Crescent Inquisition

by Fuad Baloch

  “You must visit our country,” said a dark-skinned man, wearing a tight-fitting robe. “Mamlikya is absolutely breathtaking in summer.”

  “Indeed, I shall, Ambassador,” replied Palvar, spotting his ring of office.

  “Nothing like the jungles of the east,” said a corpulent man, his face red as if he’d been drinking all night. He laughed, his jowls glistening with sweat. “When you do visit us, Courtier Turka, we shall go for a hunt in the forest. You’ve never seen anything quite like that.”

  “Nikhtun is quite famous for its forests as well,” he said.

  “Bah!” said the eastern noble. “What you call forests, we call well-tended gardens.”

  He laughed and Palvar joined in.

  If Algaria was the glittering crown of the world, then this place here tonight was its brightest jewel. Everyone who was anybody worthwhile was here. Palvar nodded as a waiter offered him grapes. From the corner of his eye, he saw a group of inquisitors standing under a far pillar. They weren’t usually a part of these events, but it was fitting that they too had come to pay their respect to his feat. After all, if not for him, who knew how their hold over the magi would’ve been compromised.

  “Ah, honorable Sahib Palvar Turka!”

  Palvar turned around, his smile fading. “Ambassador Danfurd.”

  The Reratish ambassador took Palvar’s hand in both of his. “I never doubted you prevailing over all odds.” He smiled. “We, the tenacious men of the west, we’re not easy to keep down for long!”

  “No,” Palvar replied, struggling to keep the image of the naked ambassador away from his mind. He looked over his shoulder, and his heartbeat picked up. “I see the ladies of the Postan clan have arrived. I must greet them.”

  “Ah, of course,” said Ambassador Danfurd. “Once again, my personal gratitude for your courage and… erm… discretion.”

  The train of well-wishers kept derailing Palvar’s attempts to thread his way through to the women’s section. He waved his hand when Roha’s mother looked up, but it seemed she didn’t spot him, turning away.

  Palvar smiled, anticipating the sweet moment when he’d get to behold the beautiful Roha once more.

  Kunita gritted her teeth as the young nobleman showed no signs of shutting up.

  “From the darkest corners of the night,” he intoned, repeating the verse she had heard a thousand times before, “I bring you the thirsty torch of myself. To bask under the shadow of your flame, ah, that’s all the heart desires forever.”

  “Aren’t you eloquent, sahib!” she said, offering him a sweet smile.

  “You so enchant my senses, sahiba,” he replied. Then, he took a long breath, his brows furrowing as if trying to remember the next verse.

  “It pains my heart, it really does,” she cut in, placing a hand over her chest. “But alas, I must leave you for the moment. My mistress is here and my company would do her good.”

  “Do you really—”

  “I shall come seek you again,” she promised, then rushed on ahead.

  Keeping her gaze down, she headed for the relative quiet of the spot under the magnificent staircase that spiraled up to the higher levels of the grand vizier’s mansion. She had not been here before, but the sheer opulence of the hall was breathtaking. Qad Ghiani was an austere man by all accounts, but it seems even he was forced to keep up appearances.

  “—the schools must be formed! The time has arrived.”

  Kunita slowed down. Three inquisitors of the Kalb stood under an arch, their backs turned to her.

  “We will not get another opportunity like this again,” one of them said.

  “If that happens,” said the first voice she had heard. “Kalb’s hands will be tied forever.”

  “We cannot ignore the fundamental truths anymore,” insisted the first voice. “Not all magi are the same. Not all inquisitors are the same. Do we really want the threat of rogue magi and rogue—”

  “Shush!” The inquisitor in the middle raised his bushy eyebrows at her.

  Offering them a curtsey, Kunita continued onward, a pit forming in her stomach.

  Grabbing a dark spot, thankful for the modest gray peshwaz she had chosen to wear and not something garish and bright, she looked around. To one unversed in the way of things, the hall would resemble a busy bazaar, lacking any semblance of order or discipline. But the more she observed, the easier it became for her to draw patterns. Like centers of power, the crowd moved in circles around those currently in favor. The grand vizier wasn’t there in person yet, but there were other circles alright. The viziers of war and finance had the largest number of sycophants vying for their attention.

  And then there was Palvar Turka.

  Kunita smiled. He was impossible to miss, really. Larger than most, loud and brash, towering over most men and their elaborate turbans, a genuine grin plastered on his face. She ignored the complex clutch of emotions that rose at his sight. He was a man with every right to happiness the way he desired.

  A group of young merchants drifted in, thankfully diverting her. Two of them smiled at her, then continued their chattering as if she wasn’t there. Something Kunita was well used to. Men only ever saw her when they needed to.

  “Father has been hearing the same grumblings,” said one of the young merchants. His robes were deep blue and he wore a heavy shawl with hues of gold and green and purple, reminding Kunita of a peacock strutting about.

  “That’s not good for business,” said the one standing beside him. “There is a rumor that the revolutionaries are gathering forces in the northernmost provinces.”

  Kunita leaned in, struggling to hear them over the music.

  The third one cleared his throat. “My father reported there are already uprisings.”

  “Shush!” said the first, looking around, his eyes going straight past her. “Anyone hears us talking, we’ll lose our hides.”

  “Prince Hatan was the Dark Master! I still can’t believe it!” said the second, appearing undeterred. “What in camel-shit kebabs was he thinking?”

  Kunita exhaled. Of course they knew of the prince’s role. Everyone did, even if no one talked about it openly in the upper echelons of Istan. It was if an eclipse had covered the sun but no one wanted to acknowledge it, going about their daily lives, ignoring the darkness that had settled in. Underneath the willful ignorance, though, she’d picked up on another undercurrent. The almighty sultan’s image had been tarnished, and that fact hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  “Bah,” said the second of them. Then as if reading her thoughts, he continued, “End of the day, nothing changes in Istan as per my father. A sultan dies, another takes his place, he says. Nothing has changed.”

  A group of minor courtiers drifted in and the merchant sons turned their conversation to the weeklong holiday coming up for the Husalmin new year.

  Kunita stayed where she was, her attention diverted. By the stairs, someone important had just arrived, attracting commotion. She stood on her tiptoes. Both of the grand vizier’s sons, flanked by servants, stood at the staircase. The elder son was just as gaunt as she’d remembered, spitting image of his austere father. The younger son nodded at one of the servants, his rich black silk robes trailing behind him as he descended. Captain Tamat accompanied them, handsome and resplendent in his polished armor. Her lips pursed. There was one man she’d openly blamed for planning Palvar’s capture, now totally in the clear.

  Kunita inhaled. If the sons had arrived, the grand vizier wouldn't be too far behind.

  Palvar laughed, then offered a short bow. “You humble me, Ambassador.”

  The heavily tanned ambassador of the Empire of Xin, whose name was far too hard for Palvar to remember and even harder to pronounce, smiled, pulling at his thin, wispy beard. “Our emperor would be delighted to host you whenever you set sail for our shores.”

  “Courtier Turka,” said a man wearing the Nikhtuni ship-like hat. “May I have a word?”

  “Pray, do,” said the Xin ambassador. “D
on’t mind me. Pretend I’m not even here.”

  “I carry word from the ameer of Nikhtun himself,” said the newcomer, his voice so low Palvar had to strain to hear him. “Word of your deeds has given the ameer and our people great joy.”

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” said Palvar, puffing his chest. “Nothing at all. Wait, deeds?”

  “The ameer wishes for you to head back home straight away. There are good things waiting for you.”

  Palvar leaned forward and thumped the Nikhtuni on the shoulder. “I thank you, my fellow countryman. The honor is all mine.”

  The Xin ambassador chuckled. “It’s refreshing how without pretense you men of the west talk. Had it been Xin, we’d have spoken of nothing but trivialities for the first half an hour. With your countrymen, though, whatever is in the heart comes right out.”

  “The only way it should be,” replied Palvar.

  The ambassador opened his jaw, then his eyes widened. “Ah, I see someone else wishes to speak to you too, Courtier Turka.”

  Palvar turned around, then felt his breath catch. He took a hasty step forward, bowing deeply. “Grand Vizier Ghiani, a pleasure to finally see you.”

  “Of course,” replied the grand vizier. “You’re at my ball. In my house.” He coughed. “Rise.”

  Palvar did. Lud Ghiani stood a step behind his father, a thin smile on his lips. Conversations all around them stuttered away, all heads turning to them.

  “You did well, Courtier Turka,” said Lud Ghiani. Unlike his father, he beamed, even if he looked exhausted. “I personally have lost a great friend”—gasps went up at that, his father’s face hardening—“but I cannot fail to see the great honor you’ve brought us all. You’ve healed the nation, Palvar.” He raised his chin defiantly at his father. “No matter what others think, you’re a hero!”

  Palvar swallowed, unsure whether he should bow again. “It was your patronage that helped me all along, Sahib Ghiani.”

  The grand vizier cleared his throat and all other thoughts left Palvar’s mind. “I spoke with the sultan earlier in the day, young man.”

  Licking his lips, Palvar nodded foolishly.

  The grand vizier furrowed his brows, and when he spoke his voice was smooth as sand and just as emotionless. “The Keeper of the Divide wishes to pass his personal commendation to you for the great services you’ve rendered to the sultanate.”

  Palvar beamed, his fingers twitching. “I only did what any dutiful citizen would have done.” Lud Ghiani nodded appreciatively at that.

  “You’ve prevented a great tragedy,” continued the grand vizier. “And for that, as my son said rightly, you’ve placed us in your debt.”

  “I must insist that all I did…”

  Palvar trailed away as the grand vizier took a step back and bowed his head. Bowed his head to him! Palvar took in a long breath, his mind unable to process the very idea. Taking his father’s lead, Lud Ghiani bowed his head as well. The Xin ambassador dropped his chin. The messenger from Nikhtun knelt. A haunting silence fell as everyone around Palvar, the most powerful men and women of Istan, either bowed their heads or fell to their knees.

  “My lord… y-you shouldn't be doing this,” Palvar whispered.

  The grand vizier didn't respond. Palvar looked around. The musicians had fallen silent, the servants were standing still, platters of food untouched in their hands. Even the women at the other end of the room stood with their heads bowed. Palvar caught sight of Roha beside her mother, her hair tied up in a manicured bun. She looked ravishing in her green silk peshwaz, the perfection marred only slightly by her bandaged hand.

  Palvar took in a long, shuddering breath. Time itself seemed to have stopped. In a daze, he looked around. Far by the stairwell, he spotted Kunita. She was one of only two people in the hall who stood tall, looking up at him. The other person was Inquisitor Fan, his arms crossed over his chest, one hand playing with the folds of his gray turban.

  Finally, an eternity later, Grand Vizier Ghiani raised his chin. Lud Ghiani followed his lead. Men coughed and sneezed, their boots scraping on the floor, robes rustling as they rose from their kneeling positions.

  “Well done, courtier!” shouted someone in accented Nirdu.

  “Rabb’s blessings upon you and your seven generations,” cried out someone else.

  “Rabb bless the Nikhtuni!” yelled a loud voice.

  “Rabb bless the Nikhtuni!” replied a smattering of voices.

  “Enjoy the night, Courtier Turka,” said the grand vizier, turning away. “Alas, I’ve got urgent business to attend to, but I expect you to think of nothing else but the hospitality we’ve to offer.”

  “Indeed,” said Lud Ghiani. “You’ve done us all proud.”

  As the Ghianis began walking away, the musicians plucked their santoor strings once more, filling the air with sweet melodies. The ball resumed, conversations breaking out, accompanied by laughs. Palvar smiled, feeling his tight muscles unclench. The grand vizier was right. Tonight, he was the moon around which even the stars revolved.

  This was his moment, and he did intend to enjoy it to the fullest.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Salv jumped to his feet, the dagger out in his right hand as someone rapped at the door.

  He waited, swaying slightly on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce the moment the city guard burst through the door.

  Instead came the rap again, more impatient this time.

  “Who’s there?” he called out, heading for the trapdoor that led through the sewers. He knew how to chart his path to the docks from there. Once there, his hood drawn low, he’d be able to press gold coins in the hands of grubby sailors, winning him passage away from this cursed city.

  “A letter for you, sahib,” came an old man’s voice.

  “A letter?”

  “Aye.”

  Salv hesitated. Surely this was a ploy to trick him into opening the door. Ignar was going to be executed soon. Had he given the city guard hints regarding his location? “Slide it from under the door!”

  “I was promised I’d be paid.”

  “Rusted shields!” Salv swore. Keeping the dagger tight in his hand, he tiptoed over and placed his ear on the door. The streets outside bustled with the maddening noise of the Dust Quarter. He hesitated, but then again, if this was the city guard, they’d have broken into his hideout already.

  Taking in a deep breath, he yanked the door open in smooth motion, the dagger thrust ahead of him.

  “This—” The old man in wretched clothing outside gaped at the dagger. “J-just take it.” He dropped a parchment to the floor, stepping back. “I was paid to drop it. I need no more.”

  Salv leaned outside the door and looked around. Nothing out of the ordinary. Street hawkers crying out for customers. Beggars asking for alms. Animals braying. “You alone?”

  “Just let me go,” pleaded the man.

  “Wait!” Salv dug through his pockets, then threw three silver coins. “Now, run!” He stood at the door, making sure the man grabbed the coins and shuffled away before he bent and grabbed the parchment. Salv entered the room, then an instant later, ducked his head out again. No one looked up at him. No guards rushed forward.

  Salv closed the door and walked back to the worn-down table in his one-room hideout. His back was soaked with sweat and his heart thudded against his ribs. Not something he’d expected to be feeling after crossing fifty summers.

  He placed the parchment on the table. It was sealed with the sigil of an eagle. Mark of the master. Salv stared at it. The master was dead. Ignar had been captured. Was this the magus, then, who had sent this parchment? Again, he felt his stomach tying up in knots. His master had been a prince of the realm. By the gods, why had he never picked out his voice? Again came the rolling wave of disappointment: he was a pawn for the prince and never even knew why. It was one thing to be loyal and not ask questions, but he wasn’t one who liked mysteries for no good reason.

  Instead, he focused his attention on t
he parchment. “How are you writing to me from your grave?”

  The parchment didn't reply.

  Salv rushed over to the door once more and placed his ear on it. Again, he heard nothing unusual. Biting his upper lip, he walked over to the table and glared at the sealed parchment.

  Not too long ago, he’d received a scroll much in the same way, offering him a chance to earn gold before he retired to a life of peace and bucolic activities. He’d accepted it then, embarking on a thrilling adventure that had led him to unexpected places and an almost death. His heart had thudded like this back then too.

  Deciding he’d learn nothing by merely reminiscing, Salv broke the wax and unfurled the parchment.

  “Salv,

  You’ve fulfilled your duties admirably so far, going from strength to strength. The first part of your obligations has come to an end, and you have earned the right to embark on the final leg of this glorious journey. Burn the parchment once you’ve finished reading and travel north. You are needed there.

  Master Zalan”

  Salv rubbed at his eyes, then re-read the letter. “Master Zalan?”

  Outside, a beggar cried for coins. A horse neighed. Salv, fearing a terrible headache coming on, stared at the parchment. For a moment, an infinitely small one, he wondered whether he should chuck the parchment away and get on with his life. There were far too many secrets for his liking.

  Instead, he chuckled.

  Master Zalan had his full attention.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Palvar folded his arms and stared up at the portrait of the Reratish king. The king was a rotund old man, his red mustache curled up, his eyes half-closed as if he couldn't be bothered to make eye contact. Palvar cocked his head to the side, his shadow falling long on the garishly painted wall, bemused that this aging, badly balding man was responsible for fathering more than a hundred children.

  Someone coughed at the door and Palvar turned around.