In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

24

  “WELL.”

  Arzani eyed Dassai. “It appears we have a problem. Pavanan survived.”

  He held up his hand as Dassai began to speak. “We don’t know how, but his body was not among the dead,” Arzani said, adding, “However, it is possible that he was behind the others and survived the blast, only to succumb elsewhere later.”

  Dassai ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. “No. No, that bastard lives, I can feel it. Damn him! We should have had someone there to take care of that possibility.” His face flushed with anger. “You should have been better prepared!”

  Arzani shifted in his seat. “It is pointless to lay blame now. It is done.”

  Dassai glared at him for a moment longer before heaving a sigh. “At least the Carac were successful. Their mission is achieved. Fear and panic will reign in the streets. On the other hand, we must do what we can to deal with Pavanan’s escape. You must convince Galliresse that Munif acted of his own accord, killing hisfellow agents and betraying the people of Tivisis. Make him wary of the intentions of the Jassaj and even the motives of the Sultan. Pavanan Munif must be blamed. It is the only way. Make him a wanted man throughout Givenh and all of Miranes’.”

  Arzani nodded. “It will be done.”

  He stared as Fajeer Dassai began to pace frantically, plotting his next move. “Yes. This will work. But showing that the Rassan Majalis was at the heart of it may serve us even better.” Dassai pointed at Arzani, his eyes boring into the advisor. “You must make sure that Galliresse believes this comes from the Rassan Majalis and the Sultan of Qatana. Givenh will be convinced to turn against them.”

  “But will this not make Galliresse look incompetent as well?” Arzani asked.

  Dassai shrugged, but did not look away. “What you do to undermine him is of no concern to me. Succeed, and this may seat you as the new Suffet of Tivisis, and all can still fall into place as I have planned.”

  Arzani’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  Dassai gave him a devil’s grin. “Need I state clearly what will happen should you fail?”

  The other man’s eyes dulled as he contemplated the word.

  “I must leave.” Dassai said abruptly, spinning away.

  “Where are you going?”

  Dassai paused at the door. “I am of no more use here. My presence is a threat now. Tell Galliresse that I am returning to Cievv for a full account of the attacks. It would be best for him to believe it. You can reach me in Dorré if there is need. There is still more work to be done.”

  He slipped into the corridor, leaving Arzani to puzzle out his meaning.

  Arzani knew Dassai would not return.

  25

  MUNIF WAS READY.

  He’d closed in on Dassai. It hadn’t taken long to find him. Munif perched on top of the bridge, watching as Dassai neared, oblivious. With perfect timing Munif leapt down on him.

  Dassai’s legs buckled. He fell hard on his hands and knees, grunting as the breath was knocked out of him. Rolling clear, Munif didn’t give him a chance to catch a gulp of air. He punched both his fists down on Dassai’s back, then flipped him over and slammed a knee into his chest to hold him down. “Fajeer, Fajeer,” he said in a mocking tone. “That has always been your failing: you never look up.”

  Ignoring Dassai’s struggle to breathe, he crossed his arms, grabbing the cloth around the man’s neck with both hands, further choking off Dassai’s windpipe. Munif took great delight in the look of surprise and pain on Dassai’s face.

  Dassai closed his eyes. “It is… too late… to stop it.”

  Munif suddenly went cold, relaxing his grip. “Too late to stop what?” He shook the prone man.

  Dassai sucked in a breath. “The Carac went to… They summoned… just before dawn.” His eyes opened and there was such finality in them that Munif recoiled. “It is done.”

  Munif looked up in horror as light from the first sun painted the sky red. Dassai took advantage of Munif’s loosened grip, slipping both arms within Munif’s, breaking the chokehold. Before Munif could react, Dassai slammed the heel of his left fist into his opponent’s chin and pushed Munif’s shoulder with his right hand. Munif crashed backward onto the pavement.

  Still struggling to breathe, Dassai scrambled to his feet, giving Munif time to recover. Within seconds, they were facing each other again.

  Munif struck first, shoving with his left hand and then striking Dassai in the throat with his forearm. He tried to slip his arm under Dassai’s shoulder to throw him back to the ground, but the attack had slowed him. Dassai easily avoided the move, pushing Munif off balance and scything his right leg at Munif’s ankles.

  Dassai connected cleanly, sending Munif crashing once again to the street. Shards of pain stabbed through him as the blisters on his calves burst open. Munif fought to stay conscious as agony swept over him and blood flowed down his legs.

  Dassai chuckled. “You also tend to distract easily. And,” he said, sneering, “it appears you did not escape the fire unscathed.”

  Dassai’s voice had come from somewhere to his left. Munif fought to regain his sight, frantically blinking to clear the fog. He pushed himself upright and found Dassai looking at him, a sly grin on his face.

  “It’s true,” Munif said. “I didn’t escape the fire unscathed. But you won’t escape here unharmed, either.”

  Dassai’s smile dissolved as both men squared off once again. Munif, struggling through pain that turned the edges of his vision red, knew he did not have much energy left. Maybe enough for one last strike, but that was all. It would have to be a killing blow.

  He balanced himself the best he could, locking the fingers of his right hand. With a tremendous scream born of pain and fury, he launched himself at Dassai, the hard edge of his hand slicing toward his foe’s windpipe.

  Too slow. Mere inches from his target, Munif felt his outstretched arm pushed away as Dassai easily sidestepped the blow and locked his hand behind Munif’s head, forcing him to look toward the ground.

  It seemed to take hours for Dassai’s knee to come up. The first blow crashed into the left side of his chest, cracking three ribs. Munif would have fallen down yet again but for Dassai’s grip.

  The second stroke took him in the chin, and this time, Dassai let go. Munif’s head snapped back, and as he fell he could feel teeth cracking and blood flowing from his shattered mouth.

  Once again on his back, he stared toward the sky, feeling the blood pooling in the back of his throat. He could hear Dassai, but he could not move, let alone breathe. Dassai stepped into his view and looked down at him, his face shadowed as the first sun’s rays lit him from behind. Dassai shook his head and waved in a mock salute. “Farewell, Pavanan Munif. Before the day is done, Tivisis will no longer welcome you. You have become the betrayer of its people—and you will be punished. Yes, you will.”

  Munif wanted to scream in protest, but the words did not come. Dassai stepped over Munif and disappeared, leaving him on the gravel.

  Dassai was gone. The fight had cost Munif everything but his life, and even that was in question.

  Pushing unconsciousness aside, Munif pulled himself together. He sat up, wincing against the pain and spitting his mouth clean. Running his fingers over his ribcage, he easily located the injury. Holding his side with his right hand, he used his left to lever himself to his feet.

  Munif was grateful that Dassai had not bothered to take his weapons or his coins. He took off his robe with great care and folded it. Before he could do anything else, he needed to find a place to heal.

  Beaten and betrayed, Munif limped away from the palace gate.

  He also failed to notice the shadow that separated itself from the wall and began following him.

  Part Four

  WANTED

  13.10.792 SC

  1

  CIRIS SARN was a marked man.

  He was weary of his life and actions. The past plagued him, every day a living reminder of fate; cruel and
twisted. His hour of judgment would come, soon perhaps. He would pay dearly for choosing this path. But for the present, Sarn had other, more immediate concerns that involved both his employers and his enemies.

  Taking a moment to get his bearings, he adjusted the cloth that covered his mouth, the light fabric damp with sweat. Many travelers used facial coverings to protect themselves from the heat of the suns. It also served to keep his identity hidden from prying eyes.

  Sarn neared the gates of Marjeeh, another powerful and wealthy sheikdom that stretched along the coast of the Crescent Cape. After killing one of Dassai’s men in Pashail, Sarn had fled north—ignoring both Oranin and Havar where Dassai would no doubt be expecting him to return.

  The spree of assassinations he’d committed in the last six months put him at constant risk— reckless retaliations against the machinations of a dangerous mind. But Sarn had no choice in the matter. Dassai dictated his actions, and the curse prevented him from doing otherwise. He was weak and vulnerable, and could not change anything. Yet.

  He left the caravan road, soon coming to the southern gates of the city. Two guards stood there, bored with inactivity, their swords lying in their scabbards. Sarn pulled the scarf even more tightly around his face as he shuffled past them. He knew he could kill them before they could draw steel, but he preferred not to.

  Neither of them gave a glance as he passed by them.

  Continuing on, he soon came to a narrow aqueduct bordering the road. Farther along, a flat stone lay in the shade of a palm tree. Many others used this place to obtain clean water. Sarndipped his waterskin into the aqueduct, filling it, then taking a large swallow. It was somewhat cool, and instantly revived his parched mouth.

  Sarn contemplated his next move. He had thoughts of going farther north to Tanith where he owned a riad, but even that might not be safe; there was a good chance that a trap had been laid for him there. His safest course of action would be to seek refuge in Marjeeh, at least for the time being.

  He contemplated the available contacts and safe houses that might be available there. His thoughts wandered to the vineyards. Recalling them brought back unpleasant images of its destruction and the confrontation with Dassai, followed by his killing of Hiril Altaïr. He gritted his teeth and shook his head as if to empty it of the unwanted memories. To this day, Altaïr’s murder unsettled him. The actual killing did not bother Sarn so much as the reasons why. It had set off the series of vicious slayings by his hand, all strands in the web of Fajeer Dassai’s sadistic schemes. And what part did the books play in this; what did Dassai want with them? Should I have done what I did, leaving them there for someone else to find?

  Dassai had played Sarn to kill Altaïr, but failed to realize that Sarn could play the game just as well. A smile crept across his face. However, what had occurred in the months that followed weighed on the assassin. He was a marked man, the reward for his capture so high that there were all manner of potential takers. Jassaj from Qatana and the siris of the Rassan Majalis were expending every effort to apprehend or kill him.

  Sarn was unaccustomed to the threats. He felt like a fool now. Dassai was not even in the same class as himself. And yet… and yet, he’d succeeded in his designs. Sarn had been too complacent, too obsessed with finding peace. He’d allowed his single-mindedness to lapse—and had paid dearly for that mistake. So had his father. And Jannat.

  He’d never been introspective; Sarn believed that his actionswere made easier by avoiding self-examination. However, he’d spent more than twenty years under the thumb of Dassai, and even though he now possessed the key to his freedom, the goal seemed as elusive as ever. Was life more choice or destiny? Perhaps it was more plan than happenstance? These thoughts had, of late, interfered with his ability to focus, but the killing of Altaïr lingered with him the longest.

  His mind filled with more questions than answers. Sarn knew he must abandon this self-inquisition if he was going to avoid his pursuers. No one in these lands mourned Hiril Altaïr personally; however, Sarn was sure that the siri was valuable and many would seek to avenge his death. Dozens, if not hundreds, were waiting for the assassin to make a fatal error. Sarn knew they would never stop hunting him.

  He’d been on the run before. This was different. The stakes were raised, the gold too much for the greed that gripped the hunters. Now he was forced to spend his own wealth to keep safe. He would kill, if necessary, to remain in the shadows, but the less bloodshed now, the easier it would be to stay hidden. The question Sarn needed answered most was, where should he go next?

  Sarn refreshed the waterskin once again, then wearily dragged himself upright. Resolved, he turned north, following the road into the heart of the city.

  Perhaps he knew where to go for help, after all.

  2

  SARN’S DESTINATION lay just within the walls of the city.

  Flanked by tall square towers, Sarn moved quickly, passing through a labyrinth of dark corridors toward the north gates. Near the fortifications were the homes of wealthy merchant families, brilliant white riads hidden within a sea of palms, their fronds shading the green lawns and well-watered gardens. Thelands beyond the walls were flat, covered with orange groves and date orchards that stretched toward the distant hills.

  His eyes darted into the shadow above the scarf still pulled tightly across his face, glancing occasionally at the rooftops. His senses were at maximum alert. But he saw nothing.

  While Marjeeh was not as familiar to him as the other sheikdoms, Sarn kept a number of reliable contacts in the city. He continued through the narrow streets and the bazaars jammed with traders selling their wares and street urchins looking to steal them. Sarn followed the road to the secluded house of Lueih Taghmaoui, an influential merchant.

  Sarn rang the bell, letting the scarf drop. A servant answered, glancing inquiringly at the assassin. A look of abject fear came over his face; he slammed the door. Amused but not showing it, Sarn waited patiently. When Taghmaoui finally opened the door and saw his unsmiling visitor, his greeting was simple. “Shall we drink tonight in solemnity or in celebration?”

  “A bit of both,” Sarn replied. “But mostly in silence. I don’t want to talk. I just want to drink myself to sleep.” Taghmaoui motioned him inside, and Sarn welcomed the feeling of security that washed over him.

  Taghmaoui did not project the manner of the wealth he possessed. Neither obese nor gaudily dressed, he wore light robes over a body well toned for his years. Women swarmed to his side, and offers of companionship—both legitimate and perverse—were always forthcoming. No one, as yet, suspected him of nefarious deeds, leaving him free to entertain as he wished. And so, as the heat of the day gave way to the chill of night, the two men passed a bottle between them until the fire grew cold, their eyelids heavy, and their breathing even.

  He and Taghmaoui were not friends; they were something far more—men who understood each other. Someone Sarn could trust when he needed it most.

  That time was now.

  3

  SARN WAS ALONE.

  While Taghmaoui went out on business, the assassin slept. It was well past midday prayers before he finally woke. The house was empty, the servants having fled or hidden in their quarters. Sarn found the kitchen and ate there.

  It was early evening when Taghmaoui returned and greeted him with genuine pleasure. Two servants soon followed, carrying baskets filled with various breads, cheeses, and several bottles of wine.

  Taghmaoui also brought news. “A Rassan siri has been seen in the city,” he said between bites of bread and sips of wine.

  Sarn listened nonchalantly, leaning against a chair, a mostly untouched glass in his hand. He already was aware of this information but feigned ignorance, nodding slightly.

  It was a game the two men had played for many years. At times, Sarn had had reason to employ Taghmaoui. He was a successful businessman, after all. Sarn was satisfied just to hear the information from the merchant, knowing the service would in some way be re
paid, just as he was certain that this current hospitality would prove profitable.

  Sarn took a piece of cheese from the table, swallowing it whole, then raising both wineglass and brow in his host’s direction.

  “It appears that the Majalis and others are seeking the assassin who murdered a man named Hiril Altaïr. They will pay handsomely for information leading them to the killer.”

  “This is true,” Sarn said.

  “And is it true that you have also been marked for death?” Taghmaoui asked carefully.

  “Yes, but,” Sarn replied, “I am worth much more alive.” He smiled as sipped the wine.

  “The danger will increase the longer you stay.”

  Sarn caught the subtle hint. “Why would they go through all that trouble just to capture the murderer of a spy?” he asked.

  “This man was no ordinary spy,” Taghmaoui answered. “It is said that he carried valuable documents. These were stolen upon his death.”

  “There appears to be an abundance of spies about,” Sarn said with a smirk. “Those pursuing Altaïr’s killer—and those lamenting lost opportunities in Pashail.” Sarn could see Taghmaoui’s look of surprise.

  “Hiril Altaïr was of considerable importance to the Rassan Majalis,” Taghmaoui responded, instantly becoming more serious.

  “So it seems,” Sarn said. “Though I care little for politics, word has it that Altaïr was valued by both the Rassan Majalis and Qatana.”

  “True, my friend. But more important, the information he carried elevated his status even more. Now many want to avenge his death because they feel cheated out of what was stolen.”

  “What do you think?” Sarn asked.

  “I do not know what was taken—all that matters was that this information was not found. Altaïr was killed for their own reasons by whoever ordered his death; whatever he carried, they did not want it to reach the embassy.”

  “And hence the great effort expended to take his assassin out,” Sarn said.

  “Yes, and there are plenty of takers, depending on whether they seek the information for love of king or lust of gold.”