by Fuad Baloch
Palvar dabbed at his forehead. She watched him intently as he leaned back, closing his eyes for a breath. His stubble had grown, his hair tousled, but his brown robe was otherwise immaculate. Kunita smirked. Strange to see a man who made a point of keeping all his clothes on beside a woman.
A part of her chided her for having lied to him outside the actor’s house. He had asked her. She had had a chance to come clean. Instead, she had turned away. Shake it off! she told herself sternly. You picked this life knowing what it meant. You can’t destroy his life by your association.
Palvar yawned, stretching his arms wide. Then, he turned back to his writing.
The silence stretched, returning to the rhythm she had grown used to, the quiet accented by the sounds of Palvar’s quill scribbling over fine parchment, the crinkle of paper, and the tuneless singing of the gardener under the hot Algarian sun.
“If this doesn't work out,” said Palvar after a long while had passed, “I want you to know I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”
She looked up, surprised. “I’ve done nothing for you, Palvar.”
He smiled, his long fingers folding the parchment neatly. “Is that right?” Then his face grew hard. “I am not known for thinking long term. Something I have been accused of plenty of times before.” He raised his hands. “A charge I do not deny. Yet…” He hesitated, his hands coming to a rest on the table. “Yet, I fear what will happen if we fail at the ball.”
“We?”
Palvar didn't reply, his eyes looking out the window.
Kunita sighed. “My father used to say that a fisherman is responsible only for casting his net. What happens after that is not his responsibility.”
Palvar smiled, then nodded to himself. “That helps.” His eyes turned to her. “It’s going to be some night!”
Chapter Forty-Two
Guests continued to drift in through the embassy’s main door. Palvar greeted them each personally, taking the men by the hand, offering the women deep bows. He didn't know all of them, but it seemed they had all heard of him.
“Ah, the champion of Istan,” said a buxom woman, her bosom spilling out of her tight pink peshwaz. Her husband—some merchant Palvar didn't know—sulked beside her. “We have to invite you to our place sometime.” She raised her fingers studded with heavy rings at her husband. “Don’t we, my heart?”
“Of course, my sweetest,” he replied, his voice not sounding inviting one bit.
Palvar laughed good-naturedly and offered her another bow. She tittered, then, brushing against him, joined the others in the grand hall.
Palvar turned to the door to find the inquisitors Khatani and Fan standing there. None of them acknowledged him, walking right by him as if he were invisible. Palvar shrugged, not letting it discomfort him. Inquisitor Fan was going to have the time of his life whether he liked it or not.
“What a show the ambassador has put on!” exclaimed a female voice. Putting on his most charming smile, Palvar turned to greet the new arrivals. Surrounded by a dozen ladies-in-waiting, Princess Roopa, the only daughter of the sultan, glittered like a moon brought to life.
“My princess!” said Palvar, dipping low. “You honor us by your arrival.”
“The Reratish ambassador must have found a treasure if he’s spending this much,” said a man’s voice. Palvar looked up. Lud Ghiani stood beside the princess, taking in the tapestries and flower garlands on the walls.
“It gives my heart great joy to see my patron,” Palvar cried out. “Is the grand vizier coming too?”
“Alas, business of statecraft keep him and my elder brother occupied,” Lud Ghiani replied.
“Ah,” said Palvar unhappily.
“By Rabb, is that the Five Fires I hear?” said a lady-in-waiting.
“The famed singers?” asked Princess Roopa. She beamed. “Oh, this night is going to be fun!”
“Pray, enter the hall,” said Palvar, waving his arm on. “The ambassador is most keen to welcome you personally.”
“I’m sure he is,” muttered the grand vizier’s son. Nodding, he walked past. The princess followed, laughing merrily, her friends tittering.
Two generals wearing the sigils of the Sultan’s Fourth Army were the next guests to arrive, each flanked by two sharply dressed lieutenants.
His nerves tingling, the air full of music and laughter and clinking glasses, Palvar stood at the door. His smile never faltered, even when the Postan clan arrived. Roha kept her gaze downcast, her mother offering him a terse nod. Palvar’s thoughts were elsewhere, though.
The night had finally arrived.
Chapter Forty-Three
Kunita clenched her fists when she saw Roha Postan arrive.
She was pretty, no question about that, but Kunita had seen better-looking girls. Besides, all these noble girls looked divine, almost pari-like, when young and attracting suitors. Once married, though, they grew bloated, misshapen, retaining only a faint memory of what they once used to be like.
The thought brought her some cold comfort, aided by how little her presence had seemingly mattered to Palvar at the door. Yes, the damned fool was still pretty much infatuated with her, but maybe the occasion did outweigh other useless thoughts.
“Kunita, I owe you one for inviting me here,” Nafeesa said, her eyes wide open, her voice awed. “This is an event to die for!”
Kunita smiled. “You’re welcome.” Having Nafeesa and a couple of other girls from the harem justified her presence at the ball, but the more she looked at them, the more she found herself questioning her life choices. Had she really spent most of her life discussing looks and cuts of cloths and the etiquette involving the art of seducing men?
Someone bumped into her. “My apologies,” said the corpulent merchant who stood in front of her. She hadn't seen him before, but judging by the way he grinned, there was no doubting what he was thinking.
“Come on, my sweet,” urged his wife, a frail, graying woman clutching her pearl necklace. “I see Rogana’s wife over by the musicians.”
“Rogana?” said the merchant.
The wife glared at her, her diamond-studded fingers digging painfully into her husband’s flabby arm. “Don’t blame me if you end up losing that olives contract.”
Grumbling, offering her a lascivious smile, the merchant trundled off.
Swallowing the revulsion in her chest, Kunita headed for the raised dais at the opposite end of the hall. Men flocked Lud Ghiani and the vizier of finance, the women mostly revolving around Princess Roopa. Kunita ignored them all. She had been tasked with a job, to look for any shadows lurking in the niches and alcoves who might decide to use that opportunity to spring an attack.
She tried looking outside the wide windows she passed to her right, but the stained glass made it impossible to see past them. There were guards out there, drawn both from the city guard and Sultan’s Body, forming layers of protection between those within and any attackers trying to get in. Apart from that, Palvar had managed to convince Captain Tamat to place another two hundred soldiers within the embassy as well, their presence known only to a select few.
Palvar hadn't been happy when she had declared her satisfaction with the security arrangements. “All these swords won’t protect us from the man inside,” he had said.
She hadn't argued back.
At the sound of the glass clinking, she turned around. Palvar stood on the dais, tall and handsome, smiling broadly at the men and women arrayed in front.
“My dear sahibs and sahibas, if I could have your attention.”
Kunita took in a sharp breath. “So it begins…”
Chapter Forty-Four
Palvar grinned.
One by one, the nobility of Istan and of other nations, fell silent as heads turned towards him. The grand hall was well-ventilated, but despite the cool drafts blowing in from the east, his shirt stuck to his back.
“The champion of Istan,” said someone. Palvar beamed, nodding at whoever had called out.
/> “All hail Courtier Turka,” said another voice.
“All hail Courtier Turka,” replied a dozen or so voices.
Palvar offered a deep bow. When he straightened, the lump in his throat had grown larger and he had trouble swallowing it. Palvar clenched his fingers. This was it. Either his play would work or he’d doom them all.
“Palvar Turka,” hissed Ambassador Danfurd, rushing onto the dais, his face flushed. He forced a smile at the onlookers. “What are you doing?”
Palvar ignored him, instead drawing in yet another long breath.
“Not too long ago, a Husalmin priest was murdered in his temple,” Palvar said, his eyes scanning the crowd. The few voices that had still been talking petered out. “I had the good fortune of stumbling into the ghastly affair, where I met Inquisitor Fan of the Kalb Inquisition”—Palvar pointed at the cluster of inquisitors standing beside the western window—“and Captain Habbra of the city guard.” The viziers beside the inquisitors shuffled uncomfortably. “They were searching for an artifact, a magical one.” Palvar paused. “Do you know why?”
No one replied. Quite a few faces turned towards the inquisitors, who glared at him. Inquisitor Fan, in particular, seemed to shake slightly, but Palvar didn't care for that either in the moment.
“They planned to assassinate the sultan of Istan, our beloved leader at the two-hundredth anniversary of the founding of the realm.”
“The realm thanks you, Courtier Turka,” someone shouted, the words echoing in the high-ceiling room.
Palvar waved away the compliment. “That should have been the end of it, but we knew even then that the real mastermind behind the attack had escaped the long arm of the law. We ended up apprehending the man wielding the knife, but not the one who’d given the order.”
Palvar paused. Even the bearers ferrying platters of fruits and drinks stood still.
Palvar extended his arms, looking around him. “Then, at an event celebrating the successful foiling of that attack, that same hidden enemy of ours did something truly remarkable. He kidnapped family members of the royal family from the grand vizier’s house.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “The sheer audacity, though despicable, must be appreciated for its reckless bravery.”
“Where are you going with all this?” seethed Ambassador Danfurd, keeping his voice low. “I didn't offer the embassy for you to—”
“Their demands for ransom were most puzzling,” said Palvar, shaking his head. “Freeing the magi. An act that seems to help no one but the bonded magi, who, as we know, are quite incapable of free will while bonded to… erm… our esteemed inquisitors.”
“Courtier Turka, watch your tongue,” called out Inquisitor Fan, his arms folded across his chest.
“A price that they refused to exact when we did offer them a magus.” Palvar shook his head again ruefully. “If I’m being honest, though I do have my suspicions, that demand I still don’t quite understand. After all, free magi aren’t quite like cattle one can put to work straight away unless they’re tamed first.”
Silence fell on the room. Utter and deafening. Palvar turned his head to the door to the right. Kunita stood there stoically. She nodded, offering him a terse smile.
“We rescued the captives, of course,” continued Palvar, rubbing his hands. “Though we were too late to prevent the murder of a young boy and the maiming of a beautiful girl.” He licked his lips, refusing to look at Roha. “In the end, we did better than we could’ve expected”—he shrugged—“even by my standards. Not only did we rescue the innocent men and women and children of Istan, we did even better. We captured Ignar, the man who had murdered the young boy, and… during the attack, managed to neutralize the man ordering Ignar.”
Mutterings broke out at that.
Palvar crossed his arms, adjusting his weight. “I’ll come back to that one.” Then, he held his breath, waiting until the crowd had fallen silent again. He would have to wait a bit. Mentioning Prince Hatan had agitated his listeners. The women to his right continued to chatter, the men on the other side of the hall talking animatedly, their turbans swaying, their hands gesticulating.
Palvar cleared his throat noisily, managing to draw their eyes to him once more. “Istan is merciful but just. We couldn't punish the master ourselves, but the disciple was under our custody, and so we saw Ignar swing by his neck.” Palvar paused for half a beat. “Or did we?”
Voices broke out at that, an angry buzzing that seemed to grow with each passing moment.
Fearing he was losing control over the crowd, Palvar raised his hands, waiting for relative silence to return. “We saw a body torn in ten parts, then dispatched to different corners of the realm, but the head…” Again, he paused, stretching the moment so long the very weight seemed to crush him. “The head was buried in the middle of the night.”
“Get this man off the dais!” growled Inquisitor Fan, his voice carrying in the stunned silence. “This despicable show has gone on long enough!”
“Oh,” said Palvar, smiling, holding up his hand. “The show has merely started.” He extended his arms, offered a quick bow. “As you know, we men of Istan do love a show.”
“—not quartered?” mused someone.
“—the sultan and the realm—”
Palvar cleared his throat noisily again, then waited once more. “Sahib and sahibas of Istan and respectable guests from across the world, what if I said that the man behind it all, the puppeteer who moved Ignar and the ones before him, is still alive?” Shouts broke out at that and Palvar raised his voice over them. “What if he was still here, amongst us, this very moment? He’s clever, oh yes, but he forgot one thing. He has a weak link, a chink in the armor he has ignored at his own peril.”
“Courtier Turka!” thundered a rotund vizier, his mustache quivering. “Don’t drag the late prince into this.”
Palvar rubbed his hands, his shoulders sagging. “If only there was someone to tell us a bit more about that master we never got to meet. Not the one who died during our attack, but the master behind the master.” He looked up sharply as shock spread across the hall. “If only Ignar hadn’t been hung until dead, then quartered, and his body torn to pieces. If only we could’ve interrogated him ourselves!”
Smiling, Palvar beamed, then raised one hand towards the door beside Kunita. “We’ve all come for this particular moment to discover this shadow amongst the shadows. The master puppeteer playing us all. But first, sahibs and sahibas, I give you… Ignar!”
Chapter Forty-Five
A hush fell. Palvar swallowed. Kunita stepped aside.
A moment later, a figure cloaked in a deep brown robe shuffled out of the door. Cries went up behind Palvar, but he didn't turn to look at them. Revulsion filled his heart, a hatred so sudden and powerful and irrational that he had to bite down on his bottom lip until it drew blood.
“Mother always said,” sang Ignar, shambling forward, his thin body twitching under the oversized robe, his nostrils—the only part of his face visible through the drawn hood—flaring. “That I shall be a star shining on the world!”
Palvar took a step back, unable to banish memories of his imprisonment that leapt at him. From the corner of his eye, he saw guards rushing forward. Women screamed, some of the men shouting angrily. Captain Tamat emerged from under the arches, bellowing for calm, his voice achieving the exact opposite. A merchant ran to the main door, thumping it with his hands, yelling to be let out, but just as Palvar had commanded, it remained barred, imprisoning them in all together for the moment.
“Mother was wrong!” continued Ignar, one hand stretching out towards Palvar. Again, Palvar tried to fight the fear washing over him. “Let me go!” he seethed suddenly, the voice turning cold without warning.
Palvar swallowed, then turned his head towards the crowd. “As promised, sahibs and sahibas, let’s answer the most intriguing question of our times. If my thesis is correct, and the real puppeteer is still alive, then we deserve to know who he is!”
/> Ignar cackled, the sudden giggling as out of place in the grand hall as a stitch in the sultan’s cloak. “Shadows amongst shadows, mother always said. Stories of those alive forgotten by the dead.”
“Who is your master?” Palvar demanded, struggling to keep his voice from quivering. “Who?”
“Never shall I nor the shadows—”
“Answer me and I’ll resurrect your mother,” said Palvar. Ignar fell silent, his eyes hidden beneath the hood but Palvar could feel their heat burning a hole through him.
The onlookers had fallen deathly silent now, their initial moment of fright thankfully over. All but one, who murmured, “Blasphemy!”
“I’ve the inquisitors at my disposal,” said Palvar, waving an arm towards them. “You know of the magi and their miraculous powers. Tell us what we need and you shall find yourself talking to your mother.”
“She’s dead…” wheezed Ignar.
“Her soul lives,” said Palvar. “We have magi who can bring her back.”
Ignar fell to his knees. A moment later, he began whimpering. “You’re trying to trick me. Mother always warned me not to listen to the western men and their sugary tongues.”
“Blood and onions, tell us what we want and see your mother, or forever be condemned to the deepest hole in the everlasting fires of hell.”
Ignar’s body rocked for another breath, then grew still. Voices, excited and afraid, muttered behind Palvar.
Finally, an eternity later, Ignar rose on shaky feet, drawing exclamations across the hall. “Mother!”
“Who is your master?” Palvar thumped his fist. “I know he’s here, that evil monster. Someone like him is fueled by arrogance and recklessness. Trust me, I know the type. Now tell us!”
For a moment, Palvar thought Ignar hadn't heard him. But then, the madman nodded, and turned to face the crowd, one hand rising to his hood. Palvar took in a sharp breath, bracing himself.
