Realizing the Emir’s mistaken assumption, Gwylly started to speak up, but then fell silent at a gesture from Urus.
Riatha smiled, nodding. “Aye. They give me much pleasure.”
The Emir spoke to Faeril. “In my grandsire’s time, at last he overthrew the imâmîn, the clerics, for they hewed to a false prophet instead of the true god, and had done so for nearly nine hundred years. They were punished accordingly, and the mosques and minarets cleared of the vermin and their followers, and we returned to the old ways, the true ways.”
Faeril started to ask another question, but Riatha smoothly cut her off. “Have thou some of this sweet bread, my darling,” her fingers signalling,
Again Aravan took up the conversation, and as they came to the end of the meal, the Elf finally closed in on what they had come to hear. “As we came through an oasis north of here, we spoke with a traveller from Nizari. A young Man, he was afraid, and he told us of disappearances in and about the city.”
The Emir nodded. “It is true. People are missing. Men. Women. Children.”
Aravan, now at the heart of their quest, asked, “Knowest thou the root of this evil?”
“Oh, yes,” answered the Emir. “But first…” He signalled to his taster. The boy stood and fetched a tray on which was a crystal flask filled with a ruby liquid and six crystal cups, two of them small, the other four larger. Turning to Aravan, the Emir said, “It is traditional to drink a toast at the end of a guesting feast. And I can assure you that you have never tasted a cordial such as this. Will you and your wife and children and your companion join me in such?”
At Aravan’s assent, the Emir smiled and splashed a dollop into the small cups, and a greater measure into the others. “Here, wee cups for the wee ones, large cups for the larger.”
Aravan signalled,
“To the success of our mission,” responded Aravan, downing his own, and they all followed suit, finding the liqueur sweet and aromatic and strong.
And when each of the five set their emptied crystal cups to the table, the Emir began laughing, signalling the guards. The door opened, and the major-domo and ten additional warders marched in, each guard bearing a crossbow, cocked, quarrel in place. They ringed ’round in an arc flanking the Emir, deadly bows aimed at the five.
Aravan began to protest, but the Emir silenced him. “Fools!” spat the Man. “Know this: that you are in Nizari, the Red City of Assassins, and I am the High Assassin, the Assassin of Assassins.
“Pah! Of a certainty do I know your true mission. You are here after Stoke! And heed me! He knows of your coming…for he has directed me, me, to intercept you. And I have done so.
“Why do you deem my guards at the city gates escorted you to the Green Palm? As a favor? Nay! It was instead to watch over you and to keep you till I was ready.
“Merchants, faugh! A flimsy tale at best. Thin. Oh no, not merchants. Instead, you are hunters, and Stoke is your quarry, just as you are his prey.
“You must be powerful enemies indeed for him to fear you. Yet he, too, is a dangerous foe. But if he thinks to order me about at his whim, then he is mistaken.”
The Emir clapped his hands, and the major-domo stepped forward bearing a basket, handing it to his Prince. “I will aid you to bring him down, but you must hurry, for even now one of his spies may be rushing to tell him of your arrival. This one we caught.”
The Emir pulled the lid from the basket and pitched its contents rolling down the table. As it flopped to a stop they could see it was a Man’s head, in a yellow turban. Gwylly gasped and turned to Faeril. “The Man at the gate, the one who ran.” Faeril nodded and averted her eyes, refusing to glance again at the head.
Riatha looked at the Emir. “If thou knowest where is Baron Stoke, tell us. We will run him to earth, this I promise.”
“Oh, madam, I know that you will go after Stoke to slay him, for I have taken steps to guarantee your full-hearted cooperation. You see, I have poisoned your children and only I have the antidote”—he held up a small crystal vial filled with a blue liquid.
At these words Gwylly’s heart clenched, and he reached out to take his dammia’s hand. But Urus roared in rage, starting to rise. One of the bow-bearing guards barked a command—”Hâdir!”—and Aravan cried out, “Urus, no!” The Baeran looked at the trained crossbows—two aimed at Gwylly, two at Faeril, two at Aravan, two at Riatha, and lastly, two at himself—and slowly, growling, he settled back.
“Fools!” sneered the Emir. “I saw you delay, waiting to see if the cordial was poisoned. Did I not tell you that this was the Red City of Assassins? It was the two small crystal cups that were lethal—not the drink.
“Now heed me! You have but one week to find Stoke, slay him, and bring his head to me. Else the children will be dead of the poison….”
The Emir nodded to the major-domo, and at his signal, four guards stepped forward, slipping a cord about each Warrow’s wrists, and leading them away.
“In the meantime,” continued the Emir as the Wee Ones were taken from the room, “we will care well for them.”
Riatha, Aravan, and Urus watched them go, frustration and rage in their eyes.
Riatha turned to the Emir. “Where is Stoke?”
“In a mosque in the mountains one day’s hard ride from here. He has been there for nearly two years now, taking my people from me. No matter that he is favored by the Sultan, Stoke’s depredations have gone on much too long. Too, he thinks to tell me, me, what to do, as if I were, subject to his will. Well, then, we shall see about that, my friend. We shall see about that.”
Urus yet fumed, but Aravan said, “We shall need a map, horses, our weaponry, some supplies, our own goods, and whatever information thou hast concerning Stoke’s strongholt.”
The Emir gestured at the major-domo. “Abid will see to your needs. You may leave me now, but by all means hurry, for your time grows short, and the lives of your children spill out as does swift-running sand spill through a glass.”
Surrounded by guards, the major-domo escorted them out, while behind sounded the crowing laughter of the Emir.
* * *
The trio retrieved their weapons as well as Gwylly’s sling and bullets and Faeril’s throwing knives. Abid informed them that their belongings had already been brought from the Green Palm and from the camel grounds to the Scarlet Citadel in anticipation of their “cooperation.” He led them to the room where their goods were stored. Riatha rummaged through her belongings as well as those of the Waerlinga, retrieving the necessary items: long-knives, daggers, a bow and arrows, herbs and potions, and other such. Aravan and Urus also took up what they might use in the days ahead: lanterns, ropes, climbing gear, crue, flint and steel, and the like. Except for the weaponry, they packed all in backpacks and changed into their desert garb, taking as well their leathers. Too, Riatha packed a bit of extra clothing.
“Abid,” barked Aravan. “We will need horses, for camels walk softly but make too much noise, whereas horses’ steps are louder yet rarely do they complain.”
Urus added, “A large horse for me, little Man, one with the strength to bear my weight.”
Abid called to one of the guards and issued orders, the Man leaving for the stables.
Riatha at last turned to the major-domo. “I am ready. Yet first I would see my children one last time, to bid them courage and kiss them farewell.”
Abid glanced at the others and nodded. “Only you, madam, and you must go without weapons, and you must speak only the Common tongue.”
Riatha handed over Dúnamis to Aravan, giving him her long-knife and dagger as well. “I shall return shortly, Aravan.”
The major-domo led Riatha to a room in the citadel. The entry was warded by two gua
rds. At a gesture from Abid, they stepped aside and the major-domo tugged open the door.
Gwylly and Faeril were standing next to a barred window, shutters open. As Riatha entered, Faeril turned and ran to the Elfess, Gwylly coming after. Riatha knelt and embraced the damman, and peered into the face of each Waerling. They looked pale, wan. “Courage, my children,” she said. “We will return for you.”
The Elfess carried Faeril back to the window and set her down. Peering out, she said, “It is time for me to go.”
Kissing both and embracing them one last time, Riatha turned to Abid. “I am ready,” she said, and he led her away. Her last sight of the Waerlinga was of the two standing and watching her leave, their arms about one another. And then the door closed.
Back to Aravan and Urus she went, and thence unto the stables. There waiting were three saddled horses—two mares and a large stud—and they laded them with the gear.
Mounting up, the trio rode clattering across the courtyard and out from the citadel, following after a soldier guide. And behind them the massive gates of the mighty fortress swung shut.
* * *
Faeril hugged her forearms across her stomach. “I don’t feel well, Gwylly.”
Pallid, Gwylly reached out and stroked her hair, tears filling his eyes. “Neither do I, love. Neither do I.”
“Perhaps if we lie down…”
They clambered onto the bed.
A time passed, and the door opened. A guard came in and looked about, then stepped back from the room.
The Emir entered, smiling when he saw the pale, trembling Warrows lying on the bed. “Well now, did I not tell you that I was the Assassin of Assassins? It seems as if the poison works on Elven children as it does on Human get. You will be dead by dawn.
“What’s that? You actually believed my tale that you would last a week? Oh my, but you are silly children.
“I will leave you now, for I do hate to see suffering. And believe me, it will shortly become much more painful, my darlings. But you may scream all you wish, for each of my chambers is sealed against sound.
“Yet before I go…”
He took the tiny liquid-filled crystal flask from a silken pocket and stepped to the bedside, holding the vial up for the Wee Ones to see. He uncapped the crystal and slowly tilted the vial, pouring the blue liquid out onto the carpeted floor.
Gwylly croaked a protest, his words but a whisper, and he struggled to sit upright but had not the strength.
“Oh, child,” said the Emir, “worry not. This is not an antidote. This is nothing but colored water.
“Fools! There is no antidote for the poison running in your veins.”
CHAPTER 36
Extrication
Early 5E990
[The Present]
Down through the twisting streets of Nizari rode the trio down and away from the Scarlet Citadel, following the soldier riding before them. Night had fallen, and the guide bore a lantern, though here among the lighted dwellings and shops in the Red City its luminance was not needed Urus rode stiffly, his knuckles white on the reins, his fury but barely held in check. Beside him, Riatha rode in grim silence, her lips compressed in a thin white line. Aravan, lagging after, gritted his teeth in frustration, the muscles jumping in his jaw. Although they followed the guard, their thoughts were back in the citadel, where entrapped and poisoned were Faeril and Gwylly, held in the clutch of the Prince of the city to warrant the death of Stoke. And so down through the tangled streets they rode, their thoughts churning in rage.
At last they came to the city gates, and at a word from their escort, on through they rode, past the warders there and beyond the high city walls.
Westerly they turned, bearing southward, heading into the Talâk Range, the walls of the pass steadily rising about them, looming upward toward the stars. Now the soldier’s lantern cast a swaying light on the stony way, its glow pressing back the shadows as into the gloom they rode.
Onward they forged into the pass, the path curving, meandering, the walls closing in here and falling back there, in places a furlong or two apart, in other places mere yards between. The steady pace of the horses devoured the ground and within two hours they reached their goal: a narrow crevice splitting off southward from the main pass.
The soldier leading them drew up, his eyes wide with fright, and waited for Aravan to ride to the fore. [“This is your way,”] the guide said in the Kabla tongue, gesturing up the slot. [“The place you seek is miles beyond at the end of this arroyo: a downcast mosque of the false prophet. Here I leave you with a message from my Emir. I do not understand the meaning of his words, yet he bade me to repeat them: ‘Remember, your children’s lives run like swift sand through a glass. One week, no more, is all you have.’ “]
As the guide fell silent, Aravan gritted, [“Say this to thy Prince: We will return within the sevenday, Stoke’s head in our possession. Yet heed! Should aught happen to either child, then thou wilt discover why Stoke feared us so.”]
Aravan turned his horse and into the notch he went, Riatha and Urus following after. The soldier sat listening to the footfalls of the steeds, sweat running in rivulets down his face—his dread of this haunted ravine nearly overcoming his sense of duty. When he could hear the horses no more, quickly he turned and rode swiftly away, his mount running at a dangerous pace through the enshadowed pass.
* * *
The soft cry of a Jillian crow echoed up the canyon.
“He is gone,” said Riatha, prodding her horse into motion. Urus grunted and followed, and back down the ravine they rode, Aravan’s mare on a tether trailing behind the Baeran.
When they reached the narrow opening and rode beyond into the pass, Aravan stepped from the shadows into the starlight, and Riatha and Urus dismounted.
Riatha was the first to speak: “Two courses of action lie before us: we can go on to Stoke’s holt, slay him, and return to Nizari with his head; or we can ride back to Nizari now, free our companions, and then proceed to Stoke’s mosque.”
Aravan’s eyes glinted in the starlight. “I trust not this ‘Assassin of Assassins’ to keep his word. Even should we bring him Stoke’s head, still he may betray us.
“There is this as well: should we fail, or even be late the Waerlinga’s lives are forfeit.
“Nay, Riatha, going after Stoke with them yet in the clutches of the Emir entails considerable risk to Faeril and Gwylly. I would rather go back and free them now, this night.”
Riatha nodded. “I do not trust this ‘High Assassin’ either, for when I went to see the Waerlinga, they were wan, pallid, the poison already at work upon them.”
Urus spat upon the ground. “Can you find this place again, this room where they are held?”
“Aye, I looked well out that window. If they have not been moved, they are on the third floor above an ornamental garden. Outward, to the left of the window, to the right as we look inward, in garden center stands a statue of a Man on horseback…. The window, however, is barred.”
“I will deal with the bars,” said Urus. “I am more concerned with the poison. How will we nullify it?”
“Gwynthyme.”
“Will it counteract this venom of the Emir’s?”
“I have not known it to fail.”
Urus grunted. “Still, it is a risk. The Emir claimed to have the only antidote, and should we take Faeril and Gwylly from the citadel and the gwynthyme not work then…”
“Then we will yet have some days to contrive to get the antidote.”
Aravan glanced at the two of them. “If he indeed has an antidote.”
Urus growled. “Garn! The imponderables mount up.”
“Aye,” responded Riatha, “yet imponderables or not, we must decide.”
Aravan’s fingers strayed to his throat. The blue stone amulet held an edge of chill. “I say we go now, for I deem they are in danger. Too, Riatha has mentioned a thing that could thwart all of our plans, and it is t
his: what if they move the Waerlinga to a different place?”
Without another word they mounted up, spurring their horses into a canter back toward the Red City.
* * *
As they drew near the entrance to the pass, the waning gibbous Moon rose, shedding its yellow light slanting across the land, sharp-edged mooncast darkness streaming from rock and ridge and pinnacle. Ahead they could see the city clutched against the mountains, and as they had planned while returning, they angled their horses up the rocky slope, keeping to the shadows, aiming for the southwest corner of the wall surrounding the citadel, deeming that perhaps there would be less vigilance at the rear of the fortress.
They came to a shallow gully a quarter mile from the wall, and there they tethered the horses to the gnarled growth. Taking up their climbing gear and weaponry, and crouching low and following the deep ruts and furrows of the land, they made their way toward the citadel and farther upslope, seeking a place where they could look down on the ramparts.
At last they reached a high ridge, and in the moonlight they watched as the guards slowly made their rounds: there were but two, walking together, patrolling the walls above. Yet at each corner stood a sentry viewing the ’scape below, though whenever the two roaming guards passed, they would stop for a while and chat.
“Hèl!” spat Urus. “Given the placement of the sentries, it seems we will have to go up the wall midway between corners.”
Aravan grunted his agreement. “Then let us climb the westernmost wall, for there the moonshadow is deepest.”
Riatha sighed. “The room holding the Waerlinga faces east, where the moonlight is brightest.”
“We’ve no help for that,” rumbled Urus. “Let us go now.”
Back down among the folds in the land scuttled the trio, heading for the westernmost wall.
* * *
“The crevices between the stones are mortared, the seams narrow and shallow,” whispered Riatha. “The fingers of neither of ye are as slender as mine. I will climb.”
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