by David Hair
‘Including a united Shihad,’ Waqar said. ‘So the Ja’arathi could also be culpable?’
Rashid made a gesture of approval. ‘Yes, they could. There will be a public investigation, obviously. You’ll be questioned, but I want you to do more: I wish you to join it.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘Because this crime was committed by magi, and only a mage can solve it. Both Shihadi and Ja’arathi insist on being involved in the investigation, and our family must also be represented. I can’t spare Xoredh, and my senior Hadishah are hunting the killers or elsewhere engaged. I would take it on myself, had I the time, but I must see to the arrangements for the succession. You will be officially representing the household of Sultan Salim, not me.’ Rashid’s emerald eyes fixed on him. ‘Waqar, I didn’t – I repeat: I did not – instigate this attack. That there are people out there capable of such brutality and power frightens me. If they can penetrate our defences so easily, no one is safe. I need to know who they are – will you serve?’
He sounds genuine, Waqar decided. ‘Of course, Uncle. What are my instructions?’
‘Two-fold: first, publicly, you will find Rondian assassins guilty – for the investigation to find that Salim was killed by his own people would be unacceptable. But you must seek the true killers and reveal that information only to me.’
‘Do you think the attack on Mother is related?’
‘It may be so,’ Rashid replied, clenching a fist. ‘She is my sister, and what was done to her is a direct attack on me. Remember that. Learn everything you can – I want to know the truth!’
Waqar nodded, thinking, This is my chance to shine. The contemptuous battering he’d taken from Heartface still scared him, but he burned to prove that he’d not been weak, whatever Attam and Xoredh thought.
‘The investigation starts tomorrow morning. The Shihadis and Ja’arathi have both sent magi to “help”.’ The contempt in Rashid’s voice startled Waqar, until he remembered that such men would have been trained as Hadishah, then left the order. Rashid bowed his head, picked up his quill, then paused. ‘Keep me apprised of Sakita’s condition. Comfort her, and if you can, determine what ails her.’
‘I won’t let you down, Uncle.’
‘I know.’ Rashid handed him a warrant to enter the sultan’s suite and the zenana, valid for a week. The interview was over.
Waqar left, harbouring a frightening thought. What if the trail leads right back here?
*
Waqar sat with his mother for hours, but she didn’t wake and eventually he returned to his own bed and fell into a troubled slumber. Next morning found him outside the sultan’s chambers, really wishing he didn’t have to go through this.
His worries were confirmed immediately he went inside. The stench of burnt flesh was nauseating, but he contained his revulsion for the benefit of those awaiting him: a red-scarved man, thirty-ish with a greying beard and a hard face, and a blue-scarved younger, paler man with curling hair and a small goatee.
‘Sal’Ahm, Prince Waqar,’ the red-scarved man said. ‘I’m Rhotan. Maula Beyrami sent me as his representative.’
‘And I’m Iradhi, my Prince,’ the young Ja’arathi added. ‘With respect, I hope you have a strong stomach.’ He indicated an inner door. ‘This way, please.’
Waqar swallowed as a fresh waft of smoke and cooked meat met his nostrils. ‘I’m ready,’ he said, trying to pretend his gorge wasn’t rising.
But when they entered the corridor that led to the private rooms of the sultan’s harem and saw the carnage beyond, he realised that he was in no way prepared at all. At first all he could see were the blackened corpses, the frozen screams and the bulging eyes. His sight blurred, as if to protect him. He clenched his stomach muscles and locked up his throat, trying to breathe through his nose . . . then vomited anyway, a helpless surge.
‘You have not seen death before?’ Iradhi enquired sympathetically.
‘I’m fine,’ Waqar panted. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
It got no better: the attackers had been swift, but they’d been savage. Some of the women and children had clearly tried to hide, but they’d been found, dragged into the light and despatched, most often by a mage-bolt to the head which left the faces burned to the bone. The blasts looked gratuitously powerful.
‘I’m told you encountered the masked ones?’ Rhotan asked.
‘I did. Ironhelm and Heartface: a man and woman with skin colour hidden and voices distorted. They were the strongest magi I’ve ever encountered. They easily outclassed me.’
Rhotan didn’t look like he thought that was much of a feat. ‘They spoke Rondian?’
‘They spoke both Rondian and Keshi.’
‘And they spared you,’ Iradhi noted, adding, ‘thankfully! Why, do you think?’
I’m getting fed up of being asked that. ‘I don’t think they expected to see me – perhaps their instructions were to kill only Salim’s household? They said several times that they only wanted Salim. They knew me by name and told me to go, and when I refused, they still didn’t kill me.’
‘You’re a well-known person, Prince Waqar,’ Iradhi said. ‘Everyone knows you.’
‘But we’re told your meeting with the sultan was secret?’ Rhotan added.
Waqar pursed his lips, wondering how much to reveal. ‘Sultan Salim had asked to meet me, but we had barely time to greet one another when the attackers appeared.’
‘It’s clear that they must be Merozain monks or Ordo Costruo,’ Rhotan stated, and Iradhi nodded in agreement.
‘We know no such thing,’ Waqar retorted. ‘Quite apart from Sakita Mubarak being an Ordo Costruo mage and being attacked herself, what would they gain from this?’
‘Revenge for the Crusade, of course,’ Rhotan replied, ‘and with respect, Prince Waqar, it’s not clear who attacked your mother. There were no witnesses, nothing was found at the scene—’
Waqar tsked impatiently. ‘The Ordo Costruo had no quarrel with the sultan – if they wanted anyone’s head, it was Rashid’s. And why would they show me mercy?’
‘Have three Crusades and millions of deaths taught you nothing?’ Rhotan argued, barely respectful. ‘They don’t want peace, they just want to weaken us before the next Crusade—’
‘The Ordo Costruo aren’t the Rondian Empire!’
‘Pah! Did you fight in the last Crusade? Have you ever bloodied a sword?’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it—’
‘It’s got everything to do with it. I was at Shaliyah,’ Rhotan boasted. ‘I know the Rondians! If they spared you, it was through arrogance or to confuse us. But my mind is clear.’
‘The Rondians have their own Imperial assassins,’ Iradhi added eagerly. ‘The Volsai, yes? The Rondian Empress ordered this, have no doubt.’
The certainty Rhotan and Iradhi were showing rankled Waqar, but he remembered Rashid’s instructions. ‘Very well. I’ll sign the report.’
But I’ll not stop looking into it. I’ll just do without these blind fools.
Rhotan and Iradhi snatched at the chance to leave. ‘We’ll report to the Sardazam immediately,’ Rhotan declared and marched off, obviously aiming to claim the glory. Iradhi hovered a moment, torn: he clearly wanted to ingratiate himself with royalty, but the thought of Rhotan taking all the credit was too much and after a moment he ran after him.
Waqar was finally alone. Mercifully, someone had already taken down the sultan’s badly burned body and laid him out in peaceful repose on a pallet. Salim was unrecognisable. Waqar meticulously sought traces of gnostic energy, examining every surface, from scorched pillars to burned cloth, blackened jewels to seared flesh.
Every mage had a distinctive gnostic trace – Fatima always said his was like tobacco, which was strange, as he didn’t chew it. But as he worked, it became clear that the masked magi had erased their gnostic traces, which implied they feared they could be identified that way.
Does that make them well-known Hadishah? he wondered.
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He also noticed the normal traces of spirits in the aether was absent, so someone had used wizardry or necromancy to erase them. Animagery had been employed to slay any animal or insect witnesses – in fact, Waqar discovered that every affinity had been employed, and that too was a clue; a group of three magi shouldn’t have had such diverse skills.
Unless it really was the Merozains? But they’re sworn to peace . . .
He renewed his efforts. Wiping away gnostic traces was difficult and time-consuming – surely they hadn’t had the time to be so thorough? His combination of affinities made him quite skilled at reading traces, and he was sure if he persisted, he could gain some kind of insight . . .
Finally, he sensed something, at the very edge of his awareness: a buzzing, throbbing sensation like the echo of a wasp swarm. At first he thought he’d imagined it, then he found it on the crushed skull of a fallen servant – and there it was again, on the charred shoulder of one of Salim’s wives, killed in an entirely different part of the zenana. Now he could recognise it, he found it in several other places, and that too was strange: so many different deaths had to have been at the hands of different assassins – but every trace he detected was identical.
Re-energised, he went to the Walled Garden and found the same ‘swarm’ where he’d been struck down. Who are you people? he wondered. Why do you all have the same gnostic trace?
*
At first Latif walked because he was too frightened to stop, darting down narrow alleys with no idea where he was or where he was going, knowing only that if he stopped, the masked ones would swoop down on him. He kept pressed close to the walls, huddling in empty doorways when he had to stop for breath. Crowds of youths jostled past, chanting for the Shihad, red ribbons tied to arms or around heads. Hard shoulders battered him aside and he cowered as they shouted, ‘Shi–ha–di! Shi–ha–di! Death to Yuros! Shi–ha–di!’
A nut-roaster’s stall was smashed over as Latif wormed his way down a foetid alley, trying to avoid the rotting refuse piled against the walls. The rats were so bold they barely moved as he struggled by. He stumbled into another crowd and this time a burly arm shoved him up against a piss-reeking wall. Dark faces closed in. ‘Hey, Skulker, where’re you going?’ A fist hammered into his belly and he would have fallen if they’d not caught him – but that was only to line up more blows. ‘Hey, Skulker, are you Ja’arathi?’
He fought for air as the youths chanted, ‘SHI–HA–DI!’ The man holding him jabbed fingers into his eyes at each syllable: ‘SHI–HA–DI!’ The final jab became a bunched fist, and he reeled, tasting blood and snot.
‘Stop,’ Latif pleaded.
‘Ooo, listen to the accent,’ his assailant said. ‘He talks like a harem girl!’ As his mates laughed he pulled at Latif’s clothing. ‘Nice clothes – silks and embroidery! I think he’s some rich man’s bum-boy.’
‘He’s a Ja’arathi cocksucker!’ another declared. ‘Are you a cocksucker?’ Slap! ‘Huh? Do you suck cock for money?’ Slap!
Latif slid down the wall as blows rained down on him, then someone shouted and the gang pelted off, the last youth grabbing his right hand and wrenching off his gold rings, then fleeing with the rest of his tormenters. Latif rolled into a ball, dry-retching.
Then something soft brushed at his face, snuffling, and he yelped in fright.
‘No, Rani, leave him be,’ a throaty voice called in Lakh from high above. Latif knew the southern tongue and he looked up, wiping blood from his face with his sleeve as a giant shape blocked out the night. A big sad eye amidst vast folds of grey skin peered down at him.
Ahm on high, an elephant, Latif thought dazedly, and looked higher to see a man with night-dark skin, broken yellow teeth and grey hair sprouting in all directions: the elephant’s mahout. ‘On, Rani,’ the mahout told his beast.
‘Where am I?’ Latif called in Lakh. ‘Please, ji!’
‘You speak our tongue?’ the man called down. ‘Are you from Nishander?’
Nishander? The Lakh quarter in Sagostabad, where many Amteh-worshipping Lakh had settled. ‘Ai . . . ai!’
The mahout hesitated, then lowered a rope ladder. ‘Climb up, friend. I’m going home to Nishander myself.’
Thank Ahm . . . Latif stood painfully and climbed the short ladder until the mahout caught him under the armpit and heaved him up. The man smelled strongly of sweat and betel-leaf and couldn’t have been a day younger than fifty, but he had a strong arm. ‘Perch behind me, dosta,’ he instructed.
Friend, Latif translated silently. What’s ‘thank you’ again . . .? ‘Shukriya,’ he panted.
‘You shouldn’t come through here alone,’ the mahout reproached him as he sent his giant beast into motion down the narrow street. ‘Not unless you are riding an elephant.’
‘I got lost,’ Latif said, which was something like the truth.
‘Foolish,’ the mahout said. ‘I’m Sanjeep. And this is Rani, my queen. You are?’
Latif hesitated. His real name could be dangerous, but false names could be forgotten in the heat of the moment. He decided to use his real name, but lengthened the final syllable as a Lakh would, pronouncing it ‘Lateef’.
‘Sal’Ahm, Latif,’ Sanjeep said. ‘Praise Ahm that I came by when I did, yes?’
‘I thank Ahm, and you.’
‘And Rani! She and I work the building sites, hauling timber and stone, sunrise to sunset.’
Latif was too dazed to converse, and Sanjeep lapsed into silence. They crossed a square, paused for Rani to slurp water from the central fountain and expel a massive turd on the paving stones. As they swayed on, Latif saw a small boy swoop on the turd, grinning triumphantly; dried, that would keep a fire going a good long time. Passers-by frequently stroked the elephant’s flanks as if for luck. At one cooking-stall Sanjeep threw down a coin, and a leaf plate filled with hot dumplings in a spicy brown gravy was placed on the end of Rani’s trunk. She handed it carefully up to Sanjeep, who grinned. ‘Kofta – you want to buy some? Very good kofta here.’
Latif shook his head. He had no coins, and now no rings either.
Sanjeep rubbed his chin. ‘You look hungry, friend.’ He sucked on his teeth, and as he tossed another coin down to the stallholder and called, ‘One more!’ Latif almost swooned in gratitude.
Rani took them deeper into the maze of buildings; she clearly knew her way home, and ten minutes later they entered a stable housing at least twenty elephants. Sanjeep backed Rani into a stall, then showed Latif how to wash and rub her down.
As Latif shovelled mashed feed into her feed-trough, Sanjeep said, ‘Payment for giving you a ride, yes?’ He was all affable slyness. ‘Take better care in future, dosta.’
‘I will,’ Latif replied, clasping his hands before his chest in a gesture of thanks. He went to the stable doors, then stopped. It was fully night now, and he had no idea where to go. The city he’d grown up in and, in a way, had ruled, became more and more frightening. Then Sanjeep appeared beside him.
‘You don’t really live in Nishander, do you, Latif?’
‘I just got here – and I’ve lost everything.’ The dear face of Salim swam before his eyes. And his wife and son – and those awful, gloating murderers in their masks. ‘I’ve nowhere to go.’
He only realised that he’d fallen to his knees in the mud when Sanjeep squatted down and clasped his hands, offering comfort as Latif wept until his eyes were raw, then the man drew him towards a pile of blankets in the corner of Rani’s stall. He closed his eyes and shut it all out.
When next he was aware, Sanjeep was shaking his shoulder. ‘Latif, wake up. Time to go.’
‘Go?’
‘Ai. You’ll work for me, hmm? Just ’til you’re back on your feet, eh?’
Latif’s face was a swollen mess and his body ached down to his brittle bones, but he recognised the generosity of the offer. He allowed himself to be hauled upright and walked, blinking, into the dawn, seeking a new life.
*
‘Mother?�
� Waqar whispered with voice and mind, but neither elicited any response. Sakita Mubarak looked like a corpse, but every few hours she’d wake, raving about voices and faces. Sometimes she called for Waqar or Jehana, or for their dead father Placide; other times she went into a frenzy and had to be restrained before she hurt herself or those tending her.
The Hadishah breeding programme was focused on martial skills; compared to the Rondian Arcanum system, there was no real system of training – often the ‘teachers’ had little more experience than their pupils. Female magi were expected to be healers, but few were even taught to read, despite their potential value; and they were always subservient to the few male healers, even when they were stronger and more skilled.
Ormutz, the chief healer tending Sakita, was far more concerned with ingratiating himself to a male Mubarak than healing a female one. He was only a quarter-blood and weaker than Fatima, though healing was far more about skill than raw power and at least he was experienced. But Ormutz was elsewhere that morning, telling Waqar self-importantly that he had hundreds of patients to oversee; he’d left Sakita in the care of a bony-faced nurse-mage in a full bekira-shroud called Nakti, whose sole skill appeared to be dabbing water on fevered brows.
‘Did she wake in the night?’ Waqar asked.
Nakti stiffened, a doe trapped by hunting dogs. ‘Please, Great Prince, it was Nalimuz on duty during the night,’ she muttered. ‘I only just arrived.’
‘Then where’s this Nalimuz?’
‘She’s off-duty, Great Prince. Healer Ormutz will return soon.’
‘When will the Ordo Costruo come?’ he asked. He’d asked Rashid to request their aid, for although Sakita’s wounds looked like snakebites, her room had been locked and warded and no snake had been found, just the residue of burnt cloth in front of her desk – and all their anti-venom spells were having no effect; she was slowly declining.
‘I don’t know,’ Nakti bleated.
‘Of course you don’t,’ he sighed bitterly. ‘Why would you?’ Nakti cringed and looked away. She probably thinks I’ll have her flogged if things go badly. In truth, he felt sorry for her. She quivered in fright whenever a man passed by, and she had the unwashed smell of the very poor.
