by Fuad Baloch
Riyan blinked. The shorter inquisitor beside him shook his head. “The Kalb does not report to you,” sneered Riyan. “This is out of the question.”
“I wouldn’t dream to challenge your authority, my dear friend,” replied the grand vizier evenly. “Merely offering a way for you to save face.”
Riyan’s face grew red, the corners of his mouth twitching. His companion rested a hand on his arm as if to restrain him. The fight had just become personal, Shoki knew. And contagious, as he felt the tension seep through his own bones as well.
Unable to resist, he stole another glance left. Princess Nuraya sat silently now, her interlaced fingers cupping her chin as she leaned forward.
“Considering the unproven nature of the issue,” said the sultan, pausing to cough, “this sounds like a decent solution. Does it not, Riyan?”
The Kalb leader bowed his head, but when he looked up his eyes were hard. “As you say, my sultan.”
“Very well. Madhu, you may have a delegate accompany a Kalb inquisitor to Ghulamia,” said the sultan. “A delegate that Riyan chooses.”
Now the Kalb leader grinned. Madhu for his part nodded without showing emotion. Riyan sauntered to stand in front of the Peacock Throne. “With your permission,” he jutted a hand toward the short inquisitor he had left behind, “I would send Altamish Aboor. He knows the land well and can cover the ground faster than any other inquisitor.”
A guard beside Shoki scoffed. “Doubt he can on just one leg.”
“Very well,” said the sultan. “Who do you wish to accompany the inquisitor on this journey?”
Riyan Hambur, a man feared by both magi and the commoners, cast his eyes around the court room. Heads turned away, breaths catching, eyes darting this way and that. Shoki felt his stomach tighten as Riyan’s stare moved toward him.
A cruel smile spread on the feared man’s face. He raised his finger, bringing it up to point at Shoki.
No! Shoki wanted to scream.
He took a step to the right. The finger followed him. The dread pooling in his gut turned to terror as he realized Riyan was pointing at him.
“Him,” said the Kalb leader, shattering Shoki’s world with one simple word.
“This… young boy?” asked the grand vizier, arching an eyebrow. “If you’d like to reconsider, there are many in the city guard who—”
“Him,” repeated Riyan, his finger still pointing at Shoki. He gestured. “Approach, boy.”
Despite the weight in his gut, sharp anger flared within Shoki. “I’m no boy,” he hissed, his voice carrying dangerously in the silence. “My name is Shoki Malook.”
The smile turned into a sneer, but the finger never wavered. “Approach, Shoki.”
The anger faded just as quickly as it had risen. Shoki tried moving a foot, hoping it would be stuck to the ground—a good reason to get off this nightmare. The foot felt like molten lead, but it did move.
You silly camel-dung!
Chiding himself for the way he’d addressed the Kalb leader, cringing from all the faces turning to see him, somehow, he dragged one foot after another until he stood beside the man from Ghulamia who still kneeled in front of the throne.
Like a slab of butter melting in the sun, Shoki felt the last drops of his resolve evaporate under the intense scrutiny. They were judging him. All of them. Taking his measure. Finding him wanting.
Riyan smiled one more time, satisfied with the effect his choice had made.
The sultan coughed. Shoki looked up and froze. In all these months in the city guard, he’d only really seen the sultan from the profile. Standing in front, the older man’s unblinking green eyes seemed to bore right through him.
Awe crept up his spine for the man who sat on the throne, a god who seemed to lend an air of majesty to the throne instead of leeching from it.
“Young man,” said the absolute monarch of the Istani Sultanate, the world’s most powerful man. “Will you serve your sultan?”
Shoki’s mouth fell open. “I…” He fell to his knees, his head bowing forward, dread unlike any he’d experienced before filling his heart.
How did one even begin to answer such a question?
Chapter 2
Nuraya
“Mother, surely I don’t have to go just yet?” said Nuraya, batting her eyelids.
“When are you going to learn your place, girl?” Queen Aleena shook her head, the delicate nose ring swaying. “The sultan, your father, calls, and you answer. That’s how it’s meant to be.”
Pouting, Nuraya turned her head away and stared out onto the private courtyard through the vast windows thrown wide open. It was pointless to argue with her mother when she was ensconced in this void where she seemed more a statue carved of stone instead of a woman with a beating heart. Nuraya reached for the hem of her green silk peshwaz, her fingers crushing the delicate fabric. When would her mother stop treating her like a child?
Out in the courtyard, the massive iron gates blocking their inner sanctum from the men’s section slid open. One of the guards, the handsome young man with the roguish smile, nodded, stepping aside. Nuraya sat up, a grin spreading on her face. “Mona is here!”
“You shouldn’t spend too much time with that girl,” Queen Aleena chided, raising a henna-stained finger. “You’re the princess and—”
“—I must surround myself with others equal in station,” completed Nuraya, her mood darkening. “By Rabb, is there anything you do like about me, Mother?”
The queen clucked her tongue, placing a hand over the other with grace Nuraya had never been able to muster, the glass bangles clinking softly. “You listened more when you couldn’t talk back.”
Ten different arguments rose all at once, and as much as she hated it, Nuraya swallowed them all down. She needed a favor from her mother—one Mona counted on—and it wouldn’t do to mess that up.
Instead, she turned to the window and saw her friend gliding over the cobbled path toward her chamber, already past the row of plants her mother had one of the maids growing for her. When Mona finally entered through the door, Nuraya shot up, unable to feign the indifference her mother would have much preferred. “You’re late!”
Mona beamed as her large brown eyes found Nuraya’s. She rushed forward, the veil over her head slipping, the curly dark-brown hair bouncing as she half-ran toward her. Then her eyes looked past Nuraya. The color drained from Mona’s face, and she stuttered to an abrupt stop.
She bowed, her chest heaving against the thin muslin peshwaz, fingertips of the right hand touching her forehead. “Rabb’s blessing upon you, my queen.”
“And on you, girl,” drawled Queen Aleena, not bothering to look up from her fingernails. “Are you going to be long?”
“N-no, my queen, i-if that’s—”
“She’s accompanying me to the lute and santoor lessons, Mother,” interjected Nuraya. “Isn’t that right, Mona?”
“Erm… yes, my princess.” Mona’s eyes widened as she tilted her head to glare at Nuraya. For her part, Nuraya shrugged, unsure why Mona looked so aghast. Then she saw the mistake she’d made. Underneath the fine muslin peshwaz, Mona wore leather pants. As she adjusted her weight, the leather creaked.
Nuraya blanched.
If her mother looked up, there’d be no hiding that they’d been planning to practice sword-fighting once more instead of plucking lute strings.
“Keep her busy,” mouthed Mona silently through the missi-stained black teeth, her body still frozen in the awkward half-bend.
Nuraya blinked, torn between the urge to chuckle at her friend and fear of what her mother would say if she suspected anything.
“Mother, I’ve been doing some thinking,” Nuraya said, walking swiftly to stand between the queen and her friend. “You spoke most wisely. If Abba has expressed his desire to meet me, I would be remiss to avoid his summons.”
“Good girl,” said the queen, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. Unclasping her hands, she stared out the window. Her back w
as perfectly straight, the bright yellow peshwaz unblemished and unwrinkled around her svelte figure. Almost subconsciously, Nuraya straightened the pleats of her own blue dress.
“Nuraya, you’re the third born of a second queen,” said her mother, her voice distant, repeating the words Nuraya had heard a million times. Nuraya rolled her eyes, motioned for Mona to rise, and began to edge toward the exit. “Never forget that.”
“Never, Mother,” Nuraya replied, offering the same answer she’d given a million times before. Sudden anger flared through her. Why in the seven hells did her mother—
The window behind her slammed shut.
Nuraya wheeled around. One of the maids rushed to reopen it. Nuraya shrugged, turning back to her mother, who hadn’t stirred at the wayward wind.
“Nuraya…” The queen clucked her tongue, drawing in a long breath. “I may not be from the same tribe as your father, but that has no impact on your claim. Never forget that.”
Nuraya arched an eyebrow. That was new. “Come again, Mother?”
“Should the worst come to pass, remember the Istani Sultanate has often been ruled by the finest offspring, not the eldest.”
Nuraya felt her throat grow dry and heard Mona gasp behind her. This was dangerous talk. She might never understand royal politics, but even she knew that no one discussed matters of succession—a topic considered treasonous. Nuraya turned her head. Mona’s pale face was impassive, her eyes downcast.
“Mother, do not talk like this,” said Nuraya, unable to keep the heat out of her voice. “May Abba rule another hundred years!”
Her mother didn’t object. A good thing. Any more talk like this would have pushed Nuraya past her restraints, consequences be damned.
When the queen remained pensive and quiet, Nuraya gestured to Mona, and they slipped out of the chamber.
Mona led them eastward, toward the postern door that opened into the vast courtyard set aside for the harem, the women’s section. Nuraya followed, her ears still ringing. Perhaps what her mother said could be justified from the perspective of one well-versed in the ways of Istani politics, but the very idea that others planned for a world without Abba infuriated her.
The memory of Ahasan, fruit juice dripping on his richly embroidered robes as he blinked stupidly at Abba in the court room, rose in her mind, and she chuckled. How could anyone in their right mind ever see him on the Peacock Throne anyway? The mythical pari folk would sooner talk with humans than Ahasan would step away from his indulgences long enough to be crowned the sultan.
More images from yesterday’s visit at the diwan-e-aam floated over. There stood the grand vizier, his long, crooked fingers jutting toward the Kalb leader. Again, she saw the tall, awkward city guard with the duck-like, shambling walk, long messy locks spilling out from underneath his helmet, his color going pale when ordered to accompany an inquisitor to Ghulamia. Just a guard, indistinguishable from the other hundred at court, yet something about his manner had stuck in her mind.
She heard Abba cough and saw his fingers clasping the armrests. Nuraya stopped. “Mona, the sword lessons can wait.”
Her friend looked back, an eyebrow raised. “Oh?”
“I need to go see Abba.”
Mona offered a mock bow. “As the future sultana commands.” Nuraya leaned in, pinched her side. “Ow!”
“You’ve packed on some weight,” observed Nuraya, stepping back to examine her friend’s fuller figure, glad for the diversion. “Something I don’t know?”
Mona’s face fell. Turning away from the giggling eunuchs under an archway, she adjusted her head veil. “Father and Mother are talking with the guild leader to arrange my marriage.”
“And so, the lamb is getting fattened before the slaughter,” said Nuraya with a sly smile.
This time, Mona pinched her. Nuraya protested, and then both girls broke out into giggles.
Recovering her breath, Nuraya straightened, her mood souring once more. She’d need to speak with her mother soon, have her intercede with Mona’s father so he did not give her away to the highest bidder to get out of his debts. The Harut family had served the crown well over the decades, and it wouldn’t hurt to help them now. “Come.”
Sensing the change in her, Mona grew quiet and nodded. They turned around, heading for the inner courtyard that led into the men’s section. The two guards snapped to attention, their spears upright, the handsome one doing his best not to look at her as they marched through and into the richly appointed section beyond.
Nuraya took the lead now, their soft leather sandals creaking on the polished marble floors. Frescoes and floral patterns adorned the walls, light filtering through niches and high windows in a riot of abstract geometric patterns.
As they continued to head deeper, the cadre of soldiers and knights of the Sultan’s Body in green Istani livery gave way to ministers and bureaucrats in colorful robes and elaborate headdresses. She nodded at a delegation from Buzdar, the members dressed in the traditional ship-like hats favored in the Nikhtun region. A gaggle of young noblemen decked out like peacocks with brightly embroidered robes, gold collars, and their turbans adorned with pearls and rich inlays, raised their right hands to their foreheads, their eyes lingering on her longer than was respectful.
Any other day, their lecherous eyes would have both repulsed and flattered Nuraya, but today wasn’t one of those days. Though by all accounts everything appeared as it should—the sun glinting off the onion-shaped golden domes and high archways decorated with delicate glasswork, the Shahi Qilla—the royal fortress—buzzing with a thousand voices with a million agendas—something felt off.
“Mona, do you even know the man your parents might have you marry?” she asked as they entered the long, covered pathway that led into diwan-e-khas, the sultan’s smaller, more intimate court usually reserved for matters of state and conferences with his ministers.
“Not a concern for my parents,” Mona said after a breath’s delay. “It’s not for an Atishi girl to challenge her fate.”
Nuraya shook her head, then came to an abrupt stop. “Whether you worship the fire as the faith of Atishi demands or the Unseen God like me, no one can take away your free will. If Mother disagrees to intercede on your behalf, I will personally talk to your parents. They won’t deny me.”
Mona smiled, then waited to let a gaggle of servant girls pass, their eyes downcast respectfully. “Even if you succeed in pushing back one wave, there is no turning back the tide.”
Nuraya blinked. “Where did you learn to talk so… profoundly?”
“Stay too long with the rose essence and the bottle never forgets it.”
Nuraya gaped open-mouthed now. “Who’s that now? The poet Ghumadi?”
Mona tittered. “They don’t teach your sacred Gharsi language to us Atishi, remember? This is a verse from Balib’s new work in Nirdu.”
Nuraya cocked her head to the side. Strange how long she had known her friend and yet how little she really knew her. One with a predilection for Nirdu poetry, of all things!
“Shall we continue, my princess?” said Mona, her eyes twinkling again in a familiar way.
Nuraya nodded.
Liveried guards and knights stepped away from the twenty-foot-tall doors, a bubble of eunuchs with clinking bells tied to their ankles fanning around them as if to cocoon them from prying eyes, and they entered the diwan-e-khas.
Like always, Nuraya felt her breath catch.
Unlike the color and gossip of the women’s harem or the opulent splendor of the diwan-e-aam and the surrounding buildings, the ambience here was decidedly more somber. Solemn. Under a high arch, two ministers with impressive retinues spoke in hushed tones, portraits of ancient Istani sultans staring down at them from their high positions on the marble walls. Seeing the princess and her friend, they bowed their heads but didn’t stop their conversations.
More than anything, though, it was the massive Peacock Throne—moved back here from the diwan-e-aam—that caught her eye. Abba,
of course, wasn’t holding court at the moment, yet she could feel his presence and sense the majesty of his power thrum in the intimate, august setting.
There was another feeling in the chamber today: a deep-seated melancholy, evidenced in the grave faces of the ministers who turned their long-bearded faces at her unsmilingly.
Nuraya winked at a wizened minister responsible for trade with neighboring countries. Startled, he blinked, bowing so deep his wide white turban almost came off his head.
Nuraya tittered then headed toward the doors to the side that led into the sultan’s private quarters.
“Did you see my brother’s performance in the court yesterday?” asked Nuraya.
Mona cleared her throat. “I wasn’t there, my princess, but I did hear about it afterward.”
“Oh, you should’ve been there.” Nuraya giggled again as they entered a brightly lit anteroom. “The sight of him, grape juice running down his slimy fingers as Abba put him on the spot, was priceless. And to think, he could be the…” she trailed away, detesting the thoughts her mother had planted in her head.
Mona laughed, then grew quiet, noticing the icy stare of a nearby minister. “I should really pay attention to where I am, or one day, you’re going to be the death of me, my princess.”
Outside the doors leading into the sultan’s chamber stood old Hanim, leader of the Sultan’s Body. Spying them, he straightened his back, offered a toothy smile. “Blessings upon you, Princess,” he boomed, his voice unaffected by age.
“And upon you,” Nuraya said, grinning back. Hanim’s face might be all smiles now, but she knew the old guard, one of Abba’s most trusted men, still had the strength of men half his age and wasn’t one to be trifled with. “Is Abba in his chamber?”
Hanim hesitated, a movement so subtle anyone else would have missed it. “He is… Princess. When you see him, pray don’t overtax him.”