They pressed on. The incline of the road was steep enough now, and the sun hot enough, that thick rivulets of sweat were pouring down the Doctor’s face. Zamia wondered again about doing battle alongside this fat old man. For the moment, she reminded herself, you have little choice—these two are the only allies you have in the world. It was a disturbing thought, but it soon flew from her mind. For then, the road crested the dune, and Dhamsawaat, King of Cities, lay before her.
Zamia stopped dead in her tracks and, for several long moments, could not speak. I see why this place is called the Jewel of Abassen, she thought, seeing the gleaming domes of turquoise and gold and white that dotted the carpet of buildings. I always thought father’s stories were exaggerated, but now I see he did not do the horrible size of this place justice.
It almost made her swoon. The buildings! She did not know how to begin counting them—flat, peaked, and domed, in stone and tile, a dozen different shades. And rising up as high as mountains! Above it all, near what seemed to be the center of the jumble—if it had a center—rose a huge white dome. Zamia was not much used to buildings and had trouble gauging the dome’s size, but she was certain that whatever building it topped must be bigger than some of the trade villages she had seen.
It had to be the legendary Crescent Moon Palace, the opulent home and stronghold of the Khalif and his family. Zamia’s people knew little of, and cared little for, the supposed ruler of all Abassen. The Badawi limited their interactions with city men as much as possible, wary of becoming bakgam tokens at best, or slaves at worst. Yet even among the Badawi the magnificence of the palace was known, and the few who had seen Dhamsawaat had confirmed that the stories did not exaggerate the splendor of the palace. Even from this distance Zamia could see that they had spoken truly.
Outside the great city walls, they came to two long buildings that stank powerfully of horses. There the Doctor handed the mules over to a stooped man wearing ridiculous city clothes. They then proceeded on foot, making their way through the city’s massive gates and into an even denser press of people. Zamia had to remind herself that this was not some feverish dream. There is so much stone and brick. The very air is thick with it! She forced herself to stop staring about like a sun-dazzled child.
More astonishing than the buildings were the people. If she had thought there was a great mass of them on the road into the city, she saw a hundred times more of them now as she passed through the streets. The densest gatherings of men Zamia had ever seen were the village and pilgrimage sites to the northeast. She’d been shocked when she saw those places, with their hundred roofs and buildings of two stories. But this—this was impossible. A riotous mix of clothing and complexions. It was terrifying. Men’s and women’s scents bled together with a thousand others, and countless people darted in and out of her peripheral vision.
How could she scent out enemies in a crowd like this?
“There are so many people here!” she said without meaning to.
“You should have seen it on our way out of here!” the old man bellowed. He turned to Raseed. “We’ll get home twice as quick, I think.”
Zamia had trouble imagining the streets being any more crowded. Veiled Rughali women lined the street, grinding sweet-smelling spice with pestles the size of war clubs. Girls in gemthread half-robes walked arm-in-arm with soft, wealthy-looking men. Two boys led small goats along the edge of the crowd. She even saw two men wearing the camel calf suede of Badawi tribesmen. She avoided their eyes, but they seemed more interested in the city itself than in the odd sight of a young tribeswoman alone in the Jewel of Abassen. Zamia tried to ignore all of the beast- and people-scents as best she could—the sights were confusing enough.
A hard-faced man jumped in her path. Zamia tensed for a fight, weighing the risks of taking the shape in this unfamiliar place. The man, smelling of deceit, shook a leather cup and screamed about triangle dice. Before Zamia could do anything, the Doctor elbowed the man away, spitting something about rigged games of chance. The man bowed mockingly and turned to his next potential player.
Again she resisted the urge to turn on her heel and run at lion-speed back into the desert. But she thought of her father, who had been to Dhamsawaat once in his youth. This gave her strength—If Nadir Banu Laith Badawi had visited this monstrous place and lived to tell the tale, surely his daughter could honor his memory by doing the same. Thoughts of her father and of his fate filled her with increasing resolution. She reminded herself that the path to vengeance—the only thing she lived for now—moved through this sandstorm of a city and its colorful carpet of… hundreds of people? Thousands? She did not have words for the number of people who must live in such a place.
They continued down the street slowly, the press of the crowd preventing them from moving any faster. Every few moments she looked to her left to make sure the Doctor was still there. She’d fought against the fiercest warriors of rival tribes. She’d killed a ghul. But Zamia found herself as frightened now as she’d ever been in her life. What if she were to get separated from the old man? How would she find her way back to him? Amidst the trackless dunes of the desert, she could follow anyone or anything. But here? With all of these buildings and carts and smells and sounds and people? This city could swallow me whole and no one would notice. She stepped even closer to Adoulla Makhslood, and her voice came out as a whisper.
“How many people live in Dhamsawaat?”
The old man smiled in a way that made her feel like a fool, though she did not think that was his intention. “My dear,” he began, “how many people were in your band?”
“Around fifty, most years.”
“And how many bands make up your tribe?”
“Around one hundred. We have a tribal council once every three years.” Her dry eyes stung with recalled tears of frustration as she thought of the last tribal council she’d attended, only one year ago. But despite the unjust treatment her band had received at the last council, Zamia swelled with pride remembering the huge masses at the gatherings of the Banu Laith. She raised her chin as she spoke. “The Banu Laith Badawi are a great tribe. Our numbers when we gather are fearsome. The gathered tents dot the dunes like…” She trailed off, realizing how ridiculous she was about to sound.
The old man cleared his throat, pretending not to notice her embarrassment. “Imagine your whole tribe gathered, then ninety-nine more tribes of the same size. Then, next to them, one hundred more tribes of the same size. Two hundred of your tribal gatherings next to each other and on top of one another. That is how many people are in the city before you.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable.