IV

And they say: By no means leave your gods,

nor leave Wadd, nor Suwa';

nor Yaghūth, and Ya'uq and Nasr.

–The Qur'an. 71:23

He always began his lectures the same way: "Now, tulaab, a most interesting subject..."

'Interesting' was not a word young student Akzir Mosdan would have commonly used to describe attending school, the town's outdoor madrasa. However, today the announcement of "far away lands and their inhabitants" elicited some – for Akzir, anyway.

At an age-and-three, the slight, dark-skinned youth, wearing aught but sandals and the long, puffy breeches called a sirwal as well as the ubiquitous eimama wrapped around his head, both white, leaned forward cross-legged upon a dusty silver-embroidered white cushion. Had he believed in him, Akzir could almost ignore the sun god, Malakbel, glaring down at him whence he sat on the carved stone slabs girding the fountains in the central square or saha of the Akemari city of Bakkah.

Mudari – all teachers in Akemar were simply known as teacher – continued: "We have much to learn, and much to gain, from respectful contact with 'ajnabiun, which is to say 'foreigners'. Take the name of our land: elsewhere it is known as Achernar, Akernar, or Acamar. The papyri I write on to show you these different names, what we call waraq, is from faraway Qattarâ. The charcoal stylus I use we can get anywhere, as are the wooden ones you use to etch your wax tablets. But for the most important writing – such as recording the prophecies of the great god Hubal, the commands of mufti and emirs – only the best ink from Thuban must be used, along with qalam alqasab, like this one." Holding up a reed pen, the tall, bearded man in a full yellow thawb and eimama, denoting his status as mudari, paced in sandals before his small class of youthful mixed genders. Continued, "Tulaab, I want you to use your lawh – you see, even that word is from Thuban, where we get much of the wax for your tablets. I want you to write the names of the gods I am going to give you now.

"Regarding the gods," he went on, "the mudaris of the New Faith would tell you there is but one god, Al'lah, yet this disregards the fact that other lands frequently have many of the same deities; they simply go by different names. An example: Where we have Al'lah, the Father of the Gods, in nearby lands they call him El. The Nabataeans, who live under the Great Mountain, call him Dushara, 'Mountain Father'." Mudari wrote as he paced, holding his paper before each pupil to show them. "The Qattarâns, of whom we just spoke, name him Amun, or sometimes Ra. In Thuban he is Shiva"—he winked—"who is also 'she'. But we will speak of this another day."

Akzir's sister interrupted before he could interject something about false gods.

"But, Mudari, what about the Mother? And what do you mean about Shiva?"

Though two years younger, Zeniah had this aggravating habit... Akzir wished she would be scolded, but interruptions – questions – were encouraged in the madrasa, even from rude little sisters. Still, once away from here the boy would pull the decadent blue ribbons from her hair that she wore hidden under her white chador, and—

Teacher chuckled, stroked short black beard. "Ah, little Zeniah, always the curious one, naem? Of course we have the Mother, Atargatis. In Thuban she is Tiamat; in Qattarâ, Heket. There are many more deities... of the sun, sky, moons, as well as those for love and war and even learning – Nabu, here in Akemar. But as I said, we will speak of these things some other time.

"Now, tulaab—"

"But, Mudari," Zeniah interrupted again. "Who is the goddess of love?"

She will get a beating now, thought Akzir angrily. Their father, Hemub, who followed the Prophet of the New Faith – the True Faith – disapproved of girls even going to school; surely, he would not be pleased that his daughter interrupted to ask foolish questions about love goddesses.

His sister could get away with such behaviour only because of their mother, a Quraysh emira. As a princess of the ruling tribe, their al'umu outranked their father, a mere sheikh, and thus, even against their 'ab's wishes, mother got her way.

Yet, Akzir would not wait to chastise her. "What does it matter?" he snapped. "There is no God but Al'lah! And even if there were, the god of war would be much more important now. Is that not right, Mudari?"

Their instructor sighed. "Ah, 'atfal. You both test the patience of Ba'al himself, He Who Waits for the Rivers to Fill the Seas. Indeed, Akzir, we, the Quraysh, are in conflict right now. The adherents of the so-called New Faith, led by their prophet, Imdal, of the Koreshites, have rebelled against their lawful malik, your mother's father. And they have attacked our altujaar, robbing caravans under Quraysh protection. Worse, they have done so in the forbidden month of Munṣil – may Al-Quam strike them down for plundering his merchants, and may Manāt show them no mercy. There, I have now invoked the god of war and the goddess of justice and luck against the infidel. As for love, little Zeniah, may Al-'Uzzá bless you with a loving husband, and may Atargatis grant you many children."

Eyeing his students, whose expressions varied from anger to solemnity, he continued: "You should know, tulaab, that Al-'Uzzá, who is also the Morning Star, as well as Al-lāt and Manāt, are the daughters of Al'lah, while—"

"Blasphemy!" cried Akzir. "Al'lah has no daughters – or even sons!"

"How do you know this, Akzir?" Mudari asked.

"The Prophet says it is so."

"The so-called prophet does not speak for the Quraysh," interjected an older boy.

"Fadir, you—"

Mudari intervened: "This is neither the time or place, tulaab. Now, if no one has any more questions, I think we should move on."

Zeniah did, of course. "But, Mudari, why is Munṣil forbidden? And what is forbidden?" Dressed in only a light tunic and male sirwal, chador cloak not even held closed and only partially covering her hair, the girl sat eagerly forward.

Akzir squirmed, fuming.

"Are you asking the meaning of 'forbidden', alsaghira, or that which is forbidden?"

Akzir fumed; 'little sister'? Even teachers had no right to address another's relative with that diminutive.

His sibling smiled brazenly. "Both, Mudari."

Laughter in the madrasa; jeering from her brother.

"Now, tulaab, you must not mock questions in madrasa – we do not judge the worth of a question or the questioner. Therefore, Zeniah's enquiries are worthy of reply. And, since it seems that many of you already know the answers, who will give them?"

"Mudari," Fadir responded, "the meaning of 'forbidden' is muhrram – that which is not permitted according to law, of gods or men."

He had not laughed at her; now smiled instead, the young girl returning the look frankly.

Further incensing her brother. She should be veiled and—

"Very good, Fadir. What about the second part of Zeniah's query? Anyone?"

Fadir answered again: "Making war during Munṣil is muhrram because it is the month of pilgrimage. All dutiful Quraysh must make the hajj, to honour the gods, and this means that... ah..."

"Yes, Fadir. Go on."

"Yes. So that all Akemari can do their sacred duty, the roads must be safe from bandits and infid—"

"They are not infidels!" Akzir objected. "They are Quraysh, like us. My father says the malik expelled them unlawfully from their own homes!"

"They chose to leave," the older boy countered. "They wished to preach their false message of ignoring all the gods but one, so the malik banished them."

Rising part-way to his feet, Akzir shot back, "To deprive a man of his home and property is muhrram! What else can they do, but take from those who—"

"That is not the meaning of muh—"

Mudari once more intervened. "Both of you, stop! That is enough. I have already said this is not the place for such debates. In fact, that is all for today, tulaab. Tomorrow, we will discuss the domains of the gods, as well as the nine elements that comprise life – and death – on the whole of Aard. Also, time and calendars, comparing them throughout the Lands. That is, if we have the time."

Akzir felt so angry at Fadir he fumed all the way home, forgetting all about his sister's audaciousness. Did not recall it until they returned next morning to the madrasa.

As promised, Mudari began to explain the roles of the gods, how they were sorted into nine 'spheres' of influence, each of which, however, subsumed many other aspects of life on Aard, and were interchangeable between peoples, tribes, and even households. (The world itself, he told them, other peoples variously called Erd, Oeth, Anonna, Terro, Pr̥thvī, and so on, accordingly in their own language.) In consort, the 'elements' of these spheres engendered all life on Aard.

"Write this on your lawh, tulaab," he instructed, "just so."

Flesh +Air (breath) +Water (blood) +Essence (life)

+Earth (plants + animals = food) + Wood + Metal + Fire

=Life

+Time

=Death

"This equation – somewhat like the mathematics we have briefly covered before – explains how the Creator deities made the first Flesh, into which they breathed Air, then added Water, which became blood when the Creators gave life by finally adding Essence. From that time on – disregarding the intervention of deities governing fate, disease, and the like – humankind is left on its own to procure other necessities, so that life may continue. That is, we must generally gather wood to make fire. Then, we take a pot, often made of metal but not always – it could be earthen too, as in clay. Into this we put the fruits of the Earth, namely meat, vegetables, grains, and cook and eat them. Such sustains life. However, what happens when we add Time to the formula?"

"Death!" almost all students replied at once.

"Correct, tulaab. Time will be the death of all mortals – other methods notwithstanding."

"But, Mudari, what about death in battle?" From Fadir, this time. He neared the age when he would graduate from the madrasa into the company of men and their interests.

"Ah, Fadir. 'What about battle?' you ask. Indeed, what about the many other ways to die – accident, starvation, disease, the like? What do you think, young alsayid?"

"Well, if you cut off a man's head, he dies."

"Yes?" Teacher looked at him expectantly.

"Ahh... that is..."

"He bleeds!" exclaimed Akzir.

"Yes, Akzir. You deprive him of blood – one of the elements, as it is liquid like water – and he dies."

"The same if you take away real water or breath or food?" Zeniah queried.

Her brother's ire prickled; she always had to outdo him!

"Yes, Sayida Zeniah. Take any of the elements away, or add enough time, and life is ended."

"But, Mudari, not all food needs to be cooked. Why is fire and metal and wood needed at all?"

"Ah, Zeniah, let me answer you this way: Can you imagine eating only alfakiha and lwz all your life? As good as they are, and even in their great variety – much of which we get from foreigners, as it happens – eating only fruit and nuts would become boring, naem? Even qamh, which we grind and make into daqiq, must be baked before we can enjoy round or flat loaves of bread. The divines gave us these blessings together to enjoy life; without one or more we would be spiritually poorer than we are, naem?"

"But, Mudari, what is Essence?"

"Another excellent question, Zeniah. Does anyone care to answer?"

"It is life," her brother supplied confidently.

"Well, yes, but it is more. Anyone?"

"Is it magic, Mudari?" The almost inaudible question came from the youngest in the class, the son of a minor noble of the Hawazin tribe, relatives and subjects of the Quraysh ruling family. "In part, yes, Hadim. Magic, though very few are blessed with it, is a part of Essence. Some say they are the same, as life is something of a muejiza, a miracle. But clearly, there is a difference, as not all who are alive can do magic. Is there anything else that could go with Essence?"

Blank looks.

"What of the ruh, which is also the soul or spirit?" he supplied.

The last remaining tulaab, dressed in the full black niqāb and burqah prescribed for girls who'd been visited by Manaf, the moon goddess, and thus considered women, asked quietly, "Mudari, do souls not go to the Underworld with Manāt after death?" Normally, such girls would be married and have no need to continue to attend madrasa, so Tesil added a spice of mystery to their small company.

Akzir felt more agitation, but listened withal.

"Ah, that is the question, is it not, Tesil?" their teacher mused. "Some peoples say that if one does evil in one's life, then one's soul or spirit goes to Abaddon, to suffer eternally in some fashion. Most also have a place where the righteous go upon death; we know it as Jannah. Either way, the soul leaves the Flesh, all that is left behind here on Aard."

Zeniah spoke up once more: "But, Mudari, what is Flesh made of?" provoking more laughter – though only from her brother this time.

Regardless, their lecturer cautioned all: "Tulaab, what did I tell you yesterday? Zeniah's question is more astute than you realise. She asks, 'What did the Creators use to fashion humankind if we did not exist already?" Am I correct, alsaghira?"

The girl smiled boldly at her elder, nodded. "And, um... what about... the male essence, Mudari?"

At first Akzir felt confused whilst others tittered and their teacher all at once appeared slightly uncomfortable.

"Yes, well, that is another form of essence, alsaghira," their teacher acknowledged, "but also a lesson for another—ahem—time."

Suddenly her brother got it. What?! He fumed, unable to speak. How dare she speak of such things... How could she even know—? She will get a beating today, he silently promised himself.

"But, yes, as to flesh, yet another very good question," Mudari praised – as if Akzir could be more infuriated. "Some peoples say the Creators used clay, or their tears or even their own—ahem—flesh. Some say the first people came from an egg, like altuyur. Others say the Creators simply vomited forth the sky, the moons, stars, Aard, and everything in it, from chaos or nothingness or maybe Water, the only element that already existed. Still others assert that the first people came from another world separated from ours by time, or from deep within this one."

"But, Mudari, who is right?"

The man chuckled. "Ah, little Zeniah. Always the hard questions. Who is to say, alsaghira? Every people in every land think they alone have it right – but then, how can they? Not every tale can be correct, so perhaps no one has it right. Then again, perchance there is a little truth in every story, and if one weaves together the right threads, the whole nasij appears."

Zeniah pressed, "But, Mudari, who was the first Flesh?"

"Ah, you wish to know whether the Mother and Father created male or female first, naem? Well, that is uncertain, Zeniah. Most Akemari believe it was woman, which is the reason for our matrilineal and matrilocal society—er... Which is to say, the reason you take your mother's family name as your surname, and do not use father's aism aleayila. But, since I see by the height of Malakbel above us that it is time for our midday break, I fear these concepts will have to await explanation another day. Come back after ghada', tulaab, and we will learn to tell time in different ways."

The class broke up to go home for lunch. As soon as they were out of sight of the saha, Zeniah pulled off her chador, made to roll it under her arm. Akzir caught her, holding her arm tight as he yanked the ribbons from her hair, threw them to the ground, crushed them into the paving stones with the heel of a sandal.

"Ow! No! Stop! Let me go!" his little sister cried.

Akzir slapped her face. "Little sharmuta! Put your chador back on!" He would do just as the Prophet – blessings be upon Him! – instructed the faithful in His Holy Book, the Kitab Muqadas: banish them to their couches, and beat them.

Zeniah started crying. "N-No! Al'umu says I do n-not have to—"

The boy struck her again, knocking the slight girl to the rough flags. Her nose began to bleed. "Do as I say! 'Ab will punish you worse when I tell him how brazen you were in madrasa. Shameless! Your name should be Eahira!"

Sobbing, hand to dripping nose, Zeniah made no move to comply; white cloak lay in the dirty street beside soiled blue ribbons. Akzir raised his hand again—

Caught in a stronger grip, he turned, fury rising.

Fadir! "If you strike her again," the elder, much larger youth told him calmly, "I will beat you likewise."

"But she is—!"

"Whatever she is or is not, you have no right to hit her."

"I have every right! Father says we must protect our women and ensure—"

"You protect your sister by beating her?"

Zeniah remained on the ground, holding her nose to stop the flow of blood; not too bad, withal. Crying ceased as she witnessed the males' struggle of wills.

"I must ensure she remains chaste, else she bring dishonour on us! And the Prophet says—"

"How has she dishonoured you?"

"You saw how she acted in madrasa! What she... she asked about."

"I heard her ask a lot of questions," Fadir averred. "There is no shame in that."

"But she... she asked about... ab-bout... male essence! And she looked at Mudari – and you!"

"She looked at us? A grave alkhatiya, for certain."

"Hmph! You jest about sin, Fadir, but the Prophet says that girls should be modest – remain covered and not look at men who are not family. And not speak of... of... not speak of such things. Now let me go!" Akzir tried to wrest free, could not break his elder's grip.

"As I already told you," Fadir remonstrated, "the so-called prophet does not rule Bakkah or the Quraysh – that is why he is exiled. Your mother's father rules as malik, and his law says that only nobly born girls who have seen their first moon-flow need go out veiled. To distinguish them from commoners and whores."

The younger boy glared, refusing to debate further, especially since if it escalated physically he was certain to lose.

"Before I let you go, Akzir, you will promise that you will never hit your sister again. No matter how angry you are or what wrong you believe she has done. Do I have your muqadas nadhar?"

Akzir's breath caught for a moment; the other youth asked for his sacred vow, something not lightly given. Gave it withal, in a mumble.

"I will hear your word aloud," his elder demanded.

"You have my nadhar," Akzir muttered louder.

Fadir released him. As Akzir massaged his sore, reddened wrist, the older boy helped Zeniah to her feet. "Are you badly hurt, alsaghira?"

How dare he call her that! Akzir mentally growled. First Mudari and now this... this... Whose little sister was she, anyway? Look how she stares at him with moon eyes, he fumed as his older peer wiped the well-deserved blood and tears from her face with his sleeve. How he hated Fadir! The son of a mushir, the older youth arguably outranked Akzir; but for the younger boy's mother, a princess, Akzir would indubitably be of inferior status. If only he could call down the wrath of Allatum upon him – both of them!

The irony of invoking a female war deity, in whom he ostensibly did not believe, upon his sister and her protector, never occurred to the youth.

Later that day, Mudari told them that most cultures throughout Aard grouped their divinities similarly, mostly corresponding to the elements previously discussed. Other than the Creator maternal and paternal deities, however – generally known as the Mother and the Father, governing Essence and Time, respectively – the other elements presided over various spheres. He gave the example of nature, seasons, animals, and agricultural deities, whose spheres were grouped together under the element of Wood; the relationship, he explained, dealt with nature and growth; thus trees; hence, wood (an actual rarity in Akemar; the scrub miramiya trees and their smoky pitch made poor cooking fires, thus causing the brown or black flammable rock, fahm, to be preferred for such). Similarly, sky, moon, and sun divinities assembled under the element of Air; love, sex, fertility, under Flesh; and so on.

Nonetheless, in many places a divinity could have dual or more roles, such as sun and fertility, fertility and agriculture, or moon and love. Consequently, in most cultures these categories were not mutually exclusive. In addition, myriad variations and local deities existed, such that they changed from village to village in the same land, or even from one household to another in the same village, as mentioned. They also varied in importance due to differences in culture, or simply due to timing and need.

Taking the example from yesterday, Mudari likely need not have elaborated that war deities became more important in times of war, whilst during peace, humankind's thoughts turned toward love and fertility – of humans, animals, crops. In seasons of planting and harvest, the gods and goddesses concerned with fecundity and abundance took precedence. Yet, cultures that placed little importance on agriculture – maybe they hunted and migrated with the seasons and game, or had herd animals – would naturally instead put their faith into nature and animal deities. Therefore, some peoples had many divinities grouped in the same sphere – perhaps one for each animal, for example – and mayhap none for other aspects.

"An example of this," their teacher explained, "would be 'Ahl Alsuhub. As strange as it may seem, the People of the Steppe have never seen a great sea, and so they naturally have no deities for them. For rivers and even different size lakes, but not for seas or oceans. The may also have many for different sorts of rain – that is, from storms to light mist, or warm spring rains and those that fall in cooler autumn, even snow. I have heard of far, far northern lands and peoples who have a hundred words for althalj.

"Incidentally, tulaab, know that our lands, as vast as they are – no one knows how far one can travel west or east – but it is said that we are surrounded by a great, unknown ocean, infinitely more vast than even our Seas. There is no end to it, and it is where, some people say, we came from."

"But, Mudari, where are 'Ahl Alsuhub? And what is a... a steppe?"

Another student asked for clarification of the word 'althalj'.

"Ah yes, tulaab." Their teacher tried to explain snow and ice but could tell from uniformly blank looks that no one comprehended a thing he could not imagine himself – frozen rain falling from the sky indeed; it never got cold enough in Akemar to freeze anything! – so turned to Zeniah. "A steppe is like our lands, alsaghira, but where we have scrub bushes and more trees outside the true sahra', a steppe has long grass and very few even small trees, with some hills but no mountains. And thus they stretch, it is said, as far as the eye can see.

"There are many tribes living in many such lands in Aard. But the ones I speak of are far, far to the north and east, beyond Qattarâ, Ashkelon, Dheneb, Medaea, even Thuban. They inhabit the region before one comes to the lands of Goguryeo and Cathay, which is known as Scythia, Geryon, or Cimmeria."

Mudari paused, looking over his students; most wore rather confused expressions. "Hmmm. Perhaps I will try to get a kharita, to show you." Of course, he then had to explain what a map was, and how the rarity of them would likely preclude him finding one.

"Now, tulaab," he went on, "a most interesting subject." He turned a shrewd brown eye upon Zeniah, who, for the first time, had arrived at madrasa with chador fully covering her head and clutched to chin; aught but wary brown eyes shining from within. Even so, when rapt in his lecture, she let it slip a little, and Mudari could see that her nose and face were bruised, swollen. Plus, she had been unusually silent all afternoon, her one recent query notwithstanding. A quick glance at Fadir, whom she sat next to instead of her brother – the latter shooting frequent glares at both – the teacher continued.

"All the civilised lands of Aard have a way to tell time, both of the day and of the year. First, however, know that many do not say 'year'; they count years in terms of summers or winters, depending on which season they experience the most – although, some will refer to the opposite instead, as a way of looking toward the preferred season.

"Now, tulaab, this is an alsaaeat alramlia. The hourglass comes from far Northern Lands..."

He demonstrated how the device, marked with lines and symbols, would be inverted when the sand ran completely out of the top into the bottom half of twin conical receptacles. When turned accurately, it marked the hours accordingly. From it also came, Teacher explained, expressions using 'grain', as in a grain of sand; for example, 'wait a grain or two', by which was meant 'wait a moment or two'.

"The day, tulaab," he continued, "is divided into nine hours, as you know. We have adopted these also from the Northern Lands, as follows." He bade them retrieve their tablets and styluses; had them copy as he wrote the Hours, followed by the time of day it fell:

matins – midnight

lauds – first hour after midnight

vigils – second hour after midnight

prime – sunrise

tierce – third hour (prime not included)

nones – midday or noon

sext – sixth hour (end of usual workday)

compline – supper hour

vespers – evening hour

"Now remember, tulaab, that some countries use twelve hours in a day – some even have twenty-four. Clearly, that is too many, but regardless, today I have brought some other devices to show you. Though I have not brought the muzawala, as you all know it – and there is one right here. Come." Mudari noted that Zeniah all but hid behind Fadir, otherwise they all gathered around a large sundial in the square betwixt their fountain and its twin. Of stone, on a like pedestal, simple carved lines radiated from its bronze gnomon, like a fish's dorsal fin, casting its shadow upon markings surrounding it. "This is how I know when it is time for ghada' or to go home for the day. For example, when the gnomon casts no shadow – or a very short one – it is nones, and time for the noonday meal..."

Mudari went on demonstrating how to use the sundial, cautioning that, depending on the time of year, the marked 'hours' could be shorter or longer. Nonetheless, he said that for most people, time was relative; seeing where Malakbel shone in the sky sufficed to let them know when midday came or darkness approached – and the usual field hand's workday ended when it was too dark to see. Likewise, lest one could afford lamps or candles, indoor work ceased even earlier. Of course, when Malakbel's brother, Yaghūth, brought storms and rain, telling time using the muzawala became problematic.

"And what about Salatan, Mudari?" Akzir displayed more than his usual belligerence. "My father says that the Prophet tells us to observe morning and evening prayer, at sunrise and sunset. How does a lawhin"—he glared at Fadir as he used the word 'believer'—"tell when that is if there is no sun?" He looked as though he defied anyone to challenge him for not using the sun god's name.

"Ah, young Akzir. If one cannot use the muzawala and has no alsaaeat alramlia, then one can only guess. Still, it is not too much of a guess, for with experience, the sun can still be made out behind clouds. Enough to judge its height, anyway. Then, depending on the time of year, one can estimate the time reasonably well. As I said, it comes with experience. And to many people, it does not matter a lot.

"For most, it is time to start work when Malakbel casts sufficient light. Time for ghada' when he is at his full height, and time to stop and have supper just before it is too dark to see – unless one has shemue and fanus, or at least naft to fuel lanterns. Most do not.

"By the way, tulaab, know that beeswax for the best candles also comes from the same place as your lawh: Thuban. Most people use samin rendered into tallow to make shemue, or else simply place into a pool of melted fat a wick made of twisted linen, perhaps, which is then lighted with this alsawan walsulb." Mudari, seeing his students' interest waning like a spent shemue – as elite nobility, they did not hold much interest in what poor people did or did not do – he reengaged them by practising lighting candles with a flint-and-steel.

With the exception, perhaps, of Zeniah. Hesitantly, it seemed to their teacher, the girl asked, "But, Mudari, why would anyone not wish to see at night?"

The question provoked a few good-natured chuckles; since one came from their teacher, he admonished no one. "Ah, alsaghira. Well, some people – most, in fact – do not have money for candles and the like. Therefore, they simply go to bed when it is dark."

"You mean, they do not read or weave or...?"

A discussion ensued during which Mudari diplomatically explained to his students that they were privileged youth; the way they lived was, by far, the exception in Akemar and all other lands. Most people could not read, he told them, had no time to do so anyway. Furthermore, weaving or similar activities, which his students might see as hobbies or distractions, others did either to make their own clothing because they could not afford to buy them, or else as an occupation. He could again see, however, most did not understand – or care – other than Zeniah, who looked thoughtful behind her enclosed chador.

"Now, return to your seats, tulaab." Moving the short distance back to their outdoor classroom, Mudari placed a big clay pot in front of the students. "This is a saeat mayiya – the idea comes from Medaea. Some of you may have seen its like; they are used when your family's alfalaahin water your crops."

"I have!" exclaimed little Hadim.

"Good, Hadim. Do you know how it works?"

"No, Mudari."

"Observe, then. Who would like to fill this pot with water from the fountain?" Several volunteers – save Zeniah – had it filled in no time with a jug Mudari had also brought. Now producing a copper bowl with small hole in the bottom, bade Hadim place the bowl on the surface of the water in the pot. "Now observe, tulaab. When the bowl becomes full, it sinks, and the muraqib eumaal – a trustworthy man appointed to manage the waterclock – empties the bowl and puts it back on the water. He records the number of times the bowl sinks by putting small stones into a jar. When the number of stones equalling a farmer's allotment of water is reached, the irrigation is channelled to the next alfalaahin's lands, and so on." He awaited a question from Zeniah. None forthcoming; when he caught her eye, the girl looked away, clutched her cloak tighter.

"Ahem. Now, tulaab, we will look at the taqwim. I have brought calendars from Qattarâ, Medaea, and the Northern Lands, as well as ours..."

Mudari, unrolling several papyri scrolls in turn, showed his pupils the various calendars. The similarities he pointed out included how each used a system of twelve months per year, with an intercalary period of anything from a few days up to a month, added regularly, in order that the lunar cycles kept up with the solar cycle. Otherwise, he told them, people would end up not celebrating harvest until the middle of winter, for example. Of course, most lands had different names for their months – and 'month' might be called monath, araḫ, and so on – commonly named for the culture's deities. Other than that, they were all quite alike.

The differences, he explained, lay especially in how the Northern Lands – places the students had seldom heard of, with exotic names such as Teutonia, Neustria, Gaul, Aldebberan, Denoçes – had separate festival days built into their calendar, rather than simply having them fall on a particular date or dates. They also counted but 27 days in each month – the cycle of the moon some named Lítha, which of course was Manaf, in Akemar. In other places a month varied, mayhap a great deal, but generally between 28 and 30 days. Furthermore, the northerners had nine-day weeks, which they called, naturally enough, a 'nineday'. Other countries followed seven-or eight-day weeks, some fourteen, or a fortnight.

Mudari could see Zeniah fidgeting, as if burning to ask something. "Zeniah, do you have a question?" he prompted.

She darted a nervous glance toward her brother; shifted position ever-so-slightly nearer Fadir. "Y-Yes, Mudari. "Why nine – I m-mean, why do the northerners have a nine-day week? And why nine-hour days?"

"Those are good questions for which I wish I had an equally good answer, alsaghira. I believe it must have something to do with their months having twenty-seven days – do you remember your mathematics? Nine goes into twenty-seven how many times?"

Akzir, grabbing his abacus, tried desperately to work it out before anyone—

"Three," Tesil answered quietly. The mysterious student hadn't touched tablet or abacus.

"Correct, Tesil. Plus, there are – as we have recently learned – nine elements, and I understand that some of their systems of government and justice revolve around the number nine, as well. Although, which influenced which, is hard to say. However, I believe it is mostly due to the fact that the moon Attar-shamayin – the one they call Terítha – comes but once every nine years, or an age. By the way, Ruda is known as Lÿlla in the north, and cycles every thirty-six days. Which brings us to the next lesson.

"As you all know, tulaab, an 'age' is nine years. But I want you to write this down as well, and using your abacus – which comes from Medaea – and the mathematics you have learned, work out the answers in years. You older tulaab should help the young ones with this difficult problem." He filled in the answers once he'd given them time to work them out on their own.

age=9 years

era=9 ages [81]

epoch=9 eras [729]

aeon=9 epochs [6561]

Tesil easily worked out all the challenges whilst everyone else took quite a bit longer.

"Excellent work, Tesil," Mudari praised.

No one could see the black-clad pupil's expression; kept eyes downcast, didn't respond.

"Finally, tulaab, you should know that Manaf invented the calendar – it is said, so that the goddess could better track her moons-cycles. As for following other dates and seasons, most peoples use the system of dating using ages and eras and so on, but many date things from important events, such as a new ruler. However, this becomes very confusing for trade and diplomacy, since not everyone knows everyone else's leaders and the rest, and they an change often. Thus, all of Aard struggles to agree on a single system. So far there is none, alas, but at least most agree on time of day.

"Speaking of which, it is getting late, tulaab," their teacher concluded. "Is there anything else before we end the day's lessons?"

"But, Mudari, wh-what about the th-third hour?"

The tall man chuckled, stroked dark beard. "I wondered if anyone would notice that, Zeniah. It seems odd, yes, that the 'third' hour, tierce, is actually the fourth, after midnight, or matins. I suspect that, some time ago in their forgotten history, the northerners added a ninth hour, just to keep the theme of nine that we have discussed. Nevertheless, it does not seem to matter, as everyone simply knows it as the hour after sunrise, arriving about mid-morning, before nones, or midday. Then another hour until the sixth, at sunset, after which comes the supper hour. So, who can tell me what time it is now?"

All the students save Zeniah – and Fadir, who acted a little more dignified – rushed over to the sundial. Ere anyone could work it out, however, Zeniah said, "Half-past sext."

Stunned, Mudari looked at the girl, who pointed to the muzawala, chador still gripped tightly about her bruised face with the other hand. For her to have learned in virtually an instant how to use a new device to correctly deduce a foreign system of chronology...