The Steel Seraglio (34 page)

The two women could converse for a watch at a time. They discussed the preparations for battle, spoke of their histories, and of their hopes. On many topics they differed considerably. Zuleika could not understand why Rem risked death to save the contents of Bessa’s Library, while Rem was baffled and more than a little alarmed by Zuleika’s casual mentions of her time as an assassin, and the complete lack of compunction she showed about the act of murder. Yet their conversations continued in spite of these differences, as did the joining of their flesh, so that by the time half a year had passed they thought of themselves as lovers, if that mysterious thing which lay between them could be given a name.

Meanwhile, the business of the camp went on. The fighters continued to train, and the council to argue. The impasse in the formation of tactics, however, gave way one day as suddenly as a break appearing in clouds. It was some months into the preparations for war, during a meeting of the council, and most of the women were engaged in a debate about the approach to Bessa.

“If we arrive at night, the guards will be less likely to see us,” Issi was saying. “At any other time, the dust cloud will give us away.”

The gifts exchanged at the djinni’s cave remained in their place at the centre of the tent, and as Gursoon, half listening to the conversation going on around her, let her gaze play over them vacantly, her eye chanced to fall again on the wooden comb that Imtisar had given her. She looked at it with renewed interest, studying its long teeth and wooden handle with a thoughtful expression.

“Imtisar,” she asked, cutting across the noise of the group, “what was it you said to me when you gave me this comb?”

“That it was useless,” the courtesan replied, barely turning her attention from the debate in hand.

“That’s not all you said,” Gursoon murmured.

She thought a little longer, and then held up a hand for silence. When she had the attention of the rest of the council, she rose to her feet and spoke.

“We’re planning this battle on too small a scale,” she told them, “focusing on the city and forgetting the space around it. Bessa is surrounded by desert, nothing but flat sand for thousands of leagues. Those kind of distances can be deceptive.”

Gursoon motioned for Rem to pass her the scroll of parchment she was using to record the decisions of the council, and a stylus. For a few moments there was only the noise of the pen scratching on the paper. Then she straightened up, and displayed what she had drawn to the watching group. They examined it.

“It looks like a salad tong,” said Rem.

This observation was met with puzzled looks.

“It’s a comb,” Gursoon said, “and I think it may be the answer to our problems.”

Gursoon explained her idea and it was greeted, for the first time in months, with general agreement on both its merits and its feasibility. Warudu was called, and the following day she constructed a prototype model from acacia wood. As per Gursoon’s instructions, the shaft was about eight spans in length, and widened at the top into five immense tines, thick and curving. By the end of the month, mass production of the combs had begun, and the seraglio knew how they would take the city.

The only question remaining was that of the sultan’s palace. All allowed that capturing it would be a gargantuan task. It was a stronghold, heavily fortified, and though its back wall formed part of the city’s battlements, precautions had been taken to ensure that it was virtually inaccessible from Bessa’s walls themselves. The sections of the city fortifications to either side of the palace were nothing but narrow, crenelated ramparts, no wider across than a single span.

The only way to take the palace from the outside would be through a prolonged and quite possibly bloody struggle, and it was here that contention arose in the council. Imtisar was of the opinion that a battle for the palace must be avoided at all costs, due to the massive loss of life it would entail on both sides. She argued for leaving the palace untouched and simply stationing soldiers around it, starving Hakkim and his guard of power and provisions, and so forcing their surrender.

Zuleika was equally adamant that this plan would be their downfall. A ruler under armed guard, she argued, was still a ruler, and in this case a trained assassin as well. The palace was large, and stocked to withstand a lengthy siege. Hakkim would mount a counterattack from within the safety of its walls, and defeat them even as they celebrated his overthrow.

As with the debate over how to take the city, ultimately it was one of the djinni’s gifts that provided the council with a solution to their predicament. Ironically, it was Issi who first suggested that they use the stable yard key to enter the palace.

“I know that in our first meeting, I told you all that the key couldn’t help us,” he admitted, “but I’ve been thinking about it, and perhaps I was wrong. Our problem is that the palace is hard to breach from the outside, but it would be much easier for one person to get in than a whole army. If someone could do it—and I’m not saying I know how they might—but if they could do it, and get down to the stable yard in one piece, then they could unlock the gates and let everyone else inside. And then there’d be no siege.”

His proposal was greeted with cautious optimism. “That’s all very well,” said Imtisar, “but it doesn’t answer the question of how exactly someone would get inside the palace in the first place.”

“Run the walls,” Zuleika replied promptly. She had been considering the matter while Issi spoke. “The ramparts connecting the palace to the city fortifications. They’re narrow, but it could be done. Then it would just be a matter of climbing in through one of the palace windows.”

“What about the guards?” asked Zeinab.

“Zuleika and I could provide covering fire from the nearest watchtower,” Umayma answered. “We’ll take them all out before the runner even reaches the palace.”

“Runners,” Nafisah corrected her. “We’ll need more than one if this plan is to have a chance of success.”

There were nods of approval from Gursoon and some of the other women, but Imtisar remained unconvinced.

“Simply climbing through a palace window is not as easy as you make it sound,” she said. “They’re very small and narrow—there are not many of us who would be able to fit. Unless you were planning on using children?” she finished, with heavy sarcasm.

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Zuleika shot back.

“I doubt that will be necessary.” Rem spoke so seldom during council meetings that everyone turned to stare at her. “There are several women who are slight-figured enough to pass, I think,” she continued. “I count myself amongst that number, so let me be the first to volunteer. I will run the wall.”

It took Warudu a fortnight to construct the wooden platforms, each one an ell in length and placed a cubit apart along the sand. Zuleika weighted them down with stones, and oversaw their arrangement into a curve. They were to be the practice wall, and at their end a rectangular frame was placed, the practice window. Warudu had built it to the same rough dimensions as the windows of the palace, based on what the servants could remember of their size and shape.

The selection of the volunteers was more problematic. Imtisar wanted none but the adults of the seraglio to be considered for the task, but in spite of what Rem had said, only a few of the women, and none of the men, could fit through the narrow frame. On top of this, there were several amongst the seraglio children who offered to act as runners. Soraya and Huma came forward, arguing quite reasonably that they had both come into their change some months ago, and were more than old enough now to make their own decisions. Jamal, too, loudly and indignantly asserted his right to play a part in the overthrow of the treasonous Hakkim.

Eventually it was decided that all those over thirteen years of age could train to run the wall if they wished to, and that at the end of a month’s space, those volunteers who had excelled far beyond the rest would be chosen as runners.

The next day, twenty or so volunteers gathered before the rough wooden wall to begin training. They ran the wall in small groups several times a day, with the council members watching carefully to see who among them showed the most promise.

Some had no aptitude at all for the task, and were swiftly persuaded to abandon the attempt. Others could balance well enough, but not run at the requisite speed, or vice versa. Taliyah sped along the wall so swiftly that she would have far outstripped the other runners every time, but invariably fell off the narrow ledge long before she reached the window. All these volunteers were turned away from the wall before the end of the week, until only the most agile members of the seraglio remained. Soraya and Huma were two of the better runners, as was Jamal’s friend Zufir. Fernoush and Nasreen also rapidly distinguished themselves.

Jamal, however, outshone them all. He was swift, sure-footed and fearless, and never faltered in his balance. Time and again he reached the window frame and plunged through it without even slowing down, earning approving nods from many of the women watching the training, and even the occasional round of applause. Jamal basked in his newfound success, feeling that it repaid him in some wise for the humiliation that he had suffered when he had been thrown out of the council, and there was a swagger in his step as he strode through the camp.

The only other runner who showed enough skill to be considered for selection was Rem. Zuleika found that she was perturbed by this prospect, though Rem made light of it whenever she raised the subject.

“You’re putting yourself in danger,” Zuleika said, not for the first time, as they lay together in her tent one evening, Rem’s head cradled on her arm.

“We’re about to go to war. Every one of us is in danger,” Rem replied.

Concern made Zuleika terse. “Yes, but you know you’ve chosen the riskiest role in this entire plan. You’re putting yourself directly in the line of fire.”

Rem raised her eyebrows. “I’ve got you to cover me, haven’t I?”

“It’s just as well,” Zuleika grunted. “Your combat skills are appalling. I don’t like the thought of you running around in the palace, especially armed. You’ll be more of a danger to yourself than anyone else.”

Rem laughed, and snuggled closer to Zuleika’s chest. “Train me then. Go on, I’ve been giving you private lessons for the best part of a year now. It’s about time you returned the favour!”

Zuleika smiled reluctantly, joining in with the game. “All right then, I will,” she replied. “What do you want to learn?”

“The art . . . of murder,” Rem said dramatically. She rolled away from Zuleika, sat up, and seized hold of her pack, which lay in the corner of the tent. “Let’s see . . . where are the tools of your trade?”

Zuleika made a playful grab for the pack, but Rem jerked it out of the way, dangling it just out of her reach. She pulled a small grey box from the recesses of the bag, and flicked it open.

“What are these?”

They were ten tiny white spikes, each about as long as Rem’s little finger, and wickedly sharp. Zuleika got up to look over her shoulder at them.

“They’re finger daggers,” she replied, “made of white zirconia—virtually unnoticeable in a poor light. You stick them onto your nails with a special glue, use them like claws. I was going kill Al-Bokhari with them actually, before I changed my mind. They’re a very useful weapon in situations where you can’t carry arms.”

Rem nodded in mock solemnity and snapped the box shut, carefully replacing it in Zuleika’s pack. “My first lesson,” she said sombrely, pulling Zuleika back down onto her bedroll and kissing her.

“You have far to go, my child,” Zuleika replied, yielding to Rem’s embrace.

The two women laughed, and turned to other games.

As the end of the month loomed, the volunteers who remained began to train with increasing energy and commitment. Jamal especially considered himself to be in open competition with the other runners, vying against them for a position in the army which would bring him both glory and a chance to avenge his father’s death. Even Zufir, his closest companion amongst the seraglio children, found that the prince would no longer sit with him at meal times; Jamal considered him too much of a rival to associate with him, at least until the runners had been selected.

During practice runs, he began to run faster than he ever had before, urged on by the sense of admiring gazes fixed upon him. One day, in his enthusiasm, he ran too fast, and caught up to Zufir, who ran ahead of him. With a movement of impatience, he swept the other boy aside. Jamal was a strong child; Zufir toppled from the wall and crashed onto the sand below, landing awkwardly on his right arm. Jamal barely noticed that his friend had fallen. He bounded along the remaining crenelations, diving through the window at the end with more than his usual grace and rolling up onto his feet. For a moment, he fought down the ridiculous urge to bow, and a broad smile spread over his face.

His moment of triumph was short-lived, however. He looked behind him to see a cluster of concerned women gathered around Zufir, who was sniffling quietly. The boy had been more shocked than hurt by the fall. Still, he had grazed his arm on a stone, and it had left an angry red mark. Jamal glanced at him in contempt. “Stop crying, you baby,” he said mockingly, “it’s only a scratch.” Umayma, kneeling by her son, fixed Jamal with a glare that could have stripped paint. He shrank back.

After that, any hopes Jamal might have had of being selected as a runner were dashed.

“Imagine if he had done that on the city wall,” Umayma exclaimed in fury in the meeting that night. “My son would be dead by now!”

Zuleika spoke out in his defence, but there was little she could do but go and inform Jamal of the council’s decision. She found him sitting by the practice wall, his expression morose.

“They’ve done it again, haven’t they?” he said bitterly as Zuleika approached him, “Prevented me from playing my part. For one mistake!”

The disappointment was almost more than Jamal could bear. Zuleika maintained a tactful distance while his shoulders shook with sobs. Then she came and sat down beside him.