“It’s time you found your place in the world.”
12CAVAS
There’s a saying in Ambar that you aren’t truly grown up until you’re caring for more than yourself. Until you’ve found your place in the world.
“As the king’s revered acharya likes to say: ‘The greater your powers, the better your chances of progress. With the sky goddess’s blessings,’” Govind announces one morning to a chorus of laughter from the other stable boys. “This is why the rest of us are so downtrodden, while the high priest convinced the Ministry of Treasure to hire his beloved son—with a cartload of swarnas and rupees, of course.”
I slowly trudge by, carrying two full buckets of water from the palace well to fill the trough of water outside. I always act like I’m never listening to these conversations—and Govind always pretends that he never sees me.
“It might be the only way the acharya can keep him out of trouble,” one of the stable boys says. “To surround him with gold and silver instead of pretty dirt-licking boys.”
Their laughter crawls up my spine. I dump the water into the trough. By the time I carry the empty buckets back to the stable, my hands are shaking from gripping the handles so tightly.
“Boy.” General Tahmasp’s curt voice breaks through my reverie.
I carefully place the buckets on the floor and bow. “Shubhsaver, General.”
He doesn’t wish me a “good morning” in return. His dark eyes narrow, as if in assessment. I try not to squirm. “How are you?” he asks.
I blink. The general has never stopped to chat with me before, our interactions limited to cold and simple instructions about his horse. “I’m well, General.”
“You haven’t seen Major Shayla again, have you?”
“No, General.”
It has been two months since I last saw the general or the major—even in passing. Latif hasn’t been too pleased with my reports.
“Good.” The general tugs on the stiff collar of his white jacket. “That’s good to hear. Be careful, will you? With her.”
As if the other boys the Scorpion has preyed upon weren’t careful. As if it’s care and not a freakish stroke of luck that has prevented Major Shayla from seeking me out so far. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, wondering why I feel the need to assure General Tahmasp that I’m all right.
Tahmasp clears his throat. “How’s your father doing?”
“He … he’s much the same, General. With the Fever … sometimes he’s better, sometimes worse. We’ve learned to take things day by day.”
“We were born into this life, and we must make the best of it,” Papa always says, and though his voice is gentle, I know it’s also a reminder of who we are—and who we can never be.
Tahmasp stares at me for a long moment. “There are houses at the other end of the city. On the outskirts, away from the firestone mines. They’re reserved for army personnel only, though, and usually in high demand.”
I wonder why he’s telling me this. Though the king still allows non-magi to enlist in the army, it’s generally for the position of loadbearers, who carry equipment and pitch tents. Houses outside the tenements are strictly reserved for army officers, all of them magi.
“Naturally, I can’t give you any guarantees, but there have been exceptions made in the past,” Tahmasp says. “On rare occasions, non-magi who show immense loyalty to the kingdom are made captains, sometimes even awarded a house. I’m not saying it will be easy. You’ll have to start off small—as a loadbearer perhaps. If you work hard over the next year or two and show some aptitude in fighting, perhaps you can move up the ranks as well.”
I stare at him, stunned. While a small part of me appreciates that the general thought of me and my father, I can’t help but notice how late this offer has come—and what a poor solution it is. How am I supposed to wait a whole year or two when I don’t even know if the Fever will let Papa live for the next month?
“Your wages increase as well,” the general continues, completely unaware of my thoughts. “That could help, I’m sure, with the medicine. Enlisting takes place every year in the Month of Tears.”
Which is this month. Sweat coats the back of my tunic. “I’ll have to talk. To my father. I need to make sure … that he’ll be all right if I go.”
“That’s not a problem.” The general’s hard face softens. “I’ll be out of the city for the next couple of weeks or so. If you decide to enlist, come find me in the barracks before the month ends. I can put in a word.”
I watch him lead his horse away, my mind abuzz with a hundred different thoughts. I could have rejected his offer on the spot, could have told him exactly what I thought, punishment be damned. But petty reactions do not have a place in a world where my father’s life is at stake. Where any little thing may help him survive.
I pick up the shovel lying in the corner next to the buckets and begin cleaning manure out of a vacated stall. As a child, I would dream of other things at times. Of new clothes, of sweets, of flying on the back of a giant simurgh. The last dream—one of the few vivid ones I had back then—I still remember, but with the wistfulness of a childhood long gone.
When Papa fell sick, I knew that my life would be limited to a simple set of rules: Keep your head down. Work hard. Come home every night, no matter how bruised. In the army, though, there is every likelihood that I may not come home. I’ve heard more than one person talk about deaths in the army—how more loadbearers die from thirst and starvation in the desert than from any actual fighting.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. The sweet smell of freshly raked hay rises in the
