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  Today's hideous events were becoming all too typical. Four of his men had tried to disarm a stranger in a crowded marketplace. He had resisted, and the crowd had descended upon the Outlookers like hungry dragonfish. Two of the Outlookers were dead, the other two badly hurt, and the city was seething with rebellion. The fiery belly of Mount Darshon was surely a quieter place than Cavasar these days.

  The stranger who had been the focus of today's riot was the most puzzling part of the whole event. One of Koroll's officers had singled the man out from the crowd and had the sense to disable him and bring him back to the fortress for questioning. They'd already searched him and his possessions, and what they'd found only added to Koroll's curiosity about the man.

  Although his fine clothes were clearly from the Moorlands, and his swords were unmistakably Kintish, the stranger wore the traditional knotted belt of a shallah. One might excuse that as mere vanity, since some people—even some Valdani—found the intricately woven, beaded, knotted work of the shallaheen quite beautiful and occasionally used imitations as ornamentation; but the man's palms also bore the deep cross-cut scars typical of most shallaheen. Although he wore his hair in the long, oiled, single braid of a Kintish mercenary, the hair was too wavy and the dark-lashed eyes too round for him to be a full-blooded Kint, and he looked a little too fair-skinned for most of the other races living in the Kintish Kingdoms or in Valdani-ruled Kintish lands. It seemed most likely that he was at least part-shallah.

  All of which led Koroll to wonder what a shallah was doing bearing the brand of a Kintish swordmaster. They had found the mark on his chest when stripping him to remove the arrow; the scar, which looked like two crescent moons flanking a Kintish hieroglyph, was far from new.

  Koroll turned away from the window and looked at the items which now lay on the polished table: two slender Kintish swords, the supple harness in which they were usually sheathed, an old leather satchel with faded Kintish calligraphy on it, and the now-stained but very fine Moorlander tunic they had stripped from the stranger's unconscious body.

  The slender Kintish swords were longer than the swords of Koroll's men, but much shorter than the heavy, hacking weapons of the Moorlanders—weapons now also carried by the Emperor's best troops. These were a very fine pair, thin and light, the steel beaten into perfect balance and harmony. Each sword had elegant Kintish hieroglyphs engraved upon it. They were beautifully polished and so sharp that Koroll cut his thumb gently testing one of the blades.

  It was often said that there was no fighter anywhere in the three corners of the earth to equal a Kintish swordmaster; such a warrior had a special Kintish title which Koroll could not immediately recall. A Kintish swordmaster used two blades where others used one, and used them so fast that he could kill two armed men before either could even draw a sword. Of course, the training was said to take five years, and half the students reputedly died in the process. Therefore, it wasn't something the average Kintish soldier undertook; and so the Valdani beat Kintish armies as thoroughly as they beat everyone else's. Indeed, the ancient Kintish Kingdoms had lost much territory to the Empire in recent centuries.

  However, regardless of the stranger's origins or identity, the most intriguing item among his belongings was undoubtedly a single dagger, carefully wrapped in a finely painted silk scarf and hidden in a tightly laced pocket inside the satchel. After four years in Sileria, Koroll recognized the workmanship of both items. The scarf was a particularly fine example of centuries-old Silerian craftsmanship, covered with delicately painted flowers native to the island. Koroll had never seen a man carrying one, and it seemed incongruous for the stranger to have such feminine finery. However, it was the dagger which truly interested Koroll.

  He knew instantly what it was, though he had never actually seen one before. Having heard such weapons described for years, there was no mistaking this one. It was a shir, the deadly, wavy-edged dagger of a Society assassin. Shir were made only by the waterlords, those unpredictable and secretive Silerian wizards who controlled the Honored Society and, if truth be known, much of Sileria, too. The Emperor had sworn to destroy the Society in his lifetime, and most of the waterlords now lived in hiding. Their power was not to be underestimated, though; they could bring Cavasar to its knees if they didn't receive their tribute from the people. They controlled water, the most precious commodity in Sileria, as easily as a man controlled the fingers of his own hand. Although Koroll was skeptical about the many whispered stories told about them, he had learned to regard them with respect.

  Moreover, he had just learned that at least one of those whispered stories was apparently true. It was said that only three people in the world could touch a shir with impunity: the waterlord who fashioned its deadly blade out of water, the assassin for whom it was made, and the man or woman who killed him. Having unfolded the delicate silk which hid the shir from view, Koroll found that it was bitterly cold, colder than anything he'd ever known, and the brief touch of it against his fingers made them ache with fierce pain long after he dropped the thing.

  Had the stranger killed a Society assassin and taken his shir? If so, then he just might be the right man to solve Koroll's problems. Surely killing one Silerian peasant would seem a small enough price to a mercenary who would otherwise be charged with inciting a riot and causing the deaths of two Outlookers. Of course, releasing such a man and giving him his weapons back was risky, but Koroll was counting on an extra incentive to ensure the warrior's cooperation; the final item of unusual interest among his possessions was a hefty bag of gold. If Koroll held onto that until the swordmaster brought him proof of the shallah's death...

  He heard a knock at the heavy door to the chamber and called, "Enter!"

  Four Outlookers, young and arrogant in their smooth gray tunics, leggings, and new boots, escorted the swordmaster into Koroll's presence. Koroll studied the shackled prisoner closely as he shuffled into the room. Now that the stranger's eyes were open, Koroll saw that they were the deep brown color typical of most Silerians; they were watchful and intelligent, and they gave away little as the warrior surveyed his belongings spread out on the long polished table. His skin had the rich olive tone of a typical shallah, and his facial bones were strong and faintly exotic-looking compared to the Valdani around him. Still a young man, he was lean and lithe, with whipcord muscles that looked honed to make him an agile fighter of great endurance.

  Even shackled, he looked fierce. Koroll rather marveled at the courage—or sheer foolhardiness—of the young Outlooker who had demanded this man's weapons this morning and seized his tunic upon being denied. A pity the lad was dead now, gutted with a fish knife.

  "I am Commander Koroll, military governor of Cavasar and its district. One of my surviving men says that although you resisted a direct order and broke the law," Koroll began without preamble, "he thinks you did not intend to kill anyone, but merely to escape."

  The stranger's closed expression didn't change. "That's true."

  "Why did you resist?"

  "I'm a shatai."

  "A swordmaster?"

  "Yes. How am I to earn a living without my swords?"

  Koroll hefted the bag of gold he'd found in the man's satchel. "You wouldn't have starved."

  "I was thinking of my future."

  "You could have applied to me to have your weapons returned to you."

  Despite his chains, the prisoner managed to look arrogant. "No shatai permits his swords to be taken from him."

  "I have seen shatai give up their swords. At the Emperor's palace in Valda."

  "We may choose to give them up, to show respect or to honor a truce. But no one is permitted to take them."

  "And you didn't deem it appropriate to show respect and voluntarily relinquish them today?" Koroll challenged.

  "I was... not asked nicely," the stranger replied, lifting one dark brow.

  Koroll's lips twitched. "And you are accustomed to being asked nicely?"

  "Most men treat a shatai with more co
urtesy than I was shown today."

  "Yes, I imagine so. We don't see many shatai here, you understand," Koroll said cordially. He narrowed his eyes. "And you're not Kintish anyhow, are you?"

  "No."

  "I didn't know there were any shatai who weren't Kintish."

  "There aren't many."

  "But a Kintish shatai trained you?"

  "A shatai-kaj. One who trains shatai."

  "Why did he train you?"

  The stranger shrugged, then winced as the motion pulled at his wound. "He wanted to."

  "A better reason, if you please."

  This time the stranger smiled slightly. "The shatai-kaj give no better reasons. They are men who need explain themselves to no one."

  "But you..." Koroll's gaze lowered to the man's hands, to where he had seen the distinctive scars. "You're part-shallah, aren't you?"

  The stranger hesitated for only a moment. "Yes."

  "What are you doing in Cavasar?" He saw sweat on the prisoner's face and guessed he was in pain; certainly nothing about the man suggested nervousness.

  "I had only just arrived when your men—"

  "You came here on a boat?"

  "Yes."

  "From where?"

  "The Moorlands."

  "What were you doing there?"

  "Working."

  "What kind of work?"

  The warrior glanced at the two swords that lay unsheathed upon the table. "The kind of work I do."

  Pleased by the answer, Koroll dismissed two of the guards. "He may be seated," he said to the other two, noticing that the prisoner was starting to look a little light-headed. He had lost enough blood to miss it for the next few days. The guards shuffled him over to a chair that was near Koroll but strategically distant from the weapons on the table, then positioned themselves on either side of him, their swords drawn. Even wounded and shackled, Koroll suspected this shatai could take advantage of the situation if permitted.

  Koroll picked up one of the Kintish swords and noted that the stranger didn't like him touching them. "What is your name?"

  "Tansen."

  "Are you from here?"

  A brief nod. "I was born in Sileria."

  Koroll looked him over for a moment, then decided to try another tactic, since the stranger seemed more concerned about his swords than about himself. He traced his finger down the flat of one blade. "What are these inscriptions on your swords—these Kintish hieroglyphics?"

  Tansen's gaze rested possessively on the swords as Koroll handled them. "The left one... That's my teacher's motto."

  "What does it say?"

  "Why do you care?"

  "I'm curious." Seeing that Tansen intended to stay silent, Koroll pointed out, "You have caused the deaths of two Outlookers today. Normally, you would already have been sentenced to death by slow torture in a public execution."

  "Why haven't I been?"

  "Because I may have a better use for you," Koroll said, a little annoyed that his warning apparently aroused no concern, let alone fear. "Now answer the question. What does the inscription say?"

  Quietly, almost reflectively, Tansen answered, "Draw it with honor, sheathe it with courage."

  "Can you read?" Koroll probed. Very few shallaheen could. "Or did you memorize that?"

  "I can read the inscription," was the oblique response.

  "Why is the sword inscribed? A sentimental gesture?"

  For a moment he thought the question would be ignored. Finally, as if having decided that the information wouldn't profit his interrogator, Tansen said, "It identifies a shatai-kaj's students to each other, so when we meet, we will not fight each other."

  "Not even if you are opponents who have been paid to fight each other?"

  "We will not fight each other," Tansen repeated.

  "How noble," Koroll said dryly. "Does anyone ever cheat?"

  "If he did, then all shatai would be ordered to kill him on sight, and his shatai-kaj would lay a curse upon him."

  "Ah. I suppose that would certainly make one think twice." Koroll picked up the other sword and noted that the hieroglyphics were different. "And what's written on this one?"

  "My own motto."

  "Ah! Which is?"

  Tansen's gaze met his and, for the first time, Koroll had a glimpse of the man who dwelt in this shallah's skin. "From one thing, another is born."

  "And what thing gave birth to the shatai, Tansen?" Koroll asked, held by that dark, steady gaze.

  "What 'better use' do you have for me?" Tansen countered.

  Deciding this was the right moment, Koroll shoved aside the empty satchel to reveal the shir which lay in a pool of painted silk. Tansen's expression gave away little; of course he would have guessed that Koroll had found it when searching his things.

  Bypassing the questions he had originally intended to ask, Koroll said, "Pick it up."

  Finally! He was rewarded with a look of genuine surprise.

  "Pick it up?" Tansen repeated.

  "Yes. Pick it up."

  Tansen glanced at the guards to his right and left. At Koroll's order, they both held their blades to Tansen's throat. Tugging at the silk scarf upon which the shir lay, Koroll moved it within Tansen's reach.

  Koroll warned, "Just pick it up. If you try to use it, they will slit your throat like—"

  "A sacrificial goat. Yes, I know." Looking rather contemptuous of them all, Tansen lifted his hands and, moving awkwardly because of his shackles and his wound, took hold of the shir. His expression darkened as he looked down at it, resting in his scarred palms. Very quietly, almost as if he were unaware he spoke aloud, he said, "It's an evil thing, this."

  "Then it's true," Koroll breathed. "You killed a Society assassin."

  Tansen's gaze remained fixed on the dagger. "I killed him." His voice was soft, and he seemed lost in the memory for a moment.

  "Why did you keep the shir?" Koroll asked; Tansen clearly didn't relish possession of the thing.

  His bare, branded chest rose and fell with a deep breath. "Because that's what you do when you... do what I did. You take the shir. That's... the way it's done."

  Koroll had a feeling there was more to it than that—considerably more—but he didn't care about the details of yet another bloody and pointless Silerian feud. These people relished killing each other so much that the Outlookers seldom had to bother doing it. Until recently.

  Tansen lay the shir back upon the table and asked, "Have I answered all of your questions now?"

  "There's just one more: Do you want to live?"

  "Are you offering me a choice?"

  "Yes."

  "Ah. I see." A slow, cynical smile spread across Tansen's face. "Tell me, then: Who do I have to kill?"

  Recognizing a man with whom he could do business, Koroll smiled in return. "His name is Josarian, and I need him killed soon. Very soon."

  Chapter Two

  A single crescent moon hung like a jewel in the night as Josarian stole through the shadows. Gossamer trees grew in abundance this high up in the mountains, and the brush of their soft leaves against his face reminded him of Calidar's caress. Although his wife had been dead for a year, bleeding away her life as she fought to give birth to their first child, sometimes he could swear he still caught her scent when he first awoke in the morning, or heard her soft whisper when he sat alone to watch the moons rise over Mount Darshon.

  He missed her as much as he would miss his own heart if it were torn out of his chest. He missed the child who had never even been born. He missed the future he and Calidar had planned together and which now would never take place.

  Young and in love, they had longed only for a child to complete their happiness. But, after their marriage, many seasons went by without Calidar's conceiving. She went to the Sisters, but their remedies didn't help. After that, she went to Cavasar to consult the tattoo-covered fishwives who were said to possess the secrets of fertility; but their advice also produced no child between Josarian and his wife. At las
t, Calidar even made Josarian take her to see the zanareen, the strange mystics who lived at the icy summit of Mount Darshon and awaited the coming of the Firebringer.

  They had given up after that, and Josarian had convinced Calidar that, in their love, they were already blessed enough for this life. Then one season, to their astonishment and fervent joy, their union produced new life. When Josarian looked back, he was glad that he hadn't known, had never once guessed that their joy and anticipation would end in a blood-drenched night of horror and grief. If Calidar had ever feared it, then it was the only secret she had kept from him.

  Since the first time he had seen her, sitting outside her mother's tiny stone house, her face modestly turned away from the street so that only her profile showed, he had never gone an hour without thinking about her. A boy and girl's infatuation had turned into passion, and finally into abiding love, and they had married young. Although they both came from poor families, since all shallah families were poor, he had paid a bride price of twenty sheep. Her father would have accepted much less, of course, knowing how Calidar's heart was set on Josarian; but Josarian had wanted to honor her.

  He had never imagined any future other than being her husband and the father of her children. Under the harsh rule of the Valdani, who were starving Sileria to finance their wars of conquest and feed their vast armies, he and Calidar had sought a peaceful life as best they could. And since the road Josarian had chosen all his life was so different from the one he found himself upon these days, he now groped his way blindly, hoping each step would be the right one, knowing full well it could be the wrong one.

  The wound in his side was healing well, thanks to the Sisters, but it still stretched and hurt when he breathed too deeply, as he was doing now. The Guardians lived so high up, even a goat might find the climb a little tiring, and Josarian was carrying a heavy load. Outlawed by the Valdani who had seized Sileria from the Kintish some two hundred years ago, all Guardians now lived in hiding. Once the most powerful sect in Sileria, their numbers were now dwindling and they lived like scavengers in these mountains. A thousand years ago they had graced the chambers of the Yahrdan's palace in Shaljir and claimed an altar in almost every town and village of Sileria. Now they lived a nomadic existence in tiny, scattered groups, ever on the move lest their tents and cave-dwellings be discovered by the Outlookers.