In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  As Munif followed, the foot traffic flowed easily; it required very little effort to keep the distinctive black robe in sight. Within minutes, the summoner came to a stop and knocked on the door of an undistinguished two-story building. Munif strained to see who had let Hersí in, but to no avail; he was unable to glimpse the entrance from where he was standing.

  Sighing, Munif studied his surroundings in an attempt to identify where the chase had led him. He stretched, feeling the pulled muscles and pop of aging joints. An overwhelming urge to abandon his task hit him hard.

  He could feel the sweat beading on his face, the dryness in his mouth despite the succulent melon; the slight tremor in his hands. And he knew his symptoms weren’t due to the oppressive heat, or to fear.

  No—there was only one reason for them, and only one solution.

  Affyram would soothe his nerves—take the edge off a bit. He could partake and escape for a while. It would be easy to find a provider—surely there was one within sight of the building. The summoner wasn’t going anywhere.

  He had time—

  It would be so pleasant—but Munif shook his head.

  No.

  The demon would have to wait.

  8

  “YOU ARE certain they remain unaware.”

  It was not a question.

  Munif sat with three men at a table tucked away in the recesses of a cavernous coffeehouse. He had positioned himself against the wall, close to a small window with a clear view of the Laenidor Sacellum. The place was crowded, but no one had seen Pavanan Munif enter, save the three who offered him a chair. Helooked at the men, each with dusky clothes and a hardened face—they could have been brothers.

  They exchanged introductions, all false names to be sure. Munif waited until the server left the cava before speaking. His tone belied his noncommittal expression. He repeated his inquiry. “You’re absolutely sure no one knows?”

  Munif peered into the eyes of the man on his right. They were intelligent, cautious, ready. The agent’s hair, like the others’, was cropped short, his face dark brown from the sun and stubbled with a beard that had not seen a razor in days. He was dressed in drab clothing worn for too long without a wash.

  “The Carac was not difficult to track, once we had the information from Burj al-Ansour,” the agent said. “He’s been under constant watch.”

  Directly across from Munif, the second agent looked up from his Tivisisí coffee. “Tonnás said the summoners would arrive within a fortnight. He was not wrong.”

  As patrons moved past them, the conversation took a more cautious turn. Munif lowered his voice. “What about the alchemist?”

  “I allowed her to complete her work as instructed,” said the third agent. “I assumed we needed the orbs to be taken at the same time as the summoners.”

  Munif thought for a moment before replying. “Yes, to make the case clearer for the Majalis. The ban remains in place, despite the passage of time.”

  The second agent scoffed. “Yet the wicked do not cease their wickedness, regardless of the consequences.”

  The first agent pondered a moment before looking up. “It will not be easy—taking them. This I know.”

  Munif shrugged and gave him a bitter smile. He felt on edge. “But we will. There are no options here. I’ve said enough—all here are capable, that is why you were chosen. It’s time for you to leave.”

  The other three agents heeded his words, quietly departingin unison and leaving Munif alone with his thoughts. He stood, and the room seemed to tilt sideways. His head swam and his stomach lurched.

  “Damn, you look the a drunkard or fool,” he muttered to himself. Shaking his head, he realized his next task would have to wait a while longer.

  Munif would need every bit of his remaining energy simply to reach his room and fall into a much needed sleep.

  9

  THE SKY above Tivisis was black.

  Across the city, thousands of oil lamps adorned the streets and bridges like strands of luminous pearls, each orb shimmering white-gold in the night. Over the rooftops and domes rose dim silhouettes of soaring spires, high turrets and slender minarets all but lost in shadow. Cool air lay thick and heavy in abandoned squares and parks. There was a pervasive hush—a whispering stillness.

  Two shadowy figures moved silently through twilight corridors until they came to an alcove near the Chantry of Domòs, which concealed a narrow stairway to the catacombs.

  Slowly they made their way down carved stone steps worn smooth with decades of use. The passage was filled with the sound of water trickling down the rough-hewn walls and dripping from countless cracks in the ceiling. The descent was slick and treacherous as the two made their way down to a small antechamber and then deeper into the tombs. With no fear or mistake, the summoners traced an unseen footpath through the labyrinth of caves and tunnels to a sunken cistern.

  There they found it.

  Cut into the eastern wall was a niche. As the hooded figures neared, the echo of their footsteps broke the silence of the cistern. Pale light pierced the darkness.

  A door opened. They entered without a word.

  Outstretched hands welcomed them.

  10

  THE NET was cast.

  Munif caught a glimpse of the morning sun from the balcony. The whitewashed flat where he had slept was unadorned and simple, yet it was welcoming in its warmth, dryness, and stability under the feet.

  Very soon now.

  Word had already come to him that the ebony-skinned foreigners had remained stationary and isolated for the past day, recovering from the voyage. He was more confident now than at any previous time in the mission that he held the advantage.

  After he breakfasted on bread with olive oil, honey and butter, along with a minted green tea and raw sugar, Munif took advantage of the ample floor space to resume his training regimen. He was happily surprised to discover that he’d lost little of his flexibility or strength despite the neglect of the past few weeks.

  It was amazing, he thought, how rapidly he could recover with food and sleep. No longer apprehensive and distracted, Munif’s spirits were renewed, his focus strong and determined. The call of affyram was fading.

  He would not run after it.

  Munif heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. He hurried over to it and stood by the hinges, on the balls of his feet, tense and ready. The handle turned and the door opened; Fajeer Dassai entered the room. Munif relaxed, but only slightly.

  Dassai spun and raised an eyebrow at Munif’s aggressive stance. He closed the door behind him and said, “Peace be upon you, Pavanan Munif. It’s been a long time.”

  “Indeed, Fajeer, it has,” Munif responded with a half-smile.

  “You look rested. I see my aid has done you some good.”

  “Your help has been considerable—and well appreciated. I could not have survived without it.” Munif padded barefoot to the small table where his pack stood open. He pulled out a linen shirt and put it on.

  Dassai clasped his hands in front of him and ran his eyes slowly over the room while Munif finished dressing.

  “I cannot claim the credit. I just act upon what is given me. I received word early on about the Carac and have been alert to their actions ever since. I am glad to see they’ve made it past the Slen Thek and White Palm. Had the assassins gotten to them, there is no telling how much it would have cost.”

  “If they would have taken the bids at all.” Munif enjoyed the coolness of the tiles beneath his toes for a moment longer before shoving his feet into his worn shoes. He’d have to find another pair soon. “The Slen Thek, yes; the White Palm, highly doubtful,” he continued. “The summoners would have been gutted and left as a feast for crows.”

  “There is little doubt that that is true,” Dassai said. “But alas, they did avoid capture. They will be easy prey now.”

  Munif raised his eyebrows; even he was not that confident. “What do we know of their true plans?”

  “N
ot much. I know little more than you—but I do think they’re plotting something here in Tivisis.” Dassai paused. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Just what that mission is, I’m not sure, though surely it does not bode well.” He frowned.

  Munif could tell Dassai’s mind was elsewhere. “And what of these containers they have requested?”

  “Hmm, a diversion, perhaps? Or a means of escape? It’s possible they’ve foreseen the actions of the Jassaj and have been told to secure it and use it against us.”

  Munif finished dressing. “Their powers are formidable; there is no mistake about that,” Munif said softly. “And we must be prepared to defend against whatever they have planned.”

  “True, and that is why we must wait. We must learn a bit more before moving on them. Have the scrying sigils been marked?”

  “Yes, on two of the walls in the flat. Though I suspect that they would take no chances and search the place. I can’t imagine the sigils going undetected.”

  “And that is where you must learn to trust in me. Our man has been instructed to place false marks over the real ones. Once those are removed, the others will remain secure. The plan is safe and will hold.”

  Dassai is confident. Perhaps too confident? Munif wondered. Only time would tell. “So, we must wait until then?” he asked pointedly.

  “Yes. You and your agents will lay the ambush as we gather the information from the meeting. I will give you the location soon, my friend.”

  “We’ll be ready,” answered Munif, glancing at the door.

  Dassai acknowledged the unsubtle hint with a wry smile and turned to leave. “I expect nothing less from you, Pavanan.” Dassai opened the door and stepped out. Just as it closed, he said, “Stay alert, and ready to leave at any time.”

  Munif remained silent.

  11

  IT WAS a bright, cloudless morning.

  No longer confined, the summoners moved swiftly. They crossed Cannuan Square and followed a path that skirted the city wall and turned eventually into to a narrow, winding, upward-climbing street.

  The old quarter of Tivisis clung to a hillside high above the sea. This was all that remained of the ancient city after the great earthquake centuries before. Crossing a wide bridge and leaving the thick stone walls of the new city behind, the summoners passed under the arch of the gateway and back four hundred years in time.

  Tivisis was a place of stark contrast. Within the walls of the new city, great buildings gleamed, and the cobblestone streets sparkled with bits of embedded quartz. The old quarter was filled with dark alleys, twisting dead-end thoroughfares, and tortuous staircases. Few outsiders trod here.

  High-walled houses—each hardly distinguishable from the next—cut a swath of stone across the skyline. Sunken streets hidden in the shadows were choked with debris. Even so, there were hints of beauty. At the top of steep steps, inviting doorways beckoned. Flowers overhung the balconies; fleeting glimpses of garden terraces, blossoming citrus, and pomegranate trees could be seen.

  The summoners, immune to the surroundings, did not pause.

  Despite being pressed in on all sides, the two, still cloaked in black, managed to weave their way through the crowded streets. Hersí was aware that some of the people shuddered involuntarily as they passed, and it pleased him. They needed a taste of fear.

  The summoners realized that the timing of their arrival had been perfect, despite—or perhaps because of—the storm. They maintained a careful watch to be certain they were not being followed.

  Each paid little heed to the murmur of commerce around them, taking care to avoid the many carts and stalls as they climbed farther up the hillside.

  They continued past a deserted square, filthy and eerily silent. No horse-drawn carts traversed the narrow streets beyond. Even at the height of the day, the place was all but deserted, and crowded with shadows.

  They crossed the street and entered a run-down, two-story house. They ignored the lurid offers from the harlots in the foyer and made their way upstairs to the second floor.

  The hallway at the top of the stairs was squalid and dim. Thewall coverings were peeled back to reveal etched warnings and obscene epithets. The worn floorboards exuded the unmistakable scent of stale urine. Drunken men and young girls long lost to innocence coupled in the shadows, their sinewy, underfed limbs intertwined in pathetic embraces.

  Hersí led the way up the stairs with Bashír immediately behind, the carnal moans ringing in their ears. They reached the dimly lit door at the end of the corridor, and Hersí knocked three times. After a moment the door opened, and they slipped into the apartment.

  They closed and locked the door behind them.

  12

  HERSÍ STUDIED his host through the haze of perfumed smoke.

  Raviel Danoir was a short, rat-faced man from Sommel with gray hair and brown-yellow teeth. He scurried over to the solitary window and locked the shutters, then turned and peered into the shrouded faces of the summoners.

  They responded by slowly drawing back their cowls. Danoir gasped; Hersí nodded in acknowledgement. It was obvious the man had never seen Carac before. Each of the summoners’ skin shone like black lacquer, his head shaven except for a stiff tuft at the base of the skull. Both bore vivid ceremonial tattoos that began between their large amber eyes, crossed their foreheads, and continued down their cheeks and necks to disappear under the collars of their cloaks. Hersí knew their appearance had an unsettling effect on others, and it was no different now.

  Danoir took a step back, his eyes darting from one summoner to the other.

  “Carac summoners,” he whispered. “Then the time has truly come!” He took a deep breath.

  “It has,” said Hersí.

  “Your kind has not been seen in Tivisis for many years.” Danoir glanced at the three wooden chairs beside his sloping table. “Forgive me, please sit down,” he said, pulling out the chairs. “I was told you would arrive three days ago. I was beginning to wonder if you were coming at all.”

  “We were delayed by the storm.”

  Danoir grunted, seeming unsurprised. The summoners did not sit, but Danoir did and lit a pipe packed with sweet-scented herbs. “Tivisis has been overrun by spies,” he said, “and the sufis speak. They know you are here.”

  “What of the containers?” Bashír said, approaching the table. “I trust you had no difficulty obtaining them.”

  “None beyond the risk of my life; such items are not easily come by,” Danoir said. He nodded toward the corner behind the men. “They’re in a secret compartment under the cabinet.”

  He started to stand, but Hersí held up his hand and walked over to the cabinet. After locating the hidden release, he opened the door in the wall, reached inside and pulled out two palmsized, ornately decorated glass orbs.

  Danoir stood. “I have been assured that they were properly prepared,” he said. “The alchemist spared no effort. Each has been inspected many times.”

  Hersí set the orbs on the table and looked at them more closely. Danoir lit an oil lamp as Bashír joined them.

  “What about the house?” Bashír inquired without looking away from their prize.

  “It has been ready for weeks now,” Danoir said.

  Hersí reached into his robes and pulled out a leather bag. “Here is your remaining payment,” he said, emphasizing the last word as though it were a pejorative. He opened the bag and pulled out a small vial. “There’s also this,” he said, handing the vial to the old man. “Use it if arrest seems inevitable. It is quick—and there will be no pain.”

  Danoir swallowed hard. “I… do not wish to die.”

  Bashír’s mouth curved into a smile devoid of deceit or falsehood. “One simple life—even if it is your own—is worth the sacrifice to ensure that the mission is completed.”

  Danoir’s face paled. “Yes, for you, perhaps. But I must stay in Tivisis where I will be in constant danger. As for you, well… you might not…” His voice faltered.

&nb
sp; Bashír’s smile faded. “Then perhaps you had better take the vial now.”

  Danoir coughed weakly.

  “Understand this,” Hersí said. “You will welcome death should we fail.”

  Danoir nodded.

  “Good,” Hersí said. “We will depart soon. But first we’ll rest and take a meal with you.”

  Danoir scrambled out of the way as the men shed their robes in preparation for the arcane pre-rituals.

  Seizing the opportunity, Danoir snatched the leather bag from the table and hurried toward the door. As he reached for the handle, Bashír spoke.

  “Danoir?”

  The man turned. Bashír held out the vial. Danoir’s shoulders slumped as he returned to the table. He reached out a shaky hand and took the vial, handling it as though it were a venomous spider.

  “You’ll need this… just in case.”

  13

  THE SUMMONERS were on the move again.

  Pavanan Munif and the three Jassaj saw them leave the flat in the old quarter. The summoners turned the corner and hurried through an alley to the main thoroughfare with Munif and the Jassaj close behind.

  Munif had a plan.

  They would funnel the Carac to a dead end street where surrender would be the only option. The plan was simple, effective, and minimized any collateral damage.

  Munif was sure of his intuitive abilities—and he always heeded them. Yet, an odd feeling of dread gnawed at him. He shook it off, attributing it to the persistent stress of the past several days. The plan he’d devised left no escape for the summoners—unless they could fly. There was no reason to allow a trifling uneasiness to distract him now.

  Munif and his company maintained the farthest distance possible between themselves and their quarry in order to avoid detection. But he could not help noticing that there was something odd about the manner in which the summoners moved; their gait was not that of men fleeing from danger. They ran smoothly and with purpose. Neither looked over his shoulder. Neither seemed to suspect they were being followed. So why did it seem as though the Carac were leading them? Munif became anxious; a sense of foreboding continued to distract him.