Wumla shook his head, and turned to Razilan. “Brother, you are the Sultan now. Your word is final. You cannot mean to burn Father?”
Sultan Razilan grimaced. “Wumla,” he said. “It is wonderful that you have got out of bed for a change and that you feel passionately about this matter. Under normal circumstances, you would be right, and I would never contemplate burning a person.” He turned and looked at their sister. “But Father had Skin Scales,” he continued. “He looked deformed by the end and wore a mask to defend his dignity. If the Divine is just and merciful, as we all believe He is, He has returned Father to his prime and glory in the Land of Judgement, and will not make him walk among our forefathers humiliated by his ailment.”
Razilan’s words warmed Nalini’s heart. She had never known him to listen to her before. Mayhap, their father had been right and that Razilan gave her more respect than she had previously realised.
“The last time a sultan was burned,” Wumla countered. “Abyar cursed his family. Within the Kingdom, there are some who whisper that He cursed Father with Skin Scales for bringing down Sultan Jashan. Do you not fear that burning him could bring terrible misfortune to us all?”
Cursed? Terrible misfortune?
Nalini’s chest contracted and time seemed to slow, as the words reverberated inside her; as images of plague, famine, war, and of the capital burning swirled round her head. She had not considered the consequences of burning a body when she promised her father that she would go through with his request.
Nalini wanted to voice her concerns, to go back on her promise. But she stopped herself from doing so. Sultan Daquan had told her many a time that decisiveness was respected, whilst indecisiveness was mocked. If Nalini wanted to be listened to, she had to stick with what she had said, regardless of whether it would anger Abyar or not.
“Wumla, do not speak to me of misfortune or of being cursed,” Razilan said, spitting out the final word with disgust. “Unlike you, I have been married for nine years and at this rate I will not have any sons or daughters to carry on what Father built.”
Footsteps of a heavy heel clunked behind them and Nalini turned around. Their aunt stopped and stood behind her. “How did you get past the guards?” Nalini asked. “Only family members are allowed in here.”
“I am family,” Ríma said. “Surely, you don’t mind me visiting a deceased member of our family?”
“I am sorry but only immediate family are allowed-”
“Nalini!” Razilan interrupted. “It is fine. Aunt Ríma is welcome to come in and pay her respects to His Majesty, if she so wishes.”
What spell has she cast on you, Brother? The Razilan of even yesterday would have backed her, instead of interrupting and embarrassing her. But Nalini bit her lip rather than humiliate herself by voicing her thoughts.
“Your Majesty,” Ríma said, bowing to Razilan. “I overheard that you are having… difficulties with your wife. As you know, there is a way we can fix that.”
There was something menacing about her words, and the hairs on the back of Nalini’s neck stood on end. What was Ríma talking about?
Nalini glanced at Razilan to apprise their aunt’s meaning. But Razilan stared at Ríma, with a crinkled forehead and eyes bulging with desperation. The sense of helplessness tumbled down Nalini like a collapsing edifice. Razilan and his wife, Olella, had been trying for a child as long as they had been married. They had prayed, been blessed by the Grand Cleric of Flourish, and tried herbal remedies. Nothing had made Ollela’s womb quicken.
Nalini’s back rippled with prickles. What had Ríma suggested to Razilan? What did her suggestion entail?
“I grant you your request,” Razilan told their aunt. “You can take with you three thousand of my men to help uncle Talekh defend Date-Palm and Al-Jaraba’s eastern borders. You will find the men readying to leave at the garrison. If you still need more men, write to me and I will ride to the Kingdom’s defence.”
Ríma smiled. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said. “You will hear from me or my husband in time.”
She bowed, never taking her eyes off Razilan, before exiting the royal bedchambers. Wumla snorted once the doors had closed behind her. “The woman is a witch!”
Razilan raised a brow, oozing mockery. “Do you really think our aunt spends her days and nights stewing potions and cursing people through incantations?” he said. “Or is she just a witch because you don’t understand her?”
“And you do?”
Razilan smiled. But his smile lost its usual vibrancy as he lowered his brows and sighed. “I don’t concern myself too much with what our aunt says as she speaks in riddles. Mayhap her meaning will become clearer in time. Mayhap not.”
“Oh, that’s true,” Wumla concurred. “She sometimes talks in riddles, yes.”
Does she? Nalini could not think of a time when their aunt had spoken in riddles to her. But, then again, the only previous time that Nalini had seen or spoken to Ríma was when she had wed uncle Talekh five years ago.
Mayhap, Ríma did speak in riddles and often. Mayhap, she had regularly done so with their father, Razilan and Wumla. Nalini didn’t know.
“You may be pleased to hear, Nalini,” Razilan said, turning to her. “I want to uphold Father’s last decree. Indeed, my first decree as Sultan is to keep you as a vizier at court and the royal treasurer.”
“Oh… err… thank you,” she said. Amidst their father dying and Razilan’s conversation in the gardens with Ríma, she had forgotten about her new role at court. “I am honoured that you want me at court. But… I will not lie. Your decision surprises me. No woman has ever been a vizier before, and I would have thought-”
“Father may have thought me a fanatic,” Razilan interrupted. “But nowhere does Abyar forbid a woman to take up duties at court. Thus, I have no problem with keeping you as the royal treasurer. I have every faith that you will serve the Kingdom well.”
An invisible weight pressed down on Nalini’s shoulders. If her father was right, and she was one of the only people Razilan listened to, she had a kingdom’s-load of responsibility resting on her now, to prevent her brother from acting recklessly. “I’ll try,” she said. She looked down at the ground and the yellow fabric of her dress caught her attention. It dawned on her that her clothes were inappropriate for someone in mourning and she needed to change. But before she did that, she had to know something. “Razilan, on a separate matter, what did you and aunt Ríma discuss in the gardens?”
Razilan shrugged his shoulders and scratched his bearded chin as if he were trying to remember. “Nothing of great import,” he said, insouciantly. “She wanted to find out about Father’s health. I told her that he was better than the rumours suggested. But then he died, so my efforts were in vain.”
Nalini sucked on her lips. She had no doubt that Razilan had said that to aunt Ríma. However, she had inkling that it was not the sole matter they had discussed. What else had they spoken about? Could it have been the matters that had concerned Sultan Daquan enough to make him call for his heir? “Nothing else?” she asked.
“We discussed the weather.”
Nalini frowned. She may not have been the sharpest arrow in the quiver. But that did not mean he had a right to pratonise her. “Anything else?”
Razilan shook his head. “With Father being unwell, I was in no mood to talk.”
That’s not what it looked like. From what Nalini had seen, he had looked more interested in Ríma than in his own wife. Why was that? For all his faults, Razilan was not a man seduced easily by beauty, even that of an enchantress.
Nalini opened her mouth to voice her thoughts. But then she stopped herself, because there was no point to it. Razilan was only going to give her more half-truths at best, and lies at worst. To find out the complete truth, she needed to ask better questions; and she needed to ask them to someone who had reason of his own to be concerned about Razilan’s intentions.
3
-A Sultan More Sympathetic To The Caus
e-
(Nalini)
“May His Majesty, Sultan Daquan the Daring, the Fourth of His Name, of the House Reba, be Worthy of Abyar,” Sultan Razilan proclaimed, holding a torch at the top of the pyre. “May the Divine show mercy upon him and reward him for his valour.”
The air stiffened as Razilan lowered the torch. Nalini’s eyes watered and looked around her. A mix of sobs, curled down mouths, furrowed brows, and wide-eyes stared at the pyre. The royal family, the members of the court, and the soldiers who had gathered to attend the burning ceremony all knew that what Razilan was doing was against the laws of Abyar; that it was wrong and sinful, and that Al-Jaraba would be cursed for it. And it was all because of Nalini.
I should never have promised Father that I would go through with his request. Then, Sultan Daquan would have been buried like every other Believer of Abyar. Then again, if I had not left his bedchambers, he might still be alive.
Tears streaked down Nalini’s cheeks as the flames at the pyre licked at the oil-soaked grass-green cloth, which signified lush and prosperity in the desert-like Kingdom of Al-Jaraba, before the fire devoured the tightly-bound knot that was the symbol of House Reba and unity. Her father was gone. Nalini had done all that she could for him while he had been alive. But it had not been enough. Now, she could but watch his body burn. Sultan Daquan deserved better than to die of Skin Scales and be cremated. Lesser sultans had had a more elaborate, appropriate funeral than one that was likely as not to bring about ill-fortune upon the Kingdom.
Wumla jolted a sob, next to her. Nalini wiped her face and looked at him, as Razilan made his way back to them from the pyre. He grimaced at Wumla, before standing next to his wife, Sultana Olella.
Nalini sighed with relief that Razilan had not seen her shed tears. If she wanted authority at court, she could not be seen crying. “Wumla,” she whispered. “Stop crying. You are the brother of the Sultan. You must hold yourself together in public.”
Wumla shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I miss Father, and this is wrong.”
“We all agree on that, but only cry when you are alone… or alone with me. Not before the court and the soldiers.”
But Wumla did not hear her. He put his hands over his eyes, hunched over and sobbed further.
“I don’t know how Father had the patience for him,” Razilan muttered. “He is an embarrassment to the family. Not even his own wife has attended the funeral because she does not want to stand next to him.”
Nalini glared at him. Wumla had a sad, unhappy nature; of that there was little doubt. But he was not an embarrassment. And his wife, Princess Yasmeena, the daughter of Sultan Jashan the Fanatic, had not attended the burning ceremony because she was with child and sick, not because she could not bear to stand next to Wumla.
Nalini had half a mind to speak her thoughts, there and then. But it was neither the time nor the place; and, judging by Razilan’s canyon-like frowns, he did not look like he was in a mood for listening either. So, Nalini said nothing on the matter. Her father had once told her that half of being an effective counsellor entailed gauging the right time to counsel, and now was not it. “Leave Wumla to me,” she said. “I’ll speak with him later.”
Razilan grunted and turned back to face the pyre. As the smoke blackened, he grimaced and shook his head. His dark eyes had a glint of distance to them, like he were mentally somewhere else.
Nalini glanced sideways, waiting for him to mutter something under his breath, to give her a clue to his thoughts. Mayhap, he would reveal something about his conversation with Ríma in the gardens. Thus far, he had said little about it, and the little he had said had only verified Nalini’s suspicion that he was conspiring with their aunt on a concerning matter. But about what?
Nevertheless, Razilan said nothing and Nalini looked away. Subsequently, she spotted the handsome, well-groomed Pallab Bazak. The thirty-seven-year-old Royal Admiral for the Kingdom’s Ships was the brother of Lord Nahmet of Carob Castle and of Sultana Olella, Razilan’s wife. If there were a man who had reason to be concerned about Sultan Razilan’s intentions, it was him.
Nalini pursed her lips and looked back at the pyre. Was it appropriate to go over and speak about politics at her father’s funeral? Probably not. But the flames had passed their peak and were starting to die down now. Moreover, if she did not speak to Pallab now, Razilan had every chance of doing something reckless before she got another opportunity to speak to him and the counsellors, standing next to the Royal Admiral. That made up her mind and she lifted her black skirts, fitting for funerals and mourning, walked toward Pallab.
“Princess Nalini,” Pallab said, suavely, as he bowed. “My brother, I am sure, would have wanted to be here and pay his respects to His Majesty. Alas, as the Guardian of the West, he is still fighting skirmishes on the Kingdom’s western borders. But I suppose my family are not the only ones who have reason to begrudge the Al-Yutams.”
Nalini grimaced. She had her own reasons for resenting the Kingdom of Al-Yutam. Not a year had passed after her father had won the throne when Sultan Raham of Al-Yutam had threatened Al-Jaraba with invasion. His threat had led Sultan Daquan to seek an alliance with the heathen, King Fransisco of Volído to deter him from invading. The alliance worked as Sultan Raham called off his full-scale invasion, but Nalini had paid the price as the cost for the alliance had been her marriage to Emilio.
Now, though, it seemed as if Al-Jaraba’s alliance with Volído was meaningless. King Fransisco had refused to provide aid to stop the raids coming from beyond the Dusty Mountains. It had meant that Lord Nahmet was having to deal with them, since Carob Castle held the closest garrison to the border with Al-Yutam, with Lord Ehud Asfour of Orange Fork backing him up. “It is understandable that your lord brother is not here,” Nalini said. “He is defending the western lands of the Kingdom admirably.”
Pallab snorted, derisively. “If the Crown would have sent him some men,” he said. “My brother could have put an end to the raids months ago.”
Nalini sighed. Pallab was the Vizier for Ships, and had been promised to go on a voyage to see if there were a way to the lands of the east and the Yshvahan Gulf via the Boundless Western Sea.
Many argued that there had to be an end to the Great Grasslands; that the Yshvahan Gulf got its name from the wealthy Yshvahan Kingdom to the east of Blackport and the Kush Mountains; and that this kingdom bordered the Wai-Sha kingdoms further east, where porcelain and silk merchants claimed to come from. All were beyond the Charted Map and Pallab had been eager for years to find out what was there.
“And to think that the ship that was supposed to take me across the Boundless Western Sea is just sitting in the harbour,” Pallab added, with rueful, mocking bitterness.
It was true, as well. The ship that was meant to take him across that impassable sea was in Flourish’s port. But events outside of everyone’s control had prevented him from setting sail. “Well, I would like to thank you for staying,” Nalini said. “It means a lot to my family and I that you are here, attending what Lord Nahmet cannot.”
Pallab dulled his eyes. “Your gratitude is a great substitute for the fame and riches of doing what no man has done yet. Between the Al-Yutams, Sultan Daquan’s sickness and Prince- I mean, Sultan Razilan, I am still here, despite all the promises.”
“That’s why I want to talk-”
Pallab scowled. He failed to hear what she said and marched away. Lord Anané Jadwiga chuckled. The warrior-esque Lord of Last Thirst and Guardian of the South was the Royal Counsellor for Weaponry, and his full set of ivory-coloured teeth contrasted with his ebony skin. “Pallab has been cross ever since his lord brother told him to stay in the capital a month ago,” he said. “Pallab had been most looking forward to that voyage. Now, he fears it will never happen. If you ask me, it is for the best. He is just setting himself up for disappointment.”
“Or a watery grave,” Lord Krarim added. “No-one who has ventured more than a hundred leagues into the Boundless Wester
n Sea has returned to chronicle the tale.”
Nalini smiled wryly. Lord Krarim Ta’íni of Fort Orchard was fifty-one and the Sultan’s chief advisor. He seemed to have information about everything and everyone in the Kingdom and beyond. If there were a man who knew a far-off tale of someone who had found land somewhere in the Boundless Western Sea, it would have been him. “The voyage was not what I wanted to discuss with him,” Nalini said. But then it dawned on her that she had little notion why Razilan becoming Sultan would mean that Pallab had to stay in Flourish and postpone the voyage indefinitely. Now, was as good a time as any to ask about it. “Why did Pallab mention His Majesty, Sultan Razilan?” she asked. “Just because the two the men have no love for another does not mean that Pallab has to stay at court.”
Lord Anané gave her his bright smile. “When it comes to knowledge, Lord Krarim is Lord Reliable,” he said, turning to him. But then Lord Anané tilted his head and his eyes hardened. “His way with information is beaten only by his way of keeping himself and his family safe. Indeed, there is no-one better.”
The slender, ordinary-looking Lord Krarim upheld a straight, impassive façade as Lord Anané walked away. “He will never forgive me for what happened at the Battle of Fort Orchard,” he said. “Never.”
Unease coursed through Nalini’s veins. Lord Krarim had initially sided with the Crown during Daquan’s Revolt. It was only after he, Lord Cadman Gherda and Lord Anané had lost the Battle of Fort Orchard, and Razilan had come forward with his trebuchets and with an arrow protruding from his shoulder, threatening to smash his town and family, that Lord Krarim had switched sides and contributed positively to the rebellion.
Yet, Nalini did not want to discuss the time when Lord Krarim had wrongly allied himself with Sultan Jashan the Fanatic. That did no-one any favours, not least herself. “You have nothing to worry about, My Lord,” she said. “Your reputation for serving Al-Jaraba precedes you.”
The Sultan's Daughter Page 2
