Zahara's Tale Written by Yoon Ha Lee "Zahara!" Zahara Taryn finished setting the clamp in place, then looked up in annoyance and reached for her veil. She wiped the sweat from her face, then fastened the veil in place and rose, leaving behind her workshop with its saws, metal odds and ends, planks of wood and tidy boxes of gears, enamels and paints. "Yes?" It was one of her numerous cousins, as Kinship Taryn counted relationships: cousins were those of her generation only distantly related by blood, if at all. Zahara met Raakesh's smug gaze with a scowl. "You're in trouble," he said, and the smugness faded. While they'd always quarreled over the most trivial things--whether imported lace was proper or practical at the Taryn's winterfest, which rival Kinship had the best racehorses, and whether it was safer to play pranks on his uncle or her grandmother, both high-ranking in the Kinship--they found points of agreement in times of need. It was more than Zahara could say for most of her cousins, and sometimes she would rather see Raakesh laughing at her than sober. "What kind?" Zahara asked, hoping it was something small. She'd gotten reprimanded once for speaking to the servant of a Kinship with whom the Taryn had the "bloodfeud of the month." Raakesh had teased her mercilessly about her "liaison," but the truth had been that this servant had worked with a Jafal who went on to join the House of the Watching Dragon. She had learned a lot about proper materials and tools from comparing techniques. Being demoted in the Kinship hierarchy--again--hadn't bothered her. But this time... "You missed another meeting with a hopeful suitor," Raakesh said grimly. "Your absence at some of the social events has been noted by our betters." She fluttered her eyelashes at him, but he wasn't amused. After an uncomfortable pause, Zahara said, "If they want an ornament for display, why don't they ask me to make one for them?" "Obligations." "I know all about obligations." She gestured to her workshop in frustration. "If my obligations included what I like to do, and what I do best, I would get in less trouble with the damnable Kinship leaders." Especially her grandmother, who had been a great beauty in her time, and who was determined to have Zahara follow in her legacy of seductions and power plays. Grandmother Mehara was more often disappointed in her only daughter's daughter than not. Raakesh's eyes were sober. "We both know that, but it won't help you. Your grandmother wants to see you after dinner." When she had been younger, Zahara had looked forward to these confrontations, enjoying every opportunity to frustrate Mehara. Now, though, she knew better. Tantrums in a 12-year-old girl were amusing; tantrums in a young woman of a Kinship leader's blood were grounds for expulsion. While she resented the way Taryn controlled her life, she wasn't ready to leave its protection. Yet. "I'll see her, then. As if I have a choice." Raakesh spread his hands helplessly. "I thought I'd break it to you first, is all." She gave him a tired smile. "Thanks, 'Kesh." * * * Dinner: Zahara admired the lanterns that appeared from their alcoves in synchrony, a mechanical feat she had figured out several years ago but which still looked impressive. Kinship Taryn had paid handsomely for the colored panes of glass in their motifs of fish, flower and fallen leaves. Ruefully, she admitted that not everything Taryn was bad. Her dinner companions were another matter. She sat at a long table with the rest of her generation who had any rank to speak of, knowing that the only reason she wasn't at the servants' table for her misbehaviors was her grandmother's influence...and Mehara expected her favors to be returned, whether the recipient desired them or not. It was not every Kinship that could afford imported wooden tables for its dining hall. Zahara listened halfheartedly to the gossip among her peers: the latest parties and fashions, shipments of silk and spice and scimitars, the best street performers and courtesans. All through dinner she saw Mehara at the leaders' table, smiling and laughing gaily without looking once in her direction. Definitely a bad sign. Zahara looked down at her couscous and marinated lamb, and sighed. It was an hour after dinner when Mehara summoned her to one of the many private rooms. "My dear," she said when Zahara entered with veil in place and eyes properly downcast, "it's a shame you don't grace us more with your conversation." "I have so little to say," Zahara said in a low voice, "that it doesn't seem worth the trouble." Mehara studied the five rings that adorned her left hand, sparkling ostentatiously in the lamplight. "I have tried and tried to find a match that you would accept," she said. You mean a politically convenient match that I would even look at, Zahara thought. "I'm sorry your efforts have been in vain. Thank you for trying, though." "I doubt it," Mehara said sharply. "You never took any of those young men seriously. If you're going to break hearts, my dear, you must consider the consequences." Zahara stifled a laugh. Who would suffer heartache over a woman who disliked social gatherings and spent her time in a workshop? She was still waiting to meet him. "You have been engaged to a young man of Kinship Marud," Mehara said. The world tilted before Zahara. It went far, far against Kinship tradition to make a marriage contract without even a pretense of consent on both sides. Other Kinships handled marriages differently, she knew, but she had never expected her own grandmother to flout the tradition she held dear. Mehara must have read her thoughts, for she said in a more gentle voice, "I will not tell you the name, or you would worry yourself unnecessarily. Trust me, though, that it is not a completely unsuitable match." Unsuitable in your eyes, thought Zahara, knowing that her grandmother meant well, in her way. Zahara didn't trust that reasonable voice, though. "I have no say in this." "Correct." Mehara inclined her head, then said, "You may go now." And Zahara did, fuming all the way...and thinking of ways to escape. * * * Normally, Zahara only left the Kinship's sprawling estate to procure supplies and tool that she didn't trust the servants to get. (After all, she knew full well that the servants reported to her grandmother.) For Raakesh, and for her future, she had made an exception. This vineyard, she conceded, wasn't a bad choice. Raakesh claimed its vintages were some of the finest in Shazrad, but Zahara didn't care. It was a convenient meeting spot, nothing more...and since no one outside the Kinship knew of her troubles, no one would find any interest in their conversation. "No luck, Zahara," Raakesh was saying. "Everyone knows I'm associated with you, and right now you're an ill-fortune charm." She shrugged. It was nothing new, but the lack of information was frustrating. Mehara had done an exceptionally good job of covering up that marriage contract. "Besides, whoever he is, he might not be that bad." Zahara shook her head. "Either Grandmother picked him to 'keep me in line,' or because he's too drunk or addled to care what I'm up to. Either way, it's not a good situation." Raakesh looked dubious. "I thought you wanted to be left alone." "Not if it means having to look after a husband who's constantly overspending or gambling or whoring," she said grimly. "I need money for my projects, 'Kesh, and if he's higher ranking--which I suspect will be the case--then I'll belong to his Kinship, not Taryn. Which means I won't be able to wheedle money from the Taryn elders anymore." Early in her life, Zahara had invested what little money she gleaned in several shipping companies, and it had paid off...but technically those were Kinship funds, available in emergencies, and she wouldn't put it past Mehara to find a convenient "emergency," soon. A rich and indulgent husband was too much to hope for. Raakesh's shoulders slumped. "You could run away, or petition to join another Kinship." "With my reputation? Hardly." "You're just going to accept it?" "I don't have much choice," Zahara said, regretting that she couldn't even trust her closest cousin with her plans. But now that she knew there was no other escape and the marriage--from her perspective--a complete gamble, she couldn't afford the chance of something going wrong. * * * For the next several weeks Zahara behaved as a loyal Taryn woman should, meek and polite in every reply, present but not prominent at Kinship meetings. When she slipped away to her workshop, she did so in the late hours, sipping moondrop tea to keep herself awake. The tea was mildly addictive, but she decided to worry about it later. For hours she drafted designs on expensive imported paper, then spent time cutting metal, fitting gears and welding pieces together. It was a puzzled and saddened Raakesh who watched her walk up to the high table one dinner, demure in manner and exquisite in silks, tassels, and brocaded veil, with a tiny enameled box in her hand. Zahara watched him out of the corner of her eye and promised herself that she'd make it up to him. Her grandmother, on the other hand, seemed relieved, but wary. "And what is this, granddaughter?" Mehara asked coolly. She lifted her eyes slowly, watching Mehara from beneath long lashes. "Honored Grandmother, I would like you to present this gift to the man I am to marry, since I cannot do it myself." Mehara's brow creased. "A noble sentiment, granddaughter. I will pass it on." Heart beating rapidly, Zahara bowed and retired to her place. She knew Mehara would have the box and its contents examined thoroughly, and if Mehara found anything amiss, it would be destroyed. But Zahara knew her creation was too clever to be caught--knew it with a desperate, desperate hope. That night, after dinner, she packed all the tools she couldn't bear to part with, and clothing, and food she had gotten from a soft-hearted cook; left her workshop in order, as always; and fled Kinship Taryn, leaving no message for Mehara or Raakesh or anyone she loved, hated, or knew. * * * The House of the Watching Dragon was guarded, as ever, by both House soldiers and a jewel-eyed, wingless dragon. It was all Zahara could do not to stare in awe at a mechanical, magical creation whose ingenuity dwarfed her best efforts. "I need to speak with a House leader, sir," she said to the soldiers. "It is a matter of considerable urgency." "It is late in the night," one of the soldiers noted. He looked at her disapprovingly, and she knew that her disheveled appearance and askew veil made her seem a courtesan caught at night without a patron. She drew her hand into the flickering light of the street lamps. Upon it perched a single butterfly of metal and enamel and glowing wings. It fluttered into the air, circled her hand, and then returned to its perch. "I made this," she said, "and I seek refuge. If you doubt me, ask me how I made it. I can tell you every detail of the process." The soldier studied it for a while, then nodded grudgingly. "I'll escort her in," he said to the others. She was led through a labyrinth of unlit halls, and though she tried to memorize her path, she got lost halfway through. No matter, she thought. Either she would be accepted into the House, and learn these routes, or she would not, and nothing would matter. At the end of the labyrinth, a masked man awaited her. Zahara wondered how they had managed the communications without her hearing. The question fled her mind, though, when he spoke. "So you're the rebel from Kinship Taryn?" "I am," she admitted. The butterfly flitted forlornly from one of her shoulders to the other. "I was trapped in a marriage-to-come, not of my choosing. I ask to be admitted into the House." And then, under his masked gaze, she told him about Raakesh, her childhood in Mehara's shadow, and her passion for creating mechanical wonders. "Sleep here," he said when she had finished. "Food and water will be brought for you, and there is a bath in the adjoining room. Do not leave or the dragons will find you." Zahara felt a thrill of joy, despite the threat. "At week's end we will determine your fate." * * * The week passed in agonizing slowness. Zahara knew for the first time what it meant to be deprived of company, however distasteful. Even the little butterfly was small comfort in the confining room. At week's end, as promised, the masked man returned...and took off his mask. "I am head of House," he said, "and because of you, Kinships Marud and Taryn are in bloodfeud, and Mehara Taryn is in a killing fury. Khodran Marud was found dead, with a butterfly on the windowsill and poison on his veins...but though they took the butterfly apart, no one could determine how it had been done. I ask you, Zahara-once-Taryn, how was it done? For I was called in to examine your gift, and even I find no trace of poison in it, or a means by which it might have been injected." Zahara smiled and whistled to her butterfly. It came at her call. Then she unpacked the sheaf of papers she had brought with her. "These are the plans I used," she said. "You can inspect them for yourself. Also--did you find pollen in the butterfly?" He nodded. "I discovered this when I was working with chemical agents," she said, "but there is something in the pollen of the desert rose--which you can find in any Kinship garden--that neutralizes that particular poison." "I think Mehara's mistake," the man said softly, "was in failing to neutralize her granddaughter's poison." Her heart skipped a beat. "Nevertheless, such talent cannot be allowed to flourish without guidance." He bowed ironically. "For all that your clever butterfly fooled us," and he took the papers from her, leafing through them intently, "there are still things I can teach you." "I thank you," she said, and for once the words were sincere, not sarcastic. Copyright © 2000-2001 by Alioqui & Yoon Ha Lee <shazrad@cityofveils.com> [ Return to the top of the page ]