The Book of Wonders (3 page)

A blade of anger slipped beneath Zardi's ribs, making her gasp. She hated that the praisemaker had no choice but to be in that tower. She hated that the names of the executed had already faded on the air, never to be spoken again. She would honor them by her actions. The sultan could not be defeated, but with every step she took on the widow reaper she was rebelling against his orders. Feeling braver, she tucked her hair back into its braid and leaped faster toward the middle of the arch. As the
Falcon
began to pass under the widow reaper she found herself standing directly above the ship. They'd made it! The thought of jumping aboard a
real
ship made Zardi's heart pound like a stonemason's mallet.

Over her shoulder, she saw that Rhidan was still a few columns behind. “Hurry!” she called. “The
Falcon's
coming through!”

Zardi felt a surge of pride as she watched her friend grit his teeth and leap for the next stone pillar. He landed awkwardly—arms spinning like windmills. Springing forward onto the column closest to her friend, Zardi reached out and steadied him.

“Thanks.” Rhidan's hands were shaking.

They both looked out at the water. His stumble had cost them dearly. The
Falcon
was now on the other side of the arch and in full flight.

“He's gone.” Rhidan's voice was flat, but Zardi felt the ache of his disappointment.

He did not move a muscle as he watched the
Falcon
sail away with the answers he'd been seeking his whole life.

Z
ardi pushed open the door of the kitchen, her toes curling in pleasure as she breathed in the scent of baking bread.

“Smells good in here,” Zardi said, spotting her grandmother over by the hearth.

“I'm glad you approve,” Nonna replied, turning away from the two cauldrons that sat over the fire. Wispy gray tendrils stuck to her forehead and her cheeks were flushed. “I'm just about to start the soup. Did you get the sesame seeds for the tahini?”

“I got everything but the pomegranates.” Zardi tumbled the contents of her sack onto the kitchen table.

“No matter, my dear,” her grandmother said. “Maybe your sister will be able to get them. Where's Rhidan?”

Good question
, Zardi thought to herself. “He had some things he needed to do,” she said. “He'll be along later.”

Rhidan had been strangely calm once they had gotten off the sultan's arch. They had been lucky that no one had seen them from one of the many watchtowers of the city, and they were quick to leave the widow reaper far behind. Rhidan had told her to finish running the errands for Nonna and promised he would catch up with her at home. When she'd asked what he was planning to do, he'd replied that he was going to find Sinbad.

“Someone's bound to know where he's heading next,” he had gone on to explain. “Sinbad's not exactly the shy and retiring type. All I need to do is a bit of investigating.”

“Well, he had better not be late,” Nonna muttered, interrupting Zardi's thoughts. “I'm making chorba soup tonight, and I don't want its flavor to dull from overcooking.”

“You know that's Rhidan's favorite,” Zardi replied. “His nose will lead him home.”

Nonna chuckled, walked over to the table, and started to sort through the ingredients. Zardi watched her grandmother fondly. She was a round woman with a face well worn from smiling and laughing. In other wealthy families, it was unheard of to have a member of the family doing the cooking, but her grandmother didn't give two hoots about status or what other people thought.

Zardi grinned to herself, remembering all the cooks her father had tried to employ in the past. Somehow, Nonna always managed to drive them away. Putting dead mice in their stews or adding too much salt to dishes while they weren't looking were her favorite methods, but she had a whole range of pranks in her armory. Unsurprisingly, Nonna's views on nannies were very similar to her opinions on cooks, and her methods of expulsion equally ingenious.

The door swung open, and Zardi turned to see Zubeyda skip into the kitchen. Her sister's name meant “little butter ball” and she was exactly that—soft and round with skin as smooth as buttermilk. Zubeyda's heart-shaped face was glowing, and she brought the smell of lavender and excitement.

“Nonna, isn't it a glorious day?” Zubeyda greeted her grandmother with three kisses on alternate cheeks. She turned to face Zardi with a grin. “Hello, birthday girl. Thirteen years old today—you're practically ancient.”

Nonna laughed at this and bustled over to the hearth at the far end of the kitchen to begin adding ingredients to the soup.

“You're four years older than me, Zub,” Zardi pointed out to her sister.

“But never too old to enjoy sherbet. I'm going to make some. Watermelon and mint flavor suit you?”

Zardi's mouth watered. She loved the fruity iciness of sherbet. “That sounds perfect.”

“Wonderful. Maybe O—” Zubeyda stopped, her long lashes becoming a fan on her suddenly blushing cheeks.

“Zub, why have you gone pink?” Zardi asked suspiciously. “What's going on?”

Her sister smiled shyly. “Well, I've got some good news,” she whispered, glancing over at Nonna. “But I want to save it for later so we can celebrate properly.”

Zardi looked at Zubeyda closely. Her sister's green eyes, with their flecks of gold, sparkled like dew on riverbank reeds. “It's something to do with Omar, right?” she asked.

Zubeyda's mouth opened in surprise. “How'd you know?”

Zardi snorted. “He's the only one who can make you look this sappy.”

Zubeyda put a hand to her chest, right over her heart, and sighed dramatically. “He's going to ask Baba for my hand in marriage. Omar is going to be my husband!”

“Oh, Zub, he finally asked.” Zardi hugged her sister, the sweet scent of lavender water surrounding her. “I knew he would.”

“You know how shy Omar can be,” Zubeyda said. “He just needed a bit of time to work up to it. He's only lived next door to us our whole lives!” She rolled her eyes. “I'll give you all the details, I promise, but don't tell Nonna yet. I want it to be a surprise.” She picked up Zardi's empty sack from the table. “Nonna, I'm off to get the ingredients for the sherbet,” Zubeyda said loudly. “Do you need anything else from the market?”

“Your sister couldn't find any pomegranates—get me two if you can,” Nonna called back.

“Will do.” Zubeyda turned to leave the kitchen, but Zardi caught her hand.

“Be careful, the sultan's guards are out today,” she said. “Stay out of their way.”

“Those tattooed bullies don't frighten me.” Zubeyda raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Besides, our father would have something to say if they bothered me, and they wouldn't want to annoy him now, would they?”

Distaste made Zardi's lip curl as she thought of Shahryār and how her father was his most trusted advisor. “Just be careful, Zub. Those guards are as mean and as mad as the sultan.”

Zubeyda tapped Zardi on the nose. “I'm the older sister, and I'll do the worrying, all right?” And with a swift triple-kiss farewell, she was gone.

Zardi gazed round the room at the steaming cooking pots and the delicate pastries that were all ready to go into the clay oven. She let out a sigh. It felt like everyone else in the world liked cooking except her. It was Zubeyda or Rhidan who normally helped Nonna out with the meals.

Rhidan
, Zardi thought with a jolt, and with half a mind to head to the docks to find him, she began to creep out of the room.

“Where do you think you're going, young lady?” Nonna asked, not looking away from the soup she was stirring.
“I
need you to chop up a few onions.”

“I hate chopping onions!” Zardi exclaimed. “They make me cry.”

“Scheherazade, you have plenty of tears to spare. Now get dicing.”

Still grumbling under her breath, Zardi peeled the skin from the onions. Her grandmother was the only person to ever call her by her full name. Baba never did. But why would he? It was the name of his dead wife. His beautiful Scheherazade, who had died to give Zardi life thirteen years ago today…

When she thought about it, Baba didn't say much at all, really. According to Nonna he used to be full of words and fire, determined to change the regime and depose the sultan. But then his wife had died, and something had died inside him too. He was now one of the sultan's key advisors and spent every day trying to discourage Sultan Shahryār from his never-ending impulse to destroy and devastate. It kept him busy. Too busy to be a father…

She felt the sting of tears.
Stupid onions
, she thought as she began to slice through their crunchy whiteness.

Zardi blinked away the wetness and concentrated on the task, her fingers becoming deft and quick.

“Good knife control,” Nonna commented, walking toward her.

Zardi liked the praise but felt the sting of guilt at the same time. She was pretty good at anything that involved hand-eye coordination; it had nothing to do with burgeoning culinary skills. “Can I go now?” she asked as she finished chopping her third onion.

Her grandmother sighed. “I've never met a girl who hates the kitchen as much as you.” She picked up a handful of sesame seeds from the table and let them run through her fingers. “Did you know that sesame pods burst open when they're ripe, almost as if they can't wait to be eaten? You're just as impatient, Zardi, but you must learn caution. We all must.”

Nonna stared into the distance. She did this sometimes when she was deep in thought. Rhidan called it going to Nonnaland. Zardi swiftly put her knife down—a chance to escape! She hurried toward the kitchen door.

“Always outside practicing with that bow and arrow or getting me to tell you about magic, ogres, and djinnis,” Zardi heard her grandmother murmur to herself.

“My impatient girl, I failed you.”

Zardi stopped and turned. “What do you mean, ‘failed me'?”

Nonna blinked hard before looking at her directly. “It's your thirteenth birthday today, Scheherazade. You're on the brink of adulthood, but I have failed to prepare you for it.” Her eyes were serious. “Not very long from now, your father will have to start thinking about a husband for you and—”

“Nonna, stop right there! I don't want to talk about this.” Panic crested in Zardi's chest, threatening to swamp her. Her sister might be ready to get married, but she certainly wasn't.

“My darling girl, I am old but not deaf.” Nonna spoke softly. “Omar will ask for Zubeyda's hand in marriage, and it is well past time. Your sister will be safe now, but what of you?” Nonna's face creased with worry. “You understand why you need to get wed sooner rather than later, don't you? It is the only way you will be kept safe from the sultan. Safe from the Hunt.”

Nonna's words pummeled Zardi like waves, but she couldn't swim away from them. The truth was simple. The sultan of Arribitha was a killer. Every season, Shahryār took a young woman, still unwed, and turned her into a praisemaker. He held his praisemaker prisoner in the tallest watchtower of the city and forced her to sing his praises in public each morning. Then, after the season was finished, he released the girl into the grounds of his vast palace before hunting her down like an animal. It was his favorite sport. A praisemaker for each season—four praisemakers a year—four Hunts a year. It had been like this ever since Shahryār came to the throne after murdering the last sultan, his wife, and their newborn child, Aladdin, fifteen years ago.

Silence lay heavily between Zardi and her grandmother.

“I am sorry that it has to be this way, my darling, habibti.” Nonna stepped forward and cupped Zardi's face in her weathered, olive-colored hands. “I've always wanted you to have a normal life, without fear or dread, but we do not live in a normal time. The sultan holds Arribitha in a deadly grip. We all suffer, but it is women who pay the highest price.” Nonna began to tremble. “He hunts us because he is afraid of us. Before he came to power it was women who were the most skilled in magic. Now you are thirteen, now you are a woman; a shadow looms over you and it will only deepen.”

Zardi balled her hands into fists but couldn't bring herself to say any more. What was there to say?

Nonna clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Come, Scheherazade. I want to show you something that will make you feel better. I will prove to you that your future isn't as terrible as you imagine.”

Nonna picked up a small case full of saffron from the table and led Zardi over to the second cauldron of water on the fire. It was bubbling in earnest now, spitting and hissing fiercely.

Nonna glanced at Zardi. “You must promise me that you will never tell a soul what I am about to do.”

Zardi tensed. “No, Nonna, please. It's too dangerous to do magic.”

“It is just a bit of soothsaying,” replied Nonna. “I am not as talented as some I have known and lost to the sultan's cutting block.” She picked three saffron strands from the case and threw them into the water. The burnished-orange strands instantly began to twist and turn in the bubbling liquid.

“Look!” Nonna exclaimed. “All three of your strands have floated. You are blessed. It is good luck to have even two strands float and you have three!”

Zardi looked at the threads uncertainly. They were all floating, but was this explanation just something that Nonna had concocted to make her feel better? Suddenly, each strand began to twist and turn more violently and curled inward, forming three circles that were interlinked.

“What does it mean?” Zardi asked, her skin prickling with unease.

Nonna's face had gone pale. “I don't know,” she replied. “But I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.”