In the Shadow of Swords (13 page)

Tivisis was a place of stark contrast. Within the walls of the new city, great buildings gleamed, and the cobblestone streets sparkled with bits of embedded quartz. The old quarter was filled with dark alleys, twisting dead-end thoroughfares, and tortuous staircases. Few outsiders trod here.

High-walled houses—each hardly distinguishable from the next—cut a swath of stone across the skyline. Sunken streets hidden in the shadows were choked with debris. Even so, there were hints of beauty. At the top of steep steps, inviting doorways beckoned. Flowers overhung the balconies; fleeting glimpses of garden terraces, blossoming citrus, and pomegranate trees could be seen.

The summoners, immune to the surroundings, did not pause.

Despite being pressed in on all sides, the two, still cloaked in black, managed to weave their way through the crowded streets. Hersí was aware that some of the people shuddered involuntarily as they passed, and it pleased him. They needed a taste of fear.

The summoners realized that the timing of their arrival had been perfect, despite—or perhaps because of—the storm. They maintained a careful watch to be certain they were not being followed.

Each paid little heed to the murmur of commerce around them, taking care to avoid the many carts and stalls as they climbed farther up the hillside.

They continued past a deserted square, filthy and eerily silent. No horse-drawn carts traversed the narrow streets beyond. Even at the height of the day, the place was all but deserted, and crowded with shadows.

They crossed the street and entered a run-down, two-story house. They ignored the lurid offers from the harlots in the foyer and made their way upstairs to the second floor.

The hallway at the top of the stairs was squalid and dim. Thewall coverings were peeled back to reveal etched warnings and obscene epithets. The worn floorboards exuded the unmistakable scent of stale urine. Drunken men and young girls long lost to innocence coupled in the shadows, their sinewy, underfed limbs intertwined in pathetic embraces.

Hersí led the way up the stairs with Bashír immediately behind, the carnal moans ringing in their ears. They reached the dimly lit door at the end of the corridor, and Hersí knocked three times. After a moment the door opened, and they slipped into the apartment.

They closed and locked the door behind them.

12

HERSÍ STUDIED his host through the haze of perfumed smoke.

Raviel Danoir was a short, rat-faced man from Sommel with gray hair and brown-yellow teeth. He scurried over to the solitary window and locked the shutters, then turned and peered into the shrouded faces of the summoners.

They responded by slowly drawing back their cowls. Danoir gasped; Hersí nodded in acknowledgement. It was obvious the man had never seen Carac before. Each of the summoners’ skin shone like black lacquer, his head shaven except for a stiff tuft at the base of the skull. Both bore vivid ceremonial tattoos that began between their large amber eyes, crossed their foreheads, and continued down their cheeks and necks to disappear under the collars of their cloaks. Hersí knew their appearance had an unsettling effect on others, and it was no different now.

Danoir took a step back, his eyes darting from one summoner to the other.

“Carac summoners,” he whispered. “Then the time has truly come!” He took a deep breath.

“It has,” said Hersí.

“Your kind has not been seen in Tivisis for many years.” Danoir glanced at the three wooden chairs beside his sloping table. “Forgive me, please sit down,” he said, pulling out the chairs. “I was told you would arrive three days ago. I was beginning to wonder if you were coming at all.”

“We were delayed by the storm.”

Danoir grunted, seeming unsurprised. The summoners did not sit, but Danoir did and lit a pipe packed with sweet-scented herbs. “Tivisis has been overrun by spies,” he said, “and the
sufis
speak. They know you are here.”

“What of the containers?” Bashír said, approaching the table. “I trust you had no difficulty obtaining them.”

“None beyond the risk of my life; such items are not easily come by,” Danoir said. He nodded toward the corner behind the men. “They’re in a secret compartment under the cabinet.”

He started to stand, but Hersí held up his hand and walked over to the cabinet. After locating the hidden release, he opened the door in the wall, reached inside and pulled out two palmsized, ornately decorated glass orbs.

Danoir stood. “I have been assured that they were properly prepared,” he said. “The alchemist spared no effort. Each has been inspected many times.”

Hersí set the orbs on the table and looked at them more closely. Danoir lit an oil lamp as Bashír joined them.

“What about the house?” Bashír inquired without looking away from their prize.

“It has been ready for weeks now,” Danoir said.

Hersí reached into his robes and pulled out a leather bag. “Here is your remaining payment,” he said, emphasizing the last word as though it were a pejorative. He opened the bag and pulled out a small vial. “There’s also this,” he said, handing the vial to the old man. “Use it if arrest seems inevitable. It is quick—and there will be no pain.”

Danoir swallowed hard. “I… do not wish to die.”

Bashír’s mouth curved into a smile devoid of deceit or falsehood. “One simple life—even if it is your own—is worth the sacrifice to ensure that the mission is completed.”

Danoir’s face paled. “Yes, for you, perhaps. But I must stay in Tivisis where I will be in constant danger. As for you, well… you might not…” His voice faltered.

Bashír’s smile faded. “Then perhaps you had better take the vial now.”

Danoir coughed weakly.

“Understand this,” Hersí said. “You will welcome death should we fail.”

Danoir nodded.

“Good,” Hersí said. “We will depart soon. But first we’ll rest and take a meal with you.”

Danoir scrambled out of the way as the men shed their robes in preparation for the arcane pre-rituals.

Seizing the opportunity, Danoir snatched the leather bag from the table and hurried toward the door. As he reached for the handle, Bashír spoke.

“Danoir?”

The man turned. Bashír held out the vial. Danoir’s shoulders slumped as he returned to the table. He reached out a shaky hand and took the vial, handling it as though it were a venomous spider.

“You’ll need this… just in case.”

13

THE SUMMONERS were on the move again.

Pavanan Munif and the three Jassaj saw them leave the flat in the old quarter. The summoners turned the corner and hurried through an alley to the main thoroughfare with Munif and the Jassaj close behind.

Munif had a plan.

They would funnel the Carac to a dead end street where surrender would be the only option. The plan was simple, effective, and minimized any collateral damage.

Munif was sure of his intuitive abilities—and he always heeded them. Yet, an odd feeling of dread gnawed at him. He shook it off, attributing it to the persistent stress of the past several days. The plan he’d devised left no escape for the summoners—unless they could fly. There was no reason to allow a trifling uneasiness to distract him now.

Munif and his company maintained the farthest distance possible between themselves and their quarry in order to avoid detection. But he could not help noticing that there was something odd about the manner in which the summoners moved; their gait was not that of men fleeing from danger. They ran smoothly and with purpose. Neither looked over his shoulder. Neither seemed to suspect they were being followed. So why did it seem as though the Carac were leading them? Munif became anxious; a sense of foreboding continued to distract him.

A small object dropped from beneath the robes of one of the fleeing men. And then a second fell. Munif slowed down. The Jassaj passed him without pausing. One looked back with raised eyebrows and tilted his head, indicating that the quarry was getting away.

One of the objects had lodged in a muddy footprint. Munif stopped, noting the surroundings. They were in a narrow alley. A filthy grate ran along the edge of a walkway beside a tall building. Munif picked the object up gingerly, fingering what appeared to be pumice. There was a strange odor to it, similar to rotten eggs. It crumbled from porous rock to ash but was not hot to the touch. Something about the stone was familiar, but Munif could not quite place it. When he realized that the chase had gone on without him, he quickly set off to rejoin it.

He put on a burst of speed, hoping to regain precious seconds. He could see the Jassaj closing in on the summoners. They had trapped the Carac with no means of escape. The summoners paused briefly, then turned to face the three Jassaj.

Munif was suddenly aware of a change in the air.
Something is wrong
, he thought. And for reasons he did not understand, he made a sudden, unexpected decision. “I cannot be seen by the summoners,” he muttered to himself.

“If you make one move, you will die,” said one of the Jassaj to the Carac.

Then everything went terribly wrong.

14

“ALA’I PROTECT ME.”

An inhuman scream erupted from the shadows of the cowls where the summoners’ faces should have been.

Munif knew at that moment that he and his agents, not the summoners, were the prey.

The low screeching wail made the hair on Munif’s body stand up in terror. From beneath the folds of cloth, a pulse of white-hot light issued forth and engulfed the Jassaj. Hot wind blasted past Munif’s legs, to be sucked into the entities that rose before him.

He dove head first toward the filth-ridden grate, throwing it up and sliding under it, letting it clang into place above him. The fate of the other agents was out of his control. As soon as he slid inside the grate and tried to curl up, he realized it was not large enough to protect one person, let alone two. He felt warm blood flowing down his forehead as his head and shoulders collided with the stone wall. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the bright light, and he knew what was coming. He tried in vain to pull his legs under the grate as he curled into an awkward fetal position.

Munif could feel the rush of flames overhead. He heard thepiercing screams of the men as they burned alive. He tried to shrink back farther under the grate but the flames were too intense. He felt them lick at his legs below the knees, and he screamed.

Although the entire attack lasted a few seconds, Munif lay there much longer, swimming in and out of consciousness. His life passed before him: he saw himself as a child, running and playing with other children beside a small brook. Then, without warning, he faded back into reality and tasted the salty tang of blood.

Slipping back into a dream state, he saw himself as a young man courting his first love. They were on a swing in a garden and he was holding her hand. Munif remembered that incident vividly and the emotional turmoil that had resulted when the relationship ended. Again, he fell back abruptly into reality, and the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh filled his nostrils.

Finally, he opened his eyes.

Although the pain had lessened considerably, Munif knew he was not yet out of danger. Uncontrollable shivering told Munif that his body was in shock. He had to seek immediate help, but he wasn’t sure he could do so under his own power.

His arms were wrapped around his head. They were stiff and sore as he moved them to investigate the area below his knees. His lower legs and feet were still there. He breathed a sigh of relief that became a strangled gasp of pain. He couldn’t see the injuries, but it felt bad. Despite this, he still had his duties.

He looked around in the dim light and realized he had miscalculated the size of the grate. The opening was below street level, and the place where he was lying, though cramped, could accommodate several bodies.

He began to roll slowly and carefully until he was flush against the back wall of the grate. His breath whistled through his teeth each time his raw skin made contact with the rough surface. Once he had righted himself, he reached up and gripped both sides of the grate. A noise outside sent him scuttling back down and away from the grate.

The time he spent waiting seemed an eternity. Munif listened as footfalls echoed on the stone. Someone had entered the terminus, walking slowly past him. Munif watched as a squat man inspected the remains of the other three agents. Munif could see the bodies were reduced to ash, their charred figures lying forever frozen.

The squat man seemed pleased with the results, and a swell of hatred surged within Munif. The man frowned and inspected the summoners’ handiwork again. As he searched, he seemed to grow more frantic. Munif managed a grim smile as the man began muttering to himself.

“It cannot be! There are only three here? It’s impossible.”

The man walked in a circle around the charred remains of the three bodies. He knelt to scrutinize the scene further, his back to Munif.

“What can I do? I cannot tell him, I am a dead man if I do. The
Lamia’nar
had to work! There is no way he could have survived. He must have escaped somehow.”

The man searched, looking into windows and peering down alleyways. Munif held his tongue and did his best to squeeze himself deeper into the grate. If the squat man spied it and happened to look inside—

The man let out a cry of frustration that bordered on rage. There was a clang of metal. Munif risked another glance outside, holding his breath.

The man had picked up a long, flat piece of metal that had been dislodged from one of the buildings during the blast. He poked at one of the agents’ bodies until it fell over and shattered against the stones. He struck viciously at the remains, yelling in fury, until all that was left was powdery chalk.

Rage filled Munif. Still, he did not move as the man beat the remains of the second and third agent until they too were mounds of ash.

Munif closed his eyes and focused on his future—a futurebuilt on retribution. He listened as the man continued to flail at the remains of the three agents, until finally he tired, panting harshly, catching his breath. Then at last he left, his footsteps fading into the distance. The alley grew silent.