by David Hair
Mostly, Waqar watched Sultan Salim, partly to learn, but also in hero-worship.
Salim Kabarakhi was either the first or third of his name, depending on which history one took as truth. The reigns of his grandfather and father had been disputed; his wasn’t. He was still in his early thirties when he’d united Kesh and Dhassa under Shihad, in time for the Third Crusade, and the success of that war had cemented his rule. He was handsome and articulate, with a reputation for fairness, but when required to be strong, he’d crushed rebellious emirs and suppressed dissident Godspeakers with efficiency.
‘What do you see, Prince Waqar?’ said a voice at his elbow.
Waqar spun, alarmed that someone had got so close. The man was in his thirties, his face startlingly familiar. Waqar shot a glance at the throne below, where an identical man sat holding court. ‘You’re one of the sultan’s impersonators—’
The man’s mouth curved upwards. ‘Or perhaps I’m Salim, and that fellow on the throne is the impersonator – we’re all trained to deal with such scenarios.’
‘Or maybe neither of you are Salim and he’s still in Shaliyah?’
‘Ah, but Sagostabad is where any leader of note must be right now.’
‘What can I call you?’ Waqar asked. ‘If you’re not the sultan, I have no idea what title to use.’
‘Call me . . . Latif. How are you enjoying court life?’
Waqar sensed that ‘Latif’ wanted a genuine conversation, so he put aside the formality of the harbadab and admitted, ‘It’s very unsettling. Perhaps I expected more: I thought the court would be about talent, but there are men down there whose only skill is in witticisms.’
‘Being witty is an underrated talent,’ Latif deadpanned.
‘Is it one that should earn a man a title?’
‘I hear you, Prince. But we are drawn to those who can make us feel good, are we not? That’s human nature. If we can work with someone, then things get done. A talented man’s talents are useless if no one can abide him.’
‘So is it better to appoint useless wastrels on the basis of a quip?’
‘Not at all. But we are people, and therefore emotional, variable, frightened and insecure – and so too are our courts.’
Waqar was formulating his response when he heard a stir below. He and Latif looked down to see heads turning to the doors as a stir ran through the gathering.
Rondian magi . . . The Ordo Costruo are here!
The plump, grey-haired man in heavy sky-blue cloth was announced as Rene Cardien, the head of the Ordo Costruo; the shapely dark-skinned woman with pale hair at his side, Odessa D’Ark. The third name startled him—
Mother’s here! No wonder Uncle told me to hide . . . Waqar felt a tremor of uncertainty as he stared at his mother, taking in every detail. She looked well, full of herself even, as if this moment vindicated her loyalty to the order. Dear Mother, he thought, frightened for her, what are you doing here, of all places?
In their train were a dozen more magi, men and women both, richly attired in Ordo Costruo sky-blue. They were all of mixed race, but most had Rondian pallor. Their entrance threw the whole room into confusion as the Shihadi, vocal haters of the West, were confronted with the embodiment of that hatred – but they reacted not in belligerence but fear. It was likely that the Ordo Costruo were, in raw gnostic power and in skill, the superior of even Rashid. Those around Salim looked at each other, unsure how to react; some hovered protectively, others edged away.
Then Waqar heard a surprised murmur wash through the hall as the newcomers made respectful homage to the sultan, briefly going down on one knee.
Salim’s voice rang out. ‘Greetings, honoured Magisters. Welcome to Sagostabad.’
Rene Cardien, obviously an old hand at dealing with Eastern courts, replied in fluent Keshi, ‘Great Sultan, you honour us. We apologise for our unlooked-for appearance, but we heard disturbing rumours of renewed Shihad.’
Salim raised a hand to stop him. ‘These are matters for the council chamber, not open forum.’
‘No, they are matters for this room,’ Sakita Mubarak replied in a loud voice.
Waqar flinched as the court gasped: no one contradicted a sultan, least of all a woman. The harbadab absolutely forbade it.
‘Great Sultan,’ she went on, ‘the Ordo Costruo control the Leviathan Bridge. It will rise again in five years, but when it does, it will be closed to all but certified traders.’ She glanced at the throng of red-scarved Shihadis. ‘You can talk about Holy War all you like, but no soldier – of Yuros or Ahmedhassa – will cross the Bridge in the next Moontide.’
Waqar was impressed and angered, embarrassed and proud, all at once. But he doubted anyone would ever forgive his mother for this – or him, just for being her kin. His gnostic sight told him that every mage here was primed for instant violence, and even up here on the balcony, he felt scared to move.
Salim, however, had retained his composure. ‘We know and understand your prohibition,’ he said, masking any indignation he might feel at being dictated to in his own throne-hall. ‘No one here fails to grasp the situation. Please, let us confer in private.’
Their point made, the Ordo Costruo magi allowed the sultan’s counsellors to lead them out of the hall behind Salim. Only then were voices raised, with the Shihadis shouting their outrage at this ‘insult to all of Kesh’ and demanding instant redress. Brave of you, now they’re gone, Waqar thought. Attam and Xoredh were standing among the clergy, making martial gestures, complaining of being ‘held back’ by the sultan’s ‘weakness’.
For himself, his mind swirled. We are Keshi, he thought, we are owed redress. He agreed that talk of Shihad against Yuros was absurd, but remembering that conversation with his uncle back in Halli’kut, he knew the situation was far from simple.
Latif touched his arm. ‘Prince Waqar, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. And your mother certainly knows how to make an entrance.’ He turned, then paused. ‘I believe the sultan would like to meet you, if you would be willing?’
Waqar bowed, heart thudding. ‘Of course!’
‘I should tell you, it is because Salim will wish to reach out to your mother. He will see her as one who could aid him in promoting peace and rebuilding the realm.’
‘I’m used to my mother being the most important thing about me,’ Waqar admitted, wondering if the sultan actually approved of the Ordo Costruo’s appearance here. The implications were intriguing.
‘There: a flash of wit and doors open,’ Latif chuckled, wagging a finger. ‘At least you don’t have to impersonate her.’ They shared a smile. ‘The next debate of the Convocation is at the end of this week. Join us at dusk, outside the Royal Dom-al’Ahm, if you will.’
He left Waqar trembling at this offered chance to finally meet his hero. What opportunities might follow?
‘The Moon sometimes swings low,’ the saying went. ‘Catch it, and you can ride to the stars.’
*
‘Most of the Western magi left after meeting with Xoredh,’ Tamir was shouting above the din of the crowds. ‘They reminded Xoredh that the Pontic Sea was forbidden to any craft without a trading warrant.’
‘What did Xoredh say?’ Waqar shouted back. Xoredh as head of the Keshi Al-Norushan mage order had met with the Rondians the day after they spoke to Salim.
‘That he expected no more from the enemies of Kesh.’
Waqar appreciated the answer, but he still loathed Xoredh. He was nervous of the Builder-magi, too, and horribly conflicted about his mother being one of them, although he was looking forward to seeing her after tonight’s interview with the sultan.
Before that however, was this: the biggest of the public debates of the Convocation. He and his friends had joined the thousands crammed into the square outside the main dom-al’Ahm. The usual markets had been cleared away and a throne dominated a dais erected at the west end of the square. From it, Ishaq, the Ayatu-Marja, supreme cleric of Ahm, held court. Before him the rival factions were squeezed tog
ether cheek by jowl and every speech was greeted with exchanges of insults and taunts, regional and personal, and constant pushing and shoving.
All week the debates had been heated, but today the most powerful speakers would take the stage, and His Supreme Holiness Ishaq was showing an attentiveness he’d not previously displayed. There were red scarves in plenty, but they were still in the minority. Sagostabad was the sultan’s home, and his family, the Kabarakhis, had ruled the city for centuries. The local people adored him, and they were out in force today.
‘They love Salim, these southerners,’ Waqar shouted in Lukadin’s ear. ‘This is his city.’
All Waqar’s friends were northerners; that was a far older rivalry. ‘He’s a victorious leader,’ Lukadin conceded, ‘so he can do no wrong in their eyes. But what of elsewhere?’ Seated at the right of the Ayatu-Marja, Salim was the consummate Eastern ruler, brilliantly attired, handsome and urbane, the lines on his forehead lending him an aura of wisdom.
‘Sagostabad is insulated from the suffering of the regions by its proximity to the wealth of the court,’ Tamir added. ‘They don’t know how the rest of Ahmedhassa suffer.’
Only females of high rank could attend, which included Fatima, sweltering under her black bekira-shroud. She was pressed against Baneet’s side – they’d begun sleeping with each other, something that afforded Waqar the occasional flash of jealousy. Some part of him still thought of Fatima as ‘his’ – she’d have slapped him silly if he said so, of course.
The latest speaker, Faroukh of Maal, ended his speech with a plea for peace and those in blue scarves chanted Kabarakhi slogans. Then up stepped Ali Beyrami, the maula with whom Waqar had clashed earlier. He spoke with fury, denouncing all peace-making as weakness and a betrayal of the Prophet. ‘Bring the Unbeliever to belief, or bring him to Death! Thus spake Aluq-Ahmed! The Unbeliever taints the air and pours venom in the water! Where there is Unbelief, the Believer knows no peace!’ He pointed to the heavens. ‘Twenty-five years and three Crusades and we know no peace because we allow the Unbeliever to live!’
There was much more like that, words of bitterness and revenge. Beyrami was, Waqar thought, a very angry man, and a frightening one, too. When he stood before the masses and screamed at them, there was no fear in his face, only hunger to subdue all who listened.
‘He’s a dangerous fanatic,’ Tamir muttered, and Waqar agreed.
Beyrami’s intensity had the reds and the blues on the verge of riot, and seeing this, the sultan gestured to the most senior of the clergy in his retinue. Jhiram Henayou, a locally born Ja’arathi clergyman considered heir-apparent to Ishaq for the throne of the Ayatu-Marja, rose to his feet and gradually a hush descended as he hobbled onto the speaking platform. He had a solemn face buried in a curly, grey beard, and his calm eyes seemed to say, ‘Be at peace, for I am here’.
‘Brothers in Faith,’ he called, his gentler voice nevertheless cutting through the noise, ‘is it not good to be here, in the heart of the Faith? Is it not good to be alive, when so many lost their lives only five years ago? We give thanks to Him Above the Skies for this gift!’ He raised his hands, and those in blue scarves did the same. Those in red murmured, but none were so rude as to interrupt a blessing.
Then Godspeaker Jhiram looked down at the masses before him. ‘Yet Maula Beyrami says we must scorn this gift and declare a new war! He says we must ask those who escaped death on the slopes of Ebensar, who survived the atrocities of Istabad and Halli’kut, Medishar and Bassaz, to jeopardise all they have once more! For revenge, he says, whilst quoting the Kalistham! But does not that same book say that revenge is the poison that slays our children? Does it not say that the unresolved feud is a cancer?’
More cheers, more blue scarves waving, beginning to overwhelm the red again.
‘He’s good,’ Lukadin muttered, ‘but wrong.’
‘More than this,’ the Godspeaker went on, ‘my friend Ali Beyrami seems to forget that the Leviathan Bridge is closed to us: the Ordo Costruo forbid us the war my colleague so craves, and they have the power to do so! They were arrogant to remind us, yes – but are they wrong? Not only is this war that so many of you ardently want a waste of lives, it is also impossible to wage! You may as well declare war on the moon.’
‘I would put them in their place!’ bellowed Ali Beyrami.
‘You would go up against the power that brought down the Sacrecours? I’m filled with admiration!’ Jhiram said lightly, wringing an uneasy laugh from the crowd, then he put on a more serious face. ‘My friends, there is, however, an enemy that we could declare war on, and indeed should. Some of them are even here today!’
A ripple of surprise ran through the crowd. What does he mean? Waqar wondered.
‘That enemy is Corruption!’ Jhiram roared, pointing his finger downwards, a sign of contempt. ‘Our Great Sultan, Salim Kabarakhi of Sagostabad, has emptied the treasury, dispensing bullion as never before, yet not one coin in ten reaches the people – and why? Because of those who siphon the money into their own vaults and then cry poor! They are our enemies! They should be the target of our ire! They are why our children still go hungry!’
Beyrami raised a defiant fist. ‘And “they” are all appointed by this regime!’ he shouted, to the amusement of his followers, eliciting renewed waving among the reds.
Jhiram glanced at the throne, then raised a placating hand. ‘Some, I admit, and our sultan knows their names – but others, not so – and some of them I see here, wearing scarves of red! They think a war will deflect us from investigation of their crimes!’
Both sides erupted with insults and raised fists.
Jhiram raised his arms skywards. ‘I have one final thing to say, and it is this: those of you who clamour for war think it a panacea for our ills. It is not the cure you seek; it is merely war, which is to say: bloodshed and suffering and destruction. We must not go down that path. It leads to Shaitan! It leads to death and despair. We must take the hard road, of patience, diligence and good, honest, hard work. That has always been our greatest virtue. So it must remain.’
Waqar saw the Ayatu-Marja nodding as Jhiram took the applause. The sultan was clapping as well, his back straight, his demeanour calm and regal. Waqar compared them to the mouth-foaming rage of Beyrami and his people and felt that the debate had been won. The sultan raised a hand, requesting the right to speak and surely complete the victory for the peace faction—
—when Ishaq, the Ayatu-Marja, coughed painfully, and the whole square fell silent. An aide rushed to the holy man’s side and gently patted his back, while another took his hand. There was a few moments of frantic hand-signalling, then the initial panic eased and the sultan sat back down, looking frustrated, as one of Ishaq’s retinue announced, ‘The Ayatu-Marja apologises, but he must rest! The Convocation will resume tomorrow, at four bells.’ A crowd of servants helped the old man shuffle to his palanquin, to be carried back to his palace.
It was an anti-climactic way to end the day, and Waqar could sense the feeling of lost opportunity in the air as he followed Rashid’s entourage through the press. He turned to Tamir. ‘What did you think?’
‘That Ishaq’s coughing fit was awfully convenient for Ali Beyrami.’
‘Ai, it was. I’d give anything to know what Salim was going to say.’
‘No need,’ Tamir grinned. ‘You’ll be meeting him shortly – just ask!’
*
The impersonator Latif was reading poetry when the door to the suite was flung open and the real Salim stormed through the doors, snatched up a glass of sharbat and glared at Latif. ‘Damn the afreet who tickled Ishaq’s throat!’ he snapped, rolling his eyes reproachfully towards heaven. His voice drew more of his impersonators, all identically dressed, of the same stature and with identical hair, beards and even eyes.
This was perhaps the most unique household in all of Ahmedhassa; such was the threat of assassination that most royal lines used impersonators, but Salim currently had seven, and they all had to
be kept completely up to date with every development, so that if they were sent to a banquet they knew everything that Salim knew, and what his views were. Four of the seven had a close but imperfect resemblance, used only in situations where the sultan was viewed from a distance, but the other three were virtually identical to him; Latif was one of those.
‘We were minutes away from burying this debate: a few minutes! That’s all I needed.’ Salim struck the table. ‘We’ve got so many more important matters to resolve than Beyrami’s fantasy of a Shihad across three hundred miles of impassable sea!’
‘Hear, hear,’ the impersonators chorused.
‘You don’t think . . .?’ Latif waggled his fingers in a meaningful way.
Salim stared. ‘Gnosis? On the Ayatu-Marja? They wouldn’t dare, Latif—’
‘The Hadishah have fragmented since the Crusade ended. Most are now working for nobles and clergymen – I doubt it’d be a difficult spell.’
‘Ai: Rashid could have done it himself,’ another man put in.
‘No, I refuse to believe it,’ Salim exclaimed. ‘Let us pray it was just itchy tonsils, Brothers. Latif, come: walk with me.’
Salim led Latif down a spiral stair to a windowless chamber below ground. It was cool and, most importantly, beneath enough stone that scrying was impossible. They sat on the benches informally, as equals.
‘Brother, what do you make of this?’