In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  “There is no life for me,” Marin said to the shrine. “Not anymore.”

  The water merely continued to rush by her. It could not react to her sorrow; it moved on without any care for her loneliness or despair.

  Marin remained for another hour, thinking about everything—and nothing. The chamber darkened as the afternoon suns waned and shadows crept over the hills. She had spent enough time here. She would return to Messinor and wait there for her orders. Everyone knew where she had gone, and sooner or later someone would find a task for her. That would be her life from now on.

  Then a chill came over her—and it had nothing to do with the cool breeze blowing past the waterfall as the heat of day diminished. It was something else.

  Her hunter’s instinct told her another presence lurked nearby.

  Marin turned slowly, surveying the entrance behind her. She’d left her weapons in the city, along with everything else, and she felt trapped when she saw a man’s shadow on the waterfall at the cave’s mouth. Someone was standing outside, waiting for her to leave the shrine.

  Let him come, she thought. Today I welcome death with open arms.

  The shadow moved away.

  A silhouette passed on her side of the bright waterfall, and a gray-clad figure came toward her. He was tall and thin, and he carried something in his hands that was clearly not a weapon. His movements suggested cautious respect, not battle readiness.

  Their eyes met. His were as gray as his cloak, and his dark hair and thin mustache were shot with gray as well. Marin saw sharp intelligence in his face, but also the weakness of one who happily issues commands and lets others do the work.

  “My condolences,” he said in the formal tones of a bureaucrat. “May peace be with you.”

  As he moved closer, Marin could see that he held something in his arms.

  Four books.

  14

  “WHO ARE YOU?”

  Marin studied the man with the strange offering.

  “My name is Nabeel Khoury,” he said.

  “And why do you trespass on my rite?”

  Khoury hesitated, and then sighed. “It is a long tale—and one that I must tell you, Marin Altaïr.”

  “How do you know my name?” she asked. “And how did you find me here?”

  “It is my business to know many things.” Khoury made a gesture of apology at Marin’s glare. “Ah… the timing of my presence is suspect, I admit, but I knew of no other moment when I would find you alone. Away from eyes that spy from afar—whether you know of them or not. You are not safe. Not here. Not anywhere.”

  Marin rose to her feet, stifling a grimace at the stiffness in her legs after kneeling for so long. “A woman I am, but most capable,” she said, staring into the man’s face. “This I can assure you, Nabeel Khoury.”

  Khoury gave her a polite smile. “Hiril Altaïr was even more capable than you, my good lady, and he is dead nonetheless.”

  Marin bristled. “As if I am unaware!” She picked up the silver vase from the floor and shook it in his face. “Who are you to follow me into the hills, interfere with my pilgrimage, and warn me of phantom dangers?”

  “I am the Rais of—” Khoury began.

  “So? How does this concern me?” she demanded, her anger cutting his words short.

  “May peace be with you, my good lady,” he said quickly. “I did not come here to anger you. Hear me out, I beg you.”

  Marin breathed in and out, mastering her anger. “I am listening.”

  “I come from Havar—and I bring you proof of the danger that follows you.”

  “Havar?” The word caught in Marin’s throat. The place where Hiril had been murdered.

  “Yes, Havar. As I told you, I am the Rais of the sheikdom, and…” Khoury faltered.

  “And?”

  “I watched your husband die.”

  15

  AN ECHOING roar filled Marin’s head, louder than any waterfall.

  “You… let him die?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did nothing to stop it?”

  Khoury lowered his eyes, his face burning with shame. “I did nothing,” he whispered.

  Marin’s hand whipped forward, smashing him in the head with the silver urn. Khoury cried out and fell, the books scattering across the floor. She stared down at him, her chest heaving, thinking to kick his ribs until they broke and pierced his heart, or maybe to crush his throat with her foot.

  Instead, she paced back and forth across the shrine, channeling her rage into each step. Of course she knew many ways to kill without a weapon, but this man was a witness to Hiril’s murder, whatever role he had played—or had refrained from playing. Suppressing her urge to commit murder, she relaxed her grip on the urn, scooped a little water from the nearest channel, and splashed it on Khoury’s face.

  “Wake up and speak to me, Rais.” Marin’s voice was cold and level.

  He sat up, grimacing. He touched his left cheek, sucked in a pained breath, and stared at his fingers.

  “No blood,” Marin told him, “but by tomorrow you will see a glorious bruise.” She shook her head and gave him a mocking grin.

  “I deserved nothing less,” said Khoury in a low voice. “I am a coward.”

  “And yet you command the city guard of Havar? And does the sheikh know that you stand about doing nothing while men are murdered before your eyes?”

  “When he so orders it.”

  Marin stared at him. “He… ordered my husband’s death?”

  “No. It was others. Those who are much more powerful than he.”

  Khoury hung his head once more, and Marin briefly considered striking him again. But there was more she needed to know.

  “Very well, then. You were ordered to stand and watch. Who was his murderer?”

  The man shook his head sadly. “Ciris Sarn.”

  Khoury’s voice was quiet, but the words bit deep. Marin knew the name. Everyone did. Sarn had grown into a legend that haunted people’s dreams. He was the most feared assassin in Mir’aj.

  “Ciris Sarn murdered Hiril?” Marin sat on the floor next to Khoury. “But why would he do that?”

  Khoury turned and made a sweeping gesture at the ancient relics scattered about the shrine’s polished floor.

  “For these.”

  16

  MARIN DID not wait.

  She sailed aboard the same ship on which she’d traveled east, booking the westward passage only an hour before it cast off for the return to Cievv. The purser had warned of storms, but Marin simply smiled.

  The sailors were amazed by the change in her. Now she spoke with them, asking informed questions about open-water navigation and seeking news from faraway places. She did, however, keep her emotional distance and refuse to answer any personal inquiries.

  Marin was on her way to Ruinart; she must now seek answers of her own. Although she’d hardly expected to discover her indirect connection to the dreaded assassin Ciris Sarn at the shrine of Sey’r an-Shal, it was better than no answer at all.

  It was much better, in fact. The books she now possessed had changed everything. Nabeel Khoury was an honorable man—in his own way—and Marin knew this now. She owed him nothing less, despite his role in Hiril’s death. After this year of mourning, his revelations gave her a purpose.

  Vengeance.

  Yet her vengeance needed a strategy.

  Marin thought about this as the promised storm hit them shortly after they cleared Rimmn Island, as the ship bucked like a frightened horse, as the lantern swung crazily and spun shadows across the walls of her cabin. Her strategy must begin with the spymaster who had sent her husband on that last fatal mission. Ilss Cencova was a good man, shrewd and difficult to fool. He would surely want to know why she asked after Rassan Majalis’ secrets. What could she tell him? She had a stormy ocean voyage to think about it, and she would need the time. Few widowssought the answers she wanted, and few widows rode with the Four Banners and struck fear into enemies’ hearts. And
, if Khoury was right, no one in all of Mir’aj possessed anything like what she carried in her cloak.

  The four books.

  What were these four books? She had to discover that, and whether they could help her destroy Ciris Sarn. She would have to do everything in her power, even if it meant playing false with those she trusted and respected.

  In another lifetime, lying would have outraged her honor. But now it was just another arrow in her quiver, another means to an end.

  Deception often hurt. Sometimes it killed.

  Well, what of it?

  She’d seen worse.

  Part Three

  A HUNDRED SORROWS

  5.5.792 SC

  1

  EVERYONE HAS SECRETS.

  Pavanan Munif knew this to be true. Today his secret had taken him away once more. A man like him didn’t just wander into al-Naffaq—the Pit. No one did. At least not willingly. Munif was lured here, driven by a hunger over which he had little control.

  Affyram.

  His one vice.

  His demon.

  But he wasn’t alone. Saffan had his boys. Dassai his whores. Malek too, and the Sultan. Munif was privy to them all.

  Chased from his high tower in the casbah, Munif found himself again in familiar surroundings. At least he was getting better. In the past, when his habit had ruled his every waking moment, he’d practically lived down here. Now, Munif had weaned himself to just once a week.

  Munif was tall. More than six feet, as most southerners were. His father was from the Kingdom, his mother was Rajani, born in Jaisvaran before emigrating to Qatana with her family. Munif’s hair was dark brown, streaked with gray. He had penetrating green eyes and a hawkish nose. His prominent cheekbones were high, and his lips were thin. His almond eyes and honey-colored skin hinted of his mother. Ten years earlier he’d been rakish, but age and affyram had taken their toll. Still, Munif was a match for almost anyone and, despite his thirty-seven years—and his demon—he kept himself in formidable condition.

  Munif was chief of the Jassaj agents in Riyyal, under the command of the Sultan himself. He reported directly to Emir Malek, the Sultan’s youngest son. He worked almost exclusively under his own authority.

  Not even Dassai could touch him.

  Munif traversed the narrow, dark streets. His body trembled in anticipation. It was nearing the sacred festival of Eid ul-Fajdah, and he would play his part in the celebrations.

  But first he needed a well-deserved break, something to placate his addiction and take the edge off the strain he was under.

  Munif threaded his way through labyrinthine alleys and filthy cobblestone passageways, keeping to the shadows. He continued westward into the foreign quarter of Riyyal, finally reaching a great mosque that dominated the skyline of the city. Munif stopped for a moment, taking in the scene before him.

  Here was the dirty secret everyone knew but seldom mentioned. Munif gazed in wonder at the immense abyss that stretched out below. It was surrounded—and hidden by—the Binais’r mosque. For all practical purposes, the Sultan’s law ended where Munif stood. Below him, down in the Pit, was a world unto itself.

  Beneath great wind-towers a circular path wound its way into the rock and sand. Expertly constructed platforms perched on the walls and extended over the hollowed-out earth. Crude dwellings had been carved into these walls. There were structures at the bottom of the gaping maw, shacks that served as dwellings for those unfortunate enough to have been lured in by the mirage that was Riyyal.

  This city within a city was home to the dregs of Nujoom, Hayl, and Ungwara—even as far away east as Lasavísur in the cold lands bordering the Curtain of Night. Foreigners from these kingdoms had come in response to the promise of work—only to end up as thralls to the wealthy, forced to live like rats in cramped burrows. Those fortunate enough to be permitted housing in Qatana would often find themselves homeless should they make one small error in judgment, and be arrested for the most minor of infractions.

  More often than not, these unfortunates were unable to buy their release. And then the Sultanate’s agents, acting as pseudo-slavers, would purchase the condemned. But rather than beingexecuted or mutilated, the guilty were transported like chattel to Riyyal. Once they had come there, only a lifetime of cruel labor could pay off the debt.

  Qatani residents convicted of crimes would rather pay to be killed than be exiled to the Pit.

  Munif took a deep breath and descended into al-Naffaq. The air became heavy and damp. The path, a serpentine route of loose rocks and gravel, was rough; in some sections it was very steep, and Munif was forced to ease his pace. He didn’t want to slip and fall to the bottom.

  “Damn!” he cried. Despite his caution, a small avalanche of damp stones slid beneath his feet and he nearly tumbled headlong down the precipitous track. “That’s no way to die,” he muttered, reestablishing a stable footing.

  A little farther along, Munif paused to observe the sheer quantity of half-finished buildings—dismal sheds that the laborers here had yet to complete.

  When he resumed his descent, Munif kept his eyes down, moving past the poor, the starved and forsaken.

  Upon reaching the bottom of the Pit, he moved with singular purpose toward his destination, a squat structure consisting of a dozen small rooms.

  There was little to worry about now. Plenty of time to indulge himself.

  Munif approached the third door and was about to knock when another door opened at the opposite end. Two figures emerged and set off up the narrow path away from him. Munif stared at their receding backs.

  These two were different from the rest.

  They were Carac.

  He knew all too well of their kind. The summoners would do anything to further their cause, including killing the innocent and sacrificing their own lives to ensure their violent purity—martyrs in the eyes of the people of Carac. Munif had lost them

  three months earlier, but now here they were, within reach.

  His vice must wait.

  Munif followed, keeping a safe distance. As he advanced stealthily, he noticed that the other denizens of the Pit whom he passed were on edge. Normally their eyes were lifeless voids, but now there was something different in them.

  Nevertheless, he remained focused on his two targets as he began to ascend one of the winding paths out of al-Naffaq.

  Munif looked into the faces of several more workers as he threaded his way past them. He could see it in their furtive glances. He could see it in their eyes.

  They were scared.

  2

  THE STORM could not stop them.

  Perhaps Munif would, however, before the end came. These thoughts plagued Donnò Galliresse as he stood on the rampart high above the city of Tivisis and gazed out at the emerald waters beyond the port.

  From his lofty post in the Summer Citadel he could see the ancient paths wending haphazardly down to the sea. Galliresse watched the people below engage in trade as though it were just another day. But he knew that death would soon arrive in the harbor. He could feel that reality in the pit of his stomach; he fought the nausea that came with it.

  Martyrdom would triumph.

  A small man with delicate features and thinning white hair, Galliresse projected the aura of someone much more physically impressive. Beneath an air of placid introspection was a man of fierce competence. Already, at the young age of fifty-one, he controlled the greatest of the free cities in all of Givenh, perhaps the whole of Mir’aj.

  As Lord of Tivisis, he held the highest position one could obtain unless born of royal lineage. Galliresse was proud of his accomplishments and the power he wielded.

  The envy of Givenh and the islands of Miranes’, Tivisis was unrivaled in its volume of trade. The city was open, vibrant, and fiercely independent. In the great port, numerous ships laden with wares from Qatana, Rajanahar, Zaraniz, and Khorbard kept the city’s lifeblood flowing unabated.

  Galliresse ensured that the merchant houses were gi
ven full leeway in exchange for the influx of gold arriving in the form of duty imposts. He knew that with this openness came certain risks. Due to the sheer numbers of people passing through its port, it was quite easy to ‘become lost’ in Tivisis—and there was a significant criminal element. To Galliresse, this was the cost of commerce.

  Under his command, the city had gained even more autonomy from Givenh and positioned itself favorably in recent shipping treaties with Qatana. Even the Rassan Majalis felt the influence of Tivisis and seldom interfered on its behalf. There was too much gold to be made.

  Yet, a dangerous cult headed by an influential cleric threatened this prosperity. The charismatic words of Ashraf Berdouni drew many to him. His message to the citizens of Tivisis was one of condemnation and abstinence. Not from carnal pleasures, but something much more mysterious: the banning of Azza in all of its forms.

  Galliresse did not know the reason for the pronouncement, only that the message was beginning to take hold. Trade in Azza had given Tivisis its prosperity and independence. Oils, candles, incense, and more were made from the substance. Now the decree from Berdouni could destroy it all. Yet Galliresse let it go on.

  He had his reasons.

  Word arrived from the misal’ayn of Burj al-Ansour that two Carac summoners had set sail from Janeirah in the kingdom of Nahkeel. Galliresse was unsure of their exact purpose, but heknew that whatever brought them to Tivisis, it was not an act of mercy. Galliresse believed the rumors—that Carac was a forsaken place and its inhabitants harbored a love for dark, evil things.

  He also knew of Pavanan Munif.

  The capable Jassaj was on a ship sailing toward him, and Qatani spies were already in Tivisis, waiting.

  “I wonder if their presence will be of any use,” Galliresse wondered aloud. Or, he reflected, if they will be able to affect the outcome of the events that are about to unfold.

  He did not know the answers.

  3

  MUNIF LOOKED up from the map.