The Final Strife

Today I woke to find the world has changed. My daughter gone. In her place they’ve left a maggot. She masquerades as my own, but I see her for who she is. A blue-blooded brood with no place in my family. I would have killed her, but I cannot let them know that I have been compromised.

My own home invaded, penetrated by the stink of their misplaced justice. Others have been taken, we don’t know how many. They call themselves the Sandstorm. I know this from the note they left on my desk. Blue ink, the insolence. Another ripping offense, I’ll have to stitch them together in order to tear them apart again.

—Uka Elsari’s journal, year 403

Anoor’s fingers drummed on her chin in time with the band. The guitar was soft and melodious, the singer wailing in a minor key. Anoor added the percussion.

She ached for something she could dance to. Not that her mother would let her. She was to sit and smile and sip her wine under the watchful eyes of the court as they chatted and drank and smoked.

A haze of radish-leaf smog shrouded them in opulence, the smoke more expensive than the finest of silks. The redder the smoke, the more expensive the leaf, and Anoor could barely see them swaying on the dance floor through the red fog. The dancers’ chins were erect, arms adrift in the current of their self-importance. Every one of the Embers.

Despite the Keep opening its doors to all citizens of the empire earlier that day, the invitation was short-lived and confined to the few strikes of the wardens’ descent. It didn’t take long for the fortress to be cleared of all rabble and the blood scours put back into place. Now anyone who entered was subjected to a finger prick, their blood documented. If it was red they were let through. Order had been righted, quickly and efficiently. Now the Keep was occupied by Embers and their Ghosting servants. And Anoor, of course.

A sigh trumpeted from her.

The great veranda had been decked out for the night’s festivities. Woven banners of kente cloth in yellows, reds, and greens hung above the wardens’ table. Bright stars of gold and iron hung in clusters below the runelamps and chandeliers. As the tidewind shook the world, the stars gently tinkled.

The roof on the veranda protected the revelry from the raging storm beyond. It was operated by gears covered in bloodwerk; no one had looked up as the metal sheeting slid into place and locked out the night sky. To Anoor, it felt like a cold metal collar sliding around her neck.

“Miss Elsari, you are looking…well.”

“Anoor, you must let me know the name of your tailor…”

“What is that? Looks delicious…”

“How are your studies going? Have you settled on a guild?”

No one stopped for long. Not a second longer than courtesy required. As if her mother’s displeasure with her was contagious.

Uka Elsari, Warden of Strength, sat on the dais with the other three wardens who had ascended that day. She was dressed in gray from head to toe, and her cropped afro had been pulled away from her head with a single silver band. Anoor could see the vein throbbing on her forehead as her mother talked to the other wardens. It appeared every time Uka spoke to someone she deemed less intelligent than she was. It was always there when she spoke to Anoor.

Anoor wondered what had galled her mother that evening. Pura Dumo, the newly appointed Warden of Truth, was talking earnestly to Uka as she sat stoically beside him.

As Warden of Truth, he was believed to be the divine force of justice in the land. He was the head of the Abosom, a devout sect of Anyme’s followers. He also governed the legal system and the religious rites of the empire, as they were one and the same. Pura wore the white cowl that signified the Abosom, except his hem was sprayed gold. Anoor noted the detail to raise it with her tailor another time. The embellishment would look perfect on her purple dress.

Pura picked a piece of spinach out of his white beard. You could always tell what his last meal had been.

Anoor grimaced. Pura’s long face, elongated by the trail of his beard, and his greedy eyes that peppered it, had always sent shivers down her spine.

To the right of Uka was Wern Aldina, of undefinable age; Anoor was convinced she was at least two hundred years old. This was her third term as Warden of Knowledge, meaning she’d been in the court for at least fifty years, swapping between the role of disciple and warden. Anoor always wondered how she had won the Aktibar with such cloudy eyes—three times, no less. As Warden of Knowledge she managed the education structure within the empire. Her work usually kept her on the south side of the river, as there was only one school on the other. Dusters went to school until they were ten, before being assigned their guilds. Ghostings weren’t educated at all.

The final warden was probably the most powerful of all. Aveed Elreeno, Warden of Duty, sat on Uka’s left, the youngest of the wardens at thirty-seven years old. They had long, wavy hair that fell down their broad shoulders. Every now and then they would flick it backward with an annoyed expression. Aveed had the largest fleet of underlings. The plantations, the trade routes, the sewers. All down to the Warden of Duty.

One day soon Anoor would have to specialize: duty, strength, truth, or knowledge. She wasn’t good at any of them.

The tables surrounding the wardens were filled with sycophants and imirs, though they were one and the same to Anoor. The imirs’ roles were hereditary, passed on from parent to child, with one true purpose—to be the wardens’ eyes and ears in every corner of the land. The twelve of them made up the Noble Court.

The imirs and their families wore their distinctive kente flags proudly as sashes, wraps, and headscarves. Anoor noted which flag was closest to the wardens, and who had been shunned to the back.

Oh dear, looks like Jin-Kutan didn’t make their tax quota, they are practically seated in the privy.

Anoor was seated in the center of the great veranda. Not too close to assume favoritism, and not too far to raise questions. She was quite pleased with her position, really. It gave her full view of the entrance where servants were bringing out the food, their day’s holiday having come to an end.

Right on cue large trays carried by Ghosting servants on their residual limbs appeared through the bloodwerk-activated doors. Anoor could see the rise and fall of their chests caused by running back and forth from the kitchens on the other side of the Keep, an architectural flaw in the Keep’s design that the wardens would never admit.

There were a few Ember servants too, but no Dusters. The Keep had banned them from being servants eighteen years ago. So some low-ranked Embers, those not related to imirs or without a self-made fortune, ended up working there.

Maybe she’d go and check on the time. After one more kofta. Just the one.