by Fuad Baloch
The man who called himself Ignar beamed, a tear leaking from his eye down his grimy cheek, leaving a moist trail. “Blood and fire, light and dark, water and—” Ignar trailed away, then snapped his fingers. “Or is it meant to be fire and water? Never can remember!” Crashing back on his backside, he whimpered, then slapped his face hard. “Stupid, stupid!”
“Hey, there is no reason to—”
“Dumb, dumb!” The room rang out with the sound of flesh smacking flesh as Ignar slapped himself over and over. Through all that, he continued to smile, continued to cry. Palvar watched on, his own circumstance forgotten.
“You’re shitting crazy,” Palvar muttered. “Just my luck!”
“I”—Ignar slapped himself—“am going to”—another slap—“the deepest hell hole.”
“Now, now, don’t you say that!” said Palvar, clicking his tongue as one might when calming an unruly camel. “I’m sure there are others more deserving of that.”
Ignar stopped, his teary eyes turning to Palvar. “You mean that?”
“Of course.” Palvar licked his lips again. “Talking of hell, you know one thing that most definitely won’t be there?”
“Me?”
“Water,” Palvar said. “Think you could get me something to drink?”
Ignar cocked his head to the side and began scratching his chin. “I… don’t know what to do.”
“I can tell you do know the right thing.”
“Mother… the shadows… the masters… the captain… I… I don’t know.”
Palvar exhaled as Ignar’s muttering grew quicker, the words rolling over each other so fast Palvar couldn’t understand them. Not that it mattered. Memory of his misadventure was coming back. He had walked right into a trap. Far from being the one to free the captives and reap eternal glory, he had become their latest captive. A bit insulting, though, he realized with some hurt, to be taken in by the likes of Ignar.
Taking a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore the stench, Palvar followed the breathing exercises his aunt had taught him as a child. A long breath through the mouth, followed by an equally long exhalation allowing the air to scratch the back of the throat. Mercifully, his panic did recede a bit, enough for him to start thinking of a way out. His predicament was nothing new. He’d been in worse positions before and he’d always come out, hadn't he? He just had to find the others and—
Palvar felt his eyes widen. He looked around. Just him and Ignar. He cleared his throat. “Ignar?”
Ignar looked up from his muttering.
“In the tunnel…”
“Yes?”
“What happened to the others?”
Ignar clapped his hands. “The shadows?”
Palvar opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, hope stirring in his chest. If neither the magus nor Captain Tamat had been caught, then there was every chance the city guard were looking for him right now. Palvar just had to keep his mouth shut, and not let slip the fact that Captain Tamat had been following him. Until then, he just had to ensure it wasn’t his finger, or worse, getting put in a box anytime soon.
That thought gave him pause. As Ignar grew quieter, rocking sideways, both hands pressing into his temples, Palvar strained against his binds, but they didn't give. Water dripped somewhere outside the door, but had he heard something else as well? Palvar leaned forward, turning his left ear towards the door.
Then, he heard it again. The sound of someone whimpering in the distance. Palvar chewed on his lower lip. Was it the magus? One of the Istani royals? Roha? The urge to slap himself rose over him. What kind of a rescuer was he if he’d embraced the very fate he wanted to free others from? “Damn you, Palvar. Did you really have to play the hero?” Ignar watched him but Palvar didn't care much in the moment.
“I guess Salv wouldn’t be pleased either,” said Ignar, moving his arms as if he were swimming. “He does like the prisoners watered and fed. Way too much fussing for my liking, of course. Flesh dead tomorrow is good as flesh dead today, I say.”
“Wise words,” said Palvar, feeling a sliver of fear creep into his chest. “Is Salv the guy who accompanied you in the tunnel?”
Ignar muttered something inaudible.
“He must have been.” Palvar shook his head. “So, you got both the magus and me. If so, then that’s… that’s the bargain met, isn’t it?”
Ignar didn’t respond, the dread gnawing at Palvar. By Rabb, he was the one to put Roshan in harm’s way. It was one thing getting caught himself, but what would they do with a magus? Keep talking, he told himself. The moment he stopped talking, he’d be lost to the terror of the moment.
“These magi…” said Palvar carefully, watching Ignar closely for reaction. “They scare me, the lot of them. One just never knows quite what to say to them, aye?”
“The master does,” said Ignar, grinning. “He always does.”
“He does?”
“Nothing does the magus do without first gaining the master’s approval,” Ignar replied in a singsongy voice. He lurched up to his feet, his lips curling back. “He moves like the wind, green and unseen, a memento left to the storms.”
Palvar licked his lips again, suppressing the urge to question how the wind could both be green and unseen. Any other day, he would have. Today, though, even he knew that he’d only invite trouble as a result.
Think! Palvar tilted his head back. Where was he?
Judging by the stink, he was still somewhere in the sewers. If so, that made it easier for the city guard. Perhaps the best option really was to do nothing and just bide the time until they burst through.
What if they don’t?
Despondence threatened to choke him. “Stop it!” Palvar told himself sternly. Ignar turned towards him but Palvar didn’t look up.
“Salv would want you to not die of thirst,” said Ignar.
“That’s mighty generous of him.”
“Dehydrated bodies do not cut well.”
“T-that’s an interesting perspective.”
“Water!” said Ignar, turning, and shuffling toward the door. “Must get water.”
Palvar raised his hand. A cup of ca’va would be wonderful in these circumstances. He let his hand drop. Somehow, he didn’t think Ignar would appreciate his sophisticated craving.
Besides, an idea was beginning to take form in his mind.
Chapter Twenty
The map of Istan lay sprawled on the floor, shadows dancing across its surface under the lone torch sconced in the wall.
Keeping his breath still as water—a trick he’d learned a long time ago from the traveling mystics of the faraway Xin empire—Master Zalan watched it intently. Algaria, the so-called jewel of the world, lay underneath his right foot. He smiled.
It wouldn't be long before the plague took over the world, exacting terrible sacrifices.
All too necessary, though.
He exhaled, wrapping his shawl around him. The smooth texture under his fingers gave him little comfort tonight. The world had never been a just place—something he’d learned at a young age—but he was right in striving against the tyranny of the status quo.
Unlike the untold others who went through their meaningless lives like sheep, he was making a real difference.
His name would live on, long after he was gone.
Why the ache in his heart, then?
He drew himself up straight. No good ever came unless its demands for sweat and tears and blood were met.
Drawing his hood down, he walked over to the window.
The night was long.
But it was ending.
Soon.
Chapter Twenty-One
Palvar forced a smile as the door creaked open. “Welcome, bearer of provisions and tidings of the wide world outside!”
Ignar grinned, water splashing from the pitcher set precariously on the tray in his hands. “Salv says you must eat.”
“Us men of Nikhtun would never say no to that.”
Ignar shuffled forw
ard, his greasy hair half-covering his face. Palvar stretched out his fingers. He had no way of measuring time accurately in this sunless, dank cell, but at least a whole day must have passed by now. Where were the city guards? What had happened to the magus? He’d tried questioning Ignar earlier, choosing his words carefully as Ignar had brought in loaves of stale bread and bowls of lentil soup. As a result, he’d managed to get his limbs unbound, but still knew precious little. Salv—who had to be the other man following the magus—had not shown himself, and anything else Ignar said made little sense to him.
Ignar sneezed. Palvar refused to see where the phlegm landed. Anger swirled within him but he swallowed it. If rage would have gotten him anywhere, all that pacing about in the cell, punching the walls, straining against the iron bars on the door, would have resulted in something better than the throbbing, bruised knuckles he had to show for his efforts. Through the iron bars, he’d called out to the voice that had been whimpering, but had heard nothing back. If there had indeed been other prisoners nearby, either they’d been since moved or… dealt with.
He peered at Ignar standing beside the refuse bucket. “Can I ask you something?”
“To shit, one must strain,” replied Ignar, his voice lucid, clear for once. “To grow wise, one must ask.”
Palvar hid his surprise. “Profound words!” He paused for a beat. “Whatever did happen to the magus in the sewers? Now, it’s no dust on my nose what you do to him, but if he gets mad and rains mountains on us, I’d like to prepare.” He chuckled. “As much as I can, anyway.”
“The shadows ate him.”
“Ate him? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We will find him. The masters demand their price and they shall have it!”
“He… got away?” Palvar rubbed the palms of his hands together, glancing at the refuse bucket. “He got away?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Either he’s much better at dodging the likes of you or he got very lucky.”
Ignar mumbled something incomprehensible.
Palvar didn’t believe in luck. No Nikhtuni did. That led to troubling thoughts. Dangerous ones. Roshan hadn’t been caught. How come? He and his kind were the prize these bastards had demanded in the first place. How could they have let him slip like that? Was it possible Ignar was lying? Palvar watched him as he muttered to his long, dirty fingernails. No, Palvar decided with a sigh. If anything, Ignar was probably the most truthful person in the whole of Algaria. Ignar began shuffling back to the door, bending to grab the black silk cloth he’d been playing with yesterday.
Palvar hesitated. He had been working on him every time he’d entered the cell, tolerating his meaningless gibberish, regaling him with tales of his own adventures, sitting without cringing beside the stink of his body. He had built up a level of trust on the off chance that the city guard never came through and he needed to manipulate him.
Time was running out, though. Palvar could feel it in his bones. Whatever it was that Ignar and his masters planned, it wouldn’t do to sit back and just let it happen.
There was another option, of course. One he’d been keeping in reserve. One that would take away all other options. Either it would work. Or it’d seal his fate.
“Wait,” Palvar called out.
Ignar turned around slowly.
“I’ve been thinking,” Palvar said, walking towards the refuse bucket and beckoning his captor to approach him. “These ancient sewers… they can’t be good for your health, right? Terrible for the body, irritating for the sinuses”—he pointed at Ignar’s greasy locks—“and really bad for those blessed with beautiful thick hair.”
Ignar’s face fell. “Mother loved my hair.”
“Ah, the sweet memories of our parents.”
Ignar wrung his hands. “She kept saying that even as she died.”
Something in his words caught Palvar, conjuring an image of the madman choking a frail old woman as she continued to mumble how much she loved him. Palvar shook his head. Now was most definitely not the time to be entertaining distracting thoughts.
“Why don’t you sit down here?” Palvar said, motioning at the spot beside the bucket. “Let me look at your hair and untangle these luscious locks. You wouldn’t want your mother disappointed if she saw you looking like this, would you?”
“You’d do that for me?” Ignar sniffled, dabbing at his eyes. Sobbing, he crashed heavily on the floor, not caring for the bucket of refuse right beside him. “Salv never cares for me.”
“His loss, oh yes,” cooed Palvar. He sat down on his haunches, his heart sounding like a drum. “Well, it’s your good luck to have someone as caring as me around you.” He leaned forward, forcing himself to touch Ignar’s repulsive hair, his other hand reaching for the bucket. Something in Ignar’s hair wriggled onto his hand and Palvar jumped. “Son of a shitting bat!”
“Oh, that!” Grinning, Ignar reached into his hair and retrieved another squiggly monstrosity. He peered at it, then shrugging, placed it in his mouth and began chewing. It crunched, crackled, the sickening sounds loud and revolting. Palvar blinked in shock. Once, he’d thought himself impervious to anything life could throw at him, but now he couldn’t stop his stomach from lurching.
“Focus,” Palvar whispered, leaning forward again. With his other hand, he reached, this time his fingers finding the brick he’d hidden away behind the refuse bucket—a lucky find he’d made after he had been untied. Ignar was humming, swaying sideways, his eyes closed. Palvar paused. Was there another way?
Hot blood coursed through his veins. No, there was no other way. He had to get out.
Palvar raised the brick up high. Ignar’s eyes remained shut.
Summoning all his force, he bore down.
The brick smashed into Ignar’s skull, breaking into fragments. He howled, blood spurting from his forehead. Palvar shot up, his arm numb from the impact. He looked around, his heart racing. Ignar was screaming, the sounds hitting Palvar’s chest like hammers. Should he hit Ignar once more, or make for the exit?
Palvar turned around. Ignar had mentioned Salv before, and it was likely there were others who worked with them. If true, then he didn’t have much time before Salv and his minions came to investigate. Cradling his left wrist, Palvar approached the door warily. He couldn’t hear anything outside over Ignar’s shouts. He hesitated. Should he turn around, quiet the madman first?
He took a quick peek outside. A long corridor ran outside the cell, water dripping from the ceiling in a few places, the far corners illuminated faintly by torches. Left or right? One most definitely led to the surface. The other, likely to Salv and his minions.
“By the she-camel!” Palvar swore, looking one way, then the other. He squinted. To the left, he could almost see the dark silhouette of a door. Either that was another cell like his, or the resting place for Salv. Palvar clenched his fingers. “Right, it is!”
The sound of cackling directly behind him froze Palvar in place. Then came a high shriek. No pain in that. More a glee with childlike abandon.
Palvar turned.
Ignar crashed into him, taking both of them down. Palvar raised his wrists, summoning all the strength he could muster in his weakened state to push Ignar off. He weighed more, had greater reach, but the madman grinned and cackled as if none of that mattered. He sat down on Palvar’s chest, pinning his arms, specks of his spit falling on Palvar’s face.
“Get off me!” Palvar yelled, unable to move his arms under his weight, his legs thrashing uselessly like fish out of water.
“You’re not a good man,” Ignar said. For a moment, his face grew soft, the eyes growing unfocused. Then, they narrowed in hatred. “Mother warned me about people like you. Honeyed tongues, daggers in the armpits.”
“She lied!” Grunting, Palvar pulled up his legs and wrapped his feet around Ignar’s head. Ignar, his face bloody, shrugged free easily, then bent.
“She was a liar,” Ignar muttered. “She lied until her very last breath.” He cackled, blowing hi
s nasty breath into Palvar’s face, his blood falling on Palvar’s cheeks. “Just like you.”
“You horrid lump of camel shit!” Summoning the last of his fading strength, Palvar shoved his forehead into Ignar’s nose. It cracked open and blood gushed out. Ignar let out a scream as his head snapped back. Palvar wrapped his legs around Ignar’s stomach, and twisted his body to fight his way free.
Despite the blood leaking from his forehead and his nose, Ignar didn’t let go. Despite it all, his lips curled back. “Pain is good, Mother always used to say.”
“I…” Palvar tried, feeling his strength fading away. “L-let me go.”
Ignar raised his right hand. Palvar was too weak to use his free hand to do much now. Ignar slapped him hard on the cheek. His flesh stinging, his senses crying out in pain, Palvar blinked hard, willing the sensations to go away, to ignore—
Ignar slapped him again. And again. And again.
“N-no…” Palvar whimpered as he felt his skin tear away, his face turning into a cesspool of pain.
“Mother was a bitch. They all are, ones with words of honey.”
Palvar opened his jaw only for Ignar to slap him again.
Palvar had fought many battles, ending up basking in the glory of the aftermath. Good days. He recalled his aunt beaming as the ameer’s order came in confirming his appointment as Nikhtun’s ambassador to the sultan’s court. The best moment of his life. As Ignar continued to hit him, Palvar forced himself to think of those happier times, occasions where he mattered. The way he’d foiled the attack on the sultan’s life in the Grand Celebration. Slap. The first time he’d been shown to his bachelor’s apartment in the capital city. Slap. The night he’d seen Roha. Slap.
Despite the pain and his futile attempts to ignore it, Palvar couldn’t banish one thought.
He had doomed himself.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Salv stormed into the far cell, Ignar lumbering a step behind. A day had passed since his altercation with the courtier, but Ignar acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary—despite the bloody mess on his face. Salv couldn’t ignore it, though.