In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  He turned from the small window in the door and nodded to the guard.

  Fehls, a tall, thin man with olive skin, looked up when the guard unlocked the door. Malek could see the fear in his tired eyes—the sudden recognition of the man who was here to see him. He stood and began to move to the far side of the cell. Malek raised a hand and shot him a warning look. Fehls stopped.

  “Leave us,” Malek said shortly.

  The guard bowed and left.

  Fehls whispered hurriedly, “I told them nothing… I promise—”

  “You have suffered a great deal without surrendering your loyalty. I will see that you are rewarded,” Malek said. “However, there is more that you must do.”

  “Of course,” Fehls said fervently. “Just ask.”

  “I have been informed that there are men who would stop everything that we have planned.”

  “Release me and I will kill them all!”

  “I believe you would, but no… at least, not yet. There is still a bit more of the game left to play.”

  Fehls nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off Malek. “What do you wish me to do?”

  “I need you to help Ciris Sarn gain entry into my father’s private chambers.”

  Fehls said nothing. Malek watched him intently. He knew Fehls had a close connection with Ciris Sarn—that the assassin would trust him. He would be able to convince Sarn to return to the Sultan’s palace and obtain the key he needed to break his curse, especially if he thought Fehls was working on the inside.

  Finally Fehls spoke. “What makes you think Sarn is here for the Sultan?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Are you that eager to attain the throne?

  “Perhaps.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  Malek sighed. “Rimmar… you and I both know what Sarn desires more than anything else. The Sultan can provide that. We also know that soon I will be Sultan.” He paused, allowing his prisoner time to comprehend what he had said. “I am simply asking for a favor—one that will benefit us both.”

  Fehls nodded. “You’re right. Very well. I will get Sarn inside.”

  “Good. I will make sure the guards bring you a meal before you are released.” Malek stepped out of the cell. The keys were still in the lock. Carefully he re-latched the door and brought the keys down to the main room. He tossed them to the guard, who caught them deftly. “Give him some food, and then release him before the suns set.”

  The guard nodded.

  2

  MALEK STEPPED OUTSIDE.

  The sky was clear. Shimmering on the horizon, the spring suns had not yet set over the white desert sands beyond the city of Riyyal.

  Prince Malek had learned from Dassai that Fehls was involved with Sarn. The man had worked with the elusive killer before, not only in Riyyal but in Tanith as well. Malek also knew that Dassai had driven Sarn to Riyyal, forcing his hand, leaving him no choice but to kill his father. Malek would give the assassin the last piece of the puzzle that he needed—but not until he had performed one final task.

  He relaxed for a few moments in the sunlight, basking in the hot air that blew in from the desert.

  Everything was falling into place.

  3

  CIRIS SARN caressed the talisman in his pocket.

  The five threads made his fingers tingle. Just thinking about being in Riyyal once again, this close to the Sultan, who held the key to breaking his jinn-curse, made him anxious.

  It was time to end it once and for all.

  Sarn had little trouble getting into the palace; his long-standing ally Fehls, who’d given him directions to the Sultan’s private chamber, had provided him with the appropriate access point.

  “Kill only if absolutely necessary,” Fehls had implored. “Do everything within your power to avoid contact with anyone in or about the palace, and do so only if that is unavoidable.” Sarn had nodded understanding.

  Sarn made his way through the city, inside the casbah walls and toward the palace like a weapon shot true to its target. He wove through narrow passages and passed street merchants in the bazaars, sharing the cobbled roads with men on horseback. Sarn kept his gaze averted from everyone, a damp cloth wrapped around his face to cool it and conceal his identity. Despite his skill, he needed to be extremely cautious.

  He stopped under a palm tree. Across the road stood the high wall of the Sultan’s palace.

  Access onto the palace grounds was easy. Upon scaling the wall, he wove stealthily through myriad paths, keeping to the shadows of the trees and the ornate walls. He hid in the shadow of an immense statue and watched one of the many palace guards as he paced up and down. As soon as the guard’s back was turned, Sarn slipped into the palace, keeping close to the walls. He made his way through the lower floor of the vast residence until he found a deserted foyer. From there he climbed the winding staircase to the Sultan’s chambers.

  There was only a single guard at the entrance to the royal apartments. Sarn waited in the shadows of the stairway, watching the guard. At the toll of the evening bell, the guard moved away to make his rounds of the upper floors. Then Sarn made his move.

  Like a wisp of wind, he glided up the remaining steps and across the hall to the doors that led into the Sultan’s chambers. Once inside, he turned his attention to the figure lying swathed in blankets on the bed in the center of the room.

  Sarn approached the bed slowly, his heart pounding.

  At last.

  4

  THE SULTAN looked up at the assassin with terrified eyes.

  Sarn pressed his hand over the Sultan’s mouth, silencing the scream before it began. The blood drained from the old man’s face.

  Working quickly, Sarn pressed a fishbone needle into the Sultan’s lower lip, thrusting it through into the upper lip and pulling the thread tight. The Sultan thrashed in the bed. Sarn pressed his hand down harder on the Sultan’s mouth. “Quiet, or you die!”

  He stitched the Sultan’s mouth closed, droplets of blood forming at each tiny puncture wound.

  When he was finished, Sarn reached into his bag and brought out a handful of salt. He sprinkled it over the Sultan’s bloodied mouth and spoke the words of the spell that would unbind his curse.

  The Sultan’s eyes rolled back. His body shook violently, his arms and legs flailing in wild protest.

  Sarn held him down on the bed and waited, but the Sultan did not speak the word of response to his spell.

  A spike of alarm pierced through him. Something was wrong.

  The chamber doors flew open behind him. Sarn spun around as a dozen armed guards rushed in. He grabbed his sword and faced them as Prince Malek entered the chamber. “Put your sword down, Ciris. There’s no need—”

  Sarn grimaced, raising his blade over his shoulder in a defensive posture. “Stand back or your father dies.”

  “He’s not my father,” Malek said. He gestured toward the bed. “The man behind you is a commoner from the city of Riyyal who looks—quite extraordinarily, actually—just like him. Did you not realize you had walked into a trap when your incantation met with no response?”

  A flash of anger pierced Sarn’s thoughts. He felt his face flush with embarrassment. He had, of course, realized his error—seconds too late. Suddenly, Fehls came to mind, and he realized who had betrayed him.

  “Come, lay down your sword,” Malek said. He gestured for Sarn to relinquish his weapon. “We aren’t going to kill you—and you aren’t a prisoner. On the contrary… I have an offer for you.”

  Sarn lowered his sword cautiously. He glanced at the whimpering figure on the bed and saw that the Emir had told the truth. The man on the bed was just a decoy who bore an unsettling resemblance to the Sultan.

  The anonymous target of Sarn’s methods continued to make mewling noises as he squirmed, his hands clawing at his ruined mouth. Ignoring what he considered to be merely an expendable tool, Malek stepped forward. “My offer is simple. At this moment, a woman waits for word from me. She car
ries with her four books. You may remember those from when Dassai ordered you to kill a spy named Hiril Altaïr. You left them there.”

  Sarn frowned. He had placed those books beside the body in direct violation of Dassai’s orders. Now his rebellion against Dassai had come back to haunt him. “So they are important, then,” Sarn said. “How did she get them?”

  “That should not concern you. What should be of interest is the woman’s identity. She is the widow of Altaïr—Marin.”

  Sarn displayed indifference. “How does this concern me?”

  “This is what I want you to do,” Malek said. “I will give you the freedom you seek.” He paused. “But only after you bring the books back.”

  “Where is this Marin now?”

  “She is here. In the city. Doubtless looking for you.”

  “I see.” Sarn replaced his blade in its scabbard.

  “There is one other thing,” Malek said, holding up his hand.

  Sarn frowned. “What?”

  “You cannot kill her,” Malek said. “Not yet at least. I want you to guide me to her.”

  “You will accompany me?”

  “Yes.” Malek sneered. “There is another book that was not in Altaïr’s possession. Marin knows its location—and I will convince her that she must lead us to it.”

  “The question is, will she trust you?”

  The Emir’s eyes gleamed. “It will be her duty to seek it out. I can convince her that the books are important to the Kingdom—that they were stolen by Dassai, and that Hiril Altaïr, acting on behalf of Qatana, was attempting to return them when he was killed.” Malek’s voice grew soft. “That will provide some kind of closure for her.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “From what my sources have told me, it’s near the Waha al-Ribat.”

  Sarn glowered. Just getting to the oasis would be difficult. Somewhere in the desert beyond was the hiding place—and that was said to be infested with not only Jnoun, but ghuls as well. “And you think she’ll find it for you and then just let you take it for yourself?”

  Malek shrugged. “There is nothing to be concerned about.”

  Sarn scowled. “If this book is guarded by ghuls, discovering it will release them. You are aware of what will happen?”

  “I am.” Malek matched Sarn’s glare with his own. “That is not my concern, and it shouldn’t be yours. You’re perfectly capable of defending us.”

  Sarn thought about this. His only goal was to end his curse. However, releasing the ghuls could prove dangerous to everyone, himself included. Was the risk to his life worth it? Yes, he decided… because what was his life anyway, as long as this curse was part of his existence? He’d often wondered if death would be better. “So I lead you to this woman, and she leads us to where this fifth book is. What are your plans then?”

  “Once all of the books are in my possession, you can kill her—and anybody else in her contingent. Then I will give you the word so that you may be free of your curse.”

  It took only seconds for Sarn to decide; even with the inevitable release of the ghuls in the equation, he must agree.

  The ghuls would be ravenous when released; they would maim, or kill every living thing within reach.

  “I accept.”

  5

  SARN REFLECTED for a moment.

  The events he had witnessed ran repeatedly through his mind. It was then he saw Rimmar Fehls.

  Sarn followed him, making his way through the crowd. He watched as Fehls entered a small residence. Sarn waited. In a few moments, Fehls came back out and continued up the street. Sarn waited for a time before entering a broken-down flat. The walls were bare and stained with smoke and ruddy brown mildew. The room was devoid of furniture save a few wooden crates that still bore the faint odor of rotting fruit. Deep ruts ran the length of the hardwood floor. Sarn found nothing out of the ordinary and left.

  Fehls was easy to find, readily picked out of the afternoon crowd by his appearance and gait. Sarn closed in, unnoticed.

  Sarn observed a change in Fehls’s posture and knew that Fehls suspected he was being followed. Considering whom he’d betrayed, there was only one person he should fear. He knew Fehls’s heart would jolt—all men’s did—when they encountered the assassin. He also knew that Fehls would desperately try to remember all of his training but then realize how futile it was. There was only one chance for him now—escape. But Sarn was not going to let that happen.

  Fehls knelt suddenly and pretended to pick up somethingfrom the street. As Sarn watched, he looked about the fruit market until his eyes stopped at a small passageway leading east toward the network of alleys. It was across the street from where he knelt, and he appeared to be contemplating his options.

  Sarn took advantage of Fehls’s indecisiveness to approach him and grip his shoulder.

  “Walk with me to the end of this street. Take the corner,” Sarn said calmly. “Two buildings down, you will open the first door on the right. Be calm and do nothing to indicate that you are under duress. Do not attempt to flee. If you resist, I will bleed you where you stand.” Feeling the man’s terror, and with his arm companionably around his shoulders, Sarn urged him along. Sarn chatted to him of inconsequential matters, smiling the entire time.

  As soon as Fehls stepped inside the door Sarn had indicated, Sarn struck him in the back of the head. He dragged the limp man up a narrow stairway to a small windowless room. Sarn locked the door and waited.

  Eventually, Fehls tried to stand, but then slumped back onto the floor. “I sense a betrayer in my midst,” Sarn said.

  “No, that is not true! I helped you gain access to the Sultan’s palace! That is all I did.”

  “I gained access… but it was a trap.”

  “I did not know. I swear!” Fehls pleaded.

  Sarn shook him once by the shoulders, hard enough that Fehls’s head banged into the wall behind him. “I have a suspicion that there is much more going on—and that you know something about it. There are shadows cast around you that betray everything you do.”

  Fehls was silent.

  “You haven’t asked me how I escaped. Aren’t you just a bit curious about what happened to me? Or why I am here now? Instead of in the palace prison?”

  Fehls whimpered a few syllables, but Sarn, furious beyond anything Fehls could have witnessed, raised a hand, and Fehlsstopped sputtering. “It’s too late, Rimmar. It’s too late to convince me you knew nothing about it.”

  “I… I know you are to lead Prince Malek to the desert to meet Marin Altaïr.” Fehls paused, and Sarn noted that he chose his words carefully. “It is said she possesses relics of great value.”

  “And how would you come to know this?”

  “I’m just trying to stay alive!”

  “Well, if that’s what you really want, tell me more!”

  “The woman who possesses the books believes you killed her husband, as well as others… and that you sent summoners to kill the clerics in Givenh. They believe you are behind it all, but none of them knows why. They believe you plan to usurp the throne for yourself. I was told to maintain this facade. Nothing more.”

  Sarn admired his efforts to provide a reasonable explanation. But he also knew that Fehls was lying; he knew even more than he had just revealed. Sarn could torture the confession out of the man, but the result would be the same; he’d either kill Fehls for lying or kill him to keep him from telling the truth.

  Prudence dictated that Sarn assume the worst; Fehls had betrayed him. But he respected his betrayer enough to end his life swiftly.

  Sarn drew back his fist and Fehls flinched, but not quickly enough. Sarn’s fist turned into an open palm. The pick concealed in his sleeve slapped into his palm and entered Fehls’s forehead just above the bridge of his nose. Sarn pulled his hand back with some difficulty; the point of the steel had gone all the way through and exited through the back of Fehls’s skull.

  The dead man slumped to the floor.

  Sarn wi
ped the blood from his hand and looked down at Fehls’s lifeless face.

  He felt nothing—nothing at all.

  6

  MARIN ALTAÏR was sullen.

  She had waited four days in Riyyal with no word from the Emir. She was at the mercy of his whims and did not know whether or not he would accept her offer.

  The plan was risky, using herself as bait to lure out Ciris Sarn. The Books of Promise were part of the bargain. Malek would gain possession, and she would get the assassin.

  Marin knew the value of the relics—her husband and many others had died because of them. But only she knew where to find the fifth book. This was the sole reason she still lived. Malek needed her.

  Yet, every day Marin received from a courier cryptic instructions to go to a different location and look for a message.

  The messages had all been the same.

  Wait.

  She went alone, leaving Torre Lavvann and the others behind. From the caravanserai, she took advantage of the shadows cast by the towering whitewashed buildings as she passed through crooked passages and crossed over arched bridges of stone.

  Riyyal was a city of water. It was impossible for her to imagine such a verdant place so far removed from rain. Yet there were an endless number of canals, fountains, and pools throughout the city.

  Marin turned down another secluded side street and quickly found the madrasah—the destination given to her by today’s courier.

  Marin navigated a system of stone passages and ornate galleries within the building until she reached a great chamber. In the niches on both sides of the room were sculptured reliefs of the revered ones. Above the openings were arched windows,each stretching more than twenty feet in height. On the floor, centered beneath the painted murals, was a sculpted scene of children kneeling in reverence. Each prayed with a pledge basin at his side as the first Sultan of Qatana looked down upon them all. Marin paid little attention to the scene; she had not come to pay tribute, only to find the message left for her.

  Beneath the basin of the third kneeling child was a loosened stone and a notch in which she could insert the tip of a thin steel blade.