Crescent Inquisition

by Fuad Baloch

  Chapter Six

  Palvar stared at the skinned finer.

  Set in the center of the box, propped up by sand, its skin peeled back to reveal the white stump, it looked the stuff nightmares were made of. Underneath the bloody flabs of flesh, a gold ring sparkled.

  “Oh Rabb!” wailed Qilal, thumping his chest. Zawar stood frozen, his jaw hanging loose, his eyes wide in terror.

  Captain Tamat stepped in front of the viziers, holding up a hand to the inquisitors as if to block the sight from them.

  “It… stinks,” observed Palvar, feeling the sumptuous contents of last night’s party coming up in his stomach.

  “A female’s finger,” said Ialan, the other city captain. If he was shook as badly as Palvar, he did a fine job of hiding it.

  “I… I recognize the sigil on the ring,” said Inquisitor Fan quietly. “The Postan clan.”

  Captain Tamat looked up. “Their girl was captured.”

  “Postan…” whispered Palvar, not believing what he was hearing.

  “Roha Postan,” confirmed Captain Tamat.

  Palvar felt life drain from his limbs. Though he had been at the party when the attack had happened, losing consciousness had brought a certain numbness to what had happened since. Seeing the consequences in front, though, revealed the real stakes.

  “Son of a shitting bat,” Palvar said, turning his gaze away from the ghastly finger. Someone threw up behind him, the sickening sound making his own stomach do terrible flips. He raised his hand to cover his nose. “It reeks.”

  “That it does,” said Captain Tamat. His face had grown ashen, yet he seemed the most unperturbed. Maybe that was a result of late nights spent patrolling the unruly areas of Algaria. He sniffed the air. “Defecation. Urine.”

  Ialan stood up tall, his features hardening. “Could be they’re being held at the sewers.” He nodded at the viziers and the inquisitors. “I must instruct my men and our commanders of this.” Without waiting for their reply, Ialan marched out of the room, leaving them to the box.

  Palvar squinted. Was that a parchment sticking out from underneath the finger? To his side, Inquisitor Khatani was shaking her head, no longer scowling. The two viziers had stepped away, their backs turned to them. Taking care to keep his eyes averted from the stripped digit, Palvar bent and retrieved the parchment.

  “Give it to me,” ordered Captain Tamat, thrusting his hand forward.

  Palvar held up a hand, unfurling and reading the parchment quickly.

  “What does it say?” demanded Inquisitor Fan.

  Palvar looked up, the parchment falling from his fingers. “For every two days that pass without their demands being met, another piece…” he trailed away, knowing no one was in any doubt as to what the damned parchment said. “They want a raven flown from the tallest minaret of the Grand Husalmin Temple when their demands are met.”

  A deathly silence fell upon them.

  Swallowing the lump in his throat, Palvar turned to the guard who had brought in the box. “Who gave this to you?”

  “A young boy, sahib. Said he was paid two gold coins if he carried this over to the city guard captains.”

  “And you never asked who gave it to him?” asked Captain Tamat. The guard hung his head.

  Palvar whistled, keeping his eyes well away from the box and its gruesome item. His innards squirmed at the thought that if Inquisitor Fan was right, this had been taken off Roha. He had to keep busy, keep his thoughts focused on anything but that. Wincing, Captain Tamat bent. Palvar took a sideways peek. The captain was digging the finger out of the sand. “Blood and onions, show some dignity, Tamat!”

  Qilal coughed, and when he spoke to Zawar, his voice shook. “I wonder if… considering the situation… the Reratish delegation would want to return home now instead of finalizing our trade talks. That’d be a shame.” Inquisitor Khatani sneered at that. Inquisitor Casan continued to look at her and Inquisitor Fan, who stood stone-faced.

  As the captain examined the finger with a clinical detachment that felt all sorts of wrong to Palvar, the three inquisitors began whispering to each other. Palvar shifted uncomfortably. In his heart of hearts, he knew that the real reason he was here was less to do with patriotism, and more to ensure he could be a part of the greatest investigation of the decade, if not the century. After all, who was he but a minor courtier from a minor province? His only claim to fame had been foiling the attack at the Grand Celebration—an act he had to attribute to good luck if he was being honest to himself.

  Everything had changed now, though. The girl he liked had been taken prisoner. Worse, she had been hurt, all the while he’d been unable to prevent it. Then there was the gnawing feel of terror at not knowing where this was headed. If the Istani realm gave in to the captors’ demands, what would these magi do for their liberators? His eyes drifted back to Captain Tamat, studying the finger. Was it really possible that horribly mangled flesh was once part of Roha? Last night, he’d have gladly bent to kiss her hand, and now—Palvar felt his skin crawl—he couldn't force himself to look at it.

  “This is bad,” Inquisitor Khatani was saying, shaking her head. “The Kalb is not going to like this.”

  “We have to contain the news,” declared Inquisitor Fan. He thumped his fist into the palm of his other hand as Inquisitor Casan nodded, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. “This cannot be known.”

  “This is Algaria,” said Inquisitor Khatani, no longer smiling. “One can’t take a shit without half the city knowing about it.”

  Realizing Palvar was listening, Inquisitor Casan made a shooing motion at him. Palvar didn't move. As much as he feared the inquisitors—every sane person did—it shocked him to see them worried like any other commoner.

  “I hail from the east, Fan,” Inquisitor Khatani said, not caring whether Palvar listened or not. “Extreme heat. Large forests.” She rubbed her hands together, glaring at Inquisitor Casan. “When just a dozen trees catch fire, do you know what happens?”

  Inquisitor Casan kept quiet.

  “The beasts flee?” offered Palvar, unable to restrain himself.

  Inquisitor Khatani looked up at her. Palvar braced himself to be rebuked, but the older woman’s eyes carried sadness, not anger. “The entire jungle and the villages around it burn down.”

  Coughing delicately, Captain Tamat put the finger back in the box. He wiped his hands with the smooth black silk decorated with the cursive pattern, then began scribbling on a clean sheet of parchment.

  “This is bad,” repeated Inquisitor Khatani, her voice dropping to a murmur.

  Inquisitor Fan chewed his lower lip. “Some of us will argue to meet the captors’ demands.”

  “And that’ll be our end,” said Inquisitor Khatani flatly. Inquisitor Casan wiped his forehead.

  “We must report to the Kalb,” said Inquisitor Fan. “The Head will want to move quickly before the next box arrives.”

  “The next box…” whispered Palvar.

  The three inquisitors shuffled out without saying a word to either Palvar, Captain Tamat, or the two viziers. Palvar half-raised a hand, then let it drop. Zawar had collapsed on a divan, Qilal still going on about the importance of the trade delegation and how its derailment would spell ruin for the entire western realm.

  The western realm! Palvar exhaled. The trade vizier meant Nikhtun and the neighboring provinces. He turned to Qilal. “I met the Reratish delegation last night. Didn’t look like they were much happy with how the negotiations were going.”

  Qilal turned about, then chuckled, his fingers still clenched. “They’d be lucky to get half their demands met. Istan doesn't negotiate, it offers terms.”

  “Hmm,” said Palvar, a sense of unease growing within him. Why would the captors want the magi? Why was no one talking about it? Was it possible that all that was a ruse somehow, an attempt to throw them off the scent?

  “I must be on my way too,” said Zawar, struggling up to his feet. “By Rabb, the court will be abuzz with all sorts
of rumors by now. Considering we’re the first ones to… to see their warning, the grand vizier will want to question us personally.”

  Two senior city guard commanders, their turbans laced with black triangles, swept into Captain Tamat’s office. Wordlessly, the captain stepped aside, allowing them to examine the box and the parchment.

  Palvar cleared his throat. Both viziers turned their chins to him. Even Captain Tamat looked his way. “Could an enemy state be behind these kidnappings?” He swallowed. “I’ve no reason to suspect anything, of course. Nothing but an intuition. The Reratish ambassador looked… quite uncomfortable with the talks.”

  The viziers exchanged a glance.

  “We have no reason to jump to conclusions,” said Captain Tamat firmly. “You, Palvar Turka, stay put for the moment. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Qilal sneered. Placing a hand on Zawar’s elbow, he headed for the door. “This is Algaria. By tomorrow, a thousand stupid souls will be spreading a thousand different theories.”

  “I mean it, Palvar,” said Captain Tamat, his voice cold, as half a dozen city guard captains entered the room. “Promise me you’re going to let the professionals handle this.”

  “Of course,” Palvar lied easily.

  Chapter Seven

  Palvar thrust his chest out. “Blood and onions, I was right!”

  A passerby arched his eyebrow, but Palvar didn’t care. Instead, he glared at the expansive Reratish embassy across the busy road. Then, he turned his chin to the right. Six city guards stood outside an entrance to the city sewers, their armor shining under the harsh sun. The coachman Palvar had hired to bring him here mumbled to himself.

  Palvar nodded to himself, excitement swelling within him. As far as clues went, finding the Reratish embassy this close to the sewers was a promising one. The box containing the maimed finger had smelled as if it could have come from there. Coupling that observation with his suspicions around the Reratish ambassador meant he was definitely on the right trail—one no city guard captain would’ve ever pursued.

  Sucking in his belly, he smoothed his leather vest—most definitely not fashionable in Algaria even if it was considered manly in the west—and strutted toward the embassy.

  “Sahib, my money?” shouted the coachman behind him.

  “Ah, of course,” said Palvar, turning around. Carefully, he took out eleven silver coins from his purse, taking time to count them again, then handed them over to the sullen coachman.

  “Will you be needing a ride back?”

  Palvar considered. Between buying ridiculously expensive clothes for the grand vizier’s party—a justifiable enough expense—and this unnecessary ride where he could have walked instead, he wasn't doing very well on the financial front. “As Rabb wills.”

  The coachman blinked, then, shaking his head, cracked his whip. “Courtiers!” His two horses whinnied and then he was off.

  Palvar narrowed his eyes, then decided it wasn’t worth his time to fester over the Algarian peasants’ attitudes towards their betters.

  His shadow stretching out ahead, the afternoon sun just as hot as at noon, he made for the embassy’s huge iron gates. Reratish flags—red oval blobs on white—fluttered over two pale-skinned soldiers dressed in tight leather vests and gleaming armor. They glared at Palvar, their eyes transfixed by his Nikhtuni hat, their shadows stretching out on the flagstones.

  “Make way!” came a shout from the right. Palvar jumped back—just in time, as a cart rattled by where he had been standing. His eyes fell on the contents of the cart. Three corpses, their faces turned towards the heavens. Cringing from the sight, Palvar began for the embassy gates again.

  A lanky figure emerged from a side door. Dressed in garish, flowing robes, his long arms swaying wildly along his sides, he cut through the busy road without looking either way. Palvar frowned. He’d seen this bare-headed man before, an actor whose name escaped him. The actor ran his fingers through his long curly hair, muttering to himself. His eyes rose. “Ah, the hero of Nikhtun,” he shouted. “Greetings from Namad Gralany, Algaria’s most gifted artist!”

  Palvar smiled, hopping over to stand at the pavement. “A pleasure to see you.”

  The actor offered an elaborate bow, completely unrattled by the curses flying his way from the coachmen and riders along the busy road. “Namad Gralany would love to see you at his shows. Magical and mysterious, breathtaking and unforgettable, these performances always are. Remember, I do commissions as well!”

  Palvar waved farewell, then resumed toward the embassy.

  “Greetings, neighbors,” shouted Palvar, tipping his hat. “How do you find our great city?”

  “What do you want, Nikhtuni?” barked the taller of the two guards.

  “Straight to business,” Palvar said, nodding appreciatively. “Ah, how I’ve missed the blunt, dumb banter of the Reratish.”

  “Stop wasting—”

  “I’m Palvar Turka, courtier of the sultan of Istan,” snapped Palvar, letting his voice drop. The soldiers sneered, their necks corded, but his low voice had the right effect. “Take me in to your drawing room and tell the ambassador I need to see him.”

  “I’ll have to check in with the ambassador,” said the first soldier.

  “You do that,” Palvar replied. Keeping his head high, he walked past them. Unchallenged, he crossed the cobbled pathway that cut across lush grass and fragrant flowers brought in from the west and climbed the marble staircase that led into the embassy proper. He nodded at the soldier posted within the embassy and took the first upholstered chair he found.

  The soldier he had been speaking to earlier ran into the embassy. Shooting Palvar a dirty look, he rushed past him and up a spiraling staircase, shouting in his native tongue. Despite his province of Nikhtun bordering the Reratish kingdom, Palvar couldn’t make out the words, but there was no missing the emotions he had drawn here.

  “Hey,” Palvar shouted at a boy wearing red livery standing in the corner. “Aren’t you lot famous for looking after your guests?” He snapped his fingers. “Wine would do just fine. Some spiced lamb would be even better. Ca’va, if your budget doesn’t extend far?”

  Exhaling, Palvar stretched out his legs and crossed his arms. Two men were arguing on the upper floor in their guttural, harsh tongue. Palvar shrugged, his thoughts drifting. A couple of hours had passed since the awful box and yet the image remained seared in his mind. He shook his head and looked around. The Reratish weren't a people known for their artistic talent, but it seemed the ambassador had tried his best to deny that dubious heritage. Huge gaudy paintings of Reratish kings astride majestic horses lined the hallway he was in. The door frames had been trimmed with gold, and thick carpets—no doubt imported from distant Kur’sh—covered every inch of the floor. Silverware hung on a distant wall, draped with silk tapestries. The air smelled of neem tree incense.

  Something felt off, though.

  Palvar pursed his lips and took a good look around. Everything seemed as it should. National flags. Rich carpets. Ugly paintings. Dull swords hanging on the walls. Liveried servants. Soldiers in shining armor.

  “Ah,” he said. He hadn't seen a single woman so far. The Reratish were an incredibly prudish culture, not allowing unrelated women in a household when the wife was absent. “Interesting.”

  The sound of boots slamming the marble steps made Palvar snap his head up.

  “Who are you to just barge into the Reratish embassy,” the portly ambassador growled as he came to stand in front of the still seated Palvar, wearing the ship-like hat his people had copied off the Nikhtuni. “I shall have you reported to the sultan, you uncouth man of the rocks.”

  Palvar rose, offering a short nod. “Ambassador Danfurd, I think you'll find the court occupied with more pressing issues at the moment.”

  Ambassador Danfurd scowled. “What do you want?”

  “We’re neighbors, Ambassador,” started Palvar, making sure to keep a smile on, s
ilently cursing himself for not having thought through this interaction more. “In that spirit, I thought it might—”

  “The Reratish hate the Nikhtuni,” the ambassador cut in.

  Palvar licked his lips. “A truly sad state of affairs, however, I would like—”

  “In the last war, I cut down twelve of your men,” said the ambassador, his beady eyes glinting like diamonds. “Twelve! And I didn't even have a scratch to show for it.”

  Palvar seethed. “Bold words. Impossible, really, for no Reratish man I ever stripped for armor showed any balls.”

  “I…” The ambassador’s nostrils flared, thick veins standing out on his forehead. “You insolent camel-dung.”

  “You cuckolded westerner,” replied Palvar.

  The ambassador took a step forward. He was a tall man but even he had to crane his neck back to look Palvar in the eye. “Leave now. Or I shall gut you right here, even if it puts our nations to war.”

  Palvar clenched his fists. A part of him—an insistent part—wanted to punch the fast bastard. Palvar would have, but another part shouted at him to retreat. He had come here for a purpose, to ask questions, to see if he could get the ambassador to give him hints on why they’d captured the royal members. A chance he had most definitely blown.

  “Get out!”

  Palvar forced a grin, raising his hands. “Ambassador, I have most important questions to ask. Won’t you indulge a neighbor?”

  “Out!”

  Gritting his teeth, aware he had lost for the moment, Palvar adjusted his hat, then walked out.

  Chapter Eight

  Salv turned around at the sound of a pot getting knocked over.

  “He… a shadow of the shadow… has arrived,” said Ignar. He grinned, revealing his rotting yellow teeth. “He and the darkness.”

  “The…” Salv crossed his arms across his chest. “The master has come with the magus again?”