In the Shadow of Swords (4 page)

He could just make out the silhouette of one assassin. But he could sense the presence of the others; he knew there were three killers in here with him.

Sarn drew back into the shadows.

Someone had given them payment. Sarn had little doubt that it was Dassai. He’d played this game before. Dassai fed on the violence, and it didn’t matter whose blood was spilled.

Sarn pulled a small carved-stone box from a pocket above his belt. He opened it, revealing two scorpions, black and streaked with thin bands of white and yellow. He knew firsthand how dangerous they were.

Holding the scorpions by their tails, he whispered,
and flung them toward the nave.

He waited.

The air was heavy with the aroma of jasmine, burning frankincense, and the stench of sweat left behind by the departed worshippers.

Suddenly a horrific scream resonated through the vast interior of the mosque, shattering the stillness. Two red-robed figures shot from within the prayer niches, flailing their legs, trying to shake off the small but lethal creatures. They fell to the ground, kicking and slapping at their thighs and calves.

Their frantic cries continued; they frothed at the mouth, eyes glazed. Finally their screams and struggles abated. The scorpions emerged from the men’s robes and skittered up their bodies and across their faces, crawling into their open mouths. Each man convulsed and then lay silent.

Now only one enemy still lived.

Twenty feet away a dark figure slipped from the shadows. Sarn gripped the hilt of his blade and braced himself.

The Slen Thek assassin drew his saif and advanced toward Sarn. “If you are looking for peace, you won’t find it here. Dassai is tired of waiting for you.”

“Is he?” Sarn knew from previous experience that Dassai found much pleasure in these tests.

The assailant struck with lightning speed.

Blade met blade with a clash of steel. The assassin followed through on his swing and Sarn leaped back, brandishing his weapon in a defensive move. The assassin’s eyes narrowed, seeking an opening.

The assassin swung his sword again.

Sarn lashed out with his own, centering all his strength and concentration in the maneuver. Sword locked with sword.

The assassin stepped forward and lunged. Sarn ducked and brought his blade up, slicing deeply into his assailant’s right thigh. The assassin let out an involuntary cry, and then jabbed with his saif again, narrowly missing Sarn’s neck. Sarn stepped lightly aside and swung low, this time cutting into the back of his assailant’s calves. The assassin stumbled.

Sidestepping his would-be executioner, Sarn brought his blade around in a quick downward motion, cleaving the man’s head from his shoulders. Body and head separated and fell. Blood spurted from the severed neck, a cascade of scarlet painting the floor.

Sarn stood for some moments in the center of the nave, listening. Waiting. The
imams
had not noticed the brutal encounter.

Sarn edged his way back to the entrance. Peering out, he surveyed the square.

Deserted
.

Sarn slipped out of the mosque and back into the empty streets.

This time, he wasn’t followed.

5

SARN LISTENED.

As he prepared to leave, the faint calls of morning prayer drifted above the city, which had already sprung to life.

Prosperous Oranin had grown well past the established city walls to include hundreds of caravanserais grouped beyond each of the city’s four gates. Among these, one of the largest, Isfahan Caravanserai, rested like a jewel beside
Ras’mal Hari—the
Cape Cities Road. Here, in this opulent but functional place, Sarn had passed a safe evening. Isfahan was a long rectangular
maidan
builtof limestone blocks, remarkable for its size, with a broad exterior lined with a single continuous tier of portico, making it both accessible and well-protected.

The second sun was just beginning to rise; Sarn could already feel the growing heat of the day. It was doubtful he was still being followed. Still, because of the attack at the mosque, Sarn couldn’t be certain.

As focused as Sarn was on leaving the caravanserai, he was distracted by thoughts of Jannat, his most recent seduction. One of Dassai’s four wives, Jannat ran an extensive vineyard near the Haffal Mountains. Sarn had lived in secret with his very accommodating hostess for nearly a year, seducing and bedding her with pleasure, satisfying his needs with thinly-disguised contempt. Reflecting on the illicit relationship with Jannat, orchestrated for his own personal gain, Sarn realized with continued distain that the cost to her would be greater than she could have imagined.

Dassai would have to kill her.

Sarn smiled. Jannat was no longer the mistress of a vineyard, but instead a common whore, an intolerable disgrace in the eyes of her husband. She was of little concern or use now to Dassai or Sarn. Dassai had other wives to comfort him in his loss. Dassai also had pride, which he would not sacrifice at any cost. Sarn was the cause of his scorn and humiliation. Soon after, Dassai had arrested Barrani and put a price on Sarn’s head. Dassai had as much derision for Sarn as he had for Jannat.

So be it, then
.

Still reflecting on his satisfying indiscretion, as well as the price on his head, Sarn left his room and headed downstairs to the bar. As he passed the second-story landing, the morning light from the hallway window reflected dimly on the wall.

Sarn continued his descent to the lower floor of the caravanserai, pausing in the doorway as he peered into the dark bar. He canvassed every crevice, examining the shadows beyond the feeble glow of the jasmine-scented lamps.

He stepped inside, passing through the crowd of patrons. He found himself in the midst of a steady murmur of speculation about a deadly assassin, even as he walked by.

As Sarn’s presence became known, a hush spread and the voices faded into silent stares. He pretended not to notice and made his way to the bar.

“Naveen,” Sarn said, smiling as an attractive, dusky woman dressed in an
abaya
, her hair wrapped in a headscarf, approached the bar. Sarn leaned across and gave her a soft kiss on both cheeks, something that he would seldom have dared elsewhere.

“Coffee? Or are you here just to waste my time?” Naveen said with a faint smile. She was the proprietor of Isfahan and ran it with her sister, Layyena.

“Just one cup,” Sarn answered, surveying the room, aware of eyes and ears focused solely on him. “I must go soon.”

“Two
dirans
, unless you are going to pay me for the room as well.” Naveen hadn’t missed his mention of departure.

“Of course.”

Like her sister, Naveen was no-nonsense and direct. She and Layyena were strong women. Without them and their network of caravanserais, Sarn would have been vulnerable last night after his altercation at the mosque. He might well have owed them his life.

As he sipped his coffee, Sarn spied the faces in the crowd—mostly locals, but he could see there were a few travelers. He watched the sisters go about their business. What an incredible asset to him they had already become. He could not afford to lose his connection with Isfahan and the two women who controlled it. Sarn’s success depended upon his continued ability to manipulate them.

Layyena had not questioned him when he’d arrived late last night and asked for a single room at the top of the rear tower. He’d been in luck; one was available, and he was given a key. If any other assassins had followed him, they would have made their presence known. The fact that they hadn’t—coupled withhis observations of the patrons in the bar this morning—told him he was safe.

For now.

Traffic was already brisk on the Cape Cities Road outside Isfahan, which was crowded with caravans of horses and camels bearing men and dry goods. Street vendors were busy from the gates of Oranin all the way to the caravanserai, hawking their wares to passersby.

Time to go
.

Without another word to the sisters, Sarn left behind his unfinished coffee and passed through the crowd, avoiding their questioning stares.

He slipped out of Isfahan and into the rain-scented morning.

6

NOT A WORD.

Three weeks, and nothing from Jannat. She employed a number of messengers, and he’d left enough of a trail if she felt the need to look for it.

Sarn had last seen her at the
riad
. She was leaving for Pashail, where Dassai wanted her in his bed. That never lasted, Jannat had told him. They would enjoy each other for a few days, then Dassai would get bored with her and the sea and go back to Riyyal. But after the traps laid for him, Sarn wasn’t so sure Jannat was safe.

She might already be dead.

It was evening when Sarn left the Ras’mal Hari caravans, following a small road eastward, away from the coast. The heavy silence of the night matched his mood.

He was still being followed.

Most likely it was either one of Jannat’s messengers or more spies working for Dassai. Sarn did wonder, however, whether Dassai had reached the end of his patience with Sarn’s rebelliousness and replaced the spies with more assassins. Sarn developed a plan to deal with either, his hatred of Dassai and disgust for Jannat fueling his determination.

On the road he expected to encounter riders—mostly couriers ferrying information between the
misal’ayn
and Oranin. Few would challenge him directly, but there were rewards for relaying Sarn’s whereabouts, as well as personal satisfaction. Sarn would study their riding styles, the better to spot those who paid too much attention to him as they passed.

It mattered little to him. There was a good chance Jannat was gone for good. If not, she wasn’t clever enough to hire new messengers to hunt for him, and he knew most of those she employed.

Sarn stopped to give his horse a short reprieve, taking refuge at a
berkeh
surrounded by wild oats. There were better places farther along, but the horse was tired, and though the place was exposed, he could not afford to push his mount.

Sarn heard the two riders approach. With no time to seek cover, he held his ground, watching as they dismounted on the far side of the pond, conspicuous not only because of the timing—arriving shortly after him—but because of the superb condition of their horses.
Not couriers
. For Sarn, there was no such thing as being too cautious. He checked his weapons and his options.

The riders removed nothing from their saddles and packs, further arousing his suspicions—they were not planning to be here long.

“Six seconds,” he whispered under his breath: the time it would take to reach the saddle, grab the reins, and wheel back onto the road.

“Ten seconds,” he whispered again, for it would take that long to assault the two before they could respond.

He chose the first option, clicking softly to his horse. Her ears pricked and she turned immediately, knowing what was needed.

They’d been in this situation before.

Sarn ticked off the seconds in his mind as he jumped up, slapped the reins on her flanks and disappeared into the night.

“Nine seconds,” he whispered to her. “Not bad at all.”

The riders followed, their purpose unclear, their employer uncertain. But he was definitely the target. Was he to be robbed? Killed? Followed?

None of these suited him. Sarn would either elude or slay them. Nothing else was acceptable. Nothing would prevent him from facing Dassai on his own terms.

The pursuers kept their distance. Not thieves or assassins, then. These were trackers—paid to trail, not confront him. His familiarity with the terrain and his riding skill soon separated him from his pursuers.

Sarn mouthed thanks to them, as any small part of him that had been willing to relax was gone. No man escapes his own deeds, and his were darkest of all. He would always be hunted. The two riders were just the beginning. There would be more once he arrived at the
riad
.

Dawn broke as he drew near a stone spire that rose into the pale morning sky. He gazed at the tower crowned with a massive jewel, shimmering in the first moments of sunlight, windowless save for slits ringing the uppermost level.

The
misal’ayn
was perched on a ridge in the foothills to the west of the twin cities that comprised the sheikdoms of Oranin and Havar. It provided a sufi—a mystic seer—with a commanding view for at least a dozen farsangs in all directions. From the tower he could see west to the Haffal Mountains, east to the sea, north to Marjeeh and the sheikdom of Tanith, and south to Pashail and distant lands beyond.

The ashen-hued obelisk of Burj al-Halij had long been in the service of Qatana, one of many scattered throughout Mir’aj. It was said to have been carved by stone-jinn ages ago. Sarn had seen only nine such towers in all of his travels, though he’d heard rumors of many more.

It was a majestic site; one less encumbered would pause to enjoy it.

Sarn did not stop.