“The Order always supports strong rulers friendly to its cause.
Shobbat’s fingers closed on the dagger grip, and he slammed the weapon on the table, making the little lamp jump. “Why all the mystery?” he shouted. “Can’t you just give me a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”
“Permit me to say, Highness, your timing is not the best. You have been out of circulation for some time, yes? And your father is very popular just now, thanks to his humiliation of the elves. How much money did he squeeze from Gilthas in the name of reparations?”
“Ten thousand steel.”
A tidy sum, thought Hengriff. Sahim’s little triumph over the Speaker would make him admired in the souks and taverns, even by those who knew him to be a bloody tyrant. He had executed eleven Torghanists captured during the rioting; even now, their heads gathered flies in the plaza before the Khuri yl Nor. Yet Hengriff knew the dead men were longtime criminals culled from the city dungeons. The real culprits had purchased their safety. Minok, high priest of Torghan, with the Khan’s death sentence still hanging over him, had given Hengriff gold to buy freedom for himself and his followers.
After considering the possible repercussions of allowing the Torghanists to remain in prison (and perhaps talk under torture), the Knight paid the bribes. First, though, he swapped Minok’s Khurish coins for Nerakan. He intended the released prisoners to associate their deliverance with the Order, and to spend that money in the souks. There was no better ambassador than money.
“-and slay him while he sleeps. What do you think?” Shobbat was saying.
“A very good plan,” Hengriff replied, realizing with some amusement that while he was lost in thought the prince must have been outlining his plot to murder his father. “When will you strike?”
“Soon. There may not be time to warn you in advance.” “I understand.”
Shobbat stood and tucked the dagger back into his sash- this one an unsettling mixture of cherry red and lime green stripes. Hengriff waited till he was done, then casually delivered the news he’d brought. “Your Highness, have you heard? The elves have found the Valley of the Blue Sands.”
The effect was all he’d hoped. Shobbat gave a violent start, even faltering backward.
“How did this happen?” he gasped.
“Gilthas sent his bitch, Kerianseray, to seek the place. They reached the valley three days ago.”
Shobbat sat back down with a thump. The Oracle’s prediction rang in his ears.
“How…”The prince cleared his throat twice. “How do you know this?”
“I have many eyes and ears in Khuri-Khan, even in the elves’ camp.” He folded massive arms across his chest. “Why is this valley important, Highness? What does Gilthas expect to find there?”
Shobbat barely heard Hengriff, his thoughts were racing so. The chain of events foretold by the Oracle had begun. His future, his very life, was in the balance. He strove to master his emotions. He’d already given away too much to the Dark Knight.
“Who can say? The valley is uninhabited,” he muttered. “It has some religious significance for the tribes who dwell nearby.”
Hengriff studied Shobbat in silence. The prince’s wan complexion was growing paler by the second, pale as the stain that had spread through his beard and hair. The man was a weakling, Hengriff thought. If he weren’t so close to the throne of Khur the Knight would have washed his hands of him long ago. He’d been laughably easy to buy. Even more than his greedy father, Shobbat loved money, not only for the power it represented but for the luxuries it could buy. The Order had toyed with the idea of installing him as puppet ruler of Khur, but his behavior had become increasingly erratic and evasive. The elves’ expedition to the Valley of the Blue Sands certainly disturbed the Prince deeply; it would probably disturb Hengriff’s superiors as well. But they had an exaggerated opinion of Gilthas’s shrewdness, and a positive mania about the Lioness. The latter Hengriff could understand much more than the former. Kerianseray had been a thorn in Knightly flesh for years.
Answering a question from Shobbat, Hengriff explained that the elves had crossed the High Plateau to reach the valley, avoiding the well-watched caravan route to Kortal.
“They fought several skirmishes with the Weya-Lu tribe. The last was a full-fledged battle, I gather. Having failed to stop the elves going into the valley, the nomads are camped at its entrance, and are trying to recruit other tribes to help destroy the intruders when they come out.”
Shobbat tugged thoughtfully at his beard. Although he might wish the nomads every success in stopping the
Like the rising of the sun, but with much less warning, a smile spread across Shobbat’s face. With his red- rimmed eyes and pallid lips, it was not a charming expression. And now it was Hengriff’s turn to be surprised, though he was practiced enough not to show it.
“My lord,” the prince asked, “are you able to communicate with these distant events, or do you only receive subsequent word of them?”
Aware of the import of what he was about to say, Hengriff replied, “The former, Your Highness.”
“Good! I will compose a missive, and you will have it conveyed to the tribesmen you say have gathered to stop the elves.”
Hengriff bowed slightly, thinking he would do what he pleased.
The prince snapped a command, and out of the shadows a lackey appeared, bearing a leather case. Shobbat pushed aside bottles of wine and perfume, a short sword, and a purse thick with coins, to pull out parchment, ink, and a pen-brush. The proclamation he composed was short and to the point, written in large, flowing script. Hengriff easily read the words upside-down. Again, he was surprised. This ambitious fool had more talent for intrigue than he had imagined. He might have to be more careful with the prince in the future.
Shobbat signed the document with a flourish, rolled it tightly, and sealed it with black wax. He pressed his signet into the wax and handed the scroll to Hengriff.
“You may be the savior of my country,” said the prince earnestly.
“I’d rather be the destroyer of the elves,” replied Hengriff.
Shobbat showed his eyeteeth. “It is the same thing.”
“Your message will be in nomad hands in three days, Your Highness.”
Shobbat extinguished the lamp, and the two men went their separate ways.
“Success, my lord?” asked Hengriff’s lieutenant waiting outside.
Hengriff glanced at the closed door. How did one reckon success in this maelstrom of deceit and treachery? He was still alive, still working for the Order. That was one measure of success.
He grunted an affirmative and added, “I have another visit to pay. When we get there, you men can return to our quarters.”
The five Knights slipped away, moving like a cluster of shadows. Out of the crowded Hameek district Hengriff led them to the northern part of the city, known as the Harbalah. Wrecked by Malys and her minions, it was still not rebuilt. The sights and smells of the vibrant, living sections of Khuri-Khan ended when they crossed Istra Street into the ruins. Hengriff halted by a broken dwelling and dismissed his men.
They hesitated. The lieutenant said, “My lord, we obey, but… our lives are pledged to safeguard yours. Shouldn’t we accompany you?”
“Not this time. Go.”
Reluctantly, they did. Hengriff remained where he was until the four loyal warriors turned a corner and were out of sight. When he was satisfied he was alone, he continued ahead. No torches or lamps burned here. There was only starlight to see by. Still, he made good progress through the rubble and shattered houses. He knew the way very well.
A tall tower stood out starkly against the night sky. Its upper floors had been toppled by the red dragon, but even truncated the tower was still many times higher than any other structure in the vicinity. Piled around its base were the ruins of a fine villa, once the home of the richest date merchant in Khur. His bones moldered beneath the toppled walls of his mansion.
Clouds drifting in from the sea passed over the stars, casting the ruins into deeper darkness. It was an eerie journey through the ruined grounds, cluttered with broken statuary, rubble, and blown trash, the gardens nowadays home to little more than thin, scraggly date palms. Roofless, the interior· of the once fine home was open to the air. What remained of its gessoed walls was bright with painted scenes of desert life, the pictures cracked and peeling. The path through the trash was barely wide enough for Hengriff’s feet. The one who’d made it was much smaller
