by Val Gunn
In the half-light of the small cabin, a lantern swayed and flickered above his head. He felt a long, heavy swell roll beneath the hull as the dhow sailed deeper into the storm. Wind and rain-squalls buffeted the mast. Waves of green water crashed over the bow and poured across the empty deck. The ship climbed the face of a massive wave until it reached the crest and then plunged down, disappearing into the trough. Munif could hear the sound of timbers creaking, the popping of canvas and rigging as the dhow surged upward again.
The ship had been taking a beating for six hours.
The journey was taking a heavy toll. It had begun seven weeks before when he followed the two summoners out of Riyyal and hundreds of miles across the desert to the city of Janeirah.
Bending back down to the map in front of him, he traced his finger along the route both predator and prey had navigated to get here. They’d trekked northwest first into the Rab’al-Dourif and the sands of the Rim al-Sarab, which bordered the southern edge of Nahkeel. Passage across the Rab’al-Dourif was only possible through a string of oases, the largest of which was Waha
al-Nurai.
In addition to battling the unrelenting desert, the men also managed to elude the Slen Thek, bounty hunters who had been tracking them from the onset. Naturally, they had no interest in the Carac other than the reward they would collect for their capture. Had the summoners been caught, Munif would never have known the true reason for their journey.
Fortune favored them however, as a sandstorm swept in, preventing the Slen Thek from making it to Waha al-Nurai. The Carac managed to slip away without being seen by the bounty hunters, but not without Munif.
An even greater threat lay ahead for them in Janeirah. Other, more dangerous foes were ready and waiting for them to arrive. The White Palm badawh passionately despised the people of Carac. They were prepared for a fight, but they were not interested in shedding blood. The White Palm wanted only the secrets the summoners carried with them.
Beyond the broken lands of the Rab’al-Dourif, the air was heavy with moisture from Zaraniz, carried inland over the green, fertile lowlands of the delta. This area provided abundant food for the kingdom of Nahkeel. The proud city of Janeirah stood here, at the mouth of the Dafna River. A place of burgeoning activity and of tremendous wealth, Janeirah was a waypoint to lands beyond the realms of Qatana.
Once in the city, the summoners sought passage across the Ras Mansour in one of the many merchant ships that sailed back and forth across the turbulent waters to Tivisis.
Ras Mansour was a treacherous shipping lane fraught with fierce corsairs, violent weather, and unseen shoals. Many voyages ended with cargo lost and travelers drowned. However, the allure of treasure and adventure incited many to gamble with their lives. As Munif knew, the two Carac he followed were determined to make the crossing with no thought for the riches to be made. They would not give up, and neither would he.
The dhow creaked once more, bringing him back into the moment. He tapped on the map, his finger finding Tivisis.
It was good to know where they were headed.
But it would have been better had he already discovered if this was indeed their final destination, or merely another waypoint to somewhere beyond.
What lies ahead? Munif thought.
His resolve chased away any lingering doubt.
Quitting was the farthest thing from his mind.
4
FAJEER DASSAI chewed his nails.
The gnawing was a nervous habit, each fingertip a bloody crescent as he continued the assault. Dassai sat at his desk and mused over the plan as he had countless times before. Was Arzani good enough? Could he follow through completely? Did it even matter?
Dassai forced these doubts from his mind. After all, he had used lesser men for similar assignments. Certainly Arzani would prove equal to the task, and all would go well.
Where was the man? Fucking Mirani. Islanders—not a one of them could tell time to save his life. Still, Arzani was better than most, and had been chosen in part because of his close attention to detail. That, and he could be bought. Dassai had set the meeting in the evening, well after nightfall, to reduce any chance of delay. He didn’t like to wait.
The knock on the door came an hour later.
“He’s here.” The voice from the other room was a low, raspy whisper.
Dassai quickly scribbled a note to himself. Setting down the kalan reed pen, he stayed in his chair a moment before he stood and made his way to the door. He turned the handle.
“Send him in.”
Niccolo Arzani was tall, gaunt, and so pale Dassai wondered if he was perhaps a ghul or other undead thing. Black, tangled hair draped his neck and shadowed his eyes, framing a sharp-etched face with an angular nose and thin lips.
His ugliness served Arzani well; it allowed him to focus on his duties and remain free of sexual temptation. He’d been chosen by Dassai specifically for his post, and had become one of Galliresse’s most trusted advisors.
“You’re late,” Dassai said as Arzani followed him across the room.
Arzani simply nodded, an apparent apology.
Dassai sat once more behind the desk. “So,” he said languidly. “Tell me, did our lord take the bait?” He leaned back and awaited Arzani’s response.
“Yes, and why should he not?” Arzani replied. “He has entrusted himself to the wisest of his counselors, and will rely on the expertise of the Jassaj to see that the summoners are stopped.”
Arzani seated himself in the chair across from Dassai’s desk. From a small table next to it, he took a glass of wine and sipped. He savored it with a sigh, nodding thanks to his host.
Cradling the wineglass in his skeletal hands, Arzani said, “He has great faith in you and Munif.” He paused, allowing Dassai time to grasp the irony of his statement.
“Then all is as planned,” Dassai said. “And you, my friend, will be our greatest benefactor.” He ran his long, thin fingers through his cropped graying hair.
Arzani’s lips twitched at the sight, but he said nothing.
“Do you have much concern that Munif and the others will live?” he asked.
“No; the end is near,” Dassai said. “I have no doubt about this, assuming you have performed your task… flawlessly.”
Arzani’s eyebrows arched as he shot Dassai a quick, angryglare. “I have complete confidence in those who I have placed in charge.”
Dassai gave him a mirthless grin, revealing white teeth. “Then we have nothing with which to concern ourselves, do we?”
Arzani shrugged. “No… no, we don’t.”
Dassai continued, “Three more Jassaj will join Munif once he arrives in Tivisis. These men are to follow the Carac to a safe house and then report back to Munif.”
“According to your instructions,” Arzani said.
“Yes, we will lead them to the old quarter and end it there. Munif and the others will trouble us no more.”
Dassai continued to observe the other man’s demeanor. He understood that Niccolo Arzani wanted to wrest control from Galliresse and place himself in his stead. However, Dassai wondered if he could actually succeed in doing it.
“I sense some doubt from you,” Dassai said.
“What if something should go awry?” Arzani asked. “These men are not to be trifled with, especially Munif. Should they survive, you and I will be exposed.”
“Your only duty is to lure them into the trap. Do not concern yourself with any other matter, my friend. The summoners and I shall attend to the rest. Leave the fate of Munif to me,” Dassai said.
“For both our sakes, I hope you’re right,” Arzani said as he stood to leave.
Dassai paused for a moment, allowing Arzani to reach the door and place his pale fingers on the handle.
“Now… as to the matter of my payment.…”
5
PAVANAN MUNIF looked up at the lateen sails.
Twin triangles of white linen swelled in the wind as the dhow raced across pr
istine waters. The teakwood planks of the deck showed no wear from the rough weather. Only the rigging had suffered any damage from the storm, and that had been quickly repaired. From the bow he watched as a pod of playful dolphins swam in the wake of the ship.
The sight was as serene as any Munif had seen.
While not superstitious, Munif felt that a certain fate had guided the dhow’s journey thus far. There simply was no other explanation for their survival. They’d been navigating around the Ras Mansour, leaving the Indigo Sea and sailing the main passage toward Tivisis. It was treacherous under the best of circumstances, marked by dangerous currents, deadly undertows, and perilous weather year-round. Beneath its beautiful aquamarine surface, broken ships lay in watery graves, torn asunder by the shoals that hid like wicked teeth beneath the surface of the Emerald Sea.
Then the storm had hit.
For two days strong winds and high waves had battered the dhow, taking a toll of all those aboard. Confined to quarters, Munif could do little but ride out the tempest. He was exhausted—the storm had sapped the last of his strength. Deprived of sleep, Munif felt weak and sickly. It was affecting his mood and motivation. Food, water, and fresh air hadn’t helped. His mind and body craved something else.
But what he wanted, he could not have.
The first sun shone high in the blue sky; the second, a fiery orange crescent, was beginning to emerge from the eastern horizon. The rising heat was tempered by strong sea-breezes, a crisp wind blowing from the northwest. Munif could just make out a
dark mass to the south.
Probably Rades, he thought.
If indeed he was correct and the dhow had not been blown off course, then they were near the island some seventy-five farsangs from Tivisis. If the winds held, they’d be there in three days.
The hold doors squeaked open, jarring Munif into alertness. The two summoners emerged, wincing at the brilliant sunlight. They had chosen to stay with the cargo rather than the crew—avoiding contact with the others aboard. Munif watched the two turn their faces to the sky as though in relief after the dark, dank prison below deck.
Munif edged closer.
He waited until they turned their backs to him, then slipped just inside the hold—partially hidden from view, but still able to listen to any conversation between the two. The first words were lost to him. The guttural dialect of their native tongue, Zaran, coupled with the ambient sounds of a ship at sea, made following the conversation difficult. Munif had studied the ancient language and knew it far better than most, but was nowhere near an expert. And there was nothing he could do about the popping of sails, creaking of wood, and slapping of waves.
He sighed deeply. This would be difficult—his focus was gone.
Munif strained to hear the taller of the two. From following them for weeks, he’d learned their names—both no doubt assumed for the passage. This one was Hersí.
“Thankfully… rains… stopped,” Hersí said. “… rid our noses… stench… reach the city.”
Munif noticed that the second man—Bashír—seemed grave. When he spoke, it was in such a tone that Munif himself was troubled.
“There are many… to stop us.”
Despite their physical similarities—both had raven-black skin and wore long robes and cowls that concealed their bodies—Munif noted the marked difference between the two: Hersíappeared calm, while Bashír seemed anxious. Each man was a devout disciple of an ancient religion—fanatical to the point of murderous obsession.
“Do not be foolish,” Hersí murmured. “… mission is guided by… more powerful than ours. Those… oppose us will suffer… consequences.”
“… be little doubt… suffering will occur,” Bashír remarked, rubbing his hands nervously. “… pray… not our own.”
“We are well,” Hersí said.
Munif noticed both men looked constantly up into the sky. Hersí pointed out over the sea. Munif heard him mention Tivisis, and then, amid the hushed jumble of words, the word duty. The shorter summoner listened intently; his nods appeared to placate Hersí.
Munif leaned forward, desperate to hear more, to understand better. He knew they were headed to Tivisis—this was certain. Beyond, however, remained unknown—thus he’d spent frustrating nights in his cabin, studying a map between bouts of nausea, unable to determine whether the city was the end of their journey or just one more stop along the way.
A shriek from the sky interrupted the discussion. All three turned as a scarlet-tailed tern landed on the rail not ten feet from Hersí and preened its feathers.
“Now that is a good sign,” said Hersí.
“Some signs… not to… trusted.” Bashír replied. Hersí spat over the rail, startling the seabird; it fluttered up for a moment and then came to rest again a few feet farther along the rail.
“Don’t be a fool. A few clouds… not prophesy doom.”
Bashír bowed his head and the two men moved toward the stern, continuing their conversation. Munif shook his head in frustration. It was impossible to follow them without rousing suspicion.
This was all he would get from them for now.
His quest for answers would have to continue.
6
“WE’RE CLOSE NOW.”
Munif listened to the squat old salt with scarred cheeks. The mariner held a rope in his right hand and was coiling it around his left arm, all the while staring out to sea.
“Can’t be more than five farsangs by my reckoning.”
In the distance, Munif could see that the cobalt hue of the deep sea was beginning to warm into the soft azure common to the waters off the coast. The dhow continued its course through a deep channel. Though the depth was more than fifty feet, the water remained so clear that Munif could see sand and silvery-hued weeds moving with the current on the sea floor. Beyond the channel to the southwest, long, dark ribbons of kelp waved in the current as if bidding him farewell, as the vessel neared the end of its voyage to Tivisis.
The mariner pointed toward a shallow arc of limestone that extended into the Emerald Sea southwest of the mainland.
“Calanar Islands. You won’t find them on most maps, though,” the mariner said.
“Why is that?” Munif asked as he observed the tiny islands that dotted the surface of the sea.
“Because those who have houses there don’t want to let anyone know ‘bout them,” the mariner replied. “Merchant lords and many a sheikh’s mistresses—with more gold than sense. Least I’ve heard tell.”
Grinning, Munif slapped the mariner’s shoulder. “Probably true.”
He knew the history of Tivisis well. The people here were justified in their pride. Warm, welcoming and vibrant—the city was unrivaled in its commerce, save perhaps for Riyyal.
As the dhow navigated between two of the smaller islands,
Tivisis came into view. The city appeared to be fashioned of silver and gold, with rooftops of sparkling gems: indeed, Pavanan Munif thought to himself, a crown fit for an empire.
Soon the ship found the harbor and Munif could see the marketplace beyond the crowded quays. The busy streets with long, wide walkways were alive with color and movement. Vendors hawked their wares, displaying rich, brightly hued cloth, mounds of ripe fruit, and birds of fabulous plumage from faraway lands. Even from this distance, Munif could see the glint of copper and brass. Everywhere he looked he saw myriad hues; and the scent of countless perfumes permeated the air. Maidens with veiled faces glided among the throngs of traders, sailors, and soldiers.
Munif watched as laborers on the docks unloaded vessels of every conceivable size and design. He could see longships from Khorbard, cogs from Ruinart, and caravels of the Rajani. Many of the ships bore scars from sailing treacherous passages to reach the city.
The end of the voyage was most definitely in sight.
Munif helped two others coil the ropes from the lateen sails as crewmen scuttled across the deck and up into the rigging. The easiest of the tasks was behind him; what l
ay ahead would be difficult. Once the ship was unloaded, the crew would be off to enjoy the pleasures and delights of Tivisis.
Munif shared no such luck.
There weren’t any free moorings large enough to hold the vessel, and since their ship was third in line, Munif knew it would be nightfall before they set ashore.
The summoners, however, did not intend to wait.
As he watched, Hersí tossed three coins to the old mariner. He seemed to know exactly what the summoner had in mind, and when the captain was engaged elsewhere, he led the summoners to the back of the dhow where one of the tenders was already being lowered into the water. Hersí climbed down the rope ladder and claimed a seat at the prow. Munif watched all this, cursing under his breath. He would have to follow. Then he noticed Bashír standing by the rail, wearing a concerned expression.
Not good, thought Munif. He had counted on the two separating once they’d reached shore. Munif decided to go with Hersí.
“Wait,” Munif called out to the mariner. “The boat can hold another.”
He jumped into the tender and threw two dirans at the old man, avoiding the summoner’s gaze. The mariner pocketed the coins before dipping the oars into the water.
Munif wiped his face with the back of his sleeve as he debated what to do next.
7
THE AIR was filled with a cacophony of voices.
Just beyond the dock, the port teemed with vendors; their booths, tents, and tables occupied every available space, creating a miniature city of their own. A confusion of scents and sounds overwhelmed Munif’s senses.
He paused a moment to put each foot down several times on the solid ground, as if to be certain it was truly there. He kept his distance from the summoner—but close enough that he could still follow. Hersí walked slowly for several minutes as if he were trying to get his bearings. Munif took advantage of Hersí’s momentary idleness and slipped into a nearby fruit stall.
Munif was finishing a slice of sweet melon, licking the juice off the fingers and wiping the corners of his mouth with the heel of his palm when suddenly Hersí took off running. Munif hesitated for a moment before tossing the melon rind away and racing after the summoner. He was well aware that Hersí, feigning languor, had been watching him all along. The chase took Munif down a narrow alley that avoided the central market, toward the more distant quarters of Tivisis.
