Crescent Inquisition

by Fuad Baloch

  “I really should have brought a shawl!” Palvar pinched his side, his eyes drifting from his target and towards a group of sashaying servant girls accompanied by two eunuchs. “Focus!”

  He turned away, turning his gaze firmly at the Reratish embassy standing still. Of course it did, Palvar reminded himself sarcastically. Buildings tended to do that. The two guards outside the main gates were different now, but beyond them, the main door to the embassy remained shut. “I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?”

  More than likely, he was. Going off on mere intuition that was so far completely lacking on facts. Yes, the Reratish stood to gain if the trade delegations Qilal had mentioned were called off. Yes, it would mean considerable financial loss to the ameer of Nikhtun, something that no doubt would become Palvar’s issue, but then again from the perspective of the sultanate, that was hardly anything worth worrying about. Not when royals had been kidnapped, challenging the supremacy of the sultan himself. Then again, there wasn’t anything conventional Palvar could do to find the kidnapped royals, and so he had little choice other than to trust that his intuition would lead him right.

  “The bastard is definitely hiding something,” muttered Palvar, squinting at the embassy, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ambassador. Was the side door slightly ajar? “Whatever it is, I’m going to find out!” His eyes drifted over to the sewers. “The finger”—he shook his head, chasing the ghastly image away and forcing himself to continue—“carried the stink that must have come from the sewers.” He held up a finger. “Delays to the trade talks strengthen the Reratish hand.” He nodded to himself, holding up another finger, not caring for the puzzled looks of the passersby as he continued thinking out loud. “The ambassador is shifty, even for one from Reratish.” He held up yet another finger.

  Palvar stared at the three raised fingers. “Considering neither the city guard nor the Sultan’s Body have unearthed any promising leads, I have to be right in suspecting the ambassador to be a prime suspect. Yes, that makes perfect sense.”

  Even as he tried to convince himself, a small, annoying part of him continued to doubt him, going so far as to disparage him. He ignored it. He was Palvar Turka, courtier of the sultan of Istan, personal representative of the ameer of Nikhtun, and he would do the right thing, no matter the cost. Even if it meant standing here like a lowly jawan outside the embassy. Palvar exhaled noisily, feeling his conviction sag. He was a courtier. Was there really no one more appropriate, say a guard loaned to him from the city guard, who could be spying on the embassy instead of him? Wasn't that their job, instead of the distinguished courtiers of the sultan?

  “The sacrifices I make for the realm,” said Palvar, thrusting his hands in his armpits. “If only Captain Jeet Habbra was still alive.” The thought gave him pause, bringing up more uncomfortable thoughts he didn’t have time for. Perhaps there was some truth to his impetuousness becoming a contributing factor towards the captain’s untimely end. The two of them had worked together on recovering a stolen magical artifact, the chase resulting in them foiling the attack on the night of the Grand Celebration. Palvar—despite the captain’s calls for restraints—had publicly confronted Bohdan, a criminal who had been working with a magus for accomplice. The magus had fled but both Bohdan and the captain had ended up dead.

  “We saved the sultan’s life, though!” Palvar reminded himself. An old beggar passing by spat to the side. Palvar closed his eyes for a beat. They had saved the sultan’s life, but the bargain had taken the captain’s life instead.

  “What are the chances these two affairs—the theft of the artifact and the kidnappings—are interconnected?” Palvar muttered to himself. He shook his head. Once the night was done, he had to approach Captain Tamat, convince the captain of his suspicions about the ambassador and get him to lend Palvar a man or two. Yes, he was fast running out of favors to call in, but he had to—

  Palvar squinted, his muscles tensing.

  The embassy door stood open and a tall, stout figure, his face obscured by the folds of his turban, was emerging. Adrenaline coursed through Palvar’s veins as he recognized the figure: the ambassador, the disguise unable to mask the portly frame and tall stature.

  “There you are, you uncultured Reratish dog!” Palvar swore. A passerby, an Atishi priest judging by his saffron rags, looked up at him sharply. Palvar ignored the priest, his eyes glued to the ambassador in disguise. “If you didn't have anything to hide, why would you hide your face?” Palvar, back when he was young and free of his aunt’s shackles, had taken to hiding his face when visiting the harem girls, hoping no one would report him to her. Despite the urgency of the current moment, his mind drifted, recalling the pleasant days, the perfumed nights when—

  “Shroud on you, Palvar!” he swore, then slapped his cheek. “Focus!”

  The disguised ambassador shuffled out of the embassy, offering a quick nod to the two guards stationed outside, who bowed their heads as he went past them. The ambassador looked over his shoulder, then headed west.

  Towards the sewers.

  Excitement pulsing through him, Palvar followed him. This was it, then. The bastard would enter the sewers. Palvar would wait a dozen long breaths, then follow him in, one hand gripping the curved Nikhtuni dagger tucked in his waist. He would trail the ambassador through the stinky maze all the way through to where the Reratish dog had imprisoned the captives. Palvar would not barge in straightaway—he was wiser than that. No, he would return with a hundred men of the city guard, laden by the blessings of the grand vizier himself, and rescue the captives in grand style.

  Palvar grinned, a spring in his feet. Already the bards sang of his heroic exploits at the Grand Celebration. Now they would sing of his daring rescue. And then no one would dare ignore him ever again. The ameer of the Nikhtun would realize that Palvar’s star had risen far enough and be forced to acknowledge him as—

  The ambassador walked past the sewer entrance.

  Palvar blinked. “Farts on you, you’re going the wrong way!”

  The ambassador continued to shuffle away, heading for a side alley. Palvar licked his lips. He half-debated the idea of calling for the Reratish man and reminding him he had missed the sewers. Wringing his hands, Palvar followed.

  Ten streets later, Palvar was sweating. Now thankful he hadn't laden himself under the weight of bulky shawls, he found himself running out of patience. The Reratish ambassador kept his head down, continuing to go from one street to another, the crowds building up around them despite the late hour. “Just what are you up to?”

  They crossed into a narrow street teeming with merchant stalls, veiled women, and long-bearded men wearing large, colorful turbans. No, not narrow, Palvar realized. Ancient, the old houses and shopfronts on opposite sides leaning inwards as if a powerful djinn was trying to get the opposing sides to kiss. It could have been one of the first neighborhoods of Algaria, for all he knew. Not a place he’d visited before, and judging by the stink of unwashed bodies, not one he’d clamor to return to either.

  “Hey, watch out!” someone shouted at Palvar in accented Nirdu.

  “In a hurry!” replied Palvar, shoving his way through a throng of shuffling monks who’d decided to cross his path. As he turned left to try and cut a path ahead, his eyes briefly caught a short man ducking behind a date-seller’s stall. Frowning, Palvar turned his gaze back to his quarry, lengthening his stride. “Passing through,” he rumbled. “Step away, step away!”

  Algaria, much like Buzdar, was in fact a city of cities. There was the Shahi Qilla, where the sultan and his family lived, an area where everyone spoke in hushed tones in elevated Nirdu and Gharsi dialects, the gathering place of men of the highest stations. Then, there were the rich mercantile quarters by the docks. The mansions there couldn't challenge the palaces of the Shahi Qilla in sheer splendor, but in there the pace of life was faster, housing men of fast wit who worked long and partied late into the night. Areas Palvar much preferred.

  Then there was the rest
of the city. Suburbs like these where life was chaotic in its most organic sense. A kaleidoscope of noise and scents and annoying elbows that made it impossible for one to think straight.

  “Agusti Danfurd, what business do you have here?” Palvar said through gritted teeth. A dozen paces ahead, the ambassador was turning left into a wide plaza bursting with people. Cursing, Palvar followed.

  “—restrain the magi—” someone shouted as Palvar turned into the plaza.

  “The abominations must die!” shouted another, waving his fists in the air.

  Palvar stood on his tiptoes, his eyes straining to find the ambassador. A sea of humanity had gathered on the plaza; men, women, young and old, dressed in a multitude of hues, led by priests of a dozen different faiths. The one thing that united them all was the shouting. Each and every one of them seemed to be yelling, the weight of their voices crashing into Palvar’s senses like a thousand hammers.

  “There!” Palvar shouted, spying the top of the ambassador’s turban. “Out of my way!”

  “The sultan must know,” said an Atishi priest, stepping in his way. He raised his right hand, brown prayer beads wrapped around his arm. “He must.”

  “Step away, priest!” Palvar roared.

  Another accursed priest joined the first. They were both frail and old, but their eyes shone with purpose. “The abominations are behind the attack on the sultan’s family. They are. And they must pay.”

  “If you don't get out of my way,” Palvar shouted, “you’re going to seriously regret this day!”

  “Watch your tongue, you foul-mouthed westerner,” shouted a young man, stepping in between the priests. He said something more but at that the moment the crowd roared, swallowing his words.

  “You call me foul-mouthed?” Palvar demanded. He stepped forward, both fists raised. “I demand an apology, I absolutely do, sahib.”

  The man muttered some more, then, shaking his head, disappeared into the crowd.

  Palvar bristled, debating with himself whether to avenge his honor or move on. Then he recalled why he was here in the first place.

  “Not the time!” He stood on his tiptoes, his heart racing as he scanned for the ambassador. “Blood and onions!”

  Ambassador Agusti Danfurd was gone, swallowed by the sea of agitated humanity.

  Chapter Eleven

  Salv hummed to himself. An old tune his mother used to sing to him when he was a toddler. He didn't remember the words anymore but the melody calmed his nerves nonetheless.

  He didn't feel any calmer this night, though. An earthquake was coming, the kind that leveled cities, and despite knowing of it, he couldn’t step away.

  “What am I doing here?” Salv muttered to himself, rubbing his hands. He was alone in the main room of their hideout. With the door shut behind him, he couldn't hear the prisoners anymore. Maybe they had finally fallen asleep. Even if they hadn't, at least they had the decency not to disturb him this late at night.

  Not that he was sleeping.

  Salv stood and crossed over to the window, his shadow stretching out long in the lone torchlight flickering in the corner. Drawing in a long breath, he raised the curtain. The night sky was dark. The two moons had either not risen or were too young to make a meaningful impact yet. He didn't know that for sure. That was troubling. Salv Canat was a man who took pride in knowing the world and its happenings.

  “One more job,” he reminded himself of his promise. He stared out the window. The afternoon had been chaotic. Their hideout in the Artisans Quarter was tucked away from the main thoroughfares, away from prying eyes of the masses, but in the afternoon a group of angry protesters had marched nearby. He hadn't been able to hear them, but the angry calls had greatly agitated Ignar. Salv had felt his blood freeze. He had reached out to his past comrades without letting the master know, and for a moment, he’d feared the crowds had come to skin him for it.

  For long moments, Salv stood still by the window, feeling his chest rise and fall. He had captured fourteen members of the Istani sultan. A feat unheard of, one history books would never record against his name. He was fine with that. He had gotten old, his bones weary, his desire for adulation dimmed. Once the master had gotten what he wanted, Salv would have his twenty sacks of gold, and be on his way to a well-earned life of rest.

  What good would that gold be if there was nowhere to spend it?

  Salv rocked in place. Just what did the master want?

  He’d been doing a lot of thinking recently—getting nowhere, though. A personal quirk he’d never been much appreciative of. It was the waiting, the lull in between battles, that made men think useless thoughts. He had to keep himself occupied, not let thoughts flitter about unrestrained.

  Salv scratched the stubble on his chin. When he had accepted the job through an old contact three months ago, the idea of going up against the almighty sultan had sounded like the ultimate challenge, helped quite a bit by promises of the lavish payout. Strange, then, that he was getting anxious now.

  There was a good reason for it, though, Salv decided. The master had appeared indecisive the last time they’d met, setting off alarm bells in his head. That wasn’t normal, and Salv was nothing but a creature of habit and discipline.

  It doesn't matter, he told himself. Soon, all this would be over. Whatever the master wanted with the magi wasn't his headache. He was a soldier for hire, and when his job was done, he got to move on.

  “The shadows are singing!” came Ignar’s singing voice from the other room, followed by a burst of laughter getting closer.

  His chest tightening, Salv whirled around.

  The door handle turned and Ignar poured himself into the room an inch at a time, struggling, wincing, as if extricating himself away from some unseen enemy.

  “You should be sleeping,” Salv said sternly. “Not long before your watch begins.”

  “The shadows move behind the shadows, the reflected light guiding the path ahead,” said Ignar, panting, still not past the threshold.

  Salv crossed his arms across his chest. Ignar was definitely the one aspect of this job he would not miss once this was done. Then, he saw the parchment tucked in Ignar’s armpit. “Give it to me.”

  Squealing, Ignar leaped forward. Salv stepped aside, one hand instinctively falling to his waist and retrieving his dagger. Ignar grinned. He bowed, his knees buckling under him, then rose slowly, stretching out the parchment with one hand.

  Salv took it, placing the dagger back in the sheath.

  He read the letter, his brows furrowing. Shaking his head, he placed the parchment on the table. “We’ve been ordered to move.”

  Ignar cocked his head to the side. His lips curled back, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

  “Why, though?” Salv rubbed his chin. “Rusted shields, we’re safe here. If it’s just the two of us moving the prisoners, it’ll take us forever.” He clenched his fists. “And why move them there?”

  “All shit stains wash down to the same place.”

  Salv exhaled. It didn't really surprise him to see that Ignar knew what the letter said. Maybe it was time for him to call in some help of his own. His comrades owed him, after all.

  Ignar hiccupped, then sneezed, his chest wheezing as if it was constricted.

  “I don't like it,” whispered Salv. “Not one bit.”

  Ignar cackled.

  Salv turned back to the window. He had spent a lifetime fighting in the desert and knew that the wind had changed. A sandstorm, powerful enough to lay nations to waste was picking up strength, and far from finding refuge in an oasis, he was venturing out by himself.

  The idea scared him.

  But it also thrilled him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Palvar had wasted yesterday tailing and then losing the ambassador. The night, he had lost to heavy drinking, all the while admitting his weaknesses to his reflection in the mirror. He had been doing all that—a whole lot of nothing—while the city guard had continued searching for th
e kidnapped royals amidst a troubled city, the realm crashing closer to another day where the ransom went unpaid.

  “This is a new day!” Palvar told himself sternly, not blinking despite the sunlight falling straight on his eyes as it rose over the shopfronts to his right. “I will not give up.”

  Maybe he was stupid, obtuse even, for deciding to chase the ambassador once more. But as he glared at the embassy across the busy road, he couldn't shake off the conviction in his heart that he was on the right path. The ambassador was up to something—that much was certain, for why else would he disguise himself—and Palvar would unveil his plans, no matter how many times he tried and failed.

  Today was the seventh day of the week—a day of rest in the Reratish kingdom—and if Palvar had anticipated it right, there was a chance the ambassador might leave earlier than he had yesterday. If he did, Palvar wouldn’t have to wait as long.

  Sighing, Palvar scanned the street to his right. A thickset man fifty yards away turned his back to him, raising his hands as if praying to the Unseen God. Palvar frowned. Why did that figure seem familiar?

  “—drowned!” a merchant was saying to his companion as he rode past Palvar.

  “Terrible,” replied his companion—another merchant, judging by the exquisitely crafted saddle.

  Palvar pursed his lips. The world around him felt different, but all those were distractions he couldn’t let consume him. Every moment that he wasted meant more distance between him and the captives. Between him and Roha. His chest constricting, Palvar gritted his teeth. News of the box that had arrived at the diwan-e-khas, the sultan’s private court, had made its way through to him. He’d known Marjit Lastan as a gregarious man who loved women and wine in equal measure, a man after Palvar’s own heart. The thought of his decapitated head sitting in a box made Palvar want to vomit. “I’ll find you bastards and wring your necks!” Palvar closed his eyes for half a beat. “Even if I don’t, I… I hope others will.”