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Like a phantom spell climbing up one's spine, calling their essence forth only to capture it in its chilling hold, the Hyderi mehal was drawing near as the sawari from Gulzaan was approaching forth. There was a tinkling rapture in Qalmazar's sands that was enough to make civilians delirious but the dread began to bleed into their hearts as soon as the Sultan's residence became visible. The palatial stones tiered into turrets whilst daunting domes loomed overhead.
Under the scorching Kalthuran sun, all Zartasha could think about seated inside her palanquin of cherry-shaded velvet and layered gilt was whether she would become a tortured puppet in this city or be able to return as the governing puppeteer of her own land.
Through her slitted window, the shehzadi spotted rows of crooked wooden poles upholding sheets of cotton; the tops of some rising to a point, while others tilted flat. Tents wove into one another. The canopied ones resembling a sea of jewels with their vivid colours. Zartasha was watching the eagerness of vendors sharpen to adorn their shining customers from a few meters away when suddenly, an idea came to the forefronts of her shrewd mind.
Who said you couldn't have your fun in another's domain?
And so the Malka-to-be tapped her decorated fingers twice against the roof of her tusk-coloured palanquin as an indication that she required a stop. When sturdy shoulders lowered her shahi sawari to the ground, she exited it and ordered the Sherquli soldiers to stay in place as she was only retrieving a cup of water from the kind-faced spice trader that sat in front of them. It should have been expected that was not what Zartasha aimed to do when she had left the journeying structure but she supposed there was no cure for the witless.
Turning back around to face her guards and pair of personal handmaids, the shehzadi curved her lips into a docile smile of falsities then disappeared into the jummah bazaar upon their next blink.
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The people of the city were staring at her, children peering over their guardian's shoulders to get a longing look at the walking display of royalty. Zartasha was embodying emerald envy, gold hanging from her limbs as embellishments and unperturbed confidence bubbling under her skin as she strutted forward in search of locating a specific tent she had viewed from inside her palanquin earlier.
When the shehzadi caught sight of the small jamni canopy, she hurried her footsteps towards it and entered, the flap lifting with her arrival.
Inside, incense burned and only women were permitted. Sitting on a thick pile of intricate carpets was an elderly vendor. Her hands looked toughened, indentations permanently carved into her skin from the tasbeeh in her hand, and her mouth was moving with murmurs of worship. Zartasha shifted her scrutinizing gaze when the aged woman slowly and lowly uttered out, "Aao."
The purveyor cast the almost-queen a pointed look, eyes dipping down to the few frayed cushions placed in front of her. The shehzadi was disgusted at the seat the old woman unspokenly directed her towards so she crossed her arms and stood standing to flout, after which she quickly said, "O bibi, I don't have any time to spare for formalities. I saw a sign stating that you have merchandise for the parda nasheen."
The devout vendor gently set her tasbeeh aside and rose from her mundane throne of threads to address the soon-to-be Malka, "Yes, I sell coverings for the modest," then the aged woman craned her neck, sunken eyes gleamed with suspecting inquisition as she continued, "but you don't seem like you care for it."
Zartasha knew where her faith stood. She didn't understand why a woman was always the one to be judged for her clothes as if that was a true depiction of her connection with Allah. This religious insecurity was years old, now the judgement was more irritating than piercing so she spoke, "Never mind whether I care for it, do you have a burka I can purchase?"
Her tenacious tone was enough for the older woman to turn away and sift through her shelves of fabric. She sighed deeply in her bent position then posed another subtle jab at Zartasha as a question, "A black one is what you would prefer, I presume? Those are usually a novice's first choice."
She gritted her reply, "Yes, a black one."
"You know how I know? Whenever daughters of influential households wish to vanish, they need the aid of modesty. More clothes on their skin, more barriers between them and the world."
The Malka-to-be only rolled her eyes at the unwelcome divulgence and took the black burka with silver trim along its hem from the frail seller's hands. Ironic, she thought, as those were Kalthura's identifying colours.
Zartasha's payment was a simple clunk of one of her less appealing rings on the wooden stool where the old woman's tasbeeh was placed. It was more than enough gold to cover the cost of a fairly plain garb found in a street bazaar but the princess was feeling generous today.
When she turned to leave after wearing the loose garment over top of her finery, the merchandiser made her pause with a parting sentence Zartasha would not forget in her days to come, "Similar to how a prisoner calls out for mercy, crown calls to crown."
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It was exhausting, monitoring the rustling sounds of her burka. The Malka-to-be felt as if she was drowning in an ocean of fabric, the lehenga underneath already a taxing weight on her bronze skin.
Gathering a fistful of her clothes, with layers of onyx and envy bunched in her palms, Zartasha sneaked out of the bazaar undetectably. Her eyes then searched the outskirts of the Hyderi mehal through her burka's thin niqab for an entryway; all she required was a single post left unattended, a sole aperture in dark stone.
There.
She found it in a window of broken mosaic facing the egress of the bazaar. Maybe it was the shehzadi's luck that the small entrance was abandoned by a guard, or maybe it was the first domino falling.
Zartasha walked up to it and shimmied herself through the jagged edges of glass. She found it funny how even the windows in Qalmazar had teeth.
Now that she was inside the mehal, the soon-to-be Malka could feel an incorporeal weight in the air. It was addicting; her vision coated in a haze caused by the coruscating gemstones that painted the ceiling, her heart getting intoxicated on the brazen display of wealth. She liked it.
And although Zartasha believed that all things beautiful deserved praise, fawning over the exquisiteness in her enemy's home was not why she was here.
No, she was here to aggravate. The shehzadi knew that her chances of not getting caught were slim-to-none. It was reckless, but she thirsted to rattle the Sultan in the same way he had rattled her in her courtyard, even if Zartasha hadn't let it be known.
With that in mind, the Malka-to-be edged towards a shadowed corner of the deserted hallway she was in. Lurking away from the fussing servants and dazzling lights on the other end, she entered a dreary corridor that led to an intimidating spiral of stairs, its cacophonous chill inviting. And so Zartasha took the invitation to venture further into the lion's den, perhaps her purpose was to seek the shair out.
Her hands lightly swept across grey brick as she climbed the cold steps, the ends of her inky garb whispering against worn stone. In Zartasha's unidentified search of the mehal, in her unbeknownst curiosity, the shehzadi's pace quickened and she began taking two steps at a time.
Her layered attire made her pause for a few moments, a spray of sweat on her back and a heaviness in her breath made it so that her need for the burka was no more.
Zartasha took it off. Inside a tall minaret in a foreign land, she slipped out of the billowing silhouette that was her cover. Like smoke escaping forgetful embers, her niqab came off to reveal the mapping of her face. And like a fire chasing tayl, she hastened her feet when a glow lightened the sooty walls; the soon-to-be Malka had spotted an opening in the dormant chamber.
After rushing towards it, she understood why the structure was a necessity in the Sultan's edifice. The shehzadi could see the city from a lens so magnificent that it made her smile. An authentic curve of her mouth, as she stared at the azure skyline melting into the sand, vivid canopies festooned with a crowd of civilians. Zartasha had heard from giggling lips of spare handmaids about the magical nightlife in Kalthura's capital but now, looking at it, she wouldn't classify daylight as a shade too shabby on Qalmazar either.
During her nigrani, she sensed a shift in the shadows behind her. The Malka-to-be stood with a rigid spine, she would not let herself be timid. She had no need to be.
With that thought, Zartasha reached out blindly and pulled a corded arm of muscles towards herself then pushed the newcomer against the wall. She had no time to think, no time to taunt. All she could do was unstrap her khanjar and draw it against his neck.
Her eyes of coal trailed from the beige complexion covering his strong pulse under her blade to a face that was both age-old and newborn, both roguish and repressed, had both the blazing sun burning inside his temple's veins and the trenchant angles of a waning moon in his jaw. Zartasha Fahim had snuck inside the mehal in Qalmazar, discovered a desolate minaret reserved for observing the shehr, and now had Sultan Arzam Hyderi by his throat against a wall.
And maybe Arzam was a fool for grinning at her bellicose arrival or maybe it was because the shehzadi had taken his bait then given him one to latch onto in return.
But in the end, what could he do other than greet Zartasha with an eager, "Khush Amdeed, Malka."
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This chapter is a bit behind schedule but regardless, it's only the second day of Eid ul-Fitr so Eid Mubarak!!
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