In the Shadow of Swords (17 page)

Dassai had played Sarn to kill Altaïr, but failed to realize that Sarn could play the game just as well. A smile crept across his face. However, what had occurred in the months that followed weighed on the assassin. He was a marked man, the reward for his capture so high that there were all manner of potential takers. Jassaj from Qatana and the
siris
of the Rassan Majalis were expending every effort to apprehend or kill him.

Sarn was unaccustomed to the threats. He felt like a fool now. Dassai was not even in the same class as himself. And yet… and yet, he’d succeeded in his designs. Sarn had been too complacent, too obsessed with finding peace. He’d allowed his single-mindedness to lapse—and had paid dearly for that mistake. So had his father. And Jannat.

He’d never been introspective; Sarn believed that his actionswere made easier by avoiding self-examination. However, he’d spent more than twenty years under the thumb of Dassai, and even though he now possessed the key to his freedom, the goal seemed as elusive as ever. Was life more choice or destiny? Perhaps it was more plan than happenstance? These thoughts had, of late, interfered with his ability to focus, but the killing of Altaïr lingered with him the longest.

His mind filled with more questions than answers. Sarn knew he must abandon this self-inquisition if he was going to avoid his pursuers. No one in these lands mourned Hiril Altaïr personally; however, Sarn was sure that the
siri
was valuable and many would seek to avenge his death. Dozens, if not hundreds, were waiting for the assassin to make a fatal error. Sarn knew they would never stop hunting him.

He’d been on the run before. This was different. The stakes were raised, the gold too much for the greed that gripped the hunters. Now he was forced to spend his own wealth to keep safe. He would kill, if necessary, to remain in the shadows, but the less bloodshed now, the easier it would be to stay hidden. The question Sarn needed answered most was, where should he go next?

Sarn refreshed the waterskin once again, then wearily dragged himself upright. Resolved, he turned north, following the road into the heart of the city.

Perhaps he knew where to go for help, after all.

2

SARN’S DESTINATION lay just within the walls of the city.

Flanked by tall square towers, Sarn moved quickly, passing through a labyrinth of dark corridors toward the north gates. Near the fortifications were the homes of wealthy merchant families, brilliant white
riads
hidden within a sea of palms, their fronds shading the green lawns and well-watered gardens. Thelands beyond the walls were flat, covered with orange groves and date orchards that stretched toward the distant hills.

His eyes darted into the shadow above the scarf still pulled tightly across his face, glancing occasionally at the rooftops. His senses were at maximum alert. But he saw nothing.

While Marjeeh was not as familiar to him as the other sheikdoms, Sarn kept a number of reliable contacts in the city. He continued through the narrow streets and the bazaars jammed with traders selling their wares and street urchins looking to steal them. Sarn followed the road to the secluded house of Lueih Taghmaoui, an influential merchant.

Sarn rang the bell, letting the scarf drop. A servant answered, glancing inquiringly at the assassin. A look of abject fear came over his face; he slammed the door. Amused but not showing it, Sarn waited patiently. When Taghmaoui finally opened the door and saw his unsmiling visitor, his greeting was simple. “Shall we drink tonight in solemnity or in celebration?”

“A bit of both,” Sarn replied. “But mostly in silence. I don’t want to talk. I just want to drink myself to sleep.” Taghmaoui motioned him inside, and Sarn welcomed the feeling of security that washed over him.

Taghmaoui did not project the manner of the wealth he possessed. Neither obese nor gaudily dressed, he wore light robes over a body well toned for his years. Women swarmed to his side, and offers of companionship—both legitimate and perverse—were always forthcoming. No one, as yet, suspected him of nefarious deeds, leaving him free to entertain as he wished. And so, as the heat of the day gave way to the chill of night, the two men passed a bottle between them until the fire grew cold, their eyelids heavy, and their breathing even.

He and Taghmaoui were not friends; they were something far more—men who understood each other. Someone Sarn could trust when he needed it most.

That time was now.

3

SARN WAS ALONE.

While Taghmaoui went out on business, the assassin slept. It was well past midday prayers before he finally woke. The house was empty, the servants having fled or hidden in their quarters. Sarn found the kitchen and ate there.

It was early evening when Taghmaoui returned and greeted him with genuine pleasure. Two servants soon followed, carrying baskets filled with various breads, cheeses, and several bottles of wine.

Taghmaoui also brought news. “A Rassan
siri
has been seen in the city,” he said between bites of bread and sips of wine.

Sarn listened nonchalantly, leaning against a chair, a mostly untouched glass in his hand. He already was aware of this information but feigned ignorance, nodding slightly.

It was a game the two men had played for many years. At times, Sarn had had reason to employ Taghmaoui. He was a successful businessman, after all. Sarn was satisfied just to hear the information from the merchant, knowing the service would in some way be repaid, just as he was certain that this current hospitality would prove profitable.

Sarn took a piece of cheese from the table, swallowing it whole, then raising both wineglass and brow in his host’s direction.

“It appears that the Majalis and others are seeking the assassin who murdered a man named Hiril Altaïr. They will pay handsomely for information leading them to the killer.”

“This is true,” Sarn said.

“And is it true that you have also been marked for death?” Taghmaoui asked carefully.

“Yes, but,” Sarn replied, “I am worth much more alive.” He smiled as sipped the wine.

“The danger will increase the longer you stay.”

Sarn caught the subtle hint. “Why would they go through all that trouble just to capture the murderer of a spy?” he asked.

“This man was no ordinary spy,” Taghmaoui answered. “It is said that he carried valuable documents. These were stolen upon his death.”

“There appears to be an abundance of spies about,” Sarn said with a smirk. “Those pursuing Altaïr’s killer—and those lamenting lost opportunities in Pashail.” Sarn could see Taghmaoui’s look of surprise.

“Hiril Altaïr was of considerable importance to the Rassan Majalis,” Taghmaoui responded, instantly becoming more serious.

“So it seems,” Sarn said. “Though I care little for politics, word has it that Altaïr was valued by both the Rassan Majalis and Qatana.”

“True, my friend. But more important, the information he carried elevated his status even more. Now many want to avenge his death because they feel cheated out of what was stolen.”

“What do you think?” Sarn asked.

“I do not know what was taken—all that matters was that this information was not found. Altaïr was killed for their own reasons by whoever ordered his death; whatever he carried, they did not want it to reach the embassy.”

“And hence the great effort expended to take his assassin out,” Sarn said.

“Yes, and there are plenty of takers, depending on whether they seek the information for love of king or lust of gold.”

“And what of those who desire both?”

“Pity them, for they will lose the race. Their passions are diluted. Those whose appetite is pure—for good or greed—have the greatest strength.”

Sarn finished his glass of wine and poured himself another. He took a sip. It was some time before he spoke again, his voice reflecting his exhaustion.

“Where do I go?” Sarn asked. “How long before I am found again? Tanith is no sanctuary, yet I believe that is where I’m being led.”

“I don’t follow,” Taghmaoui said, as if alarmed.

“I’m a puppet on a string. Fate is not in my favor; it’s held in the hands of others.” Sarn took another sip and smiled sardonically. “Perhaps it’s held by no one.”

“There are those I can contact who may be able to offer you aid. But you cannot stay in Marjeeh for long.”

Sarn could not pry deeper.
It’s obvious the merchant feels at risk
, he thought.
He’s probably also worried about revealing the names of his contacts
. Sarn had to decide whether the merchant was now an asset or liability—and he had to do so without direct attachment to the man himself.

Sarn realized that if anyone were to profit from these recent events, it would be Taghmaoui delivering value to Sarn—not gaining anything from him. The merchant had made his alliance with the assassin many years before; but the past would be meaningless if Taghmaoui felt he could benefit more by turning Sarn over to his pursuers.

Sarn’s eyes never left the merchant’s face.
So what is it, Taghmaoui?
he mused.
Are you an ally, or a threat?

It was obvious the merchant was thinking the same thing. Sarn’s eyes dropped to his wineglass for a moment. He looked up at the merchant again. “So, it is possible, then?” he asked.

The merchant visibly relaxed. Sarn had done the right thing.

“‘Can it really be done?’ would be a better question,” Taghmaoui answered. He sliced some cheese and crammed it into his mouth with a piece of bread. He continued talking while he chewed. “There are other killers to catch, but more gold is wagered in your favor than otherwise. They say you’re to be feared because you have no heart.”

“I had a heart once,” Sarn said. “It was of little use to me.”

Later, in bed, Sarn thought about the evening’s conversation. He was glad he’d left the past alone, and he was pleased that Taghmaoui was willing to help him despite the lure of reward. He could not stay at the house long and upon his departure would have to proceed carefully, with so many still hunting him.

How much time did he have left? Sarn wondered.

Then he fell asleep.

4

THE BATHHOUSE bursar was dead.

Only one other thing was certain: Sarn wasn’t the executioner this time. He’d merely found the body.

After breakfasting on strong coffee, date-nut bread, and sweet figs drizzled with syrup, Sarn had left the
riad
. His dreams had been plagued with cruel images and haunting memories of his father, the emaciated and mutilated figure staring at him with dead eyes. Sarn needed the daylight to comfort him.

His walk to the fortifications that surrounded the city was uneventful. His thoughts ran from his father and the talisman Barrani had given him to the conversation with Taghmaoui, then to Rimmar Fehls.

He’d forgotten about Fehls. Sarn had used the man before. Fehls often served as a go-between for Sarn and Dassai, even sometimes for the Sultan himself.

He’d last seen Fehls more than a year earlier. The man had proved valuable in leading Dassai away from Sarn during his affair with Jannat. Long before that, Sarn had brought the man into his web of contacts. Sarn’s bribes had been enough to win Fehls over, and he’d played to the man’s greed. He couldn’t rely on that forever, though. Sarn would have to be rid of the curse soon or take a chance on Fehls’s weaknesses.

The number of people he could trust—never a great many—was slowly shrinking, and he could feel his enemies tightening

around him like a noose on his neck.

Sarn headed to one of the many bathhouses that dotted the city. He had a contact at the Hamam al-Hannah, a man who could deliver a message. Sarn would have to risk it. He needed Fehls again.

He walked quickly, with calm purpose, avoiding eye contact with others as he passed them on the street. When he arrived at the
hamam
, he hung back a little to assess the area. All was clear. He advanced furtively toward the entrance.

Sarn slipped into the small room through a window that extended across an entire wall. It was then that he found the bursar’s body. Leaning down, he placed his hand on the man’s neck, his eyes darting around the room, scanning for any movement. The flesh beneath his hand held no heartbeat but had not yet cooled, and the blood that pooled beneath the man’s head still oozed, soaking into the tiled floor. The bursar’s life—and his killer—had departed just moments earlier.

Sarn stood up silently, his face impassive while his mind worked furiously.
Another assassin at work here
. Sarn pressed himself against the cool wall and moved to the window, scanning the street and nearby buildings. He’d not seen any movement on the rooftops, and the only other way into the
hamam
was from the rear. Sarn moved silently through the deserted hallways to the back of the bathhouse and approached the door, alert and ready. Grasping the handle, he slowly opened it and peered out, his face nearly two feet from the crack in case of an attack. From his position, he could see the dim alley. The silhouettes of several people were visible; they seemed oblivious to the murder of the bursar.

On the second-floor terrace of the opposite building, two doors were both shut. Again it seemed that no one had been alerted to the killing. Sarn knew the assassin had to be nearby—most likely still in the
hamam
.

Nothing was coincidence
. Someone was trailing him closely, forcing his hand. Preoccupied by his thoughts, Sarn had let

another take the advantage. Now he was in danger again.

Ready for an ambush, Sarn waited until the alley was empty. He closed the door behind him and moved away from the bathhouse. He had to work quickly, before a patron stumbled on the bursar’s body.

The narrow alley led to a cobbled street. The opening was bracketed on both sides by painted terraces topped with stone balustrades and pots overflowing with flowers. The placid scene contrasted starkly with the scene of death that he had left behind.