| |
The rattle of swords and grunting of dissatisfied trainers meant peace of mind for Kherim; something he needed desperately. That was why he arranged for this meeting in his own barracks, much to his izmaani guest’s discontent.
“Tell me again, High Priest. Where do they come from?” he asked and pushed himself back until he started rocking on the hind legs of his chair.
“I didn’t tell you before, my lord, because I don’t know. All records in Kahlaran are from after The Great Divine’s judgment. The origin of the djinns was lost with the Old Garden,” the izmaani replied calmly.
“Were they here before the fall?”
“They were. Without question. There are too many legends left, word of mouth which would be incomprehensible in today’s circumstances, so we have to accept they originate in the Old Garden.”
“If there are no facts...” Kherim said, fighting the urge to let his head fall onto the palm of his hand. “Then tell me legends. Fables.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in fables, my lord,” the izmaani said, scratching his nose. The priests of Izma were the most rational, and their leader in Kahlaran famously avoided nonsense such as blind fanaticism or the literal interpretation of tales meant for teaching children – but now, that was exactly what Kherim wanted.
“Fables are quite interested in me lately. Tell me about them.”
“Whatever you wish. Beware, though, the tales are quite flowery. As they say, the djinns come from a world where the wind is fire, the earth is water, and they walk among clouds and waves.”
“I was hoping the story would make sense.”
“As I said, these are just tales. No man walked their lands to talk about it. But they talk of mountains and seas just like here, only they are in a constant shift as the djinns command. Storms house the yann cities, fire gives shelter to the efrits, and the depths protect what the marids call home. They are gods there, your grace.”
“Keep that title to my brother, he’s the grace. But wouldn’t they hang you by your toe in the high council for such words, High Priest? Or is it an open secret that your gods are just djinns?”
The izmaani shook his head.
“The djinns are what they are. Spirits. Alien souls with only one thing in their hearts. Men’s souls are colorful because they come from Sheezan. Our gods are complex; djinns aren’t. An efrit can only think of fire, it fills all his dreams, just like the marid can only talk about the sea and the rain.”
Kherim continued to rock on the back legs of his chair for a few seconds, considering all he heard. “Did you hear that some of them are prisoners? Any tales mention this?”
“They are. There’s no other explanation for them being here. Why else would they leave their own world where everything pleases them? They wouldn’t give up their lives for man’s speck of dust willingly.”
It annoyed Kherim how those who had encountered these demons belittled mankind. Compared to the djinns, men were just a speck of dust as the priest said; insignificant, fleeting, fragile – none of these qualities were how Kherim liked himself described.
“Who put them here?”
“Who knows?” the izmaani shrugged his shoulders. “They themselves, a power greater than them, the Great Divine... The tales go back thousands of years, yet in that time they only revealed so much about themselves. And they certainly never mentioned those who sent them.”
“Oh, they did,” Kherim said. “I heard about it.”
“If you know more than I do, my lord, why ask me?”
“Because who told me about it isn’t exactly reliable, so I want your opinion. If they themselves, their own people put them here as punishment, could it be possible that they have wardens? Djinns who volunteered to look after the rest of them?”
The izmaani grinned, flashing his missing teeth for a moment.
“Possible doesn’t mean true. If the mighty qrahr Kherim asks me if it makes sense to have someone to oversee the prisoner spirits, then the answer is yes. Prisons are made for suffering. Perhaps being a mere man is suffering for a god, but it may not be enough. You might need someone to make every minute misery, every hope unattainable, so that they can’t forget that they’re not human—just djinns in exile.”
Kherim snorted, waving at the scrolls and books scattered on the left side of his desk.
“I’ve heard tales too, high priest. Cities that disappeared under the sand, princes whose palaces burned to the ground, sailors who saw figures walking on the face of water. It’s hard to forget you aren’t human when stories like this float around. But why would spirits care about us? Why do their wardens care about us?”
“Why wouldn’t they? What else would they be interested in?” the izmaani said. “Let me tell you one last story, my lord. When I was a little boy, my brother and I caught a scorpion. It was big, black, and ugly. We surrounded him with branches of wood, pieces of paper torn from my father’s books, and watched him. As we watched, night fell upon us, so my brother lit a candle and placed it close to the beast. As the light of the fire reached it, the scorpion retreated until it hit the edge of the circle we trapped it in. My brother was always viler and cleverer, so he suddenly put the light behind it, and the scorpion backed away again. We took the candle and lit the branches on one side and then on another, and watched as the animal tried to escape until finally it was completely surrounded by fire. When it saw that it had nowhere to retreat, the scorpion raised its tail and plunged its poisonous stinger into itself. Do you know what we did then, my lord?”
Kherim did not answer. The old man flashed his mischievous grin at him again, as if he were still the prankster in his story.
“We laughed, clapped and jumped until our father noticed us. We were glad to inflict immeasurable suffering and fear on a being that was inexplicably simple and weak compared to us.”
“You’re forgetting something, high priest,” Kherim said. “The scorpion could have killed you at any time, if it had thrust its stinger into you instead of itself. It was afraid of you and afraid of the fire, but if it hadn’t been, it’d have bitten your brother the moment he put the candle behind it. Only fear keeps the scorpion from turning on its tormentors.”
“That may be so, my lord,” the old man bowed politely. “But the scorpion will always be afraid of fire. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to go back to my people.”
“Sure, go ahead. May Izma and all the other gods bless you.” Kherim waved, but he noticed the reproachful look of the priest. Few people dared to speak so lightly of gods in front of their priests, and if he had been wiser, Kherim wouldn’t have, either.
The izmaani’s steps had barely faded before the creaking of a military boot arriving from the opposite direction replaced them. Dharm entered the room with his usual freshness, straightening himself and holding a fist to his chest.
“Qrahr!”
Kherim sighed. “Tell me you’ve got some good news and the Marid’s already hanging in front of the main gate... No, wait, if you say that, add that Idranil does so as well.”
“Not yet, my lord,” Dharm said, then cleared his throat. “I brought you something that might get us closer to these good news.”
He pulled a piece of paper out of an inner pocket of his vest and laid it in front of Kherim.
“We did a little research on Shish. The soul of our man there already rests with the Great Divine, but we found one of his partners, who told us where the letters to and from Shardiz changed hands. We kept watching the place for two days, and I think we’ve found something.”
Kherim reached for the letter. It was crumpled, and pale red stains marked it, although their men had done their best to restore it to its original state.
“You weren’t sitting idle while I was gone, were you?” Kherim said.
Dharm just smiled modestly. “If you feel threatened, my lord, we can’t rest until we fend it off.”
The general read the letter, studying every line.
‘Prince Idranil!
Our plans in Kahlaran are moving forward with some hindrance, but undiminished. Prince Charta is incompetent in his present state, and there is no successor to the city’s leadership. His younger brother is the only person who can be a resistance, which your Majesty is obviously aware of. Nevertheless, I still believe it unwaveringly, as does Your Majesty, that his murder would be unnecessary and rushed. Kahlaran’s defense crumbles day by day, so Your Majesty can count on my letter within days, after which He can set His armies on the way for the unopposed occupation of the city.
Your humble servant,
A.S.’
The writer had a precise, schoolboy’s handwriting, which would have made it difficult to identify him, had his signature not been at the bottom of the paper. It was the Marid. It had to be him, or there were more rats nesting in his town than Kherim thought.
“Dharm, who is the most obnoxious nobleman in Kahlaran?”
“Is that a cross-question, my lord?” Dharm raised his eyebrows, but Kherim shook his head.
“Unless your answer is the mighty Lord Kherim Vivekanda, no. It’s quite concrete,” he said, which made the man grin.
‘A.S.’ implied that the letter’s author had the right to use a surname, which was a privilege of Kahlaran’s upper class, the richest merchants, and distinguished officials. Whoever had written the letter was in a prominent place.
“I’m of common birth, so I find most noblemen obnoxious. But if I had to single someone out...” Dharm must have forgotten where he was, as he folded his arms and leaned against the side of a closet. “That’s a tough question. But maybe old Muraji. I can’t stand his voice. He sounds like a goose.”
Akshay Muraji was a sea captain with eleven ships, almost an admiral. Kahlaran had made him stupid rich, so there was no way he wanted to slit the throat of the source of his fortune.
“Or maybe Sikdar. That paper pusher with his flattering expression is someone you’d punch. Khm... Excuse me, my lord.”
“Sikdar,” Kherim muttered, but he wasn’t really aware. His thoughts revolved around the pointy-chinned, heavy-smelling man, and the qrahr unwittingly imagined him with a forked tongue.
Arjun Sikdar. A counsellor of Prince Charta and the most ambitious official in the whole Seir Desert. He fit the role of a traitor almost too perfectly. Kherim felt cold fingers on his neck as he recalled the man’s impossibly blue eyes.
If the soul is inhuman, so are the eyes.
“I didn’t know you disliked the nobles,” Kherim said. “Actually, I didn’t know anything about you before they handed me a piece of paper with your name on it, but that was only about a soldier. But you weren’t always a soldier, were you, Dharm?”
Dharm shook his head.
“My father was a craftsman near the Qajari border. A potter. I was next in line to take over the business from him. I had even learned the craft. Our village was one of the first in the invading army’s wake.”
“Damn desert jackals,” Kherim snarled. For a moment, he was in the Dirawi oasis again, facing the prince of Qajar. “Sanju hasn’t changed since. We might still have problems with him.”
“I’ll be happy to crush them. Did he provoke you, my lord?” Dharm said, but Kherim shook his head.
“Only some good Qajari manners, nothing concrete, but I doubt he’d miss an opportunity for revenge.” Kherim paused for a few moments, then looked up at the captain. “It’s hard to care for an empire. You wouldn’t even think, would you?”
“You’ve aged five years in the past week, my lord. I wouldn’t think, but I can see that, even if Kahlaran’s fate officially rests on your brother’s shoulders, not yours.”
“Then we’ll all die.” Kherim laughed. “On another topic, wasn’t there a mercenary boy here?”
“There was, my lord. He was looking for you, demanding that you do something about the execution of Rashad Hazra.”
The edge of Kherim’s lips twitched upwards. “What did you tell him?”
“The truth,” Dharm replied calmly, but a little sadly. “That Qrahr Kherim is a great man, but no prince yet.”
“Yet,” Kherim’s voice darkened the room’s atmosphere. “Gather seven men. No more, no less. Seven who would choke even Charta if I told them to.”
“The entire Third Regiment meets these criteria, but I’ll pick the best of them. What are you planning?”
“I’m going to put handcuffs on the sea,” Kherim said before heading out the door and leaving the barracks.
He still owed someone a last try. To clear everything up before the Marid’s venom and the vapors in his room clouded his brain permanently.
Kherim was on his way to the palace to talk to his brother.
***
Prince Charta Vivekanda gave an audience once a week. They weren’t popular, because by word of mouth you had to pay just to get on the list – not to mention the first places.
Luckily, Kherim didn’t have to deal with such trifles. He pushed through the golden doors and not a single halberd-carrying soldier stopped him. As he shoved the curtains aside, the smell of tobacco and balm grew ever stronger, and the light diminished. The last room had only one entrance and it was almost opaque from the curling smoke and shutters darkening the windows, like a private room of a suburban brothel.
The smoke scraped at his throat, and as he tried to clear it, one of the four boys standing by the wall immediately rushed in front of him. He was holding a gold tray with a few cups and a bottle of wine. Another boy had cheese and fruits, the third held pumpkin seed loaves and honey with an ever-weakening arm. The fourth was the most dubious, watching over tiny white paper bags with colored, crumbled herbs.
The servants backed away when he saw Kherim’s prickly gaze, letting him continue his journey to the center of the room.
The Prince of Kahlaran, heir of Kanda and ruler in Sheezan’s stead looked thin. His face emphasized his noble profile, but also his illness. The toxic fumes had almost drained Charta of notability and leadership, leaving a wreck that only wished for peace until his death. Unfortunately, the world wasn’t gracious enough to give him that.
Kherim bowed, trying very hard not to sneeze from the heavy air gathered above the marble floor of the room. “Prince Charta.”
Charta only cracked open his eyes, looking at Kherim through his long, black lashes. His bed lay two feet above the ground, partly because of the three-step staircase, but mostly because of the thick silk cushions.
“Brother! You finally escaped the army and came here to enjoy life,” he said and held the mouthpiece of the hookah next to him towards Kherim. The scent escaping from it made his stomach lurch. Dream crystal; or, as the soldiers called it, the gracious end.
“I enjoy life in the army. But you’re slowly enjoying death if you keep poisoning yourself,” he said, walking up to the first step with sincere concern in his eyes. He never got along too well with his brother. They were as diverse as fire and water, like the desert wind and waves of the sea, but they were brothers. It was a bond that none could choose, but neither could let go of easily.
“Come on. I just need to relax a bit. I can’t sleep anymore, yet life has become an endless nightmare.”
“Have you heard of the Council, brother?” Kherim asked, shifting the conversation. Charta’s eyes were misty, but his frowning meant it irritated him.
“Hmmm... yes.” Charta tilted his head back and took the mouthpiece between his lips. “It’s next week, right?”
“It was three days ago.”
The words were stern, but the expected outrage fell short; Charta only raised his eyebrows and pushed himself into a reclining position.
“Three days? No one told me three days ago,” he said, almost bored. “But I guess you were there instead of me. You were always eager.”
“I was,” the qrahr nodded. “Who brings you the news?”
The prince thought about it, but Kherim knew the answer. He could see the sea snake’s blue scales around his brother’s neck and the poison in his blurred eyes. Not the one he inhaled into his lungs – the one whispered through his ears.
“Safir!” he snapped, and a servant boy immediately jumped to his side and handed him the wine. “Who’s bringing us the news?”
Kherim saw hesitation in the servant’s eyes dashing around like a sparrow chick between the prince and the qrahr.
“Councilor Sikdar, the interim treasurer, Your Majesty,” the boy squeaked.
“Yes, Sikdar. He thinks he can replace... him. But he can’t,” Charta said, turning back to his brother.
Him. Aarif. Kherim was never really interested in Charta’s strange inclination to do anything socially condemned, but his relationship was responsible for the current situation.
“Do you realize, brother, that you only know what Councilor Sikdar wants you to? He paints the whole world for you.”
Charta shrugged. “Even if he does, it’s still merrier than what I see. If you have a problem with it, little brother, you can bring me the news.”
“I’m not your courier. You should get the news yourself. You should see your city for yourself, not through the words of a spirit whispering in your ears. Kahlaran is facing troublesome times and needs a prince.”
“As always. You’re always afraid of some danger that may not even be there, but the entire army has to be on its feet. Where are these troublesome times? All I see here are swollen sails and treasures from the sea, and the taxes to provide all this,” he replied, pointing around with his long arm.
Kherim’s teeth pressed against each other, and his fingernails carved into his palms as he tried to keep his wrath under control.
“You can’t see from the smoke, brother,” he finally hissed. “You know there’s something wrong with Kahlaran. Something is happening. If not so, why would Arjun Sikdar sit in the treasurer’s seat?”
“Because I made him. He was the most suited.”
“He was the first to ask,” Kherim growled, and walked up to his brother’s bed, looking down at him for the first time. “After you got over the fact that someone killed Saleel Aarif.”
Charta looked back at him, yet Kherim could not discover even a spark of intelligence. He’d already lost his brother.
“What am I supposed to do? Pretend that nothing happened? Or maybe see a shadow in every corner like you? Go away, Kherim, and take your spirits with you,” the prince said.
For a few seconds, Kherim stared at the man-shaped coffin that was once his brother. Charta had been destined for the throne. Their father had chosen him. And their father had been wrong.
As Kherim reached the door, he turned back and pointed to one of the servant boys.
“You. Safir, right? Come here for a minute.”
Safir approached Kherim, keeping his head down in fear. “Yes, Lord Kherim?”
“Where is the interim treasurer now?”
“I... I haven’t seen him today,” the boy replied, shaking his head. “I’m sure he’ll attend the audience as an observer. At least that’s what they say. I can’t go in there.”
The qrahr pulled out some coins from his pouch and put them in the boy’s hand. “Good. Look to it that the prince suffocates in comfort.”