Zendegi

‘Today,’ he replied portentously, ‘we take the White Fortress.’

‘As you command, my lord.’

Martin paid almost no attention to the troops gathering behind him; there were trumpets sounding and orders being shouted, but he trusted the game to handle the logistics without his oversight or supervision. He wasn’t here to hone his nonexistent skills as a military commander, or to fret about rivals rising up to overthrow him; this whole vast army was just an elaborate backdrop, a part of the landscape.

He and Jack rode out across the desert side by side, ahead of the tide of horsemen and the camels following with the army’s provisions. Nasim would have explained to Jack how Javeed could be riding his mount in a ghal’e, while Jack would be controlling his own icon in essentially the same way as Martin was.

Alone with Jack, Martin didn’t push the arrogant prince persona; he treated his surrogate father warmly as a co-conspirator with whom he was happy to break the frame. Javeed, Martin hoped, would soon get used to the memory problem and find a way to talk to Jack that satisfied them both. It would be frustrating to have to repeat himself, but he’d also have the power to set the agenda.

‘Farshid’s daughter is called Nahid,’ Martin said, ‘like his grandmother.’

‘How old is she?’ Jack asked.

‘Nearly one.’

‘So how do you feel about having a little niece around?’

Martin said, ‘She’s nice sometimes. When she’s not screaming.’

‘She must keep everyone busy,’ Jack said.

‘They’re always fussing over her,’ Martin complained.

‘Well… she’s a baby, she’s helpless. She needs to be watched closely; she still has to learn everything about the world.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Think about all the fun you had with Farshid,’ Jack said. ‘Then think how happy Nahid will be if she has someone like you to look up to the same way.’

‘Hmm.’ Martin didn’t want to play Javeed as a pushover, but he didn’t have the stomach to take the resentment to a pathological extreme: threats to run away from home, or thoughts of harming the child. Jack was doing a reasonably tactful job so far; good enough, surely, to provide a kind of safety valve. Whenever Javeed felt his whole adopted family was against him, he’d always have his dead father’s ear.

They rode on in silence for a while, but Martin could see Jack watching him out of the corner of his eye. It was impossible not to feel moments of dizzying empathy for Jack’s position, to imagine how painful the ache of love for Javeed would become from across that strange horizon. But Martin wasn’t here to offer him emotional support in some bizarre co-parental bonding session – least of all when any words of encouragement he provided would vanish from Jack’s memory long before they could be any real help. And if Jack’s task weighed heavily, as it surely did, at least the weight could not accumulate. When the alternative was losing contact with Javeed completely, Martin did not believe it would be too much to bear.

‘The White Fortress!’ Jack a

Sohrab had been born in the town of Samangan, on the border between Persia and its neighbour Turan. When his mother had finally explained his lineage to him, he’d decided to gather an army from Turan and march on Persia to seize Kavus’s throne for his absent father, and then claim Turan as his own. His campaign did not end well, but Martin was content to sample the relatively upbeat begi

As he drew nearer to the white stone building, a smear of dust appeared in front of it. A lone Persian soldier was riding out to confront the invaders.

Jack caught up with Martin, his horse covered in sweat. ‘Do you really want to start this war?’ he asked. ‘What if you sent a message to Rostam first? What if you told him who you were and asked for his advice?’

Martin rolled his eyes. ‘Stop trying to play peacemaker! This is what Sohrab does!’

‘Okay, pesaram.’ Jack laughed to cover his nervousness; he had no way of knowing if he’d tested Javeed’s patience by pushing the same line a hundred times before. ‘Well, at least I can tell Princess Tahmineh I gave you some advice.’

Martin could make out their enemy now, as his armour glinted in the morning sun. He urged his mount forward; the thought of the coming confrontation turned his stomach, but a boy who had never seen a real act of bloodshed would not be so squeamish.

The two adversaries came to a halt within shouting distance. The Persian soldier was tall and solidly built; in real life Martin would have given him a very wide berth, with or without the presence of lances. The man’s beard was flecked with grey; he had survived a few decades as a warrior.

‘I am Hejir!’ the Persian called out to him. ‘I serve Kavus, Lord of the World. Tell me your loyalty and your intentions.’

Martin smothered his conciliatory instincts and followed the script. ‘I am Sohrab, loyal to my own proud lineage, and I’ve come to take the crown from that fool.’

Hejir recoiled in disgust. ‘I can still smell the milk of your mother on your breath! Turn back, or she’ll be washing your body in her tears.’

‘Can it be true that you’ve heard nothing of the glory of Sohrab? No man who had would dare to face me alone!’

‘Kavus will have your head as my tribute,’ Hejir replied. ‘Your body I will bury here in the dirt.’

Jack had caught up; Martin turned and motioned to him to stay back.

Martin called out, ‘Surrender now, and I’ll spare your life. Cling to stubborn pride, and I’ll give no quarter.’

Hejir raised his lance. ‘Return to Turan while you still have the breath for idle boasting. It is no shame for a child to flee from a warrior.’

Martin leant forward and commanded his horse to charge.

The desert streaked past him jerkily, like something shot on a hand-held camera, but the signals from his motionless, horizontal body turned the whole thing into a strange, smooth swoop, as if he were an eagle descending down the face of a cliff. Hejir was charging too, flying up to meet him. As they approached, Martin fumbled with his lance; his gloves made it tangible but he had no reliable sense of the geometry of the encounter. Hejir struck him squarely in the chest; Martin’s weapon didn’t even make contact.

As they separated, Martin looked down; his armour was dented, but there was no other damage, and he had not so much as shifted in his saddle. Hejir looked formidable to Martin’s eyes, but baby-faced Sohrab was a giant, too heavy to be dislodged by the force of any ordinary blow.

Martin brought his horse around. He could see Jack approaching in the distance. Hejir was circling back towards him; his lance had snapped, but he’d drawn his sword. Martin would have leant over and vomited if there’d been any way to get the stuff out of his throat, but he had to appear suitably exhilarated for Jack’s sake. He was a high-spirited boy with a stick for a sword: Javeed with his shampoo-bottle missiles, six years on. He thought of Javeed’s face after Kavus’s flying pavilion had gone into a spin. That was the look he wanted: a pure, i

Hejir was closing with frightening speed, already gripping his sword with both hands. Martin contemplated throwing the fight, simply letting himself be knocked down and injured; that in itself would be a test for Jack to witness, and other tests could follow in later battles. But he didn’t have time for the luxury of slowly building up his nerve. He raised his lance and focused all his attention on the impending encounter. Hejir was committed to coming close enough to strike a blow, but their weapons were no longer evenly matched, and their bodies never had been.