Barid's Story Page 6

  Standing there, confused and self-conscious, I noticed that Noor wasn’t beside his cot.

  ‘He’s with the apprentice magus,’ Nibras told me while the other boys readied themselves for sleep.

  ‘I didn’t hit him that hard. Did I?’

  Nibras shook his head, his face dour. ‘You didn’t, but his father did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why did you break from the Khorna Chaht?’

  ‘I knew Noor was weakening. I was worried that, if we had to repeat the set, I’d hurt him.’

  Nibras placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘But Noor’s in the infirmary. That’s my fault.’

  With his hand still on my shoulder, Nibras led me out of the dormitory. When we were standing on the other side of the doors, and having checked that the hallway was empty, he said, ‘With each passing year, you and the other boys grow bigger and stronger. Noor won’t.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Many of the masters believe that Noor should never have been admitted. I was one of them. But he was as a mark of respect to Sanna, together with the hope that he would recognise his foolishness and withdraw Noor before the end of his first year.’ He paused. ‘Ten sets of the Khorna Chaht isn’t rigorous for an El’ Zamu. But Noor weakened during the fourth. You saved him from an instant discharge. Sanna punished Noor to shift the Tabaqa’s attention away from his son and onto him.

  ‘Things will only get harder. I’m worried for Noor—and for his father, who, if he continues to punish his son, will be forced to leave the Tabaqa, his reputation ruined. You, Barid, you and the intake must decide what must be done for Noor.’

  One of the many reasons I liked Nibras was that, unlike the other masters, he never spoke down to me or the other boys. He was direct, his instructions clear, and there was never the possibility of misunderstanding—until now.

  ‘I don’t understand, Master Nibras. What do you want us to decide?’

  His hand left my shoulder. He stood upright and straightened his shoulders as if he were about to issue an order. ‘You must decide if Noor stays or if he’s discharged. If he’s to be discharged, it must be quick to preserve as much of his dignity as possible. If he’s to stay, then you and the rest of the intake must protect your brother every day for the next two years, as if you were in battle, until your fifteenth summer, when you receive your horses. If you choose the latter, and Noor is discharged, it will be because the intake failed him. This is what I and the other masters have decided. Even Sanna has agreed to this, albeit reluctantly. Noor’s dishonour will be your dishonour—consequently, you’ll all be discharged. And remember, if you’re discharged, your families will forfeit the Sultan’s Loan.’

  I had already made up my mind until Nibras mentioned the Sultan’s Loan. Now that there were families to consider, would helping Noor justify such a risk?

  Again, Nibras’s hand rested on my shoulder. ‘Rely on your instincts, Barid, just like you did in the ring. When you’re sure about what to do, only then discuss it with the intake. But you must reach a decision tonight, before Noor returns to the dormitory in the morning. I’ll make sure that the lamps remain lit and that you’re not disturbed.’ He nodded, turned, then walked away. I still felt the weight of his hand on my shoulder as I watched him disappear.

  18

  I must have spent half the night standing in front of the dormitory’s doors, the intake waiting for me on the other side of them. My disbelief at having to make such a decision turned to anger as the responsibility I’d been burdened with dawned on me. To stand by and allow a fellow aspirant to fail was against the values our teachers had hammered into us. But to commit ourselves in such a way that the well-being of twenty-three families hinged on our preventing Noor’s discharge was too large a risk.

  Unable to enter the dormitory, feeling miserable and anxious, I wrung my hands. I glanced down at them and remembered how, three years earlier, Noor had held my hand in his. Back then, he had chosen not to leave me, knowing full well that the older boys would be destroying and scattering his possessions. And he’d done that for a boy he didn’t know.

  That memory resolved my dilemma. I had reached a decision. I placed one hand on a door and then stopped. I had made my decision, but how was I supposed to convince the rest of the intake?

  Five years later, while working late into the night with Nibras, having returned from a three-month tour of duty along the border between Tun Do and Tun Se, he asked what I’d done to convince the other aspirants.

  ‘You told me to trust my instincts,’ I replied.

  My instinct had been to tell the others how I’d reached my decision. And I also reminded them that my father was El’ Zamu and that he’d died fighting, had sacrificed his life for the sultanate, leaving his wife to bring up their son on her own. It was, I told them, what my mother had expected of him. She never stopped telling me how proud she was, even though she missed him every day. My father fought with and for his brothers. Two years from now, when we would ride out of the Tabaqa, the same would be expected of us. Why wait two years?

  But I didn’t tell Nibras that, at first, the decision wasn’t unanimous. Some felt that even with our support, Noor would eventually fail. The next two years would consist of a battery of assessments, over two thirds of which tested an aspirant’s strength, stamina and skill. There was nothing that any of us could do when it came to Noor’s strength and stamina.

  In fact, there was, but we were all surprised when it was suggested.

  ‘Noor needs to be bound to one of us,’ Waitimu said.

  Waitimu was a quartermaster in the making. His father, a merchant, had enrolled his second son in the Tabaqa so that he could expand the family business by increasing trade with a further two tuns. If there was anything an aspirant wanted, especially if it was prohibited by the Tabaqa, Waitimu was the boy to go to. ‘My commission is reasonable,’ he would say. ‘And a satisfied customer is a loyal customer,’ he’d add, no doubt repeating what his father had taught him.

  ‘The Tabaqa’s magus would never agree to a binding,’ one of the boys said.

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’ Waitimu said. ‘But I know a man who was once an apprentice magus. He could perform the binding.’

  ‘But for two years?’ I said.

  ‘We pay for a binding now,’ Waitimu said, ‘and later, when we get our horses, we pay him to lift it.’

  That wasn’t what I meant. During a battle, an injured El’ Zamu was often bound to another by a magus so that he could draw strength from his brother until it was safe for the magus to treat his wound. As part of our fieldcraft training, we had each been bound to another aspirant to familiarise ourselves with how it felt. Experiencing physical sensations that originated in another’s body was extremely uncomfortable, and a third of the boys, including me, felt nauseated, which, in turn, made the boy bound to us feel sick. It took four additional day-long bindings before we learned how to separate our thoughts and feelings from our brothers’, but it was by no means a comfortable experience. Those bindings lasted a day, and they required considerable concentration. A two-day binding would have been a feat, making two years an impossibility.

  ‘Anyway, Noor won’t agree to it,’ I said. ‘What you’re suggesting is cheating. He won’t do it.’

  That night, we agreed on two things. The first was that Noor should be asked. If he declined the binding, then there was little the rest of us could do. The second, which wasn’t my suggestion but Waitimu’s, was that I should be the one to ask Noor.

  19

  The next morning, I rose early so that I could meet Noor as he left the infirmary.

  His eyes were puffy and bruised, and he winced when he leaned against the acacia we sat under. ‘No,’ he said after I told him about Nibras’s ultimatum and Waitimu’s idea. ‘It’s wrong.’

  ‘And what your father did to you is right?’

  ‘He did it to shift the attention from me to him,’ Noor said. ‘Just lik
e Master Nibras said.’

  I wanted to tell him that I couldn’t understand how a father’s ambition could drive him to do such a thing to his son, and that Noor was stupid for going along with it. But I didn’t. What did I know about what went on between a father and son?

  ‘We all want to help you, Noor,’ I told him. ‘Without the binding, you’ll be discharged for sure.’

  ‘But it’s wrong, Barid.’

  From the way his head sank into his shoulders and his eyes avoided mine, I could tell he was wrestling with the very principles that had helped him complete three years at the Tabaqa. I hoped he understood that they wouldn’t be enough for him to complete the next two.

  ‘Was it right for your father to enrol you as an aspirant?’ I said. ‘Does he think that further beatings will prevent the other masters from discharging you? Or worse, as Nibras pointed out, disgracing himself and being told to leave?’

  I’d gone too far. Noor got up and, without looking back, marched off toward the refectory. I didn’t follow but sat and watched him. There was no mistaking the stoop in his stride. Noor walked as though he carried more years and disappointment than he should have for his thirteen summers. I was glad that I’d never had to carry the weight of another’s expectations to the extent Noor bore his father’s.

  When I returned to the dormitory, I found Noor sitting on his cot. The rest of the intake, like Noor, had been waiting for my return. They all shared the same expectant stare.

  ‘I agree to the binding,’ Noor said, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘But there’s a condition.’

  I felt the floorboards shake as the boys at the far end of the dormitory dashed over to Noor’s cot. I, like everyone else, held my breath.

  ‘I’ll only be bound to you, Barid. You’re the strongest.’

  The only way to avoid fleeing the dormitory was to sit down. So bent on getting Noor to agree to the binding, I hadn’t stopped to consider who he’d be bound to. I was only supposed to be the messenger. To be a source of strength and stamina, that part I could live with, but to have Noor’s thoughts and feelings intimately bound with mine—that part I wasn’t so happy about.

  ‘What do you say, Barid? Do you agree?’

  It was Waitimu. I took some satisfaction from his frown. No one, including him, understood the consequences of a two-year long binding. But we all knew what would happen if someone found out: discharge of the entire intake.

  The decision was mine alone to make. The intake’s opinion on the matter should have been irrelevant. But it wasn’t. From the way they stared at me, I could tell they wanted the binding even more than Noor did.

  So I agreed.

  20

  The house of Wallid Boulos was no testament to his failure as an apprentice magus. Located at the edge of the city, a two-hour walk from the Tabaqa, it was more palace than home. It was, for boys of our age, easy to be awed by the whiteness of its marble walls and its minaret, which provided a sweeping view of the city.

  Wallid Boulos was a gracious host to the three of us: Noor, Waitimu and me. He seemed to bear no ill will toward us. He had been expelled from the Tabaqa, and we were reminders of that disgrace. But he was a man whose smile never reached his eyes.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ he told us, handing each of us a delicate glass goblet of sherbet from a tray of polished silver. ‘A mistake that I still deeply regret.’ He touched his forehead, something we all did when begging the Goddess not to hold some misdeed against our next incarnation. ‘It’s a lesson I’ve drawn most deeply from. It has made me the man you see before you.’ He glanced up at a ceiling adorned with paintings of birds and flowers and insects, some of which I didn’t recognise. ‘It’s not my business to know why such a binding is required,’ he said, ‘but, boys, are you sure you want to do such a thing?’

  Even before I’d met him, I didn’t trust Wallid Boulos. According to Waitimu, the rumour was that Boulos’s mistake involved selling elixirs to some of the city’s citizens who weren’t wealthy enough to afford a magus of their own. Apparently, he’d made so much money, he could have paid off his parents’ debt to the sultan ten times over. And he would have made more, if he hadn’t accidentally killed a patron’s ageing wife, who’d taken a potion he’d made for slowing her rapidly fading memory. Wanting revenge, the patron, a jeweller with a small shop in the bazaar, exposed Boulos, which led to his expulsion from the Tabaqa. But not satisfied with that, the jeweller then petitioned the sultan to have Boulos beheaded for murder.

  On the day the jeweller and Boulos were to appear before the sultan and receive his judgement, there was no sign of the jeweller. Later, when the sultan’s officials visited the old man’s shop, they found it empty—the jeweller had left the city, leaving behind all his stock.

  When I heard that story, two things struck me: first, Boulos was motivated by greed, and second, the man was dangerous. Noor, however, not wanting his father to dishonour himself, had his heart set on the binding.

  So, I sat there on the softest cushion I’d ever sat on, sipped my sherbet and held my tongue.

  ‘If you’re prepared to go through with the binding,’ Boulos said, ‘it will cost ten Imperial darics.’

  ‘That’s ten thousand Tun Doese fals,’ Waitimu said. He shook his head vigorously. ‘That’s too much.’

  Boulos smiled, his teeth whiter than the whites of his hard, unblinking eyes. ‘You are your father’s son, Waitimu Daramy.’ He wagged his finger at Waitimu, whose face had turned pale at the mention of his father. ‘You know how to haggle.’

  ‘Three thousand fals,’ Waitimu said quickly.

  Boulos shook his head. ‘Eight.’

  ‘Five.’

  Having emptied out clothes chests and turned our bags inside out for any coin we might have forgotten, the intake had collected four thousand fals. While it was enough to keep a family of four in food and warmth for a month, it was an allowance that was supposed to last twenty-three aspirants a semester.

  Just as I was about to stop and remind Waitimu of how much we had, Noor raised his eyebrows. I glared back at him and said nothing, unsure of what Waitimu was up to.

  ‘Seven thousand,’ Boulos said, who looked to be enjoying himself.

  ‘Six,’ Waitimu said. ‘And that’s my final offer.’

  ‘Then six thousand fals, six Imperial darics, it is,’ Boulos said. He held out his open left palm.

  Waitimu reached out with the middle and forefinger of his right hand and stopped, his fingertips hovering over Boulos’s open palm. ‘That’s six thousand fals to create the binding and undo the binding,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then we pay you three thousand now,’ Waitimu said, ‘and three thousand after you’ve removed the binding.’

  I wanted to smile at Waitimu’s cleverness.

  ‘Then I require two years’ interest on the outstanding amount,’ Boulos said. ‘Two years from now, my rates will be higher. I can’t guarantee the same price without some interest.’

  ‘How much?’ Waitimu said.

  ‘One thousand fals,’ Boulos said. ‘And that’s my final offer.’

  Without consulting either Noor or me, Waitimu tapped Boulos’s palm. ‘Done.’

  I wanted to punch Waitimu. Saving the additional three thousand fals over two years wouldn’t be difficult, but living on almost no allowance, and without the small luxuries it afforded us, would make life at the Tabaqa feel more arduous.

  ‘One thing, boys,’ Boulos said as we stood to leave. He looked from me to Noor before continuing. ‘I need some kind of guarantee, something that will assure me that, two years from now, I will indeed enjoy the company of three boys who have become men and El’ Zamu.’

  ‘What do you mean by guarantee?’ Waitimu said.

  ‘Something of value from these two,’ Boulos said, his forefinger tracing a line between Noor and me. ‘Something from each of them that I’ll keep safe until I receive your final payment.’

  Noor nodded. ‘
You’ll have it.’

  ‘And you, Barid?’ Boulos said, facing me.

  I gave a curt nod and a resigned yes. All I had of value, at least of value to me, was my father’s silver-and-carnelian ring. My mother had given it to me the day before I left for the Tabaqa.

  The three of us left Boulos’s house in silence, most likely wondering the same thing: what had we just agreed to? As for me, I felt as if we’d been fleeced.

  Waitimu was the first to speak when we saw lamplight leaking from behind the now-shuttered windows of the Tabaqa. ‘He has to be a powerful magus,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Noor asked.

  ‘Because he read my mind,’ Waitimu said. ‘How else would he have known my family name? We only used our given names with Boulos.’

  ‘He most probably knows your father,’ Noor said. ‘The magi can do lots of things, but mind-reading isn’t one of them.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Waitimu said.

  ‘And I’m not so sure he can be trusted,’ I added. ‘He kept smiling, but you could tell he never meant it.’

  I took Noor and Waitimu’s silence for agreement.

  21

  Three days later, as agreed, we returned to Boulos’s house. Instead of three gold Imperial darics, we handed Boulos a heavy bag filled with bronze fals and the odd silver drachm.

  ‘We counted it twice,’ Waitimu said.

  ‘I’m sure you did,’ Boulos said, sounding amused.

  Noor handed Boulos a book: a fifteen-year-old first edition on arboriculture his father had written and had given to Noor in recognition of him completing his second year as top of the intake. After reading the inscription, Boulos stroked the book’s leather binding, then ran his fingertip over the gilt lettering on its spine.