by Fuad Baloch
“Gods’ guts!” he whimpered, not caring for the pain shooting up his bare foot as it snagged against a thorn. The shouts came at him again. Guttural accents. Northmen perhaps. Could even be from Zakhanan for all he cared. “You cursed man,” he muttered, breath coming in gasps now. “Inquisitor or not… if we survive this, I’m gonna… w-wring your neck… with my own hands.”
A pleasant thought. Not enough to sate the terror, though.
An unseen hand grabbed him. Shoki whirled about, the shout ready on his lips.
“Shush,” whispered Inquisitor Altamish Aboor. He was still crouching, moving with an agility that belied the mangled leg he took great care to disguise. “Follow me.” Without waiting for a response, he began crawling deeper into the forest.
“You’re going the wrong way,” whispered Shoki urgently, realizing he was headed toward the sounds. The inquisitor didn’t respond, drawing out his sword and continuing forward. Grunting, cursing everyone—himself, the world, the gods, the Kalb leader—Shoki followed.
His father had not initially wanted him to join the city guard, had only given in when his mother had argued for the stature such a position would give their family. Shoki had never wanted the damned job. But he hadn’t wanted his father’s life, either. Now, though, as he whimpered in terror, he wondered what life would have been like had he joined the family trade after all. He might even have been a semi-successful blacksmith by now instead of this mess who might get his throat cut by bandits for money he didn’t even have in the first place.
A mess of a boy whose bladder was past bursting.
Oh, guts! Shoki chewed on his lower lip, rushed after the inquisitor. Anything to distract from the need to relieve himself.
He bumped into a tree trunk headfirst. Before he could scream, the thick hand clamped over his mouth. The inquisitor pointed with his chin to the left. Shoki squinted. Nothing but the swaying branches and rustle of wind through the trees. He was about to turn away when he saw a shadow move.
A man, heading toward them, his silhouette dimly outlined by the faint moonlight.
“We can slip away,” Shoki whispered. The inquisitor shook his head. Shoki swallowed. “We do not have to fight.”
“Oh yes, we do,” replied his companion, a hunter of forces way more dangerous than mere bandits. Altamish reached into his robes, fishing out a sharp dagger. He thrust it into Shoki’s hand. “Be ready for whatever happens.”
Shoki gasped, too shocked for words. True, he’d had basic training with weapons—a requirement for everyone joining the city guard—but using it on a person was an altogether different matter. Not something one had much need for in the cultured mercantile quarter. The inquisitor was already moving forward, his scimitar raised slightly.
Crouching, his mouth dry, Shoki followed the inquisitor. Salar Ihagra had talked about the rush of battle flooding through the veins when men faced confrontation for the first time. A shedding of the old self. A newfound courage.
All Shoki felt was terror and a desperate need to pee.
His feet caught on a twig. It snapped, loud in the relative quiet. The shadowy figure turned his way, breaking into a blur of movement, heading toward him.
“Dammit,” Shoki wailed, standing upright, both hands gripping the dagger with a death grip. The figure charged, a silent, deadly shadow intent on destroying him.
Shoki screamed.
A bad idea.
More shouts rose from behind them.
Another shadow lunged at the first. The two shadows became one, grunting, shouting, snarling. Shoki blinked, rooted to the ground. Someone screamed, a blood-curdling rattle. Then came a sickening slashing sound followed by a thud.
“Gods…” whimpered Shoki, praying, hoping he wouldn’t have to face the bandit himself. Something primal and bestial stirred in his chest: an urge to scream, to let himself out. He shook, a helpless leaf against a raging hurricane.
Ages passed, each moment feeling like a death knell. Shoki surveyed the tall dark trees, their branches swaying in the breeze. Would the bandit kill him right away or rob him first?
A silhouette rose from the darkness and began to limp toward him.
“Stay away,” said Shoki, his voice quivering under the strain.
The shadow laughed. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll…” Shoki trailed away. “Oh, it’s you!”
“Aye,” said the inquisitor. He came to In, his once pristine scimitar a bloody mess under the dim starlight. “Just bandits. Common, petty folks,” he said, sounding almost disappointed.
Shoki tore his eyes from the scimitar and the blood dripping onto the forest floor below. “The shout… The others must—”
“No, they won’t,” replied the inquisitor. “Men like these have no death pacts.”
Shoki exhaled, looked up at the dark skies. What had he gotten himself into?
Something stirred in the periphery of his vision. He leaned forward. The branches?
Like a leviathan rising from the depths, a shadow materialized behind the inquisitor, its movements slow, deliberate, a silver dagger catching the moonlight.
Shoki’s breath caught. If he screamed, the bandit might lunge at the inquisitor.
There was no time.
Perspiration breaking out on his brow, Shoki raised his right hand, aiming for the shadow. Neither of the men in front paid him any mind.
Oh gods, grant me strength.
Letting out a shout, he loosed the dagger with all the force he could muster. The inquisitor inclined his chin sharply just as the dagger sunk into the shadow behind him, making a sound not that dissimilar from a knife falling onto a watermelon from some distance.
Wordlessly, the inquisitor turned around toward the shadow, toward the bandit Shoki had hit. He raised the curved sword, already wet with the blood of the first dead man, then brought it down in a mighty swing. It made a sickening sound.
Shoki closed his eyes, his body racking. He heard the inquisitor approach him, one foot dragging after the other.
“That was a good shot.”
“Just l-lucky…” Shoki mumbled.
“Did you have to shout, though?”
“I… erm…”
“Come on,” said the inquisitor. “I’ve got a good campsite in mind.”
Shoki opened his eyes, refusing the urge to look at the fallen figure. At the man he had killed. “A good campsite?”
“Aye, the horses need some rest. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
Shoki nodded, wanting to be anywhere but this cursed forest. He waited for the men that would undoubtedly descend on them any second now. Nothing leaped at him. “Gimme a second.”
Then, fear coursing through his veins, unable to control himself anymore, not caring anymore, he pissed in his breeches, the warm liquid trailing down his legs.
Chapter 4
Nuraya
Fingers dug into her ribs.
“Wake up!”
Consciousness returned slowly as Nuraya cracked open an eyelid. Morning, judging by the amount of light filtering through the eastern window. A figure leaned in, blocking the light, then shook her arm. “Princess, wake up for Rabb’s sake!”
“What…” said Nuraya, blinking, suddenly conscious of the thin blanket that had drifted to reveal her flimsy shift. She peered up. “Is that… you, Mona?”
Nodding, Mona took a step to the side so Nuraya could see her better. “Please…” Mona said again, her voice quivering, “change into something… appropriate. We’ve got… We need to…” Sobbing, Mona sank to her knees, placing her head on Nuraya’s bed.
Nuraya bolted upright, draped an arm across Mona’s shoulders. “What’s the matter?”
Mona’s thin body racked underneath her, sobs rising hysterically. A bell pealed in the distance, followed by another with more joining in, their sounds mournful, ominous.
Nuraya’s breath caught. Whatever was going on, it couldn’t be good.
Throwing back the blanket, she approa
ched the almirah propped up against the far wall. Frantically, her fingers rifled through the peshwaz dresses the maids had laid out for her. Her back still turned to her weeping friend, Nuraya shrugged off the shift and slipped into the maroon peshwaz the imperial tailors had recently sewn in the Nikhtun manner, its bright purple hem long and exaggerated.
Once dressed, she took a quick look at her reflection in the mirror. The long black locks were a mess, the usually straight hair reduced to unsightly curls and waves. Cursing, she leaned in to grab the ivory comb and tried her best to straighten out the most egregious offenders even as her heart thudded within her chest.
The bells continued to peal.
Nuraya threw the comb away, strode over to Mona. “Rise and tell me what in Rabb’s name has happened!”
Her pale face streaked with tears and eyes swollen, Mona staggered up. She pointed at the open windows. “The… sultan…” Again, her voice broke. Nuraya stared, the ground slipping underneath her bare feet. A part of her knew even before the words had played their part.
“Mona,” she hissed. “Get a grip! What’s going on?”
An impatient rap came from the door. “Princess Nuraya!” shouted Ghansi, the cursed maid that her mother had laden her with. “The queen asks for your company.”
“Quiet!” Nuraya bellowed at the door, then leaned in to grab Mona by the shoulder, who swayed as if drunk.
Dabbing at her eyes, Mona looked up. “My princess…” The lips quivered. Nuraya nodded for her to go on. “Y-your father… has… returned to the C-creator.”
Nuraya stared at the whimpering girl for a long breath, then slapped her on the face. “Never say such a thing.”
A hand rising to her reddening cheek, Mona turned her face, breaking into yet another fit of crying. Nuraya blinked, the words ringing in her mind. How was that possible? Just a couple of days had passed since she’d last seen him. A part of her tried to rationalize Mona’s words, remind her that no man lived forever. She shoved it away.
“I’m so sorry…” wailed Mona. Sniffling, she stepped forward, pulling Nuraya into a tight embrace. Nuraya stood still, her own arms dangling by the side, her senses numbed, blinded.
“The queen requires your presence,” came Ghansi’s voice again.
Nodding, Nuraya wriggled out of Mona’s embrace. “We have to go.”
Drifting like a weightless ghoul, she led her friend by the index finger. Ghansi stood sullenly outside, half a dozen maids crying into their veils beside her. Seeing her, a clamor rose. One of the women flailed, thrashing as if under a fit, striking her wrists on the wall, the shattered glass bangles raining down.
An older maid, her dark-skinned face gleaming with tears, bowed. “My princess… Oh, my poor little princess.”
“Wipe these tears,” Nuraya heard herself say. “Abba does not like tears.”
None of the women obeyed her. She fought back the urge to shout at them. Sultan Anahan wasn’t one sympathetic to outbursts of emotions, something he detested more than anything, but perhaps this wasn’t the right time to be reminding these women.
The dirges continued unabated, soft peals of the bells breaking through the din of crying around her. From beyond the windows came the shrieks and shouts of men.
Nuraya felt a chill crawl up her spine. Even the floor underneath her seemed to vibrate as if joining the mourning for its lord.
“My princess—” began Ghansi, one hand clutching what appeared to be some herbs against her chest.
Nuraya raised a hand and the woman fell silent. Nuraya started moving, her feet taking her toward the gates that led into the men’s section, her eyes looking but not seeing, her ears hearing but not listening. A statue that could move but remained unable to think or understand.
Mona walked beside her, dabbing snot off her face every few feet.
Maids who saw her in the wide corridors joined her, a train of cries and wails following her as she continued to walk. Morning might have broken but the bright light did nothing to dispel the notion it was all a nightmare.
As they rounded a corner, they came upon two royal guards dressed in purple livery. Their leader, a handsome man in his twenties, bowed, huffing as if he’d been sprinting a mile. “Princess Nuraya, the queen has asked us to accompany you to her quarters immediately. She wishes to discuss matters of great import.”
Nuraya’s feet never slowed. Nothing mattered more than seeing Abba with her own eyes. She had to. Calamities and great disasters didn’t really happen until they had been witnessed with one’s own eyes.
“My princess, the queen—”
“Tell her I’m going to Abba. If she wants, we can meet there.”
The leader exchanged a glance with his companion, both of them falling in beside her. “But the queen wishes to see you now. And… in these circumstances—”
She raised a hand. “Get out of my sight!”
They bowed and rushed away.
Nuraya ran a hand absently through her hair. She should have at least tied it back. The sultan wasn’t one to make comments on physical appearances, but he always liked her hair tied back neatly.
The guards at the gates to the harem snapped to attention, stepping away to let her through.
She emerged into the Malabari gardens, the courtyard that sat in the center of the Shahi Qilla. Spring was in bloom, the air thick with the smell of jasmine and motia flowers, the grass slightly damp underneath her sandaled feet.
Mona reached out to touch her arm, trying to guide her onto the paved paths that crisscrossed the gardens in elaborate geometric patterns. Nuraya shrugged herself free and forced her mind to relish the feel of life underneath her.
Her eyes fell on the ancient oak to the right. It stood firm, tall, wide, its branches forming a canopy that had lasted untold decades. All her life, the tree had been there, offering its shade to all who sought it. Sultan Anahan had been the same—an imposing, permanent fixture. How could it be that the tree still stood but the man, way more imposing and important, did not?
Something stirred inside her chest. Regret? Sadness? She plumbed the jumble of feelings. One emotion washed over all others.
Anger.
Chewing on her lower lip so tight as to draw blood, she tried diverting her mind. Her eyes returned to the tree and to the injustice of how quickly things could change when it came to the lives of men and women. How unfair kismet and the Unseen God could be.
Knights of the Sultan’s Body stood at the opposite end. Silent sentinels, their spears held up at sharp angles. Sultans came and went, but their mission never changed.
Too bad they had been unable to stop death from entering the sanctified halls behind them.
The chirping of birds caught her ear. Two robins singing their morning song, oblivious to the state of her mind or to those of the others milling about.
A rush of red-hot fury flashed through her.
Raising her head to the wide-open skies, she let out the howl that had been building up for a long time. Emotions—raw, unfiltered, confused—escaped her chest, howls that burned her body as they rushed out.
The world melted away as she unleashed her rage, her disappointment, her disbelief. Ceasing their song, the birds rose from their nest, their wings fluttering in the fresh air a moment before flying away.
Her head dropped, wind gone from her, the pent-up energy expended for the moment even if it left behind the desire to tear everything around her to shreds.
Someone rested a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around, a curse ready on her lips.
“Calm down, child,” said Queen Aleena, her face freshly powdered, the black eyes highlighted with dark kajol, the lips red like ripe pomegranates. Beside her, a lanky middle-aged man with pockmarked coppery skin and a black turban stirred uncomfortably. The magus she’d heard her mother had been keeping beside her over the last few months. He offered her a nervous nod before turning his head away.
Gritting her teeth, Nuraya shrugged off her mother’s hand. The q
ueen didn’t seem nonplussed by her rudeness, the serene face betraying no emotion.
“How… is it p-possible…” Nuraya began, words stumbling over each other, competing emotions overtaking each other before she had a chance to gather her thoughts. The queen, the widow of the Iron Sultan, watched her silently. Nuraya exhaled. If her mother could keep such check on herself, couldn’t she try the same, too?
“Kismet cannot be denied, child.”
“Kismet!” Nuraya scoffed.
“Come with me. We need to speak.”
Nuraya shook her head. Her reaction might have appeared petulant to the collected queen, but Nuraya cared not a whit. Instead, she marched toward the Sultan’s Body.
The middle-aged man, the magus, grunted behind her, the words too low for Nuraya to hear.
“Halt!” came a man’s gruff voice from her right, the accent uncouth, the tone disrespectful. Blinking, Nuraya wheeled about. A burly man strode toward them, a dozen armed men in Ahasan’s livery following him, swords hanging at their waists.
“How dare you order me, vermin?” she growled.
“Prince Ahasan has asked that no one enter the men’s section,” said Ahasan’s dog, stepping between her and the Sultan’s Body.
Nuraya hissed, seething through clenched teeth. When she raised her fingers, they trembled with rage.
The smug smile faltered. “Princess—”
“Young man, I suggest you step away,” came a calm voice behind them. The grand vizier. Coughing, Madhu Ghiani, one of the oldest confidants of Abba, stepped forward, extending his long arms. Like always, his ministerial robes were impeccable, pristine, the wide skirt embroidered with floral patterns, the red stole of office over his thin shoulders. Despite the placid tone, though, she could hear the veiled threat.
“That I cannot do,” said Ahasan’s dog. “The crown prince has explicitly asked that no one be allowed to enter. Especially,” he turned around and raised a finger at the magus accompanying her mother, “not these abominations!”
Nuraya placed her hands on her hips and glared at the men she longed to cut down. Then something snagged at her. “Crown prince? Since when did Ahasan start believing in fantasies as truths?” She took a step forward. Knights of the Sultan’s Body stiffened. “Now, this is the last time I’m going to order you to step away.”