by Fuad Baloch
Ahead, the sound of boots smacking into the flagstones drew Palvar up. He smiled.
His face covered by the long shawl, the ambassador was heading out once more.
“Not losing you this time,” Palvar swore, his eyes not leaving the hooded figure.
Like yesterday, the ambassador kept his head low and walked out of the embassy, taking the same route. Palvar followed, this time ensuring the distance between them never grew more than fifty yards.
Like the day before, they went through winding alleyways, congested and hardly suitable for an ambassador. When they crossed into the plaza where Palvar had previously lost Ambassador Agusti Danfurd, he judiciously shoved anyone who dared step in front of him, not caring for their vociferous complaints. The disgruntled grumbled but Palvar didn’t care. They didn’t know who he was—after all, he’d dressed as a commoner—but even if they’d have wanted to pick a fight, his bulk most probably deterred them.
The plaza he emerged into teemed with protesters. This time, though, Palvar didn’t let his attention waver, even as his ears picked up snippets of annoying and distracting conversation.
“—the inquisitors have had it easy far too long!” a saffron-clad priest was intoning to a crowd of onlookers. “They must follow the mission of the gods and nothing more.”
“They must,” agreed a Husalmin priest standing beside him. Palvar blinked, glancing over at the two priests, his resolve to ignore everything wavering for a bit. When was the last time holy men of the two opposing faiths ever agreed on anything? Blood and onions, if given the chance, they’d argue over names for the twelve months of the year for a decade.
“Keep focused,” Palvar told himself, rushing to keep up with the ambassador. Danfurd slipped into a winding alley to the left. Moments later, Palvar entered as well. Unlike the hubbub in the plaza behind them, the alley was quiet, deserted, the contrast almost startling. Worse, Palvar could see its exit walled off some fifty yards ahead.
Palvar looked around, keen to find a hiding spot should the ambassador glance over his shoulder. Luckily for him, Danfurd rapped his fingers on a dull brass knocker outside a shabby-looking double-story house, its walls shared with houses just as ragged. Then he opened the door and went through.
“Hmm,” muttered Palvar, crossing his arms across his chest. If this was indeed the place where the Istani captives had been housed, it sure didn't make a lot of sense. The street was quiet now, but surely this close to the central plaza there was always the off chance of someone coming within earshot and hearing cries of the captives. “Don’t overthink!” Palvar declared solemnly.
Taking in a long breath, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the curved Nikhtuni dagger. The steel was sharp—something he’d made sure of in the morning—and the cool metal felt reassuring against his skin.
“Go in quietly, take a look, then come back and tell the city guard,” he reminded himself. “No time for heroics!”
He stood his ground for a while, though, his body tense, expecting the worst in case he’d been seen. If so, any moment, armed men would burst through the house, rushing at him.
No one came. Behind him, protesters continued to shout and bay for all magi to be executed, for the inquisitors to follow the ancient Istani laws. Despite everything, Palvar scoffed. If he didn’t understand the complex dynamics between inquisitors and the magi, and how the Kalb reported to the sultanate, what chance did the masses have? Strange they even argued for these reforms—not what one expected from simpletons.
Palvar stretched his fingers. It was time.
He advanced, debating whether to drop to a low crouch to ensure he couldn't be seen, or stand tall to have the right balance for striking immediately at the first sign of danger.
An open gutter ran along the house, the air stinking of shit and urine. Even as Palvar grumbled, excitement built up within his chest. He was definitely in the right place, the den of horrors where the beautiful Roha had lost her finger, the jovial Marjit Lastan his head.
Palvar scanned the alley once more as he stood beside the brass knocker, his heart thudding violently against his ribs. The street was quiet, not even a stray dog in sight. Calmness had always worried Palvar. Being brought up on the rocky plateaus of Nikhtun had taught him to expect dips and rises, ebbs and flows, anything but flat plains.
“Get it done with!”
Tightening his grip over the dagger, Palvar tried the door handle. It turned with the faintest of whines. Palvar waited. No one called out. A long tense breath later, dropping to a crouch, he peered through the narrow opening. The room beyond was dark. If there were windows, either the curtains had been drawn, or they had been boarded shut.
Just the thing a criminal would do.
Blood coursing through his veins, his fingers crushing the dagger’s hilt, Palvar pushed the door gently with the toe of his left boot, then entered the room. The house reeked of rot, the air thick with dust. Suppressing the urge to cough, Palvar blinked in quick succession to acclimate his eyes.
Faint voices came from the left.
Palvar froze, leaning toward the noise. A dark corridor ran to the back of the house, leading to two shut doors.
“This is it,” he murmured.
Before the more rational, fearful side of him could take charge, Palvar inched forward.
A woman screamed out, the sound cutting through the quiet in an instant.
“Roha!” Palvar said through gritted teeth, forcing himself to not act rashly. “I’m here! I’m coming!”
A man grunted, followed by the harsh sound of flesh smacking flesh.
All thoughts of careful scouting went flying out Palvar’s mind. “I’ll kill you!” he yelled as he dashed ahead. The woman shouted again, accompanied by the man’s as well now.
Palvar smashed into the first door. The old wood groaned, cracked, but held.
“Farts and shits on your shroud, Danfurd.” Palvar took a couple of strides back, his shoulder hurting like hell, then sprinted forward. This time the door shattered, wooden chips flying outward. The impact made Palvar lose his balance and he fell onto the splinters.
Raising his dagger, yelling at the top of his lungs, Palvar struggled up to his feet.
In the dimly lit room, Ambassador Agusti Danfurd stood stark naked, his limp manhood half-covered by one hand, the other pulling in an equally naked whimpering girl against his chest.
“Stay back!” the ambassador shouted, raising his other hand. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m going to have you quartered, you bastard!”
“W-what…” Palvar croaked, his mind unable to process what he was seeing. “Son of a shitting bat, what’s all this?”
The ambassador squinted as if trying to see his face through the dust his entrance had kicked up. “Palvar? Palvar?”
Palvar held up a hand. “Look, there might have been—”
Ambassador Agusti Danfurd of the Reratish Kingdom stepped forward, his dick swaying under his rotund belly. The sniveling girl wailed, then collapsed to her feet, her long hair spilling out in front of her perky breasts. “You’re dead meat!”
Palvar waved his hand, then realizing it held the dagger, drew it back. “I can explain this… this misunderstanding. I can, Ambassador.”
“Agusti!” cried out the girl. The ambassador turned his head. “He knows!”
“He… knows,” Danfurd repeated slowly, his face crumpling.
“Know what?” asked Palvar. Something glinted on the wall to the left. Palvar turned his head. The Seven Seals of Heaven—instructions for married life and dealing with families from the Husalmin faith’s holy book—sat carved into a handsome block of polished wood that would have cost a small fortune for a family in this part of the city.
“Palvar…” Danfurd said, his fingers twitching. “You must not tell anyone what you saw here.”
Palvar began shaking his head when he finally realized what was happening. “You’re having an affair with a Husalmin girl, while your wife, the Reratish
king’s cousin, is back home!”
“Oh, Agusti,” blubbered the young girl. “He knows!”
Palvar turned his back to the naked girl, shaken to the core, and glared at the ambassador. “Where’s your honor, Agusti? This is not the way of our peoples!”
“Palvar,” said Danfurd, his voice quivering, his voice rising an octave. “For the sake of all that’s holy, keep this to yourself. If this news leaks—”
“Your king will skin you alive.”
“No!” shouted the girl.
Palvar stood still for long breaths, reeling with what he’d discovered. All this time, all this while, he’d been pursuing this!
“I love her,” Danfurd said. “I do!” He waved a hand towards the girl. “I return home in three weeks, where I’ve sworn to end things with my wife. Let me announce it with honor, man from Nikhtun. I swear to do it the right way.”
Palvar pursed his lips, the adrenaline fading away, leaving queasiness in the pit of his stomach. “I—”
The ambassador struggled to blink back tears. “For the sake of all that’s holy!”
Palvar clicked his tongue. “Danfurd, you do know that us men of Nikhtun never cut a deal for free. That’s not honorable.”
“Name your price!”
Palvar glared. “I’m no pimp.” Weariness creeping into his bones, Palvar started for the shattered door. “You do owe me, though, Ambassador. One of these days, I might call in a favor.”
“Oh, thank you!” the girl cried. “Rabb bless you!”
Palvar paused at the door, his eyes drawn by the holy words on the wall. “Next time you do your unholy business, at least have the courtesy to cover this up.”
Chapter Thirteen
Palvar yawned, his eyelashes dropping shut as the elderly finance vizier continued on droning.
“For decades, it’s been done this particular way. In fact, I still remember my father, blessed be his memory…” the vizier continued, his voice bouncing off against the vaulted domed ceiling.
Feeling drool gather at the corner of his mouth, Palvar slapped his cheek, and sat upright. Luckily, neither of the dozen inquisitors or viziers were watching him at the far end of the long rectangular table, their shadows dancing as the torches flickered behind them. At the other end, the somber figures of Prince Hatan and Lud Ghiani listened intently. Glad for the dark of night pouring through the vast open windows, Palvar wiped his mouth clean.
In all honestly, he’d have very much liked to collapse in bed and forget the past two days. He had lost Roha’s trail, and far from doing anything positive, only wasted time. Better to fall into oblivion, walk away from this mess entirely. But the grand vizier’s messenger had been standing outside his quarters when he’d returned after uncovering the ambassador’s tryst. “Your presence is required at the summit of inquisitors and viziers,” the messenger had said.
“Me?” Palvar had asked, his eyes widening. “At the summit of viziers and inquisitors?”
“Aye.”
“Why me?”
The messenger had shot him a condescending look. “No minor courtiers have been invited. Count your blessings and hurry.”
“But… why me?”
The messenger hadn’t replied. When he had arrived at the ancient Mezquita Temple, the sight of Prince Hatan and Lud Ghiani leading the grim council had shocked him as much as the sight of viziers and inquisitors seated across a table, participating in a momentous discussion that would change the face of the realm. Inquisitors had always remained answerable only to the sultan. The viziers wanted to change that. Despite the tensions between the groups, the presence of the two noble sons of the realm kept things largely civil.
Palvar found his attention fading with each breath, though. Again, in the eye of his mind, he saw the ambassador. “A fool with a hard-on,” Palvar muttered. “That’s what I was chasing all along.”
“Shh,” said a young vizier to his left. Across him, Inquisitor Khatani smirked at them both.
Palvar opened his jaw to argue, then shut it. He was too tired, unable to fend off the gentle waves of slumber washing over him as the ancient finance minister continued his monologue. An unfamiliar hard-faced inquisitor sitting beside Inquisitor Khatani glared at him. Normally, Palvar would have watched his demeanor around these powerful figures, but after the past few days, he was past caring, and so let his shoulders sag some more.
Two servants bearing hot cups of tea walked past. Palvar raised his hand, nodding when a swirling cup was placed in front of him. He raised his chin. Prince Hatan was known for his boisterous laughter, but now, despite being decked in a bright purple robe, he watched quietly. Beside him, the grand vizier’s son, attired in his usual dark robes, looked more a portrait of some ancient philosopher than a real person. Palvar shook his head, his eyes returning to the inquisitors. Inquisitors Fan and Casan, seated left of Inquisitor Khatani, continued to look at their hands clasped in front. Neither of them had looked at him once since he’d arrived at the summit.
“Summit?” Palvar muttered, sipping his tea. “More like listening to a rant about the good old days.” He made a face. “Everything used to be better when the old were young.” Again, the annoying vizier beside him frowned at him, and Palvar raised a placating hand.
“—there are magi who can kill anyone just by thinking about it,” said the finance vizier with a sudden flourish, jabbing his finger at the inquisitors to his right. “We can’t have that!”
“Not quite how it works,” said Inquisitor Fan, rubbing his nose, his eyes still downcast.
“Then there are those who can suck the skies clear of their blue, drain the sun of its heat,” continued the vizier. Inquisitor Fan grunted but kept quiet. “We must ensure they are well governed, well regulated. The Kalb must—”
“We’ve not had cause for concern over decades,” said Inquisitor Fan.
“Really? What about the rogue magus at the Grand Celebration?” said the vizier triumphantly. Palvar blinked at that. He noticed Prince Hatan lean back in his chair, his brows furrowing.
Inquisitor Fan pursed his lips as the other inquisitors shared anxious glances. “An unsubstantiated rumor, that’s all.”
“How are the artifacts being guarded?” asked the vizier. “There are many of us who fear—”
Inquisitor Fan raised his chin, turning his iron gaze to the vizier. “The magi are not to be fretted over. Definitely not at a time like this.” He crossed his arms, offering a terse bow of the head to Prince Hatan. “Frankly, I don’t see why we are even talking. We, all of us, should be out there seeking the captors, instead of wasting our time.”
“That’s a fair point,” conceded Lud Ghiani. He shook his head, his face pale. The prince nodded sympathetically.
The finance vizier cleared his throat, his eyes returning to the inquisitors from the prince. “Sahib Inquisitor, we are in this situation because the captors want your magi free. Pray, tell us, what would they do with them? Knowing their motives can help us identify them.”
“You want to know what they want? Ask them!” said Inquisitor Fan sullenly. Inquisitor Khatani bobbed her head at that, muttering something under her breath.
Palvar rubbed his hands, his interest piquing. Even if he was tired, a good debate never failed to rouse his spirits.
The vizier turned back to the prince. A long moment of pregnant tension passed. Then, the prince nodded.
Clearing his throat, the vizier raised his hand. “Sahib Inquisitor, we must explore all options in the short term, no matter how painful or… erm… indelicate. If we were to agree to their demands, we must know what we’d be facing.”
“We cannot meet those demands,” replied Inquisitor Fan, his voice calm but beginning to shake.
“Indeed,” said Inquisitor Casan. “Besides, we’ve got ways of dealing with issues like this. My magus Roshan can be used to—”
Inquisitor Fan thumped the table. Prince Hatan glowered, Lud Ghiani’s hand settling atop his broad shoulder. The inquis
itors, all half a dozen of them, were restless now. Inquisitor Khatani’s mumbling was more audible, the occasional curse word rising over the grumblings of the others. Inquisitor Fan turned his steely eyes to the prince—who remained uncharacteristically quiet—before turning back to the vizier. “Do you really not see what would happen if we accepted their demands?”
An awkward silence fell upon the room. The viziers glanced at each other, the inquisitors glaring at them. Palvar waited but the quiet stretched on, heads turning to the prince and the grand vizier’s son as if to seek their cue. Neither of them said anything.
Frustrated, Palvar tapped the rim of his cup with a fingernail. “Should their demands be met, what will happen?”
Inquisitor Fan turned towards him slowly. “End of the world, my boy. Death and doom.”
Palvar blinked. “What?”
“We, the inquisitors of the Kalb, stem the dark tide of magic from the unknowing masses. If not for us, magi, drunk on their vile power, would destroy the world in their quest for supremacy.” Inquisitor Fan chewed his lower lip. “For all that we do, we deserve more support, more respect. Certainly, not all this!”
“Indeed,” said Inquisitor Khatani.
Palvar spread his hands, feeling his stomach churning. “Then… who in their right mind would ever want these magi freed?”
“Who, indeed?” said Inquisitor Fan, his voice dropping low. “No mortal man would ever want that.”
“No mortal man…” repeated Palvar. He blinked. “You’re not suggesting some other… race is behind this? The djinn? The pari folk?”
Inquisitor Fan didn't respond. Inquisitor Khatani scoffed, staring into her steaming cup of tea. Despite the muggy night, Palvar felt a cold shiver run down his spine. “Blood and onions, what does one do in a situation like this?”
