by Val Gunn
“Listen, and listen carefully,” the majal said with a growl in his voice. “Should you fail, then death will be the kindest fate you could ever know.”
“Everyone dies,” the spy said.
The majal sat back with a sneer. “Just get to Riyyal.”
20
ANOTHER SHIP, another crossing.
And this time, Marin had company.
The Ruinart coastline swung from starboard to stern as the ship turned southwest, catching a favorable wind that would take it to Janeirah. Marin watched the sunlit sea through the porthole as she stood in the small galley. She assumed the straight-backed, respectful posture of a Four Banners soldier on review for some minor king—though her uniform was much different.
She wore a long, flowing robe that covered her from head to toe. Her hair was pulled back tightly beneath a hood woven of fine fabric. Marin suspected she looked very different from most Qatani women, yet this was how they dressed, and how she would dress while in Qatana. Beneath the robe a garment oflighter material clung to her body. Pockets on the inside of the robe could hide various weapons.
“Marin, I’d like to present your travel companions,” said Cencova.
He stepped aside and held his hand out to the first man, fit and muscular with a shaved head, pointed chin, and eyes of different colors—one cerulean blue, the other a light amber, like the sap from a spring tree. “Silím Rammas,” said Cencova.
Rammas bowed slightly, acknowledging Marin as she stepped forward. She stared into his mismatched eyes for a moment and saw in him a hint of both loyalty and dedication. His size, stature, and sharp chin reminded her painfully of Hiril. She dipped her own head in greeting and backed away.
Cencova moved on to the other man. “Adal Hussein,” he announced. Hussein was a truly handsome man, with chiseled features and flowing black hair tied back in an intricate knot. He was shorter than Rammas, the same height as Marin, but burly and athletic. Hussein was more generous with his bow, and Marin wondered if he might be mocking her. She approached him as she had Rammas but halted a few steps back. His brown eyes, which should have been comforting with their rich color, had seemed to look at the world—and at her—from an amused, uncaring distance.
After they had spoken briefly about their mission in Riyyal and started to go their separate ways, Marin pulled the spymaster aside.
“Is this Hussein a cruel man?” she whispered. “I felt as if I looked into the eyes of a predatory animal.”
“Well, he is certainly not to be trifled with,” Cencova admitted, “but I trust Adal. I assure you, we were fortunate to have secured his services. Indeed, he would have been my choice for your companion if we needed only one.”
“He appeared to mock me,” Marin said slowly. “Is it because I am a woman? Because I was married to Hiril?”
Or because, she thought without saying, he is amused by my claim on Sarn‘s life?
“That is his way,” Cencova told her. “Hussein may not be the man everyone would choose as a friend, but he is the most valuable comrade-in-arms you will ever meet.”
“I can think of one better.”
“Ah, let me guess.” Cencova’s brow furrowed, but his eyes twinkled. “You are thinking of Torre, correct?”
Marin glared at him. “Must you mock me as well?”
“No mockery at all.” He smiled, raising his hands. “Only delight that you led the conversation where I was about to take it.”
Marin raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.
“He will meet us in Janeirah.”
21
THE SWORD gleamed in the sunlight that flooded through the porthole.
Marin stood in her private cabin, a privilege accorded her as the only woman aboard, and considered the familiar blade in her hand. This sword had been in her family for countless generations. Before coming to her, it had belonged to her father; she’d claimed it when he died. She was the first woman of her line to carry it, and in her hand, it had bested enemy after enemy.
She recalled with fondness her captain, the man who’d taught her to wield this sword in battle. She would never forget Torre Lavvann’s leadership of the Four Banners company. She thought of all the time he’d spent teaching her how to survive in the wild, and how he’d patiently trained her to be quick on her feet, engage without fear, and outwit her opponent. He’d taught her to be dangerous.
Marin’s lips tightened. “I wonder if I’m as dangerous now,”she murmured, considering how, except for her brief skirmish with the Haradin in the hills above Cievv, she hadn’t been in a battle since she embarked for Sey’r an-Shal with Hiril’s ashes.
She took a fighting stance.
All of her attention flowed into the weapon itself—its remarkable design, its perfect weight, its flawless balance. A familiar fire rushed up her sword arm and through her veins—the fire of battle readiness that Lavvann had taught her. It was still here.
“Now for proper attire,” she said to herself.
Lovely and exotic as her traditional costume was, it was all wrong for swordplay. She threw off the long robe—that was easy enough, although she would have to figure the movement into her reaction time—and considered the lighter garment she wore underneath. No doubt it was comfortable enough in the desert heat, but nothing about it would deflect an enemy’s blade. Indeed, a sword-point could tangle in this fabric, which would be more hindrance than help.
She knelt before the ancient wooden trunk from which she’d taken the sword, its lid propped open against the bulkhead. Hiril had presented this trunk to her as a souvenir from the hoard of a shipload of corsairs that he’d brought to justice. She swallowed a lump of pain as she traced the gold inlay inside the lid. The corners of her eyes pricked, and she blinked in surprise. She thought the tears had died along with her heart, but sometimes memories of Hiril would catch her off guard.
Her sword’s brown leather sheath lay at the top of the trunk. She blew away its coating of dust, revealing thin veins of gold that swirled over the surface. The precious metal wound around embossed letters that spelled out Fend Amarra—a creed she no longer recognized as her own.
Marin set the sheath aside and removed the remainder of her gear from the chest, setting each piece on the floor beside her.
Her worn green cloak would be of no use under the Qatanirobe, but she would wear her tunic, which was the same forest green as the cloak but of a lighter fabric. As always, it would conceal the thick leather jerkin she wore beneath it, her answer to chain mail, which was too heavy and confining. Her soft calfskin leggings would be part of the outfit. Her leather gauntlets were likely to be out of place in Qatana, and as much as she disliked the soft-soled slippers Cencova had given her, they were probably more practical than the tall, dark-stained boots that had served her well on so many previous missions.
Last of all was the hunting blade, a treasured gift from Lavvann. She set this carefully beside her sword, her fingers tracing the ash-colored ~M~ burned into the ivory hilt. Lavvann had personally carved, polished, and shaped it to fit Marin’s small hand. It seemed to pulse warmly under her touch—as if a remnant of the kindly artisan’s life force still dwelt in his creation.
Her eyes softened as she considered the blade. Lavvann could chide her all he wanted; she knew with certainty that he loved her as a daughter. She smiled as she recalled Hiril’s jealousy before he understood the true nature of Marin’s relationship with her master.
Marin sighed. Such was the bittersweet past. The future awaited her—as did the unknown.
“Let Cencova provide guardians if he wishes to assuage his guilt,” she murmured. “Rammas and that Hussein are not going to change my fate.” She looked at her sword, her hunting knife, and the usable parts of her old uniform. “These are all I need for this journey—these and Torre Lavvann.”
“You will meet Torre in Janeirah,” Cencova had instructed her. “He will guide you through the desert to Riyyal. In addition, Sallah Maroud, a siri, will join
your company. They will provide both aid and protection; do not fail to heed their advice.”
“I will do my duty and finish it,” Marin told him. Those were the words he needed to hear. She had a duty of her own, and she repeated it to herself yet again.
The minute I see my opportunity, Sarn dies by my hand. Ciris Sarn, be warned. Don‘t fear these men; it‘s me you should be afraid of.
I‘m coming for you.
Part Seven
THE SKIN TRADE
11.3.793 SC
1
ILSS CENCOVA stared out the window.
Watching the late winter rain falling outside, he was weary of looking at a gray world. It was not yet spring. He was besieged; there were few he could trust. So many people pursued so many different agendas that trying to find the truth was nearly impossible.
Cencova shook himself out of his thoughts and turned again to his desk. With a sigh, he eyed the sheet of parchment that lay before him. The message written on it had left him stunned.
He read the brief summary again, searching for clues as to why this had occurred. The message had come from Nasir. It stated that Fajeer Dassai was the person who had initiated the plot against Tivisis to threaten the Rassan Majalis. He hoped to also cast blame on the Sultan Raqqas Siwal and convince the Rassan Majalis that Qatana conspired against the trade council. Dassai was coming to Cievv with more of his lies, intending to find an audience that was willing to listen.
Cencova stared down at the words again, clutching his head in his hands. The message concluded that Pavanan Munif had no part in this—he was faithful and could be trusted. Cencova’s heart chilled with the knowledge that his suspicions of Munif were unwarranted.
Cencova studied the letter again, hoping that perhaps running his fingers over the words could make their meaning clearer. Who else conspired with Dassai? How deep did the deception run? He dropped the parchment and leaned against the desk, staring across the room.
Cencova wished that this was all a dream and that he would awaken to find that none of these things had ever happened. He did not know whom to trust anymore, and the crushing weight of it all made it difficult to breathe.
Dassai is coming to Cievv.
He needed more from Nasir, a better explanation. Hopefully another message would come, and soon. Cencova closed his eyes and breathed slowly, struggling for focus. His next course of action was to get word to Donnò Galliresse in Tivisis and tell him of treachery within his own house.
Only after word was sent would Cencova settle down to wait.
2
GALLIRESSE’S HANDS trembled.
Breaking the seal, he skimmed the document; certain words leapt off the page.
They were hunting the wrong man.
Fajeer Dassai was the deceiver, the plotter behind it all. Pavanan Munif was innocent of any wrongdoing, and indeed was their best hope of capturing Dassai. It was also clear that Tivisis itself was threatened from within. Someone had been turned against the city by the lure of wealth and power. Galliresse choked on the acid taste of dread. It was worse than he’d feared.
Several thoughts struck Galliresse at once. How could this happen? What if Munif was mistakenly imprisoned, exiled, or executed? Was Galliresse a capable leader? Would the king replace him, and would shame fall upon him? Galliresse was relieved he did not have a family; no wife or children would have to suffer with or because of him. He would lose his position, his house, his lands—everything he had worked so hard for.
He was a necessary sacrifice, nothing more. Someone would have to be responsible for the lax governance that had allowed Dassai to execute his horrific plans—and that someone would be Donnò Galliresse.
Something else crept into his mind, something dark and pervasive. What if this was a lie as well? Was Cencova more worthyof trust than anyone else? Galliresse shook his head. He was being fed lies. All information was being passed through his advisors, and he believed in them all. There was no possible way this could happen… Unless…
“It could only be you.” Galliresse spoke aloud. “Niccolo.” He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. A bead of sweat dripped from his brow. Shaking off the sting of betrayal, he forced a smile onto his face. Oh, how he wished he knew where Arzani was right now. He envisioned the blade he would use to cut the bastard’s throat. An ironic laugh escaped him.
Trust was a fickle thing, he supposed. Here was a man for whom he would lay down his life. They’d forged a loyal, important friendship—and Arzani had thrown it away. What had he hoped to accomplish by helping Dassai?
There would be time to think upon this matter later. It was not in Galliresse’s nature to act rashly. No, he needed to exercise patience and plan carefully. Something from the past would turn up and help him plan his future, he was sure of it.
Galliresse needed hope—a thing that was in short supply.
3
PAVANAN MUNIF did not wait long.
His evening meal had just been set before him when he glanced up to find Prince Nasir in the entryway. Munif sighed in relief.
Nasir sat opposite him and spoke quickly. “I’m afraid you won’t have time to finish your meal, my friend. Dassai is no doubt headed to Cievv, and our ship leaves within the hour. His route takes him around the island. From here, with any luck, we should arrive at least a day before him, but there are many risks still before us.”
Munif swallowed the piece of roasted lamb without chewing,and gulped down the last of his wine. In the past few weeks his appetite had returned as his wounds healed. His hunger for affyram—always persistent, always whispering to him from the recesses of his mind—had never left him. He wiped his mouth and stood to leave, but lingered for just a moment to mourn the meal he was about to abandon.
Nasir stood as well. “We will have him. Mark my words.”
As they started toward the front door, it swung open. Two large men burst through it, filling the room with their bulk. More of Dassai’s hired killers.
Nasir swept his arm across a tabletop, grabbed a plate and threw it at the invaders. They ducked, and the delay gave Munif and Nasir an opportunity to flee toward the rear door. On his way out Munif tilted a table on its side, throwing the men to the floor.
Munif followed Nasir silently, the two hurrying along a back street. The slow pursuit lasted only a few minutes. They both knew that the two men following lost their element of surprise and would quickly give up the hunt.
Nasir pointed along another passage, toward the west. Beneath the pale lamplight the two figures were a dim blur moving past the stone walls–their footsteps echoing on worn stone. The Prince paused to look around a dark corner, listening intently for any sound coming from behind. There was none. They waited for a moment before continuing across the street. Their destination was just ahead and they were not about to be caught now.
Nasir and Munif raced to the stables.
4
DONNÒ GALLIRESSE stood quietly.
He stayed near the top of the ancient stone steps and scanned the city of Tivisis lost in his thoughts.
He longed to see the day when a man’s honor could not besold for his weight in gold. He touched his spindly fingers to his thinning white hair. His legs felt heavy, as if he carried all the cares of his people. He was not a gullible man, yet he had been acting like one. He would gladly give up every coin he earned for the news he so desperately needed to hear: that Pavanan Munif had succeeded and Fajeer Dassai was dead.
Galliresse walked into the open court that looked out over the city. In the distance, the lavender skies met the sun-kissed sea. For millennia, the long, narrow inlets and waterways surrounding the city had provided safe haven for mariners during storms. The crystalline blue-green waters lapped gently against the sharp white rocks. Across the land, the green hills with their abundance of vineyards surrounded the city like jewels in a crown.
Sadly, the beauty of Tivisis served only to remind him of his mistakes.
The
citizens here were open and trusting. They often greeted strangers as if they had been long-lost family. Galliresse sometimes thought they were fools for failing to appreciate the delicate workings behind the city’s serenity. Now he wished, as they all did, that he knew the face of the cruel man who had awakened them from their gentle sleep and introduced them to harsh reality. He shook his head slowly and heaved a sigh. Galliresse wanted to believe his leadership was essential to this city. He needed to discover who had caused all of this to happen.
But where to look?
5
NICCOLO ARZANI was in Cievv.
Unfortunately the news did little to lessen the anger that seethed in Galliresse’s heart.
Galliresse retreated to his favorite spot overlooking the city. He ordered his agents to survey the streets and look for othersinvolved in the conspiracy. He was not certain how long this would take, or whether there was anything to be found. They had to at least try to act on this information.
Arzani had been discovered two days ago. He had approached the council halls of the Rassan Majalis, delivering more of Fajeer Dassai’s lies. Galliresse assumed he had done this in order to keep the pressure on Pavanan Munif.
Correspondence between Galliresse and Cencova proved fruitful—Arzani had been followed on the chance that he would lead them to other conspirators. And indeed, he walked right to them.
Galliresse was now convinced that Fajeer Dassai was the mastermind behind the attacks. He was manipulating Arzani and many others. It seemed that truth had eluded them all.
Dassai was infamous even here, where people whispered of his ruthlessness. He coordinated a vast web of spies, collaborators, and criminals. He had the ear of the Sultan, his son, and even the assassin Ciris Sarn.
If this information was even partially true, Galliresse still had a chance to redeem himself in the king’s eyes. He had nothing else to lose. At least failure met with death was a better prospect than failure met with dishonor and humiliation.