The lintel above the fifth door bore the same parallel notches. Leaving his four companions on watch in the alley, the leader entered without knocking and carefully closed the door behind himself. He turned back the hood of his cloak.
“I am here,” Lord Hengriff said, his bass voice rumbling in the small room.
The room brightened as the thin red line of a lamp wick was adjusted. The light showed Prince Shobbat sitting at a table, his bare dagger gleaming next to the lamp. The ruddy lamplight also revealed the results of his encounter with the Oracle of the Tree. The Prince’s face was the gray of wood ash. His eyebrows and beard were white, and white streaked the hair combed back from his forehead. His once soft features were drawn, and his eyes burned from deep, hollow sockets.
“I heard you were unwell, Highness,” Hengriff said.
“I have recovered.”
From what the Nerakan saw, this seemed a debatable conclusion. “This meeting is not wise.”
“But necessary.”
Shobbat’s hand strayed to the dagger, caressing the wire- wrapped grip, but his eyes remained fixed on the Knight’s face. “The time for talk is over. The time has come to act. My father must go.”
He expected some reaction-at the very least, a nod of satisfaction-but Hengriff only stood there, immobile as stone. Shobbat demanded, “Will Neraka support me once I’m on the throne?”
“The Order always supports strong rulers friendly to its cause.
Shobbat’s fingers closed on the dagger grip, and he slammed the weapon on the table, making the little lamp jump. “Why all the mystery?” he shouted. “Can’t you just give me a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”
“Permit me to say, Highness, your timing is not the best. You have been out of circulation for some time, yes? And your father is very popular just now, thanks to his humiliation of the elves. How much money did he squeeze from Gilthas in the name of reparations?”
“Ten thousand steel.”
A tidy sum, thought Hengriff. Sahim’s little triumph over the Speaker would make him admired in the souks and taverns, even by those who knew him to be a bloody tyrant. He had executed eleven Torghanists captured during the rioting; even now, their heads gathered flies in the plaza before the Khuri yl Nor. Yet Hengriff knew the dead men were longtime criminals culled from the city dungeons. The real culprits had purchased their safety. Minok, high priest of Torghan, with the Khan’s death sentence still hanging over him, had given Hengriff gold to buy freedom for himself and his followers.
After considering the possible repercussions of allowing the Torghanists to remain in prison (and perhaps talk under torture), the Knight paid the bribes. First, though, he swapped Minok’s Khurish coins for Nerakan. He intended the released prisoners to associate their deliverance with the Order, and to spend that money in the souks. There was no better ambassador than money.
“-and slay him while he sleeps. What do you think?” Shobbat was saying.
“A very good plan,” Hengriff replied, realizing with some amusement that while he was lost in thought the prince must have been outlining his plot to murder his father. “When will you strike?”
“Soon. There may not be time to warn you in advance.” “I understand.”
Shobbat stood and tucked the dagger back into his sash- this one an unsettling mixture of cherry red and lime green stripes. Hengriff waited till he was done, then casually delivered the news he’d brought. “Your Highness, have you heard? The elves have found the Valley of the Blue Sands.”
The effect was all he’d hoped. Shobbat gave a violent start, even faltering backward.
“How did this happen?” he gasped.
“Gilthas sent his bitch, Kerianseray, to seek the place. They reached the valley three days ago.”
Shobbat sat back down with a thump. The Oracle’s prediction rang in his ears.
“How…”The prince cleared his throat twice. “How do you know this?”
“I have many eyes and ears in Khuri-Khan, even in the elves’ camp.” He folded massive arms across his chest. “Why is this valley important, Highness? What does Gilthas expect to find there?”
Shobbat barely heard Hengriff, his thoughts were racing so. The chain of events foretold by the Oracle had begun. His future, his very life, was in the balance. He strove to master his emotions. He’d already given away too much to the Dark Knight.
“Who can say? The valley is uninhabited,” he muttered. “It has some religious significance for the tribes who dwell nearby.”
Hengriff studied Shobbat in silence. The prince’s wan complexion was growing paler by the second, pale as the stain that had spread through his beard and hair. The man was a weakling, Hengriff thought. If he weren’t so close to the throne of Khur the Knight would have washed his hands of him long ago. He’d been laughably easy to buy. Even more than his greedy father, Shobbat loved money, not only for the power it represented but for the luxuries it could buy. The Order had toyed with the idea of installing him as puppet ruler of Khur, but his behavior had become increasingly erratic and evasive. The elves’ expedition to the Valley of the Blue Sands certainly disturbed the Prince deeply; it would probably disturb Hengriff’s superiors as well. But they had an exaggerated opinion of Gilthas’s shrewdness, and a positive mania about the Lioness. The latter Hengriff could understand much more than the former. Kerianseray had been a thorn in Knightly flesh for years.
Answering a question from Shobbat, Hengriff explained that the elves had crossed the High Plateau to reach the valley, avoiding the well-watched caravan route to Kortal.
“They fought several skirmishes with the Weya-Lu tribe. The last was a full-fledged battle, I gather. Having failed to stop the elves going into the valley, the nomads are camped at its entrance, and are trying to recruit other tribes to help destroy the intruders when they come out.”
Shobbat tugged thoughtfully at his beard. Although he might wish the nomads every success in stopping the laddad, no would-be khan could be happy to hear the desert tribes were massing. Every time that happened, a khan lost his head.
Like the rising of the sun, but with much less warning, a smile spread across Shobbat’s face. With his red-rimmed eyes and pallid lips, it was not a charming expression. And now it was Hengriff’s turn to be surprised, though he was practiced enough not to show it.
“My lord,” the prince asked, “are you able to communicate with these distant events, or do you only receive subsequent word of them?”
Aware of the import of what he was about to say, Hengriff replied, “The former, Your Highness.”
“Good! I will compose a missive, and you will have it conveyed to the tribesmen you say have gathered to stop the elves.”
Hengriff bowed slightly, thinking he would do what he pleased.
The prince snapped a command, and out of the shadows a lackey appeared, bearing a leather case. Shobbat pushed aside bottles of wine and perfume, a short sword, and a purse thick with coins, to pull out parchment, ink, and a pen-brush. The proclamation he composed was short and to the point, written in large, flowing script. Hengriff easily read the words upside-down. Again, he was surprised. This ambitious fool had more talent for intrigue than he had imagined. He might have to be more careful with the prince in the future.
Shobbat signed the document with a flourish, rolled it tightly, and sealed it with black wax. He pressed his signet into the wax and handed the scroll to Hengriff.
“You may be the savior of my country,” said the prince earnestly.
“I’d rather be the destroyer of the elves,” replied Hengriff.
Shobbat showed his eyeteeth. “It is the same thing.”
“Your message will be in nomad hands in three days, Your Highness.”
Shobbat extinguished the lamp, and the two men went their separate ways.
“Success, my lord?” asked Hengriff’s lieutenant waiting outside.
Hengriff glanced at the closed door. How did one reckon success in this maelstrom of deceit a
nd treachery? He was still alive, still working for the Order. That was one measure of success.
He grunted an affirmative and added, “I have another visit to pay. When we get there, you men can return to our quarters.”
The five Knights slipped away, moving like a cluster of shadows. Out of the crowded Hameek district Hengriff led them to the northern part of the city, known as the Harbalah. Wrecked by Malys and her minions, it was still not rebuilt. The sights and smells of the vibrant, living sections of Khuri-Khan ended when they crossed Istra Street into the ruins. Hengriff halted by a broken dwelling and dismissed his men.
They hesitated. The lieutenant said, “My lord, we obey, but… our lives are pledged to safeguard yours. Shouldn’t we accompany you?”
“Not this time. Go.”
Reluctantly, they did. Hengriff remained where he was until the four loyal warriors turned a corner and were out of sight. When he was satisfied he was alone, he continued ahead. No torches or lamps burned here. There was only starlight to see by. Still, he made good progress through the rubble and shattered houses. He knew the way very well.
A tall tower stood out starkly against the night sky. Its upper floors had been toppled by the red dragon, but even truncated the tower was still many times higher than any other structure in the vicinity. Piled around its base were the ruins of a fine villa, once the home of the richest date merchant in Khur. His bones moldered beneath the toppled walls of his mansion.
Clouds drifting in from the sea passed over the stars, casting the ruins into deeper darkness. It was an eerie journey through the ruined grounds, cluttered with broken statuary, rubble, and blown trash, the gardens nowadays home to little more than thin, scraggly date palms. Roofless, the interior· of the once fine home was open to the air. What remained of its gessoed walls was bright with painted scenes of desert life, the pictures cracked and peeling. The path through the trash was barely wide enough for Hengriff’s feet. The one who’d made it was much smaller than he.
He passed the first sign-a six-inch square of parchment bearing markings in red and black ink. A warning. A panic- spell had been placed over the ruined house. Had Hengriff not been wearing a counter-charm, he would’ve been seized by unreasoning fear.
When he reached the atrium, with its dry fountain and garden of weeds, he passed the second sign. This one was a human skull, eye sockets packed with clay. A pebble of polished malachite had been pushed into each clay-filled socket, making grotesque eyes. That’s exactly what they were. The occupant of the blighted villa could watch the path with these magical eyes. Interlopers were dealt with harshly.
The Knight came upon one such unlucky soul. A Khur lay sprawled by the fountain. His torso had been ripped open, his body left here as an extra warning to the unwary. By his clothes, Hengriff took him to be a beggar come to search for trinkets he could sell. He was past such needs now.
At the foot of the broken tower was the third sign. An ordinary copperplate, such as was used in taverns all around the city, was nailed to the tower door with three iron nails. Lines were scratched into the copper. They formed the sigil of madness. Anyone passing through the door without proper protection would go immediately insane.
Hengriff snorted. Perhaps the villa’s current resident had come home once without his protective amulets. That would explain much about him.
Despite the devastation all around, the great door swung smoothly inward, silent on well-oiled hinges. The interior smelled strongly of musk.
“Hello!” He tried to call softly, but his voice still boomed like a drumbeat.
Something stirred in the darkness. Something big. His hand went to his sword hilt.
“Faeterus! It’s Hengriff,” he said, feeling somewhat foolish. His voice could hardly be mistaken for any other’s.
A square of light appeared overhead as a trap door opened. Hengriff held up a hand to block the sudden glare. The light showed him a strange beast curled against the far wall, several yards away. It had a lion’s tawny body and limbs, but a long neck covered with small, bronze-colored scales. Its head was its most disturbing feature. Framed by a short, stiff mane of reddish hair, the head was round, like a human’s, with human- looking icy blue eyes, a flat nose, and a very wide mouth.
The mouth split in a grin as Hengriff tightened his grip on his sword hilt. At least four rows of teeth, one behind the other, glittered like polished steel in the wide mouth. The large eyes gazed at him steadily, without blinking. The Knight knew then what had happened to the beggar lying dead outside.
A knotted rope unspooled from the open trap door, its end striking the floor at Hengriff’s feet. The Knight began to climb, senses alert. A good place to ambush someone, he thought.
As his head and shoulders penetrated the room above, heat washed over him like a lowering weight. Oil lamps with silver reflectors lit the scene brightly, but the warmth came from two large fireplaces, opposite each other in the large, round room. Fires blazed high in each.
The room was decorated in an extreme of Khurish fashion that would have embarrassed a native-born Khur. Dark yellow carpets were layered six inches deep, helping to mask the warped floor. Every inch of wall space was covered by tapestries, depicting not only Khurish scenes of deserts and oases, but foreign sights as well-the barbaric splendor of Ergoth, the staid pageantry of old Solamnia, and geometric Tarsan designs shot through with spun gold thread.
There were no chairs or proper tables, only silk and velvet pillows, divans spread with plush wool and damask rugs, and low tables meant to be used by diners seated on the floor. Contributing to the suffocating atmosphere were jeweled incense burners hanging from the ceiling beams; they filled the air with the heavy reek of spice.
Hengriff’s host had returned to his dinner after dropping the rope through the trap door. An etched silver tray was balanced on the divan cushions beside him. Hengriff glanced at its contents and quickly looked away. A bird of some sort, plucked clean, but still raw. Savage.
“Welcome, noble Hengriff,” said Faeterus, waving a hand.
Gone was his bulky disguise. Shorn of the heavy, ragged robes and thick gray wig, Faeterus was revealed to be an elf of advanced years, with cottony white hair, eyebrows like flyaway wings over hazel eyes, and a chin sharp as the prow of a war galley. His hands were unusually large for an elf, with prominent joints and exceptionally long fingers, darkly stained by decades of mixing potions. He wore long, white cotton trousers and an abbreviated geb.
“That’s quite a watchdog you have,” Hengriff said, casting about for a decent place to sit.
“A rare creature indeed. A manticore from over the seas. It ensures my privacy.”
Faeterus indicated the Knight could join him, but Hengriff settled himself on a low table nearby, after deeming it strong enough to take his weight. He would not recline on the cushioned divan with the mage, nor sit on the carpeted floor at his feet like a supplicant.
“A new development,” he announced. “Prince Shobbat has regained his wits. As usual he’s aflame to depose his father, but when I mentioned the elves had gone to the valley, he seemed ready to relapse. He’s so frightened he’s willing to stir up the desert wanderers to stop the elves.” He held up Shobbat’s letter. “He gave me this proclamation, in which he incites them to make righteous war on the elves.”
“Shobbat is an idiot. Does it say anything more?” Faeterus bit delicately into the raw bird. Blood ran down his chin until he dabbed it with a napkin.
“He invites the nomads here to Khuri-Khan, to destroy the elves in their tent-city.”
Faeterus froze, then put down his dinner. “Not an idiot-a madman!”
“Maybe. He says his father has betrayed Khur by allowing the elves to remain here, and by filling his coffers with elven steel.”
“They’ll have Sahim-Khan’s head, too, in the bargain.”
“I’m sure that’s what Shobbat intends.”
Faeterus picked up a narrow, conical goblet made of gilded glass and gulped
wine like a sailor just back from a long voyage. His fingers left gory prints on the shiny stem. Hengriff wondered whether his nails were naturally that umber shade, or if he painted them.
“An idiot after all,” Faeterus said, refilling his goblet. “Sahim is popular. The nomads won’t unite against him, not now.”
“Perhaps if they had more provocation,” Hengriff suggested.
“That will take some thought. The wanderers aren’t like ordinary people, elf or human. What pleases us offends them, and what angers them we would consider trivial.” The mage leaned back against his cushions, and added, “What will you do for me if I do this favor for you?”
I won’t wring your scrawny neck, Hengriff thought. “This isn’t a souk, elf. I’m not here to bargain. Get to the point. What do you want?”
Faeterus reclined on the cushions, closing his eyes. “A trifle, really,” he murmured.
Hengriff doubted that. The mage seemed immune to the standard temptations. As far as Hengriff could tell, he had only two guiding principles: hatred for his own race, and devotion to the pursuit of his magical arts. Whatever he wanted, it likely would be something extraordinary.
“I want what Gilthas wants: the Valley of the Blue Sands.”
Hengriff frowned at this puzzling reply. He knew the nomads of the northern desert regarded the valley as sacred, belonging to the gods and forbidden by them at the same time. Most of the stories he’d heard, in the souks and various taverns, were improbable in the extreme. In one, the valley was said to house an army of stone soldiers, motionless for two thousand years, who would awaken on hearing a certain magical word. If the wrong word of power was voiced, they would animate only long enough to kill the one who’d said it, then resume their stony existence. Other tales said the valley contained a city of gold, a race of invisible dragons, or-oddest of all-the tombs of dead, foreign gods.
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