by Fuad Baloch
Shoki licked his lips. Honor and courage sounded good when others bound themselves to them. Try as he did, he failed to see how it helped things for him. He cleared his throat. “I need to go back. Mother and Father—”
“Whatever’s happened there is already done, boy. By the time you get there, what’s happening right now would be too late to change as well.”
Shoki ran the words through his mind, then shook his head. But the inquisitor had already turned away, his face thoughtful as he considered the salar. “We need to continue west.” Then he turned around and began walking over to their horses.
“Where are you headed, Sahib?” called the salar, the voice respectful now. “News travels fast around here. I wouldn’t recommend going along the main road. People at Jamkhot up ahead have always been easy to rile up. Go through these parts at night, dressed like someone from the capital, and you’re going to get set upon.”
“I can handle them,” scoffed the inquisitor.
“Some, maybe. But a whole mob?”
Shoki shuffled on his feet. “Why don’t we wait the night here, then?” When the inquisitor scowled at him, he held up a placating hand. “We could talk to the spy—erm… the messenger. Find out what happened?”
“Boy,” snarled the inquisitor, drawing up close. “Do not roll your eyes when I speak. You follow me. Do not make me remind you again.”
“B-but,” protested Shoki, then blinked, took a step back. “I… j-just wanted to… erm… ensure our mission doesn’t get waylaid by an unfortunate incident if we c-continued headfirst into trouble!”
“I might have a way to help you out,” came a deep, sonorous voice from behind the salar. A middle-aged stout man, half-naked but for the dhoti, a modest loincloth wrapped over his private parts, stepped forward. In the flickering campfires, his bald head shone and the brass earrings and silver bangles on his arms were resplendent. “I too am looking for companions.”
“I don’t have time for two inexperienced civilians,” grunted the inquisitor.
The man stepped forward, his thick lips curling back in a smile. “Trust me, I know how to carry myself. You need to travel west. As do I. And considering I know some of the lesser frequented roads around here, and you do not, you could do with my help.”
“Who are you anyway?” scoffed the inquisitor.
“Mara Carsa,” said the stranger, nodding his head. “An old scholar of history.”
Shoki licked his lips, not liking the thoughtful look on the inquisitor’s face. “We should rest up. And then—”
“How are you going to keep up with us?” asked the inquisitor. “Do you have a horse?”
Mara laughed deeply. “You serve in the imperial court and answer to the most powerful men in the world. Are you telling me you can’t commandeer a humble horse for your new companion?”
Shoki shook his head once more, wanting to scream despite his parched mouth. Something in the scholar’s manner of speech terrified him, set him on edge.
The inquisitor nodded. “Very well. We leave now.”
Chapter 6
Nuraya
Nuraya paused half a dozen steps from where the coffin rested atop the raised marble platform. She turned back. Bathed in sunlight, ministers of the imperial court, foreign envoys, and dignitaries from the capital and beyond watched her, just as silent as the stones in the Matli graveyard.
Fighting to keep herself steady, her eyes swept over the crowd. To her left, the ancient statues of the great Istani sultans peered down at her. Behind her, sounds of life in Algaria spilled out, above and through the tall, ancient city walls.
Where was her mother?
Sniffling, she adjusted the black veil over her hair and squinted at the women assembled to the left. A row of eunuchs blocked the view but from her vantage position, she could easily see over their heads. Maids and ladies-in-waiting stood in clusters around women of the imperial harem. Giani and Barabela, her sisters-in-law, dabbed at their eyes dutifully enough, their stares fixed on her.
Mother, where are you?
Second wife of the late sultan or not—Nuraya sniffled again—the queen should have been here to see off her husband before he was laid to lie in the shadow of his ancestors.
A Husalmin priest wearing a large green turban, his long, unkempt, gray beard flowing in the breeze, leaned toward an Atishi priest who wore the customary loincloth, his long hair dyed orange. Both holy men nodded at each other, then turned their gaze upon her.
They were restless. All of them. Wanted to get this done and over with. Funerals, even one for the sultan, it seemed, weren’t matters that held much interest for the living.
Nuraya gritted her teeth, half-determined to give these impatient souls a little piece of her mind. Then her eyes fell upon Ahasan. Her eldest brother fidgeted on a chair too small for his considerable girth, the white turban he’d donned for the occasion adorned with glittering blood rubies. His guards—lowly dogs, all of them—who had dared cross her path stood behind the prince, conical white hats over their heads.
Ahasan raised a wavering arm, pointed a shaky finger toward the pitcher one of his servants held. The servant nodded, leaned in to refill a goblet before passing it over to Ahasan.
Fury rose in her chest. What man—what son—drank at his father’s funeral? And what kind of a son stopped his sister from visiting her dead father?
The crowd was muttering now. A soft, annoying buzz of flies that jarred at her. Opposite the eldest prince, the grand vizier stroked his chin through his long beard, his thoughtful eyes watching them both in turn.
He was far from the only one.
The sultan was dead. And now the onlookers waited to see if the Istani dynasty’s bloody history of tearing itself apart after the death of a sultan would be repeated. Kinas was apparently marching on the double for Algaria. He was far, though, too far from stopping Ahasan if he took the opportunity to take the Peacock Throne.
Abba, does all this make you ashamed of your children?
The unrelenting sun burned on as if oblivious to her worries. Her off-white, loose-fitting white peshwaz stuck to her chest and her back. She inclined her chin, drew in a long breath.
A daughter of the great Sultan Anahan would not be seen broken beside his coffin.
That was what Abba would have wanted.
Giving her head a slight nod, Nuraya turned, climbed the two steps onto the marble platform.
Draped in two simple white cloths, Sultan Anahan lay silently within the simple coffin fashioned of the neem tree, his long fingers interlaced and resting neatly atop his unmoving chest, his unblinking eyes finally shut. A soft breeze from the southern ocean set the hem of the white sheet that draped his torso fluttering.
She choked at the sight.
“Abba…” she croaked. The sultan didn’t reply. He was really dead, then. A hand rose to cover her mouth. Unbidden, without warning, tears burst from her eyes as she took in the impossible sight. Abba was here and yet he wasn’t. A soul sundered, leaving the body behind.
“Abba…” she tried again, her voice so low even she could barely hear it.
Nothing.
Taking a step forward, her knees threatening to buckle underneath her, she placed a hand over Abba’s fingers. Cold. Lifeless. Fighting the urge to flee, she steeled her resolve, forced herself to look at his face.
Calm. Serene. Distinguished. If she didn’t know any better, she might have thought him asleep, only she couldn’t ever recall him sleeping before, couldn’t remember a time when his eyelids had the temerity to cover the brilliant, piercing green eyes she had inherited from him.
A wave of emotions washed over her, a chilly rush that set her teeth chattering, her legs shaking. “Abba!” she wailed. She leaned in, placed her cheek on Sultan Anahan’s unmoving chest.
She inhaled deeply, trying to capture what was left of his scent. The faintest whiff of the motia attar he’d preferred mixed with incense and a sickly-sweet stench that set the hairs on the nap
e of her neck on end.
She clung to her father for a long while, a toddler who didn’t want to let go of her father’s hand. Tears fell from her eyes, dampening the white sheets underneath.
Oh, Abba, if only I could give you my own life!
She sniffed. How long had she been on the platform now? Not that she cared for decorum, but all her life she’d shared the great man with the masses. Even in death, she knew Abba would have wanted her to moderate her conduct for the benefit of others.
Blowing her nose gently, she stood up straight, her eyes fixed on the dead sultan’s face. She exhaled, relishing this final moment she would have with him. Bells pealed in the distant city. Deep bells the Husalmin preferred. The tinkling bells of the Atishi. Regardless of the differences of faith or creed or language or ethnicity, the city mourned its leader as one, a partner in her grief.
I am a princess of the Istani Sultanate!
Nuraya exhaled again, her fingernails digging tight into her palms. “Abba,” she said, her eyes still drawn to his handsome face. “I will keep your memory alive. Always.”
That said, she turned around before she could have a change of heart, stepped down the podium, and made for the row of eunuchs. Faces turned to watch her. The colorful, gaudy silks of the Reratish diplomats fluttered as they whispered. The thin, gaunt representatives of the Zakhanan empire glared. Fat merchants, heads of various guilds watched, judged, and took her measure.
Fighting nausea and the rising bile in her throat, she kept her back ramrod straight, her eyes looking fiercely ahead. If her mother was watching, Nuraya would show her that she too could take command of her emotions.
She passed a contingent of the Sultan’s Body. Old Hanim stood at their front. He sniffled and said something. She quickened her pace, continuing her calm walk toward the ladies of the harem.
She was almost there. Soon, she’d be surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting and the maids, a protective bubble that would guard her against prying eyes. Her eyes met Mona’s. Her pale, pretty face was wet with tears, the smooth skin glistening. The corners of her mouth twitched, the white veil she’d worn in the Husalmin fashion slipping as she shook her head sadly.
Tears had the power—said an old Gharsi saying—to unite men and women.
Nuraya tore her eyes away from the crying women, then stopped and turned toward the raised platform again.
Abba!
Her knees buckled. She tried to right herself, but she didn’t have the strength. With a soft cry, she crumpled to the ground, tears leaking from her face. Shame and regret mixed inside her chest. She had failed. Even as Abba had been watching, she’d let him down. She screamed, the shrill, loud shriek bouncing off the old gravestones and the statues of her family. A weak, pathetic wail.
“Rabb, why did you take Abba from me?”
Hands fell upon her, raising her gently. The eunuchs fanned out as the maids murmured, cooed to her as if she were an eight-year-old. Nuraya closed her eyes, refusing to see the faces witnessing her very public breakdown. Someone pulled her into a warm chest. More soft murmurs, the words gibberish, nonsensical, but welcomed, nonetheless.
The last of her restraints broke down. Nuraya whimpered and howled, her chest rising and falling like the bellows, her face pressed into the shoulder of the woman holding her upright.
As if to not let her cry in shame all by herself, the women around her broke into hysterical sobs. They prayed, howled, beat at their chests, the soft bells tied to their ankles ringing, the bangles clinking. Some called out to the twelve gods of the Ahmin. Others wailed to the fire god of the Atishi. A few wailed at Rabb, begged Him to grant the late sultan an exalted place in His kingdom.
“Wipe your tears, my princess,” whispered a voice in her ears. A familiar one.
Nuraya shook her head.
“Girl,” repeated Ghansi, her commanding voice brooking no argument, “see the last journey of your father with your own eyes.”
Exhaling, Nuraya brought up the backs of her hands and dabbed at her eyes. Then, exhaling, she took a quick look around. Her mother was still absent. Forgive me for my weaknesses, Abba. She turned toward the platform.
Three Husalmin priests stood over the body of the dead sultan, their heads and hands pointing at the bright sun.
“Oh, Lord, who resides beyond the sun, brighter than anything else, forgive this soul and grant him everlasting peace,” said the lead priest, his deep, booming voice easily carrying over the crowd, the many layers of his turban resembling an oversized onion.
“Amen,” joined the others.
“Amen,” repeated the crowd around her. Men of the Sultan’s Body—though not of the Husalmin faith—all bowed their heads. The guard carrying the Istani flag beside Hanim lowered it, the lion before the yellow sun, the symbol of Istan, made to kiss the sands.
Nuraya kept quiet, fighting to keep her anger at the priests at bay. How dare they ask forgiveness for Abba? Since when did the ants intercede for the lion?
Abba would have tolerated this charade, though, all for the good of the wider public. And so, clenching her teeth, she resorted to glaring at the three priests.
The priests motioned four men dressed in white robes to step up and join them on the platform. At the head priest’s nod, two of them bent reverently and placed the sultan’s body onto a palanquin laden with crushed rose petals. Yellow. The color of the Istani family.
The other two grabbed opposite corners, and together they descended, carrying the sultan on his last journey, statues of the dead sultans staring down at one more who’d come to join them.
The eunuchs parted to the side. Maharis Yeone, the shifty-eyed magus, crept toward her and offered a bow.
She ignored him, forcing herself to look at the palanquin gliding over to the hole in the ground she’d refused to acknowledge until now.
Nuraya wanted to scream at them. It wasn’t right that the sultan of an empire spanning thousands of miles could be deposited in such a puny little patch of sand, and… subjected to the ungodly insects and the maggots and the…
Nuraya closed her eyes, fighting off another wave of nausea. Beside her, Mona whimpered.
The three priests began to chant now, their loud voices grating. Despite herself, Nuraya forced her eyes open.
Gently, two robed men lifted the sultan’s body from the palanquin, the white sheets fluttering. The other two descended into the grave. For a second, an infinitely small period yet meaningful beyond all others, she saw Abba’s face in repose, the eyes shut, his sick, restless body finally at eternal peace.
Then the sultan disappeared into the dirt. Her heart sank. Heathen and misguided the Atishi might be, but at least they burned their dead, scattered their essence instead of… this travesty the Husalmin insisted on!
The men stepped out of the grave. With another loud chant beseeching the Unseen God, the head priest filled his fist with dirt, then threw it in the grave. On cue, the other two priests followed. When they were done, the four men grabbed shovels, started covering Abba with the dirt they had just trodden on.
Disbelieving, her heart choking at each heave, she watched the dirt and soil rising until it was level with the ground. The men didn’t stop, continuing until a mound had formed.
Finally, the priests ceased their prayers. Offering a final bow to their god who never died, unlike how hers had, they turned their backs to the dead sultan and walked away.
She stood still, tears gone dry.
The mourners began to scatter, their obligations to stay at an end. The death of one man, no matter how great, did not seem to stop the affairs of men as it ought to.
Her eyes, though, never wavered from the fresh grave. Where was Abba now? Was there any truth in the Husalmin claims of a life beyond this, one where Rabb, the Unseen God, rewarded those who’d forsaken pleasures of this life for one no one saw until they tasted death?
What did it matter anyway?
“Coming, my princess?” asked Mona, leaning in to rest a hand
on her arm.
She shook her head, her mind numb. Even as others had started moving away, a dozen maids and eunuchs and the damned magus still stayed beside her.
The crowd continued to thin. Nuraya looked beyond Abba’s grave, toward the graves of Istani sultans going back six hundred years. Whether the next life existed or not, at least Abba was still with his family in a way.
Another gust of wind blew from the east, pulling at the veil covering her hair. Disgusted, she tore down the damned thing, let it fall to the ground. Someone beside her gasped but didn’t say anything.
“Princess,” came a shrill voice behind her. A man’s voice. She frowned. Men weren’t allowed to converse with women at funerals. She turned toward Maharis Yeone. The magus.
“What?”
Maharis blinked, the beady eyes darting about. “I’m afraid I do not bring great tidings.”
Nuraya scoffed, pointed at the grave. “I doubt you could bring any worse news.”
The magus cleared his throat, righted his black turban. “The queen couldn’t attend the funeral because she has been restrained.”
“Restrained?” asked Nuraya, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. Then anger washed over her. “Who would dare that?”
The magus rubbed his hands. “Prince Ahasan… prevailed over the queen to stay behind. A message, I believe, that he intends to send to you.”
Nuraya stepped forward until she was two paces from the magus. “Speak plainly.”
“The prince wishes you to be aware of his intention to declare himself the sultan once the official mourning period passes. He declares it would give him great… pleasure to secure the support of his step-mother and half-sister for his claim.”
Nuraya felt her eyes widen. Furious, she stomped her feet. The ground seemed to shake at the impact. Distantly, she heard a rumble but didn’t turn her eyes from the magus. “He… wants my… support?” She bit her lower lip. “He has the temerity to kidnap the queen, to blackmail his own sister! God’s guts, he has gone too far!”