Crescent Inquisition

by Fuad Baloch

  “Master, this is not working,” Salv said, glaring at the robed figure standing against the far wall, his pet magus a quiet shadow beside him. “We have to leave the sewers right now!”

  “My son, you’ve done well,” the master said. “Time draws close when you shall be paid in full.”

  Salv bit his lip, his resolve still in place. “If that’s the case, I shall very much like to have my liberty so I may enjoy the fruit of my labor. Staying here in the sewers is simply waiting to be caught.”

  The master leaned into the magus, who gave his head the faintest of shakes. Behind him, Salv heard Ignar start muttering once more. The master adjusted his red shawl around his broad shoulders, his crimson hood drawn low like always.

  Salv made up his mind. He couldn’t keep quiet anymore. “Master, I’ve served you well. But I loathe those who follow the caravan blindly while the sandstorm picks up strength. You tasked me to capture the Istani family members. I did so. You demanded the magi as the ransom and they sent us a magus. But instead of us capturing him, you decreed we let him go. Why?”

  The master didn’t reply.

  Salv pointed at Ignar. “He knew of the order to let the magus go, but not me!” The master didn't say anything. Salv continued, shaking his fist. “What did that gain us, all this secrecy? Instead of the magus that I believed you wanted, we ended up with a useless courtier.” He pointed at Ignar’s cracked nose. “Have a look at how that turned out!”

  “Keep patience, son,” the master said. “You shall be receiving your final set of instructions soon enough.”

  Salv arched an eyebrow. “Are you not hearing me? Our location has been compromised. By now, the city guard will be scouring the sewers. When they finally stumble into us, I don’t want to be caught shitting.”

  “You will not be found.”

  Salv crossed his arms and chuckled without mirth. “With all due respect, I wish I could draw some comfort from your words.”

  The master took a half-step forward. Not for the first time, Salv felt the urge to lean in and yank the hood away. He had done well so far, keeping the questions burning within his chest well buried. After all, he was paid to do a job instead of asking questions. But he couldn’t shake away the feeling that he somehow knew the master from before. “They continue to fight amongst themselves, the inquisitors, the viziers, the merchants, the nobility. The sultan is weak, just as they all said.” The master grew quiet for half a beat, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy, dark. “They’ve missed their deadline. Kill one of the boys and dump his body in the streets. The sultan’s men will find it.”

  “A boy?” asked Salv.

  “Choose Ilyan,” said the master. “He’s a dullard, always been so despite his height. But he is the only child of his parents and will serve well for our warning.”

  Salv licked his lips. He knew of the boy the master spoke of. “He’s only thirteen years old.”

  “Regrettable,” the master said.

  “His mother doesn’t love him. She lies. They all do,” intoned Ignar behind him, his voice high-pitched, garbled.

  Salv gritted his teeth. Regrettable, the master had said. What was truly regrettable was what Salv had become. Once a proud disillusioned general, now the butcher of women and children. Then again, he had kind of known all along what he was getting into. No one got paid that much to plant flowers. Besides, he had made a vow, and he would fulfill it. That’s what men like him did. “Very well, Master.”

  “Salv, you’re part of an epic rewriting of history,” the master said, sounding amused. “What we will accomplish together has never been done before.”

  “Of course,” Salv replied. He had never been one for sweeping sagas or tales that lived on for centuries. What good were they once those they were attributed to were dust and bones. Living, that was what mattered. That was all he cared to do well before his time came to an end.

  “Await my message,” said the master, heading to the door. The magus rushed to keep up with him. Raw sewage slapped against their robes, but neither the master nor the magus seemed to care much for it. Then again, the master’s robes were dark and simple enough that if he were to wear them outside, not many would look twice. Except for the stink that would swirl around them, of course.

  Salv stepped aside, ignoring Ignar, who laughed softly to himself.

  There was so much he didn’t understand. They had let go of the magus. Why? He craned his neck to watch Ignar. Why did the master trust him enough with the orders of letting the magus go, but not Salv?

  Salv stretched his arms. “I guess it’s no good wasting breath on matters that don’t concern one directly!”

  “Mother was a liar!”

  “Ignar,” Salv said, unable to keep the distaste out of his mouth. “Bring me the boy and sharpen my Fojoro dagger.”

  “The boy… I shall make it… fun.”

  “No,” snarled Salv. “This… I need to do myself.” He nodded. “The boy need not suffer any more than he needs to.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Palvar moaned. Something he had been doing a great deal of over the past few days.

  When had he attacked Ignar? Yesterday? Two days ago?

  A year?

  “Blood and onions.” Gritting his teeth, Palvar stood, leaning heavily against the wall, and shambled over to the refuse bucket. He didn’t look at the spot where he had scooped out the brick. Nor did he look at the body heaped against the door. A human body, draped in its finery, its dignity removed. Palvar forced himself to look at the crumbling walls instead. The entire shitting sewer system was collapsing, sinking under its own filth. Even if he found a dozen bricks, he doubted they’d have much of an impact against Ignar.

  “Ignar…” he muttered, undoing his breeches, imagining the madman’s face in the refuse bucket, and taking morbid delight in pissing at it. “You shouldn’t have left me unbound. I’m… going to kill you!”

  The words lifted his spirits some as he did up his breeches and turned around. But as he shuffled back, the pain throbbing in his jaw and ribs rose over his desire for revenge.

  “Never was pretty to begin with,” Palvar said, running a hand along his bruised jaw, and wincing, “and now I doubt even I’d like seeing my own face.”

  He brushed his robes, all dirty and tattered, cringing at the grimy texture against his fingers. These were his favorite robes, something he had picked out personally from Buzdar before setting out for the capital city. They had cost him a small fortune. Now, even a beggar would spit at them.

  Palvar rubbed his hands over his face. What blood and sweat and spit had landed on his face had long dried up, but he couldn’t help imagining it against his skin. He had tried washing it off—using what little water Ignar, mumbling and distracted, had brought in yesterday—but still his mind thought himself as filthy.

  His eyes drifted up towards the door. “Don’t look!” he told himself firmly. His eyes dropped, taking in the body that Ignar had hauled in along with the tray of stale bread and soup.

  A tall boy’s crumpled body, his face turned the other way thankfully.

  Palvar pressed his palms together. Was he in anyway responsible for what had happened to the boy? No, he decided. He had done the right thing all along and his intentions had remained noble. Wincing, he touched his tender jaw. Had he not paid the price himself as well?

  Not as much as this boy.

  The sob that escaped his chest surprised him. Nikhtuni men were proud, mountains no emotion could move, but the combination of pain and shame and regret managed to draw another whimper from him. Palvar blinked hard, resolved not to let weakness take over.

  Again, his gaze found the dead boy.

  Ignar had just dumped the body. Palvar clenched his fists. That beast had no respect for the dignity of the dead. Or the living, for that matter. Then, the infernal question rose once more. Who was that boy, anyway?

  Unable to sate his curiosity any longer, Palvar inched forward. Flies buzzed ove
r the corpse now, and it was acquiring a stench of its own. Clamping his nose shut, Palvar grabbed the dead boy’s shoulder and rolled him over.

  “Too young!” he muttered, shaking his head. The boy’s throat had been slashed neatly, his eyes closed after the fact. At least it looked like a clean death.

  Palvar’s hand trembled. He’d seen death before, been on the giving side a few times as well. In the west, even women took up arms when the need rose, so the idea of a boy slain before his time didn't shock him as much. It was more the fear he still didn't know what the captors wanted.

  All he had seen so far was Ignar, but there were others. That Salv that the madman had mentioned, and no doubt more bastards like him.

  His knees wobbled under him, but Palvar remained steady. He couldn't remain here. There was far too much he still had to do. The boy’s fate couldn't be his as well. Gently, he retracted his arm, letting the boy’s shoulder roll back on the muddy floor.

  “Dear boy, at least your death has freed you.”

  Palvar began turning when something he’d said snagged at him. The captors meant business. They had issued warnings, and would ensure the repercussions of not meeting them were made clear. That meant the boy’s body would be cast out so the world could see and take heed.

  His breath catching, Palvar turned back to consider the boy. He was tall, almost as tall as Palvar himself. His face was bloody, just like Palvar’s. If both of them were to lay still, from a distance it wouldn’t be easy to tell the two apart.

  “Forgive me, boy.” Palvar crossed over to the door and peeked through the bars. Then, he rushed back to the boy and began stripping his clothes off. “A thousand apologies, but this needs to be done.” Down to his inner garments, he heaved a sigh, then began undressing the boy. In the relative cool of the underground sewers, the corpse had turned cold, the skin turning blue and blotchy.

  “Shitting bats of Ghulamia!” Palvar cursed. No matter his intentions, he couldn't shake away the thought of himself as a grave digger, relieving the rich of their finery after their souls had departed. He was better than them, though. It wasn’t like the boy had already been put in the ground.

  “Argh!” Palvar closed his eyes as he put on the boy’s bloody robes. Next, he rolled the boy to his side and began dressing him in his own robes. That done, Palvar grabbed the body by the elbows and positioned it away from the refuse bucket against the far wall.

  Panting, Palvar stood and examined the boy one final time. He had been right. Dressed in Palvar’s clothes, the Istani boy could easily pass for him.

  Except for one minor detail.

  Cursing, Palvar leaned in and brushed his finger over the terrible wound in the boy’s neck. The cold flesh under his fingers weakened Palvar’s bowels. Offering a silent prayer, he inserted his fingers deep into the gash, then before he’d have a chance to reconsider, smeared the bloody fingers over his own throat. Not enough. He bent again, wet his fingers, and painted his own flesh once more.

  His stomach churned. Before he could stop himself, the contents of his stomach came up and he vomited all over the dead boy dressed in his clothes.

  “A thousand… thousand apologies!” A tear trickled down his cheek as Palvar turned the boy to face the wall.

  If his luck held, Ignar wouldn't bother turning him over.

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Palvar scooted back to the door. “Damn you all!” he cursed.

  Then, slapping himself as another tear dared leak from his eyes, he lay on the ground just as the Istani boy had been, and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There were moments that stayed with one for a lifetime.

  This was one of them.

  Palvar lay perfectly still as Ignar sang, wheeling the cart through the sewers, his voice echoing against the damp walls.

  “The shadows fuel the shadows,” Ignar sang, slapping the wall with one hand. “And she cries out for more.” He broke into laughter, giving the cart a violent jolt.

  Palvar almost cried out, his instinct calling him to extend a hand and steady his fall. He didn't twitch a muscle, though, forcing himself to lay frozen. He was dead, after all.

  Ignar turned the cart left, then took a tunnel to the right. Palvar, his head lolling forward, cracked open an eyelid. Was it just him or was the ground not as damp anymore?

  “I am the fly that floats over the clouds,” cried Ignar. “The dark. The night. The morning. And when the time comes—” The cart came to a sudden stop. Then the air rang out with the sound of flesh smacking flesh. “Mother wouldn't be happy. Not happy at all.” He broke into a whimper, then a moment later, began wheeling the cart again.

  Palvar heaved a sigh, the jerking movement almost lulling him to sleep. No, he told himself. He had to be awake no matter how much his body hurt.

  The cart turned right.

  Left. Right. Straight for twenty breaths. Left. Left. Left.

  He would make it out. He’d escape this madman, then he’d return, this time well-prepared for what lay ahead. Thoughts swirled through his mind. What had really happened to Roshan? What was Captain Tamat doing? Conspiracies whirled about, a tangled, angry mess that Palvar told himself he’d look into later—if he made it out alive.

  Ignar broke into a babbling mess, the walls giving a ghoulish quality to his gibberish.

  The cart stopped.

  “I know who you are,” Ignar said. Palvar tensed. If he turned around quickly enough, maybe he could still take down the bastard before he attacked him. “Always did,” continued Ignar, his voice acquiring a grave tone that Palvar wouldn't have associated with him. Then he cackled. “What do I know, though? Ignar the mad. Ignar the crazy!”

  Palvar forced his fists to unclench. Ignar had only been talking to the demons resident in his mind. Or maybe he saw the djinn no one else did. Most importantly, Ignar was not talking to him.

  A draft of fresh air blew in, ruffling Palvar’s hair. He blinked, fighting the urge to look up.

  “The flesh desires the knife,” said Ignar. “Master Zalan always said so. Salv is wrong, though, so very wrong.”

  The stink continued to recede as Ignar pushed the cart up an incline. Though the torches still burned at regular intervals, light had been growing in strength for some time now. Palvar strained to contain his excitement. He had never been this passive before—even as a boy, he’d never leave his house unless someone accompanied him—but he kept still.

  “I’ll show him!” said Ignar. The cart lurched to a stop. “A knife. Mementos of the flesh. A just sacrifice.” Ignar smacked his lips. “Night. Darkness. The body will wait until then. And then, flesh for flesh.”

  Palvar fought to keep his fingers from twitching.

  “Ignar, ask or Mother will be angry.” Ignar slapped himself again. Palvar flinched. He had made a mistake in trusting Ignar wouldn't see through his ruse. Maybe he should have scooped out another brick while he had the chance.

  Ignar screamed.

  From the corner of his right eye, Palvar saw the kick coming. Before he could move away, Ignar’s foot smashed into Palvar’s shoulder. He toppled from the cart. Ignar kept shouting nonsensically, too busy slapping himself or he’d have heard Palvar’s involuntary whimper.

  “Ignar, speak to him,” the madman muttered to himself. “He’s not too far. Go to him. Tell Master Zalan. Mementos. Flesh. Mother liked it too, no matter what she said.”

  Palvar squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lower lip to keep quiet. He, a proud man of the west, had been turned into a cowering mess. Hate, hot and ferocious for what he had become, flooded through him. Palvar kept perfectly still, though. He had come this far, and he wasn't going to screw it all up now.

  “Night. Memento. Flesh.”

  Boots splashed in the mud, then began marching back. Away from him.

  Palvar waited for long breaths, expecting a trap, his heart beating like a drum. He’d open his eyes and find the maniacal dark eyes glaring at him. Then, Ignar would
laugh and this time he’d carve out chunks of flesh from Palvar even as he breathed.

  The tunnel was silent. Another draft of fresh warm air blew in.

  Palvar cracked open an eyelid. Ignar didn't stand over him. He turned his head up and craned his neck around.

  He was alone on the cart, the tunnel empty.

  Palvar took in a deep shuddering breath. He looked on straight where the fresh air was blowing from.

  Then he got off and started running.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Palvar burst out onto the street. Crumbling shopfronts sat a hundred yards ahead, and the street was deserted even though it must have been noon. “Help!” he shouted, not caring for how pathetic he must look. “City guards!”

  Palvar looked back. No figure rushed at him through the iron gate leading into the sewers. Panting, breath coming in ragged gasps now, he allowed himself to slow down to a trot. He hadn’t seen this part of Algaria before, but judging by the distant minarets of the Shahi Qilla, he was somewhere far to the north.

  “Son of a bat!” Palvar stopped, and turned around to face the sewer gate, his fists clenched. The Algarian sun shone bright overheat, his back slick with sweat, his wounds hurting underneath the dead boy’s rich silk robes. “Come on, you bastard,” Palvar grunted, not even bothering to look for a makeshift weapon. “This time, you’re going down.”

  A crow cawed overhead and wings flapped behind him. Palvar bit his lower lip. As hard as it was to believe, he had made it out alive. Then, the adrenaline began to fade and exhaustion of the past few days asserted itself. He was free, but his mission wasn’t yet done.

  He had time until sunset before Ignar returned to collect his memento.

  Enough time for Palvar to return with a nasty surprise of his own.

  Turning his back to the sewers, he began running towards the far minarets, tiredness fleeing in face of his determination.