In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  “It is all I have left to give,” the old man said. “They have already taken my hands and feet.”

  He held out the stumps of his arms, sliding his leg stumps across a floor of sand and pebbles. He moved closer to the bars that separated them.

  Sarn felt little remorse. The man was a criminal. Just after dawn, in the cold morning air, he would be taken out to the square and executed. That was the law.

  “Did you bring the wine?” the old man asked.

  “Yes,” Sarn said. “Two bottles.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  Sarn retrieved a bottle from the folds of his black juma and uncorked it with the same lock-pick he had used to break in.

  “Sorry, no glasses tonight,” Sarn said, a barely perceptible smile lingering on his lips.

  “Do not worry, my friend. I’m sure you will think of something.”

  Crouching down, Sarn passed the bottle between the bars and pressed it to the old man’s lips.

  Sarn let him get a small taste before pulling it back.

  “Do you have it?” Sarn asked.

  The old man nodded.

  “Show me.”

  “Please. I promise. Give me another drink.”

  Sarn relented, allowing himself to play the game; he tipped the bottle again.

  The old man sighed. “A strong red.”

  “Enough of the mirage. Now tell me,” Sarn snapped, grasping the bars.

  “You, too, are a fool, then. Did you not look into my eyes and take notice when you first saw me?”

  Angered, Sarn nearly let the wine bottle slip from his fingers. “I did not have to come tonight,” he said. “Remember that.”

  Lurching toward the iron bars, the old man rasped, “Look, damn you!”

  Sarn had no choice but to continue the morbid charade. Steeling himself, he looked past the old man’s haggard, bearded face, filthy hair, disheveled clothes, and sickly pallor. He tried to ignore the stench of piss and shit, putrid breath and brown, rotted teeth.

  Sarn focused on the old man’s eyes. One of them was false.

  As recognition dawned in Sarn’s eyes, the old man nodded and cackled. “I knew you would see the truth! Jehal did it for me! Burned it right out, he did!” He paused. Sarn waited. “There wasn’t much pain. I’d endured so much already. He did a fine job with the marble, I’d say. They never even guessed it.”

  “HOW proud you must have felt,” Sarn sneered, but his curiosity was piqued.

  The old man squeezed his face between the bars. “Take it out! I’d do it myself, but you know I can’t…” He raised the scarred stump of his right arm.

  “What the fuck for?”

  “You know why,” the old man replied. He looked hard at Sarn. “Don’t feign ignorance with me; and don’t insult me. Jehal hollowed out this glass orb. And that is where you will find it.”

  Sarn didn’t hesitate. He pressed his thumb against the old man’s eye socket, and with one quick motion, plucked the marble

  out. He dug the hidden object out of the hollow and palmed it.

  “Now, give me back my eye,” the old man said.

  Sarn fitted the marble back into the old man’s dank socket, fighting back a wave of revulsion.

  He looked down at his prize: a small button with ridges carved in its surface, and five thin strands of what appeared to be hair woven in the buttonholes.

  “Do not lose it,” the old man warned. “I went to great pains to find this for you.”

  Knowing full well that it was the key to his freedom, Sarn carefully pocketed the object, then retrieved the second wine bottle from his juma and removed the cork. Sarn would let the old man drink his fill. That, at least, he deserved.

  After some minutes, the old man’s head nodded into oblivion, both bottles empty at his feet.

  Sarn leaned in closer. “When morning comes and you pray to Ala’i for the last time,” he whispered to the old man, “remember, father… God is great.”

  2

  SARN WOKE with a start.

  Something was wrong. He opened the shuttered window, and the sudden brilliance of the suns blinded him. After his vision cleared, Sarn observed his surroundings. Closely packed buildings of worn stucco and stone overlooked narrow streets that wended in all directions. A breeze carried the scent of honey, melon, and orange.

  It was deceptively serene.

  Sarn dressed and then stood for a moment at the foot of his bed, listening. He heard voices from below, faint but discernible. He had slept too long. Last night’s encounter with Barrani had troubled him, but what he’d received nurtured a spark of hope inhim. Dassai had lured the assassin into Havar by once again using Sarn’s father as bait. It was clear with the death sentence that Dassai’s patience with Sarn was at its end.

  Yet this fateful meeting with Barrani had not proved fruitless.

  Sarn reached into his pocket and fingered the talisman, calmed by his mere possession of it. Then he grabbed his gear and moved across the room. He listened at the door. Nothing. Sarn paused again for a few seconds before turning the handle and opening the door just wide enough to slip into the empty hallway. He left the key in the lock and descended the stairs.

  He was in the coffeehouse of Azraf Lahteeb. The man was just one of many in the sheikdom whom Sarn knew well and kept close to him. Due in part to Sarn’s efforts, Lahteeb had risen from a beggar-thief in the souks to a prospering business owner. He ran a number of busy coffeehouses, but also worked the black market and was a trafficker in women. Lahteeb would keep him safe. They shared mutual interest, though they did not trust each other.

  When he reached the ground floor, Sarn stepped through a doorway and onto a wide veranda. Beneath the boundless blue of the sky was an even bluer sea. White cubes of houses cut a dazzling line between air and ocean. The high walls of arcaded terraces ran upward to the still higher domed mosques and cylindrical minarets of Havar. Beyond the south gate, olive-clad, vineyard-laden rolling hills shone green in the distance.

  Sarn took a deep breath. HOW long would it be before he had to carry out more dark deeds for his paymasters? In the past, premonition had played its part—the unease he’d felt earlier would not prove unfounded.

  He was in trouble.

  A fountain bubbled in the corner, shaded by an almond tree. Sarn did not pray, but the ablution would clear his mind. He removed his shoes and washed his feet. When he was finished, he cupped his hands and splashed his face with the jasmine-scented water. He dried himself with one of towels that lay beside the fountain.

  Running along the edge of the veranda was a low wall covered with flowering bougainvillea. From this vantage point, Sarn watched the activity of the port as the sound of midday bells rang, pealing out over the harbor. Crowds of people made their way from the quays and moorings to the north gate that led into the medina.

  Sarn picked an orange from a low-hanging branch and bit into its sweet, blood-red pulp as he considered his options. He needed money. But to emerge now might prove dangerous. Sarn’s exile had lasted nearly a year, and there were many people looking for him.

  The most significant of those was Fajeer Dassai.

  Two months earlier, Sarn had sent a message to Lahteeb, who was also a wine dealer, to have him look for prospective buyers of rare, highly desired wines that were exclusive to the cellars of the royal family. Illegal trading in wine was both risky and profitable, a chance Sarn was more than willing to take. However, weeks had gone by without word before he got an answer. Lahteeb had set up an afternoon meeting today with Sarn and a wine merchant named Aban Seif al-Din.

  Lahteeb had wanted them to meet here, but Sarn refused. He never trusted anyone too far. He would take Lahteeb’s money and hospitality, but caution still ruled. After some negotiation, they agreed to meet at the Najid shisha near the Badhel Souk; it would provide crowds for cover, and plenty of escape options.

  Sarn decided against going back into the coffeehouse and slipped over the wall, dropping ten feet down t
o the street below.

  Navigating his way to the souk, he scanned the faces returning from midday prayers. Most wore white thobes, some wore long abayas of bright-hued material similar to his own. His clothing, although designed to keep the wearer cool, felt stifling as he traversed the maze of narrow flagstone passages. A light wind drifted in from the sea but seemed to pass around him as though he were shielded by some unseen force, and gave him no relief from the heat.

  The noise of the souk reached Sarn well before he entered it. The breeze was heavy with the scent of exotic spices, and the very air seemed to shimmer with color. Throngs of people dawdled at merchants’ stalls to haggle and gossip. Peddlers called out, hoping to entice him with their wares.

  But he took no interest; he maneuvered through the souk’s labyrinthine byways until he reached the opposite end and spied a sign for Najid. The shisha-house rested on the corner of a wide street under the shade of green-leafed plane trees.

  Sarn waited, hidden in the shadows. He watched as Aban Seif al-Din approached Najid. The man was alone, the street quiet at a time when it should have been much busier.

  A cloud passed above, dimming the bright sunlight. Sarn watched the merchant closely. Another man, twenty feet behind, trailed al-Din. As the cloud cover deepened, a feeling of dread settled over Sarn.

  Receding farther into the shadows, he scanned the street and the buildings. Last night’s encounter had brought with it the foreboding of danger—and his instincts had never proved him wrong.

  Sarn had to leave Havar immediately; he could not let himself be found.

  Again.

  3

  TWELVE DAYS.

  He’d avoided Fajeer Dassai for almost one full year now. A few more days and the curse would be lifted from him forever.

  The curse had bound Sarn to the Sultan, and because of it, he’d become a slave-assassin, dispatching various enemies of the royal family—and anyone else who’d been foolhardy enough to cross the crown. At times, Sarn had despaired of being free of the curse—giving up hope of ever being able to live without thesuffocating hopelessness that came from playing the role of Dassai’s puppet—his tool for killing. He’d escaped in the past but had always been found quickly. This time, thanks to help from a friend in Riyyal—Rimmar Fehls—he’d managed to stay on the run.

  Just… twelve… more… days….

  Sarn hissed. Defeat seemed the only option now. The button and thread in his pocket were not enough to shatter the spell. He needed an arcane word to use along with them. Without it, they were not the keys to his freedom but the chains that bound him. But he was out of time, and in this matter of fate there was no way out. Somebody had recognized him again, and he would have to return to Dassai.

  But Sarn would not make it easy for him.

  A company of assassins was hunting him. But who? mused Sarn. The White Palm? Slen Thek? The Haradin? It could be any—or all—of them. His own recklessness had led him to this predicament.

  Sarn had nearly walked into the trap set for him at Najid. His intuitive sense of danger saved him; and he’d spent a week on the run—alternately hiding and then slipping out of one city and into another.

  Sarn crouched on a clay-tiled roof, surveying the city that stretched out below him. As the twilight encroached on Oranin, he felt that familiar pull in his stomach—a cold, elemental feeling. The curse was calling to him.

  For more than twenty years he had done the bidding of Raqqas Siwal, the Sultan of Qatana. Sarn had no choice. He was jinn-bound. Yet the Sultan had rarely commanded Sarn himself. That task was delegated to one of his sons, Malek aït-Siwal, and one other.

  Fajeer Dassai.

  Sarn cursed again under his breath. With catlike stealth, he leaped from his perch and landed on the empty terrace. He paused for a moment before dropping down into an empty alleyway below.

  He remained silent in the shadows. The narrow street was lit with oil lamps that flickered in the growing darkness, sending aromatic plumes of smoke into the air. He walked into a maze of deserted streets and passages that ran in all directions like the web of lies that had ensnared him. The second sun was beginning to set, its crimson orb sinking behind the tall buildings that loomed above him.

  Daylight would soon abandon Oranin. Sarn had to make the most of it; there was no shelter for him in the night.

  He was a marked man; enemies were endemic to the killing trade. Sarn ventured a quick scan of one of the city’s main thoroughfares and then stepped back into the shadows of the alleyway. Years of practiced stealth and trained intuition took control of his actions, and he pinned himself against the cool stone wall.

  The ever-present wind that channeled through Oranin’s streets rose to a gale, as if it were intent on alerting his enemies. Suspicion rapidly turned into reality, and he knew that his gamble had cost him dearly. Yet seeing his father for the last time had given him half the prize he needed. Now he lacked only one thing. A name.

  Sarn took a deep breath and moved out of the shadows, keeping close to the walls as he slipped past several small intersections, his stride light and silent. He threaded his way through narrow streets and even tighter alleyways, moving toward the east gate of the city.

  He knew from experience that one could wander the maze of Oranin for days on end. The city was a labyrinth of buildings, streets, and courtyards. Stark white structures coated in layers of gypsum plaster, they seemed to lean precariously forward like looming ghuls, creating narrow footpaths that wove throughout Oranin. Without local knowledge or a guide, it was almost impossible to tell each street apart.

  Sarn paused once more as the streets darkened. He rested, crouching in an alleyway where there was no illumination fromthe windows above. Beneath his feet, the flagstones were rough but uniform. He listened, straining his acute hearing for any trace of sound. There were too many places for his pursuers to hide, too many safe houses where they might lurk.

  A moment later Sarn was gone again, passing through an alleyway so small that he could reach out and touch the walls of the towering buildings on either side. Though it was only dusk, the street was lost in darkness. The city’s old quarters were perfectly laid out for any man who wished to move from place to place and yet remain out of sight. Sarn had always found this reassuring but at the same time his gut told him that if he could hide here, then so could others.

  Leaving the sanctuary of the dark, he crossed into a large square illuminated by soft starlight and the milky silver of a waning moon.

  Suddenly, he pressed himself into the shadow of the nearest building, heart racing, skin prickling with anticipation. He pulled out a blade.

  He was not alone

  4

  SARN HEARD the sound even before the arrow flew.

  He threw himself flat and crawled toward an alcove. The arrow shattered against the wall directly above him, and tiny shards of wood, stone, and plaster peppered his legs. Sarn quickly considered his options.

  From his temporary shelter, he could see the huge, rectangular courtyard, bordered on three sides by an arcade of arches. Doorways in the two opposing walls of the square—to his left and right—led into zaouia schools.

  Centered opposite him was the entrance into the Grand Mosque of Sidi-Amorad, its towering minaret and fluted domeshrouded in night. Sarn slipped from the alcove and moved along the wall to his right, searching for another sanctuary from the unseen archer. He could sense the man’s presence on the wall to the left of the mosque entrance. He could also sense two other assailants hidden in the corners. They were funneling him into Sidi-Amorad.

  Sarn knew it would be empty. Evening prayers were over; the mass of worshippers that had been crowded into the square just one hour ago would all be gone.

  A series of richly carved wooden doors extended almost the entire width of the mosque. All save two were closed; Sarn entered, keeping close to the walls. He wove through the columns and arches that led to the central nave.

  The interior architecture was overw
helming. Each column and arch was beautifully wrought from alabaster and granite and inlaid with arabesque patterns of faience tiles. Sarn had seen few places of equal grandeur outside of Qatana.

  He caught the glimpse of a red-robed figure retreating across the limestone floors, deeper into the mosque. Bait for a trap soon to be sprung with no way out. Sarn smiled. He was all in.

  Sarn peered beyond the portico into the nave. On the east and west sides were the two sacred mihrab niches. Seven large bronze lamp clusters lined the domed ceiling of the prayer hall, each one shimmering with a multitude of glass lamps burning fragrant oil. Directly below, a circular minbar was built into the center of the nave. Numerous prayer rugs and carpets lay scattered about the floor. North, beyond the lamps in the nave, stood a tomb like a well-disciplined sentinel, shrouded in darkness.

  He could just make out the silhouette of one assassin. But he could sense the presence of the others; he knew there were three killers in here with him.

  Sarn drew back into the shadows.

  Someone had given them payment. Sarn had little doubt that it was Dassai. He’d played this game before. Dassai fed on the violence, and it didn’t matter whose blood was spilled.

  Sarn pulled a small carved-stone box from a pocket above his belt. He opened it, revealing two scorpions, black and streaked with thin bands of white and yellow. He knew firsthand how dangerous they were.

  Holding the scorpions by their tails, he whispered,

  and flung them toward the nave.

  He waited.

  The air was heavy with the aroma of jasmine, burning frankincense, and the stench of sweat left behind by the departed worshippers.

  Suddenly a horrific scream resonated through the vast interior of the mosque, shattering the stillness. Two red-robed figures shot from within the prayer niches, flailing their legs, trying to shake off the small but lethal creatures. They fell to the ground, kicking and slapping at their thighs and calves.