by Fuad Baloch
Palvar’s heart skipped a beat but he soldiered on. “You know firsthand how useful I was at the Grand Celebration, Sahib Inquisitor.”
“You blamed me for ordering that attack on the sultan’s life,” Inquisitor Fan drawled. Qilal gasped. Zawar blinked in confusion.
Palvar waved his arm apologetically. “All a wretched misunderstanding. I never intended to bring your honored office in disrepute.”
“You have a spine, boy,” said the female inquisitor. Though she wore the gray turban of her office like the other two inquisitors, strands of thin, wispy, white hair had slipped out, giving her a grandmotherly look. “It’s fun hearing the sound it makes when snapped in two.”
Palvar felt his jaw go slack.
“The inquisition has heard of you, Courtier Turka,” she said, smiling. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Inquisitor Khatani,” said Captain Tamat, taking a step toward Palvar. “For all his faults, this man did an admirable enough job at the Grand Celebration. Yes, he was reckless, and could’ve been more discreet in how he went about hurling accusations, but in the end, we do owe him.”
“The realm owes nothing to its citizens,” declared Qilal. Zawar grunted his approval.
Inquisitor Khatani sneered, snapping her fingers at the captain. “It sounds personal.”
Captain Tamat tensed, the vein on his forehead throbbing. He nodded. “The city guard captain he worked with was a good friend of mine. I see no particular harm in keeping him here for the moment.”
Palvar shook his head. “No particular harm? What a way to make a man feel good!”
Inquisitor Fan coughed, then, turning his back to Palvar, faced the two viziers. “We’ve been asked by the head of Kalb to relay a message to you and the other viziers.” The inquisitor paused, exchanging a glance with the taller inquisitor beside him. “We, the Inquisition, are holding an urgent summit to decide our next steps, should the captives not be found in time.”
“Surely that’s not necessary yet,” protested Qilal. “The council of the viziers needs to discuss options before the Kalb can—”
“Your grand vizier has agreed to this already,” said Inquisitor Fan, his voice flat.
“He has?” asked Zawar, arching an eyebrow.
Inquisitor Khatani smirked. “I guess one loses leverage when they can’t guard guests in their own home.”
“The grand vizier is blameless in this,” said Qilal, fidgeting with his robes. “As are his sons. I spoke with them, his sons, in the morning. Lud Ghiani has been out on the street all night, leading a group of city guard captains himself personally.”
“Anything to ease a troubled conscience,” said Inquisitor Khatani. “Isn’t it, Casan?”
The taller inquisitor blinked. “As you say.”
“Captain Tamat,” barked Qilal. “Tell the inquisitors what you’ve been up to. Put their minds to rest.”
Captain Tamat gestured at the other city guard captain with his chin. Then, both of them broke into a lengthy exposition on raids they had led since the attack, of the interviews they’d carried out with their spies in the city gangs, and how they were liaising their efforts with the other city guard parties and the Sultan’s Body. Palvar, largely forgotten, listened half-heartedly, arms crossed across his chest, his thoughts drifting.
As he had ridden to the headquarters, he’d seen soldiers and city guards swarming the streets. There was good reason for it, of course. Members of the Istani sultan’s family had been captured, and that was an assault the likes of which the realm had never faced before. It wouldn’t be long before the masses realized what had happened. The City Guard’s job would grow harder then.
Palvar tried imagining what that would look like. People would panic. They always did. Priests, both Husalmin and Atishi, would start their prayer circles. Trade would slow down to a trickle as the city devoured itself to dig up its dirty secrets. He shook his head. Truth was that there was no telling how the city would react. How the realm would react. Nikhtun, the land of the brave, the lionhearted, was different, but this was Algaria, its people having grown softer over the centuries.
In the eye of his mind, he saw Roha again, giggling as she stood surrounded by her friends. Palvar clenched his fists. Blood and onions, he’d find the captives—for her sake. The scenery shifted. The three archers shot at the lanterns, not caring for the soldiers rushing towards them, not bothered by their wounded.
Why?
Palvar shook his head. His intuition had a way of often being wrong, but he couldn’t ignore his initial gut feeling. Whoever had attacked them last night knew exactly what to expect. He raised his hand. “May I ask a question?”
Captain Tamat broke away mid-sentence, glaring at him as if to shoot his request down.
“Why,” asked Palvar, “is no one talking about how well they executed their plan?”
Captain Tamat stood straighter, his fingers twitching. Inquisitor Khatani nodded appreciatively, fixing her gaze upon the two viziers who looked like they’d be rather anywhere but here.
Palvar shook his head. “They knew how to slip through undetected. Once they were through, they knew the kind of trouble to expect. All this reduces the pool of people who could be—”
“You need not worry yourselves with matters like these,” cut in Qilal, his cheeks red like a ripe tomato. “The grand vizier himself is supervising those inquiries.”
“The grand vizier himself?” repeated Palvar. “But isn’t he himself—”
“Enough!” snarled Inquisitor Fan. His words packed heat, shutting up Palvar. “We all must do what we can.”
Any other day, Palvar wouldn’t have pursued this dangerous line of questioning. But this wasn’t any other day. Besides, every moment they wasted resulted in the trail going colder. He might’ve had an ulterior motive coming in here—ensuring his past deeds were burnished for any help he could offer—but now it seemed fate itself wanted him on the case. Roha needed him.
Palvar cleared his throat. “Why the magi? Of all things they could have asked for—”
Inquisitor Fan snapped his fingers. “Courtier Turka, even if you wish to force your way into these investigations, do not transgress past your limits.”
Palvar felt his eyes bulging out of his sockets. He clapped his hands, startling Qilal who had fallen in a stupor. “Blood and onions, sooner or later, everyone in Algaria will know what happened last night. Then, they’ll know what their demands are. Even if you shut me up, how will you seal the mouths of millions?”
A heavy silence fell upon them. Outside, city guards shouted, marching to their posts, submitting progress reports to their commanders who questioned them in harsh tones.
“Casan,” said Inquisitor Khatani, leaning towards the taller inquisitor. “The magi cannot know. Especially your magus Roshan.”
Inquisitor Casan, dour-faced and sullen, bristled. “You need not remind me again.”
“Roshan?” Palvar asked, unable to stop himself. The inquisitors all heard him, but neither of them acknowledged him. Palvar had met Roshan alongside Inquisitor Fan a few months ago. Back then, Palvar had thought the inquisitor the most terrifying person in the world, but meeting a magus in the flesh had made him reconsider that.
The viziers were muttering to themselves, as were the two city guard captains.
“When I met Roshan,” said Palvar slowly, “he mentioned the possibility of rogue magi, those who’d broken away from their inquisitor… overlords.” All three inquisitors looked at him now. “Could it be—”
“No,” said Inquisitor Fan, his voice hot. “A magus can never sever his connection with an inquisitor.”
Palvar hissed. His thoughts had no order to them, jumping from one tangent to another. This wouldn’t do.
Inquisitor Khatani raised her finger. “Magi are vile abominations, corrupting shadows contained by the light of the Kalb Inquisition. So long members of our order exist, these evil beings can do the public no harm.”
Captain Ta
mat coughed, his hand resting gently on the hilt of his sword tied to his waist. “If I might be excused, Ialan and I should go and supervise our efforts.”
“Of course,” said Qilal.
Zawar nodded, dabbing at his dry eyes. “It’s all so sad. Dear cousins of our noble sultan snatched away like cattle.”
Inquisitor Khatani chuckled. Heads turned to her but she kept smiling, tapping her feet on the floor.
“I should be on my way as well,” said Qilal, extending his hands. “Trade talks with the Reratish delegation are at a most critical juncture. Alas, the business of state must go on, even in times as trying as these.”
Palvar rolled his eyes as both viziers nodded solemnly to each other. He recalled the Reratish ambassador, looking all skittish and worried at the party.
A guard burst through.
“W-we’ve got—” he stammered, then broke away, finding himself being watched by viziers of the sultan and three inquisitors of the Kalb.
He carried a box wrapped in smooth black silk, a swirling pattern running across it in dark thread.
“What’s that?” asked Captain Tamat, his voice hoarse.
The guard pointed at the box with his chin. “The captors… They sent it!” He trembled. “Your office is the closest to the main gate, and so—”
“Lay it down,” said Captain Tamat.
Palvar walked over to join the captain, Qilal craning his neck to get a good look.
The captain hesitated for half a beat, then unwrapping the silk in one smooth motion, popped open the box.
Qilal screamed.
Chapter Five
Salv Canat liked a job well done. What he hated more than anything was the uncertainty that came after it, something he’d come to learn about himself through his fifty years.
He stretched his arms, his fingers inches from the low ceiling, its paint peeling off in spots in the faint sunlight filtering through shuttered windows. Once more, his eyes crossed over to the letter on the table. Ignar the Crazy had put that there a little while ago, but Salv hadn’t been able to convince himself to open it yet. Ignar stood at the other end of the room, mumbling to the wall beside him.
“Let’s see what the master says,” Salv muttered to himself. He reached for the letter and broke the wax seal. His eyes widened as he read his next instructions.
“The master awaits…” Ignar murmured. He laughed, then clapped the air around him as if trying to catch a fly. “We know not what the master knows, not even the great master. Only if Mother were here. If only she could—”
“Shut your trap!” said Salv, rereading the contents. He shook his head. “What have I been reduced to?” He hated the instructions that had come for him, but a long, disciplined life in the military had taught him the importance of obeying orders even when they didn't make a lot of sense. One thing was clear: even if he couldn’t see the end, he felt himself acting as a harbinger for doom. “Do this one final job. Get paid. Move on to a bucolic life,” he murmured to himself.
“The spirits are here!” shouted Ignar. He cackled, running his fingers through his long unkempt hair tied back in greasy knots. “Greetings, djinn of the two worlds.” He yanked at his equally messy beard. “Ah, you bring a fairy too!”
Salv snapped his fingers. Ignar turned sharply towards him, the sudden movement reminding Salv of a trained dog asked to perform a trick. “Did you check up on the prisoners?”
“Aye,” replied Ignar, his voice sounding faraway. “They await their fates. They remind me of Mother.”
“Come, let’s get this done with.” Salv threw the letter away, then made for the door to his left. Ignar followed him, both arms stretched out wide as if he were a bird about to take to flight.
The other room stank of urine, stale sweat, and shit. The fourteen chained prisoners whimpered at their sight. Salv shook his head. Royals of the Istani bloodline, right now they looked anything but in their wretched states. “Ignar, I asked you to clean those who’ve soiled themselves.”
“Only the djinn blessed with pure fire may sanctify them,” declared Ignar. He cackled, motes of dust floating about him in the faint shafts of light sneaking in through a high window. The two prisoners next to him cowered, one of them dunking his head between his knees and letting out a squeal.
Salv pursed his lips. He didn't know how long he was stuck with these prisoners, but it didn't mean they had to live like animals. He was better than that. Then again, considering the instructions that had come in, these trivial concerns hardly mattered.
He walked to the end of the room where they had put the two women.
“Stay away from us, you monster,” the younger of the two shouted at him. Her hands were bound together, her long black hair half-covering her face, yet she found the courage to shout. An admirable trait, even in a woman. “Don’t even think of touching us!”
Salv blinked. “I have no interest in touching you.” He paused. “Not in the sense you fear, anyway.”
“Imagine the angels of the divine singing in ecstasy,” Ignar sang. “The shadow leading the shadow, heralding a golden dawn.”
Salv raised his hand and Ignar shut up. He crossed his arms across his chest. The other woman hadn’t looked up at him yet. Her body shuddered, her gray hair disheveled, her dress ripped on her shoulders revealing scratches underneath.
“Ignar, bring me the knife,” Salv said softly.
The younger woman looked up sharply. “Do not threaten us! Or have you forgotten who we are?”
“You’re here precisely because of who you are,” replied Salv.
“Young man, let us go,” said a middle-aged man to his side. Despite his tattered robes and the sheen of grime on his shirt, he looked distinguished in his short beard and cropped hair. “The sultan is known for being merciful. You haven’t done anything yet you can't walk away from.”
“Not yet,” Salv agreed. Ignar chuckled, then pressed a cold dagger into his hand. The Istani royal was correct. He still had a chance to make right what he had done. He was still in touch with the mercenaries he’d served with in his previous life and could move on to a new venture. Was that a possibility the master wanted him to no longer have once he’d carried out his instructions? He shook his head sadly. “Rusted shields! Alas, I am but a man of my word.”
“Keep away from us, you misshapen monster!” the young girl shrieked.
“Shush, Roha,” said the older woman, raising her head and yanking at her arm.
“Do it,” whispered Ignar in Salv’s ear. “Her! Her! Mother would be happy!”
Salv hesitated. Throughout his long life of warfare, he’d never raised his hand to a woman. He didn't see why that had to change now. “Ignar—”
“I’ll do it,” said Ignar, almost as if he knew what Salv was thinking. “I’ll take her finger as cleanly as the angels yank the dying man’s soul.” Again, he cackled, reaching for the dagger.
Roha’s face had grown pale. She shook now, all bluster gone from her. “N-no!”
“Ignar, make it clean and quick,” Salv said.
The older woman tried to push Ignar away, but she was no match for the brute. One backhanded slap and she collapsed to the ground. Roha put on a braver fight but that too lasted less than half a breath. The men whimpered, cried out, but didn’t rise from their chains.
Grabbing her by the wrist, Ignar forced her hand down on the ground.
“Girl, close your fist,” said Salv gently. “Except for your little finger.”
“No!” she shouted back, straining to free herself from Ignar.
“Or you’ll lose all your fingers.”
Tears running down her face, the other prisoners pleading with them to let her go, Roha closed her fingers one by one, letting the little finger stick out.
“Let her go, you monsters!” shouted one of the older men to the side. To his credit, he struggled up, heaving against the weight of the heavy iron chains. Tears ran down his bearded cheeks. “Don’t do it!”
Salv
felt the faintest tinge of pity for the young woman. Then again, everything in life was transactional. Sometimes, one did distasteful things precisely so he would get a chance to do better. He’d make up for these moments later.
Another realization bubbled over the rest. One that froze him to his spot. He’d never told Ignar what the letter had commanded him, yet Ignar knew. “Rusted shields!”
“Angels of the deepest hell,” intoned Ignar, swaying sideways, one hand holding down Roha’s wrist, the dagger gleaming in the other as he waved it about. “Let the fairest of the pari folk and their djinn companions witness this act of joyful devotion.” He let out a howl, breaking into a fit of whimpering. Just as soon as the crying had come, it left, leaving him grinning once more. Salv adjusted his weight. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to trust him.
Without further warning, Ignar raised his hand. Roha cried out.
Silver flashed, followed by a visceral scream, followed by a stream of blood gushing from Roha’s hand.
Grinning, Ignar let go of Roha who screamed like a goat being butchered. Gently, almost reverently, he bowed low, then scooped up the severed finger with both hands. The large jewel on the finger gleamed, the gold band tainted with red.
The older woman pulled Roha towards her. She ripped her veil, then began wrapping it around the howling girl’s hand. Carefully, methodically, Ignar held the finger up in his left hand, then with his right began peeling back the skin and the flesh.
The men, all of them, cried out in disgust and fear. Roha turned to look, then, seeing Ignar inches from her maimed finger, fainted. Salv pursed his lips, unnerved but unwilling to let others see that. Ignar knew exactly what the letter had instructed. That led to one clear conclusion. Salv might be the leader of their operation reporting directly to the master, but the master had shackled him with a spy of his own.
Ignar laughed. Salv’s stomach clenched. The white of the bone stuck out now, flesh stripped aside as if banana skin peeled back.
“One more thing, my sweet,” whispered Ignar. Wrapping his fingers reverently around the degloved finger, he headed for the waste buckets. “Just one more thing.”