The Eye of the Hunter (65 page)

At the head of the table sat the Emir. A large, portly Man, he was, and dressed in gold-trimmed black silk. Black was his hair and his close-cropped beard, and dark eyes looked out from beneath black brows. His skin was pale and his hands soft, his fingers pudgy. At his left side and slightly behind sat a youth, a smooth-cheeked boy, his clothing black-trimmed gold, the reverse of the Emir’s. Ranged along the walls to left and right stood ten guards, five to each side, while behind the Emir stood four more.

As the five entered, the Emir looked up from his conversation with the boy, the Man’s eyes intent upon his guests. Led by the major-domo, the companions paced across the floor, stopping some five steps from the Emir. Flourishing an elaborate bow, the major-domo said in his flawless Common, “Most Exalted, your guests.”

Following Aravan’s lead, the five bowed stiffly from the
waist, forgoing any embellishments. The Emir smiled at them, yet Faeril noted that Aravan’s fingers silently signalled <
Shark
>; the damman grinned and glanced at Gwylly, noting that he grinned, too, both Warrows struck by the incongruity of a shark living in the desert.

“Welcome, travellers, to my Kingdom.” The Emir’s words in the Common tongue were but slightly accented. “It is long since I have set these eyes upon Elven Folk, and never have I had the honor of entertaining your Kind.” He gestured at the pillows strewn to either side. “Please, be seated, for I am famished, and though it cannot compare to your Elven dishes, still, honeyed quail awaits us.”

Not only was there quail upon the table, but sliced roast oxen and mutton as well; three kinds of soups; a variety of stewed vegetables; pomegranates and dates, fresh peaches, oranges from Thyra, white grapes, and other succulent fruits; and sweet breads and cakes.

Faeril wondered just how she could possibly eat with this gauzy veil across her face, but then she saw Riatha unfasten hers, and so the damman did likewise, smiling at the Emir.

Throughout the meal, the Emir kept up a string of inconsequential chatter, asking after their travels, surprised that they had crossed the
Erg
from Sabra—“…for it is told that the central Karoo is cursed…”—and inquiring as to what their purpose was in coming to Nizari, and what they might wish to obtain in the city for trade in the North.

The boy at the Emir’s side served his master, sampling each dish ere passing it on to the Prince, the Emir ever watching the youth closely for any reaction to the food before tasting it himself.

Throughout the meal as well, Aravan danced a complex dance of conversation, circling slowly but ever closer to what they wished to know. The Emir laughed at Aravan’s description of their entry into the city, of the crowd’s reaction to his Elven eyes at the gate, of the merchants’ reactions at the Green Palm, the Emir saying, “Ah, but they are an ignorant, superstitious lot.”

Now and again one of the others would join in the conversation, Gwylly telling of hunting with Black, Urus speaking of the reach of the Greatwood.

But it was Faeril who brought an unexpected comment
from the Emir: “I noted,” she said, “when we came through the city, that the minarets were abandoned, fallen into ruin. Can you tell us what happened?”

The Emir looked at the damman and then turned to Riatha. “Your daughter and son, madam, are a delight, and full of curiosity as are all children.”

Realizing the Emir’s mistaken assumption, Gwylly started to speak up, but then fell silent at a gesture from Urus.

Riatha smiled, nodding. “Aye. They give me much pleasure.”

The Emir spoke to Faeril. “In my grandsire’s time, at last he overthrew the
imâmîn
, the clerics, for they hewed to a false prophet instead of the true god, and had done so for nearly nine hundred years. They were punished accordingly, and the mosques and minarets cleared of the vermin and their followers, and we returned to the old ways, the true ways.”

Faeril started to ask another question, but Riatha smoothly cut her off. “Have thou some of this sweet bread, my darling,” her fingers signalling, <
Danger
.> Faeril took the proffered pastry, falling into thoughtful silence.

Again Aravan took up the conversation, and as they came to the end of the meal, the Elf finally closed in on what they had come to hear. “As we came through an oasis north of here, we spoke with a traveller from Nizari. A young Man, he was afraid, and he told us of disappearances in and about the city.”

The Emir nodded. “It is true. People are missing. Men. Women. Children.”

Aravan, now at the heart of their quest, asked, “Knowest thou the root of this evil?”

“Oh, yes,” answered the Emir. “But first…” He signalled to his taster. The boy stood and fetched a tray on which was a crystal flask filled with a ruby liquid and six crystal cups, two of them small, the other four larger. Turning to Aravan, the Emir said, “It is traditional to drink a toast at the end of a guesting feast. And I can assure you that you have never tasted a cordial such as this. Will you and your wife and children and your companion join me in such?”

At Aravan’s assent, the Emir smiled and splashed a dollop into the small cups, and a greater measure into the
others. “Here, wee cups for the wee ones, large cups for the larger.”

Aravan signalled, <
Wait
,> and watched as the taster sipped from the Emir’s cup, then passed it on to his master. The Emir raised the crystal vessel. “To the success of your mission,” he said, then downed the drink in one gulp.

“To the success of our mission,” responded Aravan, downing his own, and they all followed suit, finding the liqueur sweet and aromatic and strong.

And when each of the five set their emptied crystal cups to the table, the Emir began laughing, signalling the guards. The door opened, and the major-domo and ten additional warders marched in, each guard bearing a crossbow, cocked, quarrel in place. They ringed ’round in an arc flanking the Emir, deadly bows aimed at the five.

Aravan began to protest, but the Emir silenced him. “Fools!” spat the Man. “Know this: that you are in
Nizari
, the Red City of Assassins, and
I
am the High Assassin, the Assassin of Assassins.

“Pah! Of a certainty do I know your
true
mission. You are here after Stoke! And heed me! He knows of your coming…for he has directed me,
me
, to intercept you. And I have done so.

“Why do you deem my guards at the city gates escorted you to the Green Palm? As a favor? Nay! It was instead to watch over you and to keep you till I was ready.

“Merchants, faugh! A flimsy tale at best. Thin. Oh no, not merchants. Instead, you are hunters, and Stoke is your quarry, just as you are his prey.

“You must be powerful enemies indeed for him to fear you. Yet he, too, is a dangerous foe. But if he thinks to order me about at his whim, then he is mistaken.”

The Emir clapped his hands, and the major-domo stepped forward bearing a basket, handing it to his Prince. “I will aid you to bring him down, but you must hurry, for even now one of his spies may be rushing to tell him of your arrival.
This
one we caught.”

The Emir pulled the lid from the basket and pitched its contents rolling down the table. As it flopped to a stop they could see it was a Man’s head, in a yellow turban. Gwylly gasped and turned to Faeril. “The Man at the gate, the one who ran.” Faeril nodded and averted her eyes, refusing to glance again at the head.

Riatha looked at the Emir. “If thou knowest where is Baron Stoke, tell us. We will run him to earth, this I promise.”

“Oh, madam, I
know
that you will go after Stoke to slay him, for
I
have taken steps to guarantee your full-hearted cooperation. You see, I have poisoned your children and only
I
have the antidote”—he held up a small crystal vial filled with a blue liquid.

At these words Gwylly’s heart clenched, and he reached out to take his dammia’s hand. But Urus roared in rage, starting to rise. One of the bow-bearing guards barked a command—”
Hâdir!”
—and Aravan cried out,
“Urus, no!”
The Baeran looked at the trained crossbows—two aimed at Gwylly, two at Faeril, two at Aravan, two at Riatha, and lastly, two at himself—and slowly, growling, he settled back.

“Fools!” sneered the Emir. “I saw you delay, waiting to see if the cordial was poisoned. Did I not tell you that this was the Red City of Assassins? It was the two small crystal cups that were lethal—not the drink.

“Now heed me! You have but one week to find Stoke, slay him, and bring his head to me. Else the children will be dead of the poison….”

The Emir nodded to the major-domo, and at his signal, four guards stepped forward, slipping a cord about each Warrow’s wrists, and leading them away.

“In the meantime,” continued the Emir as the Wee Ones were taken from the room, “we will care well for them.”

Riatha, Aravan, and Urus watched them go, frustration and rage in their eyes.

Riatha turned to the Emir. “Where is Stoke?”

“In a mosque in the mountains one day’s hard ride from here. He has been there for nearly two years now, taking my people from me. No matter that he is favored by the Sultan, Stoke’s depredations have gone on much too long. Too, he thinks to tell me,
me
, what to do, as if I were, subject to his will. Well, then, we shall see about
that
, my friend. We shall see about that.”

Urus yet fumed, but Aravan said, “We shall need a map, horses, our weaponry, some supplies, our own goods, and whatever information thou hast concerning Stoke’s strongholt.”

The Emir gestured at the major-domo. “Abid will see to your needs. You may leave me now, but by all means
hurry, for your time grows short, and the lives of your children spill out as does swift-running sand spill through a glass.”

Surrounded by guards, the major-domo escorted them out, while behind sounded the crowing laughter of the Emir.

* * *

The trio retrieved their weapons as well as Gwylly’s sling and bullets and Faeril’s throwing knives. Abid informed them that their belongings had already been brought from the Green Palm and from the camel grounds to the Scarlet Citadel in anticipation of their “cooperation.” He led them to the room where their goods were stored. Riatha rummaged through her belongings as well as those of the Waerlinga, retrieving the necessary items: long-knives, daggers, a bow and arrows, herbs and potions, and other such. Aravan and Urus also took up what they might use in the days ahead: lanterns, ropes, climbing gear, crue, flint and steel, and the like. Except for the weaponry, they packed all in backpacks and changed into their desert garb, taking as well their leathers. Too, Riatha packed a bit of extra clothing.

“Abid,” barked Aravan. “We will need horses, for camels walk softly but make too much noise, whereas horses’ steps are louder yet rarely do they complain.”

Urus added, “A large horse for me, little Man, one with the strength to bear my weight.”

Abid called to one of the guards and issued orders, the Man leaving for the stables.

Riatha at last turned to the major-domo. “I am ready. Yet first I would see my children one last time, to bid them courage and kiss them farewell.”

Abid glanced at the others and nodded. “Only you, madam, and you must go without weapons, and you must speak only the Common tongue.”

Riatha handed over Dúnamis to Aravan, giving him her long-knife and dagger as well. “I shall return shortly, Aravan.”

The major-domo led Riatha to a room in the citadel. The entry was warded by two guards. At a gesture from Abid, they stepped aside and the major-domo tugged open the door.

Gwylly and Faeril were standing next to a barred window,
shutters open. As Riatha entered, Faeril turned and ran to the Elfess, Gwylly coming after. Riatha knelt and embraced the damman, and peered into the face of each Waerling. They looked pale, wan. “Courage, my children,” she said. “We will return for you.” <
Soon
,> she signalled in the silent hand code.

The Elfess carried Faeril back to the window and set her down. Peering out, she said, “It is time for me to go.”

Kissing both and embracing them one last time, Riatha turned to Abid. “I am ready,” she said, and he led her away. Her last sight of the Waerlinga was of the two standing and watching her leave, their arms about one another. And then the door closed.

Back to Aravan and Urus she went, and thence unto the stables. There waiting were three saddled horses—two mares and a large stud—and they laded them with the gear.

Mounting up, the trio rode clattering across the courtyard and out from the citadel, following after a soldier guide. And behind them the massive gates of the mighty fortress swung shut.

* * *

Faeril hugged her forearms across her stomach. “I don’t feel well, Gwylly.”

Pallid, Gwylly reached out and stroked her hair, tears filling his eyes. “Neither do I, love. Neither do I.”

“Perhaps if we lie down…”

They clambered onto the bed.

A time passed, and the door opened. A guard came in and looked about, then stepped back from the room.

The Emir entered, smiling when he saw the pale, trembling Warrows lying on the bed. “Well now, did I not tell you that I was the Assassin of Assassins? It seems as if the poison works on Elven children as it does on Human get. You will be dead by dawn.

“What’s that? You actually believed my tale that you would last a week? Oh my, but you
are
silly children.

“I will leave you now, for I do hate to see suffering. And believe me, it will shortly become much more painful, my darlings. But you may scream all you wish, for each of my chambers is sealed against sound.

“Yet before I go…”

He took the tiny liquid-filled crystal flask from a silken pocket and stepped to the bedside, holding the vial up for
the Wee Ones to see. He uncapped the crystal and slowly tilted the vial, pouring the blue liquid out onto the carpeted floor.

Gwylly croaked a protest, his words but a whisper, and he struggled to sit upright but had not the strength.