In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  So the assassin waited, his eyes ranging over the tranquil water below. The warmth of the midday sun quelled the comfort of the morning breeze. More than just the temperature had begun to rise. Irate voices filled the air along with the scent of coriander and smoke. The meridian bells rang out, issuing the call to prayer. A few moments later, the inspector came in.

  “You are Ciris Sarn?” asked the elderly man. Sarn did not recognize him. He had olive skin, grizzled, unkempt hair, and weary, deep-set eyes. “It seems we have not had the fortune of meeting before this day. It is my pleasure to do so now.”

  Sarn nodded. The inspector pointed to a small table and two empty chairs; plainly, he intended to conduct a more detailed interview. The man spoke in a punctilious manner as he thumbed through Sarn’s papers. “So you choose to come back to Tanith now?”

  Sarn nodded. “Yes, I have a house within these walls.”

  “Indeed…” The inspector paused, staring down at the papers between them, then leaned back in his chair. “To see you in person is all the more intriguing. You are, as they say, a legend in Tanith, and elsewhere, no doubt. It comes as a shock to see you face to face.”

  “I’m just a simple man, much like yourself—but on the other side of this table.”

  “If you wish to believe it as such, I suppose. However, I know you. The other men who have seen you here know you, and so do all who dwell within the walls of Tanith.” The inspector straightened and leaned forward, putting his face near Sarn’s. “Now, tell me the real reason you have returned… Kingslayer.”

  “I am here on business,” Sarn said evenly. “To get answers to lingering questions that concern none but myself.”

  “Or could it be that the disturbance you left in Marjeeh leads you here?” the man countered.

  “I have no knowledge of any matter in Marjeeh,” Sarn replied flatly. His eyes bored into the official; the man shifted uncomfortably.

  “So after three years you return?”

  “Am I not entitled to return? After all, I keep residence in Tanith.”

  At this the inspector frowned but said nothing. He signed a few documents and grudgingly granted the assassin entrance into the city.

  Sarn turned at the door. “Thank you,” he said without malice. “You have been very… wise.”

  He had expected more trouble. The grizzled official had admitted that the entire city knew of his deeds.

  So why had it been so easy?

  The answer came swiftly.

  Dassai. He’d told them to allow Sarn’s entry. So he—and his henchmen—would be waiting for the assassin inside the city.

  So be it.

  Sarn exited the tower and gazed at the suns sinking toward the horizon.

  Yes, Tanith was a beautiful place.

  13

  SARN SHUT the door.

  He left his riad in the soft violet light of early evening and made his way to the forecourt of the Biar-ben hostel.

  The message he’d found among the papers the inspector had given him indicated the location of the meeting. It also made clear there should be no delay.

  A lane of polished stones led to the center of a wide courtyard where a fountain sprayed gently into a pale blue circular basin. Tall palm trees were silhouetted against the purple sky, and brilliantly hued barbary blooms filled the warm, still air with sweet floral perfume. The richness of this city in the midst of the parched land sent a wave of pleasure to Sarn’s weary mind.

  Subdued lighting filtered from copper lamps that hung beneath latticed arches. A path of inlaid mosaic led to the dining hall.

  Despite the inviting surroundings, Sarn found himself treading lightly, as though he could sense the presence of someone unseen. Those who’d followed him into Tanith would be better prepared and deadlier than the assassin he’d dispatched in Marjeeh. With each one he killed, the next would be stronger.

  He passed through the wide, open doorway and stepped into a lofty room with a domed ceiling supported by long, slender beams. The effect was astonishing—as though the ribs and frame of an ancient sailing vessel had been inverted and carefully placed atop the walls. The room was lit by great, heavy lamps and hung with tapestries depicting past naval battles.

  Few of the low, round tables were unoccupied. A lively murmur of conversation and laughter filled the room. Dishes and bowls clinked and clattered, chairs scraped, and pretty young women with large round trays traversed the raucous crowd, stopping just long enough to slap the hands that had strayed too far from the tables. Sarn quickly took in the scene before threading his way between the tables.

  He could sense the dark eyes that watched him with veiled curiosity.

  There were few outlanders in Tanith at night. The inner city was almost entirely inhabited by the wealthy and their servants. There were few winehouses or shishas, and fewer visitors. The foreign quarter lay outside the walls, and was an altogether different place.

  Sarn had always been impressed by the subtle charm of the clean, cobbled streets and the flat-roofed, whitewashed houses with their brightly painted doors and elaborately decorated windowsills.

  Set high into one of the many hills, the dining terrace overlooked the city and the sea. It was also less well lighted than the main hall inside. Sarn made his way toward a table occupied by two foreigners and settled into a low rattan chair across from the men. From this position he had a clear view of the entire area while remaining in the shadows.

  One of the men motioned to a young girl dressed in white. She came forward with a bottle of red wine, poured a glass for Sarn, and scurried away.

  “Say something, Ciris. It has been a long, long time.”

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure?” Sarn asked without meeting the man’s gaze.

  “Such a lovely place Tanith is,” the man said, ignoring the sarcasm. “One could stay here forever, I think.”

  “I’ve thought the same thing.”

  “I’m certain you have, Sarn. Yet, you do have certain obligations that must be met. You still remember those, do you not? You are needed in Riyyal.”

  Sarn sniffed the wine, swirled it in the glass briefly, and took a sip. He tasted it, then turned his head to the side and spat the small mouthful onto the stone floor. “Whatever allegiance I owed to Qatana has been long since paid in full. I owe you nothing.”

  The Tajj al-Hadd askar watched as the wine ran along the cracks in the stone. “On the contrary, you have a duty to us as long as we need you. There is nothing you can do to change it.”

  Sarn met the man’s gaze for the first time. His eyes were black pools of hatred, though his face never changed. “Perhaps. But I can reach across this table and cut both your throats before either of you says another word. Then you will have no need to worry about any of my so-called obligations.”

  The second askar laughed. “Do not be rash. Do you think we’re so foolish as to come unprepared?” He leaned close enough for Sarn to smell his scented breath. “There are a dozen soldiers trained on you as we speak.”

  Sarn could not resist the urge to glance around the crowded restaurant. He saw no one with a weapon. Perhaps the man was bluffing. “Maybe so. But it will matter little in the end. Both of you will die before me.”

  The two men remained silent.

  “Ah, yes, I have forgotten,” Sarn said. “You are bound to these assignments as well, with no choice of your own. You are nothing but a messenger. What makes you think that I would not prefer death?”

  “Because we have been through this before, and you have always obeyed your orders. I see no reason why you will not do so again.”

  Sarn pushed back his chair. He was tired; the journey had been long. “I grow weary of this conversation.”

  “Be at the port tomorrow morning, or you will not live to see the first noon sun,” the first man said.

  Sarn’s eyes burned again.

  “Until the morning, then,” he responded.

  14

  KHOLED NAJIR listened to the
entire conversation.

  He sat at the next table, dressed in the manner of a merchant. His eyes gleamed. He had not been this close to Ciris Sarn before. Could he actually do it? Certainly not in the presence of the two men seated directly across from the assassin. In addition, there were others lurking about unseen. They would be keen on killing Sarn as well, should the assassin fall. No. He would wait for a better opportunity.

  Sarn had eluded the Haradin many times, and a number of the assassins had been slain by his blade. Najir wanted to see Sarn die now—tonight—but that would not happen. The risk was too great. He had to remain in the shadows, keep his disguise, follow the plan, and comply with the Emir’s orders.

  Najir glanced around the room. His disguise was convincing enough that no one questioned his presence. Today, he was Hanif Masood, a textile merchant from Calilif.

  Despite the temptation, he only looked at Sarn from the side. He did not want to make eye contact with the assassin, as Sarn was the only one in the room who could penetrate Najir’s disguise. One look at his eyes and Sarn would recognize the killer within.

  The rest of the people here were sheep, oblivious to the wolves around them. Najir’s skin was dusky, but it would be assumed that he was of mixed blood. No one would suspect he was Haradin.

  Very few people here knew much about the Haradin, other than that they were fierce, ruthless warriors from the deserts of Qatana. Unlike the Slen Thek, who were killers for hire, the Haradin were soldiers of a secret army sworn to protect the Sultan.

  According to rumor, centuries ago they’d become autonomous. They knew no boundaries, and crossed freely from one kingdom to another. Territory did not hold them. Ideology was their center—and they grounded themselves in it.

  Their training included not only tracking and live capture, but also mastering the skills of the spy and assassin: disguise, weaponry, poisons and antidotes, and ambushes. This was Najir’s great challenge—a personal mission.

  One of the most feared skills of the Haradin was the ability to adapt and change tactics, which was why Najir was able to sit casually—unremarkable and unnoticed—at the adjoining table and observe Sarn’s meeting with the askars. It was also why three additional Haradin hid nearby in the square, waiting for Sarn and the two men to come by after their rendezvous. The askars would pass through the square on their way to the next destination. Sarn would follow without their knowledge. And the Haradin would close the trap on the assassin.

  Najir watched and waited, staring off into space as though he were a scholar contemplating philosophical problems and their solutions. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Sarn finished his business and abruptly stood. As Sarn stepped past him, he could see the rigid set in his jaw, the flash of hatred in his eyes.

  Hmm, that is interesting, Najir thought.

  He waited for Sarn to exit the room before getting up to follow. But he would observe Sarn’s movements only to confirm that he was setting off in a false direction—around the inn and over to the other side of town—to throw off the Jassaj spies.

  Once he was satisfied that his target had performed the expected maneuver, Najir quickly returned to observe the agents. They finished their wine, left the dining room, and proceeded west toward the outer city.

  He suspected he would have to wait only a few minutes before Sarn took up the same trail. The sooner, the better; Najir had taken little rest or food over the course of this task, and it looked

  to be a while longer before it was over. It was worth the wait.

  15

  SARN PLANNED his move.

  He knew he was being followed by at least two men, and perhaps more. Tension had mounted during his conversation with the two askars, and he was frustrated that his plans, so carefully conceived, now had to be abandoned. He discarded all emotion; he filled his mind with the cold detachment that had always served him well when there was need for swift action.

  Sarn glanced at the sky. Soon the rising moon would flood the mountains and the tall towers of the citadel with a silvery light. The narrow streets of the inner city were a tracery of shadows. He moved quickly but cautiously as the dim light suddenly became a ebony maw directly before him. The scent of fruit trees wafted by him as he followed the merchant and the two askars. He carefully crossed one more avenue and hesitated as he looked into the inky blackness.

  The throughway had ended in a dense grove of glass-bloom trees. These trees were popular for their unique blooms that, beginning in late spring, covered every inch of the tree. When the blooms fell they hardened, becoming brittle like ultra-thin glass. Children loved to run through the fallen blooms in a cacophony of crunching sounds. By fall, the petals would disintegrate into fertilizing dust, essentially cleaning up after themselves. Sarn would have to be especially careful here, using every bit of his trained stealth.

  He stepped into the darkness.

  The entrance to the grove was completely devoid of light. He saw the faint flicker of candles in the windows of distant houses. Somewhere ahead of him he heard the crisp, delicate sound of

  dead blooms shattering. He lengthened his strides.

  The sound of the distant voices alerted him and he halted, listening, but he could not see the askars or the other man. Sarn began to move in, stepping with the utmost caution, shifting larger blooms with the side of one foot before setting it firmly on the brittle shards, and then proceeding likewise with the other. The grove was pitch-black on either side of him, but the darkness began to fade as the moon rose. He watched as the askars reached the opposite side of the park and passed into the dim light beyond. He paused to survey the scene.

  Where was the other man? The merchant?

  The air was full of the warm, sweet fragrance of the gardens that spread out in all directions from the central path. The sky, powdered with stars, was losing its rich, velvety purple as the crescent moon rose higher. Sarn, however, was conscious only of an oppressive unease in the atmosphere.

  While he considered his next move, his concentration was shattered by the faint but unmistakable sound of a heavy object rolling along the ground. He hurled himself back against a tree and gripped the bark, bracing himself and instinctively shutting his eyes.

  His foresight paid off. Massive spiderwebs of brilliant, blue-white electricity crackled through the trees, filling the copse with frantic, flickering light. Sarn felt the impact on his chest, but the tree absorbed most of the blow, leaving him unhurt. Had he kept his eyes open, his night vision would have been completely destroyed, leaving him vulnerable to attack.

  As he stepped away from the tree, he heard and then saw a figure running down the path away from him.

  Ignoring the crunch of the brittle petals, he began to move toward the man. He’d taken only a step when another figure appeared out of the darkness, running in a half-crouch. Sarn realized he was in the middle of an ambush.

  Before he could react, he heard the slight whirring sound ofa thrown knife. Luckily, it missed his chest, skimming across the meaty part of his left bicep. A sharp lance of pain shot through him. Sarn stifled a curse, but the wound was not life-threatening. Painful, yes. But not debilitating.

  The incapacitating charges, followed by the thrown knife, confirmed the identities of his attackers.

  Haradin.

  The Haradin assassin charged. Sarn plucked the knife from his belt and stood, mind focused, blade aimed at his attacker’s throat. As the assailant closed the gap, he spun and launched himself into the bushes, hurling something in Sarn’s direction. Sarn saw a spherical object hit the ground and roll toward him. Unable to use the trees as cover this time, he stepped deeper into the shadows. The object exploded within a yard of him.

  Sarn was momentarily stunned, but the sphere had otherwise not affected him. Realizing he was running out of time, Sarn closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, extending a finger toward the assassin’s hiding place.

  Globes of light streamed from his outstretched hand, gathering together lik
e balls of quicksilver until they became a mass of pulsating brightness. The Haradin howled in pain and fear, his eyes seared from the blast.

  Sarn finished the spell and then slipped even deeper into the trees. The light would remain for several more seconds—more than enough time for him to make his escape.

  Behind him, he could hear the Haradin hunting for him in vain. Soon he reached the edge of the park and fled into the darkness.

  Sarn was gone.

  Part Five

  INSTRUMENTS OF DARKNESS

  4.12.792 SC

  1

  PAVANAN MUNIF traveled east from Tivisis.

  He felt that good fortune was with him as he entered the caravanserai on the outskirts of Riannis. A week had passed since the ambush in Tivisis, and he was still on the run.

  Fajeer Dassai had left him broken and betrayed. The pain of Munif’s injuries had brought the urge for affyram roaring back with a vengeance. Twice he’d had to resist the impulse to venture into an affyram den. How simple it would have been to simply buy his dose and pipe, allow himself to be led deep into the darkened building, and lose himself to the annka. Each time, though, Munif resisted. It was a battle, and the pain he’d suffered was almost unbearable. It was the toughest fight he’d ever had to endure.

  Munif had hoped to post a message at Burj al-Ansour, but he felt the danger was too grave to make the attempt. Traveling in that direction was too hazardous. He was certain that Dassai and Arzani would expect him to head north toward the misal’ayn—or west from Tivisis back to Ruinart. They would be waiting to hem him in.

  Instead, he’d traveled by foot eastward from Tivisis. He stayed away from the Inni Qawr, hugging the coast; it took longer, but it was much safer than taking the caravan road. Six days later he reached Riannis.

  There he booked passage on a ship bound for Hayl. Though the island kingdom was a rival to Givenh, the borders were open, and the two realms were on friendly terms with each other. He secured passage as discreetly as possible, and paid well to stay off the manifest. Slipping past the small custom house was not difficult and did not cost him any more of his dwindling coins.