by Val Gunn
With his spirits slightly restored by these reflections, Galliresse began to regain a sense of hope. Would it be dashed again? He knew the answer then, as surely as he knew his age. He was sadder, but he was also wiser. Galliresse had already been stabbed in the back by an invisible blade that cut deeper than any poisoned dagger.
It would not happen again.
6
THE HOUSE was empty.
Niccolo Arzani lingered in the shadows of the trees nearby before venturing to the front door. It was a short walk from the winehouse over the bridge, but it was enough time for him to become anxious regarding his next course of action. There was no sign of Dassai or anyone else, and that only made his decision more difficult.
Steeling his nerves, he picked the lock and opened the door. The waft of cold air from within startled him as he stepped across the threshold. It told him the house had not been occupied for quite some time. His footsteps reverberated across the hardwood floor as he crossed the great room. He descended a short flight of stairs into deepening darkness.
Arzani felt his way along the walls until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He found a small kitchen and began fumbling through drawers until he located the stub of a candle and a tinderbox. He lit the candle, and although it provided a dim light, it was better than the dark. He made his way up the stairs to either confirm or assuage his fears.
Dassai had been gone for days, if not weeks. Arzani wandered the empty rooms looking for answers. It was clear that Dassai had yet to return. Would he ever?
Arzani, with little else to do but wait, used the remainder of his candle to light a fire in the hearth. Tired, cold, and hungry, he sat down heavily on the soft bed and surveyed the room. The light from the fire, along with what was left of another candle he’d found on the writing desk, revealed a grand room full of intricately carved wooden furniture, long, elegant floor runners, and delicate tapestries. He had this in Tivisis, but now it was all in jeopardy. He was out of options; he despaired of what to do next.
He lay back on the featherbed, his head resting on the down-stuffed pillows. He wanted to feel that luxury one last time before surrendering it in both heart and mind.
Arzani fell into a deep sleep.
7
ARZANI AWOKE, confused and unsure of where he was.
It was dark. The embers were dying, and the room was quite chilly. Suddenly, there was the slightest of noises—the soft click of a door latch.
Someone was coming through the front door.
Arzani gathered his wits and slid off the side of the bed near the windows, opposite the door. He waited for a time behind the linen curtain before realizing, with some degree of chagrin, that he was silhouetted against the milky luminescence of the moonlit sky.
He mentally prepared his justification for being there.
It would have to be convincing if he was to stay alive.
8
THE DOOR was unlocked.
Munif thought it odd that the entry would be open. He’d come here after receiving word from Cencova that this was the house of Dassai and that Niccolo Arzani had been seen here. He nudged the door open with the tip of his sword and stood back as it swung inward, prepared for whatever might lunge out at him. When nothing but a cool draft greeted him, he stepped carefully inside.
Munif entered the room quietly, gliding along the wall near the hearth with his sword still drawn. Immediately he saw a man
partially hidden behind the bed. It was not Dassai.
The man stepped forward.
“Fajeer, I’d hoped to encounter you here.”
Munif recognized the voice in an instant. He turned toward the embers to hide his face, and lowered his sword.
Arzani rose from behind the bed. “I have delivered your message, but I fear the plan has failed. Now I cannot return to Tivisis. I would most certainly be arrested.”
Munif knew he could not afford to waste such an opportunity. Kneeling before the hearth, he stirred up the embers with the tip of his sword. He heard Arzani approach behind him.
“Take me back to Qatana with you. I have skills that will prove useful to you. I can assist you once Malek assumes the throne and you control the majals.”
Arzani’s tone told Munif that he had revealed everything in this desperate bid for survival. Munif stood but kept his back to Arzani. “You have told me more than you could possibly know,” he sneered, then pulled back his hood and wheeled to face him.
“Impossible,” Arzani whispered, even as the sword ran through him.
9
IT WAS RISKY.
Munif placed a hot coal in the bowl of water and elixir he had prepared. Although he’d often coped with such situations, this time fear crept in. He must do this alone.
Munif jerked the linens from the bed and, stepping over the still warm corpse, carried them into the water closet and spread them on the floor. Then he went back into the bedroom. It was both tiring and gruesome to undress Arzani’s body. He dragged the naked corpse into the water closet and rolled it onto the bed linens.
With a practiced hand—and his exceptionally sharp knife—he cut away at the flesh of the dead man’s face, allowing for extra room along the jaw line. Munif, despite what the alchemist had promised, remained skeptical that the elixir would fasten the mold to his own face and transform him into an exact likeness of Arzani. There was no room for error. And even if the elixir did perform as promised, it would be an unpleasant experience—no matter how convincing the mask might be to others.
Arzani’s skin came off easily. Munif was grateful for that. Sometimes, the alchemist had told him, if the cutting and peeling process took too long, the blood and other fluids between the face and skull would become sticky. The skin would lose its inherent bonds—and the facial structure that makes each person unique would be compromised. Then he would look more like a leper than a double.
The bed sheets prevented the blood from spreading out in a gummy pool on the floor. Munif rinsed the ghastly mask with care and placed it on a shelf, then picked up the bowl of now transparent gel and smoothed the warm sticky substance through the interior of the shell. He mentally counted off the seconds before lifting the mask of flesh carefully and—steeling himself—leaning forward into it and closing his eyes.
As the viscous material touched him, he recoiled inwardly. His stomach churned. As he pressed harder, however, there was a flash of heat and the cold skin warmed, becoming like his own. He found a small hand mirror and checked to make sure all portions of the face were now living tissue, albeit temporarily. The mask would last for days, if not weeks.
He returned to Arzani’s corpse and looked it over carefully. There was very little muscle on the frame. That was fortuitous; the mission that had begun in Riyyal many months ago had worn Munif down. But he was slightly taller than Arzani, and he could not reproduce the narrow shoulders by mimicking the dead man’s stance. There was no way Munif would pass for Arzani by simply wearing his face.
Swearing under his breath, Munif held the stiffening arm still while he sliced the forearm open all the way down to the thumb. Pulling the skin back, he lodged the tip of his knife in the space between the wrist bones and pressed down firmly as he twisted the blade. The maneuver chipped off a single piece of glistening bone. Dropping the arm, he went into the bedroom and pulled a vial from his belt pouch.
He added a pinch of powder to what was left of the gel in the bowl and watched as it returned to its liquid form. He added the bone to the bowl and waited for it to dissolve.
Although he’d used similar elixirs in the past, he wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. He lifted the bowl to his lips and drank deeply. The vile taste made his stomach heave again, but he closed his eyes and willed himself to wait for the effects to take hold. Suddenly it seemed his nerve endings were on fire; the pain that coursed through him was more agonizing than any he had previously experienced. Terror seized him; Munif opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came from his throat. He knel
t at the foot of the bed and gripped a bedpost with both hands to keep from thrashing.
Eventually the pain receded. Slowly he regained his senses, until he could stand. The transformation was complete.
Now all he had to do was clean up the room and wait.
For the next several hours, Munif practiced reproducing the timbre of Arzani’s voice until it matched as closely as possible. Fortunately, the tone and timbre weren’t unique, but it was a difficult task to perform from memory. Next he spent some time rehearsing the man’s inflection and regional dialect. “Only his mother would know the difference,” Munif murmured.
Also during this time, he disposed of Arzani’s corpse and made the bed. He practiced with his sword, adjusting to the new skin.
Finally, as dawn approached, Munif heard a door open and steps echoing through the house. Stashing his sword where he knew it would not be discovered until he returned, he replaced
the blade with Arzani’s thin saif.
Rather than meet Dassai in the bedroom, Munif chose to take himself downstairs to play an agitated and fearful Arzani; he knew that Dassai would be less likely to rid himself of the man if he begged.
Let the game begin.
10
“WELL, NICCOLO, I must say this comes as a surprise.”
Fajeer Dassai sounded amused as he stood on the threshold. “I had no idea you had the courage to stay. Perhaps I should just bleed you where you stand.” Dassai spoke these last words in a conversational tone as he knelt before the hearth—just as Munif had hours earlier.
Munif had met Dassai while descending the staircase, wringing his hands and looking as small and worried as he could. He did not approach Dassai, preferring to remain as far from him as possible without provoking suspicion. He allowed Dassai to lead the conversation, and when he did speak, he spoke each word precisely in an effort to mimic the timid Arzani. Dassai had retrieved a bottle of wine and poured himself a glass before turning to the fireplace.
Munif had no doubts that Dassai was planning to kill the man he thought was Arzani. Munif was confident he could take Dassai off guard—laying him open for a killing blow. But that was something he no longer wanted to do. There was much more to gain now. Munif had to improvise; he chose his next words carefully. “Please. I can do nothing but ask for mercy and an opportunity to prove myself not utterly useless. Allow me to be your escort.”
“I do not need you. I need people on whom I can rely. You failed me in Tivisis. You failed yourself by letting Pavanan Munif survive. What good are you to me?”
Munif did not answer right away, stretching out the silence as an admission of Arzani’s guilt. Then he breathed in deeply and released the breath slowly, as though he had just come to a decision. “Should I fail you again in any way, I will take my own life.” He said it with conviction.
Munif waited while Dassai pondered his words. Dassai replaced the poker beside the fireplace and stood. Munif felt some of the tension leave his body as Dassai turned and smiled at him. It seemed that Dassai had thought of a use for Arzani after all.
Munif did not smile in return.
11
“JUST A little longer.”
The words echoed through Munif’s mind. He was still sealed within the flesh of the man whose life he had taken. Thus far Dassai seemed not to suspect the deception.
He paced as he waited for Dassai to rejoin him. Dassai had ordered Munif to stay in the house while he met with someone in the city. Munif would have to be patient and have faith that his revenge would come soon.
An alchemist had once told Munif that when a person assumed the identity of another—especially through these means—that identity would begin to consume him. The essence of the dead would remain behind, attempting to hold on to what it knew, unable to let go of the life that had been taken prematurely. Munif had begun to believe it was true: the longer he remained within Arzani’s skin, the more nervous he became. Always confident and in control, he had begun to question everything about himself. He worried that should he remain Arzani for much longer, he would have difficulty remaining sane.
Dassai appeared. “All will go as planned, Niccolo,” he said with delight. “I have given enough reason to suspect the Sultanand Ciris Sarn. They believe the Sultan is unfit to rule. I have convinced them it is time for Emir Malek to take the throne.”
“How is this possible?” Munif tried to keep the concern out of his voice. He wondered if he would be able to carry out his own plan in time.
“The majals are much more powerful than you believe,” Dassai answered. “They control the trade in Azza and thus the very wealth of Qatana. Without the council, Qatani influence in Mir’aj will wither and die.” Dassai walked to the chair. Munif wanted desperately to run him through—to end it right there and then. But he could not. Despite all of his fears, the game must still play out. But time was growing short.
“What’s wrong with you, Niccolo? You look ill.”
“No… no… I’m all right.”
“Do you not have faith? Was I wrong to keep you?”
“No, not at all,” Munif replied in Arzani’s tenor. “I have bound my fate to yours. And despite any misgivings, I do believe that you will receive what is justly coming to you. I am more worried about my health than your plans, Fajeer.” He began cautiously to walk toward the stairway. In truth, he felt as though a knife had stabbed his innards.
Dassai made no effort to conceal the contempt he had for his companion. “You are fortunate I still happen to need your services,” he sneered. “Otherwise, I would have the pleasure of gutting you myself.” He turned his back on Munif and walked to the window.
Munif stood, slightly amused by the irony of that last statement. It will be more than your flesh that I will take from you, he thought.
Just wait and see.
12
A PALE moon gleamed across the landscape.
Ilss Cencova stared out the window, his back to Nasir, as he struggled to control his emotions. “I was never certain whom I could trust,” he said. “I was told Pavanan Munif was the man responsible. I questioned this allegation, but found myself unable to come up with any explanation that would absolve him or conclusively lay the blame on anyone else. Only after your message came did I know whom to believe.”
“I’m sorry, Ilss.” Nasir spoke softly. “It was difficult to find a sufi capable of getting word to you from Darring. I promise you can trust Pavanan with your life.”
“And what about Marin Altaïr?” Cencova turned to Nasir, his eyes filled with fear.
“She and the others will meet Prince Malek and Ciris Sarn in Riyyal. Marin is our only chance to recover the fifth book and the proof it will bring.” Nasir hesitated. “My family will be disgraced, but it is the only way. I hope that a greater future still lies before us.”
Cencova shook his head. “I promised myself on the grave of her husband that I would let nothing happen to that woman. Tell me, how do I live if she dies?”
“I know it is difficult, yet this is no time to dwell on such questions,” Nasir said sharply. “Marin and the men you sent are more than capable of handling themselves in the face of danger. In the meantime, we have other pressing concerns.”
“Such as?”
“Fajeer will seek to turn many in the Rassan Majalis. They will not know whom to believe. This chaos favors him—he is more cunning than you will ever know. Still, it is my hope that Pavanan Munif will prevent him from succeeding.”
“I hope so.” Cencova walked around to the side of his deskand picked up a parchment. “This message came earlier. It is from Pavanan.”
Nasir took the parchment and read it. “I am to meet him at Miráshel tonight. It says, ‘Beware: looks can be deceiving.’ An odd thing to say.”
“Indeed.” Cencova sighed and sat heavily in his chair. “But there must be a reason. I will alert as many as I can about the current situation.”
Without another word, Nasir turned and left the room. Cencova lo
oked out at the gray afternoon and thought of all the mistakes he’d made that had led them to this. He vowed that Fajeer Dassai would pay. He longed to be the one who ran his sword through the traitor’s heart.
If Munif didn’t do it first.
13
“WOULD HE come?”
Sending the message to the Prince had been an exercise in stealth and cunning for Munif. Dassai kept a keen eye on his companion, watching for any mistake that would provide a reason to call him on his promise to end his life.
It was apparent that Dassai had little patience for Arzani, and a great deal of distaste. Munif didn’t blame him. Arzani had been a man with a soft backbone, and Munif did not at all like the person he was impersonating. He had never had time for a man who believed the best way to get through life was to ingratiate himself with whoever happened to be in charge. Yet the more time Munif spent within Arzani’s flesh, the more he sensed he was being swallowed by Arzani’s mind.
Could it happen? he wondered. Shall I become Arzani, and simply continue living as him, without any memory of my previous life? What will happen to me? Will I have any awareness that I‘m destined to livethe remainder of my life as someone else? Or will my spirit become separated from this body, and be sentenced to an eternal hell?
As he ruminated in this fashion, he realized this ruse could not last much longer if he was to maintain any semblance of sanity.
In the end, Munif found a courier who would do anything for a few coins; he sent the boy off to deliver the message to Nasir. He only had to threaten to cut off one of the boy’s ears to swear him to secrecy. Dassai’s ill humor kept most of the servants at arm’s length, and they rarely approached him unless necessary.
Munif was more than a little concerned about leaving Dassai’s side for any length of time, despite his desire to see the Prince again. He felt the man had become unstable. Dassai was drunk with power—and with him in that state, no one within his reach was safe. Munif worried that Dassai might simply tire of Arzani’s insipid whining and decide to kill him to relieve the boredom. However, it seemed Dassai was keeping Arzani around for some as yet unknown purpose.