by Nafiza Azad
His predecessor, a garrulous Ifrit named Nabil, had been the Emir of Noor City since the Raees signed a treaty with Maharajah Arjun of Qirat. All the desert cities in the half of Qirat ruled by the Ifrit have Emirs, administrators of the city who answer only to the leader of the Ifrit, the Raees. The Emirs ensure the safety of the citizens and the economic stability of the cities they administrate. They are helped in their tasks by their advisors, the Wazirs. The Emir of the city of Noor, however, has a far more sensitive role.
Nabil, the first Emir of Noor, along with Firdaus, saw the city in all its decimated glory before leading the first of what would be many restoration efforts. The debris had to be cleared before any rebuilding could take place. In the absence of human workers, Firdaus had to Name many Ifrit architects, craftspeople, and other artisans who lent their skills to the rebuilding of the city of Noor. The city’s human population had been all but annihilated. If Zulfikar remembers correctly, only a woman and two girl children had survived the Shayateen attacks. Maharajah Arjun had relocated his entire extended family to a fortress in a jungle city some distance away before leading the last of his troops in an offensive against the Shayateen. Accompanying him had been his eldest son and heir. The maharajah had faced the Shayateen without knowing if the Ifrit would honor their promise of assistance. He had ridden to war, to his death, without wavering. He had sacrificed his eldest son and heir to the cause. Zulfikar respects that kind of courage.
He looks around at the stores he passes. Most of them have names written not just in Hindi and Urdu, the two languages primarily used in Qirat, but also in the language of the store owner, whatever it may be. Nabil and his army of Ifrit and Amir soldiers were able to wrest the city of Noor back from the Shayateen, but without humans to live in it, the city lay fallow, lacking songs, color, and laughter to give it life. The rest of Qirat feared to live in a city populated by ghosts, a city where even the stone buildings were soaked in sorrow and blood.
No one expected what happened next.
The first of them came in the darkness, under the shadow of midnight. When their presence went unremarked, word spread, and very soon, the city of Noor became the city of the displaced. People fleeing from terror, war, and persecution found houses in the empty buildings of the city and homes in one another. People who spoke different languages learned to understand one another. People of different faiths learned tolerance—and were sometimes taught it.
Zulfikar’s reverie is interrupted by one of his soldiers.
“Sayyid.” The Amir soldier reins his horse to a stop beside Zulfikar’s mount.
Zulfikar turns a questioning gaze to the slimmer djinni.
“Akram just sent us word of a fight in the dyers’ section of Northern Taaj Gul.” Amirs are mentally linked to one another, which allows them to communicate telepathically.
“How many soldiers are already at the scene?”
“Three, sayyid.”
“Is the situation contained?”
“They are working on it, sayyid. One of the assailants is particularly violent and is resisting all pacification efforts.”
“You two go and provide assistance. I want a report as soon as possible.”
The two Amir soldiers nod sharply, turn their horses around, and leave. Zulfikar digs his legs into the sides of his horse, and it breaks into a canter. He directs it across the bridge that connects to the road leading to Northern Aftab, the official term for the side of the palace the Djinn inhabit.
The grounds of the mahal begin from the river’s edge on both sides and are immense, as they need to contain the barracks for the Ifrit army on the Djinn side and the human army on the human side. The grounds also contain stables for the horses and camels, and training spaces for the soldiers of both armies. Pavilions dot the landscape, and human gardeners busily tend to the flowers and other decorative foliage the human royals insist upon. Zulfikar won’t ever confess this, but he secretly takes great pleasure in the gulmohar trees that stand in a line above the river’s edge like sentinels, blocking the view of the mahal courtyards from the prying eyes of the world.
“Salaam, sayyid,” a soldier calls when Zulfikar dismounts from his horse outside the stable. He hands the reins to a human stable boy and turns to face the soldier hailing him.
“Mansoor,” he says, returning the greeting. “Are the soldiers prepared for patrol tonight?”
“Yes, sayyid. The Wazir has organized the patrols so that each group has an even mix of Amir and Ifrit soldiers,” Mansoor, a lieutenant in the Ifrit army, answers. His human form is of a man in his early forties with a muscular physique and brutish face that serves him well in battles. “Speaking of the Wazir, sayyid, he just returned from Rahm and requested that you find him in the library.”
Zulfikar dismisses the soldier and turns toward the entrance of the Aftab Mahal. When the new maharajah offered to build the Ifrit a residence fit for the protectors of Qirat, the Raees accepted readily.
Aftab Mahal is made up of two five-storied buildings joined by roofed corridors on both sides and separated by an inner courtyard in the middle. The mahal is made of white granite with copper domes that gather the sun’s rays and reflect it with intensified brilliance. The facade of the mahal is decorated by exquisite carved stonework. Placed at intervals are stone latticed jharoka, which are decorated by floral parchin kari in bright colors. The stone inlays are works of art and were commissioned from artists all over Qirat. Four domed spires stand in the four corners of the extensive mahal grounds.
The interior of the mahal is every bit as luxurious as the exterior suggests. The mahal contains curved vaulted ceilings covered with the same exquisite parchin kari, living rooms that open into balconies enclosed by jali, plush rugs, rich decor, and human domestics carefully vetted by the Ifrit responsible for the household of the Emir of Noor City.
Zulfikar strides through the tiled corridors of the mahal, almost impatient with its beauty. The richness of his surroundings always makes him aware of the poverty in the streets of the city. Only two Ifrit currently occupy Northern Aftab. This, in Zulfikar’s opinion, compounds the waste of resources required to maintain it. In fact, were it up to him, he would have joined his soldiers in the barracks, but Anwar, his Wazir, frequently reminds Zulfikar that appearances are everything to humans. Other Ifrit hold office as Emirs in the desert cities of Qirat, and according to Anwar, it matters little if they sleep in rich havelis or join the horses in the stable. Because, unlike Zulfikar, they do not have to contend with the maharajah of Qirat. Not that the maharajah has any authority over Zulfikar. The only one he and the rest of the Emirs answer to is their leader, the Raees.
Zulfikar, deep in thought, ascends four flights of stairs and walks to the library. He pushes open the doors and strides inside, marveling, as he always does, at the size of the room. One wall of the library is made entirely of casement windows, which are heavily curtained to prevent sunshine from wreaking havoc on the books. The other three walls have floor-to-ceiling shelves built on them. The books on the shelves of the mahal library all belong to the Name Giver, who, in Zulfikar’s private opinion, has gone out of control where his book buying is concerned.
Anwar is currently lounging on a divan strategically placed near a partially opened window. A breeze plays with the edges of the brocade curtains, causing them to part so fingers of sunlight can reach in and bathe Anwar’s face in soft light. While Zulfikar is dressed in the usual uniform of the soldiers, Anwar is dressed meticulously in a white sherwani with silver buttons running down the length of the kameez. The same silver decorates the edges of his collar and the bottom of his shalwar. His feet are encased in soft leather slippers. His beard and hair have been neatly groomed.
Zulfikar always feels underdressed when he is beside Anwar. Why this should be when he is the one dressed like the soldiers they both are is beyond him. He raises an eyebrow at the older Ifrit.
“And where have you been, Oh great protector of half of this city?” The mocki
ng edge is present as always. Zulfikar carefully ignores it.
“I went to the Name Giver,” he says, and his smile sharpens. “It is unfortunate, but he didn’t send you his regards.”
Anwar’s face empties at Zulfikar’s words. He sits up on the divan, his jaws clenched. “It is good of you to tell me,” he grinds out to Zulfikar, who gives him the blandest smile he can muster.
“What do you deem so important that you summoned me? What news from Rahm?” Zulfikar takes a seat on a chair in front of a low table containing a tray with a jug of sharbat and two empty glasses on it. He pours himself a drink.
The Ifrit rule the desert half of Qirat—this was the payment they demanded from the late maharajah in exchange for helping the humans with the Shayateen. They rule the desert cities of Rahm, Sabr, Baaz, and Ummeed. The desert half of the city of Noor also belongs to them.
“There were Ghul attacks in Rahm,” Anwar answers flatly. “Ten deaths, seventeen injuries. All human, of course. I will be leaving for Sabr within the hour. They should know too.”
“Were the Ghul captured?” Zulfikar asks without expression.
“No. One of them was injured and bled to death, but the rest escaped,” the Wazir reports. “I will take soldiers along and hunt them after I inform the Emir at Sabr.”
“You do that.” Zulfikar drains his glass of sharbat, wipes his lips, and gets to his feet. He leaves the library without another word and sends a message to the maharajah: the Emir of Noor City wishes to meet with him. The meeting will take place in half an hour. The maharajah is to present himself at the usual location for their rendezvous.
Maharajah Aarush Radhesh Gandiva Mehra has been having a vexing Deepavali. He had to deal with members of his extended family, many of whom approached him with requests that he allow them to make this trade or introduce that law just so their pockets see more gold than they already do. As if that weren’t enough, his advisors waylaid him right after he completed breakfast and for dessert, he heard, once again, about the rebellion fomenting in Eastern Qirat. Now, finally, when he has managed to steal some time out of the day to coax a few kisses from his wife, someone is knocking repeatedly on his pointedly closed door.
“It might be important,” Maharani Aruna says, smoothing down the long tunic of the jama Aarush is wearing.
“It is always important,” Aarush says darkly.
Aruna reaches up to straighten her husband’s pagadi and takes the chance to press a kiss on his pouting lips. Aarush very much enjoys the unexpected kiss but teases his wife by raising an eyebrow. Aruna blushes and smiles shyly. Aarush pulls her closer and wonders if kings get days off.
Apparently not, for the knocking resumes with renewed vigor.
“Go.” Aruna pulls away. Aarush sighs grumpily, and Aruna’s eyes light up with mischief. “You wouldn’t want Jayanti Bua to show up, would you?”
An expression of profound horror arrests Aarush’s face. He gives Aruna one last peck before walking to the door and wrenching it open. His oldest and most trusted advisor, Janab Jamshid, almost falls into the room, his hand raised to knock again.
“What is so important that it could not wait five minutes, Jamshid Chacha?” Aarush asks, knowing he is being churlish but unable to help himself.
“I am sorry, Maharaj,” Janab Jamshid says, looking anything but. “The Emir requests a meeting.”
Aarush stops in his steps and sighs. He very much doubts the Emir requested anything. “When does he want to meet?” Aarush starts walking, crossing the length of his apartments and descending the staircase that connects the fifth floor to the fourth.
“In ten minutes, Maharaj.” This time the advisor’s tone is apologetic.
“At the usual pavilion, I presume?” The advisor nods. Aarush bursts out of the front door of the mahal, the advisor and his guards trailing him. In the front courtyard, shielded from public view by tall hedges, his mother, youngest sister, and several aunts are working on an intricate diya rangoli. They all straighten when they see him. His sister bounds over.
“Are you going to see him now?” Aarush needs no detective to deduce whom his sister is talking about. How she knows about the upcoming meeting, though, he would like to know.
“Indeed I am. So stop talking to me and let me go.”
“Can I come with you?” Bhavya asks. The sincerity of her request shocks Aarush to a standstill. Her crush on the young Emir is not new; she has been unswerving in her desire for the Emir ever since he arrived to take over from his predecessor four years ago, but this is the first time she has made any effort to get closer to him.
“Bhavya”—Aarush gentles his tone with some effort—“I know you like him a lot, but a union between you two is impossible.”
Bhavya’s eyes flash. At twenty, she is eight years younger than him but old enough to know better than to cause a scene. “I don’t like him, Bhaiya.” Her bottom lip trembles, and her voice lowers. “I love him!”
“All right. I suppose you can love him. Do we really have to discuss this now? Here?” Aarush looks at Bhavya’s resolute face and sighs. “Look, it is impossible between you two. You know that.”
An odd expression passes lightning fast on his sister’s face. Aarush couldn’t read it before it was gone. Bhavya takes a deep breath, grimaces, and then wails while the maids, manservants, relatives, and the cat look on. Aarush feels the headache that has been threatening break over his head like storm clouds do on an unsuspecting day.
“Bhavya, you and the Emir are not even the same species. You do not follow the same religion.” He looks at his sister. “Do you really want me to go on?”
Bhavya opens her mouth perhaps to retort. Aarush sends an imploring look toward his mother and pushes past Bhavya. He hastens his pace, wondering if he will make it on time. The stone pavilion is located on the grounds of the mahal, right on the border between the desert and the forest. It was built on a platform with stone steps leading up to it. A jali encloses the pavilion, ensuring the safety of those who use it from assassin archers.
As he walks, Aarush wonders what he would have done if the Emir reciprocated Bhavya’s feelings. Blessed their union? Aarush shudders, imagining the chaos such a decision would rain down upon him. He thanks all the goddesses he can think of that the young Emir doesn’t even seem to realize that Bhavya exists. Tragic for his sister, of course, but it makes Aarush’s life immensely easier. Being related to the Ifrit, even if only through marriage, is not something he wants to think about.
His father’s journals detail the first time he met an Ifrit. An old man appeared in Noor City one day and demanded an audience with the king of the country. All attempts to turn him away were unsuccessful. When Maharajah Arjun received news of him, he invited the old man, not thinking him anything other than human, to appear in front of him. His father wrote of the old man’s disdain for his expectations of obeisance. The old man stood in front of him without bowing or showing any sign of the respect Maharajah Arjun expected from his subjects. He asked the king for his help. In return, the old man would owe him a debt. Maharajah Arjun was initially amused and a little skeptical, but then the old man showed the king his fire. That was all it took to convince him.
By the time Aarush reaches the pavilion, the Emir is already there. He is dressed like any other Ifrit soldier, but his power is pronounced in the breadth of his shoulders and the confidence in his posture. His power is also obvious in the wickedly sharp scimitar that hangs at his waist.
Aarush awkwardly clears his throat. He is never more aware of his humanness than he is during the moments he shares space with those who aren’t human. The Emir turns toward him with the unsettlingly direct gaze common to all Ifrit. The old Emir would have made small talk, discussed the weather, food, or perhaps related an anecdote. Not the new Emir.
“We have received reports of Ghul in the city of Rahm. There have been some human casualties,” the Emir says abruptly.
Aarush takes a breath. “You fear they will attack here?
” he asks, grateful that his soldiers remained outside the pavilion as did his advisor. He does not wish them to see their king so unsettled.
The Emir nods, his eyes troubled. “Tonight’s revelry may tempt them out from their usual haunts.”
“Is Southern Noor at risk too?” Aarush asks, hoping his voice doesn’t reveal any of the fear he feels.
“Ghul do not recognize borders, Rajah.” The Emir’s inflection is vaguely mocking, and Aarush flushes.
“What should I do?” Even to his ears, he sounds young and inexperienced. Both these things are true, but the Emir is as young, if not younger, and tenfold more confident and capable.
“Increase your patrols, particularly in areas where a lot of people will gather to celebrate. I will send you a number of my Ifrit soldiers. Their presence on the streets may act as a deterrent to any Ghul searching for succor among your people.”
“Shouldn’t I warn people?”
“Of attacks that may not happen? Your people guard their right to celebrate jealously. Don’t give them a reason to resent you.”
He has a point, but Aarush still thinks it would be better if people know and are prepared. “How do people fight Ghul?”
“People don’t,” the Emir replies, his face all hard lines. “The most people can do if captured by one is hope they die quickly.”
Aarush blanches. “Thank you for telling me.” He turns to go, but a thought occurs to him and he stops. “Did the old man ever find his daughter?”
“What?” Aarush has successfully disconcerted the Emir with his abrupt question.
“My father wrote of the first Ifrit he met, an old man named Firdaus. He came to Noor looking for his daughter. Did he ever find her?”
The Emir gives a sharp shake of his head, his lips drawn tight. “No, he didn’t.”