War of the Sultans

by Fuad Baloch

  Faces turned up to glare at her as she continued marching forward, her eyes set dead straight. She could feel their eyes examining her body, hear the murmurs about the peshwaz she wore underneath the leather vest, the comments regarding how she had left her hair untied instead of covering it under the veil as they expected their womenfolk to do.

  Despite where they stood and what they faced, these men irked her, set her fuming. Here they were, about to fight a battle that promised to be bloodier than even the terrible affair at Algaria, one that could wipe away the entire Istani line—a specter her heart could scarcely imagine—and yet, these men continued to be guided by their old-fashioned views on gender norms.

  They hadn't seen her in combat, she tried telling herself. They knew nothing about her except tall tales they must have manufactured to amuse themselves. Rational sounding reasons that failed to quell the anger in her chest.

  Three knights in gold armor stepped in her way, breaking her reverie. “Halt!”

  “Step out of the way,” growled Camsh, trying and failing to transform his meek voice into an authoritative one.

  “No one approaches the sultan without his explicit permission,” said the largest of the three men, not deigning to look at her.

  Nuraya clenched her fingers.

  “The Sultana of Istan wishes to consult with her brother,” said Camsh. “Important matters of strategy for the upcoming battle. Step away before you attract her wrath.”

  The three knights broke out into laughter. “What, this little—”

  Nuraya stepped forward and slapped the tall knight on the face with all her might. He yelped, and lifted one hand to his cheek, stuttering back as if shocked by the sudden attack. Before the two behind them could spring into action, Nuraya grunted with displeasure and resumed her march toward Ahasan’s command tent.

  “Stop her!” shouted one of the knights.

  “Aye,” replied another.

  Nuraya maintained her stately pace, her back turned to the knights. She was the sultana whether these men recognized that or not, and for now, she would forgive their slights. The knights didn't rush to block her way again.

  Camsh, panting beside her, waved his hand about, muttering, “Far too few. Far too few.”

  Nuraya ignored the numbers. One thing she had grown past caring.

  Another dozen or so knights stood outside Ahasan’s command tent. One of them tried blocking her then, seeing the determined set of her lips, stepped aside.

  Camsh raised the flap and she entered Ahasan’s tent to an intense, gagging smell of incense and perfume. Nuraya coughed, shaking her head to clear her senses.

  “Sister,” came Ahasan’s amused voice. “Wasn't expecting you so soon. Thought you’d spend more time preening before I’d get to see you.”

  “Some people, unlike you Brother, have changed,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral as she turned toward Ahasan who sat on thick cushions set against the tent wall. Two girls, both wearing tops with scandalously plunging necklines leaving nothing to the imagination, sat on either side of him. One of them held a bunch of grapes. Even as Nuraya watched, repulsed and disappointed in equal measures, the girl tore a couple of grapes from the bunch and extended her shapely arm toward Ahasan, who opened his mouth greedily like a babe might upon seeing her mother’s teat.

  Memory, unbidden and sudden, rose of the time he had been at the diwan-e-aam all those many months ago, grape juice spreading on his lips as Abba turned to him. How he had blabbered then, caught off-guard, finding himself being judged and failing miserably. Nuraya snickered.

  “Something the matter?” asked Ahasan, waving the girl feeding him to stop.

  “Prince Ahasan,” said Camsh, placing no great emphasis on his title, “we must strategize how we are to fight the battle against Prince Sabrish. Yes, he has greater numbers, but for the moment we hold the advantage of elevation. If we can dig in deep, deploy our trebuchets and archers, we can gain a tactical advantage should he decide to assault us.”

  “And what would that achieve?” asked Ahasan, taking off his turban and running his fingers through the thinning hair. “We might withstand two, maybe three waves of attacks. But he has enough men to keep throwing at us indefinitely until we run out of arrows. Should he decide to attack us from the flanks as well, we don't have enough resources to stretch. And when his men do break through our defenses,” he said, leaning forward toward her, “your coterie of women, children, and old would die pissing their breeches.”

  Nuraya seethed, the familiar sheen of red haze covering her sight. “This defeatist attitude helps no one. Do you have tactics in mind? What would you have us do? March down to the valley and get slaughtered?”

  Ahasan shrugged, motioning the servant girl to feed him once more.

  Camsh exchanged a glance with Nuraya. “I’ve been speaking with your siphsalar and other salars. We can send spies accompanied by groups of fast-moving scouts. See if we can get past their guard posts at night and poison their food supplies. Perhaps even take the opportunity to assassinate Prince Sabrish himself.”

  Before Ahasan could reply, Nuraya rounded at her siphsalar. “We don’t fight without honor! Who gave you permission to consider vile tactics like these? I am not going to win back this realm using dirty methods that would shame our proud Istani ancestors.”

  “Sister, for what it’s worth,” said Ahasan, cracking his knuckles, “our forefathers did engage in certain measures you’d positively find most dishonorable. Not things we talk about much, for obvious reasons.”

  Nuraya didn't bother replying to Ahasan, still glaring at Camsh.

  “My sultana,” said Camsh, clearing his throat. “I thought you might not approve so I took the liberty of looking into the feasibility of these actions. As Prince Ahasan says, it’s our job, my father’s before me and now mine, to engage in tactics that are pragmatic without… letting objections get in the way.”

  Nuraya scoffed. “Abba would never have allowed the grand vizier to ever stoop to methods like these!”

  “Shows how little you did know him,” drawled Ahasan, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, his fingernails grazing the girl’s bare shoulder. “You have no idea of the methods he both condoned and sanctioned to suppress rebellions in the east.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he raised his hand. “Don’t bother. This plan of your siphsalar wouldn't work anyway. I’ve already sent two groups of spies and none of them returned.”

  Chewing on her lower lip, Nuraya began pacing Ahasan’s tent. Her initial impression of Ahasan still dragging Algaria along with him were correct. Ostentatious tables and gilded sconces littered his tent, her boots sinking in the thick Zakhanan carpets that would have taken years to weave. Almirahs so heavy they would have required a fleet of mules standing bare to one side.

  “We have to come up with a strategy,” she said. “Camsh is right. We can’t just swoop down and hope to win the battle.”

  “What else do you propose, Sister?”

  She sucked her teeth. “I don’t know! Isn’t this why I’m here in the first place? If you’ve indeed spent all this time at the court and learned all these tricks of governance, what would you suggest we do? You have battle-hardened salars. Call for them so we can hear from them too.”

  Ahasan didn't reply immediately, instead motioning the servant girl for another bunch of grapes. Anger flared through Nuraya. She marched toward the women and kicked the silver plate containing fruits and the pitcher of wine, setting it flying.

  “Hey!” complained Ahasan, dabbing at the dark wine stain spreading on the carpet.

  “You’re not the son of some pampered merchant, Ahasan,” she growled, jabbing her finger into his belly as the servant girls scurried out of the tent. “Act like Sultan Anahan’s eldest. Can’t you see we’re at a precipice here? The fates of Istan and ours depend on what happens at this battle! We have to—”

  “Enough, Sister,” he growled, his voice growing so cold it gave her pause. “I understand f
ull well what’s at stake here. I also understand how you’ve forced me into this mess in the first place!”

  “When Istan burns, the Istani cannot remain immune.”

  “I agree,” he said, this time his voice quiet, ponderous. Shaking his head, he fell uncharacteristically silent, a dark shadow falling over his features. “We could go back, of course, but we might never get a chance to engage the Reratish forces this decisively ever again. We can’t attack them head-on, can’t maintain a defensive position indefinitely, nor do we have the forces to surround them.”

  Nuraya crossed her arms across her chest, then, tilting her head to the side, waited for him to continue.

  Brushing specks of food from his tunic, Ahasan rose. He was the same height as Nuraya, but with his bulk, he seemed to suck up most of the space in the tent. “Like your siphsalar, I, too, took the liberty of thinking through possible ways out of this predicament.” He smiled. “In fact, I took a leaf right out of your book, Sister!”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, her heart suddenly beating very hard.

  “We’re never going to win against Prince Sabrish. Not in the conventional sense anyway,” said Ahasan. “The man isn't even human if one is to believe those who’ve met him. Add in greater numbers, a siphsalar who has never lost, and we have no chance of defeating them. So, I reached out to him yesterday to sue for peace.”

  “You did what?” Nuraya snapped. “Without consulting me?”

  He shrugged. “I wasn't sure how you’d have reacted. Anyway, he apologizes for the manner in which certain… misunderstandings crept in between your initial discussions with him. Something about a marriage pact, if I understand correctly?”

  “Unacceptable,” said Camsh, forcing a chuckle. “The man cannot be trusted.”

  “Interesting,” said Ahasan. “That’s precisely how he referred to my sister as well. Something about her not keeping her side of the bargain.” He extended his hands. “Regardless, he has rescinded the initial offer. Instead, he has extended an invitation for the two of us to meet him at his camp on the morrow to discuss terms for peace.”

  Nuraya felt her eyes widen. “By Rabb, you’ve gone mad! That monster has no honor. How do you expect him to keep his word about anything?”

  Ahasan shrugged. “What’s the alternative? Have his men take your severed head to him once he grows bored and throws his soldiers at us?”

  “No,” said Camsh, turning to her, his voice taking on a pleading note. “This is a trick. We cannot trust him! There must be another way.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” said Ahasan. “He expects an answer by sunset. Lose this opportunity, and our annihilation is but certain.”

  Nuraya placed her hands on her hips. Camsh was right in insisting they seek another way. After all, one never entered a battle on terms set by the enemy. Yet hadn't she already agreed to sacrifice her life for the betterment of her realm? If there was even the sliver of a chance that they might win peace for Istan without shedding blood, wasn't that worth considering?

  Besides, she did know one thing. Despite what happened to her, the fire she had lit in the hearts of the common Istani would ensure neither invading power stayed in Istan for long. That had to be enough. Nuraya shook her head, surprised by the change in herself. Would the girl who had ventured out of Algaria ever have thought this selflessly? And if Shoki was right, and there were other wars to be had, her actions would only help strengthen them.

  “Sister?”

  “Very well,” Nuraya said, then turned around and began walking toward the exit. Gasping, Camsh followed her. Her mind a whirlpool of thoughts, she heard none of his objections as she stepped out of Ahasan’s tent.

  There was much to prepare for her meeting with the Reratish prince. A meeting, she knew, that would seal the fate of her beloved Istan one way or the other.

  Chapter 42

  Shoki

  “That’s it,” said Maharis, panting, dropping to his knees. “My well… is fully drained now.”

  “Do you have another Asghar artifact?” asked Jiza, peeking from their hiding spot behind the copse of trees at the small army ahead.

  “Even if I did,” he said, sneering, “there is nothing left in me to enhance through it. I’m wiped out!”

  “Hmm,” said Shoki, also turning to watch the armed men. His knees buckled under his weight, threatening to give out any instant—a sensation he had been feeling over the past two weeks of hard journeying through the northern forests finally crossing into the western provinces. He shivered. Jadu had kept them moving faster than any mount would, reducing the need to take breaks, but now that Maharis’s well was at an end, would his body have to pay a toll for the harsh journey?

  Were they outrunning Naila?

  “What do we do?” asked Jiza, turning her eyes toward him.

  Shoki licked his lips. They were still a good thirty or so miles from Buzdar. So far, they had been lucky in not coming up against either Ahasan’s or the Reratish forces, but maybe their good fortune had come to an end. He squinted against the glaring sun. “Can you see the flag they’re flying?”

  “A plain black flag with no obvious emblem,” she replied.

  “Mercenaries,” croaked Maharis. “We should get away before they see us.”

  Shoki felt inclined to agree with the magus’s assessment. When was the last time he’d had anything positive come out of meeting mercenaries? He shook his head in regret. “This valley is the only route through to Buzdar. Gods know how much more time we’d waste if we had to try and find an alternate route through the forest.”

  “Better late than never,” said Maharis.

  Shoki chewed his lip, fidgeting with his tunic.

  “Maybe the Jaman magus does have a point,” said Jiza. “If these are the people you should be avoiding—these Reratish—you’d never get to Buzdar.”

  Shoki stifled the scream of frustration building in his throat. Maybe he could spend a moment or two to make sure he knew these soldiers’ allegiance.

  The end was rushing toward him even if he stood still.

  One he had been woefully unprepared for.

  Restless, he shuffled his weight, looked west. What was happening there? What blasted ritual was Naila planning? Was he already too late?

  He turned back to the mercenaries, his eye falling on a tall, stately man emerging from a tent. Unlike the others who moved around bare-headed in the sweltering heat, this man wore the brass helmet Shoki had seen him don all his life. He turned his mustachioed face toward Shoki to shout at one of the men.

  Shoki blinked, then stepped out of the trees.

  “Come back!” growled Maharis.

  “Shoki!” called Jiza.

  Still dazed, Shoki drifted toward the tall figure with the white, curled up mustache who hadn’t seen him yet. How was he here? Was that a sign?

  Shouts broke out in front. Dimly, he heard men ordering him to halt, to fall on his knees. He continued to trudge forward. From the corner of his eye, he saw a mercenary rush toward him, a sword held out high.

  “Quiet!” shouted the salar and the mercenaries fell silent. The figure who had been about to lunge at Shoki came to a stuttering stop, turning around to await his salar’s instruction.

  “Shoki? Shoki Malook?” said the tall man, marching toward him, one eyebrow raised.

  “Salar Ihagra!” whispered Shoki. Shaking his head, he cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

  Salar Ihagra, the man who had rescued him from the streets of Algaria, given him a life and purpose beyond anything he or his parents could have ever dreamed of, his commander with whom he had patrolled the streets of the Mercantile quarter, stopped a couple of paces from him. “I’m not sure if I should scold you, hug you, or offer a bow.”

  Shoki broke out laughing. “You’re my mentor!” Then, pressing the palms of both hands together, he took a step forward, and bent from the waist, his back ramrod straight, just the way Salar Ihagra had taught him.
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br />   Shoki heard boots scrunch on the rocky ground. Then, hard, strong hands were grabbing him by the arms and pulling him up.

  “It’s good to see you, boy,” said Salar Ihagra, his voice strained, his eyes focused on Shoki’s eye patch. Blinking, the salar pulled him into a tight embrace.

  Wrapping his arms around the tall salar, his face crushing into his hard chest, Shoki closed his eye, the world and all its worries melting away.

  Unbidden and without warning, tears broke through his good eye. Shoki sniffed. So much had changed in the past few months. His mother and father were dead. He had lost an eye. Istan was being ravaged by invaders. He had discovered, then lost, his jadu. He had visited Nainwa, the djinn city. He had fallen in love with the woman whose birthright he had snatched from her, then given it back when asked. He was racing against time to stop a blood magic ritual.

  His chest heaving, his face snotty, his eye leaking tears, Shoki held onto Salar Ihagra, the one figure who had withstood all the ravages of time. Here was a man who had always known Shoki, someone who knew him for who he really was. A lucky, but ultimately unworthy awkward boy who had been favored by luck most of his life.

  The salar patted him on the back, then stepped back. Shoki wiped his eye with a sleeve, dimly registering Maharis and Jiza standing beside him.

  “What brings you here?” asked Salar Ihagra.

  Shoki sniffled, not failing to see the salar hadn’t called him by any title yet. “I… am in search of… magi who might have come across this way.”

  The salar stiffened.

  “Have you seen them?” asked Shoki.

  Salar Ihagra nodded, curling his mustache. He waved his arm at the mercenaries beginning to crowd around them. “Scram, you pieces of camel dung! Nothing here for you! Go, attend to your chores!”