by Fuad Baloch
“Is the fat bastard inside?” she barked at the burly guards wearing Ahasan’s livery beside a set of tall, barred doors. One of the guards stepped forward, his eye darting between her and the men behind her. “Is the crown prince expecting you?”
Nuraya narrowed her eyes at the title, her anger threatening to burst any moment. “Get off my way.”
The guard didn't move.
She clenched her fists. Men throughout the Istani realm seemed to hold quaint ideas on how women ought to behave around them, no matter the differences in their respective stations. Something this piece of vermin was about to get a new lesson on.
“Best step out of the way of the oncoming tempest,” said Maharis, his shrill voice waxing some line from some poet Nuraya hadn’t heard, “unless ye want neither future nor present.”
The guard shuffled uncomfortably, more uneasy with the man wearing the black turban instead of the princess of the Istani Sultanate.
“Maharis, get rid of them,” she growled, straining to keep her voice low. “These nobodies aren’t worthy of my wrath.”
“Alas, my hands are bound,” said the magus, spreading his arms. Before she could say something, he turned around, motioned to the soldiers who had accompanied them. “Restrain these misguided sons.”
Boots scrunched as both sets of men advanced, their mouths snarling, the air ringing as they unleashed their swords.
“For Rabb’s sake,” muttered Nuraya. She marched forward. One of Ahasan’s men tried blocking her way. She slapped him on the cheek with the back of her hand. The sound rang out as men paused to take a look. The guard she’d hit stared at her, his eyes narrowing. His friend grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.
“Make sure no one disturbs me,” she said, then without waiting for an answer, kicked the doors open and stomped in. She hadn't been here before. The chamber was setup like the diwan-e-khas—high-backed chairs facing each other in two columns, a gilded chair placed atop the dais at the far end, portraits of old sultans hanging on the walls, shadows dancing on their faces under torches lit even at daytime.
The chamber carried little of the quiet dignity of the diwan-e-khas, yet the room gave her pause. Her eyes fell upon an ancient sultan, the corners of his gray mustache curled up, the eyes narrow and stern. Melancholy spread in her chest. Would they be putting up a portrait of Abba here one day as well?
“Sister,” came Prince Ahasan’s faint voice from the distant chair. “So good to see you again.”
Nuraya snapped away from the portrait. “Brother,” she spat out the word as if it was venomous. Standing straight, she put on the stern face Abba could do with so little effort. “I thought you might have fled instead of seeing me.”
Ahasan tittered, a pool of flesh and robes melting into the chair that seemed more fit for a child than someone of his bulk. Even from this distance, she could feel the tension in the forced laughter. Hardly surprising. He had never been known for courage. Or false bravado. “I’d never do that, sister.”
Nuraya took a step forward. Ahasan kept grinning, but she could tell the effort was draining him. Something was wrong. He had not fled. He’d been expecting her. This was not the Ahasan she remembered. That posed a challenge for her. Seething or not, she had to watch how she approached him.
Had someone been speaking to him? Whispering to him the importance of occupying centers of power in the Shahi Qilla? By continuing to remain seated even as she advanced, he gave the impression of being an ameer, a monarch, awaiting the subject to advance to him.
This wasn't right. He had no right to sit on Abba’s chair!
Gritting her teeth, she let out a howl of anguish and fury. Ahasan coughed into his hands, turned his jowls away from her. She smiled. Dyeing cotton didn't somehow transform it into luxurious silk. No matter what show Ahasan thought he was putting on, his rotten, weak essence remained within.
She strode forward, her eyes never leaving Ahasan’s increasingly panicked, beady ones. He squinted, coughed, cracked the knuckles of his stubby fingers, watching her approach. Underneath the shawl draped over a shoulder, she could see the damp patch of sweat spread across his chest and belly.
Her heart pounded, a storm raging within. She shook her head once more, still looking at Ahasan. Half-brother or not, no true blood relative would have denied her the sight of her dead father before the funeral. Nor would they have stopped a wife from attending her husband’s last rites.
Instead of coming to a stop in front of the raised platform as other supplicants would have, she climbed up the dais, stood to Ahasan’s right. Did they teach you to expect this?
Ahasan grunted, severely discomfited as he tried to shuffle his bulk in the chair to turn toward her.
Good.
“Why have you imprisoned my mother?” she demanded, her words hot like lava.
Ahasan shuffled, blinked stupidly. Nuraya scoffed, fought back the urge to wrap her fingers around the fat neck and choke him.
Not the time!
“Sister, I assure you, your mother, the esteemed Queen Consort is not under any duress—”
“Queen Consort?” interrupted Nuraya. “Since when did the queen get her title changed?”
Ahasan scowled. Beads of perspiration had broken out on his forehead now. Nuraya cast a scornful look at her pathetic brother. How in the seven hells had he been the firstborn?
“Well?” she asked again, her voice loud, sharp.
Ahasan startled as if she’d slapped him. “The sultan is dead... Yet, a new sultan must be crowned. It’s time we... all of us, come together and... erm... usher in another era of prosperity.”
In no mood to hide her incredulity, she laughed. “You can’t even remember the lines they fed you, can you?” She leaned in suddenly. Ahasan gave a little yelp as she stared into his lifeless brown eyes. If he saw a bit of Abba in her green eyes, then she would press the advantage. “Who is putting you up to all this? We both know all this plotting is beyond you! The Zakhanan Empire? The Reratish Kingdom? Someone else?”
Ahasan made a shooing motion. “Do not forget your manners, sister. I’m the eldest son, and you would do well to remember that.”
“Oh? Like you’ve forgotten my mother is the Queen of Istan?”
That shut him up. His jaw moved soundlessly as if trying to come up with some logical argument. A breath later, Ahasan shook his head, the mask of geniality slipping away. “Perhaps, it’s time we spoke plainly.”
She bared her teeth. “Absolutely.”
Ahasan drew in a great breath, then forced himself off the chair with an almighty heave. If his intent was to intimidate her with the advantage in height, his large belly straining against the robes despoiled the effect.
Nuraya crossed her arms over the chest, cocked her head to the side. “Tell me, brother,” she said, each word sharp like a jab. “What’s really on your mind?”
“Nuraya... I... intend to be the next sultan on prophet Binyom’s birthday,” said Ahasan, his words halting, too heavy for him to utter without stumbling. “Not only is this my right as the eldest son, but... all my life in the court has prepared me well for this duty.” He exhaled, dabbed at his forehead. “I want you to support my claim.”
Despite the fury raging with her, Nuraya broke out into disbelieving laughter. Placing her hands on her hips, she let the wave wash over her, the sound of her laughter bouncing off the high ceiling. “You... you actually think you’d made a good sultan?”
Ahasan adjusted the folds on his bright turban. “Of course, all my life—”
“You’ve proven yourself useless at everything,” said Nuraya. “The only reason you’ve attended court as much as you have is because, unlike Kinas, who’s actually good at being a soldier, you’re too lazy to do anything else besides draining kegs of wine.” She pointed at his belly, tsked. “Heck, even I could take you in a fencing joust.”
Ahasan’s face grew red, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glared at her. “Watch your words, Nuraya.”
She glared back at him. “Or what? You’ll throw up? Crawl back to your puppeteers and beg for more witty lines?”
“Y-you... I’m g-going to—”
“Stop talking,” she declared, raising a hand. “You disappoint me.”
A stubborn vein throbbed in Ahasan’s forehead. Mere words, yet they had cut deeper than any conventional weapon would have. Surrounded by sycophants and minions, it wasn’t everyday he’d have heard plain truths.
Nuraya closed her eyes and inhaled sharply, forcing her clenched fingers to relax. What would Abba say if he saw his children squabbling like this?
She turned on her heels, marched over to the window behind the chair, and peered outside.
Unlike Kinas, their middle brother, Ahasan had never been one for nature. The glass window was sealed tightly, but she could feel cool drafts leaking through. Nuraya drew in a long breath, wondered what it would be like to blow about freely as the wind could, untethered by worries and anxieties and concerns.
Underneath them, Algaria spilled out into the distant horizon, the massive sand-kissed walls marking a defiant border between the greenery Algaria insisted on growing within its borders and the sands that kept encroaching from the outside.
The Grand Husalmin Temple and the Immortal Fire Shrine of the Atishi stared at each other atop opposing hills just outside the Shahi Qilla’s walls. The golden dome and minarets of the Husalmin temple blazed under the midday sun. Ant-like figures moved outside the ziggurat of the Atishi temple that seemed to rise from the ground like a leviathan from the dark depths of the Southern Ocean.
Ahasan was muttering behind her, the words incomprehensible, meaningless to her. Something about honor. Respect. Due right. Words he’d heard, remembered, but most probably never understood.
She remained beside the window, her anger temporarily giving way to bewilderment and indecision. Down in the lush gardens below, the neem trees shook as if under assault from an unrelenting, unseen gust. An instant later, the frame of the window rattled.
Nuraya exhaled, forcing her heartbeat to return to normal. Mona and Maharis had warned her not to go by herself to Ahasan, fearing she might make matters worse.
She scoffed. As if she could make matters any worse than what both Rabb and Ahasan had done to her? Well, she had proven them all wrong by the remarkable restraint she had shown so far, hadn't she?
All restraints though did have a fraying point. What would she do once hers snapped?
She turned around and fixed her gaze at Ahasan. “Let my mother go without harming a single hair on her head.” Her fingers clenched into fists. “Or, you won’t like what happens.”
Ahasan’s eyes grew dark. Smacking a hand against his fleshy thigh, he advanced toward her. “What will you do?”
Despite realizing she should have kept quiet, Nuraya couldn't give way. Not now. Not in front of this camel-dung. She strode forward as well, an eyebrow raised—her body almost subconsciously imitating Abba’s mannerisms. “Or your men will be cut down.”
Genuine fear flickered in her brother’s eyes accompanied by a sharp hiss. He stopped, his throat moving as he swallowed. “You’re... going to raise arms against me?”
She shrugged. In truth, she had no idea what that entailed, or how one even got started, but now was hardly the time to be admitting that.
Ahasan shuffled forward, joined her beside the window. For a long breath, he remained quiet. “Sister, despite what you might think of me, this eternal city of ours is boiling, simmering with a thousand challenges and threats. We were lucky... to have a sultan like we did for so long, but even he could only keep the discordant voices at bay temporarily, failing to snuff them out completely.”
Nuraya chewed her lower lip. Strange to hear Ahasan talk like this. Almost made her doubt how much she really knew him.
“I may not be the best man the sultanate deserves at this point but matters like these require a deft hand and someone that appears malleable to the different stakeholders.” Ahasan sighed, scratched at his chin. “Even now, Kinas storms toward the capital, leaving behind the Kohkam fortress father had assigned to him. Worse, he is draining the central fortresses and garrisons like Orsa of both men and provisions. He might be good at winning battles, but our brother has never shown an aptitude for winning wars. He threatens both our eastern and western borders simply to challenge me here in Algaria!”
“What’s your point?” growled Nuraya, suddenly aware she had lost the thread of the conversation and had no idea where Ahasan was going with it.
Ahasan sighed. “Kinas and I might have sprung from the same mother unlike your Nikhtun mother, yet he is nothing like me, sister.” Nuraya stiffened at the last word, but Ahasan’s voice seemed to brook no malice. He continued, “Warriors like him can be relied upon to tear down walls and destroy cities. Not for governing them afterward though.”
Again, Ahasan sighed, stirred beside her. “For the good of the Istani empire, for the sake of all that’s noble and honorable, I ask you... implore you to support my claim to the Peacock Throne. Prophet Binyom’s birthday is one occasion where even the majority Atishi populace joins us, the Husalmin for celebration. That’s an apt time to ensure our family’s legacy continues peacefully.”
Nuraya blinked, wrong-footed by the strange man standing beside her. It seemed like the boy she remembered had disappeared. The husk remained, but within spoke someone who might still be uttering someone else’s words, but at least did so with sincerity.
“Ahasan,” she growled after a moment’s hesitation, “I don’t give a damn whose ass sits on the Peacock Throne. All I care for is my mother. Release her immediately, never cast an evil eye toward us, do not involve us in your dirty scheming, and you and I will never have to see each other ever again.”
Ahasan stared at her. For an instant, a short yet terrifying one, Nuraya thought she saw a glimmer of her father’s steely resolve in Ahasan’s beady eyes. She shivered, looked away. “Nuraya, I give you my word. No harm would befall you or the queen.” He nodded. “Even when a new queen is installed... your mother will retain all honor due her.”
“Good,” said Nuraya looking up at him, unable to muster a better response. Maybe, she had been mistaken about her brother. After all, even a humble box of wood ended up acquiring rose-scent if used long enough to house it. “Promise me you’ll stick to your word.”
Ahasan spread his hands. “On my honor as the son of the great Sultan Anahan, I so give you my word.”
Nuraya stared at him for a long moment, competing urges of vengeance and pragmatism fighting in her chest, tearing her apart in opposite directions.
Her eyes fell on the distant portraits of the Istani sultans looking down on their descendants.
She exhaled, then nodded.
Chapter 9
Shoki
Shoki rose to the clamor of neighing horses and men shouting.
“Get up, you camel-dung!” bellowed Altamish Aboor. Shoki shot upright, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. Their campsite was in a riot, the night fire they’d started a few hours ago reduced to smoldering ashes.
From the corner of his eye, Shoki saw Mara approach.
“What—” The words died in Shoki’s mouth as a bright flare of light rose above the treetops to their right, followed by a hissing sound. His jaw hanging loose, Shoki watched the flare ascend until it was as high as the two moons up in the heavens.
“Run!” shouted Mara, yanking him unceremoniously up to his feet.
His eyes still drawn to the flare, Shoki swallowed. For a moment longer, the hissing flare stayed afloat, a fixture of the night sky almost, then it began to fall, leaving a smoky trail in its wake.
Panic stabbed at him as Shoki realized it was heading for them.
The inquisitor shouted, the words impossible to hear over his heart thudding in the chest. Squealing, his eyes still scanning the approaching ball of fire, Shoki ran.
A deer trying its best to escape the prancing predator, Sh
oki pumped his long legs, galloping at a speed he’d never have thought himself capable of.
He slammed into a tree trunk and fellin a heap. The world swayed. A hand reached for his arm again, yanked him up once more.
“We’ve got to keep moving!” yelled Mara Carsa.
“But...” croaked Shoki, blinking to clear the dizziness. What in the gods’ guts was going on? He squinted up.
The ball of fire thudded on the ground, a dozen yards from the spot he’d been sleeping on. The ground shook and rolled as if slapped by an angry giant. Shoki’s knees buckled and he teetered. His mouth agape, his bladder threatening to burst, terror twisting his innards into a crush, he watched the trees that had burst into flames.
Shoki shrunk back as the wave of searing heat washed over.
“Keep moving!” snarled Mara.
Nodding, Shoki tried to move. He couldn't, his knees no longer responded to his commands.
“Oh, for Rabb’s sake!” Mara propped up Shoki’s arm over his bare shoulder and pulled him forward. “Over there!” He pointed to his right, a direction that didn't seem any different from the others. Shoki nodded meekly, feeling his limbs shaking and trembling like leaves in the grip of a hurricane.
His heart stirred. The annoying urge to let go. He swallowed, pushed back the bile rising in his throat. “W-what’s happening?”
Amazingly enough, Mara heard him. “We’re being attacked.”
“A-attacked?” Shoki's throat dried up. He blinked, shook his head. “Us? But, why?”
Instead of replying, the scholar, far stronger than his age might have suggested continued to drag him deeper into the trees, away from the fire crackling behind them.
Twigs snapped at the right. Shoki squealed. Altamish emerged from the shadows, his thin face glinting with sweat under the yellow light. “Do you know your way around, Mara?”
For some reason, the scholar seemed to hesitate. Then he nodded, raised his hand at the spot he’d been aiming at before. “Over there. We can lose them at the lake.”