by Val Gunn
“The fate of every living person in Mir’aj.”
5
THIS TIME, Cencova looked astonished.
As she finished the tale, Marin saw the impact her words had on the spymaster.
She’d begun with her visit to the shrine where she’d paid her respects to Hiril, and described her conversation with Khoury, who had given her the books. She told of her journey to meet with Cencova here in Cievv, and today’s attempt on her life after she postponed her visit.
Cencova looked pained when he heard of her indecision. “It is my fault, Marin. I should have done something long ago.”
“What do you mean?” Marin asked.
“I was the one who directed Hiril to seek out Tariq Alyalah and learn if what he possessed was as powerful as we suspected. Your husband was to meet the sufi at Burj al-Halij. Everything we discovered after his death led us to believe that he was murdered before this meeting came to pass.”
“When did you suspect Sarn?” Marin demanded.
“From the beginning. But—”
“The evidence was clear.”
“Yes… and no. The manner in which Hiril was—” Cencova broke off and looked carefully at Marin. “Let us say that it was unlike his other murders. The method was quite different. Sarn wants us to know it was him.”
“So the investigation led you elsewhere.”
“The trail widened so far that we made no further progress. It kept coming back to the assassin. Yet Sarn eluded us. Until now.” Cencova’s voice turned grim. “This changes everything. There is nowhere he can hide.”
Marin set her cup on the fountain’s ledge and reached deep into her cloak. “I am placing my trust in you,” she said. “There is
something I must show you.”
Slowly, almost fearfully, she brought out the books one by one.
“Ah,” murmured the spymaster. “I suspected… but scarce did I believe.…”
All of the books in Marin’s hands appeared to be the same, yet somehow each was different. They exuded a sensation of ancient wonder and knowledge while looking as if they had come new from a bindery. The palm boards of each book were sewn with silk into lambskin bindings, protected from wear and the elements with a slipcover of rich brown canvas. The black calligraphy, written in a language neither she nor Cencova could decipher, stood out as if freshly inked on the creamy pages.
Marin shuddered at the touch of powerful magic as she placed the books on the bench next to her. Each looked the same, appeared to be the same size. But each was different.
They felt different.
The first one’s cover seemed gritty to the touch; the second slightly warm; the third damp. The final book had a feeling of weightlessness as if, despite its heft, it could float away like a feather in the wind.
Marin and Cencova sat in quiet awe, picking up each book and, running their fingers along the covers, leafing through the pages.
“These are what my husband died for,” Marin finally said.
Cencova nodded.
“What are they?”
“Waed an-Citab… the Books of Promise,” he replied softly.
“What is their history?”
Cencova told her.
6
“YOU HAVE been carrying the greatest lie ever told by man.”
Even as he spoke the words, Marin could sense Cencova’s struggle within himself.
“If what you just told me is true, and if the things I already know are true,” he continued, “certainly these texts you have brought me are far from ordinary.”
“So the trail of bloodshed would tell us. Too many have been slaughtered—Hiril and others—for these to be merely ordinary.” Marin gestured at the books. “I am being hunted because of them. No, they are much more than ordinary.”
“Yet even with the relics that, against all odds, now lie before me, I remain skeptical,” Cencova said. “Without greater proof, I cannot be certain. The burden of indictment for holding these books falls heavy on our shoulders if we pursue this to the end.”
“How so?”
Cencova sighed, bowing his head and running his fingers through his hair. Looking up, he smiled wanly and put his hand on Marin’s. “We have a decision to make, Marin Altaïr. The easiest course would be to destroy them now. Burning flames or the depths of the sea could make it seem as if these books had never existed. The old order of things would remain in effect.”
Marin nodded.
“However, given the power we both sense in them, I’m not even sure they can be destroyed. Look at their age.” He ran a wondering hand over one of the books’ cover. “They hardly seem old. And if we could dispose of them, what possible magic might we unleash? And do we allow this charade to continue, a society built of lies piled upon lies? Yet… if we topple that pile of lies, what consequences do we face?”
“I agree with you,” Marin said. “We must decide, but what?”
Now that they were talking, the whole thing seemed impossible despite all that had occurred. Cencova knew much more than she had guessed. Indeed, he seemed surprised only that she had brought the books to his house. Magical as these volumes felt, could they truly be the root of… everything?
The plot was too great, the years of widespread deception too mad to consider. If someone could prove that the Books of Promise held such lies and that a conspiracy of untold dimensions had existed for centuries, then kingdoms and councils would fall as the conspirators were crushed. Who would rise to take their places? The ripples of this discovery would spread across Mir’aj in ever-growing, unpredictable ways.
Who could invent and spread such intricate lies? How could such lies take root in every aspect of society? The scope of this thing went beyond imagining. Diabolical factions, unnatural monsters, assassins and saboteurs all perpetuated the lies under whose orders? It could only be someone with unequaled power and influence.
The Sultan of Qatana himself. There could be no one else.
Once Marin put a human face on this madness, the picture in her mind shifted into something more believable. Just as Khoury’s news of Sarn had finally focused the rage she felt at Hiril’s death, laying the vast conspiracy at the Sultan’s feet turned it into a knot Marin could unravel.
Maybe.
She resolved to try.
Cencova studied her for a few moments and then shook his head. “This cannot be settled without time and careful thought. I now wonder whom I can trust to help us make these dire decisions,” he murmured. “Whom do I go to?” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “And, there is the matter of Ciris Sarn and what role he plays in all of this.”
Marin’s eyes flashed. “For that reason alone, I will not stop. Vengeance will fall upon the assassin, and I shall deliver it.”
“Marin, do not be so hasty.”
She ripped her hand out of his grasp. He stared back at her impassively.
“Hear my words,” he said. “We do not know what part he has in it.”
“He is nothing but a killer!”
“True, but a highly successful one. From what I know of Sarn, he wields terrible power.”
“But—”
He raised a hand, silencing her. “Neither of us can fathom it, but it is there. Sarn does not kill without reason.”
“He kills because he is paid to kill.”
“You are correct. Someone paid for the assassination; Sarn just carried it out. You risk losing the trail to your true enemies if he is killed.”
Marin shook her head fiercely. “He is my only enemy. If I see him, he dies.”
“Your hatred blinds you, woman.” Cencova’s tone was harsh, suddenly that of a strategist instead of a friend. “Don’t you understand? He is a link. Through him we can learn everything we need to know.”
Marin would not be mollified. “As long as he draws breath, he mortally offends me. I will wash with his own blood the profit he made from killing Hiril.”
Cencova sighed heavily. “I understand your anger, Mari
n. But you assume too much.”
“Such as?”
“That he killed Hiril for gold.”
“Why else would he?”
“Why?” Cencova’s bushy eyebrows arched. “Information. Power. Perhaps something else.”
“His motivation does not matter to me.”
“Perhaps not. At least, not at this moment,” he said. “But there is much more to decipher about this whole business. I need
time to think.”
“I will go alone if I must,” Marin said, lowering her head. She had come here hoping for—what? Something different from this. Her long day and desperate evening caught up with her. Her shoulders slumped and a sob escaped her.
Cencova reached out a gentle hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. He spoke in softer tone.
“Give me three days.”
7
MARIN’S POLITE and friendly mask was slipping.
Her patience would be the next thing to go.
After Cencova ended their discussion and gave her supper, he sent her to the city with six guards to escort her through the hills. They met no obstacles along the way, nor did trouble find Marin in the Rassan Majalis’ safe house where they hid her. Two of the armed guards never left her side—except when she needed privacy to relieve herself or bathe.
Cencova needed time to draw up a list of those he could absolutely trust, and then contact them. Marin knew this difficult task could take longer than three days and had no idea when she’d meet with the spymaster again.
But she would not be idle. Her year of mourning was past, and she would not sit waiting for danger to come again. Why wait? If there were any assassins lurking in the city, whether her pair of Haradin or some others, she would find them and take them on. After all, she knew something about hunting enemies in cities, too.
Of course, her guards would not permit this if she made her plans known; or, at best, they would insist on coming along. Either way, they were inconvenient. Marin needed a way to escape from them.
She found one.
The wine was strong and excellent, and she convinced her guards that drinking alone gave her no pleasure. Fierce and deadly as she could be, Marin was also a beautiful young woman. Neither of these men had wives, she learned—and neither could resist her subtle charms.
She entertained them with war stories from her Four Banners campaigns, filling their cups again and again until they stopped noticing whether she filled hers. At length, both were snoring lustily, one with his head on the table, the other stretched out on a bench. Marin blew them each a kiss on her way out of the room.
She stepped into the street, head clouded with the wine. Her night vision was slow in coming, and she felt as if she were swimming or flying instead of walking. But she had her sword and her confidence. Even drunk, she reasoned, she was more than a match for most sober men.
Marin strode purposefully through the streets of Cievv, a city that never slept. She scoured the winehouses, coffeehouses, temples and brothels looking for Qatani foreigners who might have recently arrived.
“So you’re saying that you don’t remember anyone at all this past week?” she demanded of yet another innkeeper. “You know Qatani, yes? Maybe Haradin? Olive skin, black clothed, dangerous assassins?”
The man grunted. “So what if I did?” he said, not looking up from his accounts.
She placed one hand on her sword and slapped the other hard against the wooden counter that was keeping him alive—for now. His head snapped up, and he went pale, as though he stood before a judge about to pass sentence.
“N-no, my good lady, there have not,” he stammered. “Not been any… I mean, yes, I don’t remember… I mean, no, no Qatani have lodged here since winter!”
“Thank you.” She flung the words at him like a curse and pushed back out to the street. An ocean breeze tugged at her hairand made her feel more awake. “Craven fuck,” she sneered at the door. Maybe he heard her. Who cared?
She stood outside the inn for some moments, surveying the cramped streets and the people—revelers, tradesmen making late deliveries, petty thieves or unfaithful husbands going about their furtive business. She savored the heady scents of late-night meals, aromatic wood smoke, and fruity wines, all carried on the sea air. It was a fine night to be drunk in the streets, although she felt a stab of sadness that all these people, all the people of Mir’aj, in fact, had no idea they were living a lie.
Marin carefully set off in a direction that swept her along with the crowds, choosing an indirect route to her bed. She’d been in the streets for hours and was no closer to learning anything about the men who had attacked her in the hills. The wine-inspired excitement of outwitting her guards, of being free and on a mission, was draining away. Now she felt sober, sleepy and exasperated.
Pulling her hood firmly around her face, she blended first with one knot of people, then another, making her way back to the safe house. She kept her ears open to their chatter. Braggarts and fools, that was all they were—dull, ignorant men, of no use to her.
What a waste of effort.
It was not until she slipped back into her chamber and had thrown off her cloak that she finally conceded defeat. Wherever the assassins were, they’d hidden well. Nothing short of chance was going to bring her any closer to them. Cencova certainly wouldn’t help. He had greater concerns.
The guards still lay where they’d fallen, snoring merrily. The one at the table had a hand wrapped around his cup. Marin found her bed and fell back against the cushions, drained in mind and spirit. But the tension that had driven her through the streets, poised for a fight, was still with her. It could be a while before sleep found her.
What had she been thinking when she went on this recklesslittle adventure? She had no clue about her attackers beyond what she already knew: they wanted the Books of Promise, they were involved with Sarn, and they were versed in the sinister secrets of dark alchemy. Beyond that, instinct had failed her tonight. As she lay in bed, mind still reeling, she felt as if she’d failed Hiril as well.
She realized she was caressing the empty space next to her. She turned her head and softly stroked the pillow, remembering the touch of her fingers on Hiril’s smiling cheeks. Words of endearment rose to her lips, but what came out was much different.
“I must find him,” she whispered. “I will slice him open and cut sinew from bone. He who is worth less than nothing took your life that was beyond price. I will turn the sea red with his blood and burn his corpse in a cauldron hotter than both suns.”
When she finally fell asleep, the pillow was soaked with her tears.
8
IT WAS almost midnight.
Ilss Cencova rose from his table, snuffed the candle, and left the room. There were always reports to read and ways to interpret them, he thought as he descended the back stairway, wrapping his cloak around him. But some of the most valuable information could not be committed to paper, at least not yet.
The stairwell was dark, and anyone watching the rear of the house would have a hard time seeing him open the door and step into the night. He crossed the back garden, crept silently through an outer gate, and stayed in the shadows of the alley until he came to a back road. The nighttime revelry never reached the part of Cievv where Cencova kept his office, and his dark cape and intimidating manner made him an unlikely target for suspicion—as long as he walked with confidence.
He followed a dim, quiet route to the harbor, where he made for a private slip far from the busy freight depots. Once there, he crossed the stone landing to the hidden stairway that led down to the moorings.
Standing alone in the dark, Cencova knew instantly that he was being watched. He did not turn but shifted his stance to acknowledge the contact. On the quay above him, someone softly whistled a few notes of one tune, then another, then a third—a prearranged signal to assure him this was indeed an intermediary for the Majalis rather than a solitary sentinel descending the stairs to stand beside him. Each man was well
hidden within the shadows of his clothing, and both stood facing the water.
“We have news,” the agent said.
Cencova grunted acknowledgement, and the contact continued.
“There is proof that the attacks were sanctioned by Ciris Sarn, and that he headed to Riyyal.”
Cencova finally spoke. “Does Sarn seek to usurp the throne himself? I cannot believe he carries such weight.”
“Sarn’s purposes are unclear, but do not underestimate his strength or reach. The Sultan is dying. Nasir is lost, and Malek is weak. Who will inherit the throne? Perhaps Sarn has some unseen control over the matter. Then there is Fajeer Dassai. What part does he play in this? Too many unknowns. We must narrow our focus.”
“What does the Rassan Majalis wish of me?” Cencova said.
“Everything possible must be done to capture Ciris Sarn. Find him. Take him alive. The siri are at your disposal.”
Cencova remained silent for a time. Distant chimes marked the late hour. “Any hope of aid?” he finally asked.
“The conspiracy runs deep. The Jassaj are also involved. Pavanan Munif acted under Sarn’s authority while in Tivisis. He must be taken as well.”
“Which majals know of the plan?”
“Very few,” said the agent. “We’re afraid it will get back to theconspirators. It is a small stable that knows about this.” He looked back up the stairway. “Will that be all?”
Cencova debated whether to tell them about the arrival of Marin and the books. He chose caution and held his tongue. “Yes. That is all for now.”
The agent bowed slightly in Cencova’s direction and ascended the stairs. His footsteps faded quickly as he moved off down the quay. Cencova continued to gaze at the black waters, waiting. He heard footsteps coming toward him and the voices of a man and woman passing above his head. He waited until they boarded one of the ships farther out before making his way back home.
There is still someone else I need to see, he thought.
9
MARIN CLOSED her eyes against the fierce light.
Her head pounded as she lowered it into her hands. She willed the pain away and tried to focus on something useful. Her mind swam with all the random facts and baseless rumors that had come to her attention since her journey to Ruinart began. If she could just organize them into a useful pattern—