War of the Sultans

by Fuad Baloch

  She stuttered to a pause.

  If someone had taken care to place Shoki with his adoptive parents, then she wasn't the only one who knew that.

  How long would these servants of the Maliks remain quiet? Did they have evidence they could produce at a timing of their choosing? Could she somehow preempt the harm that would follow assuming it did happen?

  If she were to openly ask for Shoki’s alliance—even if she could ignore that whore of a girl who continued to bat her eyelashes at him—would she end up cementing the case against her family?

  “May I come in?” came Camsh’s voice outside the tent wall.

  “Enter.”

  The flap lifted and Camsh walked in. Keeping care not to look her in the eyes—a custom of the diwan-e-aam he evidently hadn't forgotten—he offered her a short bow.

  “What news do you bring?”

  “The men’s morale is high,” he reported, straightening. “I spoke with Siphsalar Jinan. A bit of rest here seems to have done him some good as well. From the local town, we were able to engage the services of an Atishi priest who organized a remembrance service for all the people lost in the Battle of Algaria. Our siphsalar seemed to appreciate the gesture.”

  Nuraya squeezed her eyes shut. She had been invited as well but had chosen not to go. Her mother, for all her flaws, had deserved a Husalmin funeral. One that she had never received. Would never receive unless her daughter sat on the Peacock Throne again.

  The lone voice of dissent rose in her mind, arguing her mother didn't really deserve anything. That her memory ought to be tainted by her actions in the end. An argument Nuraya could see better than ever before, yet still couldn't fully accept. After all, how could one swap an entire lifetime of memories for the few that happened at the very end?

  There was another reason of course. More and more, Nuraya had begun seeing reflections of her mother in her own attitude. The cold, calculating side that was willing to set a trap and wait for the opportune time before springing it.

  Then again, her mother wasn't the only one who had perished at the Battle of Algaria. Nuraya had been responsible for untold more—Mona, amongst them.

  “What else?”

  Camsh hesitated. “I overheard a couple of city guards from Algaria talk about the one-eyed.” He paused. She motioned him to continue. “They are not happy with his renunciation of his claim. Suspect foul play of sorts.” He raised a hand. “But, over time, as they see he made his decision out of free will, I expect such voices to quieten down.”

  “But not disappear entirely?”

  “Men will always talk,” he said. “More terrible than women despite what they might like to say otherwise.”

  Despite the tension gripping her, Nuraya found herself smiling. Then, thoughts of all what faced her wiped it away. “What of my brother? Have the scouts returned yet with a message from him?”

  Camsh nodded, then extended the parchment he had been holding.

  Nuraya reached for it, then paused at the Iron Sultan’s sigil facing her. Cursive script swirled around a lion, spelling his name in ancient Gharsi. Her hands shook.

  “He must have taken off with the late sultan’s seals,” said Camsh. “A good thing if he never got his own seals made.”

  Nuraya nodded, ignoring the tremor in her hands. Gently, reverently, she placed the sealed parchment carrying Abba’s sigil on the wide table, broke the seal, and unfurled the message within.

  Sister,

  Rabb knows you have caused great harm to the legacy of our father. Together, you and your mother should be held in the highest of contempt, punishable under the laws of men and of Rabb, the Unseen God.

  It gladdens our heart to know of the just fate that visited your mother for her crimes, even if that was done through means we do not approve of.

  Regarding your plea for us to join our fate with yours, we decline. Not only do we not wish to be seen fraternizing with kinslayers, we have neither forgiven nor forgotten all the great misdeeds you’ve committed against this great realm.

  Sultan of Istan, Keeper of the Divide, Ahasan Istan.

  Chewing her lower lip, Nuraya let out a howl of rage. Then, balling up the parchment, she flung it to the side. “How dare he insult me like that!”

  “With your permission?” asked Camsh, then bent to read the message for himself.

  Nuraya began pacing the tent once more, feeling the fury continue to build within her. Not the artificial type that her mother had been gifting her. One entirely of her own making. Something far more primal, far more dangerous. She narrowed her eyes, her fingers clenching into fists. How could he be so blind? Did she really have to have him brought over to her in chains, then slapped into his senses?

  Was she the only sane one left in this world who saw beyond herself?

  Kinslayer.

  Kinas’s face floated up from the periphery of her vision. She shook her head, but the image didn't melt away. It lingered, the silhouette of her brother watching her silently, blood beginning to leak from the corners of his handsome mouth.

  Both of them had been close enough to develop a mutual respect of sorts. Each knew the other’s strengths and weaknesses and lived amicably enough as brother and sister.

  Again, she tried banishing the image. She had tried dealing with him, hadn't she? She had done all she could do to end the impasse between them.

  Yet, in the shade of Abba’s throne, the two siblings had fought. And he had ended up dying at her hand. Another underhanded technique. One her mother would have been proud of.

  Nuraya shivered.

  Was there nothing more she could have done to stop that?

  Was she never going to learn from her past?

  What would her mother have done in her situation?

  “My sultana, it’s not all as bad as it might seem like on first examination,” said Camsh.

  “Huh?”

  “For one, he is too quick to negate our offer. Far from drawing out the matter in diplomatic niceties, he has jumped forward a few stages as if realizing the importance of time.”

  She furrowed her brows. “He flat out insulted me and my mother. Called me a traitor to my people… for what I did. He’s left nothing to discuss.”

  “On the contrary,” said Camsh, beaming for some odd reason, “I see the mark of a skilled diplomat behind these words. I believe there is an opportunity to further the dialog. He has set his initial position clearly, and now that he has clearly articulated all his objections to a potential alliance, the path is clear for us to move past them.”

  “I don’t think I see it. I’ve known Ahasan all my life. He doesn't have the intelligence to—” She stopped. She’d made the mistake of underestimating him after their meeting following Abba’s death. True, he had to have someone whispering into his ear, but he had spent all his life in the court. Even if he had acquired a fraction of all that went on there, it would still give him enough nous to hold his own.

  “He is weak,” said Camsh. “Fears what’s coming but lacks the courage to admit to it.”

  Nuraya chewed her lower lip. “I think Ahasan was being supported by the Zakhanan empire, but now that he is holed up north, and the empire armies are besieging the capital, perhaps he has outlived his usefulness.”

  “Entirely possible,” agreed Camsh. “Should I send another message to him, asking his conditions for our alliance?”

  She exhaled, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. Then, she nodded. “Let’s see if I get to keep at least one more of us alive.”

  Offering another bow, Camsh gathered the parchment and walked out.

  Nuraya stood still for a long while, glaring at the map of Istan they had laid out for her. Strange to think how much of its territory she had traversed already in the last few months. There, to the west lay Buzdar, the jewel of the west, now overrun by the Reratish prince and his horde. The east, mystical and peaceful, lay under the dominion of the Zakhanan forces.

  Her eyes traveled to the middle of the map.
Toward Algaria, center of the world. Her beloved city. The place from where Sultans of Istan had ruled not just their realm, but the entire world. A city being defended by a grand vizier instead of a scion of the Iron Sultan.

  She forced her feet forward and peeked outside the flaps. The stream beside which they had pitched her tent was quiet. There was fresh fish in it, she knew. Some local delicacy with far too many bones for her liking. But that was still much better fare than what she had been reduced to when they’d been rushing for Algaria. Even the surrounding forests were rife with game, providing a rich enough terrain for a small army’s foraging needs.

  She turned her eyes left, toward the tents of her thousand men downstream. Ranal strutted into view, impossible to ignore in his bright purple robes and an equally ridiculous turban that shimmered under the afternoon sun. A dozen steps to his right, Jinan, her siphsalar sat cross-legged on the ground, staring at the distant horizon. His features were still as handsome as the first time she had seen him, but from this distance, he seemed more a statue than a real, breathing man.

  Shaking her head, Nuraya swept her gaze and found Shoki standing with the girl he had called Jiza. A pang of jealousy stabbed her chest as she recalled the scandalous clothing the whore girl had been wearing when they had met—something she had gotten addressed straightaway.

  Jiza said something and Shoki laughed. Jealousy, and wounded pride stirred within her.

  Nuraya stared at the city guard, her eyes finding the patch he wore over the eye he had lost on the ridiculous mission she had sent him on. Her mind wandered. He had returned a changed man after his mission. One who knew what he wanted. A nervous young man turned into a proud magus.

  She shivered, recalling the feel of his body against hers, his dark eye taking her in under the starry night, her lips burning under his.

  Nuraya shook her head, banishing the past from intruding on her present.

  What was done was done.

  Just as she was turning back, she caught sight of one more man who had been watching Shoki and Jiza under the shade of a large tree.

  Inquisitor Altamish Aboor.

  Chapter 20

  Shoki

  “Shush,” said Shoki, raising a hand toward Jiza.

  “Why?”

  “Stop asking questions,” he mumbled, then, forcing a smile, turned around. “Inquisitor!”

  Inquisitor Aboor’s face remained passive as he glared at him first, then the djinn. A few Sultana’s Hands, well outside hearing distance, watched them, one of them—a particularly lecherous type—munched on something, his eyes never leaving Jiza.

  “Is something the matter?” asked Shoki, scratching his chin—an annoying tic he needed to overcome.

  “Who is she really?”

  “Huh?” said Shoki, affecting ignorance even as his heart started thudding against his ribs.

  “He is talking about me,” said Jiza, cocking her head to the side. “What do you find so fascinating about me, I wonder?”

  Shoki cursed inwardly. What in the world was wrong with her? All these days, he’d been trying to shield her from him, keeping them at a safe distance from the rest. Did she really want an inquisitor of the Kalb digging through her story, patchy as it was? “As I said before, she is from the eastern provinces beside the Zakhanan borders. When I broke free, I couldn’t quite leave her behind. Chivalry and all that, you know.” He felt Jiza’s glare bore a hole through him, but ignoring it, he forced a smile. “That’s what we do, us proud and righteous men of Istan.”

  “Considering how easily you gave up your claim to the throne, one might wonder if it’s less chivalry and more some other instinct guiding your decisions.”

  Shoki bared his teeth. “Well… I assure you that… my actions have no ulterior motives… and—” Realizing he was fumbling, Shoki scratched his chin, forced out a cough.

  “On that, I agree too,” said Jiza, surprising Shoki. “A man without a purpose or goal is worthy of nothing. No different from a fistful of ash blowing about in the wind.”

  The inquisitor glared at Jiza for a long moment, the ruts in his face deepening despite the afternoon sun. “Send her away. We need to talk.”

  “I’m going nowhere. Not until he pays us what he owes,” replied Jiza. “Besides, from what I understand, you’re the kind of man he needs to be kept far, far away from.”

  Once more, the inquisitor furrowed his brows. “Your Nirdu… it’s very archaic. Where exactly did you learn it?”

  “Inquisitor,” said Shoki, realizing the discussion was going down a dangerous route and fully aware that Jiza wasn't really in a listening mood. “Whatever it is you want to talk about, you can do so in front of her.”

  “I’m his shadow,” said Jiza, inclining her chin. “And a mirror as a reminder of what he must do.”

  Shoki swallowed his anger, then forced a shrug, spreading his arms. “Women, eh!”

  Inquisitor Aboor nodded after a moment’s hesitation. He swept his gaze toward the command tents pitched beside the stream. Shoki followed the direction. Had someone been watching them?

  “The talks between the inquisition and the magi have broken down,” said the inquisitor, casting a baleful glance at someone to Shoki’s left. Shoki turned, spied Maharis glaring right back at the inquisitor. “See how bold they’ve become? They’re openly harassing inquisitors and members of our retinue now. Wouldn't be long before they did something that would threaten everything we cherish about this realm.”

  “That’s…” Shoki struggled to come up with the right word. “Disappointing.”

  Inquisitor Aboor nodded, one hand rising to pat down the bushy mustache, the gray turban casting a gloomy shadow over his eyes.

  “I thought the magi couldn't attack you?”

  “Not us.” Inquisitor Aboor chuckled. “Nor our walls and castles.”

  “Castles? Why would they be attacking your castles…” Shoki trailed away, the memory of what the inquisitor had carried when they had set out to Ghulamia coming back to him. “Is that… where the inquisitors keep the magi’s blood phials?”

  The inquisitor laughed. A rough, raspy thing. “You might have been an almost Sultan, one who’s apparently lost the capability of doing jadu, but I still don't trust you enough to admit anything.”

  “I also lost my eye at your hand. A crime that I’ve not yet taken you to task for,” snarled Shoki, surprising himself with the bite behind the words. “And have you forgotten that when I was an almost Sultan, I had called for the reconstitution of your order?”

  “I will make up for my mistake,” the inquisitor replied coldly. “And what you did afterwards is precisely why I am talking to you in the first place.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  The inquisitor hesitated, once more glancing at Jiza who glared right back. Shoki pursed his lips. Unlike Mara, it seemed Jiza had never really dealt with an inquisitor, didn't know what they were capable of. Would she really have to see someone get severed before coming to her senses? “Before being blessed by the Unseen God, I fought in the army all my life. I know how men work, what they think, and what moves them.” He shuffled his weight, fidgeting with the end of his turban. “Nuraya isn't fit to lead. Neither the fight against the invaders nor the one against magi committing… sins beyond comprehension.”

  Shoki clicked his tongue. “Is that right? I wonder if there’s another reason? Does she perhaps refuse to carry out your bidding without question?”

  The inquisitor’s eyes hardened. “Shoki, think it through. You are a former magus. One who has seen firsthand the damage uncontrolled jadu can wreak. You yourself had a part in that too, not that long ago.” The inquisitor exhaled noisily. “Yes, I had been too harsh in taking your eye, but even you’ll agree that my intention was to stop this young girl from tearing Istan apart.”

  “There were better ways than—”

  The inquisitor waved his arguments away. “Did you find those better ways? Last I checked, you ended up killing t
his girl’s mother when she wouldn't listen.”

  Shoki clenched his fingers. Memories rose. He squeezed his eye shut. Again, he stood beside the Divide, the invisible barrier tasked with keeping the roiling darkness of the other worlds from infesting their world. He watched it reach its breaking point, tendrils of darkness stabbing through the interstitial spaces to strike at those who dared stop its march.

  Voices from the beyond had spoken with him and the queen, wanting them both to carry out their bidding. The queen, a much wiser person than he had ever been, had given in to them.

  Why?

  The voices had been beaten back. But not defeated. Was that the reason behind the near-constant dread that continued to linger in his gut no matter where he turned?

  Were they somehow behind Drenpa and those djinn who had attacked them? Was all of this interconnected, an elaborate plan being unleashed by forces far greater for him to comprehend?

  “You,” said the inquisitor, jabbing a finger at him, “have earned the authority to tell the magi to restrain themselves. You can order them to return to the inquisition. In return, my brethren promise to be just and kind. Yes, not all inquisitors are as even-handed as me, but that’s to be expected in any system. What matters is to look at the larger context and not lose sight by focusing on individual flaws.”

  “Don’t your people take away young magi children from their parents the moment you hear about their existence?” asked Jiza, her eyes narrowed. “Many have argued, rightfully, that you have caused this mess in the first place. That, had you treated the magi as equals—like you lot used to before the Istani Sultans—they might have supported you in these… trying times instead of rising in revolt like they have.”

  “Girl, do not speak of matters you know nothing about,” said the inquisitor, waving a hand in irritation. “You might be his shadow, but shadows don’t talk back.”