Hero at the Fall

‘Probably not,’ I offered as I went in search of dry clothes while Sam stood dripping and grinning like an idiot.

Her name was Fariha. She was only fourteen. I was praying we weren’t too late to save her this morning. Even if I wasn’t sure anyone was listening to my prayers anyway.

‘And,’ Hala added, ‘I think this is a terrible idea.’

‘I know,’ I said again, not sure if I meant that I knew what she thought or that I knew it was a terrible idea.

‘Even if we’re not going to kill her, you really ought to let me take her mind away,’ Hala muttered as we followed the flow of people into the great domed building. ‘She’s a menace.’

‘I heard you the first three times you said that.’

We were both tense and irritable. I didn’t even blame Hala for it. I’d only had a few hours of sleep. And we might both be walking to our demise. All because I didn’t want to deliver Leyla back to her father dead or insane. Hala had pointed out that he wouldn’t hesitate to do it to us if the roles were reversed. And that was exactly why I couldn’t. We weren’t the Sultan. We were supposed to be better than him.

So we’d both agreed we weren’t leaving this city without doing something. Even if doing something meant we might not get out of the city at all.

The throng of people pushed us forwards. We were close enough now that I could make out some of the details of the gold panels in the door, the First Hero swinging his sword through a monster’s neck in one. Below it, the Sin Maker standing behind him with a knife, ready to betray him. In another panel, the other Djinn surrounded the Sin Maker, casting him out in shame for his treason. We passed close enough that I found myself glancing at the faces of the Djinn, trying to recognise my father among them. But their faces had been worn down over the centuries. If they had ever looked like anyone, they were anonymous now. Faded even as the Djinn drew away from the everyday life of mortals.

And then the doors and their golden panels were behind me, and Hala and I were passing under the towering blue and gold arch and into the warm embrace of the prayer house. Outside, some of the cool of night was still clinging on, but inside, fires were burning all around in grates set into the terracotta-tiled walls, and the air was thick with the smell of burning oil and incense.

I hadn’t been able to tell in the dark last night, while we were making our preparations, but I could see clearly now that the tiles of each wall were a different bright colour, with the same swirling circular patterns repeated over and over again. The north wall was two shades of blue, representing water. The west was gold and brown for earth. Those were the two elements that were blended together to make up a human body when the Djinn created us. The south wall was a startling white and silver for the air that moulded the clay into the shape of our bodies. And the east wall was a violent red and gold for the fire that sparked us to life. They all converged together on the tiled floor, like some great flood of colours spilling from the walls. And above it all, the golden dome crowned us.

I could see now, with the fires burning, the bronze wire that was wound all the way around the inside of the dome in a spiral. A clear marker of Leyla’s inventive hand in things. And, descending from the apex of the dome on the same wire, a bronze face, mouth open as if in a scream. Leyla’s speaking machine, the one she had called the Zungvox. Meant so that prayers could be dispersed throughout the city in a vain attempt to control the people as more and more turned to worshipping at the wall. Used instead by the Sultan to speak through the Abdals and threaten us across the whole city.

Hala and I moved through the crowd as everyone around us found a place on the cool marble floor.

Everyone except us. We kept heading forward. Towards where I could see the young man at the front, standing next to the Holy Father, as he fussed with incenses and an immense gold-paged copy of the Holy Book. He stood out with his finely embroidered kurti and the fact that he had his father’s chin.

It was well known that at least one of the Sultan’s sons attended morning prayers every single day among the people. It was an attempt to calm the restlessness that was building in the city. The Sultan had sent a prince among his people to remind them we were all here together.

Hala and I were about to make a scene. Hopefully enough of one to save Fariha and every girl after her, too. Even if it meant us dying. Hala had made me swear to that. We made it out of here alive or we stayed behind dead – nothing in between.

We were almost at the front when the Holy Father standing on the dais above us raised his tattooed palms over the crowd, a gesture that everyone should kneel. With some shuffling and jostling, everyone did.

Everyone except us.

‘Ready?’ I whispered to Hala, my hand closing over a knife at my side. I was shaking. I was never nervous before a fight. But this wasn’t a fight; it was a performance.

‘Oh, don’t tell me now is when you decide to turn coward on me.’ I couldn’t see Hala’s face, but I could practically hear the roll of her eyes in her voice. ‘Your guts are one of the things that I actually like about you.’

I decided to take that as a yes.

It was like a curtain dropping at a show, a sea of people descending to their knees as we stayed standing. And then we moved together, Hala tipping her head back and dropping her hood even as I pulled out the knife and placed it at her collarbone. Then I let out a long whistle. Around us, all the heads that had dropped, ready for prayers, shot back up. Attendants dotted around glanced our way, ready to move to stop the disturbance. Even the Holy Father looked up, brow furrowed in annoyance. But his expression quickly changed as he caught sight of us.