by Helen Lowe
“In the minds of those who were swayed by the blandishments of this Swarm!” Prince Ilvaine said, with a snap that made several of his retainers jump. “Yet not everything is what it seems, as our enemies have now learned to their cost. A very serious miscalculation, do you not agree, Lord Captain?”
Mykon Ambard spoke, frowning, before Aravenor could reply. “Yet who knew, before today, that the Patrol’s service to the River lands included defending the Guild? Certainly, I did not.”
“Those who needed to know were aware of it, nonetheless.” Prince Ilvaine resumed his tranquil manner. “An Ilvaine was amongst those who swore the original oath to protect the Guild, for it was those we now know as heralds who held us together after the world fell. And the Ilvaine do not forget.”
Haimyr straightened in his seat. “So . . . an attack on the Guild becomes a direct attack on your personal honor?”
His great-uncle’s smile was terrible in its gentleness. “It is. And my honor, as you know, is more dear to me even than my life.” His smile deepened and the eyes of the leopard above him glittered in the lanternlight. “The honor of the Ilvaine and all my kin stand second only to my personal honor, and the honor and glory of Ij come very close after that. As for the River, it appears that I have some slight feeling for all our lands. The rest of the world I disregard, unless it intrudes upon my notice—which it has now done.”
“Also,” said Aravenor, “upon the duty of the Patrol.”
Mykon Ambard narrowed his eyes. “You are right, my great-uncle. A serious miscalculation, indeed.”
“Yes,” said the prince. The day was getting hotter, Jehane Mor thought, just as the atmosphere in the tent was growing close. For all the Ijiri finery, it would stink of sweat before the meeting was done. Prince Ilvaine leaned forward, his eyes meeting hers. “We have reports of last night’s attacks, both from the Patrol’s sources and our own, but it would assist us to hear your first-hand account.”
“It may be painful—” Isperia Katran began, but Mykon Ambard cut her off.
“However painful, they must speak. Given what is at stake, we must know the truth. Or the part of it they are willing to tell.”
The last words were hurled down like a gauntlet. It would be easy, Jehane Mor thought, to counter with accusations of School perfidy. Yet that might be exactly what the assassin hoped for. For a moment she saw dead faces, dead bodies again—but this was about doing what needed to be done. She rose to her feet.
“To speak of what happened is painful,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Jhainiarian’s head move, almost as though he had jerked it back. “Yet you have a right to hear our story, if what happened last night is to be remedied.” A ripple ran through the gathering, like a wind through grass, but Jehane Mor gave no sign of noticing. She kept her voice clear and her manner impersonal as she spoke, first of the gift of masks and then the unlicensed assassination attempt.
Those gathered all leaned forward, intent, when she related the discovery of the Guild House massacre, exchanging glances when she described what she and Tarathan had seen and heard there, before repeating her assertion of an alliance between an assassin Master and the Swarm. Prince Ilvaine listened with his eyes hooded, but raised them when she paused. He signaled a retainer to refill her cup.
Jehane Mor drank, then set the cup back, letting her eyes travel around the gathered faces. “You may find what I have to say next difficult to believe. I could scarcely credit it myself, when events unfolded.” Keeping her tone neutral, she recounted how they had seen the Ishnapuri herald, Ileyra, with the assassins, and believed her forsworn, a traitor who had let enemies into the Guild house—until the Derai, Tirorn, had asserted that she was in fact a Swarm facestealer. She paused again before describing how Ileyra’s countenance had rippled and shifted in the light from the warehouse lantern.
A murmur ran around the pavilion. “Can this be possible?” Isperia Katran asked.
Mykon Ambard fingered his beard. “The first explanation sounded more likely.”
“Except,” said Haimyr, flicking back a sleeve, “that those sworn to the Guild of Heralds have never been known to lie. Or betray a trust. Whereas accounts of facestealers come up time and again in the lore of the Derai.”
A woman’s voice spoke, husky and compelling. “We have records of them in Ishnapur as well, from the years immediately after what you call the Cataclysm.”
Almost every head swiveled toward Lady Sarifa, but Mykon Ambard still looked skeptical. “What is your authority in these matters, madam?”
Isperia Katran clicked her tongue. “Lady Sarifa’s robes and visage proclaim her calling. She is a demonhunter, a servant of the Ishnapuri magi.”
“I know what she is.” Mykon Ambard was curt. “The northerners are not the only ones who presume, it seems, hunting in our city without so much as a by-your-leave.”
Sorriyith took a step forward, his hand on his sword hilt, as the gathering disintegrated into a babel of exclamations and questions. The ambassador waved the Jhainarian back at the same time as Prince Ilvaine held up a hand, quelling the gathering. Gradually, silence fell again.
“Lady Sarifa is our guest,” the prince said finally. He looked at the ambassador. “But Mykon also has a point. I think we would all like to hear why the Lion Throne has taken the unprecedented step of including a demonhunter as part of its embassy to the River.” There were a few scattered nods as Lord Isrradin rose to his feet, his look grave.
“In part,” he said, in his accented Ijiri, “Lady Sarifa accompanied us for the same reason that we disguised our journey here. The road is long and fraught with many perils, and her presence offered an extra level of protection.” He paused. “She also follows a trail of her own, one that began on our desert borders and has led her to Ij—and may be connected with recent events here.”
Prince Ilvaine frowned. “Surely you are not suggesting that a sand demon has made its way from the great deserts to the River? I wouldn’t have thought that possible.”
“It is not possible,” Lady Sarifa said, answering the question without looking to the ambassador first. “Both the demons and their masters, the great djinn, are bound to the desert sands. Those I pursue have consorted with them, teaching the desert-bound new sorceries and fouler magics to work against our empire. Our desert border has seen a great increase in blood and terror these past few years, including the torture and murder of several of the magi’s adepts.” The husky voice was emotionless. “Possession has been reported as well, where the new demon assumes its victim’s body. I was sent to hunt these demons down, but also to protect Lord Isrradin against exactly such possession.”
Isperia Katran was frowning, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Possession,” she said. “And now, you say, the demons are here, which fits with Jehane Mor’s account. This is not good news.”
“It would be much worse,” Sarifa replied, “if I were not here.”
Jehane Mor almost laughed out loud at the demonhunter’s arrogance, but the Ijiri were murmuring amongst themselves again. Prince Ilvaine’s expression remained bland. “Perhaps so. Nonetheless, to hunt in Ij you will need the permission of the Masters, of whom I am only one.”
Sarifa did not shrug openly, but Jehane Mor sensed her indifference to the nuances within the pavilion—and was intrigued that the ambassador appeared willing to let her speak so freely. “The demons are unlikely to stay once they know that I am here, unless their position is well entrenched.” Sarifa’s eyes, dark within their black paint, rested on Mykon Ambard. “Although I think that is no longer the case.”
The assassin looked her up and down. “You are only one. What if your opponents have joined with others of their kind, since the Swarm has numbers here?”
“And if your demons are entrenched?” Prince Ilvaine asked, dry as paper. “How will we recognize them?”
This time Sarifa did look at the ambassador, who nodded for her to continue. “Such demons are difficult but not
impossible to detect.” She held up her left hand, folding down a finger for each point made. “They must kill before they can assume another’s appearance, and only a very powerful demon can hold that outward seeming for long. A rash of otherwise unexplained murders, particularly if the bodies are hard to identify, could indicate a facestealer at work. When a stolen face does begin to go, it is the eyes that will slip first. Be alert for cloudiness or the suggestion of color variation in the gaze of those around you. The demons may also have difficulty with minor birthmarks and scars, particularly those that occur on the body rather than the face, so take careful note of such marks on those who are close to you.” She folded down her fourth finger. “In some cases, where the demon is a lesser power, or has taken too many faces without respite—we are not yet sure which—the change may send them mad. They become like rabid dogs,” she added, then shrugged. “But mad or not, a stake through the heart is the best cure for all their kind.”
Lord Isrradin nodded to Prince Ilvaine, as though confirming Sarifa’s veracity. “For yourself, Prince, and your Masters, be sure you are always protected by more than one guard, no matter how well you know those around you. And always stay guarded.”
The prince’s eyes traveled slowly around the circle of troubled faces, stopping at Haimyr. “You are remarkably silent, my other great-nephew. What do you say to this?”
The golden minstrel pressed his fingertips together. “That what has happened in Ij—and now, we learn, in Ishnapur—is just a beginning. The Darkswarm may already be moving to destabilize others who pose a threat, and eradicate all those in their way.”
Starting with the Guild, thought Jehane Mor, and felt cold and weary and old.
“And your Derai are different?” Mykon Ambard’s gaze was hard, but Haimyr met it, his own unwavering.
“The Derai are warlike, with scant regard for others, and may one day threaten the River. But the Swarm will destroy the very fabric of our world if we let them.”
The assassin frowned. “Is this assertion based on anything more than Derai superstition and myth?”
“In Ishnapur,” said Lord Isrradin, his quiet words carrying to everyone in the pavilion, “we rely on our magi to protect us from the storms of wild magic that come out of the desert. Their fellowship includes those who can peer through the veil that separates present from future. And the seers tell us that a darkness is rising, an all-devouring hunger that presses on their minds and eats at their dreams. Its tide, they assert, will wash over the entire world—and no one who stands alone will stem it. We must unite while we still can, and that—even more than trade—is why I am here.”
The quiet in the pavilion deepened. No one looked at anyone else, except for the Jhainarian captain who stared at the heralds with his silver eyes. Eventually Prince Ilvaine sighed. “We have learned of events in Ij from our own sources and now we have heard from the heralds—but the accounts match in every essential. And the wrong done to their Guild, I hope you all agree, must be set right.”
Still no one spoke, although several around the tent bowed their heads. In acquiescence, Jehane Mor wondered, or not wanting to meet the prince’s eye? His look, beneath the drooped lids, remained keen. “We shall look to this matter of facestealers and other demons, but for now we must focus on our own affairs. We need to move while the recalcitrant and the undecided are still reeling from the Patrol’s entry into the game. The rest should fall into place. But right now, we ride for Ij.”
He rose to his feet, and Leto Ilvaine and his look-alike sprang to hold the entry open, letting the great walk through. Only the Jhainarian captain took a different path, circling the tent until he reached the heralds. He stared hard into both their faces and said something low and cold in his own language, before turning immediately away. The heralds answered in the same tongue, and Sorriyith hesitated—then kept walking, brushing out through the entrance without speaking again or looking back.
The three Patrol warriors said nothing, although Arin glanced from the heralds to the entrance, clearly puzzled behind his visor. Haimyr the Golden was not so reticent. “What was that about?” he asked, strolling across. “And what exactly are Jhainarians, anyway?”
“They are the Shah’s elite auxiliary troops,” Jehane Mor replied coolly, “drawn from the clans of Jhaine. Only the Imperial Guard stands closer to the Lion Throne.”
“And what he said,” Tarathan added, “is that we are lucky to still be alive.”
The Patrolers all looked at him. “Your answer obviously gave him pause,” Sarathion said finally.
The heralds smiled the same enigmatic smile. “We told him,” they said, their voices blending together, “that there is no such thing as luck.”
Chapter 9
Portside
Early morning light slanted through the shutters of an upstairs room at the Portside inn, which was located just far enough from the ocean docks to be respectable, without ever becoming fashionable. But the room into which the day crept was respectable enough, with limewashed walls, rag rugs on the floor, and a bowl of potpourri on the table.
“To sweeten the air,” the inn-wife said, smoothing her hands on her apron as she showed a new guest to the room shortly after dawn.
She was always up herself by then and thought nothing of a guest arriving so early in the day, for the business of the seaport depended on wind and tide, not the day and night hours that others in the city observed. Still, she didn’t think this guest would care much whether the air was sweet or not, despite the rich fabric of his clothes. An odd looking fellow, she decided, descending the outside stair again, ill favored even, although his silver was as good as his cloth. She had dismissed him from her mind by the time she stepped back into the kitchen, which was warm with the smell of baking bread, and noisy with the first clatter of breakfasts being prepared.
The inn-wife’s surmise that the new guest was not concerned about the sweetness of the air was correct, although he took a great deal of care in other matters, checking the final flight of stairs as well as both the door and window catches, muttering a few words over each. The mirror on one wall reflected glimpses of a very tall man, thin almost to the point of emaciation, with bone-white hair and deep-set eyes. A fuller view of the face revealed a fine, livid scar from temple to chin. It had the look of a whiplash, or an old burn, and stood out sharply against the guest’s pallid skin.
He checked the brightening sky once through the shutters, his thin mouth set in a bitter line, before casting himself down on the bed, his long, narrow hands folded behind his head. Eventually he fell into fitful sleep, his face and body twitching almost continually, and did not wake until several hours later.
For a moment the man lay still—then his hand closed on the rod of carved white jade beneath his palm as he recalled the heavy footstep on the outside stair, which had reached him even in sleep. The rod’s familiar chill and the whisper of power at its core were reassuring. He listened intently until the whisper told him who stood on the other side of the door, when a shade of annoyance crossed his face.
“Emuun.” He swung his feet onto the floor as the latch was raised gently from the outside, and a much shorter and far more thickset man stepped into the room. The newcomer closed the door behind him and tossed his heavy cloak and traveler’s wide-brimmed hat onto a chair.
“Wards on the stairs as well as every door and window! Do you have to be so thrice-cursed cautious, Nirn?” The voice was gravel, echoing eyes that were dark and hard as stone in a square face framed by a multitude of narrow braids, decorated with tiny bones and fetishes. Three ridged scars marched horizontally down his right cheek, echoing the two vertical cicatrices on the left. His mouth was little more than a gash in his hard face, but just now it had a sardonic cast. “They shouted out to me, kinsman, so they’d positively scream your location to anyone capable of tracking power. Although fortunately we’re well over a thousand leagues from Ishnapur and their thrice-cursed demonhunters.” Emuun pulled out a chair and s
eated himself astride it, his heavy forearms resting along the back.
“Is that so?” the taller man asked. “Then you will be as concerned as I to learn that an Ishnapuri demonhunter arrived outside Ij in the early hours of this morning.”
The other grew very still. “You are sure of this?”
Disdain touched the emaciated face. “I am sure. My uneasiness has been growing for several days, but now there can be no doubt.”
“Alone?” The question came with a baring of teeth that could have been a feral smile.
Nirn’s thin lips twisted into a sneer. “Apparently not. It seems the magi have grown tired of finding the remains of their adepts staked out over anthills. Their hunter is accompanied by seven others that I can detect, bound into a protective ward.”
Emuun spat out a curse. “A Jhainarian Seven! Amaliannarath take them!”
“Ah, so this Seven means something to you?”
Emuun shrugged. “Jhainarians are elite warriors, very hard to kill at the best of times. But from what I understand, when they are bound together as a Seven, in company with a demonhunter to focus their power, they become almost unstoppable.”
The pale eyes narrowed. “And of course this Seven, together with a demonfinder, makes an Eight, the number of infinite power. All very interesting . . . But for now, I think we must abandon our Ijiri project. Even facestealing will not fool a demonhunter long.”
“This hunter will undoubtedly have a description of mine, anyway. A pity, since I’m comfortable with the look.” Emuun frowned at the pale sorcerer. “I note your care to say that you sense the demonfinder and the Jhainarians. I thought you would have seen them long since.”
Nirn shrugged. “The River has been closed to me since the early hours of this morning. My farsight no longer reaches beyond the boundaries of the city.” His hand clenched and unclenched on the rod. “Someone, or something, is blocking me.”