In the Shadow of Swords (21 page)

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 like 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.

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.

His first task upon landing in Mourejar on Courós, the southernmost island in Hayl, was to find a hakima—which he quickly did.

One look at him and the healer ushered him inside her cramped quarters, demanding that he strip and bathe. She was a kind, elderly woman with sharp blue eyes. She bound his broken ribs and applied a salve to the raw skin on his legs. In addition, she supplied him with clothing, waving away the extra coin he offered her.

He’d felt better soon after his visit with her. Not completely; that would take time. The idea of visiting an
affyram
den was still foremost in his mind, but the salve the healer had applied had dulled much of the pain. He hoped it would continue to stave off discomfort while he decided what to do next.

Munif feared being in a city. Too many eyes could see him; too many mouths would betray his whereabouts for a fee. But he had no choice.

The streets were well maintained, having been designed for carts and carriages. While it was easy on his quickly healing legs, the trek through the city was not kind to his spirit. He spent his waking hours brooding about his betrayal and picturing the deaths of the clerics on the hillside near Burj al-Ansour. His thoughts constantly turned to Dassai, making him ever more sullen. He knew Dassai had more dark designs and was intent carrying them out.

Just before nightfall, he spied a caravanserai in the north of the city. Although he was not hungry, weariness weighed heavily upon him. He needed to find a place to rest and find relief from the pain of his wounds—if just for an hour or two.

Only then could he continue.

2

NIGHTFALL DEEPENED.

Munif knew he was carelessly consuming an excessive amount of wine. He’d found himself entering the caravanserai without even looking at the name of the place. As he found a chair at the bar and took the first sip, he realized with some displeasure that he had to try to avoid falling into a drunken stupor. The road that lay ahead of him was long. But, he reasoned, partaking of wine was better than slipping into the depths of
affyram
.

Munif shrugged. The hour of his departure mattered little anyway; no one waited for him back in Riyyal. He had never married. He’d been in love several times—passionately, foolishly, and fondly—but none of his romances had ever led to marriage. He lifted his glass and toasted his lost agents.

Cheers accompanied the twanging of strings, rising to a raucous chant that echoed to the high beams of the bar. The pain in Munif’s head pounded in time to the music, and his stomach churned. It was time to go. He’d been here for hours now, and it was late.

He rose cautiously from the chair, planting his feet firmly on the floor. The room spun slightly when he closed his eyes, but it was not as bad as he had thought it would be. His training with the Jassaj had included learning to function while drunk or under the influence of drugs. Despite his altered state, it would take a lot more than what he’d consumed to incapacitate him.

As he tried to slip away through the crowd, friendly but strong hands grabbed him and pulled him into the revelry. Cheerful drunken faces peered at him through the pall of smoke. Someone shoved a glass of the house
arak
into his hands. Munif glanced down at the milky white liquid and looked up at the young man who’d staggered in front of him. “Nushing can be sho bad whenyou have a good drink,” the man slurred. “Forget your troublesh. If there’sh no sholution, there cannot be a problem.”

Munif smiled broadly at his newfound acquaintance’s words. As the crowd threw their arms around him and welcomed him into their circle, he realized he’d needed this night of revelry at the caravanserai, this night of song and drink. It kept his mind from dwelling on bitter thoughts.

He’d never expected failure when he’d pursued the two summoners. He was disturbed that there might be betrayal within the ranks of the Jassaj. Munif was a proven agent—a master, in fact. He was proud of his accomplishments. However, he wondered if his faith in them had been completely misplaced. The enemy had managed to elude him, thanks to Dassai. They’d completed their mission and brought terror to Burj al-Ansour and the Mirani kingdom—all because of Fajeer Dassai. Dassai had turned bad, and Munif had been unable to stop it. He’d succeeded before in similar situations, but this failure—this he would always remember. Even while he was drunk, the faces of the fallen haunted him.

“Damn,” he muttered.

“Wallowing in self-pity, huh?”

Munif looked up and realized he’d been deposited into a corner of the room. Now he sat next to an old barkeep, his face permanently etched with the years.

“I am Khaleed Sudairi,” the man said. “Who might you be?”

“Just a traveler trying to make his way in the world.”

“So are we all.” The man laughed. “Just make sure you keep your head out of the
arak
so you don’t drown in misery.”

“I appreciate your concern for my well-being,” Munif said.

“It is nothing,” the barkeep said, waving his hand. “I think of everybody’s well-being. It is part of my trade.”

“I see.”

“Will you be staying here? You should. I see in your face that you feel you must go—like a cart horse straining at the traces. But there’s not much hope you’ll ever reach your destination—whereever that may be—in your current state. Your best bet is to leave in the morning.”

“I’m not as bad off as I look, my friend.”

“The festival in the city will make the roads crowded and difficult to pass,” warned Sudairi. “It will be nearly impossible even for one with his wits about him.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m glad of the respite. I really am. But I’ll be even happier to leave.”

“I’ve done more than enough prying for one night,” Sudairi said with a smile. “I wish nothing but the best for you.”

Munif wished he could agree. He would take his leave and journey to the harbor. From there he could make for Darring. Another uncertain crossing to distant islands made him wary.