lesson with Canthem, the specific way they’d blocked her attacks and taken her down, how they’d feinted and how they’d moved quick and liquid as water, but all she could think about was her lesson after, when Canthem had taught her new ways to use fingers, knees, and tongue.

  Mo had been right; taking a break did make her feel better.

  A yawn from across the room broke Illi’s thoughts. Mo had stopped at the foot of the stairs to stretch. She smiled at Illi. “I take it you had fun at the market?”

  Illi took a bite of porridge as her cheeks warmed. She nodded, not quite trusting her voice.

  “Good.” Mo crossed to the table and began making herself a bowl of porridge. “Then as your healer, I prescribe you two more days of market.”

  “Yes, ma.”

  Mo swatted playfully at Illi, and Illi dodged with a grin, her mouth full of warm, sweet porridge. For the moment, her breakdown on the sands felt as unreal and distant as a dream. She should visit Yaluz later, see how he was doing. Bring him something from the market.

  The door opened.

  Mo paused, her bowl in her hands, as Drum Chief Amastan entered the room. He wore a muted red wrap, simple black embroidery around his sleeves and hem. His tagel was a dusty brown and today he wore it high so that only his eyes were visible. He had a sword at his hip that Illi knew for a fact wasn’t ceremonial, despite the engraved hilt, and his fingers glittered with rings. Some of them for show, some of them for his position, and some of them filled with poison.

  Only Amastan’s cousins knew about that last bit.

  “Amastan—” started Mo.

  But she stopped when a woman entered after Amastan. The dust darkening the edges of her clothes immediately marked her as iluk, and that was before taking her shoes, her hair, and her skin into account. She wore a fitted dress the color of gold, cinched at the waist and flowing all the way to her feet to drag along the ground. Sleeves cascaded down her arms, but didn’t obscure her hands, which were free of any adornment.