Crescent Inquisition

by Fuad Baloch

  “The two second sons,” Palvar mused. They seemed to be of equal age, and for all Palvar knew, they might very well have grown up together as well. Not that it mattered to him.

  Aware of his obligation to greet them, even if it pained him to not pursue Roha instead, Palvar joined the line of noblemen waiting to welcome Prince Hatan. The prince’s loud, thumping voice cut through the sycophantic mumblings. He liked to laugh, Palvar realized. Unlike the crown prince, whose face seldom cracked in a smile, the younger prince was gregarious and roared with laughter. Someone Palvar would have gotten along grandly with.

  The prince and the grand vizier’s son continued towards him. Prince Hatan wore no jewelry unlike all those around him. He didn’t even wear an ornamental dagger in his cummerbund as all minor royals tended to do. He was the son of Sultan Mazayd, and that fact alone separated him from the rest.

  Palvar put on a winning smile as his turn came.

  Lud Ghiani, quieter of the two, his robes so smooth they could have been silk or velvet, approached him. “I see Father has ended your house arrest.”

  Palvar offered a deep bow. “Sahib Lud Ghiani, greetings of the night to you!” Beside the grand vizier’s son, the prince laughed at something a courtier said to him. “I remain in the debt of your illustrious father and—”

  “Relax, Courtier Palvar Turka,” said Lud Ghiani, smiling warmly now. He touched Prince Hatan on the shoulder. “My prince, meet the hero of the Grand Celebration.”

  Prince Hatan broke away from the courtier. Then, he stepped forward, and thumped Palvar on the shoulder. “You’ve done the realm a great service indeed!” He turned to Lud Ghiani. “An act for which he has been undoubtedly rewarded riches beyond reckoning?”

  Palvar shuffled uncomfortably. Riches would have been good, but now wasn’t the time to bring that up. “A citizen merely doing his job, my prince.”

  “By the grace of Rabb, you’ve done well,” said the prince, bobbing his head as if he were a sage five times his age. He turned back to Lud Ghiani, sweeping his arm around. “You sure know how to celebrate! I swear by the night and the sun that this puts even the Grand Celebration to shame!”

  Lud Ghiani bowed to the prince. “You humble me, my prince.”

  “To Istan!” someone shouted.

  “To Istan!” a hundred voices roared back.

  Prince Hatan turned around, basking in the full-throated shouts. Then, placing his arm around the grand vizier’s son, the two began their way over to the divans set some distance away.

  Palvar swallowed. The sultan’s son had just spoken with him. With him. Aunt Helda, back home in Nikhtun, would never believe it. More importantly, the prince knew what Palvar had done. So he hadn’t been forgotten. Not yet, anyway.

  Despite the euphoria flowing through him, a mundane concern reared its head. He was hungry. Then, there was this prickly urge to seek out Roha.

  Standing on his tiptoes, he looked around. A waiter ferried steaming cups of ca’va. Palvar clenched his fingers. He’d have to get a cup soon. Then, his eyes found a group of women to the right. He smiled when he spotted Roha. She was laughing, her slender fingers gently twirling a delicate goblet. Six other girls stood beside her, but she outshone them as if a diamond surrounded by zirconia, a pomegranate seed sparkling as light fell on it. “I should approach her again and—”

  Someone shouted.

  A shadow dashed across the periphery of Palvar’s vision.

  Another shrill scream came next.

  More shadows moved.

  Steel clanged against steel.

  Trays of food clattered to the ground. A torch went out. More screams rose. More torches guttered out.

  “—the prince!” someone was shouting. A loud, authoritative voice, full of rage and panic.

  Something warm splashed across Palvar’s hands. He looked down, horrified by the red he saw. Someone slammed into him, setting them both sprawling on the ground. His breath knocked out, Palvar forced himself up. Shadowy figures were fighting both the city guards and the knights of the Sultan’s Body. No, not just fighting, Palvar realized with shock. Even as he watched, they knocked out a pillar, its torches winking out. Behind them stood three archers, shooting at the lanterns.

  “Stop!” Palvar shouted. The archers loosened another volley. More screams went up as darkness rushed in. “Oh no you don’t!” Gritting his teeth, Palvar reached for a steel goblet and hurled it with all his might.

  He hit the third archer in the head who went down like a sack of dried dung.

  “May the owls eat you,” muttered Palvar. Grabbing a dinner knife from the floor, he advanced towards the three archers. One of them looked up. “No!” shouted Palvar as the archer loosed an arrow.

  The arrow whizzed past him, missing him by inches.

  No, Palvar realized with shock, as steel rang overhead. Instead of shooting him, the archer had targeted the torch above. It fell on Palvar with a mighty thunk.

  Palvar crashed to the ground, a world of pain blooming into sudden existence. He tried lifting his head, but the world had gone too dark. Either it was because he had been blinded or the night had sucked out all light from the pavilion.

  All he could hear was the screaming. Visceral. Terrified shouts for help.

  “—guard the prince—”

  “Protect them all!” shouted another.

  “—Prince Hatan with every drop of your blood!”

  “I can’t not do anything,” Palvar groaned. Gathering all his strength, he forced himself up. The world swayed under his feet. “Men of Nikhtun walk through tempests!”

  More shouting came from the staircase. Pinpricks of lights turned into torches, so many, so bright they hurt his eyes. Palvar threw up his hands, golden armor gleaming everywhere he turned.

  “Oh Rabb!” someone whimpered beside him. “They took the royals!”

  “What?” Palvar turned around.

  The ground jumped away from him.

  Palvar tried to stand still, but it was impossible. He fell, consciousness slipping away a mere moment before his head would strike the ground.

  Chapter Three

  A crow cawed.

  Palvar took in a long breath, hoping his puffed up chest didn't look too out of place in the courtyard of the city guard headquarters. The Algarian sun was hot overhead, seemingly oblivious to all that had happened the night before. When Palvar had finally woken up from the knock he’d taken, he’d demanded to know what had happened at the party.

  What he’d heard from the healers had left him shocked.

  While he had been out cold, the attackers had made off with a good dozen or so members of the royal Istani family. Palvar shook his head, feeling as if he was still in a dream. Then again, fates had opened up an opportunity for him.

  “I’m here now,” Palvar told himself, nodding solemnly. “Ready to offer my best for the sultanate.” He looked up. The office he sought was directly ahead. Two city guards stood outside it, loud shouting coming through the open doors. The ancient walkways surrounding the courtyard swarmed with city guards moving in haste, their shoulders sagging, their faces carrying a haunted look. Even their captains seemed deflated. Palvar could understand that, though. It wasn't every day people as important were nabbed from a gathering as illustrious as last night’s.

  Palvar gritted his teeth, righting his Nikhtuni hat. That he’d had the foresight to insist for the ship-like hat—instead of the monstrous turbans—to be brought to him when he’d woken up at the apothecary in the morning was a sure sign that the night’s events hadn’t rattled him much. A city guard captain ran out of an office, his armor clanking, his boots thumping the flagstones.

  Palvar strutted toward the guards. “I’m here to offer my expertise to the city guard in this grave time.”

  The guards looked at each other. They were young men, their eyes bloodshot, their fingers twitching as they leaned heavily on their ceremonial spears. Any other day, they might have challenged Palvar, but like the oth
er guards Palvar had talked his way through outside the headquarter, they nodded and stepped aside.

  “—reach out to the city gangs, then!” a middle-aged vizier, the golden end of his turban swaying wildly, was shouting as Palvar entered the sparsely decorated room with a large window looking out to the city. “They must know who’s behind this great crime!”

  “Do whatever it takes, for there is no way we’ll ever entertain their impossible demand,” said the vizier beside him. He shrugged. “If they don’t answer, burn these gangs and—”

  Palvar stumbled over an upturned pot of ink. “Argh!” Thankfully, he managed to catch his balance by reaching out to the large wooden desk set against the wall, but the act ended up attracting everyone’s attention.

  “Who are you?” the first vizier demanded. Mustachioed and middle-aged, his purple robe laced with a gold trim, he looked the very picture of the pompous bureaucrat of the capital city.

  “In times as grave as these,” said Palvar, speaking slowly for his head still hurt after last night, “every citizen of the glorious sultanate must offer all they can.”

  The vizier’s eyes flashed. He advanced. “You have news? Out with it.”

  Behind the vizier, Palvar caught sight of Captain Tamat glaring at him with open hostility. It might have been the captain’s office, but he stood a step away from his own desk, joined by another frowning city guard captain.

  “I—”

  The vizier nodded encouragingly, his eyes taking in Palvar’s hat. “Fear no one, resident of Nikhtun. Men from your region are justly renowned for their bravery, and if there’s anything you do know, you can share it with us without any fear.”

  Palvar spread his hands. “Well… I must thank you, sahib, for your powers of observations about my province and her people. Indeed, it’s often said that—”

  “Do you know anything about the princes’ captors?” interrupted the second vizier, his voice grave, solemn.

  Captain Tamat stepped forward, his limbs moving rigidly as if he’d been rowing all night. “We don’t need you, Courtier Palvar Turka.”

  Palvar shook his head sadly. “I wish we could’ve met in pleasant times.”

  “Do you have any news about the captives?” snapped the vizier. “If not, then remove yourself from my presence, or by Rabb, in my current state, I shall tear you apart with my bare hands.”

  Palvar blinked. The vizier’s face looked familiar, but he thoroughly doubted this man had ever lifted anything more than a sack of dates. “Well, I’m here to offer my assistance in locating the captives. I’ve considerable experience in matters like these, and I assure you the sultanate requires a man of my talents here.”

  “The city guard has turned up nothing in all the hours since the great tragedy. If you have no further knowledge, then you can’t help us,” said the vizier, chewing the words as if chomping on dry strips of beef.

  “Hold up,” said Palvar, raising his hand. The viziers might not have been inclined to listen to him, but the physical act shut them up for the moment. “You’ve already received demands from the captors?”

  The viziers didn't answer.

  “Courtier, this is not the court,” said the captain beside Captain Tamat. “Once we know anything, we’ll advise accordingly.”

  “He helped foil the attack at the Grand Celebration,” said Captain Tamat, crossing his arms, his nostrils flaring.

  “He?” demanded the middle-aged vizier, turning to squint at Palvar. “Do you believe it, Zawar?”

  The second vizier shook his head. “I might have seen him at the court, Qilal.”

  Palvar offered a deep bow. “As I was saying, I’m here to offer my services. Are we really in a position to turn down any offers of help”—he straightened, waving a casual hand towards the city guard captains—“especially when your normal methods haven't worked so far?”

  “Watch your tongue, courtier,” hissed Captain Tamat. “Just because my late colleague worked with you once doesn't mean I’ll let you insult us!”

  Qilal exchanged a glance with Zawar, then threw his hands up in the air. “Oh, what does it matter! We’re no shitting closer to finding the captives.” He turned around to face the city guard captains. “Move heavens and the earth if you have to, Rabb damn you! Scour the earth, and find them before it’s too late. They’ve even got the women!”

  “Women?” asked Palvar, his heart suddenly beating quickly.

  “Aye,” said Qilal, his head dropping. “Two. A Roha Postan and an older one.”

  “Roha Postan!” said Palvar, feeling the ground move underneath him. Suddenly, it was all too personal.

  Qilal raised his chin to Palvar, then muttered under his breath.

  “Has the sultan been apprised of their demands yet?” asked Captain Tamat.

  Palvar shifted his weight, his thoughts drifting. Roha had been taken as well. Why?

  Both viziers looked at each other. Then, Qilal shook his head at the captain. “That’s not your concern, Tamat. Just find them before any harm comes to any of them.”

  “Every man the city guard has is scouring the city this very moment,” said Captain Tamat, his voice sullen.

  “Indeed,” said the other city guard captain.

  “Do more!” declared Qilal. “I’d much rather we find the captives before others do.”

  Palvar cocked his head to the side, then realization dawned on him. It all made sense now why two minor viziers lorded over Captain Tamat here. The other viziers must be doing the same, asserting themselves on high-ranking officials of the city guard, each hoping to bask in the glory should they be the ones to rescue the captives.

  “The Sultan’s Body has lent us their knights as well,” said Captain Tamat. “Rabb willing, it’s only a matter of time before we catch these bastards.”

  The viziers shook their heads. “Why are you not searching every dark alley of this huge city instead of wasting time here, Captain?”

  “Because you demanded my presence here, instead of letting me supervise my men,” replied Captain Tamat hotly.

  The viziers frowned, then turned around and began whispering. They were terrified, Palvar could tell. Of all the places in the world, one would have expected to be securest in Algaria. That was no longer the case. A month ago, the sultan had been targeted at the two-hundredth anniversary of the Istani Sultanate, and now a dozen of his family members had been brazenly captured from the grand vizier’s house. Roha was one of them!

  “This shit isn’t supposed to happen,” Palvar said through gritted teeth. “In Nikhtun, maybe. Not here, though!” He raised his chin. “You mentioned demands. What do they want?”

  The viziers looked at each other. Captain Tamat took in a long breath, almost as if buying time for the viziers to stop him. When neither Zawar nor Qilal said anything, he nodded. “They want… fourteen magi to be freed of inquisitors in return for the captives.”

  Palvar’s jaw dropped. “Fourteen magi! Fourteen? Wait, is it even possible for a magus to be freed from an inquisitor? I thought they were bonded for life.” Palvar raised his hand. “What would these magi be expected to do when freed?”

  “None of this matters, for we’ll find the captives before that,” said Qilal, staring at Captain Tamat. “Won’t we?”

  “Sure,” muttered Palvar, events of last night running through his mind one more. He saw Roha smiling, and shook his head to clear the vision. He turned to Captain Tamat. “What happened to the wounded?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Qilal.

  “Some of the attackers got hurt,” said Palvar, his voice rising with excitement. “Surely, we can interrogate—”

  “They left none behind,” said Captain Tamat. “By the time the city guard resumed control, they were gone. All of them.”

  “Ah,” said Palvar, his enthusiasm fading. “Feels like they knew exactly what to expect. Almost as if… as if someone had been guiding them personally.”

  Captain Tamat raised his hand. “Palvar, go home. T
his is not something where you’ll strike lucky a second time.”

  Palvar chuckled, waving away the captain’s concern. “I’m here to offer any and all assistance to the sultanate. After all, that’s what my ameer expects of me.” Captain Tamat continued to shake his head. Palvar leaned forward. “When there is fire, one accepts every drop of water, even if carried by humble birds.” He forced a grin, gritting his teeth to distract himself from the dull pain in his temples. “Not that I’m saying I’m as useless as a bird.”

  Captain Tamat stood to attention as someone marched into the room.

  “Throw this Nikhtuni out of here!” said a familiar curt voice.

  Chapter Four

  Palvar wheeled around. “Inquisitor Fan!”

  The inquisitor glowered at him. He was a short man, which made his bulbous nose appear even larger. Then again, what really set him apart from others was his gray turban, that of an inquisitor of the Kalb, a man responsible for overseeing magi. “You have no business here, courtier.”

  Palvar licked his lips. Two other inquisitors accompanied Inquisitor Fan: a tall, thin man, his beard unkempt and eyes that continued to flit about, and a woman in her late sixties, her eyebrows threadbare, her gaze sharp. They all stared at him, three inquisitors of the Kalb. The world had grown quiet, even the hubbub outside fading away. A part of Palvar wished the earth would swallow him whole, for no mortal man was meant to meet the eyes of three inquisitors.

  “Sahib Inquisitor,” said Captain Tamat. “We weren’t expecting you.”

  Palvar forced a smile. For all his bravado, even Captain Tamat’s forehead was sweaty. Neither of the viziers seemed interested in saying anything either.

  “Leave us,” said Inquisitor Fan, his voice calm, but Palvar didn’t miss the hidden currents underneath. “I know of men like you, seeking laurels for the sake of them. Go.”