The Pearls

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

I
n
the hot, dusty province of Ulinia, there existed but one road and one pass through the steep and treacherous Jawnuth Mountains. Just below that pass sprawled the bustling crossroads market of Kanidalon, a prosperous town featuring rug warehouses, hostels, customs offices, wagon makers, artifact dealers, and throngs of travelers—mostly pilgrims and merchants. Anything was for sale in Kanidalon; anything could be bought, for sufficient price. Even so, thievery was rife, and the Ninth Legion was stationed there to keep order and protect both the mountain pass and the imperial countinghouse.

Less than a league away from Kanidalon, there stood a sleepy, nameless village well off the beaten path, a village that sheltered many displaced cutthroats and fugitives. Admirably located from a thief's perspective, it was close enough to easily sell to Kanidalon's black market and close enough to the road to rob travelers whenever the soldiers weren't on patrol.

Tucked away in the foothills up a winding, wooded track, the village was hard to find, a place no prudent man entered if he valued his life or his money purse. Yet on a hot, late summer's day, Vordachai, warlord of Ulinia, rode into this den with five-and-twenty of his best warriors.

Burly, bearded, clad in armor, and fisting a stout war mace studded with steel spikes, Lord Vordachai was neither a prudent man nor one that any prudent thief would dare attack. With his armor and saddle leather creaking, his spurs jingling, he rode into the village as though he owned it—which, perhaps, he did—and his dark, beady eyes darted here and there across the motley assembly of incurious villagers that spilled out of doorways to watch him pass. If he noticed that not all the watching faces were those of peasants, if he noticed the lookout concealed among the scrub halfway up the hillside behind the village, or the sudden, chirring rise of a flock of little qualli disturbed from the brush, Lord Vordachai gave no sign.

By birthright and brutal muscle, he ruled this province with a fist of iron. His barons obeyed him; his peasants feared him. And the presence of imperial troops in his largest city chafed him raw.

But it was not imperial business he sought today.

At the village well, he reined up and bellowed for the headman.

A gaunt fellow with a scraggly beard and nervous eyes sidled forth reluctantly. He lifted the end-cloth of his head wrap to his lips and forehead in salute, bowing low. “My gracious lord,” he murmured.

By this time, Vordachai's lackey had drawn a wooden pail of water and poured some of it into the warlord's horn-cup. Vordachai drank deep and slung the remainder away, leaving a long, thin damp mark in the dust.

“How many inns and wineshops has this village?” he asked.

The headman hesitated as though he feared to give the wrong answer. “Th-three, my gracious lord.”

“Bring their proprietors to me.”

A
t
the opposite end of the village, a rat-faced man in a sleeveless jerkin darted through the idlers cluttering up the inn yard, and ducked into the gloomy taproom of the Maiden's Thigh. Near the room's one window, a group of men with army tattoos on their cheeks and bared arms were daring each other to
drakshera
by vying to see which of them could balance a dagger on the tip of his tongue without splitting it. Roaring with laughter, shouting friendly curses and jeers of encouragement, they bet coins and knucklebones, trinkets and bootlaces, and when one man cut his tongue and stumbled away, spitting blood, howls of amusement rocked the rafters.

In the back corner, alone and well away from this foolery, there sat a tall, broad-shouldered man. Unshaven, ill kempt, his brown tunic stiff and greasy in need of washing, he sat nursing a tankard of ale. Occasionally he lifted it to his lips, but seldom did he take more than a sip, for it was a sour brew the landlord made here, and it stank worse than horse piss. Now he saw that a fly had fallen into the swill, and was still kicking feebly.

The rat-faced man slid up to his table, bobbed his head awkwardly in greeting, and said urgently, “Best to run, great one. The warlord has come. He's at the well now, asking questions.”

Shadrael tu Natalloh grimaced at the fly drowning in his ale and set aside his tankard. Over by the window, someone yelped in pain, and another great, laughing shout rose from the others.

Ignoring them, Shadrael fixed his black gaze on the informer. “Is that not what warlords do, Jutak? Ask questions and collect tribute?”

Despite his filthy appearance, his voice was one of culture and education, and on his tongue Ulinian flowed melodically with the accent of the
aziarahd mahal
, the noble class.

“But he is asking for a man named Shadrael,” Jutak said, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “Quick! There is still time to run.”

“Why should I?”

At that moment, a war mace thudded into the open door of the taproom with such force it splintered the wood and stuck there. The rowdy noise shut off, and the men who had been playing Kiss the Dagger put their bets away and reached for their weapons instead.

“Shadrael!” bellowed a voice as deep as a bull's. “Shadrael, you leper! Are you in this pestilent hole?”

“I am,” Shadrael replied in a normal tone. He smiled slightly to himself and slid his tankard in the informer's direction.

The rat-faced man grabbed it up like a prize and scuttled away with it pressed to his thin chest.

Lord Vordachai strode into the taproom, ducking his head beneath the low lintel. He paused a moment, blinking as though trying to adjust his vision to the gloom, but instead of advancing he retreated.

“Come outside!” he yelled. “Faugh! This place smells worse than a pigsty. Come outside and let's talk!”

Before Shadrael could answer, Fomo joined him, fierce-eyed and protective.

“Who is this fool, calling you forth?” he growled softly. His voice was a hoarse ruin. “Do you want us to deal with him?”

“No,” Shadrael said, still smiling that cold, sardonic little smile his men knew to be a warning. “At ease.”

The military order was a signal. Fomo's head snapped up. He drew in a deep breath, narrowing his gaze, but kept silent as Shadrael rose from the table, kicked aside a stool, and strolled from the taproom.

Outside, the noonday sun shone hot and bright. Shadrael found it painful, for no longer did he live under the veil of the shadow god's protection. Still, he bore the discomfort without even a wince, just as a seasoned campaigner might march on despite being hampered by a festering heel blister.

The idlers in the inn yard had scattered away. The warlord's men, half of them still mounted, the rest standing next to their horses, blocked the open gate. Shadrael heard them muttering to each other over the fact that he cast no shadow. There'd been a time when their nervousness would have amused him, but he was well past the point of taking pride in scaring a few provincial warriors or the village children.

Vordachai had planted himself in the center of the yard, his fists on his hips, his armor plates reflecting the blazing sunshine like steel mirrors. His shadow darkened the ground at his feet, marking him as unmistakably human and still in possession of his soul.

Perhaps, Shadrael thought, Vordachai was trying to look impressive, standing armored in the heat this way. He was more likely to tempt Gault to strike him with apoplexy.

Vordachai beckoned impatiently, but Shadrael walked without haste across the hot, dusty inn yard away from the warlord, moving with the panther grace of a born warrior. Early in his military career, Shadrael had passed into army legend by daring to take the Kiss of Eternity—the deadliest version of all games of
shul-drakshera
—which few men risked and even fewer survived. It was why he no longer cast a shadow on a sunny day, why he possessed no soul. It had transformed him into one of the fiercest, most ruthless
donare
sworn into Emperor Kostimon's service, a warrior without equal. And even now, unshaven, his hair grown out and falling in his eyes, wearing neither armor nor sword, his boot soles so worn through that the hot dirt burned his feet, he crossed the yard with a swagger that drew every eye to him.

He eased himself deep within the shade of an enormous tree growing next to the wall. The shade it cast was thin and dappled, its dusty leaves stirring from a hot breeze, but it provided enough respite from the sun for Shadrael to focus his full attention on his scowling visitor. Bracing his shoulder against the tree, Shadrael tucked his thumbs nonchalantly in his belt, and waited.

Vordachai beckoned again, but Shadrael did not move. After a moment, Vordachai strode over, kicking up little clouds of dust with each step, his spurs jingling loudly as he scattered a flock of clucking chickens before him.

Puffing a little, his face beaded with perspiration above his dusty beard, he glowered at Shadrael. “You've given me a great deal of trouble, finding you. I searched out Kanidalon before I came here.”

Shadrael shrugged. “Aren't you hot, in all that plate armor? Better have your man loosen your buckles or you'll have blisters bursting before nightfall.”

“I need no help with my armor.”

“Are you at war with someone?”

“None of your jokes, knave! There's little time, and I am in great need of you.”

A laugh broke from Shadrael. With a growl, Vordachai closed in on him, but Shadrael was quicker. He evaded the warlord's lunge, whipped out his needle-tipped dagger, and placed the point right in Vordachai's armpit where his armor did not reach. One quick, hard thrust, and the dagger would pierce something vital.

Vordachai froze, breathing heavily, his small eyes narrowing to slits.

“My lord!” Shouting in alarm, the warriors broke into a run toward them.

“Even as I am now, I'm still faster than you,” Shadrael said softly, keeping one eye on Vordchai's men. “Call off your dogs, brother.”

“It's all right!” Vordachai bellowed.

“They're still coming,” Shadrael said, pressing the dagger just a little harder through the padded cloth of Vordachai's undertunic.

Vordachai winced. “Damn you!”

“I wonder if you'll be able to yell as loud when you have only one lung. Call them off.”

Vordachai's color deepened, but he shouted, “Chaiblin, halt! I'm all right! Stay back, you whoresons!”

His men stopped halfway across the inn yard, brandishing their weapons and looking unsure. Behind them, Shadrael's men had gathered in the inn's doorway, muttering to themselves.

“If we're going to have a fight, my men against yours,” Shadrael said conversationally, “shall we bet on who wins?”

Vordachai rolled his eyes. “In Gault's name, then, drop your weapon. They won't back off until you release me.”

“And I won't drop my weapon until they back away,” Shadrael said with a smile. Enjoying himself, he met Vordachai's furious gaze and bared his teeth even more.

“You're bluffing.”

“Why should I?”

“You won't kill me.”

“Shall we see?” Shadrael pushed in the tip of the dagger, and Vordachai sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes flaring wide with alarm.

“All right. All right! Chaiblin!” he bellowed. “Back away, as I have commanded you!”

Slowly, with obvious reluctance, the warlord's men obeyed him.

“All the way,” Shadrael said, still using that light, half-amused tone. “They can stand across the gate again if it pleases them.”

“Go!” Vordachai yelled at his men, still glaring a hole through Shadrael. “Satisfied, you cur?”

“It will do,” Shadrael said.

Of course, by now Shadrael's men had taken up a position in the gate behind the retreating Ulinians. The warlord and his small force were trapped inside this enclosure, like qualli running into a cage after grain. A roar of mocking laughter went up.

Grinning, Shadrael lowered his dagger and released Vordachai, who stepped hastily away from him, rubbing his armpit and scowling.

“You damned whelp,” he grumbled. “You waste valuable time with these stupid games.”

“I have all the time in the world to waste,” Shadrael said indifferently. Putting his back to the tree, he flipped his dagger up in the air and caught it as adeptly as a juggler. He started to toss it up again, but Vordachai gripped his wrist, and the dagger went tumbling to the ground at their feet.

“This is important, and urgent,” Vordachai said grimly, releasing him. “I need you.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful? Am I supposed to be interested?”

“I'll pay you, like the damned mercenary you've become.”

Dropping his pretense of foolery, Shadrael straightened. “Then I'm interested. What's your price?”

“Nine hundred ducats.”

Startled, Shadrael put his lips together, but he did not whistle. His brother looked dead serious, and that alerted Shadrael because Vordachai was as close-fisted with his gold as a miser in a countinghouse.