by Fuad Baloch
“At your service, my lady,” said Palvar, bowing deeply. “Always—” Someone shouted outside. Wordlessly, Palvar shot up straight and rushed back into the room.
Ignar was shouting, pinned by two guards outside the door Palvar hadn’t entered yet.
“What’s the matter?” Palvar demanded.
One of the guards slapped Ignar on the face. “He was trying to get in.”
“Can’t get past us, though, sahib,” replied the other.
Palvar blew out his cheeks. He was beyond mad at Ignar, but in the moment, he could feel little beyond euphoria. “By the God, I’ve done it. The prisoners are free.” He shook his head in disbelief, a part of him wondering if he was in a dream. “And we’ve even caught the man behind it all! Truly, Rabb can be most surprising in his ways.” He nodded. “Now, let’s find out the identity of the man whose name will be cursed for all time to come.”
Palvar entered the room.
It was small, the far wall caved in. Beside it, bathed by two torches, stood a tall, broad-shouldered hooded figure in bright red robes.
“Master of the Sewers,” said Palvar, offering an elaborate bow. “It appears we have intruded on your domain.”
“Let me go,” said the hooded figure, his voice low and authoritative.
“Alas, I must insist on offering our hospitality. We were your guests. Now you must be ours.”
“Stop struggling or I’ll smash your teeth in,” one of the guards restraining Ignar yelled outside.
“Oh, bring him in,” said Palvar, rubbing his hands in glee. “Let him witness the grand fate of his master.”
The guards dragged in Ignar, squirming and muttering, unable to break free.
“My poor boy,” said the master. Ignar looked up, all fight draining from his body. “It was good while it lasted, huh?”
Palvar arched an eyebrow in surprise, then shrugged. “Did I mention how much I hate veils? Even more when a man dons it!”
The hooded figure raised his hand. “Courtier from Nikhtun, let me go.”
Palvar blinked. “How long are you going to keep up this facade, Captain Tamat?” The guards behind Palvar gasped and he smiled triumphantly. “You’re done now. Finished. Your long line of crimes at an end!”
“Send them away and we will talk,” said the master.
“You’ve no honor, maiming women and killing boys!” Palvar growled. “You deserve nothing from me.”
Then, Palvar sauntered over and yanked the mask.
He blinked. The guards cried out in shock.
Prince Hatan, second son of the Sultan of Istan, glared back at them.
“You?” said Palvar, squinting, not believing his own eyes.
“All this?” said Prince Hatan, waving a regal hand. “None of this really—”
Ignar shouted behind Palvar. “The shadow commands what the shadow does. One or many, they must all eventually fade.”
Palvar turned around just in time to see Ignar lunge forward. Palvar lurched to the side, knowing he wasn't fast enough to dodge him.
Except Ignar hadn't been aiming for him.
Ignar stabbed Prince Hatan in the stomach. The sultan’s flesh and blood cried out. Ignar raised his hand and stabbed him in the throat. Prince Hatan, blood gushing from his stomach and throat, collapsed to the ground. Not yet done, Ignar raised his hand again and stabbed the prince in his right eye.
Palvar stood frozen, his jaw hanging wide open. Mere moments had passed but already the world had first been turned upside down, then broken in one violent movement.
“I do as commanded,” said Ignar, letting the dagger fall from his fingers, his face and hands and clothes all bloody. He grinned, turning to Palvar, not looking back at the prince who had now stopped moving. “Mother would be proud.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kunita couldn’t contain her grin as she glided through the city guard headquarters. She was far from the only one. Every guard she passed in the long corridors beamed at her, walking with a spring in his step. After all, it was the city guard of Algaria who had located the sultan’s family.
If a knight of the Sultan’s Body or anyone in the livery of those who served at court came in sight, neither Kunita nor the city guards smiled. Good reason for that too. The sultan’s second son was dead—an occasion that required solemnity, even if he was the very man responsible for kidnapping members of his own family. The air felt oppressive, a dense cloud weighing down heavily.
“Rabb’s greetings on you,” Kunita murmured, drawing her head veil down as two Husalmin priests emerged from a room to her left. Their faces were grave, their foreheads smeared with ash. Kunita didn’t know why they were there. Was it because they were planning funeral prayers for the two dead Istani family members? Or was it to discuss how best to mourn Prince Hatan? Had the palace even formally acknowledged the role of Prince Hatan?
Kunita exhaled, keeping her expression neutral. This wasn’t an easy time to navigate politically. A scenario that no one could have dreamed up. The sultan’s own son had kidnapped and killed his family members, all the while demanding the freedom of magi. How did one deal with that?
“What do we do now?” Pisaha, the young dancer from Qalaat, had asked her in the morning during etiquette class. The other half a dozen girls had stopped their useless chattering for once, an awful silence falling on them all as they waited for her.
What did she know? But she had smiled. “Follow the lead of those around you. Receive and amplify what you see.” They had all nodded at her false words.
Regardless, Kunita had another reason to be joyful. One she couldn’t bring herself to share with anyone.
He was alive. The idiot giraffe had made it back. Not just that, he had been the one to free the Istani family members. Not that it mattered. For the crime of having kept her in the dark all this while, she was going to have to kill him herself, of course.
A part of her, thankfully an infinitesimally small one, mourned that her opportunity at finding a benefactor had ended. She didn’t care, though. A strange realization after the years she’d been trying to leave the capital and start a new life.
Kunita heard his booming voice twenty yards from the central hall, set at the end of a long corridor decked with ancient Istani emblems and standards. Smiling, she quickened her pace. The two city guards at the entrance glared at her, then deciding nothing was worth arguing about today, let her through. Kunita made for the vast windows looking out to the east.
Bathed in golden sunlight filtering through the windows, his robes immaculate and a resplendent purple, the Nikhtuni hat sitting slightly askew on his head, stood Palvar Turka, chuckling and gesticulating wildly as he talked. Two viziers sat beside him on upholstered highchairs, their faces giving away no emotion. A few feet away, two inquisitors of the Kalb loomed, arms crossed across their chests. Two city guard captains and two knights of the Sultan’s Body stood beside the inquisitors. Behind them, half a dozen richly attired merchants formed an anxious clutch as they watched Palvar, the viziers, and the inquisitors in turn.
Kunita slowed her pace.
Palvar stood in profile, occupied in a world of his own thoughts, seemingly oblivious to those around him. “—and then I raised my hand. By Rabb, the mere sight—” His eyes found her and he stopped. Grinning, he bounded over to her, merchants stepping aside. “Have you heard? No? Sit, sit. I’ll start from the beginning.”
Not caring for what others thought, Kunita smiled, and stepped in to hug Palvar. He said something, but she felt it more through his chest cavity as a series of rumbles than actually heard the words. Tears threatened to leak from her eyes. Instead, she hugged him tighter, and he hugged her back. He smelled like a man ought to, musky, earthy, his body hard against her.
“You took an enormous risk,” Kunita whispered, stepping back after what seemed like an eternity. A tear was forming in the corner of her right eye and she dabbed it away. “Two risks, in fact. First you entered the sewers despite my warning, a
nd then you re-entered without taking a full complement of the city guard.”
Palvar shrugged, still smiling. “When doing needs doing, us Nikhtuni get on with it.” He extended his arms. “Vizier Sahel, surely you agree?”
The vizier didn't say anything, his face still sullen. Kunita knew denial when she saw it. Men never could do a good job of disguising their inner demons.
Kunita patted dust off Palvar’s shoulder, self-aware now of the looks she was attracting. She leaned in, keeping her voice low. “Terrible news regarding… the man behind it all.”
“Ah, that,” said Palvar, his booming voice too loud. “That was the biggest shock of my life. To imagine Prince Hatan of all people—”
“Courtier Turka!” the older of the two viziers snapped. “You’ve been ordered to keep your mouth shut.”
Palvar’s face hardened, but he shrugged again. “You can’t hide these things. There were far too many of us who saw him.”
Vizier Sahel arched his eyebrow as the merchants began murmuring. “Girl, you’re going to keep this to yourself.”
Kunita offered him a curt nod. “We, the women of the harem, know how to keep secrets. If we didn’t and took to talking, Algaria would look very different.”
Vizier Sahel’s face reddened. He wasn’t someone she had seen at the harem before, but he’d lived long enough to know precisely what she had meant.
“However, I do agree with Courtier Turka,” she replied, remembering to keep her voice level. “The whole city knows by now.”
“Oh, Rabb!” said Vizier Sahel, his shoulders sagging, the lines on his face growing deeper.
“Why would he do that?” she murmured, hoping, praying Palvar would have the sense to keep his voice low.
“How in the worlds would I know?” he replied.
She fell silent. The room had broken out into a buzz of whispers and mutterings. It was almost as if she had torn down an unseen dam and the men were suddenly free to talk. Well, except for the inquisitors and the viziers.
One of the merchants, a plump man in expensive silks, walked up to them and offered Palvar a deep bow. “The whole of Istan has fallen in your debt, honorable man from Nikhtun.”
Palvar grinned and Kunita found herself swept up by his energy. “Just doing my duty, kind sahib. Nothing more than that.”
“Great honors await you,” continued the merchant, pointing at the viziers with his round chin. “Your star arises, sahib.” He turned around, pointing at the other merchants. “Don't forget us when you are the brightest object in the night sky. Even then, especially then, know that it helps to have friends.”
“Indeed,” offered Palvar graciously. He caught Kunita’s surprised face and winked. Then he pouted. “I wonder when the sultan will call me.”
“Soon, sahib,” said the merchant. “First… I guess… we have to suitably mourn the crown prince.”
Vizier Sahel’s features hardened, but when he didn’t say anything, the conversations grew louder.
Kunita adjusted her veil. She and Palvar were as alike as sand and the mountains, but they did have one thing in common. Curiosity. She exhaled, then looked up at Vizier Sahel. “I can’t stop myself from wondering why the prince would do this?”
The vizier bit on his lower lip. One by one, others looked up. Even the inquisitors watched the vizier. At first, the vizier tried to maintain his hard veneer, but then his features crumpled. “He… he was always a precocious child, our Prince Hatan.” He rubbed his neck. “A force of nature that couldn’t sit still for long, but… being second son of the world’s most powerful man isn’t easy.”
“Not easy at all,” agreed the second vizier. “It imposes limits.”
“Jealousy for not being first-born?” offered the fat merchant. A few gasps went up at that. Few, but still more than she’d have expected.
“No,” said Vizier Sahel flatly. “The prince…” He shook his head. “He was a great patron of the arts. Loved theater and drama, especially the old tragedies from Kur’sh and Xin.” He ground his teeth. “I can’t believe what brought that on.”
“Perhaps it was boredom?” Kunita suggested. “I’ve… known people like that, those who have everything but remain restless.”
“Bored enough to kill his own family?” said someone behind her. He chuckled, and a few nervous laughs rose.
“Does it matter?” said one of the city guard captains brusquely. “The case is closed. The family members of the honorable sultan have been found. One of the culprits has been apprehended, another dead. This need not be talked of anymore.”
“There’s a third who escaped,” said one of the inquisitors, his whiskers white as bleached sand.
“He’ll be found, the one they called Salv,” said the captain. “The sultan’s justice shall be carried out.”
The inquisitor smirked and waved a hand at Palvar. “The city guard will do it? Listening to this one tell his tale, your men had to be practically forced to enter the sewers.”
“Sahibs and sahibas,” said Palvar, stepping in between the irate city guard captain and the inquisitors. “We are not here to debate rewards or fight over accolades.” He coughed, affecting a statesman-like demeanor. “We all did what we did, under noblest of intentions. As the priests would say, that’s all that matters in the eye of Rabb.” Kunita couldn’t stop herself from grinning. Whatever Palvar’s talents were, he’d never find a job as an actor.
The merchants smiled uneasily. Kunita knew why. In Algaria, fortunes rose and fell faster than the monthly sandstorms. Palvar didn’t know that, though, a lone mongoose falling into a nest of vipers. Good for him that she was there to guide him through it all.
Palvar grinned. “Where were we, then?” He stood straighter. “We, the Istani people, are a resourceful one. When the times get tough, we get going…”
Kunita crossed her arms, her eyes watching Palvar even as her thoughts drifted.
The Istani family members had been found and the great threat had been neutralized. The Peacock Throne’s foundations had been shaken by the great storm, but it still stood, as permanent as the grand walls of Algaria.
But her chest was tight, her insides still queasy.
Why?
She looked up at the inquisitors. Roshan and Captain Tamat were two men who had surfaced safely even when Palvar hadn’t. She didn’t care much for the captain, but why had the magus not been captured by Prince Hatan? Was that why the inquisitors remained here? Not to celebrate the end of the investigation, but to stop another from starting?
She’d heard more from Jaled—facts she’d have to confirm with Palvar alone where he wouldn’t feel the need to embellish much. By all accounts, it seemed the Istani family members had been guarded by just three men. Why?
“—the grand vizier’s ball will be grand,” Palvar was saying. He smiled broadly. “All the rescued Istani family members will be there. You, all of you, must attend!”
“Of course, sahib,” said the plump merchant smiling sweetly.
Kunita shook her head. She was overthinking things for no reason. Exhaling, she forced her muscles to relax.
“Everyone will be there,” continued Palvar, with a wide smile. “Everyone.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Palvar floated through Algaria bathed in velvety darkness.
Overnight, the streets of the capital had transformed. Everything had changed. No matter where he went now, even the busiest streets parted for him, a sea of well-wishers shouting felicitations and prayers as he walked past. He’d heard of the Algarian propensity for gossip, but the speed at which the tale of the Nikhtuni champion—himself—had spread had surprised even him. Not that he complained much.
He hummed to himself as he skipped into the Silk Quarter. The night was dark, the moons and the stars hidden under the cover of thick clouds that had kept most of the day overcast. A dog barked in the distance and panic rose through him in a rush. Two days had passed since his triumph, but still a part of him continued to thin
k he was dreaming, that any moment he’d wake up to find himself back in his prison cell, Ignar grinning over him.
“Ignar is in custody,” Palvar told himself, pulling the hood forward as two merchants passed him, discussing some trade deal. Right now, he didn’t want to be recognized. One of the merchants looked up, but Palvar ignored him, keeping his gaze downcast. “The Dark Master is dead. It’s over.”
Palvar exhaled, not wanting to be drawn in. The Dark Master was the euphemistic name Algaria had coined to refer to Prince Hatan. Palvar had concerns of his own tonight, though, ones that had nothing to do with monsters like Ignar or the bureaucrats plaguing Algaria or the prince who had shocked the nation or even Kunita’s vague misgivings. A simpler yet infinitely complex reason had him tied up in knots: beauty.
“My pomegranate, I’m almost there,” Palvar murmured, pulling his shoulders back and casting his gaze about. Three mercantile districts separated the Silk Quarter from the Shahi Qilla, but the mansions here were just as magnificent as any in Istan. Sprawling estate houses with actual green lawns and liveried servants, uniformed soldiers stationed outside massive gates, winding walls covered by manicured creepers and cursive calligraphy, wide cobbled streets swept perfectly clean and lit by polished brass torches at regular intervals.
He wasn’t there to admire the scenery, though.
Palvar stopped under a lamp to take stock of where he was. “Cross into the Quarter, continue for three hundred yards and stop at the park,” he recited the instructions he’d learned by heart, looking around. An oasis of greenery and swaying trees sat on his right, a few couples walking through winding pathways under the golden light of torches. “Almost there.”
Taking in a deep lungful of the crisp night air, he approached the line of houses to his left. “There,” he muttered, looking up at the third house, a stately manor set behind tall gates.
“Halt,” said a guard as Palvar approached the gates. “Identity yourself!”
