Crescent Inquisition

by Fuad Baloch

  Crescent Inquisition

  The Glass Sultanate: Book 1

  Fuad Baloch

  Copyright © 2020 by Fuad Baloch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Version: alif (pub)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “With this, I remake the world,” Master Zalan whispered, cool desert air rustling his robes.

  The captive whimpered, his jaw moving uselessly against the gag.

  Master Zalan ignored the captive, a distant cousin of the powerful sultan, one whose life had never held any purpose. Until now.

  “Master, it’s time,” said the magus, standing a step behind the royal captive.

  He ignored the magus as well. There were moments in life where one had to take his time, look beyond the immediate, visualize the world as it should be, and ignore the present.

  Both moons shone brightly overhead, casting a silvery sheen to the sands. He looked back. They were a dozen miles out of Algaria in this oasis, but despite the distance, the city walls dominated the dark horizon. Torchlights blinked from hulking guard posts every hundred yards, the massive flags fluttering over ramparts appearing as serpents slithering in the air.

  “The unjust will pay for their crimes,” he murmured. “Every last one of them.”

  Again he heard the captive gag. The magus clicked his tongue and the squirming wretch struggling to get out of his binds fell silent.

  Master Zalan smiled. Here in this deserted oasis, the world had shrunk to just the three—a lucky number—of them.

  “S-stop!” the captive squeaked. He coughed, wriggling to loosen the gag some more. “Let me go. By Rabb, I shall tell no one.”

  “But that’s not what I desire,” Master Zalan replied, raising a hand to stop the magus from putting the gag back on.

  “W-who are you?” asked the captive, his voice hoarse. “Listen… I’m the sultan’s second cousin. Let me go, and I’ll give you my weight’s worth in gold.”

  Master Zalan grinned, aware that his hood hid his features from the captive.

  “All my wealth, then! Everything I own!”

  He didn't reply. Instead, Master Zalan took a step toward the spring. The body of water was still, shadows of surrounding palm tree crisscrossing its smooth surface as the evening continued to grow darker.

  The captive whimpered. “For Rabb’s sake… think of my family! My wives… my children…”

  “You have lived a life of waste. But fear not, your end shall atone for many sins.”

  “Master Zalan,” said the magus, taking a step toward the captive.

  Master Zalan considered the two for a beat. The more he heard the name he’d taken for himself, the more he liked it. Then, he nodded.

  The captive shrieked as the magus grabbed him by the collar and dragged him over to the spring. “I’ve done nothing wrong! L-let me go!”

  Master Zalan crossed his arms. The magus, his steps determined, splashed deeper into the water, the captive following, his body flailing.

  “No!” the captive howled. The gag had slipped away, water lapping at his neck as he continued to squirm against his binds. The restraints wouldn't come off, though. He let out a loud scream, the shrill sound piercing the night air.

  Screams that the sands would swallow. The desert’s thirst was unquenchable. Much like his quest for a new world.

  Master Zalan took in a long breath, gathering his black robes around him. This was it, then. His attempt at righting the evils of society by burning all the rot away. He wouldn’t fail.

  “Why are you doing this?” the captive wailed. “Why?”

  Master Zalan waded into the water. The magus nodded, then bent down to grab the captive’s collar.

  “D-don’t…” the captive cried. “Once… once you hurt me… they’ll hunt you like a dog. N-no forgiveness for you!”

  “There’s no going back for me,” Master Zalan replied, offering the wretch a smile he couldn’t see. He paddled toward the magus and the captive. The water lapping against his knees was cool. Carefully, he cinched his robes up high, tilting his head back towards the sky. The two moons seemed to glare at him.

  He smiled. Believers of the Atishi faith were wrong in worshipping the burning sun and the golden flame over the cool contempt of the moons. Yes, fire burned immediately, but the moons worked in their own way, tugging away at the tides, obfuscating the world and all it contained, changing it slowly, but eventually.

  “The two moons,” Master Zalan muttered. “The greater one, the smaller one, working in tandem like they’ve always done.”

  “L-let me go!”

  It was time. Master Zalan dropped his chin, then nodded at the magus who bent down to grab the captive’s long hair. His hood slipped away as he drew in a long breath.

  The captive’s eyes widened. “You! Why?”

  Master Zalan smiled a final, sad smile. Great movements were never kind on the masses, extracting huge costs from the unrepentant, the oblivious. Then again, he was setting fire to the world. When it burned, no one would remember the first dry shrub to see the flame.

  He dunked the captive’s head in the water.

  The royal thrashed out mightily, his limbs flailing, fighting. Like the moons, Master Zalan stood his ground.

  This was the beginning of the end.

  Chapter Two

  Palvar Turka, renowned courtier at the sultan’s court, smiled broadly as he sauntered over to the guards.

  “Who are you?” asked the meaner of the two guards, a man almost as tall as Palvar himself but thin as a stick. As he leaned in, the flickering torchlights cast deep shadows in his scars.

  “You don’t know me?” demanded Palvar, arching an eyebrow. He thumped his chest. “After all I’ve done for the glorious sultanate, it disappoints me to witness the depths of your ignorance. By Rabb, if your mothers but knew of this, they’d—”

  “Let him through,” came a curt voice from the left. “I vouch for him.”

  Palvar jerked his head around as the guards stepped aside. “Ah, Captain Tamat, good to see your face again!”

  Captain Tamat, the sternest man Palvar had ever met, glared
at him. Then, the corners of his luxurious mustache twitched ever so slightly. “The grand vizier has invited you as well?”

  “Blood and onions, not everyone has forgotten me yet.” He smiled. “Truth be told, the past few months have been hard work. Good to get a bit of a break from it all.”

  The captain narrowed his eyes, then turned away. “How hard can it really be at the sultan’s court?”

  Palvar opened his mouth to come back with a retort but the captain was already walking away. Shrugging, Palvar climbed up the marbled steps and found himself in a vast open-air pavilion, dotted by columns of light. The sun might have set hours ago, but the brightly lit bamboo pillars every few steps did splendidly at keeping the night’s darkness from asserting itself.

  Aware that his height was already attracting attention, Palvar smiled, then inhaled deeply. The air was sweet, carrying flower-based fragrances and scents. Chatter filled the air as guests, the elite of Istan and distinguished foreigners, stood around in groups of twos and threes. Musicians plucked the strings of their instruments to his right, the mellow music somewhat at odds with the overall jovial mood of the party.

  A group of harem girls walked by him, tittering and giggling. Palvar grinned right back, offering a nod of the head. For a moment he thought he recognized the tall girl leading them, only her large eyes visible over the sheer veil that covered most of her face. But then she was gone.

  Palvar righted the voluminous white turban he’d donned, straightening his back. “You’re here now, Palvar,” he told himself. “You have an opportunity to remind everyone of what you’ve already done for the sultanate. Speak up or be forgotten.”

  His unease didn’t lessen. Then again, this was no ordinary party. Neither he nor anyone from his past seven generations had ever been invited to a gathering with this many distinguished guests. He thumped his chest. “You’re the representative of the ameer of Nikhtun, pride of the western realm. Act like you belong!”

  Feeling a bit better, Palvar raised his hand as a white-turbaned servant shuffled past carrying a tray of fragrant mango slices. “Hold on there!” Filling his plate with the sweet fruit, he stepped underneath a pillar jutting out to the night sky, keen to strike conversation with anyone important.

  A richly dressed man, his robes dark maroon, his turban laced with silver lining, joined him under the makeshift pillar. “A grand event,” he said, the thick fingers of one hand playing with the gold rings on the other.

  “The grand vizier’s son sure knows how to throw a good party,” agreed Palvar. “If I know anything about them, this one is only just beginning.”

  “He does things well, our young Lud Ghiani.” The man coughed, his fingers still playing with the rings. “Pray, tell me. Have the sultan’s sons arrived yet?”

  “They’re going to be here as well?” asked Palvar, taken aback. “I thought since the attack at the Grand Celebration, they’d been prohibited from leaving the royal palaces?”

  “The crown prince isn’t allowed out. But Prince Hatan can be difficult to manage.” The rich merchant—who must have traveled in for the occasion, for Palvar hadn’t seen him at the court before—cleared his throat. “A second son tends to get more leeway anyway.”

  “Second sons and second wives, easily made, easily forgotten.” Palvar chuckled, then clapped his forehead. “By the she-camel, you must forgive me for my lack of manners.” He bowed his head. “I’m Palvar Turka, representative of—”

  “—the ameer of Nikhtun.” The merchant stood a little straighter, his eyes twinkling under the torches. “I’ve heard of you.”

  Palvar smiled, glad for having been recognized. “Oh, you humble me, sahib.”

  “Your… antics at the Grand Celebration have made you famous. Quite famous, indeed.”

  Palvar grinned. “We, the men of Nikhtun, can pick up on the faintest signs of trouble and—”

  “I must get myself another refill,” said the merchant, nodding at a servant carrying goblets of wine.

  Palvar shrugged, then looked around him. Normally, he’d be out there, talking to viziers and merchants, picking up the latest gossip. But since his part in foiling the attack on the Grand Celebration, and the subsequent house arrest—thoroughly undeserved in his view—this was the first party he’d been out to, and he intended to take his time warming into it. There were complications, though. His stature had grown. Did that change how he was meant to approach others now?

  Palvar handed his finished plate to one of the servants. In truth, he had no bloody idea of what was expected of him now. Then there was the depressing realization he couldn’t keep ignoring. Either the news of his heroics had been suppressed from others, or enough time had passed for them to start forgetting it. He nodded to himself. Maybe he needed to ignore all that tonight. Maybe all he needed was to drink himself full, admire the beautiful harem girls floating about like butterflies, and have a grand time.

  Another clutch of harem girls, lustrous black hair slipping out of their sheer head veils, sashayed past him. Palvar smiled and they smiled back. To his right, a young merchant stood next to two harem girls who laughed at everything he said.

  Palvar nodded at the girls, then raised his hand to adjust his turban. “Why did I even bother with this cursed thing? We, the Nikhtuni, have the right of it. Hats. Suitable for war. Suitable for parties.”

  Spying a group of ambassadors, Palvar made for them. He recognized the pale-skinned ambassador from the Reratish Kingdom even from the distance. The portly man, his gut straining against his cummerbund, seemed to be arguing with a minor vizier Palvar had seen at the court before.

  “—trade remains strong, Vizier,” Ambassador Danfurd was saying as the vizier continued to look on passively. The ambassador’s eyes met Palvar’s and he smirked. “Ah, we’re joined by the braying camels of Nikhtun.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, neighbor,” Palvar replied with a warm smile. Nikhtun was bordered by the Reratish Kingdom, and the two peoples had never gotten along. “Camels do have a habit of attracting asses around them.”

  Ambassador Danfurd huffed, scratched his hooked nose, then turned his back to Palvar. “As I was saying, the Reratish Kingdom remains fully committed to meeting its obligations under the treaty.”

  The vizier offered a solemn nod. “The sultan shall be pleased to hear of it, Ambassador Danfurd.”

  “May his reign be forever blessed,” said Ambassador Danfurd, rubbing a hand over his belly.

  “As Rabb wills,” agreed the vizier. “However, there are other matters we must talk of.”

  Palvar suppressed a yawn as the vizier broke into a boring monologue on the effects of tariffs on Istani cotton growers and how it impacted his native province. Palvar struggled to keep awake. He’d not come here to listen to the minutiae of statecraft.

  Still, it would be rude if he broke away from the group straight away. Viziers, even ones as minor as this one, had thin skins and fragile egos. The ambassador seemed equally ill at ease, shifting his weight, one hand scratching his chin, the other’s fingers twitching.

  Sighing, Palvar crossed his arms and allowed his gaze to roam around. The revelers by the staircase were stepping away now as a dozen knights of the Sultan’s Body streamed in, dressed in their gleaming golden armor. Palvar tensed. If the elite soldiers were here, then Prince Hatan, the sultan’s second son, couldn’t be far off.

  Palvar peeled away and headed towards the staircase. His eyes fell on a ravishing dark-eyed girl standing to his left, joined by two others. No harem girl, she wore a purple silk peshwaz that both hid her features and accentuated them at the same time. She laughed, touching one of her friends gently on the shoulder. Palvar blinked. As if feeling his eyes on her, she turned her chin up to him, and Palvar forgot to breathe. There was beauty in the world, and then there was love at first sight.

  Before Palvar knew, he was walking over to her, even as she turned back to her friends.

  “—don’t be a bore,” she was saying playfully. The
girls giggled. Judging by the thick gold bangles and heavy necklaces the other two girls wore, they most probably belonged to richer families, but Palvar had eyes only for the girl in the center. From the corner of his eye, he saw more knights marching ahead.

  Palvar cleared his throat noisily, then bowed deeply to the three girls, remembering to keep one hand up to keep his turban in place. “Pleasure to make your acquaintances, sahibas. I’m a humble but truthful man from Nikhtun, and tonight it shames me not to find myself floored by the pure joy of witnessing beauty.”

  The girls tittered and Palvar smiled, his eyes not straying from the girl in the center. The singer behind the girls started a new song, the air filling with her sweet notes.

  The girl smiled. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, man from Nikhtun.”

  “Palvar,” he said, standing up straighter, unable to see anyone but her.

  “I’m Roha,” she said, still smiling.

  Before she could say anything more, a loud, shrill voice rang out, “Make way!”

  “Argh!” Palvar grumbled, but already the girls were being sequestered away, more knights of the Sultan’s Body fanning ahead. The musicians fell silent. A trumpeter marched up, then, raising his trumpet to the lips, began an exuberant rendition of The Sons of Istan.

  Cheering broke out as two young men walked into the pavilion. Prince Hatan was unmistakable. Clad in green robes—a color reserved for the Istani royalty—the handsome prince beamed as viziers and merchants and noblemen rushed to hail him. The one beside him was Lud Ghiani, the grand vizier’s second son, clutching his dark robes around his slender frame.