Crescent Inquisition

by Fuad Baloch

“I thank you for accepting my invitation,” said Ambassador Danfurd, grinning widely.

  “Well, if I’m being honest,” said Palvar, shifting his weight, “I was a bit intrigued to see what possible help I, an uncouth man of the west, could offer one as cultured as yourself.”

  The ambassador’s face fell. But then he extended his arms wide like those in the west did and waddled forward. Palvar sighed, then took a step forward, allowing the corpulent man to embrace him. Ambassador Danfurd must have upended a whole bottle of rosewater onto his robes, but even that couldn’t completely disguise the stench of dried sweat.

  Scrunching his nose, Palvar settled down on a divan at the far wall. A crow watched them from the windowsill. “So, are you going to offer me ca’va or a stronger drink?”

  The ambassador laughed as if Palvar had cracked a joke. He hobbled over to a divan, fixing his ship-like hat on his balding head. “When I sent my man, I wasn’t sure if you’d still be in your apartments. After the way the grand vizier felicitated you two days ago, I’d have expected you awarded a mansion in the Silk Quarter.”

  Palvar sucked his teeth. “A citizen of Istan doesn’t expect anything for the good deeds that he does.”

  “He doesn’t?”

  Palvar arched an eyebrow, refusing to be drawn in. “If the grand vizier or the sultan see a suitable recompense, they’ll award it. If they don’t, then so be it.”

  “It’s quite understandable,” said Ambassador Danfurd. “In these circumstances, Ghiani can’t have much time to spare, anyway.”

  Palvar straightened his back, intrigued, but not quite in the mood to draw things any longer than they needed to. After the excitement of the past few days, he reckoned he’d earned a bit of rest. Then there was that vague sense of unease in his heart, a voice that kept gasping for attention. Kunita’s misgivings were beginning to affect him now. Palvar looked out the open windows. A group of Husalmin priests were chanting outside the embassy gates, calling the faithful to the afternoon ritual prayer. “What do you want from me, Ambassador?”

  “Straight to the point, eh?”

  “We’re men of the west,” said Palvar, raising a hand. “And we’re not friends. So if we’re talking, either you have something to offer me, or you want something.” He shrugged. “I’d much rather it was the former and not the latter.”

  The ambassador’s jowls moved, then his round cheeks crumpled as if a tree had been hollowed out in one swoop. “I…”—the crow at the window crowed—“I seek a favor from the champion of Istan.”

  “Oh?” Palvar walked over to the window, shooing the bird away. “And the famed knights of the Reratish kingdom can’t help you?”

  “Palvar Turka, you’ve seen me with her,” said the ambassador bluntly, his voice shaking. “You know how I feel about her.”

  Palvar nodded. “I take it your masters do not know yet?”

  “I don’t… really care about them anymore.” Heaving, the ambassador got up to his feet, his face red with emotion. “I don’t! What I want more than the world itself is her!”

  Palvar blinked, taken aback by the ferocity in the Reratish man’s voice. “Good for you, Agusti Danfurd.”

  “She is of the Husalmin faith, Palvar. They don’t let their girls marry infidels like me.”

  Palvar cracked his knuckles. “Terrible, isn’t it? I could cry a sandstorm over it.”

  “Speak to the priests for me?”

  “Speak? Me?” Palvar glared. “Priests?”

  “For the sake of all that’s holy and—”

  “I’m not quite known for my piety, Ambassador.”

  “I’ll pay you,” said Ambassador Danfurd, fat tears filling his eyes. “I’ve got farms back home. I’ll sell them all, give you all the Danfurd gold.”

  “Hard to get anything from your homeland if your king gets wind of your plans.” Palvar shook his head. “A Reratish ambassador marrying a local girl would be considered what? Dereliction of duty? Treason?”

  “You’ve got to help me. For the sake of us being the men we are.”

  “The men we are…” repeated Palvar. Then, he looked up sharply. Did the ambassador know how he’d sent two messengers over to Roha’s house since the ball and how they’d been turned back both times? Did he have men trailing Palvar? Either way, the fat wretch didn’t say anything. Instead, eyes squeezed shut, he began crying, snot and tears forming a foul viscous stream and vanishing in the folds of fat on his face.

  “There, there…” said Palvar, awkwardly placing a hand on the ambassador’s shoulder.

  Ambassador Danfurd whimpered, then fell on his knees. “You’re the only man who can help me.”

  “I really don’t see how—”

  “The Husalmin priests hate us Reratish, and there is no Istani man in the city better placed than you to speak on my behalf.”

  Palvar started shaking his head. “You don’t understand how these things work. The priests… they listen to no one but their long-dead saints and the Istani crown. They will never…” He trailed away as the sniffling Reratish ambassador took off his hat and placed it on Palvar’s feet.

  “I surrender my honor to you. Now, do with it as you will.”

  Palvar stared at the ambassador for a long breath. It was true that their peoples had been enemies even before the Istani sultanate was founded, and that they differed in language and religion and all things that really mattered. But there was also no denying that their peoples shared the same codes of chivalry and hospitality and honor, something the rest of the realm wouldn’t ever understand.

  Palvar sighed, then bent to lift the ambassador. “Get up.”

  The ambassador looked up, his face smeared in wet. “You will talk to them?”

  “Talk, yes. Beyond that, I promise nothing.”

  “I am in your debt, Palvar Turka of Nikhtun.” Ambassador Danfurd smiled, huffing as he got to his feet. “Whatever you ask, anything, you’ll find me honor-bound to help you.”

  Palvar shuffled his weight. The Reratish ambassador was a disgrace—no western man of honor degraded himself like this unless the situation was dire—but in a way he was already better off than Palvar. At least he had a girl who—despite heavens knew what she saw in him—loved him back.

  “I knew you were a good man ever since I laid my eyes on you, Palvar Turka!”

  “You thought I was a braying camel.”

  The ambassador hung his head. “Well, I was wrong.”

  Palvar shrugged. “Matters not. I do not do it for your sake or for that poor girl who’s definitely lost her mind.”

  Ambassador Danfurd raised his teary eyes at him. “Why, then?”

  Palvar exhaled, tired and simply not in the mood to dissemble. “For the sake of men like us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “The champion of Istan!” cried out a young acolyte wearing bright orange robes. He ran ahead, his teenaged feet pattering softly on the warm marble tiles. “He’s here, the champion in the flesh!”

  Waving to acknowledge the dozen or so other orange-clad acolytes who followed him, Palvar continued towards the main temple building. The day was hot—what day in Algaria wasn’t?—but at least the air blowing across the vast marbled plaza of the Grand Husalmin Temple was only lukewarm today instead of boiling hot.

  “The champion!” shouted the boys. “The man from Nikhtun!”

  Palvar adjusted his hat, beaming at the acolytes. They were so young, none older than fourteen, but they had all heard of him. “Is the grand priest within the temple?”

  “He’s carrying out an exorcism,” said one of the older acolytes, playing with the curls of his sideburns hanging down to his chin. “An evil djinn made its home in the heart of a religious woman but he made a terrible mistake.”

  “He did!” agreed the one beside him. “Shouldn’t have picked a pious woman. Lucky for her, Sahib Turka”—Palvar smiled beatifically at that—“the grand priest detected the malevolent presence before it could cause irreparable harm.” />
  “Harm? Like what?” Palvar asked, stopping and shading his eyes against the setting sun, the temple stretching out seemingly forever. The temple might be called the old Grand Husalmin Temple on account of the new one being constructed in the center of the city, but this was by far the most magnificent building of worship Palvar had ever seen. Minarets, fifty meters high, their marble tops gleaming white, surrounded the temple building that could house ten thousand within it. The marble plaza where Palvar stood at the moment could host another hundred thousand. Palvar tried imagining the plaza full of worshippers and failed. He’d been here in Algaria a few years now, but still the sheer scale of numbers here overwhelmed his senses.

  “Djinn are the pari folk’s puppets,” confided the acolyte. He looked around at the acolytes, raising a finger on his lips to quieten the more excitable ones. “They enter through the nose when an unwarded person inhales during sleep. Before the inhalation, a person is normal, their heart the abode of God. The next…” The acolyte gave his head a vigorous shake. “They’re an abomination!”

  “Even worse than the magi,” said the other.

  “Aye,” agreed the first acolyte.

  “How very interesting,” said Palvar. “Now I must really go and meet your grand priest.”

  “But he’s doing an exorcism.”

  “Maybe me being the champion and all that will hurry the matter along.”

  The acolytes didn’t seem entirely convinced, but they walked with him as he crossed onto the shaded part of the plaza. The tiles were cooler here, thankfully. A group of ten fakirs and holy men dressed in bright orange robes sat cross-legged beside the temple wall, their eyes closed, their fingers turning massive rosary beads over and over.

  “Welcome, Palvar Turka of Nikhtun,” cried out one of them. “Your mother would be proud of you today.”

  Palvar stuttered to a stop and glared at the holy man. He hadn’t met him before, but the priest, his long hair dyed orange and wrapped around his head in thick, matted coils, smiled as if they’d known each other all their life. “Dullah offers you his salutation.”

  “Who’re you?” Palvar called out.

  “A nobody, a caretaker of the lost, an itinerant learner.”

  “Don’t know anyone like that,” declared Palvar. He looked up. The main gate, ten meters high and twenty meters wide, lay open ahead. Beyond the massive entrance, the air was thick with incense smoke, priests and worshipers alike emerging and disappearing into it like droplets of rain wreathed in mist.

  Taking in a long breath, Palvar entered the thick fog of the Grand Husalmin Temple.

  Within the mist, priests chanted, their voices loud and sonorous. Palvar felt a chill down his spine. Cursing himself for letting words—for they were nothing more than that— affect him so, Palvar headed east where the altar would be. Faces swam in and out of his vision, some lamenting, some crying, all worshiping the divine.

  “In the name of the prophet and his saints, I banish you,” came an old man’s shout as Palvar emerged into a relative clearing where a priest bent over a woman squirming on the floor. “Evil djinn, leave this woman!”

  The woman recoiled as if someone had physically slapped her, tears running down her cheeks. “Never!” she replied in a man’s deep, angry voice.

  “Leave or even the pari folk won’t be able to put you back once we’re finished with you,” boomed the priest. He struck the ground beside the woman with his crooked staff, his long sideburns swaying wildly about him.

  Palvar stopped a dozen steps from them. A few priests, joined by two acolytes, watched them from behind an arch. Beside them stood a distraught middle-aged man—probably the unfortunate woman’s husband.

  The woman cried out, words tumbling out so fast from her mouth that Palvar couldn't keep up, the rhythm unlike any he’d heard before. Her limbs thrashed, her arms slapping hard against the floor, her toes curling inwards.

  Then, without any warning, she fell deathly silent.

  “Rabb is most kind,” said the grand priest, nodding to the other priests. He caught sight of Palvar, and tucking his sideburns behind his ears, approached him with a tired smile. The woman remained still.

  “That was…” Palvar waved his arm about, feeling foolish. “Very well done.”

  The grand priest shrugged. “Nothing can defy the lord of the worlds.” He squinted, leaning forward as if to get a better look at Palvar. “Ah, I’ve heard of you, Courtier Turka. Noble deeds never go unpunished by Rabb.”

  “That’s good to know.” Palvar cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of his motives for being here. “But I was hoping to receive payment for the noble deeds in this life.”

  The grand priest coughed, then spread his thin, wiry arms. “I’m but a poor servant of Rabb. What could I possibly give a courtier of the mighty sultan?”

  “Your permission.”

  “Permission?”

  Palvar took in a deep breath. “That woman you exorcised. What was wrong with her?”

  “An evil djinn had taken over her body.”

  “Did she invite the djinn in?”

  The grand priest laughed. “Of course not.”

  “But if she were able to, and she’d done that, what would you have done in that situation?”

  “Young man, we do not deal in hypotheticals.”

  “Humor me, Grand Priest.”

  The old priest drew himself up, one sideburn coming loose and falling on his cheek. “The law isn’t clear on that.”

  “Might there then be an argument for the woman to keep the djinn host?”

  The grand priest sighed. “Never took you for a debater.” He nodded. “From an academic perspective, perhaps.”

  Palvar waited a breath, then put on his widest grin. “If a nonhuman can potentially be allowed to coexist with a Husalmin girl, couldn't the same analogy be extended for a well-intentioned Reratish man and a willing, adult Husalmin girl?”

  The grand priest’s eyes hardened. “They are not the same things.”

  Palvar put on his most charming smile. “What if it was no more than a one-off exception on account of great services rendered to the sultanate of Istan, the land of the Husalmin faith?” When the priest didn't stir, Palvar pressed, “What if such an action was never advertised and no one knew of it except those directly concerned?”

  Priests filtered past them, quite a few eying the two of them with open interest. Palvar stood his ground, his gaze never straying from the old man. A part of him wondered how his life could be like with Roha. Would they be married in a temple like this? By this very man? “Do me this one favor, Grand Priest.”

  “You’re not from the Reratish kingdom. Why do you even advocate on their behalf?”

  Palvar dropped his chin. “I guess I feel a certain kinship right now, and find myself experiencing an unexpected moment of empathy.”

  The grand priest began shaking his head, but a breath later, closed his eyes. “I’m old. Soon I shall retire. Are you going to make me regret my dispensation?”

  “No one would ever know.”

  The old man stared at Palvar a long moment, then sighing, he nodded.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Why are you moping about like a puppy half-kicked to death?” Kunita demanded, waving an arm towards Palvar.

  Instead of replying, Palvar sniffled, turning his head towards the window looking out on the city.

  Kunita knew very well what ailed Palvar. “It’s that damned girl, isn’t it?”

  Palvar didn't reply, his brows furrowed.

  “She’s still ignoring you?”

  Palvar lifted his chin. He wasn't wearing his stupid Nikhtuni hat today, and the sunlight highlighted his thinning hair. “Who am I to question someone’s decision?” He shook his head. “I’m a nobody. A nothing.”

  Kunita watched him for a long breath. He’d been keeping away from her since the ball last week—just as she’d asked—but when he’d knocked at her apartment door today, her heart had skipped a
beat. Dark circles around his eyes, morose, he looked both pathetic and vulnerable. This couldn’t go on, though. Kunita considered her options. She could pry even if that would hurt in the short term, or she could drop the matter and move on. “What happened?”

  Palvar barked a short, sad laugh. “Her mother finally sent a message back after my tenth letter.”

  Kunita exhaled, folding her arms.

  “A great deal of fancy words, promises to repay me in gold and silver for all I’d done.” Palvar sniffled. “And an apology that Roha has been promised elsewhere.”

  “Ah,” was all she could manage, torn between wanting to comfort him and heaving a cruel sigh of relief at the news.

  His eyes rose to meet hers, his face darkening. “You were right. All along! There, I said it! Does that make you happy now? I was the shitting moth flying too fast, way over his station. As my moment of glory fades away, the reality of my true place creeps in ever closer.”

  “Palvar,” Kunita said gently, “get over yourself. Roha Postan isn't the only girl in the world.”

  Palvar closed his eyes for a beat. “She was the one that mattered.”

  A heavy silence fell on both of them. Kunita bit her lower lip, adjusting her silk head veil. A dozen girls had seen Palvar enter her apartment. No matter how much she denied it afterwards, they’d tease her after he was gone. Deciding it didn’t matter, she looked outside the window, willing herself to not let Palvar’s dark mood swallow her too. A knot of sparrows shot across the clear skies, a crow pursuing them. She turned her gaze to Palvar. She had to say something to him, but what?

  “It’ll hurt for a while,” she said finally.

  “It will?” He laughed. “Can’t be any worse than now.”

  “Get over it, damn you!” Kunita said through gritted teeth. “Even the likes of you can get rejected by others. This is life!”

  Palvar’s eyes hardened. “Likes of me?” Despite the harsh tone, his features crumpled and he sank back in his divan, his legs stretched out ahead of him.

  Shaking her head, angered by his stupidity, Kunita started pacing. She thought she knew men well, that they rarely wanted anything more than what lay between a woman’s legs. But this Nikhtuni ass had baffled her. Was she wrong, and this had been more than an infatuation? No, she decided. His love for her had increased tenfold only after it had become increasingly difficult to attain her. But had he really gone blind too? Could he not see there were others besides that wretched girl? Kunita came to a stop in front of the tall polished mirror and stared at her reflection. Had she gotten too old? She ran her finger across her cheek. The skin was soft, the wrinkles still years away, her stomach taut. But maybe men could tell already.