by Fuad Baloch
Maharis was the next one to enter, closely followed by Rurik and Vishan. With nods and grunts to each other, they fanned around the table. Rurik leaned in and whispered something in his master’s ear.
“My sultana,” said Jinan, the usual smile back on his face. “Rurik tells me the Reratish emissary awaits your audience in the visitor’s tent.”
Nuraya clenched her teeth. “He has arrived then.”
“Reratish Kingdom is well renowned for stabbing their allies in the back,” noted Vishan dryly.
“We should still talk with them,” said Mona.
“Tigers do not deal with the hyenas,” drawled Maharis. His voice trembled as he spoke. An act of weakness to those uninitiated in his ways. “The former devours, the latter licks the dead bones clean.”
“Not the time for poetry,” Nuraya replied almost absentmindedly. She turned to Vishan, a hand scratching his egg-shaped nose as he examined the maps thoughtfully. “What’s your counsel, Vishan?”
Jinan bristled at that, but Nuraya didn't care, her eyes firmly planted on the older, quieter salar who seemingly had won over the respect of most of her new recruits.
“With Prince Kinas making a march for the capital, the center remains unguarded,” he noted.
“And so what?” taunted Jinan. “We stay put for the moment?”
“We can’t stay still,” said Maharis, “not while the family members hunt their own like wolves gone mad.”
Nuraya turned her head to the western borders. A white elephant sat atop the dot marking Buzdar. Smaller white infantry men fanned outward, accompanied by infantry men in black. Her uncles’ forces working in sync with Ahasan’s. Further west, yellow camels of the Reratish Kingdom lined the border.
“No sultan has ever established themselves unless they control Firumin and Orsa,” said Vishan, pointing at the castles in the center of the map. He looked up, the contemplative manner at odds with the scars on his face. “While your brothers busy themselves in the south, this is the opportunity to take the fortresses, and control both the mercantile routes and the supply lines needed by any army.”
Maharis scoffed but didn't disagree with the salar’s suggestion. Jinan laughed, Rurik joining in a second later.
“Did you hear that?” said Jinan, thumping Rurik on the shoulder. “A salar with no more than three hundred horses sees himself as a siphsalar of a hundred thousand, dreaming of taking over fortresses with no value to our cause.”
“What is your cause?” asked Nuraya, unable to keep the heat off her voice. “There is no booty to be found for your men in the north. Is that why you laugh at the idea?” His nostrils flared, the handsome face twisting the smile into a sneer. “Are you serving my interests?”
He glared for a long breath. “Always.”
Nuraya sucked her teeth. Her heart thudded in her chest, a chill coming on. Then, anger flared through her. They all lied to her. Right to her face. Balling her fingers into a fist, Nuraya punched the table, scattering the carefully planted pieces. Mona reached for her spare hand, gave it a squeeze. Jinan didn't look up, exchanging a glance with Mona.
“Perhaps we should try reaching out to Ahasan once more?” suggested Mona. “No matter what he’s done, he might still see the right path.”
“An Atishi priest once burned in the flames never regrows hair,” said Maharis. Vishan turned toward the magus. “Remember, we have another path as well, my sultana.”
Nuraya swallowed. Was this the time the magus brought up what he had been hinting all along? Was this the occasion where everything changed? Clenching her fists, feeling this was the event her gut had been dreading, she nodded. “Go on.”
“Free the magi from the yoke of the cruel Kalb Inquisition. Free my brothers and sisters and I will recruit them to your cause!” Vishan blinked, took an almost imperceptible step backward. “No army has ever won unless it can use all the weapons in its arsenal. You have me. Imagine more of us beside you!”
The words seemed to suck out more air from the stuffy tent. Jinan offered a weak chuckle but didn't contradict him. None of them expressed shock either, so they must have figured out Maharis was a magus.
Instead, they all looked at her. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the weight of the moment upon her. The monarch of the Istani Sultanate was the Keeper of the Divide, tasked by the divine Himself to ensure the magi did not escape the bounds set upon them by Rabb’s commandments.
But... hadn't the situation changed enough to warrant a re-evaluation? After all, how was she, the rightful heir to the Iron Sultan meant to maintain the Divide if she didn’t sit atop the Peacock Throne?
“That... would be inadvisable,” said Vishan. Slowly, heads turned toward him. Maharis scowled. The salar coughed, watched his hands. “So long as a general still has other valid options, he doesn't overextend.”
“Anyone ever mention you talk too much?” snapped Jinan. Rurik chuckled. “Besides, I’ve already got things under control. Three more mercenary salars will be joining us soon from the northern provinces. Another couple of months and we will be a force ten thousand strong.”
“Too late to stop Ahasan from coronating himself the sultan,” said Nuraya, her eyes falling back to Algaria. “Too late to stop him from whatever lies he intends to spread about me and the queen.”
“Well...” sputtered Jinan, “I guess... that’s—”
Nuraya scoffed. This was her lot, men who couldn't see past their own navels, couldn’t plan if their lives depended on it. She turned from the table, ignoring Maharis. “Take me to this emissary.”
The reek of her men, thick as an invisible mist assaulted her the moment she exited the tent. Jinan walked beside her, others from her council a step behind. She inclined her chin, refusing to let the stink unsettle her. One way or the other, they were not going to stay here long.
“Over there,” said Jinan pointing to a tent his men had set aside for visitors. Two of the tallest men in the Sultana’s Hands stood guard outside. Men specifically chosen for the image they’d cast on all those who visited. A shame the effect was somewhat spoiled when one walked past the shabbily dressed, grumbling and bored mercenaries along the way. Rurik ran over, pulled the flaps aside for her.
She entered the tent, her head held high. A tall, fat, middle-aged man rose from the diwan. The Reratish ambassador’s face was half-hidden in shadows, the considerable belly straining against the tight shirt he wore in the Reratish way with collars that completely covered the neck. A locket with a red oval symbol swayed as he moved.
“The Creator’s peace be upon you,” he said in refined but accented Nirdu.
“Hmph,” replied Nuraya coming to a stop a dozen paces from the ambassador. He had been careful in how he’d addressed her. Or rather not addressed her. “You sought an audience with me?”
The ambassador nodded, a smug smile spreading on his lips. “Straight to the matter’s heart. An admirable trait. Just like your father.”
“I don’t have time for reminiscences,” she said, waving a hand airily as if the line of supplicants waiting to see her extended for miles.
“True, very true,” replied the ambassador. “I, Lord Nashfeld, humbly present myself to you with a message from my liege King Harendor III.” The man made another sweeping bow. Nuraya almost gagged as she got a whiff of hideous body odor somehow able to overcome all the layers of cheap perfume he wore. Never a nation known for its cleanliness.
“Sit down,” she said, pointing at the diwan.
He may not have called her sultana, but she didn't really need his validation. She’d hear him out, see if he offered another way. Mustering all her mother’s grace, Nuraya sat on the hard-backed chair Jinan’s men had procured from a local Nizam’s personal collection. Then, in the manner she’d seen Abba do countless times, she rested her chin on the left hand, fixed her unblinking green eyes that alternated between different shades of lava on the rotund man.
If her mannerism had any effect on the ambassador, he didn’t
let it show. “It was quite a task locating you, I must say. Your...” he smiled at Jinan, “men are most well-equipped in blending with the local populace.”
“Helps they are the local populace,” replied Nuraya, omitting the fact they roamed a thousand lands wherever their mercenary work took them. “Get to the point, Ambassador.”
Lord Nashfeld nodded. “First, my king offers his condolences to yourself on the untimely demise of your wise father.”
Nuraya glared, wondering if this was a hidden barb based on the rumors that had swept up the tent following her uncle’s messenger. “Does he really grieve for the man who beat him comprehensively in three battles?”
A shadow crossed the ambassador’s face. The smile disappeared, replaced by a firm line. “Only those who really got to... know your father can truly appreciate the impact of his passing.”
Nuraya pushed out an exhale, forcing her clenched fingers to relax. Like it or not, she wasn’t in a position of power. No matter what her men called her, she was as far removed from the center of power as the sun was from the earth. Ahasan was mere weeks away from cementing his position over the Peacock Throne. Unless Kinas could delay him. Whatever happened though, for the moment she was a mere spectator.
“Ambassador Nashfeld,” she said, enunciating each syllable, “why are you here?”
“My lord, King Harendor III wishes to extend his fondest desire to see you succeed in building a stronger alliance between our great peoples.”
Nuraya scoffed. “With all... due respect, your people are paupers, beggars when compared to the glorious Istani Sultanate. What would you have to offer us in return?”
Lord Nashfeld grew red in the face. Behind her, someone hissed. Maharis or Vishan probably. She knew she had gone too far. Not something she had wanted to do, but words, once left had a habit of not coming back.
“Answer my question,” she snapped. “I do not have all day.”
“Despite all that has happened between our peoples in the past,” said the ambassador, his voice strained, “my lord wishes to right the wrongs of the past and extends his hand to you. Should you accept his offer of an alliance, he will be most willing to,” he waved his hand around, “both arm and provision your men. Furthermore, I am sure I could prevail upon His Grace to lend a veteran company of the royal troops to help you take back Algaria as well.”
Nuraya stared at the ambassador, taken aback by his gall. Curling her tongue over an incisor, she bit back all the ugly retorts rising in her mind. Calm down. Watch what you say. “And why...” she tried, “would your kind lord so want to help me out?”
“Our great peoples—”
“Cut out all the muck,” she growled. Again, came the hiss. “What does he seek?”
“The provinces of Nishapa and Raqqa restored to the kingdom. And... your hand in marriage for his eldest son.”
Dumbfounded by the very idea, she turned her head toward Jinan. He stared back dully. Licking her lips, she returned her focus to the ambassador, who now smiled smugly. “Ambassador, just because the lioness might agree to sharing the watering hole with the hyenas doesn't mean she intends to lay with one.” Her voice rose, anger coursing through her veins. “How dare you even consider asking me to let go an inch of this sacred land? And...” she arched an eye bow, “of this repugnant idea of trading me away like a piece of jewelry?”
“Surely, if you see—”
She snapped her fingers, no longer able to contain the rage flowing through her chest. “I’ve a message for your lord. If it’s proven to me your forces have been crossing into Istani territory, your pauper king better ready himself for a reckoning beyond his worst nightmare!”
The ambassador clambered to his feet, his nostrils flaring. “I... t-this is...” He shook his head. “I shall relay your thoughts on the proposal to my king.”
“A warning,” corrected Jinan with a grin. “For that’s what it is.”
Vishan moaned. “Ambassador, if you could sit down for one minute—”
“No, it’s clear,” Lord Nashfeld sputtered. “All’s clear as mud.” He waddled away from the tent, the whiff of stink staying even after his departure.
Nuraya watched her fingernails. This meeting hadn't gone the way she had imagined. Far from it. The one thing she needed was allies. Instead, she had managed to gain another enemy.
“I guess not everyone has a head for politics,” muttered Vishan.
“I lost the opportunity,” she whispered softly, her voice sounding strange to her own ears, the ramifications of what she had done coming stronger, heavier than she had expected. She blinked. “Without men... or provisions... what… am I to do?”
A soft, hazy sheen slipped over her vision. Tears. Gritting her teeth, she dared them to leak through her eyes. She was Nuraya Istan, daughter of the great sultan Anahan. She would not be betrayed by her own emotions.
“There’s another way,” reminded the magus, his voice distant, faint.
Vishan shook his head. “We’re not yet out of options.”
“Agreed,” said Jinan. “Just a little more wait and I will get our numbers even higher.”
“I don’t need men who sit around all day and do nothing,” she said, rising, heat in her voice now. “It’s time for a change.”
They remained quiet as she turned around to face them. Maharis’s shifty eyes for once focused on her face, as if almost able to sense what she was going to say. She nodded, feeling a great weight settle in the pit of her stomach. “Prepare a proclamation, magus. Your... people are hereby summoned to my cause... and if they do… I shall free them from the Kalb Inquisition.”
Vishan blinked, kept quiet. Maharis beamed.
Next, Nuraya waved a hand toward Jinan. “Siphsalar, time to prove your mettle. Prepare the men. We ride now. If we are victorious, our ranks will swell beyond even your imagination.”
“Erm... alright,” said Jinan, exchanging a glance with Rurik, neither bringing up her proclamation that had upended centuries’ old custom. “And where are we going?”
“West,” she said, gritting her teeth.
“West? Not toward Algaria?”
She smiled. “An uncle needs to be reacquainted with his niece first.”
Chapter 23
Shoki
“No, my princess, I can’t do that.” Shoki shook his head, kicked a pebble with his foot. Realizing his mistake, he tried again. “My sultana, I can’t do that. I... should be heading toward Algaria to go see...” His voice broke. The brown roan Rurik had given him neighed softly. “...see my parents’ graves.”
Wind rustled softly around him, the road barren except for him and the horse. Exhaling, he fixed his eyes on his shadow stretching out in front. The forests north of Nikhtun weren't as dense, but in the approaching darkness, they looked just as verdant and foreboding.
More idle thoughts and questions raced through his mind. Had his mother and father ever ventured much beyond Algaria?
One more thing he’d never get to know.
Tears leaked through his eyes. They didn't sting as much now, but still he couldn't control them. At least, on this semi-abandoned road he didn't have to worry about hiding them from anyone.
More troubling questions rose in his mind. Who was he, if not the child of a blacksmith and a humble homemaker? Some unwanted son born in the brothels? An abandoned child at some Atishi or Husalmin temple?
He clambered back on the horse and let it break into an easy canter. A low-hanging branch he never saw brushed against his turban and he squawked. A few inches lower and it would have taken him in the eyes. He’d never been one to wear turbans. Never had the need to wear one as the son of a blacksmith, and upon joining the city guard, he’d been content wearing the big brass helmets that made him practically indistinguishable from the other guards.
Why was he traveling north though? Why hadn't he turned down the sultana? A foolish, rhetorical question, he realized. No man could have refused the world’s most beautiful woman. Who was he
to say otherwise?
Still, it hurt just thinking about her. His heart ached whenever his mind conjured up the heart-shaped face, the brilliant green eyes, the black hair falling in neat sheets, the voice imbued with restrained fury and authority he found impossible to resist.
He was an ant and she the moon, both as far apart as possible. Yet, he’d got to see her reflection in the pool, and somehow his addled mind had confused that for proximity.
What’s happened to me?
Shoki sighed, his mood darkening at a pace faster than the approaching night. He looked at the treetops ahead. Their brown-black branches reminded him of the long tresses of her hair. Groaning, he turned his head left. The riot of reds and oranges and yellows on the distant horizon resembled her eyes.
Shoki gave up fighting the thoughts swirling within him. Instead, he let them drift, the pleasing fantasies intermixing with fears and worries and regrets. The fantasies won. Nuraya glided over, her peshwaz sheer, her lithe, warm body bathed in moonlight, a sly smile on the perfect lips, her bright eyes twinkling, looking down at him responding to her approach.
He felt himself stiffen. Vainly, he tried to banish the thoughts, then let them flood over him. Ihagra had talked of this before, the need for minds to concoct fantasies to lessen the harsh realities they found themselves in when away from homes and loved ones.
Shoki had neither any loved ones remaining nor quite possibly a home to go back to. And so, he did nothing to dispel the fantasy, the ant imagining what it would be like to live in the heavens, besides the brightest jewel that hung in its center.