In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  Sarn nodded wordlessly, wiped the glass clean and returned it to his pocket. He continued to wait in silence.

  Whoever was pursuing him was likely questioning his own security. He could not be sure what had happened to Sarn. He knew his foe could not stay concealed much longer.

  True to his expectations, a moment later Sarn saw movement in the shadows. A dark figure took a tentative step forward, moving out from the protection of the darkness. He stood motionless on the walkway, his eyes sweeping the street and the shops.

  Sarn averted his gaze from his enemy—a tactic he employed frequently whenever he wanted to prevent someone from guessing he was being observed. Sarn waited a few moments until his adversary turned to scan the opposite end of the street. Without wasting a moment, Sarn stepped out from the doorway, reached for the rough stone of the archway above him and, hand over hand, began silently scaling the wall. He positioned himself directly above the doorway and watched as the spy stalked silently below.

  The man crept along, cautiously searching each doorway before moving on to the next. He paused to peer down an alleyway and then continued along the buildings, unknowingly inching ever nearer to where Sarn waited, perched above. Sarn had little doubt that a dagger was tucked beneath the man’s belt.

  As his opponent searched the doorway directly beneath Sarn’s feet, he released his hold on the wall and dropped, wrapping his legs tightly around the man’s body. The man whirled and clawed at his belt for a knife, but the force of Sarn’s sudden

  weight on his shoulders sent him crashing to the ground.

  Before the man could draw his next breath, Sarn’s hands closed around his neck. There was a sound like the snapping of a dead branch, and the man stopped resisting.

  Sarn crouched over the man and watched with amusement as the fool gasped his three final breaths. Sarn stripped the corpse’s pockets of their contents but left the blade untouched in its scabbard, a sign to others that he was on to their game.

  He rose to his feet. He knew everything done here was under the bidding of Fajeer Dassai. He gritted his teeth.

  Sarn’s only chance was keep resisting Dassai’s plotting. He surveyed the wall, estimating its height.

  There was no choice but to escape to Tanith.

  8

  THE SKY showed promise.

  In the early morning light, the first sun cast a scarlet blush across a landscape of soft rolling hills covered with olive groves and vineyards. Soon, the second sun would race across the heavens, a blaze of molten gold that would chase away the last stars. A trio of small aquamarine orbs faded from the sky, along with the first pale moon of winter.

  Sarn sat with serene interest, watching the stars fade in the pastel sky. Although he could sit for hours and study their courses, he knew it was time to depart.

  He headed first for Taghmaoui’s second home an hour outside of Marjeeh, and rested until just before daybreak. The house was smaller than the merchant’s residence in the city, but was neat and clean. An olive tree shaded the front entrance, ripe fruit threatening to fall to the stone walkway below.

  He went to clean up, finding the bathroom in a tiny alcove off the main room. A pitcher of water and a basin lay on the countertop,and he used both to clean his face and hands as best he could. Moving on into the kitchen, he made himself a simple but satisfying meal of camel-milk cheese and sweet-potato bread. He also drank freely of water to prepare his body for his upcoming trek. Sarn knew that the roads were no place for him to be traveling in the light of day, but he did not want to depart for Tanith without bidding his host farewell; he would wait for Taghmaoui to wake up. In the meantime, he would savor the respite that Taghmaoui’s hospitality provided.

  Taghmaoui appeared beside him soon after dawn, and did not seem surprised to see that the assassin had entered sometime during the night. His greeting was warm, but Sarn noted the strained smile on the merchant’s face. “I trust your stay has been a comfortable one,” Taghmaoui said, in a tone that sounded strangely cautious.

  “You are a true friend, Taghmaoui,” Sarn said carefully.

  “My houses are your houses… as always.”

  “As ever, you have done well by me—and this service will not be forgotten,” Sarn responded. “I will leave for Tanith tonight.”

  In obvious relief, Taghmaoui let out the breath he’d been holding, and Sarn smiled sardonically. “The city is a danger, then?”

  No man was more in league with Marjeeh officials than Taghmaoui. His in-depth knowledge of the city’s current status was exactly why Sarn had gone to him before departing. His host did not disappoint him now.

  Taghmaoui cleared his throat, sounding nervous. “Late last night, before the winehouse closed, two men came into the place, asking questions.” At Sarn’s nod, he continued. “They were asking about you. I spoke to them as you asked.”

  “From the Cape Cities or elsewhere?”

  “Qatana, I suspect. These men showed no papers. Perhaps the Rassan Majalis.”

  The assassin evaluated this information. It was altogether probable, he thought, that the two men were siris who had beentracking him since he’d left Pashail. It was likely at this point that they did not know he’d left the city. I killed one of them last night. Then again, the men Taghmaoui is speaking of could simply be consulate agents trying to find their man’s killer. It was also possible that the two men were sent by someone else not directly involved but acutely aware of the circumstances and the reward.

  In any case, Sarn knew he must leave no trace of his departure from Marjeeh.

  He studied Taghmaoui for a moment and considered his options. How much further should I involve this man, who is in many ways a friend? Eventually, the network of spies would track Sarn to this house. It was unlikely the merchant would come to physical harm; he was a skilled bladesman in his own right, and several of his servants had been corsairs and cutthroats in the past. His manservant was rumored to have once been a skilled assassin, though not as adept in the trade as Sarn.

  As for trouble with the law, Taghmaoui’s distinguished position in Marjeeh was secure. As long as subsequent visitors to Taghmaoui’s estates found no trace of Sarn, it was unlikely he would come to harm. There was no reason to put the merchant in further jeopardy; the man might be useful in the future.

  “Once I am gone,” Sarn said, “you have taken care to see that there will be no complications?”

  “Most certainly, as I always have. You will have safe passage northward to the border, but from there you must travel at your own risk.”

  “I understand. My thanks again to you, as always,” Sarn responded.

  “A blessed farewell, until we meet again.”

  9

  HE NEEDED to stay off the road.

  Sarn looked back from outside the stone walls as he departed the ancient vineyard. He had to walk; his horse had been taken from him in Pashail. She was valuable, and he knew Dassai would keep her for himself. Still, it didn’t make the trek any easier.

  His plan was follow one of the caravan roads north to Tanith, more than fifty farsangs distant. The journey was long, and he would most certainly be tracked.

  Sarn’s steady pace just within sight of the road carried him deep into the evening light. The road curved gently past caravanserais, shrines, and thickets of cork trees. The prized trees were well tended, but they offered Sarn some protection from the sight of travelers, and from any possible threats.

  There were fewer caravans to follow at this time of year, and he saw only the occasional rider during the day. Night had arrived, but the lingering heat had not yet cooled when Sarn decided to stop. He ate some fried cakes and drank pomegranate wine. Once the light of the moon was bright, Sarn set out again.

  As he continued north over the course of several days, the vineyards and orchards began to thin out, with wilderness encroaching, protecting the road from the suns’ heat but increasing the risk of other dangers. The land rose slightly, dotted with small hills and shall
ow valleys. Sarn approached the southern end of a shallow depression, dry from the lack of rain. The hassi oued marked the boundary between the sheikdoms of Marjeeh and Tanith.

  Despite the arid conditions, Sarn was skilled enough to find clean water and wash away the dust of the road. He filled his waterskin before pressing on. It was another five days to the city walls of Tanith. Now the road climbed again, more sharply thistime, leading him to an upland scattered with brown grasses and little in the way of green vegetation. Amid the scrub, red-tinged rock formations held shallow caves that would shelter him from the twin suns. Sarn pressed on, his feet following the furrows of past rains.

  The air cooled significantly in the darkness of night, and nocturnal hunters began their search for prey. Sarn listened as the distant cries and dying screams pierced the blackness. No animals stalked him, however, giving him a wide berth; one predator can smell another, and Sarn’s scent communicated danger. Nevertheless, he was not a fool; he kept a blade in each hand as the hunters killed and the hunted died.

  Sleep would come slowly, and Sarn’s thoughts returned to his youth that had shaped the man he was now. Sarn shuddered. He hated his memories—they were painful, like knives twisting in his gut.

  As he lay on a bed of damp heather, he wondered what he would find in Tanith. A safe haven, he hoped. Jassaj from Riyyal, certainly. Who trailed him now? A siri who had traced his travels from Pashail? Haradin, perhaps? It was difficult to say with any certainty.

  Sarn gritted his teeth. One thing was certain. The lone tracker who followed him now—that hunter would not survive the journey. Sarn pondered how to kill the man, and settled on the means most familiar to him.

  Two hours later, he closed his eyes.

  10

  SARN SLIT the man’s throat.

  Blood spurted from his neck, soaking the ground crimson. Sarn’s ambush had been flawless, silently coming up on the man from behind and cutting the man’s throat from ear to ear. Cold.

  Vicious. Perfect.

  The man’s slashed throat gurgled horribly as he fought, twitching, until finally he slumped, his dead weight dragging Sarn’s arm downward. Sarn pulled the blade away and released his grip. The man’s head lurched forward, his mouth open in a voiceless scream.

  Sarn searched the man’s garments. Slen Thek.

  He disposed of the bounty hunter’s body carefully in the early morning and continued his journey northward. He watched the stars fade away in the light of dawn before he rested.

  After sleeping for four hours, Sarn crossed a series of dry washes that sloped steeply down from the rugged peaks to the sea.

  The trek was laborious. Sarn moved through the high bluffs above a caravanserai and savored the aroma of food carried on the wind along with the wood smoke. It was this scent, or perhaps the comforting presence of others, that made him stop—despite the danger—and light a small fire in the shelter of a thick clump of young walnut trees. He warmed his thin hands over the flames and ate his meager rations.

  Sarn carefully unfolded a parchment map and studied it in the dim light. Though the map was weathered and torn, he could decipher the images. The lands that bordered the sea roughly resembled a curved scimitar. The long perimeter of coastline fronted the Crescent Cape. Just inland lay the rugged Haffal Mountains which formed a similar line, preventing the desert from encroaching. The wealthy sheikdoms maintained their fortunes within this thin, sheltered boundary. Tanith was the northernmost of these lands, where the mountains and the sea converged.

  Although he’d covered more than half the distance of his journey, Sarn estimated he was still ten farsangs south of his destination. If he went any farther west, he would have to move through rough terrain and low mountain passes; traversing them would be difficult. Staying close to the Ras’mal Hari, he would make better time but risk a greater chance of discovery. Keep tothe road, he thought. It will be quicker. I have nothing to fear but death, and that I’ve never feared. I’ve only feared the shackles of life.

  He was nearly finished with his meal when the hair on the back of his neck rose in warning. He immediately stepped on the fire and doused the flames. He sat in darkness and watched the embers die.

  Sarn’s nerves prickled at the sound of horses’ hooves pounding along the road. He moved to a different area within the thicket and watched for the approaching rider.

  A dark-robed figure on a white horse appeared out of the night. The rider pressed on without hesitation.

  Fortunately Sarn had extinguished the campfire soon enough for the telltale smoke to dissipate. With his keen vision, Sarn could just make out a long, sheathed sword carried over the rider’s shoulder, and the glint of chain mail covering the rider’s head. He was not a siri; they were less inclined to wear mail, and they always kept their weapons hidden. Sarn was still being hunted.

  Once he was certain the rider had moved on, Sarn returned to his camp and knelt by the dead fire.

  It would be a cold, dark night.

  11

  SARN PAUSED.

  A day had passed since he saw the rider. He stood on the fringes of broad, fertile green fields. Groves of date and olive trees and orchards of citrus stretched into the distance. To the west loomed the last of the rugged mountains, curving around toward the cape north of the city. Two small rivers moved northeastward where they emptied into the sea. He was close now.

  Sarn could just make out a few distant towers of Tanith, topped with banners that shimmered in the breeze. Sarn had inherited a keen internal compass from his mother. He hadcrossed this way many times before, as sure of his direction as migrating fowl.

  The northward road skirted the wide plain. In low places, cane stalks with sharp-edged, leafy tops grew six feet high, while solitary, exotic, jade-colored fig trees towered above the fields. He’d seen no one since the rider in the woods the day before. His provisions were exhausted.

  The suns were setting on the sixth day of his journey as Sarn crossed the last of the bridges fording the two rivers. He reached his destination late, and paused to wait under cover of night. Although most others feared the dark, he was at ease in the shadows. It was the place he knew best.

  He waited for the appropriate time to enter the city. Though the darkness allowed him to move stealthily, he remained cautious. This was how he had survived for so long—and the reason so many feared him.

  Sarn stood watching the faint, familiar outline of Tanith’s outer walls. The city gates were still open. Were they waiting for more riders to approach the city?

  He would have to wait until morning.

  Daybreak carried the paired suns over the ridges and the flats, laying waste to the shadows and warming the earth with glowing pastel light. The alabaster walls of Tanith faced a horizon washed in shimmering glare.

  Sarn navigated a course through the gate. Beyond was the center of the city, where the slender minarets and golden domes of the palace stood outlined against a brilliant cerulean sky. He heard the sound of bells on the wind.

  A great citadel rose in the west like a spike hewn from the living rock. The high walls of the casbah that surrounded the citadel loomed over the rest of the city.

  Tanith lay like a jewel upon the hilt of a curved sword.

  12

  “KEEP IT moving! Come on now!”

  A voice called out from the gate, growing louder as Ciris Sarn drew nearer.

  As he entered the gatehouse, the gatekeeper’s gruff voice rasped out of the turban that shadowed his face. “Why must we always be kept waiting? For once, I should like to see someone properly prepared.” He was short and rotund; he did not glance up as Sarn came closer.

  Sarn slid a small brown stone bottle along with his identification papers across the official’s table. “Because if it were not for people like me, your daily routine would be even more mindless.”

  The man was visibly shaken as he recognized the assassin. “Ah, it has been too long, my friend,” he said. He thumbed through the papers and stamped a pa
ge, then quickly thrust them back toward Sarn.

  “Not that long,” Sarn said. “Three years.”

  “It is not the same here now,” the gatekeeper said. “But surely you already know that.”

  A young assistant departed through the rear archway. Sarn waited, knowing that the boy would return with more officials. He’d deliberately chosen this time of day to enter, because he guessed the trap would begin to close as soon as the older official recognized his face. The fat man appeared disturbed by Sarn’s presence and, for a moment, said nothing.

  “You will please stay here,” he finally said. “My assistant will bring back the customs official.”

  Sarn was prepared for this. He walked calmly to an open window overlooking the bridge. It was hot inside the gatehouse, and musty with the smell of camel shit and sour milk.

  “Who will he bring back?” Sarn asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does matter. Because unless there has been a legitimate complaint made against me, I cannot see why I should be treated as a beggar or thief.”

  “Ciris Sarn, if that is truly your name, I have no personal problem with you. You have passed through these gates many times through the years and have always been kind to me. Nonetheless, your name means more these days, and you know this to be true. Your presence here can mean only that you are fleeing from something and want to use our city as a hiding place.”

  “Are not all men hiding from something?”

  “Ah, yes, of course. I’m usually trying to hide from my wife.” He grinned. “As I said, for me, there is no concern. However, others see differently than I. And they have far greater power.”

  “So a pack of jackals have come seeking an easy meal, have they?”

  The gatekeeper nodded. “Your work has not gone unnoticed. Rumors abound; and even if what they say is untrue, I can’t keep you from being interrogated.”