by Fuad Baloch
He shook his head again. “Even if that were possible, I would not be able to teach it. Each Jaman magus uses a deeply intimate, personal connection to their well. A connection that cannot be explained or taught, merely experienced. In the world of magi, we the Jaman are further cursed as we do not learn our limits or our wells except at great peril and cannot pass on our knowledge to others.”
Nuraya didn’t understand all the magus had said. But she did know the magus was not going to give her the one power that would give her the edge she so desired.
“Why do you refer to this power as a curse?”
Maharis hesitated. “That’s what the Kalb believes and instills in us magi.”
She nodded.
The magus rode beside her another mile, then peeled back.
Doubts Maharis had seeded in her heart earlier now took root in her mind. What if her uncle didn't lend her the men she needed to command a force back to Algaria? Would all this marching across the sultanate, traveling away from the capital, be a waste of time and effort?
She banished the doubting voice. She was the daughter of the great Sultan Anahan, and she would not be denied. Instead, she forced herself to look at the fertile lands to the right, the dense trees to the left. So different from the never-ending sand dunes that surrounded Algaria.
Behind her, the men were arguing. Rurik shouted. Jinan bellowed back. Unfazed, Rurik countered right back, his voice sharp, so thick with the local dialect she couldn't make out the words.
Leaning forward, Nuraya drew in a long breath, filling her lungs with the fresh morning air. She was in Nikhtun, the westernmost province of Istan. The land where her mother grew up. She chuckled, musing how these rich, lively surroundings hadn’t rubbed off on her mother’s personality.
“My princess,” came Mona’s voice over the clapping hooves. “A word?”
Nuraya suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Mona had grown increasingly quiet since their flight from the capital. Even as she sat uncomfortably in the saddle, her pale blue peshwaz pinned neatly along her chest and waist, there was no hiding the pale face, the worried eyes. Before Mona could say something, Nuraya pointed at the distant hills that seemed to roll on and on. “Isn't this beautiful? Makes you wonder why the early sultans never made home here instead of Algaria in the middle of a desert?”
Mona licked her lips, her eyes darting around. Now that she was looking, Nuraya saw the layers of grime on Mona’s sleeves. She grimaced, refusing to look at her own dress.
This was a tough life she was living through. Then again, if Abba had done these kinds of marches before, then so could she.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, realizing Mona still hadn’t asked her question.
Mona’s eyes darted to the side. “My princess... could we not take a break?” The corners of her mouth twitched. “The men... they follow... but even they have a breaking point.”
“They are warriors,” she said. “They will make do.”
Her lips quivered. “I could do with some rest too. Besides, isn't a well-rested army worth more against a larger but a tired one?”
Nuraya gritted her teeth, unable to find much in terms of logic to counter her argument. She jerked her head back. Trained men or not, those following her looked to be at their limit. They might have ridden these roads all their lives, but they sat slumped in their saddles, silent, glum, almost no banter between them.
Nor did they move with the unity of a single body. If there was something they all shared, it was the irreverent, infuriating manner in which their eyes watched her whenever she turned.
Even now, one of them, a middle-aged man with a potbelly, half his teeth crooked or missing, gaped at her unashamedly. At the capital, the eunuchs would have had him whipped. Here, he was part of her army.
Pathetic.
She raised her hand, pointed at Jinan to ride up to her. Vishan, the other salar looked up suspiciously at them. “Do the men need to rest?”
Jinan beamed. “Mercenaries never like to travel hard unless booty is nearby.”
Booty? She chewed her lip. What had she gotten herself into? Then, she sighed, seeing the wisdom in Mona’s words. After all, it wasn’t like the destination would run away from them if she let the men rest up a bit.
“Jinan,” she said. “Order the men to take a break.”
Nuraya looked up from the cracked hand mirror Mona had somehow procured for her. A terribly gaudy thing, but it would have to do. Still seated on the stool they had set aside for her in the command tent, she examined her reflection, cringing at the dirty creature staring back.
“Are your men ready to move out?” she snapped at Jinan, who was standing languorously by her side.
“Soon,” he said, his eyes traveling up and down her body. Nuraya glared, channeling her mother’s cold, dismissive stare. Jinan looked away.
“Why not, Jinan Hoshbar?”
“The horses aren't used to long marches,” he said, pausing before adding, “my princess.” He scratched at his chin, his eyes now watching Mona lying on the carpeted floor. “I fear we might have to brush them down and rest up a couple of hours before continuing.”
Nuraya groaned, frustration rising within her.
She rose, stomped out of the tent, and headed for the stream flowing beside their makeshift campsite. Not the greatest of places to stop for a while, but certainly a better spot than the stink of Jinan’s men two hundred yards downwind. The water was clear here, the waves tepid, pure. For a moment, she watched her reflection in the water, finding it impossible to turn away.
Gone was the luster and volume that had been a hallmark of her dark hair. Instead, the long locks were matted against her skull, hanging limply along her face. Her clothes, not as dirty as Mona’s, were still in a deplorable state. Had Ghansi seen her in these, she would have had a seizure. Had her mother seen her like this, she would have fainted.
Her eyes fell to her face. Nuraya raised a hand, not believing the toll this past week had exacted on her smooth skin. Her fingers felt rough, alien against her cheeks. Almost like a man’s might have been, had she ever allowed one to graze her face.
Boots scrunched over leaves behind her. She didn't need to turn to know who he was. “We cannot stay here long, Jinan. I need to get help from my uncle and rush to Algaria before it’s too late.”
“I’ve sent messengers to some contacts of mine,” he said. “Instead of considering this as wasted time, perhaps consider it a... recruitment stop. Not every day these scum find an Istani royal up close and personal.” He utterer the word scum without any concern as to how it might reflect on him.
Then again, anyone that followed a scion of the Istani family ended up shedding trappings of their past, their previous lowly station in life forgotten. What was this man’s history anyway? With the piercing brown eyes, the tall and muscled physique, the mysterious accent, was he from the northernmost reaches of the sultanate?
“Another day or two and who knows, we might start looking at a thousand mercenaries.”
She scoffed. “A thousand is still nothing.”
“Over here, it’s a whole army, my princess.”
Hissing, she turned to face the tall salar. They were the same age, give or take a few years. For a moment, the words faltered on her tongue, a strange rush going through her as she took in the handsome face, the muscles rippling in his biceps as he flexed them almost subconsciously.
What would his hands feel like on her cheeks?
Over her body?
Fearing her cheeks might be turning red, she snapped her fingers, broke the spell. “I don’t like waiting, Salar Jinan.”
“Nor do I,” he said, a sly smile on his lips. “Nor do I.”
“Jinan,” she said, advancing like the gust of wind rising without warning in the hot desert. Jinan blinked, took a reflexive step back. “I’m Nuraya of Istan, daughter of the great sultan, Keeper of the Divide, leader of the world’s greatest empire. Never, ever forget that!”
For a long breath, Jinan stared at her. Nuraya didn’t back down, staring up at the taller man. Jinan’s throat moved as he swallowed. He bowed his head, no hint of mocking this time. “As you say, my princess,” he spat out the words.
Nuraya sniffed. “And do something about your clothes. They stink.”
Jinan straightened his back, then pivoted. Instead of walking away, he stood his ground. “My men tell me some local town’s Nizam has come to pay his respects. He may have news of the capital.”
“Send him through.”
Jinan marched off, the swagger returning as he got closer to the knot of his men standing a respectful distance from her tent. He motioned at Rurik, who spread his arms, then trudged away.
Nuraya turned away from the men, irritated once more with the casualness they dared cast their eyes upon her person.
Water lapped up softly against the stream’s bank, the afternoon sun giving it a yellowish tinge. She stared at it, then turning her palms up, examined the lines. Was her kismet, her fate really written there as promised by the prophets of Fanna? If so, was she merely tasked with discovering it?
Her insides cramped, and she groaned.
No! She was the Iron Sultan’s daughter, one who made kismet. Not just for herself, but for all those in her orbit.
Again, the cramps took hold of her. Biting her lower lip, she forced her mind to think of anything but the pain down there. Was it already that time of the month? A howl built up inside her chest. How was it fair that despite all that happened to her, at the moment of need, her very own body threatened to betray her?
Footfalls rose behind her. Nuraya wheeled around. A middle-aged man, his white turban thin and floppy, waddled over. Rurik, Jinan, and the magus trailed a step behind him. A dozen paces from her, he slipped into a deep bow, huffing with effort when he tried to get up.
“Greetings, my princess,” he wheezed, his Nirdu a curious accent tainted by the Nikhtun language.
“What tidings do you bear?” Nuraya asked impatiently.
The old man blinked, then bowed again. Nuraya rolled her eyes, realizing this was another man who’d never have dreamed of being spoken to by an Istani princess, and now found the experience overtaxing.
“My princess, just this morning we received an imperial messenger. A most elegant knight, his dark horse and orange saddle a marvelous sight—”
Nuraya raised an eyebrow and the Nizam trailed away. “What news did he carry?” she snapped.
“Oh!” The man tried bowing again, but Rurik pulled him up. The Nizam scowled at the stout mercenary, then turned back to her. “‘The sultan is dead. The sultan is alive,’ said the Messenger. The Crown Prince Ahasan has announced his decision to crown himself sultan on the birthday of the blessed prophet Binyom and—”
“He can’t do that,” interrupted Nuraya, turning her gaze to the magus. “Isn't Kinas rushing back to the capital?”
“That’s precisely why Ahasan might not even wait till the birthday,” wheezed the magus. “And when that happens...”
“The Succession War breaks out in full,” she completed, feeling her throat go dry. What had Ahasan started?
“Nizam,” demanded Maharis, now wearing a purple turban instead of the black. “What do you know about the state of the roads?”
The old bureaucrat bobbed his head. “My cousin is a spice merchant. His caravan returned the other day when they were bound for the eastern cities. Roving bands of bandits, he said. Gets even worse near Orsa, apparently.”
Nuraya shook her head. “Orsa is home to thousands of the sultan’s soldiers.”
“No more,” said Jinan. “My contacts advise that Prince Kinas has emptied it out.”
“Leaving no men to support the border garrisons?” she asked disbelievingly. “How am I going to strengthen my position?”
“You still have me,” wheezed Maharis, “tied as I am.”
Jinan eyed the man suspiciously. If he suspected Maharis’s true identity as a magus, he hadn’t confronted him yet. Ahasan seemed in a great hurry if he was considering a coronation during the mourning period. She recalled the Zakhanan men accompanying Ahasan’s soldiers when they had killed her guards. How much foreign help did Ahasan have? Was he a puppet dancing at the orders of someone she could not see?
Nuraya turned her eyes back on the Nizam. “Where was the messenger headed to?”
“He never said, my princess,” replied the old man. “But he was seen to head west.”
“West... Toward Buzdar?”
The Nizam kept quiet. Again, worrying thoughts rose though her mind. Was the messenger carrying a message from Ahasan to her uncle? Did Ahasan suspect she was heading there? Or was this a call for him to solicit the help of Zakhtun for his claim? Or was it a reminder that unless the ameer complied, Ahasan held the queen hostage?
Nuraya made a shooing motion at Rurik to have the Nizam taken away. Then without waiting for the man to get out of earshot, she hissed at Jinan. “We need to decamp now, and ride for Buzdar at full gallop!”
This time, he didn't argue. “As you say.”
As he turned, Nuraya saw two figures stir beside her tent. A bald man, his chest bare, earrings glittering under the sun. A tall, lanky figure walking with a clumsy gait. A duck-like gait she’d seen before.
“Who are those men?”
Jinan stopped. “Two stragglers my men rounded up half an hour ago. One of them is a scholar, or so he says.” Jinan shrugged. “The other insists he’s a city guard from Algaria. If the likes of him are what the city guard does hire, the cut-purses there wouldn't have much to worry about.”
“Bring them to me.”
Jinan nodded, barking at one of his men to fetch the two of them.
Nuraya squinted. The bald man wasn't one she’d seen before. But the taller one was recognizable even from a distance.
She smiled, recalling the last time she had seen him at the court. The awkward walk, the stammering answers as he’d been tasked by Abba to accompany an inquisitor westward.
The smile faded upon the memory of Abba on the throne. A whole age seemed to have passed since that moment.
“My p-princess,” sputtered the city guard whose name eluded her, “it’s a blessed r-relief to see you, I must say.” He wore a grimy leather jacket over a tattered shirt, his head uncovered, the long hair a squelched mess. In contrast, his companion, despite being half-naked and bald appeared almost regal in carriage.
“I remember you,” she said. “Weren't you sent by Abba and the grand vizier?”
“I...” the guard bowed. “Aye, my p-princess. The sultan honored me, Shoki Malook, a mere jawan of the city guard to... a mission to Ghulamia...” He looked up then ran a hand through his hair. “Unfortunately...” His companion fixed his gaze on Shoki and he coughed. “Sadly, events h-happened... and we couldn't remain together.”
Nuraya scowled. Jinan wasn't wrong about the fortunes of Algaria’s underbelly if this man was indeed one tasked with keeping them in check. Even if there was something interesting about him she couldn’t quite pinpoint, he was hardly the kind of support she needed right now.
Shoki’s companion stepped forward and sniffed the air like a hound. Jinan advanced to block him off from her. Undeterred, the man took another step forward.
“Halt!” growled Jinan.
“Peace!” said the bald man, sniffing the air once more, ignoring the mercenary salar. “Are you the Istani princess, girl?”
Nuraya bristled. Jinan shook his head, just as taken back by the insult as she was.
“M-Mara, mind your language,” hissed Shoki.
“Your men mentioned they’re traveling to Buzdar,” said the bald man. “I wish to accompany you there.” Nuraya felt her eyes widen. Behind the bald man, Shoki was shaking his head.
She barked a short laugh. “Who are you to demand anything of me? Besides, what good is a scholar going to be?”
“Oh, you’ll be surprised to know how resourceful I can be.”
&n
bsp; Shoki took a surreptitious step to the side, his hand rising just enough to catch her attention. No, he mouthed, then shook his head so vehemently she feared it might roll off.
Nuraya considered the scholar and the city guard. Not men she’d have much need for, even considering the circumstances. Then again, did it hurt to gather resources that might prove useful?
Mona emerged from the tent, rubbing her eyes. Two mercenaries began dismantling their tent. Behind them, a clamor had broken out now. Men shouting, horses neighing. A small army or not, they definitely made enough noise for a large one.
She nodded. “Very well. Jinan, get our new recruits some horses.”
Chapter 15
Shoki
Massive Istani flags, a lion and the sun in a sea of green, flapped over the guard towers and turrets of Buzdar. Shoki blinked, pulling up his reins to take in the massive city walls that seemed to spill for miles along the rich plain, the mighty river Baina flowing a mile to the east.
All his life, he’d thought of Algaria as the grandest city of them all. Now, casting his eyes on the capital of Nikhtun province, home to the holiest shrines and monuments of the Fanna faith, spires of the Red Fort rising from its center like the axis of a massive wheel, he couldn't ignore the wonder rising in his gut.
His horse snorted then resumed its trot as they continued on the road leading to the eastern barbicans and guard posts of the outer wall.
“What a sight!” whistled the mercenary beside Shoki.
“Wait till you see Algaria,” croaked Shoki reflexively, a strange sense of loyalty to the city of his birth taking hold of him. The sun was behind the city walls now, continuing its journey over to the Reratish Kingdom before setting for one more night.
Shoki shook his head and considered the tiny ant-like figures standing atop the ramparts. They might have been entering through the eastern gates, facing the Istani mainland, but all the guard towers appeared manned.
Beside the large Istani flag fluttering over the outpost, another flag was draped over the ramparts. Red. Adorned with a red falcon. Sigil of the Ameer of Nikhtun, uncle to the Istani princess who had taken him in.