by Fuad Baloch
Ignar cackled, his maniacal laughter bouncing off the thin walls of their hideout in the Artisans Quarter.
Salv gritted his teeth. It was one thing having to work for a master whose identity he didn't know, whose intents he didn't understand, but quite another to know a cursed magus worked for the master as well. If the idea was to ensure Salv knew his place, and think twice before betraying, it might have worked on any man except Salv. Once he committed to a job, no matter what happened after, he saw it through. His fingers twitched. Maybe he could reach out to his old comrades—just let them know he was doing alright for himself.
“How are the prisoners doing?” Salv asked, then began tying his cream-colored turban across his head.
“The girl… the carved girl cries too much,” said Ignar gleefully. He hiccupped, smiled, then examined his own fingers. “Mother would’ve liked her.”
“Don’t touch her. Or the others. The master doesn't want that.”
“I never like when they do that… the crying…” Ignar looked up, his eyes unfocused. “It confuses me. The devils live there, in the middle… the center… at the edges of laughter and crying.”
Salv tucked in the end of his turban and glared. “Don’t touch the prisoners. Not until we get the word.”
“The older woman next to her…” Ignar shrugged. “She cried too. Old people are an abomination. Do you know why?”
Salv didn't reply, tightening the turban’s knot.
“One foot in the grave,” Ignar sang, stretching one hand towards the ceiling, “the other in this world. Wrong. Wrong, all so wrong!”
Pursing his lips, Salv walked over and confirmed that the door to the prisoners’ room was locked. Sounds of whimpering came from the other side. Not just the two women. The men cried freely as well now. Salv snorted. Once, he had fought as an Istani soldier, twisted by the patriotic depictions of the sultan and his family as paragons of virtue and courage. These men and women had proven anything but.
“I pissed on Mother afterwards,” said Ignar, his voice sounding both amused and sad. “The body… It was strange… Old age… Tears…”
Salv closed his eyes. “Rusted shields, Ignar! Keep away from the prisoners, you hear?”
By way of reply, the lunatic laughed.
Salv rubbed his hands together. Instead of this crazy man acting as a spy over Salv, his antics were beginning to threaten their mission. Salv checked the lock again, then taking in a long breath, turned. “Time to see the master.”
Afternoon sunlight flooded the third room of their hideout. Two figures stood beside the shut door at the far wall.
“Master,” Salv said, offering a short bow.
His face and hands masked, the brown coarse hood drawn low enough to hide the face, the master exhaled noisily. Salv’s eyes flittered over to the other person standing beside the master. The magus, his nondescript face devoid of emotion. Unlike Master Zalan, who alternated between brown and blue robes, his features always covered, the magus didn’t seem to have a particular taste for wardrobe. No constant but the black turban that marked him a magus.
“We need to remove Ignar,” Salv said, folding his arms across his chest.
“Ignar is doing his job,” the master replied. His voice held a faint tremor in it. “He stays.”
Salv shook his head. “He threatens the mission. If anything goes wrong, I wouldn't want his actions to impact my reward.”
The master sneered. Though Salv couldn't see his face, he felt the master’s eyes boring through him. “Will you not reconsider your plans after this job is done?”
Careful, Salv thought. “I’m afraid time has come for me to hang up my sword and pursue another dream of mine.”
“A man of blood giving it all up for a life tending to plants?”
“We’re all moved by impulses we can’t always control.”
“Hmm.” The master turned towards the magus, who shook his head slightly. It would have been an exchange that most people would have missed, but not Salv. “Maybe there will be enough temptation for you to continue.”
Salv closed his eyes for half a beat. Across the hallway, he could hear floor creaking as Ignar paced the room, muttering to himself. Beyond that, he couldn't hear the moaning prisoners. “Master, can I ask a question?”
The master didn't reply.
Salv focused his eyes on the magus, fearful for what answer he might receive. “What would you do with the freed magi?”
“Ah…” The master clicked his tongue. Again, he exchanged a glance with the magus. Again, the black-turbaned magus shook his head. “That’s… not for you to know.”
“Not for me to know,” repeated Salv. He shrugged. “Fine. I don't get paid to ask questions, anyway.”
“Salv, keep an eye out for the ravens,” said the master. “Don't miss them.”
“I understand.”
The master turned. The magus did too, untying his black turban and retrieving a skull cap from his pockets. A man who takes pride in his powers, yet practical enough to not draw unnecessary attention.
“The end is coming, Salv,” the master said, his voice sending shivers down Salv’s spine. “Be prepared for it.”
Salv didn't say anything as both master and magus exited the hideout, leaving him behind. He imagined himself as a passerby in the Artisans Quarter, seeing the master and the magus, his black turban swapped with a brown one, emerge from the hideout. Would he have known who these two men were? Would he ever have guessed they were responsible for the capture of the Istani royals? Would he have ever suspected what their real end goal was?
Salv rubbed his hands. What in the seven hells had he signed himself for?
Something else worried him. The master had seemed indecisive, seemingly looking to the magus for encouragement. Why?
“One last job,” he muttered to himself. “Then I’m done with all this.”
Chapter Nine
Kunita struggled to steady her thudding heart.
She was far from the only one. A deathly silence had fallen over the diwan-e-khas, the sultan’s private court, all eyes staring at the black box wrapped in expensive silk on the rich Kur’shi carpets. Leaning forward, she glanced at the Peacock Throne.
Sultan Mazayd of Istan, second of his name, lord of the known world, Keeper of the Divide glared at the box, his upper lip trembling.
“What do you think this is?” whispered one of the girls behind her.
“A good harem girl doesn’t speak out of turn,” she chided her, allowing her eyes to take in the other occupants of the room. A dozen viziers—their seats arrayed in a semi-circle facing the Peacock Throne—watched the box in grim silence. The elderly grand vizier kept shaking his head, his thin fingers twisting the ends of his long white beard. Both of his sons, his immediate heir and his second son, stood quietly behind him. Beside the grand vizier, the Head of the Kalb Inquisitors sat with his hands folded in his lap. For once, Kunita was glad for the raised platform meant for the harem girls, which afforded her a good view.
“How did it arrive here?” asked the grand vizier, his eyes turning towards the two city guards, their heads bowed.
“It was…” said the taller of the two guards, exchanging a quick glance with the other, before swallowing. “It was catapulted over the Shahi Qilla’s walls.”
“Someone catapulted this into the royal palace?” asked the grand vizier. He hadn't raised his voice, but still the legs of both men trembled. “Did you find out who did it?”
“The captain dispatched a dozen men in the direction, sahib,” said the guard. “He is there right now, leading them personally.”
“Hmm,” said Grand Vizier Qad Ghiani. “He’s made no progress?”
“No, sahib.”
Lud Ghiani, the grand vizier’s second son, draped in a rumpled black shawl, crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “Rabb have mercy on us.”
An oppressive, heavy silence fell on the court once more. Kunita drew in a long breath. The diwan-e-khas
was ten times smaller than the public court, which could host thousands at the same time, yet its vaulted ceilings and magnificently ornate arches did nothing to diminish its majesty. In this intimate setting, the glittering Peacock Throne dominated the room, the sultan within it resembling a god.
“Open the box,” said Sultan Mazayd. Never a loud man, but now the words came out as if they had been strangled halfway, barely rising over a whisper. Not that the most powerful man in the world needed to raise his voice to be heard.
The guard stepped forward. The viziers drew in sharp breaths, members of their retinues leaning forward. The Head of the Kalb Inquisitors twisted the hem of his gray turban. The harem girls behind Kunita muttered. Kunita chewed on her lower lip. She’d need to speak to the girls afterwards: no matter what happened, a harem girl never forgot her manners. Pulling her silk peshwaz around her, she found herself leaning forward too.
The guard snapped open the box.
Gasps went up. Two viziers raised their hands to their mouths. The sultan leaned back. Kunita craned her neck forward, annoyed by the bobbing heads of the guards who had blocked her view.
A horrible stench wafted over. “Eww!” Covering her nose, she stood on her tiptoes, not caring for complaints from the girls behind her. The guards stepped back and she felt her eyes widen.
A bloated head sat in the box, the face turned away from the sultan and towards her. Kunita shivered.
“Turn it around,” said the grand vizier, his voice still strong.
“I… I recognize him,” said a member of his retinue. “He’s… Sahib Marjit Lastan.”
“The sultan’s cousin,” whispered Kunita. She had seen the jovial portly man before. Someone who liked frequenting women of the harem. Someone who was now… dead, his face bloated, the skin splotchy and blue and pimpled.
“My friend!” cried out Lud Ghiani. His face had gone pale. He shook like a leaf, his brother placing his arm around his shoulders. “They will pay, these monsters!”
Jaled, a knight of the Sultan’s Body, rose from his chair and crossed over to the box. He leaned in, his head cocked to the side. “He’s been drowned.”
“Drowned?” whispers went up.
One by one, all eyes crossed over to the grand vizier as if waiting for his cue. When he turned his face towards the sultan, the rest did too.
“Why?” asked Sultan Mazayd, his voice hoarse, strained.
The grand vizier struggled up to his feet. “That is indeed a puzzling question. What’s interesting to note, though, is that Marjit Lastan went missing a week ago, my sultan, before the unfortunate party.”
Jaled shook his head. “I don’t understand. We received the skinned finger today, a day after their blasphemous demands came through. They gave us two days to respond before they harmed any more members of the sultan’s glorious family. Why not honor that?”
The viziers began talking at once, each offering their own take on the situation. Kunita bit her lower lip, her eyes glued to the severed head in the box! She blinked. Something about the box was… unusual, unexpected. She squinted, troubled by what her senses shouted at her to see that she just couldn’t.
Gab, Head of the Kalb Inquisitors, rose. Voices petered out. His face was twisted, his cheeks red with rage. “This is a clear sign they have no honor, they follow no rules. That they will do whatever their demented hearts desire until they’re caught and separated limb from limb.”
“They are demented monsters,” said the gray-turbaned inquisitor standing behind Gab.
“Indeed,” agreed Lud Ghiani, glaring at the grisly box.
The viziers started muttering again, most of them focusing their attention on the grand vizier, who sat stony-faced. His younger son kept muttering, the elder quiet as death. Kunita watched the Ghianis. The grand vizier was powerful, but there was no getting around the fact that it was his son’s party where the attack had happened. The powerful grand vizier had been humiliated and his family knew it well.
Directly ahead, two ameers of minor provinces Kunita couldn't even name whispered to each other. Then they turned their chins up to the sultan. Kunita blinked. One wasn't meant to look up at the glorious sultan until they were addressed. To flout that unspoken rule was unheard of, especially when done so by mere ameers—princes they might be in their own fiefdoms, but here in the capital city, they were little more than children awarded playpens by the almighty sultan.
Jaled turned around to face the sultan, his golden armor glinting under the flickering torchlights, then sunk to his knees, his head bowed low. “My sultan, give me the order and I will personally search every single household in Algaria.”
“That’s unpractical, Jaled,” said the grand vizier, his voice low, his forehead sweaty. “We simply don’t have the time for it.”
Jaled bristled visibly at that, but didn't reply. Kunita found herself agreeing with the grand vizier. Algaria’s gates has been closed off since the attack. Yes, it was more than likely that the captured were somewhere in the city, but Algaria housed hundreds of thousands. Trying to find a dozen or so people in the teeming masses was as hard a job as finding a gold thimble from under a ton of shifting sands.
“There’s another way,” said the grand vizier slowly. Coughing, he turned his head towards Gab. “We could offer them an incentive to buy us time.”
“No,” replied Gab flatly. The inquisitor behind him shook his head vehemently.
“Listen to Father,” cried Lud Ghiani. “For the sake of all that’s holy, these aren’t normal times!” The grand vizier waved his hand and the young man looked away.
“For a few years now, we’ve been considering reforms for the order of the Kalb Inquisitors,” said the grand vizier slowly as others watched on, their faces growing tense. “If we could suggest to the captors that—”
“If anything, the inquisitors need greater authority over the magi abominations,” cut in the Head of the Kalb Inquisitors, “not less! Had we gained those powers already, we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with.”
The grand vizier glared at the Kalb inquisitor. As powerful as the inquisitors were, and as fearful as Gab could be, no one outranked the grand vizier except for the sultan himself. Kunita exhaled. Today was a day of changes, the likes of which she’d never imagined before. She was responsible for teaching etiquette to the harem girls; who did that for the Head Inquisitor? Suddenly her own petty worries about earning enough money to leave the capital no longer seemed to matter.
Lud Ghiani thumped his chest and let out a restrained howl. “My sultan, I’ve failed you. Father, I’ve failed you too. It was my party where the attack happened, my watch where this great tragedy unfolded. These are the truths, shameful facts that will follow me to my grave, but”—he swept his pleading eyes from Gab to Jaled—“we must not discount any option if there’s even a remote chance of recouping our honor.” He hung his head, his fingers crushing his black robes. “We must not!”
For a few breaths, no one spoke. Then, Jaled cleared his throat. “I agree with the grand vizier’s son, and would like to report that the city guard and the Sultan’s Body are actively working with anyone that can help us. We’re doing all we can, working with the likes of criminal gangs within the city, consulting with mavericks like Palvar Turka and other vigilantes, reaching out to our spies both within and beyond our borders, to name just a few of our activities.” He nodded. “We will find the bastards. It’s not a matter of if, but when.”
“Palvar Turka?” whispered a girl behind her. “Wasn’t he the tall dandy Nikhtuni at the Grand Celebration some time ago?”
Kunita didn't mention she’d seen him at the cursed party she’d managed to wrangle an invitation for. She’d been hoping to find a benefactor who might offer her patronage. Instead, disaster had struck. She shook her head. Jaled was known for being precise with his words, and of the many activities he’d outlined, he’d not mentioned the inquisitors. Gab sat stiffly, arms crossed over his chest, the voluminous folds of his gray turb
an obscuring his features. Beside him, the grand vizier’s face betrayed no emotion even as both of his sons dabbed at their eyes.
“That Lud is such a good-looking young man,” whispered one of the girls behind Kunita. “What would I not give to entertain him instead of his ugly brother!”
“He likes to dress well, always wrapped in his expensive dark silks,” replied another. “Never heard him taking them off, though!”
“Another one of those men?” said the first girl, sighing dramatically. “Ah, such a loss for us.”
Even as the courtiers continued to discuss their next steps animatedly, the sultan watching on silently, Kunita struggled to keep her eyes away from the box.
There was something about it that felt familiar. Something about the cloth wrapping it and how the light fell across its velvety folds obscuring the flowery pattern.
She needed to get close to take a better look.
Kunita gritted her teeth. In the hierarchy of the Istani world, a woman of the harem responsible for teaching young girls etiquette held no power. She had no way of getting closer. Then her eyes crossed over to young Jaled and she smiled. She did have some unconventional avenues available to her.
But what would happen afterwards if she wanted to use this opportunity to find powerful contacts?
Jaled was old-fashioned, and wouldn’t allow her, a mere woman, to tag along with him. She’d arranged time off her duties for a bit, though, and she wasn’t going to let it all go to waste while the apparatus of the sultanate got consumed by the missing royals. She needed someone impressionable enough she could convince into letting her be a part of all this.
But who would be stupid and reckless enough to let her do that?
Kunita smiled.
She did know such a person.
Chapter Ten
“Blood and freezing onions,” Palvar cursed, wrapping his arms tight around him.
The sun had just set, and the baking streets of Algaria were beginning to lose their heat. Winter wasn’t far off—not something that affected the day much in desert cities like Algaria—but the nights had started getting cooler. The road ahead of him was still busy, though, street hawkers calling for customers, thrusting slices of pomegranate at passersby. Crows cawed from a palm tree to the left, their ugly calls joined by a braying donkey.