Crescent Inquisition

by Fuad Baloch

  “Having fun witnessing my sorry state?” Palvar called out.

  She bit back the retort that he had come barging in even after she had asked him to leave her alone.

  Instead, she watched him back through the mirror. Sometimes, one just needed to be patient, allow the grieving person time to move on. Other times, they needed to be jolted out of their misery. She closed her eyes for half a beat, unsure of where her next words could take the conversation, but unable to restrain herself any longer. “They’re still talking about Prince Hatan.”

  Palvar looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “What? Who?”

  “The son of the sultan was the Dark Master,” she said evenly. “It’s not something the masses would stop discussing anytime soon.”

  “Ah,” he said, rubbing his hands. “I’ve not heard much.”

  “Of course not, you’ve been otherwise occupied.”

  Palvar slapped his thigh, leaning back in the divan. If he heard the note of sarcasm in her voice, he ignored it, thankfully. “Well, whatever his reason, he is dead now. Besides, the sultan still has a crown prince.”

  She kept quiet, kept watching him. As she had hoped, Palvar’s expression began changing, inching away from moroseness and self-pity to thoughtfulness.

  “You don’t give up, do you?” he said after a long moment had passed.

  “No,” she admitted. “Life may have returned to normal but I just can’t stop thinking. The box troubles me. The sewers too.”

  “Still thinking of the sewers?”

  “Palvar,” she whispered, turning around to face him. “If you had stolen the world’s grandest treasure, wouldn’t you do anything to stop others from approaching it?”

  “You don’t think they were simply too reckless?”

  She chortled. “As if you believe that.” She rubbed her hands. “Even if one accepts that Prince Hatan had arranged all this merely for his sick amusement, and he wanted to be caught so he could find some perverse delight in it, why would he order his minion to kill him?”

  Palvar didn't reply.

  Kunita crossed her arms. “The case appears simple on the surface. A bored prince wanting excitement in his life arranges an elaborate show. Tragically, it doesn’t go the way he intends and so he dies in the final act.” She shook her head. “Sad… but doesn’t feel right.”

  “He had a magus as well.” Palvar whistled softly. “I wonder if the inquisitors are hunting him right now.”

  “Too many questions and no satisfactory answers,” she said. Now that she’d started talking—a topic she’d been avoiding with the girls she taught—she couldn’t shut up. Kunita cleared her throat. “Everything leads to an end, right? What was the point of all that? What have we got to show for it all? The prince is dead. That Salv you heard of, fled. The magus is still missing.”

  Palvar nodded thoughtfully, his lips pursed. “And we still don’t know why Prince Hatan wanted the magi in the first place.”

  “Exactly!” she muttered. “It’s almost like we’re being allowed to… see a mummer’s act, but nothing behind the curtain.”

  Palvar didn’t reply for long moments, his head bowed, his fingers interlaced. Kunita took in a long breath. Maybe she had gone too far, imagining a conspiracy that didn’t exist. But then Palvar raised his head. “To admit the truth, your words have been troubling me for a while as well. Even if I tried my best to ignore them.”

  “Really?”

  “Something’s not right,” he said. “I don't mind being hailed a hero, trust me, I don’t. But that was all… too easy.”

  Kunita felt a flood of relief wash over her. “Oh, Rabb, I still imagine that day in the court! How the guards brought over the box containing that poor man’s head, how the grisly shadow fell on the black silk. Oh, how—”

  “Stop,” said Palvar, raising his hand, his eyes wide in surprise. “Describe the box to me.”

  She narrowed her eyes, but Palvar didn't offer an explanation. “Well, it was the kind of box one would use to house a thousand gold coins. I didn't touch it, but underneath the dark silk, it was probably made of—”

  “Dark silk?”

  “Aye. Why?”

  Palvar was shaking his head. “Shadows behind shadows in the darkness.”

  “What?”

  Palvar’s jaw hung loose, his eyes watching some invisible spot in the ceiling. “Shadows behind shadows,” he croaked. “The shadows… The masters…” He shook his head. “I saw Ignar clutching it in the cell, his memento.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Palvar turned his chin up, his eyes wide. “He’s been saying this all along! We were wrong in assuming there was one master, the one we found. Ignar might be mad but he claimed to know who the shadow behind the shadow was!”

  “Palvar,” said Kunita, struggling to keep her voice level. “What do you mean?”

  “The bastard is still alive, this shadow behind the prince.” He looked up. “I must speak to Ignar.”

  Kunita turned to the window, pointed at the crowds gathering in the distance. “Isn’t he about to be drawn and quartered?”

  “God’s farts!” Palvar got to his feet and began running.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Get out of my way,” Palvar shouted, shoving his way through the throngs who had gathered on the Azadi square.

  Kunita was yelling behind him as well, but over the thunderclap of his heartbeat, he couldn’t hear her words. The citizens of Algaria were used to witnessing public executions—a benefit of living in the capital city—but today was extra special. And why not? Today was the execution of the man who’d kidnapped the sultan’s family members and then murdered the sultan’s son.

  “Blood and onions!” Palvar bellowed as yet another old crone stepped in his path. “Step aside!”

  The crowd surged and moved, its currents threatening to sweep Palvar off his course as he elbowed and pushed his way through to the dais raised in the square’s center.

  He heard snippets of conversation going all around him.

  “—laughing as he was dragged—”

  “—a madman, for sure—”

  “—Istani blood on his hands—”

  His voice growing hoarse, his body drenched in sweat, his hat long dislodged and lost, the sun shining angrily over him, Palvar continued straight, only dimly aware of Kunita following him. The punishment for high treason was to be dragged through the streets of the capital, hanged until almost dead, disemboweled while still alive, and then have one’s corpse torn up in ten pieces and dispatched to the far corners of the sultanate. If Palvar was lucky, Ignar had not gone past the dragging stage.

  His mind churned away, recalling Ignar’s words over and over again. He’d heard Ignar talk about shadows behind shadows hinting at his multiple masters, but never paid much mind to it. What else had Ignar mentioned that he’d missed? He had no proof yet, of course, but his heart insisted that Ignar was the key they all needed to crack this case. A case that had most definitely not been solved.

  “Out of my way!” Palvar shouted, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

  Was it possible this second shadow was the same person who’d dared to attack the sultan at Grand Celebration all those weeks ago? Another thought—more terrifying than not knowing who the second master was—rose over everything else.

  What in the rotting seven hells was this shadow planning?

  A heavy hand grabbed Palvar by the shoulder and held him back. “Go no further!”

  Palvar glared up, fixing his eyes at the tall soldier—taller and larger even than him—blocking his way. “I’m Courtier Palvar Turka, champion of Istan. I need to get to the dais.”

  The soldier’s eyes widened in recognition. Someone yelled in the crowd, the sound immediately swallowed by the whooping yells of the thousands all around.

  “—string the bastard—”

  “—feed the entrails to the vultures—”

  Palvar stood on his tipt
oes. Over the bobbing turbans and headdresses, he could see the hangman loosening the noose over a thrashing body. “No!” He slapped at the soldier’s hand but he didn’t give way.

  “Sahib soldier, let us through!” shouted Kunita behind Palvar.

  The soldier shook his head. “I’m not allowed to let anyone past this point. Captain Tamat’s orders!”

  “I’m going to gut both you and the captain if I don’t make it through to the dais in time!” Palvar roared. Snarling, he shoved his shoulder into the taller man’s chest, and marched straight through. The soldier called out but didn’t pursue him.

  Past the soldier, the crowds were thin. Instead of the teeming masses of the common folk, here stood the elite of Algaria: rich merchants, minor viziers, noblemen, representatives of various provinces, knights of the Sultan’s Body, even ambassadors from neighboring nations. Some of them were cheering as well, largely foreigners from neighboring nations.

  Again, the crowd thundered its approval, a rolling wave of dread dropping a dead weight on his chest. Palvar raised his chin. The noose was tied around Ignar’s neck and he stood gaping at the crowds, his blood-soaked clothes shred to tatters. His face was unmasked, his tongue lolling out of the mouth. Instead of the fear or the tears that usually manifested on an occasion like this, he was grinning. Even as Palvar broke into a mad sprint, Ignar turned his face towards the executioner as if trying to tell him something.

  A knot of soldiers, their swords held out in front, stood guard around the dais.

  “Captain Tamat,” shouted Palvar, waving his fist at the city guard captain in front. “I need to get to Ignar. Get your men out of my way!”

  The two of them hadn’t had an easy relationship of late. Not after both he and Kunita had accused the captain of working with Ignar—something Palvar realized in a moment of sudden shock was once more a possibility—but the captain seemed to acknowledge the gravity of the moment. He glared at Palvar for a breath, then nodded.

  Palvar burst through.

  Startled cries went up as Palvar bounded up the dais. Both Ignar and the executioner turned towards him.

  “The stupid man from Nikhtun,” Ignar grunted, smiling through bloody teeth.

  “Who’s your master?” Palvar demanded, not caring for the boos from the crowd, the voices shouting at him to get off the platform.

  Ignar blinked, his bloodshot eyes going unfocused for an instant before regaining clarity. He grinned. “I follow orders. Just what Mother said I was good at.” He cocked his head to the side, the thick rope digging into his neck. “She was wrong. So wrong, though. Right, until the very end. I did good. I followed my orders.”

  “Palvar, don’t do anything stupid,” Palvar heard Captain Tamat shouting behind him. “I know my colleague Captain Habbra indulged you, but I’m not him.”

  Palvar grabbed Ignar by the collar. The condemned man was barely able to keep standing, skin ripped off his hands and exposed parts of his body, but still Ignar smiled. “Tell me who your master is!”

  “Shadows and the darkness are the real…” muttered Ignar. Palvar leaned in but Ignar fell silent, his eyes losing their focus again. From the corner of his eye, Palvar caught sight of the dignitaries of Istan gesturing him to step away. One of them, an actor he’d seen at the party before, hurled curses that would have put a sailor to shame.

  “Answer me!” Palvar shouted but Ignar didn’t respond, his head sagging forward. Palvar jerked it back. He was running out of time. “What’s your master up to?” Ignar opened his jaw, reddish drool spilling out. His lips moved but Palvar couldn’t hear a word over the shouting.

  “Palvar, enough! Get away!” came Captain Tamat’s angry shout behind him. “Have you gone mad? This man has already been questioned by both the city guard and Sultan’s Body.”

  “Answer me,” Palvar roared, leaning in so close he could smell the stink on Ignar’s breath.

  “Let me do my job,” the executioner growled. When Palvar didn’t move, he pushed Palvar back, the crowds letting out a cheer, but Palvar held onto Ignar’s collar.

  “Palvar!” Kunita was shouting behind him.

  “We’re not done yet!” thundered Palvar. “Can’t you see?” He turned his head around, not letting go of Ignar. “Pull this man down, Captain Tamat. Get the barber-surgeons and stitch him back up. He’s got more to say.”

  The executioner thumped Palvar in the chest. Palvar was a large guy, but the executioner had at least two stones on him and the force of the movement sent him sprawling backwards. Everyone was yelling at him now. Kunita. Captain Tamat. The soldiers. Seeing their opportunity, the crowd bellowed, roared, its deafening sound falling like sand over Palvar, crushing his thoughts, stifling his shouts.

  Palvar found himself being carried away by four soldiers. He thrashed out, yelling, fighting. He needed answers—they all did. But the crowd that had gathered to witness the end of the madman wouldn’t be denied any longer.

  Justice demanded to be exercised.

  “Let me go, you fools!” Palvar cried out, feeling strength draining from his limbs.

  His shout was swallowed up by a collective cheer. He looked up.

  Ignar’s body was swaying on the noose.

  A moment later, the crowd began booing for Ignar’s body went limp, the limbs thrashing weakly before giving out entirely. They had come to see a disembowelment afterwards, accompanied by visceral screaming, and now they all felt cheated.

  As if sensing the crowd’s disappointment, the executioner leaned over and slapped Ignar hard on the face.

  The dead man didn’t protest.

  “No…” whispered Palvar as the soldiers cut the rope and the body fell. Ignar might be dead but the sultan’s justice wasn’t yet done. Dead or alive, Ignar’s body would still face its punishment.

  Too bad the dead never shared their secrets.

  Secrets of a man who was still very much alive, still plotting his attack on the sultanate.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Courtier Palvar Turka!” said Ambassador Danfurd, grinning broadly as he entered the embassy’s drawing room. “So nice of you to visit me once more.”

  Palvar rose, allowing himself to be embraced by the fat man without putting up much of a fight.

  “Leave us,” the ambassador told the two guards standing at the door. They bowed and left, leaving the two of them behind. Palvar half-thought of asking for ca’va, but let his hand drop.

  Ambassador Danfurd sunk on the divan beside Palvar, fixing his unblinking, expectant eyes on him. “Terrible business, that execution two days ago.”

  “You were there?” Palvar asked, his voice coming out hollow, lifeless to his own ears. A part of him couldn’t believe two days had already passed, a time where he’d done a lot of thinking with very little to show for it.

  “I saw you.”

  “Right.” Palvar cracked his knuckles. “I saw some of your Reratish lot there too. Grinning. Smirking.”

  Ambassador Danfurd coughed but didn’t reply. An awkward silence fell on them. The Reratish ambassador watched Palvar, and he, in turn, watched the carefully manicured garden outside.

  The fat bastard had seen Palvar make a fool of himself. He wasn’t the only one, of course. The champion of Istan had lost his mind, many would no doubt be suggesting throughout Algaria. Having helped catch the madman, the hero had lost his senses, trying to cut the very same criminal free. Palvar had cornered Captain Tamat afterwards, sharing his concerns despite his own reservations about him. The captain had put on a good show of listening, but in the end he’d shrugged, declaring the case was closed. The coup against the sultanate had been thwarted, justice of the sultan had been carried out, and everyone was ready to move on.

  Palvar was meant to do nothing, the captain had suggested strongly. Acting without proof would attract the severest of fates. Something Kunita had agreed with too.

  “Courtier Turka,” said the ambassador after a long while had passed where neither of them spoke. “Coul
d I ask you something?”

  “You got your girl pregnant and don’t know what to do about it?”

  The ambassador seethed visibly, but had the good sense not to get riled up. “Did you perhaps consider my request? I’m not a rich man, but everything I have, I’m most willing to—”

  “Oh, you’ll pay me for this,” said Palvar, turning his gaze back towards the Reratish ambassador. “Rest assured, fellow westerner, you shall.” He scratched his chin, surprised to feel the stubble there. “I must admit I was rather puzzled to find your fellow countrymen celebrating the execution like commoners starved of cheap entertainment. Why was that?”

  Ambassador Danfurd pursed his lips. “I don’t know what gave you that impression. We’d never do that. After all—”

  “Don’t mince words with me,” warned Palvar. “I’m the last man you want against you.”

  The ambassador wrung his hands, his head dropping. “Very well. Not that it’s a big secret, anyway. The coup has been put down successfully, but the reputation of the Istani sultanate has been irrevocably damaged. The weak like seeing the strong stumble.” He paused. “There are rebellions up in the north of your country, news which is deliberately being kept from the common folk. Then there is all the trouble with the Kalb Inquisition.”

  Palvar blinked. “Rebellions?”

  “Aye.” Ambassador Danfurd coughed delicately into his hands. “The outermost layer of the onion is always most prone to wear than the core. A reality that the Istani sultanate is finally coming to terms with.”