“Take good care of her until I return,” Isk said with forced cheerfulness as he handed the scimitar to the guard.
Nodding absently, the man took the weapon, set it on the floor of the guardpost, then made a mark on his ledger. “Is that it?” he asked without looking up.
“A man traveling to trade for horses doesn’t expect much trouble.”
“I’ll just need a name so that you can retrieve your goods when you leave,” mumbled the guard.
“Tels Maviston of Shrentak,” Isk said, supplying him with his favorite alias.
The guard pushed up the block of wood and began to shoulder back the gate. “Enjoy your stay in our fair city, Tels Maviston.”
Snorting to himself about the man’s description of Qindaras as “fair,” Isk strode through the gate.
He couldn’t have been more dumbfounded.
In the span of a heartbeat the tempest stopped. Inside the gate it felt as if a dome had been slammed over Qindaras, sealing it off from the rest of the Plains of Dust. There was no snow here, nor wind, nor frigid air. In fact, the temperature inside the gate was nearly balmy. Isk was at a loss to explain it, but he couldn’t deny the truth of it when the ice on his sheepskin collar began dripping down the inside of his tunic.
The assassin bent over and brushed the remaining ice to the ground before it could soak into his clothing. His eyes traveled with wonder over his new surroundings. Clean streets, completely clear of snow, radiated away from the gate in four directions. People and animals moved about in normal, everyday bustle, oblivious to the howling storm just paces away. Isk looked up and over the gate: snow swirled and raged, but stopped at the wall as if an impenetrable barrier encased the city. This was magic of a very useful sort, Isk told himself. But there were other things even more remarkable than the lack of snow. Isk saw people moving about in light spring clothing, so he pulled off his snow-caked cloak and shook it vigorously, showering several nearby women with bits of snow and ice. And in the merchants’ stalls Isk saw fresh fruit, fish, and vegetables. Clearly, there was much more to Qindaras than he had been told.
Isk moved down the tree-lined avenue in a bit of a daze, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling but pristine city. It seemed a miracle to find himself in such a beautiful oasis after crossing the leagues of wasteland that made up the Plains of Dust.
The people Isk passed looked no different from people anywhere, aside from the distinctive flowing robes that were the local dress. They smiled and chatted freely among themselves, but he noticed a watchfulness that seemed out of place in these surroundings. After walking quite a few blocks, Isk decided that what he first took for urban cleanliness might almost be considered sterility.
Still, there was an undeniable appeal to the place. The warmth, the light, the very freshness of it made the city seem like a garden.
Which was why Isk was shocked when he turned a corner onto a side street and found himself strolling along a wall adorned with human heads. He had seen plenty of corpses, and these were no worse than any others; they just seemed surreal in this place. Wooden stakes the height of a person lined the right side of the street. Atop most of the stakes were severed heads in varying stages of decay. Some were obviously fresh, while others were little more than skulls with wisps of hair. Maggots and other insects crawled and buzzed on the grisly trophies. From what he could still make out of the hairstyles and apparent ages of the victims, combined with what he had been told about the potentate, Isk judged that these were mages who had been foolish enough to get caught in the city.
The second incongruity Isk noticed was the guards. He knew that an assassin’s most crucial skill was the ability to detect people who were looking for assassins. There was no mistaking that the men who appeared to be idlers at the intersections were, in fact, soldiers. They didn’t dress or act like guards, but that’s what they were. He circled the same block several times and saw the same four men, looking for all the world as if they were just passing the time, who were clearly patrolling the area and keeping an eye on things. Their hands were too little callused to be the laborers they were posing as, their clothes a bit too clean. But even more than that, they had a military bearing and watchful eyes that Isk found unmistakable. So Qindaras does have constables, he thought, they just don’t advertise their status.
A woman carrying a basket of apples shouldered her way past Isk. Her raven hair and dark dress reminded him strongly of the black-robed wizardess in Palanthas.
“The potentate is said to never leave the palace. What’s more, heavy magical protections will prevent you from stealing into there,” LaDonna had told him. “Don’t waste your time in either pursuit. Instead, cross the bridge and make your way to the riverfront. The man you’re after was once an amir from the merchant district. Some of his old constituents may have useful information regarding his likes and dislikes, or may even have access to him still. Make contacts there.”
Isk would have liked to waste some of his time with the seductive wizardess. He remembered thinking it because she had frowned at the exact moment the idea crossed his mind.
“Don’t be so transparent with your thoughts when you meet the potentate,” she had warned him icily. “He was a mage of considerable power and could read your feeble mind as easily as I.”
Isk had been a whole lot less attracted to LaDonna after that.
The assassin asked a boy for directions to the riverfront and was nearly there when bells started ringing all over the city. Instantly, people closed up their stalls and shops, bundled their wares, hustled back home with their pushcarts, and generally scurried about on the errands that eventually close down a city. In a very short time, the streets looked as if today were a holiday. Every business was closed; there was not a vendor to be seen. Yet the streets were clogged with people, all moving briskly in the same direction, apparently with the same goal in mind. In droves they streamed toward a gate in an ivy-covered wall.
Isk followed the crowd. Beyond the gate was a complex of buildings with high arches and open doorways. On the frame above the gate were the words “Misal-Lasim,” etched in stone. The complex looked similar in design to temples Isk had seen in other big cities, but the unfamiliar words gave him no clue to its real function. He was not a religious man—so few people were anymore—but the citizens of Qindaras seemed to be. Isk had never heard of a god called Misal-Lasim, either of the old pantheon or among the new Seeker gods to the northwest in Abanasinia.
The assassin stood pondering for a few moments as citizens shouldered their way past him. He considered stopping someone to ask what the bells signified, then remembered the plain-dressed soldiers who remained in place while the streets emptied. The assassin joined the tail-end of eager citizens moving into the structure, squeezing through the doors just before they swung shut.
Once inside the building, Isk moved with the crowd and entered the building at the center of the complex. To contrast—or to spite the ornate beauty of the building’s exterior, the interior was simplicity itself. Stone walls enclosed a large, square room, empty of any furniture. The chamber was overfilled with men, women, and children who were kneeling on the floor in supplication. All heads were bowed toward a simple stone dais, really just two steps leading up to a square platform. Murky, gray light seeped in through arched windows and cut at regular intervals the length of the room. Behind the dais, hundreds of squat candles cast a golden glow.
Isk grew suddenly conscious of being the only one standing among the group of worshipers. He toed his way through the bowed bodies to within three rows of the dais, dropping to his knees between a large, sweating man and a willowy young girl. Lowering his head, Isk kept one eye on the platform, half expecting to witness some extraordinary event.
Isk’s knees, pressed to the cool stone floor, had begun to hurt, when the assassin noticed a change in the room’s mood. Stealing a glance toward the platform, Isk saw a slender man step through a doorway and climb the dais. He looked like a priest of so
rts, wearing a red robe beneath a human-sized feather mask of a red condor. The man’s hands were tucked into the opposing cuffs of his robes.
The priest stopped before the altar and raised his arms toward the ceiling. In a powerful voice he intoned, “Great Misal-Lasim, overseer of lands that test men’s will, you who have tested the will of Aniirin IV and found him to be the greatest of men, hear our humble supplications and protect us against the pernicious influence of magic.”
Isk listened carefully to the service that followed, all the while paying close attention to the worshipers around him and copying their motions and responses. Gradually he pieced together the idea that Misal-Lasim was the same deity that in northern regions was called Sargonnas or Argon. He was a nasty god of vengeance, usually revered in places that had some link with fire and heat: deserts or areas near volcanoes. Hearing his name chanted in such a frigid region came as a surprise.
But what really startled Isk was the association of Misal-Lasim with the magic-hating theme of the sermon. The focus of the priest’s message was that Qindaras’s newfound prosperity, even the change in climate, was the result of Misal-Lasim’s pleasure at the rejection of magic. Isk’s business took him to the far corners of Ansalon. As far as he had seen or heard, none of the old gods of Krynn—and some of them were pretty hostile—was particularly opposed to magic. This was a new twist, and it shed some light on his employers’ desire to have this Lyim, known here as Potentate Aniirin IV, assassinated.
As the service progressed, Isk felt a powerful wave of emotion sweeping through the crowd. It was difficult to resist the urge to join them, whatever their cause. This temple meeting seemed the key to the potentate’s hold over the citizens. That realization gave the assassin an idea.
Isk waited unobtrusively against a wall while the other worshipers filed out of the back of the temple. The man in the condor mask remained at the dais, patiently watching the followers of Misal-Lasim depart, faces lowered. Behind the priest, two young men in red-and-black robes wordlessly snuffed out the scores of candles.
Isk quietly slipped up to the priest. “I was very moved by your sermon about our beloved potentate,” he began.
The priest, his gaze fixed across the temple, did not appear to hear him.
“Aniirin IV must have the strength of a god, to never use the incredible magical skill he is said to have once possessed. I can only imagine the inner struggle he suffers daily to reject magic’s seductive promises.”
The priest still said nothing.
“How can I better serve both Misal-Lasim and Potentate Aniirin IV in his quest to eradicate magic?”
“Continue to attend worship daily when the bells ring,” the priest said coldly through the mask, still without looking at Isk.
“I will do so happily,” said Isk, “but I would like to serve in a more meaningful way. Perhaps you can tell me how I might study as an initiate, so that I may one day realize my dream to become a priest like yourself.”
The priest looked over at last, evaluating Isk through the small eye holes in the condor mask. “Potentate Aniirin prefers to choose novitiates himself. He selects his priests from the ranks of novitiates as openings become available.”
“So you have met our great potentate.” Isk attempted to look both excited and unworthy at the same time. “Tell me, how can I make myself worthy of Aniirin’s notice?” He wished the man would take off the disconcerting bird mask so he could read his expression.
“Neophytes perform the lowest of tasks: sweeping floors, lighting and extinguishing the candles for services, and tending to the material needs of the ordained priests.” As the priest spoke, the novitiates behind him finished their task and retreated through the doorway.
Isk bowed his head. “I am at your immediate service.”
“As you will.” The priest led the assassin through the doorway behind the dais and into a small room, where he handed Isk a broom and a wooden bucket with a brush inside it. “After you have swept and scrubbed the entire temple floor, you may do the same to the doors, shutters, benches, and walls. Do not touch the altar or the icons behind it. The novitiates’ sleeping chamber is through this door,” he said, pointing to another opening behind him. “Address any questions to one of the other novitiates. If, after a few days, you find that this life suits you, you will be outfitted with the red-and-black robe that the other novitiates wear.”
Isk took the bucket and broom happily. Things were moving along more quickly than he’d expected. “When will I meet the potentate so that he may approve my appointment as novitiate?”
The priest paused with his hand on the knob of the door that led to the sleeping chamber. At long last he tugged at the neck of his feathered mask and lifted it off, settling it under one arm before speaking. “Soon. Very soon.”
Isk was startled, and not by the answer. The priest he’d assumed was human was a dark-skinned elf, Kagonesti unless Isk missed his guess.
* * * * *
Isk was awakened by a hard kick in the ribs. He had not slept very soundly on the cold stone floor of the novitiate’s chamber. Still, he managed to come awake with an understanding of where he was and who he was supposed to be. Too many surprises in this city, he thought painfully.
Isk curled into a ball away from the offending foot and squinted up into a flickering bright light. “Is it time to sweep the floors already?” he moaned. “It still feels like the middle of the night.”
“It is the middle of the night. Get up, Tels Maviston.” The unfriendly voice accented Isk’s alias with obvious suspicion.
The assassin sucked in a breath, both from the pain in his side and the surety that he had given his name to no one but the guard at the city gate. A skilled pickpocket could have searched him while he slept, he supposed, but Isk was careful to carry no identification that would tie him to one alias. It meant only one thing: the priest had found him suspicious enough to go to the trouble to learn he was not a citizen of Qindaras. The speed at which the priest had discovered that fact in a city this size, and presumably without the aid of magic, was impressive.
Two guards yanked him to his feet.
“Is it time for me to meet Potentate Aniirin IV?” he asked in his most innocent voice. “The priest had said it would be soon, but I had not expected it this soon.”
“You are going to the palace, yes.”
Isk fought down a cold chill of premonition. He reminded himself that a trip to the palace was what he sought. He’d just hoped for better circumstances.
The trained assassin went easily with the guards, if only to prevent a thrashing that would reveal his hidden weapons.
The sun was barely up as Isk was led through the streets. Along the way he had the chance to see much more of the city than he had the day before. He was impressed with its extreme cleanliness and excellent repair, two features that were frequently lacking in most large cities he had visited.
The palace rose up, dominating the landscape. Isk had traveled far and wide, yet even he had never seen a palace of such grandeur. Hundreds of brilliant gold onion domes glowed with pristine perfection, as if newly gilded, in the clear blue dawn light. Trained to assess structures for their potential for entry, Isk noted that the palace appeared impenetrable. There were no windows on exterior walls on the first floor. Only the upper floors were marked by balustrades and smaller parapets. The assassin was not magically inclined, but he had good intuition. His instincts told him the palace was the heart of Qindaras in every respect, including its magically moderated weather.
It briefly crossed Isk’s mind that the Council of Three must have reason to fear Aniirin IV. A man with the skill to singlehandedly revive Qindaras, as Lyim reputedly had, might also have the power to realize his goal to destroy magic.
To his surprise, the trip through the city to the palace gates brought him only halfway to his destination. The palace was far more immense than it appeared, and it had looked big enough. Isk walked at least as far through its winding corrid
ors and open-air gardens as he had through the broad city streets.
Finally, he was stiffly told to sit near the reflecting pool, among the colorful, strutting peacocks and lush, green plants. He had been in tough spots before, thrown in rat-infested dungeons, tortured on a rack. But never had he been offered bountiful repast in a magnificent setting as a prelude to interrogation. It made him even more nervous. He resisted the food and his growling stomach out of an assassin’s fear of being poisoned.
Though he’d heard no sound, Isk sensed a presence and looked up suddenly. A man stood so close Isk could have reached out and touched him.
“Hello?” Isk asked the question because the man looked neither like a ruler nor a servant. His head was shaved to a short stubble, conspicuously devoid of the turban the locals favored. He was dressed simply, if tastefully, in a plain dun tunic, brown vest, trousers, and slippers. The only unusual or outstanding thing about him was the glove on his right hand, made of interlocking plates of jade, silver, and ivory. Isk noticed the glove, but consciously strived not to stare at it.
“So, Tels Maviston of Shrentak, you are interested in joining the priesthood,” the man said, his tone conversational.
Isk recognized the potentate’s subtle method of interrogation, the deliberate lack of introduction. He had played this game of intimidation with captives himself. The seasoned assassin did not react. Still, since they had already connected him with the alias he had used at Qindaras’s gate, he measured his answer carefully. “I was moved as never before by yesterday’s sermon in the merchant district temple.”
“Moved enough to forsake your mission to purchase prized warhorses for your master?” The potentate clucked his tongue reproachfully. “You appear to switch allegiances easily.”
Isk stiffened, but kept his tone humble. “The priest was most compelling.”
“I will have to commend Salimshad for his persuasive abilities,” remarked the potentate. He picked up one of a number of miniature sailboats on the bank of the reflecting pool. The hand in the ornate gauntlet stroked the smoothly polished wood of the boat. “I have a servant whose sole job is to carve these for me. He lives in his own apartments here at the palace.”
The Seventh Sentinel Page 14