Crescent Inquisition

by Fuad Baloch

  “You’re wasting my time, Sahib Turka,” growled Captain Tamat. Hunched over his desk, his office drowning in parchments and scrolls, he suddenly looked the very picture of the Algarian bureaucrat that everyone hated in the west. If the captain had intended to draw sympathy, Palvar felt nothing.

  “Oh, I’d never waste your time. All I need are two hundred men, dear Tamat.” Palvar clicked his tongue. “Two nights from now, at the Reratish ambassador’s residence, and if you don’t want to, you don’t even have to show up.” He smiled. “But something tells me you’ll find it impossible to stay away.”

  Captain Tamat looked up from his desk. “The Reratish ambassador? You’ve got him involved in your warped business as well?”

  “I do cast a wide net.”

  “Palvar,” said Kunita, sounding exasperated. “What are you planning?” Captain Tamat fixed his gaze on Palvar.

  Blinking, Palvar took a step back, and offered a deep bow. “I must apologize, for I truly thought I’d mentioned it before. We’re planning a party!”

  “A party?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

  “Aye, something us Nikhtuni have a natural flair for,” he replied, winking at Captain Tamat, whose face remained sour.

  “You’re going to cause mischief,” the captain said.

  Palvar bent and thumped Captain Tamat on the shoulder. “And that’s precisely why we need someone like you there to keep us all in check.”

  That said, Palvar turned around, and taking great care to keep his back straight despite the tremendous strain weighing him down, marched out of the captain’s office.

  Once they were out of the city guard headquarters, Kunita elbowed him in the ribs. “Are you humming?”

  Surprised, Palvar realized he had been. He shrugged. “I guess my mind is working extra hard. Good reason, though. We’re planning a party that no one will ever forget.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Zump Quarter hummed with the noise of construction, foot traffic, and animals. One of the older suburbs of Algaria, it had recently become the preferred area for well-to-do immigrants looking to start their lives in the city.

  “What a mess!” declared Palvar, one hand clamping his nose shut as dust blew in from a construction site to their right.

  “Palvar, what in the seven hells are you doing here?”

  “Walking,” he replied.

  Kunita clenched her fists. “You’re an extremely irritating man!”

  He craned his neck. “Say what?”

  “You’re an extremely—” When he grinned, she clubbed him on the shoulder.

  He winced. “And for a woman of the harem, you’re extremely tough.”

  Kunita glared at him, ready to come back with a suitable retort, but then a donkey brayed loudly ahead, followed by the sharp crack of a whip.

  Palvar grabbed her hand, and yanked her off to the side. A donkey cart rolled past where she had been standing moments ago.

  “Blind, all of them!” Palvar grunted. Then he was marching again, ducking his head into alleys they passed to their right. “A Fanna temple. Spicemonger. Butcher. A tannery.” He stopped at the mouth of the fifth alley. “An armorer!”

  “You’re not going to tell me why we’re here, are you?” asked Kunita, panting now, her back drenched with sweat.

  “I’ve just realized,” said Palvar, the barest hint of a grin on his lips, “that we could have taken a horse carriage.”

  “You’ve just realized that?” she said through gritted teeth.

  “I’ve much to learn,” he said, shaking his head. Again, before she could return with a jibe, he turned into the alley. “Alas, I keep spending all my money elsewhere.”

  Biting her tongue, Kunita followed him. She didn’t like it, but the reality was that this annoying man from Nikhtun had a way of bending the world to him, of remaining impervious to any obstacle in his way. Her father had been like that too, back when he hadn’t started drinking after Mother had taken ill. Palvar had the same humor as Father: whenever nervous or afraid, both men liked to crack jokes, trade jibes.

  “Palvar,” she called out gently.

  He looked back. “Kunita?”

  “You can tell me anything, you know that?”

  He came to a dead stop, grinning. “A man who shares his secrets has none.”

  She bit on her lower lip, then nodded. “As you will.”

  Palvar scratched his chin. They were a dozen or so steps away from three laborers painting the walls of a modest house, who now stared at them with open curiosity. He cleared his throat. “All my life, I’ve only screwed up things.” When she began shaking her head, he raised his hand. “I have this… great talent of letting my mouth run ahead of me, letting overconfidence land me and those around me in great trouble.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Kunita, walk away, while you have the chance. Before you get hurt.”

  Kunita laughed easily. “I might have first approached you imagining a very different path for me, but I’m not walking away now, Sahib Turka!”

  He stared at her for a long breath. A dog barked behind her. “I know you find this exciting.” He shrugged. “I do too, which is why I keep inventing reasons to remain involved in cases like this, but I fear what I’m setting up can go terribly wrong. Captain Tamat… well, he’s an extremely irritable and annoying man to put it mildly, but he’s quite correct on that front.”

  “I’ll help you,” she heard himself say.

  “Why?”

  “Because…” Kunita trailed off. She didn’t know how to get out of it. She could tell the truth, let him know what she truly thought of him—the realization taking her by surprise. What was the worst he would do? Laugh it off? She scoffed. She was a woman of the harem. The direction of her life was set. “Because I must do my duty by Istan.”

  “You do?” Again, Palvar shrugged. “Very well.”

  “Tell me what you’re doing!”

  “Setting a trap,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “This time, I cannot afford a mistake. For if I do, I fear the consequences would be too high.”

  “We’ll be fine!”

  “Good,” he said, smiling. Then he turned to face the laborers. “Let’s see if Namad Gralany is home. I remember he put up quite a performance at the execution.”

  Namad Gralany, the famous Algarian actor, ran his long fingers through his wispy hair. “A commission! By the gods of the Atish and Fanna, I didn’t expect that from you.”

  “I live to surprise,” said Palvar, nodding sagely. Outside, the painters continued to work away on the walls.

  Namad Gralany grinned, revealing his sparkling white teeth. He rose, then dipped into a long, graceful bow. “Why, I, this humble imitator of the poet’s muse, live only to bring joy to the world.” He raised his head, blinking at her. “And to enjoy the privilege of seeing beauties like this beside me.”

  “I’m not performing with you,” Kunita replied, a little too quick perhaps. Her heart was beating hard as she started to see what Palvar was planning.

  The actor made a face. Straightening, he grimaced, running his fingers through his hair once more. “Very well. I shall require the script, of course. If you have a certain director in mind, along with other members of the cast, I shall very much like to meet them straight away.” Palvar raised his hand, but Namad continued to talk over him. “And there are certain… ingredients I shall require.” He chuckled, extending his hands. “A bit out there, some might say, but extremely necessary if I am to retain my glowing skin and wonderful demeanor. And—”

  “There’s no script,” cut in Palvar.

  “What?” Namad cried out.

  “And there is no director.”

  Namad blinked, his rat-like face scrunching up. “Surely, you jest.”

  “I’ve got a venue for you, some… props, and a date.”

  Namad started shaking his head, then his eyes lit up. He clapped so suddenly that Kunita’s heart gave a flip. “Ah, you intend me
to give an extempore performance, one borne of the heart and the moment, instead of being shackled to the confines of lines written out in the cold of one’s drawing room.”

  “Indeed,” said Palvar. He grinned widely as he stood up. Righting his hat with one hand, he walked over to the actor who had started crying inexplicably. Exchanging a glance with Kunita, Palvar placed his arm gingerly around the actor’s thin shoulders. “The highbrow society of Algaria will never have seen the likes of your performance in their lives, my dear sahib.”

  “I feared I’d been discarded,” sobbed Namad Gralany. “That I was past my prime, that no one wanted me anymore.”

  Palvar made a face. “You are past your prime?”

  “But you place your trust in me,” continued the actor. Kunita smiled as Palvar tried to take his arm away, but Namad Gralany clung to it. “The likes of you and this mesmerizing beauty are what keep the heart of this poor artist aflutter, and his belly full.”

  “Talking of bellies,” said Palvar, finally extricating himself from Namad. “I might not have anything to pay you upfront.”

  The crying stopped for an instant. Namad raised his chin, a look of shock on his face. Then the tears flowed once more. “I care not, my wonderful patron. When you see my performance, your heart will convince you to honor me as you see fit.”

  “I should add,” said Palvar, raising a finger to his lip. “We require a somewhat… demure performance.”

  “Of course, it shall be somber, poignant.” Namad Gralany stepped back, raising both hands to the roof. “As noble a performance as if the grand priest of the Grand Husalmin Temple himself was reading his lines to the almighty.”

  “Good.”

  “Of course, it wouldn’t really be quite that,” Namad Gralany added quickly. “Ah, you take me back to my youth, dear sahib and sahiba. A life where the masters spoke out their scenarios, and we the students had to act them by following our internal muses.”

  “Hmm,” Palvar said.

  “You’ll be great,” said Kunita, unable to keep quiet any longer. The actor beamed, smiling through his tears. “I trust you.”

  Palvar said something, but over the actor’s loud sycophantic wails, Kunita didn’t hear him as they exited his house.

  “Don’t be late!” Palvar called out one final time, turning his head towards the actor waving at them.

  “I shall die before letting time dictate my moves.”

  Palvar shrugged, then turned to her. “I don’t know what that means.”

  Kunita offered a terse smile. “Neither do I.” They both broke into an uneasy laugh.

  After they’d walked out of the alley onto the main street, Palvar thankfully hailed a horse carriage.

  “Now what?” Kunita asked.

  Palvar rubbed his hands. “Our final meeting. Probably the hardest one.”

  Chapter Forty

  Inquisitor Fan laughed, the ends of his gray turban swaying as he stood up. “You’ve gone absolutely mad.”

  “A sentiment many share,” said Palvar, smiling through the tension wrenching his gut. Kunita sat beside him. She didn’t talk as much as he had feared initially, but there was no denying her presence brought about a certain calm in him. Besides, it didn’t hurt to have a pretty girl beside one to blunt an opponent’s sharp barbs. A strategy that didn’t seem to work well on the inquisitors.

  The inquisitor paced on the thick Kur’shi carpet, the circular walls of the Kalb tower draped with rich tapestries showing stern-faced inquisitors leading bands of men and women wearing black turbans. One of them in particular, a large rectangular canvas beside the door, showed three magi casting lightning on an army, as one inquisitor in black robes and a gray turban rode towards them.

  Inquisitor Khatani, the only other female in the hall beside Kunita, pursed her thin lips, and bent her head towards Inquisitor Casan.

  “I need your help, Inquisitors,” repeated Palvar. He extended his arms. “Or all we’ve worked for so far would be wasted.”

  “We live in the world of men, but we’re not men,” said Inquisitor Khatani in a no-nonsense voice.

  Palvar beat back the urge to point to the inquisitor that, indeed, she was not a man. But that wouldn’t have gone down well. Not at this moment, anyway.

  “Indeed,” agreed Inquisitor Casan, magus Roshan’s master. “The changes in the temporal lands do not affect us, no matter what you might think.”

  Grunting, Palvar rose on his feet. Inquisitor Fan, clad in his dark robes, stood by the large painting beside the door. “Unless you help me, it is your world that shall be turned upside down.”

  Inquisitor Khatani chuckled softly. As she wiped the corners of her mouth, the glittering rings on her thin fingers caught the fading sunlight filtering in through the large windows to the side. “Bold words, boy.”

  Before Palvar could say anything, Kunita stood and joined him by the side. “Listen to this man, inquisitors. I admit he’s not the kind of man who inspires, let’s say, a great deal of confidence up front”—Palvar turned to glare at her—“but despite all his flaws, he has a good heart. More importantly, he has an instinct for weeding out trouble before it strikes in strength. Not something we can ignore.” Kunita raised her finger towards the inquisitors. “Not something you can ignore after all the protests aimed at the likes of you.”

  Palvar inhaled sharply at that. For all his mental depictions of Kunita being meek, right now, she seemed a goddess of war, her face red with passion, her gaze unflinching and unbending. Inquisitor Casan looked away. Inquisitor Khatani muttered something under her breath. Inquisitor Fan turned around slowly, a thunder crossing his face. Two commoners had dared enter the common room of the Kalb—an isolated tower surrounded by a moat that no one visited—and dared challenge them in person.

  Palvar waited for the rebukes, but they never came.

  “Listen to him, lend him your support, or when the sultan demands explanations from you, there shall be none,” said Kunita.

  Palvar nodded at that.

  Long, painful moments passed where the only sound in the hall was that of the wind rustling their robes, brushing the edges of parchments and scrolls.

  “You ask for inquisitors,” said Inquisitor Fan, breaking the silence. His voice was strained, terse. “Inquisitors to do your bidding, a commoner from nowhere.”

  “I’m from Nikhtun, sahib,” said Palvar, “a land that has laid down a great number of lives for the realm—however, I don’t wish to digress.” He paused to take a breath, surprised to find calm flowing through his veins. “The inquisitors will not be doing my bidding, merely following a few suggestions in case they’re required.”

  “I… shall consider it,” said Inquisitor Fan. The other two inquisitors looked up sharply at that, but Inquisitor Fan ignored them.

  “Oh, and I will need a magus as well,” said Palvar. He turned towards Inquisitor Casan. “Yours. Roshan.”

  “What?” Inquisitor Casan shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “I hope we never end up needing him, or the inquisitors,” said Palvar, his voice so cold even he felt a shiver listening to his own words. “But if we do, it would be better to have them than not.”

  “Why Roshan, boy?” asked Inquisitor Khatani.

  “He’s a certain… talent,” replied Palvar with a smile. “And as you’ve heard, I’m putting on a show.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Kunita sealed the parchment and sighed at the sight of the other hundred waiting for her. “Do we have to do all of them?”

  Palvar looked up, his left hand hovering over the line he had been scribbling on his parchment. “We do.”

  “You’re the representative of the ameer of Nikhtun. He didn't give you any servants to assist you with these things?”

  Palvar smiled. “Among our many talents, miserliness is a specially cherished one.”

  “I see.” Exhaling, Kunita bent her back again, and resumed the process of folding the invitations neatly, then applying the Rerat
ish kingdom’s wax seal upon them.

  Uncharacteristically, Palvar didn't talk much, poring over each word as he wrote out the invitations in elegant Nirdu. Kunita shook her head. Somehow, she’d always assumed him to have a messy hand, but the left-handed Palvar had surprised her. He’s been doing this a lot recently, she thought with some amusement.

  Both of them fell silent again, the only sounds that of crinkling parchment and the gardener humming to himself as he worked in the garden outside Palvar’s apartment.

  Kunita’s mind drifted as the monotony of her work kicked in. Palvar grunted as he wrote, shaking his head often, using his slender, long fingers to keep count of the invitations. Kunita let her chin drop. What in the seven hells was she doing here? She brought no obvious advantage to Palvar. He went about his way, a veritable force of nature, and she merely tagged along.

  Her eyes drifted to the date Palvar had scribbled on the parchments. Two nights until the nobility of Algaria gathered at the Reratish embassy to celebrate the sultan’s golden reign. It wasn’t every day that the Reratish kingdom did something like that—something she still had trouble believing Palvar had managed—but that, in turn, meant that those invited to it would find it difficult to not show up.

  She scanned the list of invitees on the table Palvar had produced. The sultan’s remaining two sons, members of the other Istani clans—including those who had been captured. The grand vizier and his sons. Representatives from the Kalb Inquisition. Ambassadors from other nations. Representatives of provinces from the royal court. Viziers and their retinues. Heads of merchant clans. A half a dozen poets and artists. Priests from the Husalmin, Fanna, and Atishi faiths. Knights of the Sultan’s Body. A bunch of other names she didn't recognize.

  Then there were the other guests who’d remain hidden from others.