As the recovery work continued in Arikara, Imir was constantly exhausted in mind and body. He labored as hard as any galley slave, and he could see the progress. The impossible disaster now seemed to be merely an unspeakable one.
Istala and Cithara spent every waking hour at the healer’s tents. Adreala, true to her word, took on any assigned task without complaint. She spent much of her time among the Nunghals, learning their work methods and picking up their language. Imir saw little of his granddaughters except when they came to evening meals on the citadel hill.
For the first weeks after the quake, dust from freshly dug grave pits billowed outside the city, but by now most of the corpses had been pulled from the ruins and transported to the burial sites, placed in mass graves, and covered with stones. Sikaras had sung funeral rites hour after hour until Soldan Xivir made them stop because their constant keening distressed the survivors.
When a caravan arrived bearing extensive supplies of Yuarej silk all the way from Inner Wahilir, along with a written proclamation of blessings from Ur-Sikara Kuari, the people celebrated. While the Nunghal khan placed little stock in the priestess’s blessings, he did say the fabric would make good tent material—cause for rejoicing, since the cloth from the first emergency supplies had already been used up.
In the late morning, Imir and Khan Jikaris rode on sturdy Missinian ponies through the streets, passing work crews that excavated bricks and fallen timbers. Now that much of the rubble had been carted away into huge piles of debris, from which rebuilding materials would be salvaged, Arikara was a skeleton of its former self. What had been marketplaces and living quarters, schools and trade shops, were now a motley carnival of tents and canopies. Floppy roofs covered collapsed ceilings.
As they rode, Imir appraised the city’s new appearance. “Did you mean to make this look like your own tent city back in the grasslands?”
Jikaris shrugged. “The Nunghal ways are superior.”
“Superior? Those primitive tents would collapse in the first hard wind.”
The khan sniffed. “When tents collapse, they don’t kill thousands.” He glanced around. “By the way, where is that Saedran woman you brought to Nunghal lands on your first visit? She was quite beautiful—for one of your people.”
The thought of Sen Sherufa made Imir smile. “Yes, she was beautiful—is beautiful. But she’s gone on a long voyage.”
The khan frowned. “So the Nunghal lands did not provide enough excitement for her—and neither did you? Ha!”
A troubled expression crossed Imir’s face. “She accepted an important mission. I don’t know when she’ll be home again.”
“I hope she comes back soon. I can stay awhile, but not forever.”
“She wasn’t all that eager to go in the first place.” Imir had been the one who wanted to undertake the sand coracle voyage across the Great Desert; he had put her forward as the Saedran chartsman for the voyage of the Al-Orizin, but now that she’d sailed off, he missed Sherufa, her stories and wit…just her. “I will pass along your greetings when I see her next.”
Jikaris was impatient. “That will not be good enough. I want to ask her to be one of my wives. My other ones have grown old and fat, and they bicker too much. That woman could make them behave.”
Imir felt a flash of jealousy, but he calmed himself. “I don’t think she’d accept your marriage proposal.” He gave a dubious chuckle. “Or anyone’s.”
Jikaris found this hard to believe. “How could she turn down the great khan of the Nunghal-Ari? I would make her a very rich woman.”
Imir shrugged. “She turned down the former soldan-shah of Uraba.”
“At least she is a woman with a mind of her own.” The khan urged his pony forward through the streets.
The two men tied their mounts to a makeshift picket line. Dusty workers stood in line at the central cook tent for a plate of food, which they ate quickly before shuffling back to their worksites. Cooks served grain porridge, soup, and rice. To avert unrest and starvation, Soldan Xivir had commandeered all private stores and stockpiled the food here in guarded supply tents. The meal was not appetizing, but Imir was so tired he had little appetite anyway.
Lithio served from one of the large cauldrons with her hair tied back and her fine dress covered by a dirty apron. Imir barely recognized her. She lifted her wooden spoon and signaled the two men as they arrived. “Have you done enough work to earn your food today? Supplies are dwindling, but there are chickpeas for the stew today.”
Jikaris said, “Seeing your beauty always restores my strength.”
Lithio wiped her dirty face and smiled. “You are such a gentleman, Khan Jikaris, and handsome too. No wonder you have so many wives.” She served him a large portion, then a much smaller one to the former soldan-shah. “You could stand to lose weight, Imir.”
He knew she was trying to make him jealous. “You’re delightful as always, Lithio.”
“I can be completely delightful, when I wish to be.”
The khan hovered beside Lithio, eating from his plate while she served other workers. “Nunghal women have their own beauty, and they need no adornments or perfumes. A Nunghal man can see the true loveliness in their eyes.” He made a point of staring into Lithio’s eyes. Gruel dripped from her spoon back into the cauldron.
“You’re holding up the line,” Imir said.
As he followed the former soldan-shah to a place where they could eat, Jikaris mumbled, “I know she is your First Wife, Imir, but Lithio says you never visit her. You leave her here in exile. How can you stand to be apart from a woman like that?”
“Better than when I’m not apart from her.”
Jikaris shook his head. “Well, if that Saedran woman won’t have me, why don’t you release Lithio as your wife? I’ll take her back to my own tent.”
“A tempting offer, Jikaris, but let us rebuild the city first. One disaster at a time.”
Soldan Xivir and his special guests gathered on the palace hill for the nightly “banquet” of food brought from the central cooksites. Imir and Jikaris sat by Xivir, while Lithio and his granddaughters sat at a table near them. Despite the meager fare, the sikara blessed the meal with great ceremony. When she finished, the Nunghal khan raised his goblet. “And now I add the blessing of my people and my church.” He spoke in his own language, rattling off a benediction. “Normally we would celebrate with fireworks, but I understand you use firepowder for other purposes.”
After the Nunghal men at the table finished their own prayers, Jikaris spoke up, as if the idea had just struck him, though it was obvious he had been planning for hours. “We need to construct many new buildings. Since so much of this city is ruined, my companions and I wish to erect a tent and an altar, establish a Nunghal place of worship, so we can feel more at home.”
Conversation around the banquet tent quieted. Xivir was obviously unprepared for the request. “Is that necessary? There are so few Nunghals here.”
The khan’s expression darkened. “Your priestesses often come to Nunghal lands to preach Urec’s Log to us. Are we not allowed to have our own place of worship here? You tell us about your gods—why should you not want to hear about ours?”
“That would not be acceptable,” said the priestess who had prayed over the meal. Her face was as withered as a dried date. “We cannot allow it.”
The khan looked baffled and offended. “I did not expect this after the help we give you. You think you have the only true belief? Ondun watches us all.” After he relayed to his men what the sikara had said, the Nunghals grew restless.
Imir didn’t want the matter to sour the evening. Worse, he feared that the Nunghals were on the verge of riding away and leaving Arikara to fend for itself. He said to the soldan in a warning tone, “They’re not being unreasonable, Xivir. We should not make a rash decision.”
Adreala, as independent as ever, said, “Hasn’t their selfless work here earned them the right to build their own church?”
To Imir’s surprise, Istala piped up; she was the most devout of Omra’s daughters, and she had wanted to join the priestesses at Fashia’s Fountain. “I think so. We can disagree without needing to disrespect. The words of the sikaras teach valuable lessons, but only a person’s actions show the contents of the heart.”
“The Nunghals are good people,” Cithara agreed.
Xivir gave a shrug of mock helplessness to the priestesses at the banquet table. “I bow to the will of the soldan-shah’s daughters.”
“And as a matter of courtesy,” Imir added, “I think the sikaras should attend the first Nunghal services. It seems only fair, if they expect the Nunghals to listen to them.”