“What? Why…”
The taller boy suddenly realised what his brother had done.
Eleven.
“No, Samir…”
Ghassan tried to push past his brother, but one of the guards rushed across, his attention once more on the queue, and separated them.
“No one changes” the Pelasian said flatly.
Nine.
A man Ghassan thought he recognised as a shopkeeper on the street of wild winds disappeared with a bellow from the parapet.
“Samir!”
The smaller boy shook his head.
“Hope, Ghassan. Look after mother for me.”
“Samir!”
Seven.
The taller boy’s eyes were wide as he stared at his brother. He couldn’t let this happen. He’d always assumed that if it came down to that, he would be the one to sacrifice himself for Samir and not the other way around.
Four.
There was a shriek from ahead. Horribly close ahead.
Three.
“I’ll see you on the other side, Ghassan.”
Two.
Ghassan stared at Samir as the smaller brother was suddenly pulled away from him. Nadia pushed the boy behind her and looked down at her son for the last time. The guard made to change the order back, but another black-clad Pelasian stopped him and shook his head sadly.
“Survive, my boys. Survive and prosper.”
Ghassan reached out, tears streaming suddenly down his face, but his fingertips failed to reach her, as one of the guards hauled him back and pushed him on toward the stairs. As she stopped and, with deliberate slowness, the soldier pulled back his staff, Nadia turned her back on the weeping boy being taken further away to safety, and looked down at Samir. The smaller boy, always, she thought, the stronger one, had a single tear in the corner of his eye. He gave her a sad smile.
“Goodbye mother.”
She gave him a sad smile and, without waiting for the guard, took a step from the wall into the open air.
Samir turned away and blocked out the next moments as best he could before walking on toward his brother who shuddered his way toward the stairs.
Hope. There had to be hope.
In which Asima’s life takes an unexpected turn
The attempted coup by the M’Dahz resistance changed everything in the town. The satrap, having spent so many months as a barely-disguised tyrant ruling through the powerless governor, finally abandoned all pretence of care. The morning after the executions, posters went up across the town reminding the population that M’Dahz was a Pelasian city now, in the province of the satrap Ma’ahd, and warning that the last quarter he would ever consider giving had now been given. Any further individual infraction of the strict rules to be imposed would be rewarded with a very painful and public death, and any larger-scale civil disobedience would result in the systematic extermination of every last occupant of the city and their replacement with Pelasian settlers.
The dead from the southern wall were left where they fell for seven days by order of the satrap and no one was allowed near them. To the horror of those who lived nearby, not all of the victims had died when they fell, but lay among the stinking, grisly remains of those who did, limited by shattered limbs as they wailed and begged for days until the heat, starvation and wild creatures of the desert who dared come so close to the walls finally killed them off.
Asima had heard the tales of what had happened and how it had been dealt with and found herself curiously unmoved; a trait she was seeing more often in herself and that she felt should worry her more than it did. While she recognised what a horrifying thing the satrap’s judgment had been, she could not help but blame the stupidity of the plotters. Why had they tried? If they had just tried to reason with the satrap, none of this would have happened anyway.
Besides, she had heard Pelasian soldiers in the compound close by the governor’s house talking about the incident and many of them had, privately and out of earshot of their superiors, spoken of their own dismay over the events of that day.
Not all Pelasians were cruel and, if people had only given Ma’ahd no cause for alarm, he would likely have soon returned to his hometown and left the governor to run M’Dahz. Then everything would have been more or less back to normal.
But no.
Because of the idiotic activities of the so-called ‘resistance’ the satrap had, instead, rooted himself ever deeper in M’Dahz and had brought the rule down harder than ever on its inhabitants.
But while these fools could bang their drums and shout their slogans and continue to bring down the wrath of the conqueror upon their heads, Asima was resolved to make her and her fathers’ lives easier however she could. The problem was that the actions of those idiots in the militia had placed the satrap in a particularly angry and unresponsive mood and just how she could go about approaching him now was a thorny issue.
She sat on the decorative chair, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She had always known she was pretty, and the way Samir and Ghassan used to look at her had confirmed that this was not merely narcissism, but an accurate appraisal of her appearance. And yet, even being conservative with her opinion, she could see that she had begun to change over this past year and was filling out, becoming voluptuous and more truly beautiful than girlishly pretty. The timing was unfortunate when she thought about it objectively. Another year or two and she could probably have had the satrap eating from her hand.
She smiled.
“I will have him eating from it, regardless.”
Her attention was drawn to a sudden intrusion in the corner of the mirror. For a moment, in a fashion that threatened to worry her, she was irritated at her father for having interrupted this introspective viewing of her face. She turned and smiled her most devastating smile.
“Asima…”
“Father?”
“My dear, you have been sent for, and I do not know whether you should go.”
She laughed lightly.
“What are you saying, father?”
“Satrap Ma’ahd has ordered that you present yourself. I know that that is what you have been intending to do anyway, but, for all your wits and precociousness, my dear, you are still a girl and still my daughter. I fear that perhaps you should flee instead.”
Asima laughed again.
“Flee where, father, and how?”
Her father’s brow furrowed.
“I know that you have your ways; secret ways in and out of the building. Use them, Asima. Get away before Ma’ahd gets his claws into you.”
“Father, you worry too much.”
Straightening, she walked across the room and patted him on the shoulder.
“Things will be fine, father. I am of Pelasian blood, remember.”
With a last glance back, she checked her reflection in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction. She needed to look her best for this.
Along the corridor and out into the main hall, she was busy planning how she would sweep into the satrap’s presence like a graceful swan. It was all about impression. It was about making herself important and worthwhile. It was…
She stopped for a moment at the balcony above the stairs. There were black-clad soldiers marching around the ground floor of the governor’s residence. Surely they did not mean to break their promise and invade the governor’s own house because of the acts of a desperate group of lunatics?
And yet, as she watched, she realised that there was not a single white-clad Imperial guardsman to be seen. The Pelasian army was in the mansion.
Frowning and scanning the soldiers, she spotted a particular figure in the centre of the ground floor hall, directing the men this way and that. She recognised the bald head and aquiline features of Jhraman, the satrap’s chief vizier. Jhraman had been the man who, over the past months, had delivered the conqueror’s words to the captives here and who had listened to their questions and requests and delivered them back to his master.