The Scarred Crescent E-Book

F Moses

• Herausgeber: F Moses
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A magus. A hunter of magi. Blood enemies forced to save each other. Aaron is a magus, fated to be hunted by the Raj–world’s last superpower founded in the Indian subcontinent–and their highly trained Inquisitors. When Aaron falls for a reporter, he doesn’t know she has another admirer. A dangerous one. An Inquisitor called Omar who has the power to sever magi from their magic. Neither man realises the Raj is at a breaking point, its social and cultural tensions boiling over. An ancient enemy, hostile to them both, is preparing a final strike that will plunge the world into anarchy.  Aaron and Omar stand against each other. At stake isn’t just the woman they love but the very fate of their peoples.  What would you do in their place?  If you like your Urban Fantasy set in exotic locations populated by compelling actors, then you'll love F Moses's unique take on the genre. Buy The Scarred Crescent now to save the fate of millions!

Leseprobe

The Scarred Crescent

F Moses

Contents

1. Choices

2. Compromises

3. The raid

4. Justice

5. Inspiration

6. The aftermath

7. The Gymkhana

8. Investigations

9. Cooperation

10. A trip up North

11. Mosques and gods

12. The day approaches

13. Difficult choices

14. The Press Conference

15. Mission Impossible

16. Twisting the arm

17. Everyone needs a mother

18. A new land

19. Power of music

20. Exploration

21. Left no choice

22. The long trip

23. Acceptance

24. The one constant

25. The scoop

26. Alliances

27. Farewells

28. Trying the other way

29. Dilemmas

30. The mainland

31. Confirmations

32. Rumi and zikr

33. The hunt

34. Confrontations

35. The long night

36. Beautiful days

37. Hopes and disappointments

38. Questions

39. Declarations

40. The volcano

41. Duty

42. Chasing leads

43. The two women

44. Vengeance

45. A message arrives

46. Appeals

47. Shocks

48. Difficult compromises

49. The piecing together

50. In the shade of the night

51. Unexpected heroes

52. The attempts

53. Decisions

54. Acceptance

55. Life is not fair

56. Freedoms taken for granted

57. The reckoning

58. What happens in wars

59. Parenthood

60. Weight of duty

61. Purposes

62. What's in a victory?

63. Ashes

64. Rubble

65. Acceptance

Keep in touch

1

Choices

Seventy-thousand Miamians roared his name. ‘Aaron! Aaron!’

Closing his eyes, Aaron inhaled deeply, waited for his thudding heart to slow down. Beads of perspiration trickled down his clammy face, leaving salty pathways in their wake. He readjusted his helmet, the plastered hair underneath squelching with the movement.

I can hit the winning runs, he told himself. I will do it!

Wild thoughts ran through his mind. There were Inquisitors in the crowd tonight. Islands of nothingness, voids of darkness. Would they be cheering his name tonight without realising they did so for a magi? If his insides weren’t a knotted mess already, he would have chuckled.

His lungs burned and he finally forced an exhale, letting his fingers curl tight around the bat handle. The right pinkie twitched inside the glove. Lit up by the floodlights, the Mumbai Stars huddled together in the centre of Miami Oval, eleven of the finest cricketers in the world devising strategy to neutralise him.

I can do this! His being here was no fluke — a whole lifetime of deliberate choices had brought him here. He cocked his head to the right. A gust of wind whipped the Raj’s flag on the tall pole, its green crescent fluttering like a serpent’s tail.

‘Six runs required from two balls,’ announced a raspy voice over the PA system in an exaggerated Hindustani drawl. ‘Men and women of Florida, make some noise!’

The crowd roared, its clamour deafening.

Gritting his teeth, he turned his attention back to the Mumbai Stars. The fielders ran to take their new positions across the ground.

Shit, he thought.

They stood closer now. Much closer. Cutting off his options to sneak a quick run through. He’d have to swing the bat and hope he connected.

‘Don’t over think it, mate!’ Dale Stokes, his partner on the other end of the pitch, shouted over the din. ‘Watch the ball and fucking smash it!’

Aaron nodded.

Grinning, Dale made the victory sign with one hand, and lifted the bat with the other as if it were a weapon instead of a length of willow. Aaron’s mouth had grown parched. He licked his lips, ignored the weight in his gut growing heavier by the second.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ whispered the voice in his ear, startling him yet again. He shook his head. Now was not the time to engage with figments of his imagination.

As if it could smell blood in the air, the crowd bayed, howled in anticipation. This was their one chance to show up the mainlanders at their own game. Give them a taste of their own medicine.

And he, Aaron Poudrier was their champion. Not a cricketer playing a sport, more a gladiator carrying hopes of a proud province.

Too bad he felt like the sacrificial bull than anything else.

‘Just smack the ball,’ he muttered to himself, nodding at his shadow cast by the floodlights. He could do it. Would do it.

He just needed to go back to the basics. Peel back the rowdy crowd, his frayed nerves, the holo cameras filming him from a thousand angles, and this was but another ball game. Six runs required from two balls? Easy stuff. One mighty heave of the bat, and the pink leather ball would soar into the air, sail past the boundary, land the six runs.

An equation so simple it required no understanding of the ancient sport’s arcane laws.

His legs shook as he bent his knees to take his stance. Damn it! He spat on the dusty pitch through the helmet’s grill.

Dale shouted something again, but he couldn’t hear the man over the blood pounding at his temples.

He did have other options though. He could just will his way to victory. One of the perks of being a magi. A well timed push at the bowler, and he could stumble mid-stride. A bit of benign friction against the ball taking away its venom. Watch the ball’s line of energy to line up the perfect hit.

A nervous laugh escaped his dry lips. Using magic to cheat at any sport was work of amateurs. Doing so at the finals of the Raj Cup — with billions of souls watching his every move — was a suicide wish.

Shooing away the distracting thoughts, he turned his focus to the bowler standing forty yards away. Yaseen Khan, all six and a half feet of muscle and sinew glowered back at him, his green jersey straining at the seams — unlike his own blue and white jersey draped loosely around him.

A cold shiver ran down his spine remembering Yaseen’s reputation for fracturing ribs.

I can do this. After all, Dale had survived the previous three balls, hadn’t he? Even sneaked a run thanks to a lucky miscue. Dale had smiled at Aaron when they’d changed positions, as if bequeathing him the honour of striking the winning runs.

Yaseen bared his teeth, threw the pink leather ball up in the air, caught it with a casual outstretched hand. The crowd hollered. Aaron’s breath caught, and he swallowed a thick lump of saliva.

Yaseen threw the ball up one more time. If this was an intimidation tactic meant to scare the opposing batman, the damned thing was certainly working. Aaron shook his head. What was wrong with the crowd anyway? Shouldn’t they be booing the big, mean fast bowler from the mainland who intended to deny them their victory?

But no, like all other masochist crowds, they too longed to see the world’s fastest man tear into batsman — even if the victim was one of theirs.

He shook his head again, tapped the crease once with the bat, then slipped into his batting stance. Lifelong training kicked in. Keep the bat’s back-lift low to counter the express pace. Watch the ball all the way. Don’t swing, time your strokes.

He didn’t have the luxury of following good habits. Just a choice that needed to be made. He raised the bat up high, exposing the wicket behind him.

Yaseen spat to his side, ran a hand through his long dark hair. Then leaning forward, he began his run-up. A jumble of distracting thoughts went through Aaron’s mind. How would the spectators see this moment throughout the Raj? The fierce lion loping towards the gazelle? A raging Goliath tearing into the trembling David? A mounted knight mowing down hapless infantry?

Focus! Aaron forced his hands to remain still, watching Yaseen grow bigger each second.

A metre away from the popping crease, Yaseen leapt high in the air. A grunt filled the air, the crowd screamed in orgasmic pleasure. The thick shoulder rounded through its motion. The leather ball exploded from his hand, catching the glint of the floodlights for the briefest of moments.

An out-swinger! Gritting his teeth, Aaron brought down the bat hard, aiming for the area just to the right of his off-stump.

A rush of wind whooshed through the bat and his pads.

Instead of the satisfying thwack of wood smashing into dense leather, the wickets clattered behind him.

The world froze to a standstill. He didn’t need to turn around to see the shattered mess of his wickets. Yaseen let out a primal scream, punched the air. His outstretched arms reached out to the heavens as his teammates rushed in to celebrate. A chorus of boos and groans rang out from the seventy-thousand disappointed souls.

‘And that’s out!’ came the announcement on the PA system. ‘What a ball from the fast bowler! Now the Atlantis Warriors need six runs from one ball.’ The boos grew louder. ‘Can they do it? Frankly, I have my doubts, and good money riding on the Mumbai Stars.’

Bat dangling limply in his hand, he began the long walk towards the pavilion. Yaseen turned around to jab a finger at him, other fielders joining in with jeers of their own. He kept walking, letting the catcalls, the jeers, the boos, melt into a universe of shame.

He had failed. Again. And of all the times to fail, he had chosen the absolute worst. Made a real spectacle of him.

If there was a silver lining, it was that the terror of the moment was over for him. His vigil had ended.

At the boundary rope, Roy Gorrick bumped fists with him. The incoming batsman stood next to an advertising board with a picture of a scowling Ali Ellison. The ticker next to the name read Vote for your self — vote for a Floridian — vote for Ali Ellison in the Raj Presidential election.

Aaron forced a smile. ‘Good luck, mate!’ Roy grinned. Unbuckling his helmet’s strap at the chin, Aaron pulled the helmet down over his forehead, hoping to disappear from the glaring cameras. Wishful thinking of course when two billion people watched his walk of shame.

‘Idiota!’ shouted someone from the crowd. The cry was joined with jeers.

His feet quickened. Raj Marines in their khaki uniforms and members of the Miami Police Department in front of the advertisement hoardings stood a little straighter as he approached. They may have been on duty to prevent terrorists from striking the stadium, but in the moment even they could sense a more immediate threat.

‘Ever learnt how to grab a bat?’ came another voice.

The world was growing misty. If he didn’t fear tripping, he’d have liked to keep his eyes shut lest they leaked. Biting his lower lip, he jogged the last twenty metres to the player’s tunnel, a sanctuary away from the buzzing crowd.

‘Don’t feel too bad. Yaseen’s the best of the best!’ said one of the attendees inside the tunnel. Aaron nodded curtly, not missing the pity in the man’s grey eyes. Leaning against the wall, he faced an exhaust vent, let the warm air blow against his hot skin. He could stay here forever, or as long as it took for the world to forget him.

He was the guy who couldn’t pull it off. Again. The perennial failure. If there was a class of chokers, he’d stood firmly in first place. What was he thinking anyway of dreaming up a life that beings like him didn’t deserve? He was an abomination. A magi. An aberration against the divine. A pariah denied the lottery of life. When did a man like that ever become a hero for the common man?

Tears, warm and salty ran streaked down his face. He didn’t turn from the vent. What would his few friends say to him afterwards? No doubt, it’d be more scorn disguised with kind words. Abigail would click her tongue, her ponytails bobbing. Walt and Mortimer might thump his shoulder before resuming their bickering. Big Hugo would probably offer his usual platitudes. And Oliver, his brother magi, would just stare at him with his big, questioning eyes.

He blew his nose, then stepped away, began climbing the stairs. No one turned his way when he walked into the pavilion. His teammates in their blue and white uniforms and the support staff in blue overalls crowded the terrace outside, leaning from the balcony, shouting and cheering.

He stood in the corner for a long moment. Eric Tactus, their captain, finally glanced his way. ‘Better luck next time, eh?’

‘Yeah,’ he replied. Eric waved him over, a kind smile on his square-jawed face, and reluctantly he walked over to the terrace.

A hundred and fifty metres away, the Mumbai Stars stood in another huddle. More tactics. On the other side of the pitch, Roy and Dale conferred with each other, practising shadow shots against the imaginary ball.

Breath caught in his chest. There to the left was another Inquisitor — walking in the opposite direction.

‘We can still do it,’ Eric said, wringing his hands.

‘True,’ John, their wicketkeeper batsman replied. ‘It’s cricket! You never know till you know.’

Aaron looked down at his hand terminal. The news agencies were playing a replay of how he had gotten out. He blinked. His bat had been miles away from the ball. A closeup focused on his face. His eyes were squeezed shut. He groaned

When he looked up, the fielders were taking their positions again, Yaseen walking over to his bowling mark. He swallowed. By losing his wicket, he had done everything to ensure the Mumbai Stars remained undefeated the entire season. Claimed yet another Raj Cup.

Roy tapped his bat at the crease, nodded once at the bowler, and assumed his stance. The crowd fell silent. He glanced at the wall screen beside them. A life sized Yaseen rubbed the ball against his thick thigh, a smirk on his face.

Aaron gripped the iron railing with a death grip. He still had the power to wipe Yaseen’s smirk away once and for all. All he needed was to jump into the void for a moment, and impose his will.

And then the Inquisitors would have him for dinner.

Yaseen leaned forward and began his run up, the long black hair flowing behind him. A sense of déjà vu struck Aaron as Yaseen grunted, jumped in the air. The ball exploded, almost too fast to follow with naked eye, just like it had before.

Roy swung hard. Just like Aaron had. Straight down, showing the maker’s logo.

The sense of déjà vu crashed.

The stadium rang out with the thwack of willow clobbering leather. The ball shot up in the air. Cries went across the stadium as thousands of eyes trailed its flight. Up and up it went, the fielders running underneath it. Aaron stole a glance towards Roy. The batsman stood frozen in his stance. No need to run for runs. Either the ball would make it, or it won’t.

The ball made it. Landed a good ten metres past the boundary rope and into the shouting crowd.

Aaron stared in disbelief. They’d done it. Roy had gotten the six runs they needed. His teammates whooped, jumped in the air, smacked each others’ backs. Even his. Surprising how much is forgotten in triumph.

Eric pulled him into a bear hug, letting go only to grab another teammate. The crowd around them was a roiling ocean of blue and white, its clamour drowning the announcer. Fireworks crackled in the night air, lit up the skies overhead in dazzling patterns.

In a daze, Aaron followed his teammates down the tunnel and onto the ground. One by one, they shook hands with the dejected Mumbai Stars looking just as shell shocked as he felt himself. Yaseen didn’t meet his eye, offered a limp handshake.

At the sight of their champions, the crowd broke out into a frenzy, flags and banners and a sea of jumping arms as far as the eye could see. Someone waved the star spangled banner — an old yet risky symbol.

A media cloud enveloped them, led by a tall man in a bright green sherwani suit. ‘Follow me, please,’ he said, motioning them towards the dais being placed in the centre of the ground. Four young men carried forward the Raj Cup, thirty pounds of solid gold, glittering a million colours under the fireworks. ‘You boys certainly pulled off a miracle. Much against my predictions,’ said the MC in his perfect Hindustani.

‘We’re the better team, mate,’ replied Roy with a grin, thumping Eric on the back.

Smiling, Aaron took his position beside Roy as they waited for Jared Huffman, the Governor General of Florida and other dignitaries of the Raj to ascend the dais.

‘More the devil’s luck than a miracle, I say,’ rumbled a deep voice behind him. Aaron’s feet froze, his soul crying out in terror. He’d been swept up in the moment to keep an eye out for Inquisitors.

Aaron turned his neck. A tall stocky man with dark eyes and a thick moustache covering the upper lip smiled at him. An Inquisitor of the Raj. Aaron forced himself to remain steady. The tall man adjusted the black Fez over his head, offered him a thick hand. ‘Congratulations! You guys did well.’

‘Thanks.’ Aaron shook the cold hand, fearing his eyes would betray his fear.

‘I’m Omar,’ said the Inquisitor, offering a quick smile. ‘Deputy Police Chief of MPD.’

‘Aaron,’ he replied, affecting an air of nonchalance.

Omar chuckled, twirled his moustache. ‘I’ll be your shadow till we get you home. You understand why, right?’

Aaron licked his lips. ‘Why?’

‘Can’t have these terrorist fellas attacking one of you. Even when they should be happy with your success.’

Aaron was luckily saved from replying by cadres of reporters from Raj agencies swarming the team. In seconds, he had lost Eric and Roy. True to his word, the Inquisitor stayed right beside him.

Swallowing, Aaron turned around to face the dais. From the corner of his eye, a dark skinned woman with thick curly hair waved at him. Unsure who she was looking for, he raised an eyebrow, shrugged his shoulders. With a smile and a nod, she began carving a way through the reporters.

She stopped before him. ‘Zuwena from the Atlantis Herald,’ she said in perfectly pitched cadence, her large brown eyes boring into him. She offered a hand. ‘It would be great to sit down with you and hear your thoughts at some point.’

He began nodding, then realised he was still holding onto her hand. With a jerk of the head, he let go. ‘Umm… Sorry... I mean… Yes! Of course. That’d be a delight.’

Next to him, Omar laughed his rich booming laughter. Still chuckling, he leaned into his hand terminal, whispering something Aaron couldn’t hear.

‘Thank you,’ Zuwena smiled, flashing her straight white teeth. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Before he could say anything else, she had turned towards Omar. ‘Jinab Deputy Chief, we’ve been trying to speak with you too!’

Omar blinked. Adjusting his Fez, he offered a wide smile. ‘I refuse to believe it. And am more than willing to fix it.’

‘I’ll assume you’re not going to turn down my requests for an interview then?’

‘Never!’ Omar declared with a bow.

Zuwena smiled. Aaron watched her mouth, mesmerised by its ability to make the mundane sound beautiful. ‘Until next time then,’ she said, then turned her back and walked away from them, her curly hair bouncing with each step.

‘Absolutely,’ he said just as Omar said. ‘Pleasure!’

Omar chuckled. ‘Easy, brother. You should see your face.’

He felt his cheeks grow red, and turned towards the dais. He couldn’t afford to share banter with an Inquisitor. When was the last time the lion and the zebra hung out?

He needed to get away. Before he got discovered.

On the dais, the MC shook the Governor General’s hand. Jared Huffman was a portly short man, a green crescent pinned on his sherwani, a beatific smile plastered on the face.

As if an unseen signal was given, the media correspondents stepped away from the dais, revealing his beaming teammates. The MC smiled, moved his hand terminal closer. ‘And now the moment we’ve been waiting for. Let’s welcome on stage, captain of the Atlantis Warriors, winner of the 2090 Raj Cup, Eric Tactus!’

The crowd roared their approval as a grinning Eric ascended the dais to shake hands with the Governor General. When he held the solid gold trophy aloft, the clamour was so huge Aaron was sure they would hear it all the way in Havana.

The moment of elation turned into a wave, rushed through him. He cheered, whooped, thumped the backs of his teammates. He had done nothing to deserve the laurels. But thankfully, no one brought it up.

Panting as if having run ten miles, he slipped out of the huddle to catch his breath.

‘I wouldn’t take it too personally,’ Omar whispered in his ear, his voice sending shivers down his spine.

‘Eh?’

‘You did all you could.’

‘Sure.’

Omar clapped his shoulder, almost making him fall over. ‘I’ve just had the funniest thought. The two of us are very similar, you know?’

Aaron blinked, fearing the direction the Inquisitor might be taking the conversation. Was this someone who took pleasure in playing a game of cat and mouse before finally pouncing? He examined the long fingernails of his right hand.

Omar chuckled. ‘We’re both around the rising suns of our lives, basking in the reflection. You with your team. Myself… well, a Deputy to a most formidable Chief.’ He cleared his throat, leaned in. ‘You know why?’

‘Why?’

‘It’s fate,’ the Inquisitor boomed. ‘After all, we’re both named after successors.’

Aaron blinked, swallowed the bile rising in his throat. ‘Whatever… do you mean?’

‘You’re Aaron. The second prophet to Moses. And I’m—’

‘—Omar, the one who followed Abu Bakr, the first Caliph.’

Omar laughed. ‘We’re the forgotten ones. The ignored ones. But they forget it’s on our backs and foundations minarets of the future rise.’ He leaned in, his voice growing conspiratorial. ‘And that it’s us who end up inheriting it all, eh?’

‘If you say so, Deputy Chief,’ Aaron replied, wanting nothing but a hole to drown himself in, and being as far away as possible from the Inquisitor.

A short, thick man approached Omar, whispered into his ears. Omar nodded, then turned around to face him. ‘Something’s come up. Wait right here and I’ll be back soon.’

Aaron nodded, fear coursing through his veins, not looking at Omar’s retreating figure.

‘Aaron!’ Roy called out, beckoned him to join them on the dais. Aaron shook his head. He was an idiot, tempting fate like this. He was lucky in how many choices he’d had a chance to make already. But men like him shouldn’t get chances like these.

He looked up. The Inquisitor had disappeared. Whether or not he liked it, he had another choice to make — tempt fate yet again, or cut his losses and run like he ought to?

Filling his lungs with air, he made his choice.

2

Compromises

‘Can his ass bear another ten minutes on the cushions?’ Samira asked, adjusting her sari around the abdomen.

‘Maybe, ma’am secretary,’ Mirza Varkey, her assistant replied. He glanced at his hand terminal. ‘But I fear the general—’

‘And the air conditioning is still working?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Wonderful,’ she said, nodding her head. ‘Waiting for the womenfolk is a useful skill to develop.’

Mirza licked his thin lips. ‘If you say so.’

Samira beamed. ‘What did an old fart like me ever do to land you? Are you positively sure you’re no double agent planted by the Sino Empire?’

Mirza looked horrified at the allegation, his weak jaw hanging loose. Placing a mottled hand on his thin chest, he coughed, blinked at her like a bat lost in daylight. ‘I serve at your pleasure.’

She bit down a retort. Nothing to gain by confusing the silly old doofus. Instead, she pointed at the shut window behind her. ‘A bit of air and light would be nice before we let the master of darkness in.’ When Mirza merely nodded, failing to see her pun on the general who was also the Raj spymaster, she sighed.

Mirza walked around her thick office desk and unbolted the windows. She braced herself, and when the stench of Dhaka inevitably wafted in, she let out a loud groan. Was it too much to hope someone would push out the stinking masses far away from the government complex?

And when that day comes, the elephants will fly, and men would write me poems.

Chuckling, she cracked her fingers. Such a day might never arrive, but some discomfort ought to put the great General Tikka Kumar on the back-foot. Men as high and mighty like him weren’t used to the stench of people whose lives they made and unmade from their lofty pedestals. A useful insight.

And if nothing else, it’d be fun to watch the man squirm a bit.

‘Get me the reports again,’ she snapped, extending a hand towards Mirza. Without asking for clarification, he opened a folder on her desk, removed a file with a clear cover and passed it to her.

‘Hmm,’ she muttered to herself. Even accounting for margins of error, predictions for the presidential election were still too close for comfort. Her brows furrowed at the trending graph, its arrow pointing the wrong way.

A good enough reason to invite the offensive man.

Her hand terminal chimed, but she ignored it. How’s he doing it? She grunted arriving at Ali Ellison’s pockmarked face. Like the seasoned poker player who could tell when others held aces, her instincts cried out in alarm. Something was wrong. Foul play of the highest order. And pretty well done too, all things considered.

‘Is this one of ours, this Ellison?’ she asked Mirza. ‘Have I somehow forgotten we put him to this?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Fuck! Not the answer I wanted.’ From the corner of her eye, she saw Mirza turn towards the flickering wall screen, his long shadow spreading out in front of him.

She squinted. A stadium? Some gaudy fireworks show somewhere unimportant to please the gullible no doubt. Humming to herself, she rubbed the bridge of her nose, watched the handmade trill on her redsari sparkle in the setting sun.

Mirza muttered to himself, the scene shifting to sweaty men running laps in a glittering stadium, a phallic trophy held aloft.

‘Never realised you followed sports.’ She shook her head. ‘Then again, regrettably, you are a man after all.’

Mirza patted his thin grey hair, scratched an earlobe. ‘I don’t. But if I were a betting man, I could have made a fortune on the Atlantis Warriors.’

She frowned. ‘Is this Miami’s cricket team? I swear I’m seeing and hearing far too much of the blasted province and its citizens. That can’t be healthy!’ With a shake of the head, she massaged her left knee, another god-damned thing needing her attention.

Mirza peered into his hand terminal. ‘Shall we send for the general, ma’am?’

‘Oh, very well,’ she said. ‘Get him in.’

Mirza nodded, poked at his hand terminal, then walked over to stand beside her. His thin, long shadow fell on the desk in front. His ill fitting clothes fluttered in the putrid breeze blowing in from the Indian Ocean, the shadow rippling like a ghost having a stroke.

The door handle turned, and General Tikka Kumar, Minister of Homeland Security in public, ruthless spymaster in private, and an altogether revolting man stepped inside. Dressed in the khaki uniform of a Raj general, medals lining his wide chest, the tall bald man surveyed her office for a long moment, his ceremonial baton under an armpit.

Sneering, he advanced. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you again, Jinaba Etimarpu,’ he said, his voice nasal and raspy at the same time.

She made a show of rising to her feet, then grimacing, shrugged her shoulders and sank back in. ‘Unless you’ve had a miraculous spiritual awakening, let’s dispel with the niceties. And never you call me Jinaba! I am not that old. Not yet anyway.’

She smiled as Tikka sank into the chair opposite her, not looking up at Mirza. ‘I’ve heard you’ve got a few colourful names for me now, Tikka. What was the latest one?’ For a breath, she furrowed her brows in thought, then snapped her fingers. ‘Ah! Loony Samira. Now, had you come up this blast of creativity back in the academy days, that name could have stuck.’

Tikka crinkled his nose. ‘What’s that awful smell? Feels like…’ he trailed away, as if unsure on how she might take it. ‘Of course, I meant—’

‘You’re smelling politics,’ she replied casually. ‘That shit stinks up everything. And everybody. Some more than others, of course.’

Tikka nodded. A little slowly this time. Good. Samira leaned forward, her fingers interlacing. She pointed at the file on the desk with her chin. ‘Care to flick to the last page in the file for me?’

Wordlessly, the general put down the baton, its leather end pointed at her, and leafed through the file. His eyes lingered on the graph. He looked up a long moment later. ‘Not good, is it?’

She rapped her knuckles on the wooden desk. ‘I am going to be upfront. Are you behind this?’

Tikka met her glare without flinching. The tall man from the Pakhtun belt was famed for his iron stare, but that held no effect on her. She’d seen him close his eyes more than once when in the throes of passion — his balls literally in her hands.

She smiled. ‘Well?’

‘This isn’t our work,’ he said slowly. He leaned forward. ‘In the same vein of honesty, how would you answer this question?’

Samira threw up her hands in mock shock. ‘Me? How could you even consider it? I am but a humble minister charged to keep peace in the land. No little birds chirping in my ears unlike you. No puppets or strings to pull either.’

Tikka smiled, lines deepening in his face like dried up streams. ‘Don’t play games with me, Samira. For a while now, you’ve been playing with fire. Stoking… movements around the world. Honestly, I wouldn’t be too surprised finding your paws in this dirty business.’

She sighed. ‘You think too highly of me.’

He glared at her, lips pursed. A wolf who wouldn’t back down.

‘Fuck! It sucks to have to speak plainly.’ She exhaled, spread her hands. ‘Where’s the fun in that, eh? Anyway, to answer your question, I have nothing to do with the rise of Ellison.’

‘He is not your puppet?’ Tikka persisted.

‘I have better taste than that,’ she suggested with a wink.

Tikka sank back into his chair, the tired lines in his face deepening. ‘I had been hoping you’d say yes. Fearing you’d say no.’

They examined each other in silence. The itch grew worse in her knee, but she ignored it. The damned hand terminal vibrated against her wrist again. Shaking her head, she cleared her throat. ‘You’re old enough to have heard some useful sayings in your time. Ever heard the one about the enemy of an enemy being one’s friend?’

Tikka grabbed the baton from the desk, twirled it in his fingers. She sighed. Men and their dicks. Tired of stroking themselves, they always found other objects to project. After interminably long seconds, the baton finally came to a halt. Tikka leaned forward. ‘What do you want?’

‘A free and fair election,’ she replied without missing a beat.

Tikka laughed. ‘Hypocritical much coming from you of all people?’

‘Can’t a girl turn over a new leaf, try new fetishes?’ She batted her eyelids. ‘Anyway, as I said, I’ve better taste than letting a bull run amok in my china shop.’ She paused. ‘Have you talked to the president?’

Tikka stared at her, his beady eyes growing harder with each passing breath. ‘I’ve approached the president, but he… seems convinced the voters will have their final and fair say.’

She sighed, then pursed her lips. ‘You men are too busy looking at the pathetic little tip underneath your bellies to see what’s happening right in front. He’s going to lose! Doesn’t he get it?’

‘Have you tried putting your point across to him?’ Tikka asked.

‘Oh, I tried dropping hints here and there, all subtle like at first. Then I talked to the buffoon myself last week. “Let me take care of the affairs”, I offered…’

‘And?’

‘He laughed.’

Tikka sighed. For a brief moment, he looked every bit the sixty-two year old man he was. A man realising the limits of his once boundless powers. A prisoner to the whims of time. A mortal.

The moment passed.

Tikka pointed a finger at the wall opposite the terminal covered with maps of the Raj territories — a staple in all Ministry of Interior offices. ‘We’ve come far, haven’t we? Who would have thought savages from Sindh would one day end up forging a republic stretching all the way from Bengal to Eastern Europe?’ He barked a short laugh. ‘And that we’d become her custodians!’

‘No empire lasts forever,’ she warned. ‘The Ottoman didn’t. Neither did the Mughals nor the Romans. Even the toughest straitjacket can unravel from one stray strand.’

‘Yeah, you’d know all about it.’

She punched the desk with her right hand, not letting her face betray the physical pain. Tikka looked taken aback. ‘Stop insinuating things right in front of me. Take your dick out, and shoot your seed right here instead of wasting it in the dark of night muttering to yourself! But be straight with me here.’

The general’s eyes narrowed.

Samira rapped her knuckles. ‘Have you… heard from them?’ No need to specify who she meant. Walls had ears after all. Something the spymaster knew only too well.

Tikka’s gaze turned towards Mirza. The lanky old clerk stood so still and quiet he might have passed for the decor. She gave her head a reassuring nod and Tikka relented. ‘The Inquisitors deny their involvement.’ He paused. ‘Nor do they detect the work of a rogue magi at play here.’

An unseen weight seemed to lift off her back. Her mind was made for political machinations, not some blasted mumbo jumbo she couldn’t begin to understand.

‘Those guys give me the creeps,’ she confessed, a shiver running down her spine. ‘Some things are just not meant to be.’

‘On that, we agree, ma’am secretary,’ Tikka replied with a smile.

‘Tell me something Tikka, and don’t frigging beat about the bush. Remember if you piss me off, I can find out all the holes your dick’s been in to recently...’ Tikka kept smiling. Gritting he teeth, she continued, ‘Both of us are creatures guided by self-preservation. So tell me why do you seem so wound up in this business?’

He spread his arms. ‘As hard as it might be to believe, I am a patriot. So long I stand, no one dares challenge the Raj.’

She cackled. ‘As shocking as it is, I’m inclined to believe you!’

‘So what are we going to do?’ Tikka asked, the baton still in his hand.

We? ‘I’ll be in touch.’ She snapped her fingers, and Mirza came to life like a gargoyle summoned from its ancient slumber. ‘See the general out, will you? And close the blasted windows. The stink’s getting too much to bear.’

Tikka didn’t wait for Mirza. Standing up in one smooth motion, he pulled his chair back, and casting a baleful look her way, stormed out of the room.

Samira shook her head. Where were the gentlemanly manners one assumed from the well-heeled? She pointed a manicured fingernail at Mirza, then at the baton the general had left behind. ‘Nose held up so high, he forgot his little dick behind.’

Mirza chuckled, or tried to as he succumbed to another bout of coughing. Samira kneaded her knee, her mind thinking a million thoughts at the same time. Talking with the spymaster had helped clarify a few things. But the table was still too murky.

Too many unseen players holding hands she didn’t have the foggiest about. Playing from a deck she didn’t recognise.

‘When you don’t like the game,’ she muttered to herself, ‘upend the table.’

Mirza shifted his weight, then grew still again. A fragile statute of Moen-jo-daro. A well-trained puppy waiting for her mistress.

She had options. Nuclear options. And she would get results if she were to proceed. But she needed to be sure. Once the table was upended, the players would disperse too. Giving up one’s chair ran the risk of never knowing who you were up against.

She sighed. ‘I am getting too old for this shit now.’ She pulled open the drawer to the right, the iron key jingling softly in the thick lock, and felt for the plastic files there. Her hand shook on the smooth surface.

Once the dye was cast, there would be no turning back. One way or the other, the consequences would catch up to her. And with the Raj.

She yanked the files out, offered it to Mirza. ‘Get me the couriers!’

3

The raid

‘How far is the caravan?’ Abigail shouted over the excited chatter in the truck.

Leia looked at her from the steering wheel, the afternoon sun peering through the stormy clouds casting a harsh light on her comely features. ‘If the intel is good, we’ll catch up in about twenty miles.’

Abigail nodded, pushed loose strands of hair under the red bandana and turned around in her seat. ‘Alright folks, listen up!’

Walt and Mortimer kept trading barbs over who made better coffee. Sandwiched between the two, Aaron offered a weak smile. She snapped her fingers. ‘Hey, you two knock it off!’ Walt froze mid-sentence and looked up at her with a surprised expression on his goofy face.

‘Well, hello there sunshine.’ He bared his yellowing teeth. ‘Wassup?’

Mortimer poked Walt in the ribs. ‘Shut your trap and listen to the lass!’

‘Thank you, Mortimer,’ she said. Leia muttered under her breath as their truck went through potholes. ‘You know I am not big on grand speeches and all that.’ Walt raised his bushy eyebrows and she glared back. ‘And we don’t have a lot of time. So, the plan’s quite simple. Leia will take us past the Raj truck and remain in front until we hit the South Beach bridge. Then our engine will have an unfortunate malfunction meaning we will have to pull over on the bridge.’ She paused to catch her breath. ‘And then—’

‘Kaboom,’ said Mortimer, blowing at his hand as if it were a gun.

She narrowed her eyes, raised an admonishing finger. ‘We surround them and relieve them of the Floridian money they’ve stolen from us.’

‘Hear, hear!’ Walt reached over Aaron and thumped Mortimer on the back, an action made more difficult by the sudden swerve Leia made to dodge more potholes.

Walt scratched his stubble, his eyes lighting up. ‘What if they shoot at us?’

‘Then you dodge like hell and let us handle it.’

‘Spoil sport,’ he replied, shaking his head. He lifted the assault rifle from his feet and peered at it. She pursed her lips. From experience, the Raj guards shouldn’t put up a fight. But if they did, they were prepared.

Aaron brushed back hair from his forehead, fixed his bright green eyes on her. She cleared her throat. ‘You sure you wanna do this, Aaron?’

‘Aye,’ he replied softly, thin long fingers playing with the black balaclava in the lap.

‘You don’t have to. There are other ways you can be of help.’

‘Go easy on the brother, lass,’ Mortimer said. ‘Can’t ye’r see the poor guy is still reeling from the final?’

Aaron cleared his throat. ‘I’m doing just fine, thank you.’

Walt thumped Aaron’s shoulder eliciting a wince. ‘I reckon with the practice you’ve had with the bat, you could just grab one of these rifles from the butt and whack ’em like hell.’ He laughed as if he’d made the funniest joke of the year. Mortimer joined in a second later.

‘Ten miles,’ Leia called out, grabbing her balaclava from the dashboard of their rickety truck.

Abigail rubbed her fingers. ‘Ready your masks. Remember to put them after we’re overtaken them.’

As the men busied themselves, she interlaced her fingers itching to do something, anything but wait. Cool ocean breeze blew in through the open window. She closed her eyes, focused her thoughts, ignored yet another Walt and Mortimer altercation. All going well, they should be done in twenty minutes. Thirty minutes tops. The plan was simple indeed. Order the guards to come out of the armoured truck with their hands up, have them surrender the keys, tie them up, and then watch Walt and Mortimer transfer sacks of Raj rupees into their truck.

Nothing they hadn’t done before. Should be piece of cake.

She hummed softly — a haunting melody her mother used to sing setting the table for dinner. Her mind drifted, eyes falling shut again. What would Thomas be doing this moment? The abrupt thought of her husband jolted her out into the real world.

Someone hurrahed at the back and her eyes popped open. Some two hundred metres ahead, a nondescript white truck raced ahead.

Leia whistled.

Abigail patted the cool metal of her Glock 43, and nodded her head. They were fully committed now. Adrenaline rushed through her veins as she steeled her mind for what was about to come.

Fifty metres.

She turned around. ‘Look normal.’ She raised a finger towards Walt. ‘That means no funny faces!’

Their ancient Ford roared, its engine whirring like a jumbo jet in the throes of death, and the distance began to shrink. Leia pulled their vehicle to the opposing lane, then cursed. ‘Damn it. The fuckers are speeding up as well.’

‘Floor it,’ Abigail said.

A mile ahead to right, the concrete spans of the bridge rose from the horizon as ghostly spectres. They had no room for error. If they failed to stop the Raj truck over the Indian River, the mission was off. As if reading her thoughts, Leia broke into a series of curses in Spanish, the ugly words incongruent on her pretty face.

The Ford juddered and groaned, but kept pulling ahead. Long seconds later their vehicle ran beside the truck. Mortimer whooped, thumping someone who winced. Another gust of wind buffeted their truck. Doris wasn’t supposed to hit the mainland for a few days, remained a category 3 storm, yet already winds had picked up along the coastline.

Just in time for the election. Shooing the distracting thoughts, she stole a quick sideway glance. The armoured truck’s windows were blacked out as expected. Long seconds passed. Then with another grunt, Leia pulled back into their lane, the white truck now in Abigail’s side mirror.

‘Good,’ Abigail murmured, then shouted. ‘Alright guys, masks on!’ She took off the bandana keeping her curly red hair together and pulled on the balaclava over her head. The itchy wool chafed against her skin as she settled it around her eyes. A quick look back confirmed the guys were ready as well.

The Ford leaned into the turn, its tyres kicking up dust and debris. And then they were on the bridge, turbulent water raging against the foundations. Abigail tightened her grip on the gun, ignored the slight tremble in her legs.

‘Ready?’ Leia asked, craning her neck towards her.

She nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’

Leia put on the hazard lights, took her foot off the accelerator. The Ford’s momentum continued carrying them forward but they were slowing now.

‘Time to kick some ass,’ Walt whooped.

A horn blared at them. They continued to slow down, the Ford swerving between the lanes. She tightened her grip on the gun, forced her heartbeat to slow down.

They ground to a stop halfway across the bridge, blocking the route. Tense seconds passed, the air inside punctured by sounds of magazines clipping into their slots. Hold it.

The passenger door opened, and a squat Raj marine in his khaki uniform stepped out of the white truck.

‘Get moving!’ he shouted, gesturing wildly with his arms.

‘Hold it,’ she hissed.

When no reply came, the marine advanced towards them warily, a hand gripping the sidearm in his holster.

‘Hold it,’ she said through clenched teeth.

Wind whipped the marine’s uniform, pulling at his green beret even as he continued to march forward. Her insides a gnarled mess, she tapped the gun’s barrel with the other hand. A comforting ritual.

When the guard was half a dozen steps away, she shouted. ‘Out!’

She burst through the door, gun aimed at the marine. ‘Hands up!’ she ordered, gesturing with the Glock. Through the other doors, three figures in dark clothing and balaclavas trotted towards the white truck. Two pointed their AK-47s at the windshield, the third pointed his gun at the tyres.

‘Hands up, or you’ll be dinner for the fish tonight!’ she shouted again at the guard. The marine blinked as if dazed, then raised his arms. She exhaled through the woollen fabric.

So far, so good.

Taking measured steps, she stepped towards the marine and motioned him to stop. Crows screeched from their perches atop the iron railings as wind picked up again. The marine’s beret came off his head, tumbling over the railings and into the water.

She stopped two paces from the marine, faced the truck. ‘Come out with your hands up in the air, or your mate dies!’

Her throat was parched, finger trembling on the trigger. Seconds passed. Stretched to an eternity.

The door burst open.

Before she could shout or move a muscle, she saw a gun barrel pointing at her, heard a crack, saw smoke rise. She screamed, a natural reaction quicker than the limbs could react.

A second passed. Then another. Where was the bullet? She blinked, surprised at her ability to do so. The marine was still falling away from the truck, smoke still rising from the gun pointed her way. She tried walking away. Her feet were lead, anchored to the ground, weighed down by the immensity of gravity. From the corner of her eye, she saw a crow frozen mid-flight.

Something metallic thunked as it fell to the ground in front of her. She’d have jumped if she could move.

The world rushed back in, assaulting her like a bucket of cold water upended over her head. She was still screaming, the gun in her hand rising.

The other marine shouted, raised his gun. Mortimer kicked him in the belly. ‘On your fucking feet,’ Mortimer hissed, his voice so cold it send shivers down her spine.

The marine dropped the gun, raised his arms, his eyes wide with surprise.

He had missed his target. More importantly, she was still alive.

She licked her lips, turned her heard towards the lanky dark figure. Aaron didn’t look her way, his gun still pointing harmlessly at the tyres.

Did anyone else know what had happened?

She forced her trembling hand to steady, turned towards the Ford. ‘Tie them up please. Rest of you, day’s wasting. Get on with it!’

Leia stepped out of the truck, the engine still running, her black disguise clinging tightly to her womanly curves. With practised graceful movements, she bound the two Raj marines as Abigail kept her gun trained on them.

Still breathing hard, she adjusted her weight, watched men and women of the Atlantis American Association comprising a former marine, a recovering addict, a part time model, and a celebrity cricketer haul heavy sacks of Raj rupees.

The marine still stared at her. No one else seemed to have picked up on the wrongness about her — a putrid texture permeating the air she breathed.

Her eyes fell on Aaron, his back bent by a sack. He looked up, his green eyes meeting her gaze, then nodded.

4

Justice

‘Don’t do this please,’ the magi whimpered on his knees. ‘I won’t abuse my magic again, I swear! I’ll… go far away from Florida and never return.’ His voice trailed away as he looked at Omar through tears.

Omar took a long look at the wretched creature, shook his head. ‘You broke the compact,’ he rumbled softly.

‘I made a mistake!’ the magi cried. ‘Didn’t you ever get in trouble in your twenties? Have pity. Please!’

Omar looked at the long shadow his Fez cast on the wall under the lone bulb. Six more shadows moved there. He turned towards Nigel standing to his side. ‘Do we really have to work as if we’re medieval torturers?’

Nigel shrugged his shoulders. ‘I like the flair.’

‘We’re not savages,’ Omar said, irritated with the nonchalant reply. ‘We’re doing our duty, and I would very much like some light for the next time.’

‘Hmm,’ Nigel said noncommittally.

‘Please Inquisitor, have mercy on this sorcerer!’ the man wailed, referring to himself in the third person.

‘See,’ Omar turned towards Nigel. ‘You’ve needlessly scared the man more than he needs to.’ He raised a finger at the magi. ‘And the term we use is magi, not sorcerer. Gotta name things right!’

‘I’ll get you more light, okay?’ Nigel replied. ‘A big spotlight instead of the bulb maybe. You get your light, the room retains its aesthetic.’

Omar’s jaw moved. For an assistant, the man was insolent beyond belief.

Time and place, he reminded himself, time and place!

‘Can you tell us your name?’ he asked the magi softly.

The magi looked up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ‘Craig,’ he said, then licked his lips, a shadow crossing his face as he watched the Inquisitors standing beside him. ‘Craig Henderson.’

Omar nodded understandingly. The magi was no more than twenty years old, not even able to grow a proper beard yet. But all that was beside the point. ‘Well, Craig, you stand accused of murdering a common man. In full sight of an Inquisitor, per chance,’ Omar pointed at a shadow figure behind him. ‘What say you?’

‘He was sleeping with my girlfriend!’ he shouted, his defiance at odds with the tear stained face. ‘And when he impregnated her, he… threatened violence unless she got an abortion.’ His voice broke down into more whimpering. ‘What’s a man to do? I saw him at the train station… standing by the tracks… and I… couldn’t help it.’

‘So you projected wind to push him in front of the train?’

‘What was I to do?’ he cried, then lifted a finger at Omar. ‘Wouldn’t you have done the same?’

‘I’d have kicked her out of my house first, God willing,’ Omar said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘After ensuring she was taken off the joint bank accounts.’ Nigel said. ‘And maybe one last good fuck.’

Omar rounded at Nigel. ‘Come now! There is time and place for everything and this is not it!’ He turned back to look the condemned in the eye. Least he could do, really. Craig blinked, his face reminding Omar of a puppy wagging his tail, hoping for a bone instead of a scolding.

Omar cleared his throat, made a slight nod with his Fez. The shadowy figures advanced, their cloaks rustling in the dark cellar. He squatted on his knees, lifted Craig’s chin gently. It felt scraggy against his thick fingers. Moist. ‘In the light of your admission, and witness borne against you by an Inquisitor, in my capacity as the Head Inquisitor, I hereby sentence you,’ the magi jerked his head back, shouted words of defiance, but Omar kept talking over him, ‘to severance from the source. No more shall you be able to terrorise the innocents with your blasphemous powers.’

Nigel stepped back. Nothing more for him to do. The six Inquisitors came to stand beside him forming a semi-circle. Omar took another look at the magi. What a dreadful creature! Did he not realise the Inquisitors didn’t like the severance any more than the magi, what with the impact it had on them? Even more than the bonding.

Without meaning to, he cleared his mind, felt for his bonded magi. Four distant dots of darkness in the East, way back in the mainland.

A tremor ran down his spine. What would tonight’s dreams be like? At least, the magi was Tilsimi, and not from the Baatin school so the severance shouldn’t take too long.

‘No! You don’t have to do it,’ Craig whispered in between sobs, his thin body trembling.

One doesn’t have to like his duty to do what he’s meant to do. Omar spread his arms, fingers finding other outstretched hands. ‘Ready?’ he asked. The shadows murmured ayes. He took a long breath, certain the abyss would be screaming at him tonight for having extinguished another of its instruments.

‘No! Bond me,’ Nigel shouted. ‘Anything but this. Please!’

Too late, son.

Omar allowed his mind to wander. Let it meander at its own pace before finding home in the abyss. As the seconds ticked away, his feet grew lighter. Some stubborn part of his brain still remembered he was tethered to the real world, but it gave way inch by inch.

Voices screeched at him, howling their rage from the corners of the abyss. Sheathed as he was from the wretched beings, cold dread seeped into his being. Unbidden thoughts and fears took on form, flew towards him, stinging him, pulling him away.

He dismissed thoughts and fears that weren’t his. Nothing was real within the abyss. Mere distractions and falsehoods. Yet, over and over, the abyss threw itself against him.

‘Why did your father leave you?’ came a shout from his left. ‘I’ll tell you why!’

‘Mu’, he said.

‘Leave him alone or we will take away everything you ever loved!’ another voice hissed from behind.

‘Two?’ he answered, denying existence to the nothingness around him.

He stretched his hands, touched pillars to either side. Thick. Cold. Slimy. He advanced in the abyss where no movement was possible and the pillars followed him.

The sea of thoughts became a straitjacket, enveloping him, chafing him.

‘Forty-nine hundred and forty-five rupees,’ he muttered.

He paused. A wall of light rose around him, pure white bricks laying upon each other. When it was higher than a hundred storey tower, it began forming a circle—the most perfect shape in a mode of existence that relied on untruths and falsehoods—each end of the wall rushing towards the other.

He entered inside once the circle was complete. In there lay the vile darkness. It slithered towards the wall, smacking itself against the bricks in vain.

He reached forward, his fingers — that weren’t really fingers — seeking, probing. The darkness writhed, struck him, recoiled in horror.

Undeterred, he advanced, fingers now curling inward. A scream rose, pure and visceral. He tightened his fist over the wrongness, feeling it throb like a branch against a raging river.

He pulled and the wrongness gave way, coming away like a rotten grape from the vine.

The wall collapsed. Voices shrieked in horror. A storm of insects wider than aircraft carriers blew towards him. Went through him.

Nothing but untruths.

The abyss receded, screaming like a trumpet whining through catacombs.

With a gasp, he opened his eyes. He was panting as if he’d run a marathon. He coughed, his mouth full of bile. Nigel approached, a towel and pitcher of water in his hands. He accepted both with a nod. His Fez was no longer on his head. Exhaling, he wiped the sweat on his face.

With each passing second, the world grew brighter, clearer, the abyss nothing more than yet another terrible memory. Nigel handed him his Fez and he placed it on his head. The six Inquisitors swayed on their feet like drunk sailors landing ashore after months. They’d taken the worst of it.

He turned towards the magi. The former magi. Craig met his eyes coolly, no hint of emotion on his peaceful face.

‘How are you feeling?’ Omar asked.

A long pause. Then Craig shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ His eyes carried a puzzled expression as if wondering what the expected answer ought to have been.

‘Good,’ Omar said. He stepped forward, patted the thin tranquil on the head. ‘You did great. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.’

‘Thanks?’ said Craig.

Omar inhaled a lungful of air, watched the tranquil one last time. Then gesturing the Inquisitors to follow him, he turned about on his feet, and headed towards the door. His chest heaving, he climbed the steps two a time.

Light flooded the corridor when they finally emerged through the cellar doors. Omar nodded at the guard standing at the dungeon’s entrance. The moustachioed man in khaki slacks offered him a limp salute.

‘Salam Saeen,’ he said.

Omar sighed. ‘Wasalam, what are you after?’

The guard pressed the palms of his hands together, bowed his head. ‘Saeen, due to your prayers and goodwill, my daughter is going to get married next month. And…’

Omar stared blankly, not following the blasted man. His mind felt like a voodoo doll with a million pricks, unable to process thoughts. ‘Umm...’

Nigel grinned. ‘That’s great, old man, Saeen is busy right now, but we will get you a token of our goodwill.’

‘A million thanks!’ The guard bowed again, finally stepping away.

Shaking his head, Omar walked out into the long, narrow corridors of Miami Central Police Station. Nigel walked beside him, the other Inquisitors going their own way. His head hurt, and thankfully Nigel kept quiet.

‘The office?’ Omar asked without turning to face his assistant.

‘Aye.’

Omar sighed. ‘Very well.’

They climbed two staircases up to the officers’ wing. Winds whipped into the closed windows, Doris was close. His feet dragged on the worn carpet in the corridor, but he kept his back straight. Severances tended to impact Inquisitors differently. For him, the penalty was a severe lethargy. And extremely vivid dreams for weeks.

A tall figure stood beside the door to his office, leaning against the brass plaque carrying his name. Even with shadows covering most of the face, Omar would recognise the smug bastard with greasy hair anywhere.

‘Chester Ford,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.

Beside him, Nigel muttered under his breath, none too pleased either. Omar quickened his pace.

‘Ah, our Sherlock Holmes returns with another triumph no doubt!’ Chester pushed himself off the wall. He spread his arms in a show of amiability. ‘And the brilliant Watson in tow. As always.’

Omar didn’t stop until he was six inches from the younger man’s smug face. ‘You’re in my way!’

‘Am I?’ Chester cried, leaning back a degree, then his voice turned cold. ‘I could say the same.’ Omar raised a hand to push the bloody idiot away. ‘Careful now,’ Chester said. ‘You have no idea how much shit is coming your way!’

‘You’d know better mate,’ chimed Nigel from behind him with a chuckle. ‘After all, you’re always licking this hole and that.’

Chester’s refined jaw worked. Despite his eyelids feeling a tonne heavy, Omar allowed himself a smile. This will be golden. Pursing his lips, Chester hissed, ‘You… lowly… what do you know of… of—’

‘I know, I know,’ Nigel said sagely. ‘Sometimes you get shit so thick on the tongue, you stammer vomiting up more shit!’

Omar burst out laughing. He slapped Nigel on the back, guffawed until his stomach started to cramp. Tears running out of his eyes, he adjusted the Fez.

The young man’s body shook with rage, his face taking on a colour Omar was certain would be close to the metaphorical bright red. Instead of responding to Nigel, he turned towards Omar, raised a trembling finger. ‘The superintendent remains pissed off with your bumbling investigation of the bombings. Two more weeks, and I will have your ass on a platter.’

‘I’ll bring salt and pepper,’ said Nigel. ‘Sinking in all that… muck