The Sixth Strand

by Melissa McPhail

  Rhys said, “If we could find out how Madden is planning to use the eidola, maybe we could get out ahead of him tactically.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Captain.” Sebastian exhaled a contemplative breath. “I’ve been hesitant to attack the problem of Dore directly, because...well, it doesn’t matter now. The point is, I’m starting to believe it’s going to be entirely up to us to stop him, because Isabel and Ean are playing the game at another level.” Sebastian pushed up from his chair. “I’d better go see Ehsan. I think she already suspects my intent.”

  “A safe assumption.” Dareios studied Sebastian with an inscrutable gaze. “Where will you begin?”

  “Tambarré. I have a contact there who might be able to shed some light on Dore’s activities.”

  “At least you’ll have a chance to test the new arrows,” Bahman noted with a grin.

  “You may depend upon it, Bahman.” Sebastian looked to Rhys. “What say you, Captain? Are you up for another trip to Tambarré?”

  “Anywhere you lead, my prince.”

  Sebastian and Rhys stepped off Tambarré’s node into a rain-swept plaza fronting the elaborate, arched entrance to the Shadû el-Fnaa. The largest souk within two hundred miles, Tambarré’s famous bazaar sheltered forty streets and thousands of stalls beneath its interconnected roofs.

  To better blend in with the smorgasbord of nationalities and races patronizing the souk, the prince and his captain wore desert mercenary garb—that is, flowing robes to conceal their weapons, and turbans with veiling scarves to conceal their identities. Stepping off the node, they ducked their heads to the rain and walked quickly towards the souk’s opening archway.

  Behind them, Tambarré’s high walls were flying the black flag of plague, but some of the city’s ports must’ve still been open—if told from the number of Avatarens wandering about—and the souk seemed to be doing its regular steady business, which Sebastian found interesting, or in the very least, suspicious.

  As he and Rhys strolled the market, listening and observing, Sebastian noted that nearly every stall bore somewhere near its entrance an apotropaic nazar, those blue-white-blue amulets that supposedly warded against the evil eye. They were a common trapping in the souk, but the ones catching Sebastian’s gaze were different from the usual trinkets sold to tourists.

  These had patterns linked to them.

  “Do you see those amulets, Captain?” Sebastian murmured low at Rhys ear.

  The captain shifted his gaze in the direction of Sebastian’s attention. He nodded.

  “They’re called nazars. They’re charms against the evil eye, but the ones hanging above the stalls are not the usual kind.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s some kind of pattern on them. I can’t tell what it’s doing—it doesn’t really look to be doing anything, to be honest—but my guess is these nazars have something to do with the number of people braving the souk in a city flying the black flag of plague.”

  The more they wandered, the more Sebastian trusted in this initial assessment, for closer observation revealed charmed nazars dangling upon personages as well as places, and the more profitable the personage, the stronger the pattern emanating from the charm.

  They headed down a street of crowded stalls selling leather goods, then followed another long road specializing in nuts and spices. The rain drummed on the souk’s rooftops—alternately loud when the roofs were wood and plaster and thunderous when they were made of tin—until eventually they reached a lane boasting a barrel-vaulted brick ceiling that blessedly dampened all sounds of the storm. Tea vendors had set up their shops along this august thoroughfare, and the spicy scent of czai wafted among the many tea houses, whose tables spilled into the covered street.

  The prince and the captain took an unobtrusive table at one such establishment and sat quietly while a boy served them czai in tulip-shaped glass cups. Locals populated the place, most of them occupied over games of Shari.

  Sebastian tugged down the scarf from his face and sipped his tea. It was hot and perfectly steeped. While he drank, Sebastian fixed his eyes on the shop of the tea vendor across the street.

  “Who are we watching for exactly?” Rhys asked in a low voice.

  “One of Bethamin’s Ascendants. He visits that tea merchant every afternoon.”

  Rhys knuckled the scruff of his beard. “I thought they rarely left the alcázar. Seems odd.”

  Sebastian gave him a telling look. “I thought so, too. I knew this Ascendant when I answered to the name of Işak. He was the least repulsive of the Ascendants roaming the temple at that time—practically decent by their standards. We were friends after a fashion. As much as friends can exist in the Prophet’s alcázar—ah, but here he is.”

  Along the opposite side of the covered street, a bald man came limping. A thorny black tattoo decorated his pate, while a long brown robe covered his temple garments. He hobbled with a cane due to an obviously crippled leg.

  Sebastian murmured, “Word in the temple was this Ascendant—he goes by the name of Corwin, by the way—met with the tea merchant every day to take a special healing tea for his crippled leg. I happened to have a crippled leg at the time, you may recall.”

  Regret instantly darkened Rhys’s gaze. “Aye, my prince.”

  “So I visited the merchant one day, and you know what I found?”

  “There was no miracle tea?”

  He nodded meaningfully. “If there was, he had none to sell to me. Needless to say, I did some more digging. Friends were always in short supply in the Prophet’s temple, and anyone clearly not serving Dore I considered a potential ally. After a year of careful inquiries, I determined that Corwin had to be a spy for Esfandiar Lahijani.”

  “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Possibly because Lahijani is an infamous gangster in Tal’Shira high on Viernan hal’Jaitar’s most wanted list. Rumor has it that Lahijani works for Thrace Weyland.”

  Rhys eyes shifted instantly back to him. “The First Lord’s informant, who found Prince Trell in Darroyhan?”

  “The very one.” Sebastian nodded meaningfully to his point. “So yes, I think we can trust Corwin. Whether he’ll trust us is another matter.”

  “The leaf afraid to fall may never know the sun,” Rhys observed resignedly by way of saying, you never know until you try.

  A grin slowly claimed Sebastian’s face. “Captain...did you just speak a Kandori aphorism?”

  Rhys eyed the tea in his cup. “They grow on you.” Then he raised his eyebrows and downed the last of his drink.

  Sebastian looked back to the tea shop. “If they’re sticking to their habits of old, Corwin and the merchant will talk and then go into the back room together. That’s our cue to follow. You take the merchant, I’ll take the Ascendant.”

  “As you will, my prince.”

  Across the way, the merchant came out to meet Corwin. They appeared to exchange pleasantries, with the Ascendant obviously lamenting his leg and the merchant looking appropriately sympathetic. Then they headed deeper inside the shop.

  Sebastian restored his scarf across the lower half of his face, glided soundlessly out of his chair and followed.

  He kept his eyes on the merchant’s cap as it bobbed among the high shelves and sped up when he saw the man nearing the back room. He caught up with them just as the merchant was pushing aside the drapes to escort Corwin into the back.

  Sebastian shoved the Ascendant through the opening while Rhys caught the merchant by his lapels and dragged him inside. The prince shoved the Ascendant against a wall and held a Merdanti dagger to his throat. Rhys pinned the merchant at the point of his sword and pulled the drapes.

  An older man, and heavily bearded, the merchant held up both hands and said in the Saldarian dialect, “Take whatever you want.”

  “We’re not here to rob you,” Sebastian said.

  “Really?” The merchant’s gaze flicked between Sebastian and Rhys. “Because this feels like a robbery. I�
��ve been robbed before, and it began much this way. A pair of thugs—”

  Rhys pushed his sword more insistently into the merchant’s chest. “You’re awfully mouthy for a man with a blade at his heart.”

  The man raised his hands higher. “I’m just a simple tea vendor.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  The Ascendant meanwhile was gazing meekly at Sebastian. “Please, sir—you wouldn’t harm a cripple, surely?”

  “You’ve interrupted his appointment for his medicinal tea,” the mouthy merchant complained.

  Rhys grunted. “If we were here to rob you, how much do you think we’d care whether the cripple gets his tea?”

  “It’s highly prized,” the man returned indignantly.

  “Please, my son.” The Ascendant studied Sebastian kindly, while his tone encouraged, as though Sebastian was a parishioner suddenly hesitant to join the Prophet’s ranks. “We are men of goodwill. Such violence is unnecessary.” His dark eyes were very large, his cheeks hollowed, apparently by his piety. He played a very convincing game.

  Sebastian tugged off the scarf concealing his face.

  The Ascendant’s eyes widened with obvious recognition.

  Sebastian gave him a meaningful smile. “Hello, Corwin.”

  Corwin’s gaze flicked to the merchant, who had frozen in place. Apparently, he also recognized Sebastian’s face, which the prince found interesting.

  Something knowing passed between the spy and his handler, whereupon Corwin looked back to Sebastian and nodded cautiously. “Prince Sebastian.”

  Sebastian’s eyes widened. “So I see we were both harboring secrets about each other.”

  Corwin regarded him guardedly. Gone was the pretense of piety. Now he returned Sebastian’s steady gaze with wary perspicacity. “How long have you known I wasn’t crippled?”

  “Since the first day I saw you.” Sebastian released him and slid his dagger back into the harness of blades strapped to his thigh.

  Rhys backed away from the merchant but didn’t immediately sheath his sword.

  Corwin pushed a blade that he’d been concealing in his palm back up his sleeve. From the greenish gleam on its edge, it was probably poisoned.

  Noting it, Sebastian chuckled. “A man of goodwill, eh?”

  “Tambarré is rife with bandits,” Corwin observed, looking him over, “and princes back from the dead, it appears. A man can’t be too careful.”

  The merchant gave them all a wan smile. “Tea, anyone?” He moved to prepare it without waiting for an answer. Rhys went and stood over him, ostensibly to ensure he didn’t slip anything untoward into the pot.

  Corwin meanwhile studied Sebastian, looking as much wondering as surprised. “It’s good to see you,” was all he said, but what he clearly meant was, ...as yourself again.

  Sebastian nodded to his unspoken comment. “How did you know?”

  Corwin’s eyes softened upon him. “Because the ghost of your name no longer haunts your gaze.” He considered Sebastian with solemn, dark eyes then. “So the rumor is true. You escaped Madden’s hold on you.” He offered his hand by way of congratulations—notably the hand with the poisoned dagger set to launch out of his sleeve with a flick of his wrist.

  Sebastian cautiously accepted it.

  Corwin said, “I prayed for you regularly, for what it’s worth. But my hands were tied. If Madden had even suspected I knew your true name, he would’ve had my head.”

  “Or worse.”’

  Corwin grimaced. “Or worse.” He looked Sebastian over then, perhaps absorbing the changes in him. “Your scar is notably diminished. And I noticed you no longer walk with a limp.”

  “The miracles of sunshine and healthy living,” Sebastian replied, while his eyes said, That’s a story for another day.

  To which Corwin’s gaze offered, I would love to hear it, but he said only, “You picked a rather unhealthy time to return to Tambarré.”

  Sebastian scrubbed at his jaw. “I need information on Madden’s plans. If you’ll tell me what you know of him, everyone benefits.”

  Corwin’s eyes widened. “You’re going after Dore Madden?” He looked from Sebastian to the merchant, who had suddenly stopped fiddling with the tea and was now also staring at Sebastian.

  Corwin and the merchant had another of those silent exchanges, then Corwin looked back to the prince. “What do you want to know?”

  “I’ve seen what Madden’s doing to those people in Kyrrh.”

  The sudden light of understanding brightened Corwin’s gaze. “You’re behind the attacks?” He shook his head admiringly. “Madden’s been on a rampage over losing so many eidola. I vow, if he’d known you were behind it...”

  An ill moment of silent understanding followed this statement. They both knew that Dore would’ve roused his entire army if he’d had any inkling that Sebastian was within his reach.

  Sebastian subconsciously rested a hand on his sword. “What I don’t know is what Madden’s planning to do with the eidola. Where does he move them after conversion? He must have close to a thousand made by now.”

  Corwin shook his head. “None of us know where he takes them afterwards. You know how paranoid the wielder is. But I will say that he seems especially worried about the Prophet returning suddenly before he’s been able to finish the army.”

  “That’s curious.”

  “Very. Since the Prophet up and left without a word to anyone, Madden’s been running the roost.”

  “That can’t bode well for anyone,” Rhys muttered.

  Corwin gave the captain a telling look. “He reassigned many of the Prophet’s Marquiin to some special project—those who hadn’t gone completely mad with the loss of the Prophet, that is.”

  Sebastian frowned. “How do you mean, his loss?”

  “You heard about them throwing themselves from the acropolis, surely.”

  “Yes. From madness, I thought—”

  Corwin shook his head significantly. “They went mad with grief. Some were utterly inconsolable. Even the ones who’d never stopped lamenting the horror of Bethamin’s binding were suddenly wailing for the loss of ‘the sun of his touch.’” He made quotes in the air with his fingers to emphasize this phrasing. “They think they did something to anger him. They think he’s punishing them.”

  Sebastian stared at Corwin. This news was contrary to everything he’d supposed, yet it made a kind of sense. For all the Prophet was terrible and terrifying, he was, in truth, as close to a god as any mortal was ever likely to encounter.

  “Madden has at least fifty Marquiin sequestered in a cell beneath the main temple,” Corwin said. “I think he tried compelling them, binding them to his will, as is his wont, but whatever is left of their minds is apparently resistive to his workings. The ones he could reason with—to use the word loosely—he sent away. Something about giving them a new purpose. The others, he locked up.”

  Sebastian frowned. “And no one knows anything about the Prophet or why he left?”

  Corwin angled him a look. “Whenever has the Prophet explained himself to anyone? But Madden talks incessantly about needing to have the army ready before the Prophet returns.” He harrumphed skeptically. “He gives the impression the Prophet will be angry if the army isn’t finished by the time of his return, but I think it’s quite the opposite.”

  Sebastian shifted a telling look to Rhys, whose expression said he was thinking the same thought.

  If Dore was afraid of Darshan discovering that he’d been making eidola, it must mean that Darshan hadn’t sanctioned the army. That would also explain why Dore was moving the eidola as soon as they were out of conversion instead of keeping them in Tambarré.

  But how was Dore making eidola without Darshan? They had to be bound to an immortal to survive.

  He asked Corwin, “Any idea how Madden intends to use the army?”

  “None. I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help.” Corwin wiped a hand across his bald head. “You know...a score of eidola are
through conversion now. If you could somehow get to them unnoticed, perhaps—”

  “I could follow them on the nodes when he moves them out. Yes.” He gripped Corwin’s arm. “Thank you.”

  “Any time, Your Highness.”

  Sebastian held the spy’s gaze for a moment longer. Then he said with quiet significance, “The next time you send a report to your man in Tal’Shira, tell him I said thanks for finding my brother. I owe him one.”

  Corwin did a double-take on him.

  Sebastian smiled. “Good day, Ascendant.”

  “Prince Sebastian.”

  He and Rhys slipped through the curtain and away.

  The afternoon was edging towards a stormy twilight by the time Sebastian and Rhys found their way into Kyrrh.

  They entered at the western, forested edge of the ruins, passing among trees growing madly atop the remains of what might’ve once been a grand palace. The storm was lashing the treetops, and rivulets of dark water were pouring down their trunks and over the massive roots in cascading falls.

  Bahman had led many raids into this quarter of the ruins, seeking the freshly converted eidola. Subsequently, the guards patrolling the area appeared far more alert than their counterparts in the east.

  Sebastian summoned an obfuscation pattern to blur and darken his and Rhys’s forms as they moved through the trees. With the twilight and the rain already making vision difficult, he hoped it would be enough.

  According to Bahman, Dore kept the eidola in a coliseum until he could transport them away. Sebastian and Rhys circled the shattered stadium to find a specific entrance Bahman had mentioned. There, they slipped through an archway and into a tunnel. Bahman had suggested following it to the coliseum floor, but Sebastian wanted to get the lay of the place first.

  They climbed three flights of narrow steps, which took them to the coliseum’s highest level.

  The storm hulked overhead as they emerged from the stairwell. Low clouds practically squatted atop them, while darkness clung to the puddles beneath their feet.