In the Shadow of Swords (28 page)

“We have news,” the agent said.

Cencova grunted acknowledgement, and the contact continued.

“There is proof that the attacks were sanctioned by Ciris Sarn, and that he headed to Riyyal.”

Cencova finally spoke. “Does Sarn seek to usurp the throne himself? I cannot believe he carries such weight.”

“Sarn’s purposes are unclear, but do not underestimate his strength or reach. The Sultan is dying. Nasir is lost, and Malek is weak. Who will inherit the throne? Perhaps Sarn has some unseen control over the matter. Then there is Fajeer Dassai. What part does he play in this? Too many unknowns. We must narrow our focus.”

“What does the Rassan Majalis wish of me?” Cencova said.

“Everything possible must be done to capture Ciris Sarn. Find him. Take him alive. The
siri
are at your disposal.”

Cencova remained silent for a time. Distant chimes marked the late hour. “Any hope of aid?” he finally asked.

“The conspiracy runs deep. The Jassaj are also involved. Pavanan Munif acted under Sarn’s authority while in Tivisis. He must be taken as well.”

“Which
majals
know of the plan?”

“Very few,” said the agent. “We’re afraid it will get back to theconspirators. It is a small stable that knows about this.” He looked back up the stairway. “Will that be all?”

Cencova debated whether to tell them about the arrival of Marin and the books. He chose caution and held his tongue. “Yes. That is all for now.”

The agent bowed slightly in Cencova’s direction and ascended the stairs. His footsteps faded quickly as he moved off down the quay. Cencova continued to gaze at the black waters, waiting. He heard footsteps coming toward him and the voices of a man and woman passing above his head. He waited until they boarded one of the ships farther out before making his way back home.

There is still someone else I need to see
, he thought.

9

MARIN CLOSED her eyes against the fierce light.

Her head pounded as she lowered it into her hands. She willed the pain away and tried to focus on something useful. Her mind swam with all the random facts and baseless rumors that had come to her attention since her journey to Ruinart began. If she could just organize them into a useful pattern—

Someone stirred next to her, groaning slightly. Without opening her eyes, Marin knew it was one of her guards, standing wearily on either side of the bed where she slumped. She felt some remorse for him, but not much.

They had all been sleeping off their debauch late in the morning when someone banged with unnecessary vigor at the door. It was Cencova’s messenger. He raised a disapproving eyebrow at the staggering guards who admitted him, and at Marin sitting blearily in her bed, trying to make sense of the interruption. The spymaster would see her now, and she must make haste despite her… condition. The man shook his head at the guards and departed.

They escorted her through the streets without a word, shielding their eyes against the light, flinching at the midday bustle. Marin could tell they were embarrassed by last night’s unprofessional conduct, and wondered if they knew she had slipped away from them. Mostly, though, she focused on navigating the overwhelming sounds and smells of Cievv in the impossibly bright daylight. In a corner of her mind, she wondered if Cencova had found out about last night’s wine-fueled search of the city and wanted to have words about that—or if he was ready to continue the conversation begun at his house three days ago.

Because of his work with the Rassan Majalis and the
siri
, the spymaster maintained a number of rooms in the city, and conducted his business first in this one, then in that one. Only a select few knew how to find him on any given day. The place to which Marin’s guards brought her was in a wealthier neighborhood where the streets were mostly quiet except for well-dressed, orderly servants going about their errands. The flat was two flights up at the back of a handsome, spotlessly clean house.

The antechamber’s windows overlooked the harbor. It was a clear day, and the sun streamed in. Marin could have asked one of her guards to pull the curtains, but decided against it. Calling Cencova’s attention to her condition might start the conversation off badly.

Instead, she sat with closed eyes, thinking about the Books of Promise and the vast conspiracy spun around them.

“There is always an answer,” she told herself. “It is just waiting to be found.”

That had been Hiril’s guiding philosophy. So far, she was still seeking any answer at all. Lies were thick on the ground wherever she looked. Who among the powerful were doubling their allegiances? Who suspected whom of betrayal? Marin knew that she could become a suspect herself.

“What if Cencova talks about me?” she wondered. “What if I gave myself away last night, and he has decided to give me up?

How many already know I am here?”

She smiled bitterly at the thought of such things. She knew in her heart that her motivation would always remain pure: Hiril’s enemies were her enemies. No jewels, however they glittered, and no sword, however sharp, would deter Marin from her mission.

She lifted her head at the sound of an opening door. A man stood before her. He was not a guard. Obviously he must be the spymaster’s assistant. His face was expressionless, and Marin felt a surge of excitement despite the painful pounding in her head. The man cleared his throat.

“He will see you now.”

10

“SARN MUST wait… for now.”

Marin had almost relaxed after Cencova handed her a small cup of strong coffee and made pleasant small talk that included nothing about last night’s impulsive behavior. Both had ignored the four Books of Promise sitting on the table at his elbow. But at these words, the color drained from her face, and her head began to pound anew.

“Why?”

Had she been feeling more like herself, the word would have burst from her in a scream of rage. Instead, it came out in a meek whimper.

“You have another mission first.” Cencova’s tone was firm.

Marin said nothing.

“You must confirm the authenticity of the books.”

Again she was silent.

“We must know this before anything else,” he went on, “but it will be a difficult task, Marin. You must seek the Sha’ir of Aeíx.”

“Aeíx?” Marin grimaced. “Do you know how much I hate that

place?”

Cencova gave an apologetic shrug. “I understand why you might. Nevertheless, that is where you’ll find this particular
sha’ir.”

“And what is a
sha’ir?”

“An elemental witch. One who delves into the lore of the Jnoun.”

“And this sorcerer can prove that the books are real?” Marin asked.

“I believe so… yes.”

Marin hesitated. This was not where her quest was supposed to take her. How did it bring her any closer to cutting off Ciris Sarn’s arms and legs and spitting in his eye while his life bled away? She was beginning to understand, however, that other people’s strategies would postpone this satisfaction. As long as they didn’t rob her of it altogether, she would accept the choices they gave her.

“Well enough,” she said wearily. “What must I do?”

“It will be dangerous.” Cencova looked at her with some concern. “I know you are not yourself today, but I want you to reach this decision with a firm grasp of the risks. The Sha’ir of Aeíx has an evil heart, and may kill you rather than reveal the books’ contents.”

“I may be suffering this afternoon,” retorted Marin, her face growing hot, “but I assure you my grasp of this matter is as firm as anyone could wish. You will not let me kill Sarn until you have unraveled the lies that wrap themselves around those.” She gestured at the four books stacked on his table. “This accursed bitch may provide me with answers, or perhaps she will murder me. That is the risk I will take.”

Cencova was silent for a time.

Finally he nodded and pushed the books across the table toward her.

“The ship is nearly ready.

“You sail tonight.”

11

SHE HAD been here before.

Marin had ridden across the island with the Four Banners. This was the place where she first met Hiril. Where the dying kayal had cursed his future. Where they fell in love for the last year of his life. She had hoped to never set foot on these shores again.

At least there was no rain this time.

It wasn’t a long journey from Darós, but the coast road was treacherous. The land that faced the sea was rocky and dry, the soil consisting of limestone rock and rough sand. Ragged hills rose above sheer cliffs. The suns’ reflection off the crags made the landscape gleam white as Marin followed a narrow path to a desolate ridge. It was shaped like a skeletal finger pointing west, a command to leave this island and flee far away.

All who lived on Aeíx feared this spot. They were afraid of the
sha’ir
, and believed that she regularly stole and ate the bones of the dead. Marin wondered how such a bright landscape could conceal something so dark.

A few hours out of Darós she reached the opening of a tunnel—a forbidding maw, black against the white rocks around it. She drew closer, remembering the spymaster’s warnings. “The place is riddled with tunnels, and the witch dwells somewhere within them,” Cencova had said. “I am unsure of which one. None living has seen her lair. Tread carefully.”

Marin approached the entrance cautiously, her pace slowing as she peered at the dark hole in the shining landscape. The light of the second sun let her see fifty feet into the tunnel. She could just make out three caverns splitting off from the main entrance. Beyond that, the daylight would not go.

She lit her lantern.

Marin had little doubt that each of these caverns led to othertunnels and pits, winding deep into the rocky point like a rabbit’s warren.

Cencova’s warning echoed in her thoughts: “She may kill you rather than reveal the contents of the books.” Marin had accepted that choice. If she died, her life without Hiril would be that much shorter. If she succeeded, Ciris Sarn was that much closer to dying at her hand.

“Either way, I win,” Marin reasoned to herself, moving into the darkness.

12

VOICES OF the dead taunted her.

Marin shuddered as dark words and strange images resonated in her mind. She knew it was a spell, a barrier of magic against anyone who attempted to disturb the
sha’ir
. She knew Aeíx was becoming more of a fell place with each passing year, and this enchantment felt like the root of everything else that plagued this miserable island. Angrily she ignored the ghost voices and their whispered fears. She wouldn’t let these things stop her.

Marin went deeper into the cave. She paused at yet another fork that led to three different tunnels. Since she’d walked into the darkness with lantern held high, all of her choices seemed to come in threes.

Up to this point, the air had been cool and still. Now there was a faint hint of rot. She took a step closer to the tunnel on her right. The odor of rot grew stronger.

Here. This tunnel
.

Marin entered, ready to face the witch.

An overwhelming odor of excrement and decay assailed her nostrils as she moved deeper into the tunnel. Marin doubled over and retched, her body recoiling from the charnel stench. She fought the urge to turn and flee, forcing her way deeper underground with her cloak over nose and mouth.

Time passed, the foul stench growing with each minute. She willed herself to ignore it. The books lay in a deep inner pocket of her cloak, their presence reassuring her like protective talismans. The cool air gradually gave way to a warmer, damper atmosphere, tinged with the reek of sour milk.

Marin paused briefly in her descent and suppressed a shudder. Her hand gripped the handle of a short-bladed saif. The lantern’s dim flicker barely reached ahead of her now, and she relied more on sound and touch to guide her way. She breathed evenly and deeply through her mouth, calming herself. Walking into danger was nothing new to her. Keeping an inner calm had always kept her alive on these missions.

So far
.

A distant light grew, beckoning. Sensing she was close, Marin pressed forward.

She paused at the mouth of a cavernous room with stalactites jutting like fangs from the ceiling. Shadows flickered on the walls. A faint tinge of smoke masked the stench of decay, making her eyes sting. The light came from thousands of foul candles dripping greasily from ledges and crevices in the walls.

She took a cautious step forward, dropping the cloak from her face and gripping the hilt of her sword.

Across the cave, something stared at her with predatory eyes. She could feel its hunger and hatred before she saw what it was. A wasted figure sat on a throne of what seemed to be polished limestone. It was a hag wrapped in a raven-black
abaya
, and she had the look of someone expecting a guest. At her feet lay an opening like a shallow grave, where a blue light burned with a smokeless flame.

Taking a deep breath, her muscles coiled and tense, Marin entered the vile lair. After a few more steps, she could see that the
sha’ir’s
throne was actually made from weathered rosewood and bleached bone.

A voice spoke, making her skin crawl. “Come closer, my pretty thing,” the hag said.

13

“DO YOU know of these relics?”

Marin held one of the books in her right hand. Her left hand never strayed from the handle of the saif. She had stopped ten feet from the witch, not daring to come any closer. “There are three others. They were found together.”

The
sha’ir’s
gaze flicked to the book Marin held, then settled on her face. “Where were they found?” The voice was thick and gurgling, with an edge like tearing parchment.

“It matters not,” Marin responded, suppressing a shudder at that unsettling sound. “They are here now.”