by Fuad Baloch
Now, even her uncle had turned his back on her.
Screaming, she jabbed at her shadow. She was Nuraya Istan, daughter of the great Sultan Anahan, and when pushed, she hit back harder.
Regret and pain rose through her once more.
She’d been having trouble sleeping over the last couple of nights, seeing the grunting faces of Buzdar’s city guards, blood pouring out of their noses and mouths and eyes as they fell to her men. Again and again, they died at her hand, their blood smearing against her skin, her clothes.
She screamed once more, howling with rage and frustration. A sultana she might have claimed herself, but had there been any ruler of Istan weaker than her? What Sultana hid from her family, accompanied by a few thousand mercenaries?
She had to do something proactive. But what? Following Mara’s instructions again, sitting on her ass on the damp forest floor, hadn't yielded any results either. Maharis couldn't teach her jadu on account of being a Jaman magus, even as he kept dropping hints of other ways, he could be helping her cause.
Why was she even bothering with magi and their jadu? They were abominations, their powers cursed. Something that both Husalmin and Atishi agreed on.
She needed an edge. Any edge. And that’s why she kept on trying.
Besides, didn't the wind obey her?
Nuraya jabbed right, then crouching, hit the air with an uppercut that would have been fatal against a real opponent in a real battle.
Her thoughts drifted.
The Istan family had ruled over the realm for centuries. One of their responsibilities was being Keeper of the Divide, a title that gave them sovereignty over both magi and inquisitors of the Kalb, their subjugators. Yet, she traveled with two magi, unchecked by the inquisitors. Worse, she sought the same terrible power she was meant to contain.
That wasn't all. Instead of fighting the mercenaries who more than likely turned into bandits during peacetime, she promised them glory and riches. When she won, what would she do with them? Would she really disband them, leaving them to roam the open roads once more, swords for hire?
Nuraya shook her head. She was over-thinking things. If one had a sword, one oiled it, kept its blade sharp, rather than letting it rust.
She dabbed at her wet forehead.
More confusing thoughts crowded into her mind. She saw Shoki, the tall, awkward city guard from Algaria, step toward her as she trained with Mara, his eyes unblinking, unashamed.
Why hadn't she slapped him? Instead, shocked by the audacity of one like him, her heart had skipped a beat. He was nothing like the other men she’d known. Did that explain her stunned reaction? The sword wavered in her hand. Grunting, she wheeled around, her breath coming in rasps.
Unlike other men who had desired her one way or the other, none had looked at her like the way Shoki did, at the moment she was at her lowest. There was desire in his large puppy-like eyes, a hunger she could feel from miles away. But despite all that, there was also a tenderness that had first surprised, then repulsed her. A man sought one thing alone from a woman. Her body. Any man that hinted otherwise, lied. Those who didn't lie, just hadn't lived long enough to know otherwise.
A mother’s lesson.
Yet, there was no denying the pain in those eyes. The great sense of loss.
Men like him could be troublesome. The longer he stayed like this, purposeless and meandering, the more trouble he would cause her. He had to leave.
A faint voice rose within her, chiding her for not looking at the matter properly, for glossing over the real reason he confused her. She ignored it.
More branches snapped behind her. Not the soft sounds of a small forest animal running in the under-bush. A large predator. Nuraya turned around, her heart beginning to beat loudly in her chest. Had Ahasan’s dogs finally caught up to her? Had her own men sold her out?
Quiet descended on the sun-soaked clearing. No enemies rushed her from the thick copse of trees. Yet, she could feel the eyes watching her.
“Come on out,” she called, balancing the sword in her right hand, perching on the balls of her feet. If they were to ambush her, she wasn't going to go down without a fight. “I know you’re there. Come out in the open before I hunt you down like a rabbit!”
A loud laugh rose from her right. Narrowing her eyes, Nuraya turned the sword toward that direction, making sure she wasn't letting herself be outflanked.
More twigs snapped and a moment later, Jinan Hoshbar emerged into the clearing, a grin on his face. Dressed in a worn leather jacket and a green turban, he looked every inch the charismatic mercenary salar one might find in fanciful books of poetry. “I never truly realized how good you were at sword fighting.”
Nuraya watched Jinan for one long moment, then dropped her stance. “Nin’oh and Shardil are the best sword masters one can hope to study under.”
“Still,” he said, taking another swaggering step forward, the dark stubble acquiring a golden tinge as a ray of sunlight fell upon it, “the quality of the teaching isn't everything. If it was, my eldest brother would have been the salar of these merry men instead of me!”
“How long were you watching me?” asked Nuraya, pointing at the direction Jinan had come from.
“Not long.” He paused. “Not that long, anyway. I guess my spying skills leave a little to be desired.”
“Never sneak up on me again.”
“Oh, really?” he started, then seeing the firm set of her face, shrugged.
“What news do you bring?”
Jinan clucked his tongue. “Back to business, eh?” She glared at him. “Well, we’ve got an emissary from your uncle. He says he’s got a message for you.”
Nuraya arched an eyebrow. “Unless, it’s my uncle offering his sincerest apologies, and preparing all his men to join my side, I fail to see how that interests me.”
“Well, the messenger refuses to share anything,” he said. “All this business of keeping secrets from the likes of me, truth be told, really offends me. But then again, I guess this is how things are done between civilized folks.”
“Who did he bring the message for?” she asked, chewing her lower lip. A lot depended on whether the message came from an uncle to his niece, or from an ameer to her sultana.
Jinan blinked, then offered a roguish smile. “Got your name on it.”
“Just the name?”
“Aye.”
Nuraya narrowed her eyes. “Tell him I’ve got a message for him to carry back. Unless the Ameer of Buzdar bends his knee to me and grovels, his life and that of his son are forfeit.”
The salar stared at her for a long moment, then advanced. His hands reached forward, grabbed hers. “I’m hardly someone to be talking of diplomacy, but is this really the best response we could send?”
Nuraya scoffed. His hands were surprisingly soft, the touch sending a tingle through her arm. She didn’t pull away. “Scared of what might happen?”
His eyes softened, the corners of the handsome mouth twitching. “Scared of what might happen to you.”
They were alone in the clearing. A young woman and a devilishly handsome man, a good distance away from others. Far from prying eyes and ears. Her heart thumped within her chest. Jinan smiled. Something melted inside her as he raised her hands, placed his lips on her smooth skin.
She shuddered, a rush of emotions so hot and strong it left her drained just trying to stand upright, the sword almost slipping from her fingers. He said something, his breath hot against her skin, making her swoon.
“No!” she snapped and yanked her hands free.
The salar blinked then looked up.
She turned her face to the side, hoping he couldn't see the flush coming on her cheeks. “Do not ever lay a hand on your sultana again.” Not unless I say so.
“I...” He chewed his lip. A tiger denied what he thought his due. “As you say.”
“Now, you may accompany me back to the main camp.”
For a long tense breath, the salar stared at her. She b
raced herself for any violence that might come from the jilted man. Instead, he offered her a terse smile and turned away.
None of them spoke as they made the half-mile trek back to their campsite of four days. Not the most idyllic of spots, but with the hilly terrain behind them offering both cover and defensive positions, even Mona hadn't found much to complain about. Well, no more than the usual grumbling that seemed to have become a part of her.
Again, Nuraya raged at being forced to stay still like this. Great rivers didn't languish under the sun like mere puddles of water destined to evaporate. With the prophet’s birthday creeping in ever closer, her margin for doing something continued to shrink.
“Where’s Kinas now?” she asked.
Jinan shrugged. “Rabb knows best. Last I heard, he seemed to be in great hurry to storm to the capital. And now he’s taking his sweet time.”
A coldness spread in her chest. “Is he still camped outside Orsa?”
Again, her salar, the man who had somehow become her siphsalar shrugged like a village idiot. “Don’t know why he’s bothering with that useless fort.”
“Not useless,” she muttered. “The very fount of Istani strength. A good place to secure... and to drain of soldiers.”
Though they were still a good hundred yards away, she could now hear the banter of her men. Scowling, she scanned the treetops around them. “Where are our guards?”
Jinan looked around, a puzzled expression on his face. “They should be here. I’ll find out what happened.”
“We cannot afford to be complacent!”
Jinan grunted.
As they entered the clearing and into the camp proper, men of Sultana’s Hands fell silent, their deferential eyes downcast. A huge change from the first time they’d met her. Then again, though they might have been Jinan’s or Vishan’s men in a past life, they were hers now.
Almost subconsciously, her hand rose to pat her hair. The bun had come undone, the leather jacket in serious need for repair. She chided herself. If her mother was any guide, a woman in power needed to project an image of stability, of command. And whether she liked it or not, wasn’t the fate of all women intrinsically tied to the way they looked?
She was the sultana now. And so long as these men believed they served the true heir of the Iron Sultan, one who looked and acted in the requisite manner, they would not hesitate to put down their lives for her cause.
Mona emerged from the central tent. She smiled, raised a hand, her green peshwaz pristine from this distance, her eyes traveling to Jinan behind Nuraya. Somehow, despite all the mayhem in their lives, Mona had found the time to find clean clothes. In the midst of all the muck, she alone bloomed like a lotus.
“My lady,” said Mona as Nuraya approached her. “I had Nizam Jahankir, your uncle’s emissary, wait for you in our tent. I hope that’s alright with you.”
Nuraya nodded, stopping to dip her fingers into a washbasin one of the men brought over. Scooping water in her hands, wincing at the calluses she could see building there, she splashed the warm water against her face. One thing she made sure of was not looking at her reflection. Especially, not with the pristine Mona beside her. As if aware of her thoughts, Mona stepped forward, helped pin her hair up, smoothed the folds of her dress.
The tent flap raised once more. The two magi, Mara and Maharis, stepped out, neither looking at the other. Mara scowled as always, the thick brass and gold bangles clinking as he scratched his bare head. Maharis, in contrast, fidgeted, his harried eyes darting this way and that, never settling anywhere for long.
The flap raised once more. Shoki walked out. Something in her heart soared at the sight of his simple face. She had no idea why the Zyadi magus kept the city guard around all the time, but his days being with her were drawing to a close. She needed no distractions.
Nuraya forced her stare at Jinan. “Bring the emissary out to meet me in the open.”
“In the open?” asked Maharis, his eyes growing wide. “Surely, we don’t want the common people to know what we discuss!”
“We?” asked Nuraya. “I detest shadows and whispers. Whatever he’s got to say, he can either say it in front of my subjects, or not at all.”
“As you say!” said Jinan, then marched into her tent. Mona came to stand beside her. Nuraya grimaced as her eyes fell on the mounds of refuse piling up on the eastern border of their camp. Unwashed bodies, she might have gotten used to. But she didn't have to put up with the stink of excrement.
Mara gestured at Shoki and the two men stepped a dozen or so strides to the side. Shoki coughed, the hurt eyes settling on her. Again, she felt the discomfort crawl over her, found it impossible to ignore him.
She was an Istani princess, the sultana now. A sight none of these commoners would have had the chance to witness this close. Even after all these days with her, as she stood in the open, Sultana’s Hands stopped their chores, gaped at her.
She chewed her lower lip. Maybe, she had been too hasty in asking the emissary to join them outside. Like a pot of honey lying open, flies buzzed all about now, each man and his glare telling different tales. Once more, she felt the eyes on her body, doing things to her that raised her hackles. Men were beasts who couldn’t be tamed for long. Kept busy, fighting and dying, they remembered the correct forms and differences in their stations, but when peacetime fell, their baser instincts stirred once more.
The tent flap parted, and Jinan walked out, followed by an old man she faintly remembered seeing at her uncle’s court in the Red Fort.
Nizam Jahankir shuffled up to her and bowed his head. A most perfunctory motion, she noticed. Not the bow of a mere noble to his queen, but one given to a peer.
“My princess, I carry a message from your uncle, and your brother, the crown prince,” he said.
Nuraya, ready to pounce at the man for how he’d addressed her, paused. “A message from my brother?”
The Nizam raised his chin. “Aye.” He cast his eyes about. “Would you like to receive this in private instead?”
Nuraya closed her eyes. Too late now to change her mind. The men were already forming a circle around them, muttering, jeering at the emissary. She exhaled. “Go on.”
“My princess, your uncle sends his greetings. He also apologizes for any miscommunication that might have occurred between his men and yours, something for which he’s most contrite and willing to make amends for.”
“Get to the point, Nizam,” Nuraya growled, impatience getting the better of her. “Cut out the fat and tell me why you're here.”
The Nizam coughed delicately, cast his eyes about him. “Really, a business like mine relies on subtlety...” Nuraya grunted and he licked his fat lip. “Your brother, the Crown Prince Ahasan... erm... commands your presence at the Shahi Qilla in a month’s time for his crowning on the prophet’s holy birthday.”
For a long breath, Nuraya stared at the emissary. Then throwing her head back, she laughed. Not the dainty little thing her mother did when amused, or the soft titter Mona burst into occasionally. A loud, bellicose laugh from the belly that would have done any mercenary around her proud. “He’s deluded. Mad.”
“Be that as it may,” said Nizam Jahankir, his voice growing indignant, “the request accompanies a... word of caution as well.”
Jinan whirled at the shorter man. “A warning, you mean?”
“Nothing quite like that,” said the Nizam, his cheeks growing red. “My responsibility is to carry messages, regardless of how I feel about them.” He turned his head toward her, the beady eyes narrowing to slits. “These words that I utter now come directly from your brother. ‘Nuraya, unless you are to present yourself in my presence within two weeks, no matter how embarrassing this will be for our family, I will be forced to reveal the terrible secret about you and your mother. Travel at full speed before the fortnight elapses!’”
Nuraya hissed. Muttering broke out around her as the men inched forward, their curiosities piqued. “What secret, old man?”
&
nbsp; The Nizam shrugged, ghost of a smile on his face. “I have no idea. But is that something you’d really want the world to hear?”
Chapter 21
Shoki
“Hey look, the giraffe is finally out to nibble at the leaves,” said a balding mercenary in his mid-thirties, before scoffing and coming to stand before Shoki. His companion guffawed and thumped the mercenary’s back.
Shoki considered turning away. Hungry as he was, it wasn't worth getting into an unnecessary altercation. But then the alternative was to return to his tent and face the djinn in the dark of night.
Not an altogether pleasant option either.
“Would be... erm... good if you stepped out of my way,” Shoki said, cursing himself for stammering, his fingers clutching the empty steel bowl tight against his chest.
“Look, it talks,” said the bald man.
“The kennel keepers must be pretty good in Algaria to teach that.”
The other mercenary shook his head. “If only they taught them to cook as well. Could do with some good cooks.”
“Could really do,” agreed the first.
Shoki shuffled, his eyes nervously darting about the shadows flickering on the nearby tents from the raging cook fires. Ihagra had always said soldiers weren't supposed to sit still or they grew rusty. All this sitting around and doing nothing after the emissary’s ominous tidings was downright dangerous when it came to mercenaries.
Did the sultana see it? Instead of hurrying along, keeping the men busy, she continued to linger here, a raft in the middle of a raging river somehow expecting to stay still.
He wanted to chuckle. Who in gods’ guts was he to consider himself an expert on strategy and tactics meant for a siphsalar?
The mercenaries were still snickering. From the corner of his eye, Shoki saw Rurik, Jinan’s attack dog watching the proceedings with an amused expression. Another man who would’ve bullied him around had it not meant getting up and walking away from his comfortable spot beside the fire.
Shoki’s belly rumbled and he licked his lips. Not the most delicious broth simmering in the pot ahead, but then again, he’d never been good at turning down rations. Food was food. Considering how useless he was at most things, perhaps volunteering for the cook pots wouldn’t be that terrible an idea. At least, he would get to eat as much as he wanted, as often as he liked.