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INTERLUDE

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SULTAN MIKAL OF TERANG is deep in his early morning spar with Temenggung Hakim when the commotion begins.

“What is it?” he demands, glaring at the two low-ranking, short-haired soldiers who burst into the gelanggang.

Temenggung Hakim also turns his stare upon them, balanced as he is on one foot. “Well, don’t just stand there. Report!”

“Tuanku, Temenggung,” the taller one stammers. “We’ve received a message from Bayangan.”

Mikal and Hakim exchange glances then end their spar with the ceremonial bow. Mikal takes his towel from the waiting servant and wipes the sweat from his face.

“Go on, Zainal,” Hakim prods. “Tell us the message.”

“Temenggung, you have to see it yourself. Laksamana Rizal requested that you come to the port—”

“Why can’t he send it here?” Hakim growls.

“He didn’t want to disturb the evidence,” Zainal stutters.

Evidence? Mikal mouths to his military commander. Hakim shrugs.

Strapping their kerises on, Sultan Mikal and Temenggung Hakim follow the two soldiers out of the palace grounds.

“Who brought the message?” Hakim asks.

“No one saw who did it. It was dumped on the pier in the middle of the night,” Zainal answers.

Unimpressed, the Temenggung points out the obvious. “The only way someone from Bayangan could have done that is if they came in by boat. Which is why our navy patrols the straits every night. Are you saying that no one saw a rogue ship coming from across the strait?”

Zainal hesitates, mouth flopping open. The other soldier looks discomfited.

Hakim turns on him. “Well?”

“A small sampan was spotted, Tuan,” he blurts, “but it didn’t request to dock and it was gone in less than an hour. The patrol thought it was a late-night fisherman who drifted out of the usual fishing range.”

“But it was near enough that someone could have swum over and dumped this...message?”

“Yes, Tuan.”

The port is more crowded than usual. The four of them make their way around nets and barrels, avoiding fisherfolk crammed together as they sort their catch. Mikal raises an eyebrow when he sees why. A quarter of the port has been cordoned off.

“We’ve contained the area, Tuanku, at least until you see it,” Zainal explains.

“I like this less and less,” Mikal mutters to Hakim. They pass the cordon, stepping past saluting soldiers.

Laksamana Rizal hurries towards them. “Tuanku, Hakim.”

“Pak Rizal,” Mikal returns the greeting.

“Have the men briefed you?”

“A little. But they haven’t said exactly what has been dumped here.”

Rizal grimaces. “You’ll have to see that yourself.”

He leads them towards a long pier. There is something on it, surrounded by a team of naval officers.

“There was a boat...?” Mikal questions.

“The fishing boat my men saw came close to this pier where the uh, head, was dumped. It’s not too far for a moderate swimmer to cross quickly in calm seas. The officer in charge will be reprimanded for not checking on an unexpected vessel.” Laksamana Rizal sounds unhappy. “It will not happen again.”

It mustn’t, Mikal thinks with a shudder. The last time an unexpected vessel turned up, Maha had burned and all of them had been dragged in chains to Bayangan. Laksamana Rizal escaped with a few of elite ships only by chance.

“The head?” Hakim exclaims.

Mikal blinks, having missed that shocking part of Pak Rizal’s statement. “What do you mean head?”

At a sharp whistle from Rizal, the officers crowding around the object back away. It turns out to be a strong metal box, the kind used to store goods on the ship. Watertight. The lock has been pried open.

Mikal leans forward and almost loses his breakfast. There is a bloody head in the box, neck severed in a clean swipe. An execution.

“Who is he?” Hakim asks. “One of our citizens?”

“We don’t know yet,” Rizal replies, “but we found these inside.” He hands Mikal two sheets of paper.

Mikal skims the first, frowning at the fact that Yosua issued an edict ordering the execution of all messengers between Terang and Bayangan. He passes the edict to Hakim before unfolding the second sheet. It’s a letter—bloodstained, short, and to the point.

Sultan Mikal,

The time has come for us to cut all ties. Bayangan will no longer be your vassal, nor will we be at your beck and call. Bayangan is sovereign and will remain sovereign without any interference from Terang.

Raja Yosett Regis Baya.

Mikal reads it three times before turning to Rizal. “This is extreme, even for Bayangan.”

“Exactly,” Rizal says.

“What does Yos think he’s playing at?”

“You’re sure it’s him?”

“I can recognise his handwriting anywhere.”

“And the signature?”

Mikal scrutinises the signatures, comparing both sheets and lifting them up to the light to inspect for hidden marks. “They look authentic enough. Though I thought Yosua kept his original name.”

“You don’t think they’re forgeries then,” Laksamana Rizal replies with some disappointment.

“Not that I can tell.”

Temenggung Hakim holds his hands out for the documents. “Let my men check.” 

Mikal passes them to him, then rubs at his temples. “Majlis meeting at two.”

“I’ll inform the others,” Temenggung Hakim responds.

The two of them make their way out of the port, leaving Laksamana Rizal and his men to finish studying the head and whatever else they can find in the box.

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USKUP DAUD HAS JUST finished setting up the Perantaraan mirrors when Sultan Mikal enters the Majlis room. The seven Majlis Maha members stand at his entrance, then sit again after he takes his seat.

Once Uskup Farouk in Suci and Secretkeeper Rahsia in Impian take their places in the mirrors, Mikal leads them in the traditional opening prayer. Laksamana Rizal was the one to teach Mikal the prayer, similar to the ritual invocation of the Amok Strength—one Sultan Simson neglected it in the later years of his rule.

O Kudus Maha Esa, berkatilah hamba-Mu dengan hikmah-Mu.

O God Almighty, grant Your servant Your wisdom.

After Laksamana Rizal gives a summary of the investigation, Temenggung Hakim chips in, saying, “We have confirmed that both the signatures are authentic, and the note itself is written in Raja Yosua’s hand. The edict seems to have been copied by a scribe.”

“That’s not unusual,” Bendahara Siti, the new vizier, replies. “Have we confirmed who the dead man is?”

“The head belonged to Amanah, a troupe leader who left for Bayangan about a week ago,” Rizal says. “The rest of his troupe have yet to return.”

“The important question here is, do we strike back?” Temenggung Hakim asks. He’s bristling with anger, lips curled, hands clenched.

“What good would it do to strike back?” one of the shahbandars asks. “We have just ended the cycle of revenge—do we want to start it again so soon?”

“We cannot afford war, not at this time,” another replies. “Our people have not yet recovered. We need to rebuild first.”

Temenggung Hakim scoffs. “What peace is there to keep when our enemies have already broken it?”

Mikal chokes, trying to hold back the hysterical giggle building up in him. Ten pairs of eyes turn to him. “Pecah Amanah,” he wheezes. A breach of trust. “Was that a message?”

Rizal looks dubious. “I doubt it. It could be a coincidence.”

“It’s Yosua though,” Mikal says wryly. “He knows all this stuff. I wouldn’t put it past him to be sending us a coded message.”

Uskup Farouk’s eyes narrow. “You know Yosua best, Sultan Mikal. What do you think he is up to?”

Mikal throws up his hands. “None of this makes sense! There was no indication of any of this in his last letter. In fact, he wrote about hoping to get agreement from his Majlis so that we could finally visit each other again. Garett sounded positive in his letters, hopeful for a neutral resolution. And then suddenly Garett and Marla are dead, and this...this thing happens.” He calms as Rizal lays a hand on his shoulder. “Rahsia? Have you seen anything?”

The Secretkeeper has a troubled look on her face. “Tuanku, I don’t have the same gift of visions that my grandmother had. My strength lies in the reading of minds, but I cannot read minds from this far away. But,” she hesitates, “I believe that none of this is Yosua’s fault. He, too, is in danger.”

“And how do you know that?” Laksamana Rizal asks.

“Nek Ramalan left me a prophecy in her Memories, something I was to send to Yosua eighteen months after her death.”

Mikal stirs uneasily. “The note you sent with Han last month.” 

Rahsia nods. “It was a warning to Yosua.”

“So, Raja Yosua commits an act of war, but we believe that he is being coerced,” Bendahara Siti summarises, a grim set to her jaw. “What do you advise, Tuanku?”

Sultan Mikal sighs into his hands. “What else is there to do? We cannot send ambassadors over because they will be turned away, we cannot ask Yosua what is happening as our messengers will be executed on sight. Dare we send spies? I know they agree to the risks, but I do not want to send them into danger for no good reason. It looks like we must close our borders to Bayangan.”

“And this act of war?” Temenggung Hakim demands. “You would just let that go unanswered?”

“I do not wish to go to war. Not while I can avoid it.”

“Neither do I, but we also cannot let ourselves bow to the threat. We should not let ourselves be cornered or let Terang be trampled upon.”

Mikal takes a deep breath. “What does Suci and Impian say?”

In the mirror, Uskup Farouk straightens. “Suci is in agreement with Sultan Mikal. Our priority in this time is to fulfil the Covenant of Salt, not to start a new war. Righting ourselves with Kudus must come first if we hope to be victorious.”

In the next mirror, Rahsia closes her eyes for a few seconds before looking straight into Mikal’s eyes. “The Secretkeepers are in agreement. War may come, but not yet. This thing that is happening in Bayangan is their own struggle, despite what has arrived on our shores. If we leave them be, we may yet avoid confrontation, but if we respond in kind, there is no hope of avoiding a new war. With the Covenant at stake, now is not the time to retaliate. Now is the time to watch, pray, and prepare. Terang as a whole is in a precarious position: Maha still needs to rebuild its strength and Suci has yet to appoint an Uskup Agung. Only Impian stands strong at this time. We must not tax them lest they, too, fall.”

Mikal nods. “The triumvirate is in agreement then. Does the Majlis Maha agree?”

One by one, the men and women around the table nod their agreement. Temenggung Hakim purses his lips, unhappy, but he, too, finally says yes.