by Fuad Baloch
Smiling, Palvar slipped his hood back. “Palvar Turka of—”
“Nikhtun!” The guard stepped forward, his eyes wide in surprise. “Seven heavens, we’re all in your debt!”
“Indeed,” said Palvar. “I’m expected, yes?”
“Aye, I’ve received word,” said the guard. “Pray, follow me, sahib.”
Palvar retracted his hood and retrieving his Nikhtuni hat placed it on his head. The guard maintained a deferential silence as he led Palvar through a side gate onto a gravely pathway and into the house proper. For once, Palvar was happy the guard didn’t talk too much. Considering his current state of mind, it was unlikely he’d have made a good speaking companion.
“Would you like ca’va or anything else to drink while you wait?” the guard asked, pointing Palvar to a plush divan in the rich living room.
Palvar rubbed his hands. “Ca’va would do fine. You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve gone without it.”
The guard offered a deep bow and left Palvar alone. Deciding against sitting down, Palvar began pacing the living room. Portraits of distinguished family members stared down at him from their perches on the high walls. Jasmine incense sticks burned in one corner, surrounded by a score of candles of varying lengths. Palvar stopped under the glittering chandelier and looked out the windows. He could hear the faint chatter of the patrolling guards. A night bird called, one he hadn’t heard before—likely brought in from the jungles of the east—followed by the flutter of wings. Apart from that, though, the night was silent.
“Is this really Algaria?” said Palvar, shaking his head in disbelief. The Postan family might have been distantly related to the royal Istani crown, but cocooned away from the maddening noise of the city, one could be forgiven for thinking he was in an oasis.
“I owe you my most profound gratitude,” said a soft, feminine voice behind Palvar.
Palvar wheeled around, his heart leaping to his throat. Two women stood at the door: an older, distinguished lady, her hand resting gently on the arm of the younger one.
Palvar dipped into a bow. “I did what any decent man of the sultanate would have done.”
Letting go of Roha’s arm, the older woman stepped towards him. Palvar had never seen a princess of the Istani family before, but he doubted even they moved as gracefully as this old matriarch. She reached for Palvar’s hand and helped him up, her narrow eyes intense and dark. “You guarded my daughter’s honor and her modesty. There is no way we could ever repay you for that, Courtier Turka. But we are honor-bound to demand you name your price so we can at least attempt to do so.”
Palvar tried to think of something witty to say, but found his will crumbling in front of the solemn woman. “I… demand nothing. My only wish was to enquire if there was anything else I could offer.”
The Postani matriarch smiled. “Truly, your honor knows no bounds.” She turned her head back towards Roha. Then she nodded. “Your ca’va has not yet arrived, courtier. I shall see to it. Roha, would you keep our distinguished guest company until then?”
“As you will, Mother,” said Roha after the briefest of hesitations.
Palvar swallowed, watching the older woman glide out of the room.
“I must apologize for the manner you found me in captivity,” Roha demurred. “That is not how I normally like to present myself.”
Palvar blinked, then throwing back his head, roared with laughter. “Now that was not what I expected to hear.” Then, seeing that Roha appeared puzzled, he waved his arm around to the windows. “Have you looked at the heavens tonight?”
Roha crossed her arms across her chest, Palvar catching a fleeting glimpse of the bandaged hand as she moved it gingerly. Her hair cradling her beautiful face swayed as she raised her large dark eyes at him. “Why?”
“Come with me,” said Palvar, beckoning her forward with an arm. He waited for her as she approached him. Palvar smiled, a riot of emotions running through his heart. That was expected. But the emotion that rose over the others surprised him. Rage over what Ignar had done to her. Palvar gritted his teeth. Had he known Ignar was responsible for maiming her and not Salv, he’d have cut off his head the moment they’d captured the bastard.
It doesn’t matter now. Putting the thought out his mind, he crossed over to the window.
Roha followed him, her perfume—some flower extract sweeter than jasmine—bewitching his senses. She wore a simple, brown peshwaz that lent her an air of unapproachability. Palvar swallowed as he waited for her at the windowsill. He had to comfort her. Another thought rose in his mind, one that refused to leave. He was alone with her in the room, in the middle of the night. A wild thought that left his senses tingling.
“Over there,” he said, pointing at the night sky with his right hand. “Look at the moon.”
“What of it?”
Palvar smiled. “It’s marred tonight, isn’t it? Its brightness dimmed, its shape misshapen by the uneven clouds, its luster diminished.”
Roha kept quiet.
Palvar turned around to face her, reckless and bold now. “You’re the moon, Roha. One that took my heart the first time I saw you in that fateful party. It had to be fate. By Rabb and all that’s holy, we men of Nikhtun are not known to be easy prey, but that day, I lost the direction of my life.” Palvar took in a short breath. “Sometimes these things happen so fast the mind can’t keep up with the heart. But I want you to know that you are the reason I stand here, my pomegranate. The very—”
“Sahib Palvar Turka,” said Roha, turning away. “As Mother said, I doubt I’ll ever be able to repay your debt, however”—she pointed at the sky with her maimed hand—“the moon is never the same shape.” She paused as if gathering her thoughts. “It waxes and wanes, and then there are periods where it disappears entirely from sight. Isn’t that so?”
“Aye.”
“I’m still recovering,” she said, her tone flat. “I had feared it was just my body that had been tortured, but now I realize my soul has been dealt irreparable damage.” She didn’t look at him. “What a moon needs to recover is… time.”
“Time…” Palvar nodded, then taking a step back, dipped into yet another bow. “Indeed. Pray, forgive this extremely foolish man. I’ve been too blinded to see what’s so plainly obvious!”
Roha dropped her chin. “It’s I who must ask your forgiveness.”
Palvar shook his head, taking a step back. “The shadows disperse, the light brightens, one day soon, the stars will sing.”
“What?”
Palvar laughed sheepishly. “Not something that translates well in Nirdu.” She didn’t reply. Standing quietly beside the windowsill, her profile lit by the faint starlight, vulnerable and breathtaking, she looked more an artist’s depiction of a pari than a real person. “I must ask for your leave, Sahiba Postan.”
“Stay,” she called out. “Ca’va will be coming up soon.”
Palvar barked a short laugh. “Maybe I’ll have to come back to take you up on that offer.”
He turned around, his heart heavy and filled with confusing thoughts, and marched for the gates.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kunita blinked, then shook her head in disbelief. “That’s what you said to her?”
Palvar spread his hands, his forehead sweaty. “Emotions are better out than in, no?”
“Are you serious?” When Palvar continued to look puzzled, she chuckled. “By the gods of Ahmin, you really know nothing!”
Palvar licked his lower lip. “Well, I must say women are an inscrutable enigma. They continue to surprise me.”
“They do? Even when they are practically shouting at you?”
“Who’s shouting?”
Kunita sighed, then got up, shaking her head. “Men. They never get it.”
Palvar remained seated on the divan, muttering to himself. Ignoring him, Kunita began pacing in her room. The streets outside bustled with activity, street vendors shouting for customers, beggars crying out in a dozen different langu
ages. Beyond the shop awnings and the minarets of the temples, she could see the mast of yet another ship approaching the Algarian harbor. A ship that would not be carrying her away. She shook her head. At least the noon sun wasn’t as harsh as yesterday, and Palvar was in her room.
A part of her wrestled with her to turn around and pull Palvar into a tight embrace, to comfort the big oaf, to teach him all that he didn’t know. But another part—one brimming with hot jealousy—shackled her. That was not her. Rotten salmon, wasn’t that precisely what she told her girls to look out for in her etiquette classes? Lending an ear to a weary man was fine, but the heart was something to be jealously guarded from a man’s reach.
Bringing her fingers together, she cracked her knuckles. “I truly can’t believe you actually went to her house and then said all that to her,” she said, looking out the window. “Don’t you see the differences between you two? You’re a… courtier from Nikhtun of… well, less than spectacular parentage, where she’s the only child of an old, grand family.”
She heard Palvar slap his thigh, the way he did whenever he grew exasperated. She didn’t turn around.
“An honorable man, when he has feelings for a woman, he lets her know.”
She wheeled around and placed her arms on her hips, feeling all restraints leave her. “An honorable man? How many other women that you’ve been with have heard these feelings, huh?”
Palvar blinked, as if taken aback by the ferocity in her voice. “She… she’s different.”
Kunita smirked. “Oh, right. The other women were just passing amusements, were they? To be played with, then discarded afterwards.”
Palvar’s jaw hung loose as he stared at her.
Kunita glared at him for a long breath. A tremor had crept into her fingers, her face flushed with emotion. But there was no escaping the fact that she was wrong here. Palvar was a man of his time, and she was no one to judge him for what everyone around him did. Besides, it was her fault for letting go of her own emotions. “Palvar,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came upon me.”
“Women,” he muttered. “They never make sense.”
Once more, rage rose over her, but she swallowed it. “You’re the champion of Istan, Palvar. As more people realize what you’ve accomplished, fairest maidens of the land will be throwing themselves to you. You need not rush into anything.”
Palvar shrugged. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”
Kunita offered him a sad smile. “I’ve known great warriors, courtier from Nikhtun. Generals. Mercenary commanders. High priests. The night before they leave for battle, they purr like kittens, cry as if they were babies, all soft as wax.” She exhaled. “Then if they return from victories, they’re different. Invincible. Mountains that cannot be moved. It lasts for a while, that euphoria. But do you know what comes next?”
Palvar shrugged.
“Their confidence makes them forget their bounds,” she said softly. “They try one outlandish maneuver after another, a moth jumping from lamp to lamp, never quite content, unaware of their true station, seeking to conquer all flames they see, and then one day”—she clapped her hands so hard that Palvar looked up, startled—“a flame swallows them up.” She paused. “The moth leaves no trace. No one talks of its arrogance or brief accomplishments afterwards.”
Palvar met her stare evenly. “You think I’m that moth?”
“No?” she challenged, cocking her head to a side. “Did you know some fish leap out of the water to gulp air? While they’re too busy living, sometimes they fail to see the bird of prey swooping down from high. Even if they watch out above, they forget to look out for the bigger fish waiting for them in the water.”
Palvar stood, his back straight like a rod. She raised her chin to meet his eyes. “You’re good with words,” he said, his deep voice hoarse and strained. “All the right metaphors and phrases and everything that goes along with them. Hard to believe we’re almost the same age.”
“I merely speak the truth!”
“Ever tried your hand at poetry?”
Kunita narrowed her eyes. “Do not patronize me.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Fighting the urge to come back with a retort, Kunita closed her eyes. “Oh, what’s the point? Do what you will, Palvar. It’s your life. Just remember that you may not get another chance to receive accolades from the sultan. Milk it for all that’s worth, but remember it’s going to fade away.”
Palvar harrumphed and sauntered over to the window, brushing past her. “I’ve still not heard from either the sultan or the grand vizier.”
“Your daring rescue ended up getting the sultan’s son killed,” she said softly. “Some might have put you in the dungeons for that.”
“Ah.”
“No one talks of it,” Kunita said. “But people of Algaria know how to pull their tongues. You have to be recognized by the sultan for having rescued his family, but not celebrated for what your actions did to his son. It’s a tough balancing act.”
“Politics!” grunted Palvar.
Kunita offered a tight-lipped smile.
“Blood and onions, I’m really looking forward to the grand vizier’s ball tomorrow night. Maybe that’s when—” Palvar slapped away at a buzzing fly who dodged the attack easily. Then, he turned around to face her. “I’ve asked for an invitation to be sent to you as well, Kunita. She’ll be there too.” He smiled, his face softening to reveal the excited child within. “I hope she likes my flowers.”
“You sent her flowers?”
“The finest roses that Algaria has to offer.”
“You idiot,” she muttered.
He grinned. “Don’t you worry, Kunita. There’ll be plenty of bachelors there. Someone as pretty as yourself, you’ll have no problem picking out someone from the hundreds falling for you.”
“Women like me don’t attract suitors,” she replied, holding back the bitterness in her chest.
“Nonsense,” he said, waving his hand. “You’re smart. Pretty. Besides, you don’t even… do what the other girls of the harem do.” He leaned in, grinning. “You just teach them how to make men squirm painfully through words.”
She didn’t reply.
“Thank you for not following through on killing me,” he continued. “Yes, I should have told you I had made it out of the sewers, but as you can imagine, things were a bit hectic.”
Kunita swallowed the painful lump in her throat. “Palvar… the investigation is done now. The prisoners have been freed.” She paused, knowing how much her next words would hurt her, but aware she had to utter them. “You should stop visiting me here. Tongues wag. If… things do pick up between you and someone, they wouldn’t like hearing of this.”
“I don’t care.” As she opened her mouth to argue, he waved her quiet. “Yes, yes, I might be the moth, having lost all sense of one’s place.” He walked over and placed his arms on her shoulders. “But you are my friend. If anyone wishes to make tales of my affection for you, well god’s farts on them!”
She smiled, melting under the gentle pressure of his arms, feeling tears well up. Gods, how she hated herself for it.
Palvar clicked his tongue. “You’ve been tense recently. What’s been ailing you? Your family back home alright? Something else?”
She took a step back, away from his hands, away from him. She could lie. She should. But she couldn’t bring herself to do that to Palvar. “The sewers.”
“What about them?”
Kunita inhaled. “Maybe this will sound all silly to you, but I can’t stop thinking about the sewers. I know it doesn’t matter anymore, I do. Like that silk-clad box I saw Marjan’s head in, none of this matters. But… why were the prisoners kept there knowing the city guard was searching the sewers? Why not move them somewhere else? Then there were just three of them guarding the prisoners.” She shook her head. “It… just doesn’t make sense.”
Palvar scratched his chin. “Maybe they were like these moths
of yours, grown far too arrogant, huh? Everyone makes mistakes. They thought themselves too clever and that was what brought them down.” He paused. “If you’re a prince of the realm, you stop fearing anything, think yourself the largest moth of them all. Larger, even, than the sultan.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t let all these worries consume you.” He adjusted his Nikhtuni hat over his head, then started for the door. “Tomorrow’s the big night. Worry away, but I’d much rather you did so over more important matters.” He laughed. “The singing. The dancing. And all the sweet delicacies awaiting us.”
Chapter Thirty
The grand vizier certainly knew how to throw a ball.
Palvar smiled, his fingers tucked in the black silk sash the ameer of Poala had sent for him as a token of his appreciation. Musicians plucked santoor strings in hidden niches throughout the great hall, accompanied by singers from a dozen different countries. He’d even spotted a Xin delegation playing their famous two-feet-long flutes on a raised platform. The most important men and women of Istan were here tonight, dressed in their laces and silks and velvets, smelling better than the pari folk ever could, all of them in full knowledge of who he was.
“Greetings, Courtier Turka,” called someone.
“Rabb’s blessings!” he shouted back, offering a nod.
Someone thumped his back. “Well done, man of the west.”
Before he could return their greeting, someone else equally important was shaking his hand and demanding Palvar ask him for anything he ever needed.
Palvar had not stopped grinning since he’d walked into the grand hall. The afternoon had started off just as well. Judging correctly that he didn’t have a suitable means of transportation, the grand vizier’s personal carriage had come to fetch him from his humble apartment. Much to the envy of the other minor courtiers he lived with in the old house, he’d been feted by the grand vizier’s staff, then brought to his palace in a procession led by twenty horsemen flying Grand Vizier Qad Ghiani’s sigil of a gold pen on cream parchment.