by Fuad Baloch
Jiza watched with an amused expression on her face, her continued silence beginning to unnerve him.
Shoki exhaled. “Very well. Take me to Mara—to Azar! He has a lot to answer for.”
Jiza raised an eyebrow, almost as if she was mocking him, then nodded at him and started for the door. As she passed Shoki, he caught a whiff of her perfume. An earthy, burned-wood scent. Subtle. Unforgettable. “Coming?” she asked, pausing at the doors.
Shoki blinked, realizing for the first time he wasn't wearing the ceremonial garb the grand vizier had prepared for him. Someone had changed him into plain, white robes. His eye traveled up to the captivating woman, who offered him a knowing smile. Shoki cringed.
The door burst open. A tall man, dressed in flowing red robes, his brown hair tied back in a ponytail, entered the room, the door closing behind before Shoki could catch a glimpse of the outside world.
“Kafayos!” snarled Jiza.
“In the flesh,” the newcomer said, offering a stiff bow. He turned toward Shoki, his black eyes settling on his eye patch. “I’ve been asked to accompany you two.”
“Who ordered you to do that?” demanded Jiza.
“Drenpa Yahasanam.”
“He interferes in matters that do not concern him.”
“Not something he sees that way.” Kafayos crossed his arms. “They are waiting.”
“Who’s they?” asked Shoki.
Kafayos didn't turn to look at him. “The clan heads.” He raised a hand, pointing at the door, a faint halo of smoke following his movements. “We shouldn't dawdle.”
Shoki opened his jaw, a million questions teeming through his head. He clamped his mouth shut. If answers were to be had, it was clear he wouldn't get them here.
He had to be the one to take the initiative.
Without waiting for either of them, Shoki stepped forward and placed his right hand on the door handle. From a distance, it had seemed carved of ivory. Now, as he touched it, warmth spread through his hand. He lingered. The handle twisted, almost as if it had a life of its own, somehow attuning itself to him. Startled, Shoki yelped and pushed the door outward.
“Gods’ guts!” he exclaimed, taking an involuntary step back.
The door opened to a sheer drop of hundreds of feet over a rocky plateau the color of cooled lava. Blinking, he looked out ahead. Cliffs jutted toward the red heavens, doors not unlike his staring back at him, carved at odd angles throughout the mountains. To the left, the sky was a hue of dark red Shoki couldn’t remember seeing before.
“How are… we to get down?” he asked, a most sensible question in his mind.
Jiza laughed. A delicate, feminine trill that did nothing to settle his nerves. “We jump down.”
“No!” Shaking his head, Shoki stepped back. Something blocked his way. Kafayos.
“The clan leaders are waiting,” he said. “Come.” Then, grabbing Shoki by the arm, he marched toward the open door.
Shoki tried resisting at first, but the man—the djinn—had the strength of ten soldiers. “Stop!” he shouted, hoping to fill his voice with all the disdain of those born into privilege. It didn't work.
Shoki clenched his fingers, unable to stop the djinn from dragging him forward. All his life he had been a puppet to the whims of others. For the first time, he had a path. Not one he would have desired for himself initially, but one that he had accepted in the end. One that had demanded he take away all from the one woman he had come to love.
Mara might have brought him here somehow, but it didn't mean he had to capitulate just like that.
Forcing his fingers into fists, Shoki turned toward the djinn. “Release me!”
Kafayos laughed.
Shoki punched him in the gut with all his might, then yelped at the pain exploding in his knuckles.
The djinn turned his eyes toward him, his lips parting slightly as if he were surprised. Then, he shook his head, exchanging a glance with Jiza. “Witness the arrogance of these beings made of clay and mud for thinking they can hurt the noble race fashioned from fire.”
His heart thudding in his chest, Shoki punched him once more.
Again, the djinn didn't even slow down, dragging him to the drop.
“Wait… Let’s talk it out!” Shoki shouted, then raised a hand toward Jiza, who stood silently beside the open door. “Can’t you do something?”
Jiza shrugged. “He is taking you where you are wanted.” She turned around and jumped out the door, leaving behind a trail of smoke where she had stood.
“No!” Shoki screamed.
Kafayos shoved him through, still holding his arm in his vise-like grip.
Shoki fell.
Chapter 3
Nuraya
“Are you absolutely certain of this?” Nuraya asked, her fingers interlaced over the grimy inn table.
Camsh Ghiani, third son of the grand vizier, nodded. “Yes, my princess,” he said, running his hand through his balding hair made more prominent by the harsh sunlight filtering from the nearby window. “Err… Sultana.”
Nuraya noticed the slight but didn't say anything. What was the point of arguing when the truth was that, for the moment, she did not sit upon the Peacock Throne?
“What reason do we have for trusting you?” demanded Jinan, his pale face half-covered by the afternoon shadows. “Your father has already proven his disloyalty toward his Istani masters.”
“None,” the young man replied calmly. “And that’s why you should trust me.”
“Huh?” said Jinan.
“I have nothing to gain by lying to you. If I am lying, you will come to know of that soon enough. And I, undoubtedly, would pay a heavy price then.” He leaned forward. “But as you can see, if I am telling the truth, I have everything to gain by standing beside you.”
Jinan scoffed, turned toward Nuraya, raising an eyebrow as if to say this was her decision to make. That much was true. Rubbing her thumb and forefinger together, Nuraya glared at the grand vizier’s son. A third son from a second wife. One who had no chance of acquiring either lands or titles from his father when he did pass away. One who had galloped north to seek her out and tell her that Shoki, the one-eyed usurper, was no more in the capital.
She took in a deep breath, forcing herself to not jump to conclusions. She had to ensure she didn't make any hasty decisions without thinking through their ramifications. But there was no denying the elation soaring in her heart at the news.
If Camsh was telling the truth, then Shoki was gone.
So was Ahasan.
And the Peacock Throne still lay unoccupied.
Scrunching her nose, she considered the numbers. They were two weeks away from Algaria. Perhaps ten days if she rode hard. She had been at the same spot for fourteen days now. Prophet Binyom’s birthday was three days away.
There was another number to consider—a much more important one. Outside this dusty inn in the middle of nowhere, a thousand men sat in pitched tents under the shade of her banner.
“Camsh, how many men does your father command at present?”
The thin, dark-skinned man closed his eyes for half a breath, nodding as if recalling some scene from memory. The innkeeper in the distance coughed nervously, then looked away sharply when their eyes met. “Ten thousand city guards. Three thousand knights of the Sultan’s Body. Another eight or so thousand soldiers from the north that have arrived following orders from the one-eyed sultan— erm… usurper. Probably another ten thousand peasants Father has conscripted since. He keeps saying the worst is still to come.”
Nuraya clenched her fingers. Another set of numbers, this one failing to inspire confidence. When had she let numbers sway her?
“Jinan,” she said, turning toward her siphsalar. “How many other salars have agreed to support my claim?”
“My sultana, just today I received a missive from Opnam of the Flying Horses operating in the eastern provinces. A good salar. A really good one. Both of us served together—”
�
�How. Many. Men?”
Jinan narrowed his eyes. “No… firm commitments just yet.”
“So, all we have are these thousand,” she said slowly.
“Don't you worry, my beautiful sultana. My three hundred are easily worth ten thousand,” declared an airy voice behind her. Ranal Poolani, the minor son of some minor ameer. Nuraya scowled but didn't turn toward him. “I, too, have written to Father. Before long, you will have two thousand of the bravest men from the east, and together—”
“Have you received assurance from your father that he will support my cause?” she asked.
Ranal shuffled forward into view. “Working on it,” he said in his high-pitched nasal drawl, coming to stand beside Jinan who pursed his lips. Nuraya watched the two of them, taken aback by the differences between them. A long time ago, when she’d first met Jinan, the mercenary salar had been one to give a great deal of care to how he appeared. His turban was always immaculately tied, his flamboyant robes clean and washed, the blades polished to perfection. As they had marched into various provinces, his vests had changed to reflect the regional tastes.
Little things she knew Mona would have appreciated.
Now though, the once-dashing salar in his grimy robes looked a mere shadow of his former self, especially when standing beside the dandy lordling preened head to toe like some magnificent bird cursed with wild red plumage.
“His father cannot afford men,” said her siphsalar, waving a dismissive hand toward Ranal. “Not when he is facing existential threats of his own against the Zakhanan armies.”
Zakhanan armies! Made wise beyond her years by all the recent tragedies, Nuraya heard more than Jinan said. Both Reratish and Zakhanan were invaders, both equally detestable and worthy of severe punishment. But where the Reratish forces were labeled infidels and heretics by both the common folk and the religious classes, the Zakhanan were treated differently, their crimes acknowledged but not reviled as much. Was it because the Husalmin faith had taken birth in their lands? That Gharsi, their language, was the one that held ascendancy in Istani society for centuries under the auspices of the Istani Sultans?
None of these differences mattered to her. Regardless of religious affiliations, or languages they spoke, she would grind both invaders to the ground. No, she would hit back, harder than ever. When she was finished, the streets of their capital cities would be littered with enough corpses to feed vultures for seven generations.
Something gnawed at her. Was that all there was to life? The mindless pursuit of power for the sake of it?
“… funny things, these names, eh?” Ranal was saying, straightening the folds in his turban with a dainty hand. “Did you know most inquisitor castles up north still end with the ik sounds instead of the ook most cities got renamed to? Shows you how much the Kalb Inquisition values pre-Istan history!”
Jinan grunted, not bothering to reply.
“Father is worried the magi are up to something,” Camsh said.
Ranal laughed, a nervous titter accompanied by an exaggerated wave of the arm. “Good reason to be. But I doubt the inquisitors would let them repeat what they did.”
“Sons and daughters of whores,” jeered Jinan. “I’ll kill them all myself. Every last one of them!”
“I wouldn’t worry at all—” continued Ranal.
“They’re up to something,” whispered Camsh. “Father’s agents discovered alchemical instruments and a drained Asghar artifact beside… beside the body of a dead infant.”
“What does that mean?” asked Nuraya.
“Blood magic,” replied Camsh, hugging himself. “Magic, they say, leeches life and vitality from the living.”
Ranal coughed delicately, a shadow crossing over his features.
Nuraya exhaled, her eye falling once more on the nobleman’s luxuriant purple robe, which seemed to shimmer as he moved. She turned her gaze toward her grimy peshwaz and grimaced. She might not have gotten along well with Mona in their final days, but at least she made sure they always had suitable attire to don. Now though, if Nuraya hid her curves in armor one size too large, pulled her hair up in the battle helmet, would she look much different from a man?
What would Mother think if she could see her like this?
Nuraya closed her eyes for a breath, fighting to keep the troubling thoughts from overwhelming her. Mother wasn't what she had appeared all her life, deceiving her in the end. Just like Shoki had. Then again, why should she care what Mother would have thought when it was Abba’s approval she had always sought?
She knew the answer.
One that petrified her.
Mother had been a magus. For all her vices, Mother had claimed power in her own right, declaring herself a force to be reckoned with, without relying on anyone else.
Something that Nuraya had aspired to be as well, enveloping herself with all the might and power she could summon.
Both her counselors were staring at her now, Camsh keeping his gaze downcast. Nuraya rubbed her fingers, wondering what they thought in this moment. Throughout their hard march, despite the distance she had kept from the common soldiers, she hadn’t failed to hear the title her men had given her.
The kinslayer.
Did her counselors blame her for the mistakes she had made, for the paths she should have taken, but hadn’t?
Nuraya refused to let her impulsive self take charge, allowing her thoughts enough time to settle on a path of action. Wasn't that what a wise ruler was meant to do? Ensure they had thought through various options before committing fully to an action?
Something she had begun realizing only now.
There was a danger in that approach, though. At what point did all this waiting for the most opportune moment to strike gut the momentum she should have been gathering instead? It was vital to straddle the middle ground, keeping all possibilities alive, but how did one know they were straying too far? If she did stray, would either the ameer’s son or her siphsalar be wise enough to correct her?
Another troubling thought rose. Had she been wrong not just in tactics, but also about why she had decided to defeat Ahasan? Had she been far too shortsighted in considering everything from her perspective alone?
“Tell me, young man,” said Ranal, raising a bejeweled finger toward Camsh, a man no doubt at least five years older than him. “What other news of the realm do you bring? How goes the fighting against the vile invaders?”
Camsh cleared his throat, turned toward Nuraya as if seeking her permission. She nodded. “Well… it seems the latest… tumults have spread throughout the realm. Restlessness, already brewing for years, has given way to full-blown rebellions against the nizams and ameers appointed by the late sultan. And… there are more dark whispers of magi plotting against the realm.”
Nuraya felt her chest constrict. She leaned forward, interlacing her fingers once more. “The magi again? Ranal is right. The inquisitors will bring them to heel.” Assuming I didn't end up crippling their order. “Besides, they are not my immediate concern.”
“Father had good reason to worry about them,” said Camsh. “Rumors say they are fighting inquisitors of the Kalb. I don’t know enough, of course, as it has become increasingly difficult to separate fact from fiction in these challenging times. Last I heard, they were gathering in the north-west provinces.”
Nuraya sat still. Magi fighting inquisitors? What did that mean? Did she bear any responsibility for this? “The inquisitors… they will sever these magi—removing them from their wells should they continue to resist. This is known!” She exhaled. “What other news do you carry?”
“There are other rumors as well,” said Camsh, more hesitant this time. “The imperial messengers report that the Zakhanan forces have declared their invasion of Istan a holy war. To justify this, their Husalmin priests are putting Atishi priests to the torch whenever they conquer new territory within Istan. Those commoners that the Zakhanan don’t enslave or rape are put to the sword.”
Jinan stirred at that. �
��They’re going to pay! The magi… and these whoresons. All of them!”
“Yes, they will,” said Nuraya, no longer ruffled by the uncouth mercenary talk. She turned to Camsh. “What of the Reratish?”
“The news is murkier on that front. Apparently, their forces are being commanded by Prince Sabrish, firstborn son of the Reratish king himself. A man who’s proven himself a great tactician, picking battles of his choosing instead of stretching himself thin.”
Ranal forced a chuckle. “Heard the man’s got some debilitating facial disfigurement, keeps his face covered even during the heat of the day.”
Camsh nodded.
Ranal sighed, twirling his thin mustache. “Not everyone is blessed by great looks.”
Nuraya shook her head. “So, the news is dire all around. Nothing strange about that. When the lions can’t keep peace, the hyenas roam the countryside.” She considered her own words for a breath, then turned her eyes back on the grand vizier’s son, a man she only dimly recalled from her days at the diwan-e-aam. “What of Ahasan, my brother?”
Camsh shrugged. “Last I heard, he was still holed up in some northern castle. Father wasn't too worried on his account.”
“He should be,” noted Nuraya. “Of all us siblings, he has proven the most difficult to pin down. If and when he sees his chance, he will rear his head once more.”
Neither of the three men contradicted her. The innkeeper shuffled forward, quietly taking away the half-empty mugs they hadn't touched in a while. The day was still hot, despite the shadows beginning to lengthen inside.
Nuraya looked out the window, her eyes falling on the green flag her men had raised once more. Sultana’s Hands had been defeated, decimated. Yet, they had reforged.
Was this the time for her to make her move? Was there no peaceful way forward?
“What does your father think of me?” she asked Camsh.
The man hesitated, a shadow crossing over his thin, gaunt face.
“Go on, speak the truth.”