Violya

Chapter 18 Ammad

18

AMMAD

Ammad lounged on the terrace of his mother’s craterside villa. He’d trained all morning with Samark, washed, had a massage, eaten and was now relaxing.

Naturally, he was exceeding at his training. That morning, the lowly scum had him sparring with a street fighter who wielded two swords. The skill was in speed, not weapons, in anticipating your opponent’s next move and reacting before he made it.

A few days previously, Samark had mentioned there was a way to throw a knife with his teeth. Ammad demanded to be taught the skill, but the man insisted it was too soon. Ammad threatened a severe punishment, something about lopping off both Samark’s legs, and he relented.

He brought out his throwing knives, which were fastened to a strapping that went around his upper thigh. Samark swiftly pulled on the strapping with his teeth and tightened it. He then demonstrated how to stand on one leg, raise the thigh of the other and pull the knives out with his teeth. He then flung them, with a vicious snap of his head, into a hanging piece of wood that was used as a target.

Samark threw all eight with such precision that Ammad hated the man. And then determined he would learn this skill immediately. However, on his first attempt, he had sliced his tongue, requiring a couple of stitches from a healer. After, Jakira had insisted knife throwing be learnt with dull knives, so a commission to have these made had gone out to a blacksmith. They had been training against swords since, while the blades were made.

Jakira glided out to the terrace, holding Artaz’s hand.

“I have appointments. Spend some time with your little brother,” she announced and led the brat towards him.

Ammad sighed. Since that old bastard, his father, had wrenched away his title of Crown Prince two months ago, his mother had been intensely scheming. She was livid at Mastiq, seeing his actions as a cutting betrayal, and Ammad knew not to interfere. Jakira’s mind worked faster than perhaps five of his own. At the very least, he knew she would restore Ammad to Crown Prince.

He let her get on with it, focusing all his attention on becoming the best fighter with no arms in the city. He would be better than Samark; he couldn’t allow that Affarah clan member to claim that title.

Artaz scrambled onto the floor cushions and pulled out some toys from his pocket. Jakira watched him indulgently. She had fallen in love with the Peqkian child and foisted him onto Ammad every now and then as if he was a real brother. Ammad knew better than to argue with his mother so suffered the brat’s presence, ignoring him and calling for slaves if the child needed anything or started to cry.

Artaz, for the most part, was quiet, content to play on his own, happy to simply be around others. Since the boy had arrived, Jakira had showered him with affection and Artaz was smitten with her too, calling her Mama. She had organised wisemen to teach him the ways of Drome, and cooed to him constantly.

Jakira kissed Artaz on both cheeks and spoke some tender words to him. The child nodded and smiled up at her.

“Where’s my kiss, Mama? Have you forgotten your eldest son?” Ammad stuck one cheek forward.

She pinched it. “You are no longer a baby.” But then softened and cupped it gently before sweeping back into the villa and towards whatever appointment she had organised.

Artaz was chattering away holding his two favourite wooden figurines from Peqkya. A cat and a bird. He always bashed them together as if they were fighting. Ammad watched him languidly.

“I’m like that bird,” he said to the child, “I want to smash the cats. One cat in particular. One with hair like yours.”

“Violya,” the child mumbled. “She like me.”

Ammad shrugged. I don’t need to know the red-haired hisspit’s name, only that she will die by my hands soon. No, not hands, legs most likely. Get her in a thigh grip and squeeze, squeeze, until her eyes turn the colour of her hair and pop from her skull.

Artaz placed the bird on a cushion and slammed the cat down onto it. The figurine flew up and landed with a thud against Ammad’s tall glass of honeyed lime juice. Ammad had learnt to pick up the glass with his teeth to drink. It fell off the low table and smashed on the stone tiles of the terrace.

“Naughty boy,” Ammad tutted, amused by Artaz’s look of horror. “That’s Mama’s favourite cut glass. She’ll be very unhappy with you. You’ll get beaten and sent away.”

Artaz’s eyes widened as he looked at the glass smashed to smithereens. Tears began to well.

Ammad, aware that his feet were planted in the midst of this sea of shards, sat upright. He was about to shout for a slave to clear up the debris but Artaz had rallied himself.

Instead of crying, the boy pointed his finger at the pile of cracked glass, scrunched up his face and seemed to be concentrating, his body shaking with the effort.

A chunk of glass twitched. Another trembled. Ammad shook his head, blinked and stared hard at the floor.

The glass pieces jumped in the air, like a giant had thumped the tiles. They fell to the floor and remained still. Ammad took a long breath. Has someone slipped me some poppy?

The pieces skittered across the tiles like tinkling bugs, pulled from all directions to the spot where Artaz was pointing.

Slowly, piece by piece, the glass rebuilt itself. The tiniest slivers slotted into place until it was fully made.

Artaz quickly picked the glass up and placed it on the table, looking around to make sure no one else had seen.

“Better now,” he said and then lifted a slice of lime off the tiles and dropped it carefully in the glass. He sat back on the cushion, looking sheepish with his hands clasped between his knees.

“What the f**k…” Ammad managed, staring at the perfectly whole glass on the table.

“Sorry…” Artaz grizzled. “For spilling your drink.” He sniffled and his eyes went glassy.

Ammad didn’t want tears from the boy. He needed to know more, to see more.

The bird figurine, after Artaz had knocked Ammad’s drink off the table, had landed next to his foot. He picked it up with his toes, leaned back and swung his leg round, dropping the figurine in Artaz’s hand.

“You forgot your bird,” Ammad said in the sweetest voice he could muster.

Artaz grinned and picked the figurine up, found the cat tucked down the side of the cushion and offered both to Ammad.

Ammad swivelled on his cushion so that both feet faced the boy, picked up a figurine in each set of toes and, to Artaz’s delight, bashed them together. Ammad mimicked the boy’s laughter and grinned, lifting his legs up and then soaring the figurines down. Artaz clapped and grabbed at the toys. Ammad pulled them away at the last minute and the boy laughed some more.

What else can you do?

Ammad allowed Artaz to pull the figurines from his toes. The boy clutched them to his chest in happiness. Ammad squirmed his feet under each of the boy’s armpits and wriggled his toes. The boy erupted in peals of laughter.

What else can I train you to do?

Ammad played with the boy for hours, it was excruciatingly dull and the Peqkian brat showed no signs of his ability again. Ammad wasn’t sure what to call it, but that seemed apt for now. I need to gain his trust, his devotion. If he has some kind of power, I want him to do my bidding.

The boy tired and lolled awkwardly belly-down across Ammad’s lap. His bony hips dug in Ammad’s flesh.

“Best friends,” the boy said and sighed contentedly. “Me and you, best friends.”

A large spider scurried across the tiles and paused close to Ammad’s foot.

Artaz pointed at it and scrunched up his forehead as if racking his little mind for some titbit of pointless information. He formed the word, “Spi… spi… spider!”

Ammad – eager to test his speed after hours of Samark hollering “faster, faster” at him – stamped on the creature before it could scuttle off.

Artaz gasped and sat up, elbowing Ammad in the gut in his haste.

“No,” the boy whined.

The corners of his mouth turned down and he sniffled. Once again, his eyes glistened with welling tears.

Ammad gritted his teeth, holding back the curses he longed to roar in the child’s face. He hated the brat’s squalling, but struck with an idea, he lifted his foot and nodded to the bloody squish.

He imitated his mother’s honeyed voice. “I know, why don’t you make it whole again, like you did with that glass? Can you do that? Won’t that be fun!”

Artaz gazed forlornly at the dead spider.

“Why don’t you try,” Ammad encouraged. “I know you’re sleepy, I promise you can have a long nap after. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

Artaz blinked at Ammad and drew a deep breath. He pointed at the spider. Nothing happened.

He slumped back and huffed, blinking away tears.

“Try again,” Ammad said, a harder, impatient edge to his voice.

Artaz noticed the change in tone. He stared at the spider.

Ammad, too, stared at the spider.

After a moment of stillness, the creature began to rebuild. Broken legs clicked back together, chunks of body slotted into place, blood and innards sucked back into the abdomen from where it had squirted.

Artaz tapped Ammad’s shin. “Foot up.”

Ammad lifted his foot and the tiniest bit of spider peeled off the sole of his foot and drifted back towards the remade creature. It dropped into position and the spider dashed towards a crack between tiles.

Artaz beamed. Ammad copied the boy’s smile with a wide, toothy grin of his own. He touched his forehead to that of the child’s in approval.

“You are a very clever boy. Does Mama know you can do that?” Ammad’s voice was sugar again.

Artaz shook his head.

“Do you know what these are called?” Ammad touched his nose to the top of one of the boy’s arms.

“Arms,” Artaz said with a smile.

Ammad nodded. “Your brother Ammad, your best friend, has no arms. He’d like arms, because then he could play even more with his little brother, his best friend.”

Ammad nuzzled the top of his head into the crook of Artaz’s neck. The boy held Ammad’s cheek with a slightly damp hand and rubbed his ear on Ammad’s hair.

***

A week later Jakira summoned a meeting at the villa. She had been busy organising, bribing, and scheming around the city. Every waking moment, Ammad had either spent alone with Artaz, or training with Samark.

It was late at night, cooler, and cushions had been organised in a circle around low tables and shisha pipes.

The ex-Minister of War drew a long pull of the pipe nearest him and it gurgled. He let out the tobacco smoke in a long smooth plume from between his lips. Ammad wasn’t sure why Whaled was at this meeting, considering him the enemy, but the hairy man had also been stripped of his position and used as a scapegoat. Ammad imagined he was pissed off, and therefore easy to manipulate.

Selmi, Ammad’s younger brother, sat rigid with a grimace. Ammad couldn’t recall the last time he had spoken to Sel. Must’ve been before the Peqkian invasion. They were civil to each other, nodding if they passed in the hallway, but the sixteen-year-old had shed his happy, cheerful demeanour and had become serious and brooding. Sel shot furtive glances at Whaled. The older man clearly made him nervous.

Aunty Riv was also there, wearing far too many jewels and gaudy clothing. The Peqkian had grown fatter, not just in girth, but also in wealth since devoting all her attention to her trade operations in Drome.

Jakira gestured for the slaves, who were pouring wine and keeping the table stocked with food, to leave. Medi closed the door after them and then came and sat on a cushion next to Ammad. Slaves have no place at the table. He glared at Medi then looked imploringly at his mother. She glared back.

Ammad didn’t dare challenge her. He shifted his body away from Medi to show his disapproval. The Head Slave didn’t seem to care.

“Medi went to the ceremony today. Tell us,” Jakira said.

“Mastiq announced his eldest official son, Hallid, as Crown Prince,” Medi replied.

“Fat Hallid?” Ammad blurted.

Jakira had schemed for years to have Hallid, the rightful heir of Mastiq’s one official wife, to be replaced by Ammad as Crown Prince.

“He’s been cleaned up, lost some weight and looked healthy. But was clearly still drunk,” Medi said.

Jakira sneered. “Anything said about Ammad?”

“Yes. Mastiq announced that Ammad had sustained severe, permanent injuries and that he requires ongoing care and attention. He said that the Crown Prince position was too much for Ammad to cope with now and that Ammad had readily relinquished it to a better abled man,” Medi said.

Jakira slapped her palm on the table.

“Drunk Hallid a better abled man than me?” Ammad scoffed.

Aunty Riv tutted.

Jakira stood and slowly walked around the outside of the cushions. “Family, friends, new loves.” She placed a hand on Whaled’s shoulder, and he placed his hand over hers briefly.

Ammad gagged, Selmi’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull, Medi’s stolid expression was unchangeable and Riv interrupted Jakira to cackle her throaty laugh and say, “I knew it!”

Is Mama using Whaled or is she truly in love? He couldn’t tell. His mother was the best actress in the desert. Better than those who were actually paid to perform stories of Drome’s history to the rich clans in their opulent villas. His mother must be using Whaled. She used everyone. And how could anyone – especially the most beautiful woman in Drome – find that hairy beast attractive?

Jakira continued to walk and talk and all gathered followed her movements. “Our Ruler Mastiq believes he is the most powerful person in Drome,” she said. “The royal Wakrime family believe they will always rule. But this is false. They have been allowed to believe this by the one who is the most powerful in this city. That one has perpetuated those lies to continue to build their influence and dominance. To coerce and bribe and do what is necessary to get the Qacirr holy families and the Tamadeen noble families to bend under their will.”

Jakira paused and scanned her gaze around those seated. “Know this. The most powerful person in the city is me.”

Ammad grinned, Riv clapped her hands, Selmi retreated into himself and Whaled beamed proudly. Medi had no reaction; he likely already knew this detail. He’d been her head slave since she’d arrived at the palace at fourteen.

His mother settled elegantly on a cushion. “It no longer benefits me to keep Mastiq in power. And, if it no longer benefits me, it no longer benefits the city, or the country. It does, however, benefit me to keep the Wakrime family in power, but not the side of the family Mastiq so treasures. No. The Wakrime blood runs through my sons, and it will be my eldest who will rule.”

Ammad’s chest swelled and his hump prickled with excitement.

“Once we have established Ammad in position as the rightful ruler, we have unfinished business to take care of. We must smash Peqkya. And once that little p***y cat is tamed, my son Selmi shall rule that mountain nation. And, as has always been my desire, we take back ancient Vaasar from the thieving Ferts once and for all.”

Jakira slapped her palm on the low table. “My sons will bask in the glory of the people and be known forever as the brothers who reversed history, who made Drome whole again after thousands of years.”

Selmi squirmed on his cushion. He bit his lips in an obvious attempt to keep in what threatened to come out. His face reddened and the words erupted.

“Mama,” he blurted, “the corruption of those in rule must change, slaves must be freed, wealth distributed fairly amongst all and our false religion wiped from the world. Will Ammad do this? Will you do this? Or will we carry on as we always have in this filthy inequality?”

“Flesh of my flesh,” Jakira said patiently, “the way of things is the way of things. The change will be that Ammad rules. That our family rules. Do you want to lose your wealth and live on the streets instead of in this villa? Give up your racing camels so that slaves can have them? You speak of all being equal but that has never worked, nor will it. There are the strong, there are the weak. We are the strong, and I intend to keep us that way.”

Selmi rose to his feet. “I do not want to rule Peqkya! I do not want violence,” he shouted. He stomped from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Jakira rose a palm to reassure those around the table. “I shall deal with him. He is still young and this is merely a phase. Whatever wiseman has fed him this nonsense will be minus his head by the morning.”

Whaled fingered his hairy nostrils. “Removing Mastiq from rule does not pose a problem. But Peqkya does. Our army was decimated. The warriors are remarkable. We need better weapons, training, and men before we can consider returning to the mountains.”

“We have the experience now. You know the land, you know the city of Riaow. You have seen them fight. And we have Riv here to help us.”

“I have Toya recruiting spies even now,” Riv said.

“But we are not strong enough,” Whaled insisted. “Fighting with swords against the hisspit warriors is pointless, they are exceptionally skilled. We need some other kind of weapons—”

“We have a weapon,” Ammad said. He popped a chunk of watermelon in his mouth using his freshly-slave-cleaned toes and relished the fact that all in the room hung on his next words. “Medi,” he said eventually, “fetch Artaz.”

Medi flicked his eyes to Jakira.

“The boy is asleep,” she said.

“Believe me, Mama, this is worth waking him for.”

Jakira considered him a moment and then nodded to Medi. The Head Slave went to the door and shouted at the house slaves who waited in the hallway then returned to his cushion.

Jakira didn’t take her eyes from Ammad, an expression on her face that read: ‘This better be good’. Ammad smirked back. It would be good. Very, very good.

A few moments later the Peqkian boy was led into the room.

The slave left him and closed the door. The boy’s head was low, and he rubbed at his eyes wearily.

“Come here, little brother,” Ammad said.

Artaz drifted towards the voice and crawled onto the cushions to sit on Ammad’s knee, his back against Ammad’s chest.

“Well?” Jakira said.

“Time to show Mama what you can do.” Ammad leaned close to whisper instructions in Artaz’s ear. The little boy nodded and pointed at a juicy watermelon that hadn’t as yet been chopped.

It wobbled on the low table. Rocked from side to side and lifted into the air.

Riv gasped, but his mother, Medi and Whaled watched keenly, unconsciously leaning closer to get a better understanding of the flying fruit.

It exploded. Pink chunks, pips and green skin flew everywhere. Jakira, Whaled, Riv and Medi ducked and raised their arms as bits of the fruit pelted them.

Ammad laughed.

“Ammad,” Jakira warned, wiping sloppy pink flesh from her lap.

Ammad whispered in Artaz’s ear and grinned.

Whaled’s shisha pipe floated upwards, over the hairy man’s head and slammed against the wall behind him. It smashed to bits, the hot coals burning holes in the carpet and the acrid smell of tobacco water permeating the room.

“Stop this evil,” Whaled shouted as he splashed a jug of water over the coals with a sizzle.

Ammad continued to whisper and Artaz pointed at the large Peqkian woman.

“Oh my!” Riv exclaimed.

Artaz’s face screwed and his arm shook as he channelled all his effort into the task. Riv hovered off her cushions. She screamed and attempted to move but was locked in place.

Artaz directed her floating form towards the open window.

“That’s enough, Ammad,” Jakira said sharply as Riv shrieked.

Ammad laughed and directed Artaz.

The boy brought the Peqkian woman back down to her cushion, depositing her there gently.

“He has The Sight! Peqkian magic, like our great Stone Prophetess Sybilya,” Riv exclaimed. She cupped her fat cheeks with her hands, staring at the boy. Then she turned to Jakira. “The Sight,” Riv repeated.

Artaz yawned and rested his head in the crook of Ammad’s neck.

Ammad gave the boy’s forehead a kiss. “Well done, best friend,” he cooed in the boy’s ear.

Then he winked at Jakira. “He is our weapon, Mama. I will train him. His magic will destroy Peqkya. His magic will help us take over the world.”

Jakira looked lovingly at the sleepy child.

“Show Mama what we do to cats,” Ammad said.

For a few moments nothing happened. Then a scrawny street cat flew in through the window and floated above the centre of the table. It mewed and hissed but its body was locked in place.

Jakira recoiled from the animal, cats were a rare sight in Drome. They were intensely hated by the Dromedars.

“Now,” Ammad said.

The cat’s neck snapped, and it went limp. Riv inhaled sharply and shook her head. Artaz didn’t flinch.

“I will train him, Mama. I have been training him,” Ammad said. “You cannot ignore the power he could wield for us. He’ll do anything for you, for me. And you know it.”

Jakira’s face hardened.

“If he is to be adopted into this family, if he is to be my little brother, truly, then he needs to be treated like a Wakrime. You had me trained to be a weapon. Now we do the same for Artaz.”

Jakira’s jaw clenched. She nodded.

“And that’s not all.” Ammad jerked his shoulder and the boy opened his eyes. “Little brother, best friend, one more thing before you go back to bed, pull my tunic off. Let’s show Mama what else we’ve been working on.”

Earlier that evening, Ammad had deliberately chosen one of his old tunics which still had long loose-flowing sleeves. Artaz pulled it off over Ammad’s head exposing his finely muscled torso. Leaner and more honed than it had ever been, thanks to Samark’s training.

But it wasn’t his divine body that he wanted to show off.

He flapped the two stumps that had sprouted where his old arms used to be. They were both about half the length of his previous arms. Tiny fingers were emerging at the end. There was no definition in them, they looked weak, but once they had grown to full length, Ammad would soon build up the muscle.

“Mama,” Ammad said to the stunned room, “he certainly is a special boy.”