In the Shadow of Swords (20 page)

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 page, 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.”

So the assassin waited, his eyes ranging over the tranquil water below. The warmth of the midday sun quelled the comfort of the morning breeze. More than just the temperature had begun to rise. Irate voices filled the air along with the scent of coriander and smoke. The meridian bells rang out, issuing the call to prayer. A few moments later, the inspector came in.

“You are Ciris Sarn?” asked the elderly man. Sarn did not recognize him. He had olive skin, grizzled, unkempt hair, and weary, deep-set eyes. “It seems we have not had the fortune of meeting before this day. It is my pleasure to do so now.”

Sarn nodded. The inspector pointed to a small table and two empty chairs; plainly, he intended to conduct a more detailed interview. The man spoke in a punctilious manner as he thumbed through Sarn’s papers. “So you choose to come back to Tanith now?”

Sarn nodded. “Yes, I have a house within these walls.”

“Indeed…” The inspector paused, staring down at the papers between them, then leaned back in his chair. “To see you in person is all the more intriguing. You are, as they say, a legend in Tanith, and elsewhere, no doubt. It comes as a shock to see you face to face.”

“I’m just a simple man, much like yourself—but on the other side of this table.”

“If you wish to believe it as such, I suppose. However, I know you. The other men who have seen you here know you, and so do all who dwell within the walls of Tanith.” The inspector straightened and leaned forward, putting his face near Sarn’s. “Now, tell me the real reason you have returned…
Kingslayer.”

“I am here on business,” Sarn said evenly. “To get answers to lingering questions that concern none but myself.”

“Or could it be that the disturbance you left in Marjeeh leads you here?” the man countered.

“I have no knowledge of any matter in Marjeeh,” Sarn replied flatly. His eyes bored into the official; the man shifted uncomfortably.

“So after three years you return?”

“Am I not entitled to return? After all, I keep residence in Tanith.”

At this the inspector frowned but said nothing. He signed a few documents and grudgingly granted the assassin entrance into the city.

Sarn turned at the door. “Thank you,” he said without malice. “You have been very… wise.”

He had expected more trouble. The grizzled official had admitted that the entire city knew of his deeds.

So why had it been so easy?

The answer came swiftly.

Dassai
. He’d told them to allow Sarn’s entry. So he—and his henchmen—would be waiting for the assassin inside the city.

So be it
.

Sarn exited the tower and gazed at the suns sinking toward the horizon.

Yes, Tanith was a beautiful place.

13

SARN SHUT the door.

He left his
riad
in the soft violet light of early evening and made his way to the forecourt of the Biar-ben hostel.

The message he’d found among the papers the inspector had given him indicated the location of the meeting. It also made clear there should be no delay.

A lane of polished stones led to the center of a wide courtyard where a fountain sprayed gently into a pale blue circular basin. Tall palm trees were silhouetted against the purple sky, and brilliantly hued barbary blooms filled the warm, still air with sweet floral perfume. The richness of this city in the midst of the parched land sent a wave of pleasure to Sarn’s weary mind.

Subdued lighting filtered from copper lamps that hung beneath latticed arches. A path of inlaid mosaic led to the dining hall.

Despite the inviting surroundings, Sarn found himself treading lightly, as though he could sense the presence of someone unseen. Those who’d followed him into Tanith would be better prepared and deadlier than the assassin he’d dispatched in Marjeeh. With each one he killed, the next would be stronger.

He passed through the wide, open doorway and stepped into a lofty room with a domed ceiling supported by long, slender beams. The effect was astonishing—as though the ribs and frame of an ancient sailing vessel had been inverted and carefully placed atop the walls. The room was lit by great, heavy lamps and hung with tapestries depicting past naval battles.

Few of the low, round tables were unoccupied. A lively murmur of conversation and laughter filled the room. Dishes and bowls clinked and clattered, chairs scraped, and pretty young women with large round trays traversed the raucous crowd, stopping just long enough to slap the hands that had strayed too far from the tables. Sarn quickly took in the scene before threading his way between the tables.

He could sense the dark eyes that watched him with veiled curiosity.

There were few outlanders in Tanith at night. The inner city was almost entirely inhabited by the wealthy and their servants. There were few winehouses or shishas, and fewer visitors. The foreign quarter lay outside the walls, and was an altogether different place.

Sarn had always been impressed by the subtle charm of the clean, cobbled streets and the flat-roofed, whitewashed houses with their brightly painted doors and elaborately decorated windowsills.

Set high into one of the many hills, the dining terrace overlooked the city and the sea. It was also less well lighted than the main hall inside. Sarn made his way toward a table occupied by two foreigners and settled into a low rattan chair across from the men. From this position he had a clear view of the entire area while remaining in the shadows.

One of the men motioned to a young girl dressed in white. She came forward with a bottle of red wine, poured a glass for Sarn, and scurried away.

“Say something, Ciris. It has been a long, long time.”

“And to what do I owe the pleasure?” Sarn asked without meeting the man’s gaze.

“Such a lovely place Tanith is,” the man said, ignoring the sarcasm. “One could stay here forever, I think.”

“I’ve thought the same thing.”

“I’m certain you have, Sarn. Yet, you do have certain obligations that must be met. You still remember those, do you not? You are needed in Riyyal.”

Sarn sniffed the wine, swirled it in the glass briefly, and took a sip. He tasted it, then turned his head to the side and spat the small mouthful onto the stone floor. “Whatever allegiance I owed to Qatana has been long since paid in full. I owe you nothing.”

The Tajj al-Hadd
askar
watched as the wine ran along the cracks in the stone. “On the contrary, you have a duty to us as long as we need you. There is nothing you can do to change it.”

Sarn met the man’s gaze for the first time. His eyes were black pools of hatred, though his face never changed. “Perhaps. But I can reach across this table and cut both your throats before either of you says another word. Then you will have no need to worry about any of my so-called obligations.”

The second
askar
laughed. “Do not be rash. Do you think we’re so foolish as to come unprepared?” He leaned close enough for Sarn to smell his scented breath. “There are a dozen soldiers trained on you as we speak.”

Sarn could not resist the urge to glance around the crowded restaurant. He saw no one with a weapon. Perhaps the man was bluffing. “Maybe so. But it will matter little in the end. Both of you will die before me.”

The two men remained silent.

“Ah, yes, I have forgotten,” Sarn said. “You are bound to these assignments as well, with no choice of your own. You are nothing but a messenger. What makes you think that I would not prefer death?”

“Because we have been through this before, and you have always obeyed your orders. I see no reason why you will not do so again.”

Sarn pushed back his chair. He was tired; the journey had been long. “I grow weary of this conversation.”

“Be at the port tomorrow morning, or you will not live to see the first noon sun,” the first man said.

Sarn’s eyes burned again.

“Until the morning, then,” he responded.

14

KHOLED NAJIR listened to the entire conversation.

He sat at the next table, dressed in the manner of a merchant. His eyes gleamed. He had not been this close to Ciris Sarn before.
Could he actually do it?
Certainly not in the presence of the two men seated directly across from the assassin. In addition, there were others lurking about unseen. They would be keen on killing Sarn as well, should the assassin fall.
No
. He would wait for a better opportunity.

Sarn had eluded the Haradin many times, and a number of the assassins had been slain by his blade. Najir wanted to see Sarn die now—tonight—but that would not happen. The risk was too great. He had to remain in the shadows, keep his disguise, follow the plan, and comply with the Emir’s orders.

Najir glanced around the room. His disguise was convincing enough that no one questioned his presence. Today, he was Hanif Masood, a textile merchant from Calilif.

Despite the temptation, he only looked at Sarn from the side. He did not want to make eye contact with the assassin, as Sarn was the only one in the room who could penetrate Najir’s disguise. One look at his eyes and Sarn would recognize the killer within.

The rest of the people here were sheep, oblivious to the wolves around them. Najir’s skin was dusky, but it would be assumed that he was of mixed blood. No one would suspect he was Haradin.

Very few people here knew much about the Haradin, other than that they were fierce, ruthless warriors from the deserts of Qatana. Unlike the Slen Thek, who were killers for hire, the Haradin were soldiers of a secret army sworn to protect the Sultan.

According to rumor, centuries ago they’d become autonomous. They knew no boundaries, and crossed freely from one kingdom to another. Territory did not hold them. Ideology was their center—and they grounded themselves in it.

Their training included not only tracking and live capture, but also mastering the skills of the spy and assassin: disguise, weaponry, poisons and antidotes, and ambushes. This was Najir’s great challenge—a personal mission.

One of the most feared skills of the Haradin was the ability to adapt and change tactics, which was why Najir was able to sit casually—unremarkable and unnoticed—at the adjoining table and observe Sarn’s meeting with the
askars
. It was also why three additional Haradin hid nearby in the square, waiting for Sarn and the two men to come by after their rendezvous. The
askars
would pass through the square on their way to the next destination. Sarn would follow without their knowledge. And the Haradin would close the trap on the assassin.

Najir watched and waited, staring off into space as though he were a scholar contemplating philosophical problems and their solutions. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Sarn finished his business and abruptly stood. As Sarn stepped past him, he could see the rigid set in his jaw, the flash of hatred in his eyes.

Hmm, that is interesting
, Najir thought.

He waited for Sarn to exit the room before getting up to follow. But he would observe Sarn’s movements only to confirm that he was setting off in a false direction—around the inn and over to the other side of town—to throw off the Jassaj spies.

Once he was satisfied that his target had performed the expected maneuver, Najir quickly returned to observe the agents. They finished their wine, left the dining room, and proceeded west toward the outer city.

He suspected he would have to wait only a few minutes before Sarn took up the same trail. The sooner, the better; Najir had taken little rest or food over the course of this task, and it looked