by Fuad Baloch
The Red Throne
The Glass Sultanate: Book 0
Fuad Baloch
Copyright © 2020 by Fuad Baloch
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Version: alif dooja
Contents
1. Duty
2. Prestige
3. Sand
4. Night
5. Pride
6. Rebellion
7. The Night
8. Intentions
9. Costs
10. Epilogue
The tale continues…
About the Author
1
Duty
“Don’t k-kill me!” Brother Jacek crawled backwards, his robes smearing his blood on the polished marble floor.
The bald man in the dark tunic smiled, a cruel curl of the lips that increased the terror in the priest’s heart tenfold. “Only God decides who lives and who dies.”
Brother Jacek coughed, his mouth filling with blood. “But—”
“You’re lucky because you get to choose,” said his attacker. He was a young, stoutly built man. A nondescript face Brother Jacek wouldn't have normally recalled. “Die as a vile supporter of magi, or as a hero in the fight against them. Now give me the stone.”
“I… I don’t know what you speak of!” Brother Jacek said, fighting a wave of darkness crashing into him. “By all the gods, I don’t!”
“You have it,” the bald man replied coolly as he looked around the deserted Husalmin temple. He took a half-step forward, red drops dripping from the dagger clutched in his hand. Brother Jacek let out a loud shriek. The dagger gleamed in the torchlight as his panicked cry reverberated in the empty chambers.
“Help!” Brother Jacek shouted.
His assailant stopped, cocking his head to one side. Brother Jacek swallowed. The hour was late, yet upbeat music wafted in through the large windows to either side. The city was celebrating tonight, would continue to do so for the next three days and nights, to mark the Sultanate’s glorious two hundred years. Not something Brother Jacek cared for much in the moment.
“P-please…”
“Give me the stone,” said the bald man. “Or you shall share the fate of the others.”
Brother Jacek blinked. “The… others?”
“Both custodians are dead, old man.”
Jumbled thoughts raced through Brother Jacek’s mind. Pain lanced at his sides and he closed his eyes, pressing harder into the wound in his stomach. He’d lost too much blood already, and now numbness was setting in.
Both custodians were dead. That meant he was the only one left alive.
“My master is merciful,” said the young man, his voice hard, strained. “If you help me, maybe this pain will be your punishment enough.”
Brother Jacek forced open his eyes, tried shaking his head. Despite the torches burning around them, it was getting harder to see properly. “Y-you… p-promise?”
“You’re misguided. Flawed.” A pause, accompanied by a distasteful pursing of the lips. “But you’re also a Husalmin priest. Perhaps, you’ll learn from your mistakes.”
Brother Jacek nodded, hope tearing at his heart, a tear trickling down his cheek. “But—” He raised a pleading hand as the bald man advanced menacingly. “Please!”
“We don’t have much time.”
They didn't have much time, this much Brother Jacek did know. More importantly, he didn't have much time. No matter what his attacker said, Brother Jacek had tended to enough dying soldiers to know the fate of stomach wounds like his. Yet, tendrils of desperate hope swirled in his heart.
“Give it to me!” urged the young man, waving his dagger. “Repent and the Husalmin god shall show you mercy.”
Brother Jacek moaned. Ever since he had been made a custodian, he had dreaded this day. Back then, he’d been a young man, invincible and indestructible. Time had caught up with him, and now he was the last custodian of his chain. There are other chains. Brother Jacek shook his head. Even if he took his secret to the grave, he doubted this fanatic would not pursue the others. He had to do something.
“There…” he whispered.
“Where?”
Brother Jacek raised his hand, his index finger shaking. “Behind the pulpit, there is a hidden niche in the floor.”
The young man glanced down at him. “Here, all this time?” Then, he strutted over to the pulpit.
Brother Jacek opened his mouth. The darkness had gotten much stronger now. Distantly, he heard the heavy slab slide away, followed by a triumphant exclamation.
A moment later, footsteps approached him.
Brother Jacek braced himself.
His attacker hawked and spat, the mucus landing squarely on Brother Jacek’s nose. Brother Jacek whimpered and brought his bloody hands up to wipe his face. He could barely feel his hands now.
The chamber rang out with footsteps going away.
Away.
He had some time, then.
All his life, Brother Jacek had lived selfishly, a slave to his desires. At the end, though, he knew he had a grave responsibility to carry out.
Only one group would ever want the stone he’d guarded all his life—until now. Those with the power to destroy the world.
He had to warn the others.
Coughing, a crippling numbness setting in, he got up to his knees.
Then, using his own blood, Brother Jacek started scrawling on the floor.
2
Prestige
2 days before the Grand Celebration
* * *
Algaria was hailed the queen of all cities. As Palvar Turka, courtier of the Sultan’s court, marched into the ancient Emerald Quarter, the city’s majesty awed his senses once more. Centuries-old golden domes of the Husalmin temples. The ziggurat shrines of other faiths. The heady, perfumed air. Five years Palvar had lived in the capital city, and yet the city still held him in her thrall.
“Act normal,” he chided himself, shooting a smile to the shapely servant girl sashaying toward him. She wore a sheer veil that covered neither her auburn hair nor her pretty face. She offered a coy smile, then dropping her chin, paused to let through a gaggle of richly dressed men. The lord leading the group wasn’t one Palvar had met before. His brocaded turban bobbed as he mumbled to the men trailing him.
“Another glorious day!” Palvar called out, extending his arms. “Makes you sing out in joy, this weather does. Let’s pray it remains so for the Grand Celebration as well, eh?” The day was blistering hot, and Palvar wanted anything but another day like this. But that wasn’t what the locals liked to hear.
The lordling huffed and continued his mumbling.
Shrugging, Palvar adjusted his own turban and turned left on the Silk Road. The wide road, ringed with palm trees swaying in the warm desert breeze, ran straight as an arrow all the way to the Sultan’s palace. Not where Palvar was headed at present. Last night had been a long-drawn death-by-boredom affair entertaining the trade vizier’s slow-witted son. But Palvar had picked up an intriguing tidbit in the morning when the vizier’s men had come to fetch the drunk son.
Here’s hoping the cursed night was worth it!
A dozen city guards decked in polished armor stood outside a squat building. A Husalmin temple constructed in the olden way: three times as wide as tall. Nothing like the Grand Husalmin Temple being constructed a mile ahead slated to take another fifty years.
“Halt!” shouted one of the guards as Palvar approached them.
“Don’t you know who I am?” Palvar demanded, shoo
ting them a broad grin.
The guard squinted, his eyes lingering on Palvar’s pale features. “No…” He turned to his companion, who shrugged as well.
Palvar waved his hand. “Minor guards like you can’t be expected to know all courtiers of the Sultan. A forgivable offense. Now step out of my way.”
“Who did you say you are?”
“Palvar Turka!” cried Palvar, growing indignant. “Representative of Nikhtun at the royal court.”
“I’m afraid—”
“Bah!” Palvar snapped his fingers, then marched past the guards. “I don't have time to waste.” The first guard tried stepping in his way but the other caught his arm.
Palvar grimaced as he ventured deeper into the temple. A shabby old building, empty of worshipers. Yes, two guards stood outside, but so far it looked like the vizier’s men had sent Palvar on a false trail. Two large doors leading into the inner chamber stood open. Sighing, Palvar headed for them.
At the threshold, a terrible sense of wrongness hit Palvar. He halted, staring ahead.
By the pulpit stood four figures. One of them, his back turned to Palvar, wore a gray turban. Palvar blinked. Gray was a color only the inquisitors wore. Why in Rabb’s name would an inquisitor be here, joined by city guards? His pace quickening, Palvar advanced toward them. A few feet beside the pulpit he spied a veiled woman wailing on the floor.
The inquisitor turned his head. He was middle aged, his face dominated by massive dark eyes that seemed to bulge. “Who’s he? Get him out of here!”
The giant of a man beside him, a captain of the City Guard judging by the gold trim on his khaki turban, bristled at the order. Before he could say anything, though, Palvar saw what they were standing over. “Son of a bat!”
A robed figure lay sprawled face-first on the floor, the right hand stretched out. Palvar had seen dead bodies before, of course. Terrible things, but hardly something that warranted the presence of an inquisitor of the Kalb. Despite it all, one thing was certain: Palvar’s quest to find some excitement in his otherwise drab life in the capital city had succeeded.
Then he saw what the figure had been trying to write with his own blood.
Two simple words that set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.
“Magi. Three,” Palvar whispered.
“Captain Habbra, get rid of this gawking man!” sneered the inquisitor, his eyes bulging so much Palvar thought they might pop.
Captain Habbra licked his lips, then stepped forward, one hand raised. “You’re not meant to be here. Come, I shall—”
Palvar sidestepped the captain, then offered an elaborate bow. “Sahib Inquisitor, I, Palvar Turka of Nikhtun, offer my services to you. Anything you require of me—anything—I’m at your disposal.”
“Captain!” said the inquisitor.
“Sahib Palvar Turka, let’s get you out of here,” said the captain, his bushy eyebrow twitching.
Palvar crossed his arms across his chest, his heart thudding now. Unless he could make his case in the next few moments, he’d be denied this most fascinating diversion. “I’ve had the good fortune of serving the ameer of Nikhtun well enough to have been sent to the court of the Sultan.” He put on his best smile, blowing out his chest. “How did I serve the ameer, I hear you ask? Why, in all sorts of matters ranging from cheating wives to spies infiltrating the ranks of servants. Now, I doubt you’d find a better person than me to—”
“Captain!” snapped the inquisitor.
“—be most discreet about this… delicate matter,” said Palvar. The inquisitor focused his eyes on Palvar and he felt a tremor creep into his fingers. Inquisitors of the Kalb dealt with magic and its wielders. That was all he knew for a fact, amidst all sorts of other fantastical rumors that surrounded the institution and the magi they governed. It was stupid of Palvar to even hint at not being discreet if he was denied the chance to stay here. After all, who did that to an inquisitor?
Captain Habbra huffed, then placed his heavy meaty hand on Palvar’s shoulder. “Enough of this—”
“What do you see here?” asked the inquisitor. His voice was cold, his gaze stern.
“An opportunity to serve Istan,” said Palvar carefully. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
For a long breath the inquisitor glared at him, the captain’s hand crushing into Palvar’s shoulder all the while.
“He’s a nobody, Inquisitor Fan,” said the captain. “My men will ensure he doesn't speak if you don’t want him to.”
“Hmm,” replied the inquisitor.
“Men from Nikhtun are proud, useful servants of the Sultanate,” said Palvar, shrugging off the captain’s hand. Grimacing, he adjusted the cotton shawl over his tunic back in place. It was damp where the captain had been gripping him. “You sure sweat a great deal, Captain Habbra.”
The captain muttered under his breath and walked over to join the other two city guards.
Palvar licked his lips, not letting the inquisitor’s gaze unnerve him. “So, why would the dead”—he paused half a beat to take the dead man’s rich robes into account—“priest have anything to do with magi?”
“Nothing,” said Inquisitor Fan firmly. “There is no magic at play here.”
“How would you know that?” asked Palvar. He winced when the inquisitor’s eyebrow twitched. Curiosity had always been one of Palvar’s big vices.
“Had a magus’s hand been at play here, I’d have known.”
“Of course.” Palvar nodded enthusiastically, deciding to bite his tongue for the moment, then muttered to himself, “Maybe that’s why you’ve not had me thrown out yet.”
The captain shook his head, shot them both an ugly glare, then started scribbling on a parchment. Palvar shifted his weight, biting his cheeks. A priest was dead, his last words written in blood managing to draw in an inquisitor. Surely, this wasn’t a simple murder case, then? Palvar gritted his teeth. The inquisitor denied the role of magic here. Yet, he stayed. Why?
They were deep inside the Husalmin temple, but even from here Palvar could hear the faint singing from outside. For the last six months, the city had been preparing for the grand celebration of the Istani Sultanate’s two hundred years. Every day, singers and dancers arrived in the ancient city from across the world, armed with lusty poems and tunes to honor the great Istani Sultan. Two more nights before doors would be flung open for the public to enter the Shahi Qilla, the massive stone fortress housing the imperial palaces and the Sultan’s sanctum. Two more nights—
Palvar gasped, his eyes widening, as the pieces of the puzzle finally clicked together.
“Captain Habbra,” Palvar called out. “The murder… it happened last night?”
“Aye,” the captain replied curtly.
Palvar drew in a short shuddering breath. “Three nights yesterday. Two now.”
“What are you on about?” the captain asked, his brow furrowing. The inquisitor’s jaw had clenched, Palvar didn't fail to observe.
Palvar rubbed his hands, both moist now. “Did you know this man, Inquisitor Fan?”
“Not personally,” he replied coolly.
“But you have an idea why he might have been killed?”
The inquisitor didn't reply.
Captain Habbra drew to his full height, watching them both carefully. He cleared his throat. “Inquisitor, if you know anything to help me solve this case, pray tell me now. Nothing you say shall leave these walls.”
The inquisitor met the captain’s glare evenly. A breath later, he nodded, his features crumbling. “He was… a custodian.”
“Of what?” asked Palvar before the captain could get a word in edgewise.
Again, Inquisitor Fan hesitated. “Of a magical artifact.”
Palvar blinked. He’d heard of magical artifacts before. Everyone had. Supposedly, these were objects of great power that could bestow ungodly powers on magi.
“Is the artifact accounted for?” Palvar heard himself ask. Captain Habbra’s gaze grew hard.
The wailing woman let out a loud cry. “Oh, my poor uncle. He so loved this city and the Sultanate. He was to host a stage play to mark the Grand Celebration. Now… now he’s dead!”
“Inquisitor, we do need to know,” said Palvar. “Or else we can’t hope to catch the killers.”
“We?” sneered Captain Habbra. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, courtier!”
“It’s gone,” said Inquisitor Fan, his chest deflating.
“So, it was the magi who took the artifact,” said Palvar slowly.
The inquisitor shook his head. “As I said, I’d have known if vile magic had been used here.” He cleared his throat, then turned around to face the door. “I shall report my findings to the Head of Kalb. It’s possible that the artifact was misplaced even before last night. Yes, very likely what happened. In the meantime, Captain Habbra, I expect you to handle this case with utmost discretion. No one need know what the priest wrote in his… moment of panic. Courtier Turka, I trust you’ll keep your lips sealed.”
Captain Habbra drummed his fingers on the parchment. Inquisitor Fan started for the door, the end of his gray turban swaying behind him.
Palvar scratched his chin. It was possible he was wrong, but if he kept quiet, he’d never get to work on the case. “Three!” he shouted. “Now two!”
The inquisitor froze.
“You can leave now, Courtier,” said Captain Habbra. “We’ll carry on from here.”
Palvar ignored the captain. “Two days from now Sultan Mazayd, second of his name, lord of the known world, invites the masses into his sanctum,” he said, finding it difficult to breathe. “Two days!”
The inquisitor didn't reply.
“Inquisitor Fan, you weren’t here just because the priest wrote the word ‘magi.’” Palvar rubbed his hands. “But because you were concerned if the priest hinted at some calamity at the Grand Celebration in two days.”
