In the Shadow of Swords (30 page)

Marin rose to her feet, picked up her lantern, and set off down the slope. It was still early in the day, but she intended to reach Darós and her ship as soon as possible—to be well out to sea before night fell again on this cursed island.

It was best to think only a few minutes or hours ahead. Facing the horrible truth could wait until she was with someone she trusted.

When the path between the boulders met the coast road, Marin turned her face to the south and began to run again. One hand rested on her sword and the other clutched the lantern like a weapon. She felt ready for whatever dangers this land might hold.

Until an armed figure stepped in front of her as she rounded a sharp bend.

Her sword was drawn and swinging through the air before she recognized her foe.

It was Torre Lavvann.

17

“YOU LIVE.”

Marin smiled as she saw the look of relief that washed over Lavvann’s face.

“Indeed, Torre, I do.” It was the only response she could manage. She sheathed her sword.

“Is something chasing you?” The Four Banners captain stepped to one side, peering around the bend behind Marin.

“Not yet.” Marin’s smile faded. “But I wish to be far from the shores of Aeíx by nightfall.”

“An excellent plan!” said Lavvann, grinning. “Come.”

He spun on his heel and strode off at a brisk walk. Marin fell in beside him, comforted by the familiar clink of chain mail.

“Did Cencova send you?” she asked.

“He did. He knows my long history of saving your life.”

Marin snorted. “Why not just put us on the same ship? Fewer sailors to pay.”

“He knew I would be finishing some business just across the channel, and sent one of your sailors to collect me.”

“Why were you on Inníl?”

Lavvann shrugged his broad shoulders. “Greedy brigands, timid royals—the usual tales.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “And why are you on Aeíx, which we all know is your least favorite place?”

“I like it less than I did before,” Marin sighed. “And I’ll like it still less when I return yet again.”

Lavvann’s lips curved in his familiar ironic smile. “I suspect you have a story to tell me, Marin Altaïr.”

“Suspicious, are you?” she shot back. “Well, maybe I do.”

And if so, where would she begin? She trusted her former captain with her life, a trust he had confirmed on many occasions, yet there were parts of her story about which she was still unsure. But even as she deliberated, Marin found herself beginning the tale, her tongue loosened by the ocean air and the comforting presence of her old mentor. It was such a relief after her encounter underground with the
sha’ir
and the efreet.

She told him of meeting Nabeel Khoury at the shrine of Sey’r an-Shal, of her resolve to kill Ciris Sarn by her own hand, of the Haradin’s attack in the hills above Cievv and—finally, because her story made little sense without it—of the
Waed an-Citab
, the Books of Promise.

The efreet had told her exactly what they were: contracts between a long-ago Sultan of Qatana and the four tribes of Jnoun. That would explain why one book felt like fire, one like water,one like sand and one like air. The contracts were an agreement to slowly destroy the curtain between worlds, although the efreet had been vague as to the method of destruction. Over the centuries, the Sultanate had worked steadily, using its supreme authority to fulfill the terms of the contract.

And if Marin was to believe the words of a Jnoun whose hatred for mortals was legendary, the contract was nearly fulfilled.

She and Lavvann reached Darós without incident and boarded the ship in silence. Marin had hoped that sharing what she knew with an old friend would make the knowledge easier to bear. It had not.

A world where Jnoun roamed free was not a place in which mortals could live.

18

SOMETHING WAS pounding on the ceiling.

Cencova ignored it even though Marin started from her chair at the sudden noise.

“Large men are throwing flour sacks and kneading dough,” he told her.

“What?”

“Bakery. Upstairs,” said the spymaster, pointing casually upward. “People wonder how I can work here, but in all honesty, I don’t even notice the noise any more.”

They sat in another sparse flat, to which Cencova’s guards had conducted her after the ship docked in Cievv. The half-basement room lay near the heart of the city, its sunken windows just above ground level in an old garden in which the bakers left their broken wheelbarrows, empty crates and other rubbish. Alley cats patrolled the area, suggesting an active mouse population.

“So, Ilss, have you nothing to say?” demanded Marin. They had been silent for some minutes before the distraction from above.

“I have much to speak of,” Cencova told her. “But if you refer to the report you just gave me about your meeting with the Sha’ir of Aeíx, I must think awhile before I say anything.”

Marin growled, rose to her feet, and began to pace the room.

“I will, however, say something else. Something I believe you want to hear.”

She stopped and turned to look at him.

“There is a lead. You will have your chance soon.”

Marin stopped breathing. “Go on,” she said.

“A man was captured in Riyyal.” Cencova’s brown eyes caught the light of a sunbeam slanting down into the room, and appeared to burn from within. “He is not from the kingdom; rather, he is from Tanith. Yet he has dealings with the royal family. This we have good reason to believe. The Jassaj have never informed us of his actions before.” He waved a dismissive hand. “We are only now learning his true motive for being there. One thing is certain, however. He was to meet with Ciris Sarn.”

Marin’s heart leaped as she imagined coming upon Sarn from behind and striking off his head with her sword. But she kept this emotion out of her face. Instead, she spoke deliberately. “So you do bring good news, then.” She pursed her lips. “Go on.”

Cencova paused and looked into Marin’s eyes. When she remained silent, he continued.

“There is a way to get you close to him.”

Marin stared calmly at him as if he’d never spoken. She turned and walked to the window, watching as one of the cats inspected a stack of rusty baking trays that leaned against the wall. He could see the tension in her shoulders.

“Tell me,” she said.

“I shall very soon. A week, two at the most. There are others who must be gathered to aid you in this mission. You cannot do it alone. And Marin—I know you would try.”

She did not answer. She watched the cat lunge behind the trays and then back out, a mouse squirming furiously in its jaws.

The cat turned to look Marin in the eye, and trotted away with its prize, tail held high. A strange feeling overcame her, a wave of emotion so strong that she felt faint. Then she recognized the feeling: hatred. Hatred raged within her heart. Perhaps it was consuming her spirit as well.

“Again I wait,” she said in a low voice. “This is too much to ask.”

“And yet you must,” Cencova said. “I am with you in this matter, and I want you to trust me. There are two sides to this. Can I trust you, Marin?” He waited for her to speak, and then sighed. “Patience. You will see this out to the end; however, you must obey my words when you do so.”

She met his eyes but said nothing.

“Marin, do you understand?”

She remained silent.

19

THE MAN waited.

It was dark and there were no windows in this private sanctuary hidden deep within a network of cloistered buildings. Only a few torches burned in sconces. It was common for family members to spend time in solitary reflection, sitting motionless in a dim chamber. But only someone intimately familiar with the deceased would realize that this particular man was not here to mourn. He was here to find Ciris Sarn.

The sanctuary’s door opened and a tall figure joined him. Had this second man been a mourner, there would have been a quiet greeting between the two. Instead, the first man spoke abruptly.

“Where is the spy?”

The newcomer peered through the gloom. “I do not know.” His voice was heavily accented. “He said he would come.”

“I am here.”

Both men started as a shadow separated itself from an unlit

stretch of wall.

“I sat here all this time with you in the room and did not know it,” said the first man angrily. “What child’s game is this?”

“You
majals!”
The voice mocked them from the darkness. “How much else escapes your notice?” A short silhouette walked toward them, moving with muscular grace. “My orders were to find both of you. Now you are each here. Let us begin.”

“You are a Jassaj spy,” snapped the second
majal
. “Let us remember who works for whom.”

“And let us not bicker like old women.” The first
majal
waved his hand impatiently as he spoke, voice betraying a slight accent. “Torre Lavvann is preparing to leave for Riyyal.”

“Hmm.” The spy sat on a bench that faced theirs. “What of Pavanan Munif?”

The second
majal
made an irritated noise. “There are many irons in the fire; you are but one of them. We need you here.”

The spy said nothing, but bowed his head slightly to acknowledge he understood. The second
majal
continued.

“We have an unforeseen problem. A man who was once valued is now a threat to our goals: Rimmar Fehls. He cannot be allowed to live. He is far too willing to compromise. There is no telling how much information he gave to the
siri
holding him.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger at the spy. “The group you join must not know anything about Fehls’ mission. Either you or Sarn must kill him before he decides to talk.”

“It will be done,” the spy agreed. “But where is Ciris Sarn?”

The first
majal
spoke. “Sarn is on his way to Riyyal. You will hear from us when you get there. Arrange for the
siris
to be kept out of the way while you greet Sarn.”

“But what if he has already spoken?”

The first
majal
made a dismissive gesture. “Do not concern yourself with things you cannot control.”

“But I am concerned,” the spy said defiantly. “What about Fajeer Dassai? Weeks have passed with no word from him.”

Awkward silence fell as the
majals
considered this. Fehls might have been willing to betray the Rassan Majalis without a qualm, but his loyalties were obviously to Dassai.

“Again, you need to dismiss these worries,” the first
majal
finally answered in a brisk tone. “Fajeer’s duties often take him down uncharted paths. He knows his own affairs well.”

“I think your plans go too far,” the spy growled. “At some point a loose string will be found—and then the ball will unravel. We’re all marked for death if that happens.”

Suddenly the second
majal
leaned across the distance between the two benches and brought his face close to the spy’s. The smaller man stared back at his employer, unsure how to react.

“Listen, and listen carefully,” the
majal
said with a growl in his voice. “Should you fail, then death will be the kindest fate you could ever know.”

“Everyone dies,” the spy said.

The
majal
sat back with a sneer. “Just get to Riyyal.”

20

ANOTHER SHIP, another crossing.

And this time, Marin had company.

The Ruinart coastline swung from starboard to stern as the ship turned southwest, catching a favorable wind that would take it to Janeirah. Marin watched the sunlit sea through the porthole as she stood in the small galley. She assumed the straight-backed, respectful posture of a Four Banners soldier on review for some minor king—though her uniform was much different.

She wore a long, flowing robe that covered her from head to toe. Her hair was pulled back tightly beneath a hood woven of fine fabric. Marin suspected she looked very different from most Qatani women, yet this was how they dressed, and how she would dress while in Qatana. Beneath the robe a garment oflighter material clung to her body. Pockets on the inside of the robe could hide various weapons.

“Marin, I’d like to present your travel companions,” said Cencova.

He stepped aside and held his hand out to the first man, fit and muscular with a shaved head, pointed chin, and eyes of different colors—one cerulean blue, the other a light amber, like the sap from a spring tree. “Silím Rammas,” said Cencova.

Rammas bowed slightly, acknowledging Marin as she stepped forward. She stared into his mismatched eyes for a moment and saw in him a hint of both loyalty and dedication. His size, stature, and sharp chin reminded her painfully of Hiril. She dipped her own head in greeting and backed away.

Cencova moved on to the other man. “Adal Hussein,” he announced. Hussein was a truly handsome man, with chiseled features and flowing black hair tied back in an intricate knot. He was shorter than Rammas, the same height as Marin, but burly and athletic. Hussein was more generous with his bow, and Marin wondered if he might be mocking her. She approached him as she had Rammas but halted a few steps back. His brown eyes, which should have been comforting with their rich color, had seemed to look at the world—and at her—from an amused, uncaring distance.

After they had spoken briefly about their mission in Riyyal and started to go their separate ways, Marin pulled the spymaster aside.

“Is this Hussein a cruel man?” she whispered. “I felt as if I looked into the eyes of a predatory animal.”

“Well, he is certainly not to be trifled with,” Cencova admitted, “but I trust Adal. I assure you, we were fortunate to have secured his services. Indeed, he would have been my choice for your companion if we needed only one.”

“He appeared to mock me,” Marin said slowly. “Is it because I am a woman? Because I was married to Hiril?”

Or because
, she thought without saying,
he is amused by my claim on Sarn‘s life?