Page 83 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)
Some of the best camels are gaining on us now, for a few improve in a longer race.
I look over my shoulder and Thiyya can feel me tense, for she strains forward with her long neck, wanting to be further ahead.
But the halfway point has come, and I pull hard to make her wheel about, her long legs almost caught up in themselves.
As soon as we turn the choking sand surrounds us.
I can barely see, can barely gasp for air, even though the cloth pulled tight across my mouth protects me from the worst of it.
I do not know how Thiyya can still breathe but she thunders on, the shadowy shapes of the slowest camels passing us in the cloud as we head back towards the screaming crowd.
I look back once and see only the blue robes of the other riders, floating above the camel-coloured clouds of sand like some strange vision in the heat of the day.
The screams grow louder and louder until they are all about me and I raise my arm and punch the air. I am the winner. My breath comes hard in my throat, and I look down on all the uplifted faces surrounding me, the hands slapping at my legs in praise and feel my face stretched in a hidden grin.
Shouted praises and boasts are all about me. In the crowd, possessions and sometimes even coins trade hands as bets are won and lost. Backs are thumped and hands clasped. The younger boys and older girls gaze adoringly up at me.
I remain on Thiyya, acknowledging comments and praise with a wave before turning her away from the crowd.
I cannot let my identity be known and so I never linger once a race is won.
Let the glory go to the second and third places, the riders who wish to boast and brag.
I want only the wild freedom of the ride, the fierce joy of winning. That, I can best savour alone.
I spot my eldest brother who rolls his eyes at me and comes closer, pulling at my bridle. “Do you have to win every time, Kella?” he mutters. “It draws attention to you.”
I laugh down at him. “To race without winning is not to race at all!” I say, my voice still elated. He shakes his head but lets me go.
***
I make my way to our camp, set up on the outskirts.
Here, among the one hundred or more camels of our caravan, I leap down from Thiyya and put on my sandals.
I give her water and caress her, croon to her before I leave her to rest. Then I make my way into the main tent, pulling at my headdress as I do so, loosening its folds, then flinging it to one side.
Inside it is dark and cool. I reach for a cup and dip it into the water jar, greedily gulping down the cold water.
“Daughter.”
I freeze, then carefully replace the wooden cup before I turn round, my face composing itself into an unworried smile. “Father. I thought you were speaking with the salt trader.”
“I was. Then I went to see the camel races.”
“Who won?” I try to keep my voice light as I seat myself on the foot of the low bed and kick off my sandals again, feigning a lack of interest while my heart thuds in my chest.
“I believe you did. On Thiyya. No-one else here has a white camel with blue eyes.”
“One of my brothers –” I try but my father’s eyes tell me not to bother. My shoulders slump.
My father settles himself at the head of the bed and sighs.
He looks older than usual. “I know you are a good rider, daughter. And I turn my face away when you race against your brothers. You work hard, after all, and what is a little fun between siblings? In the desert no-one but our family and the slaves will see you. Amongst others you have always passed well enough for a boy.”
I seize on this, my only excuse. “No-one here knows I am a girl. Everyone thinks I am your youngest son. No-one would suspect.”
“You think not? When your hands are still so slender and your voice so light? No. I believe the time is coming very soon when I will have to return you to the main camp, to live with your aunt.”
I feel as though I have received a blow to the stomach. I twist round to face him, appalled. “Aunt Tizemt?”
He laughs. “You need not look so upset. Your aunt is a good woman, and she has the heart of a lion. She will teach you to be a fine woman.”
“It is her voice that is like a lion,” I spit.
“No need to sulk. She is a kind woman beneath her roars. I will not have my daughter dishonoured. You will no longer race.”
“But –”
“No buts. No more racing. You will remain disguised as a boy until I can take you back to your aunt. If you are very, very well behaved I may keep you with me a little longer. You are a good trader, after all, I will be sorry to lose your skills in the markets. I believe you secured us a bargain with the salt trader, he was as meek as a lamb when I saw him just now. We will have a camel’s load of salt to trade at the next market. ”
I jump up, my mind racing to find a reason to stay that he will accept. “You cannot send me back to the main camp! I am a trader. I travel with you – with my brothers! What would I do at the camp?”
My father smiles. “Get married?”
“ Married ?”
He laughs at my horrified face. “Have you never thought of that possibility? Your eldest brother is married, two of your other brothers are already betrothed. Did you not consider it might be your turn soon? What, no young man caught your eye yet? No-one beaten you at camel racing?”
I snatch up the swathes of indigo cloth that make up my headdress and glare at him through the narrow eye slit as I wrap it tightly about my face.
“No-one beats me at camel racing. And I am not getting married. I am staying with you, with the caravan. I am a trader. Now I am going to the salt trader. He promised me more than a camel’s load of salt for that price. ”
“Your mother would have wanted you happily married,” says my father sadly.
I walk so fast to the salt trader’s encampment that I am breathing heavily by the time I reach it.
The great slabs of salt lashed to saddles are piled up around his main tent, then surrounded by the prickly thorn bush branches placed to discourage every camel for miles around from sneaking up to get a free lick of salt.
Camels will do anything for salt. The trader comes out to greet me, warily offering tea and a place in the shade to do business when he sees my glare.
My only chance to escape being sent back to my aunt is surely to trade and to trade well.
My father cannot send me away if I make myself valuable to him as a great trader.
***
The moon grows full, and wanes twice over and still there is no mention of my Aunt Tizemt. I begin to hope that my good trading efforts have made my father forget his threats. I stay away from the camel races.
***
We reach an important centre on the caravan routes. A mayhem of a souk. Stretched out over a vast area and yet still crowded.
Its camel souk is beyond compare, and it is here that frantic bids are commonly made for the lovely blue-eyed, white-furred Thiyya, a rarity even here among thousands of camels.
She picks her way daintily through the crowds, enjoying the caresses, soft words and sometimes handfuls of fruits that come her way.
Seated comfortably on her back, above the crowd, I laugh and joke with all those who make offers for her.
“I’ll trade you three fine camels for her,” says one, gesturing to what look like three ancient crones, wizened dun-brown, spitting this way and that.
I laugh. “I’d need a hundred of those for this one,” I tell him. “One of those will fall over dead before I can even get them to stand up.”
“I’ll trade you my wife,” says one man dourly and there’s a shout of laughter.
“I’m sure my camel’s prettier than your wife,” I tease him.
“She is,” he says mournfully and wanders off into the crowd.
More serious offers are made but I shake my head and with a gentle nudge from my feet Thiyya moves on.
Grunts and roars are all around us, from baby camels, untrained camels and wise veteran camels.
Almost-black camels rub haunches with the rare pure whites, golden sand camels with date-brown camels.
Sweet cajoling, shrugged shoulders and moral outrage make up the bulk of the bartering, which may go on for days and is a sport in itself.
On the busiest days, of course, there will be camel races and the traders’ sons boast of their skills in advance, some louder than other, safe in the knowledge that their fathers plan to move on before the next race and their airy boasts will not have to be made flesh.
Everything is traded here. Some merchants are free to roam and do not have to barter, for they are about to go to the dark south.
There they will expend all their energies and all their trade goods to return with precious gold for princes and dark-skinned slaves.
They will make their fortunes or die alone in the blistering sun, far away from their loved ones and any merciful shade, on the long, long routes where bandits may steal their goods and their lives.
Others have already come from those lands and their relief at having come thus far makes them bold and free with their words.
They eat and drink more than others and enjoy the company of their friends, while trading good-natured insults with their competitors.