The Dark Lord

leaving the alley and entering a wider street. Off to her left, over the turbaned heads of the multitude—pressing and shouting, every face alive with the urgent fever peculiar to Alexandria—she could see a tall, white pillar rising above brick and plaster warehouses.

That is the clock tower at the base of the Heptastadion causeway, she thought, orienting herself. Her previous time in Alexandria had been very short, though entertaining. Thyatis had led her through the warren of the city in haste and by night. Now daylight dazzled the eye, shining back from hundreds of copper pots hung on a storefront, glaring from enormous white buildings rising above the din and bustle of the street. The merchant harbor and the theater are to the left, the Serapeum ahead.

Without a pause, she darted into the crowd, slipping through a line of half-naked men carrying wicker baskets of owls. A line of obelisks marked the center of the great road, the base of each monument shining smooth—the ancient glyphs worn away by the passing shoulders and hands of the multitude. The Khazar paced herself, finding a rhythm in the current of the crowd and she followed the stream of humanity east towards the theater. If memory served, there were numerous shipping offices in the streets just north of the odeon and hopefully one of the agents could find her a ship to Pergamum and the Asian shore.

Fine-boned hands rested within her cloak, covering the hilt of her knife, touching the edge of the Eye and her pouch of coins. Dark eyes looked ahead, watching for eddies in the throng—a water-seller, a shouting priest, men arguing theology on the steps of a pillared building—watching for familiar signs. Within half a glass, a woman in the crowd—paused in the doorway of a baker's shop, her head shrouded in white cotton, silhouetted against the glow of ovens—drew her attention. Shirin slid aside, pressing herself against the nearest wall, watching the woman out of the corner of her eye.

She is of the Order. Shirin recognized something subtle in the way she walked. The Khazar woman froze, becoming entirely still, as she had learned to long ago in the stands of beech and oak at the fringe of the high prairie. The woman passed in the crowd, hands occupied with a basket of loaves, without a glance in her direction. Curious, Shirin eased away from the wall and followed, though she was amused with herself for tracking such an unwary quarry. I fled their sanctuary, she thought, watching the other woman's feet on the muddy stones of the street. Would they take me in? Shirin made a sour face, well hidden by her veil. Would I want them to?

—|—

Within a glass, the woman and her bread vanished through an inset door in a blank wall on an unremarkable side street. Shirin kept on, marking the turning into the blank-walled cul-de-sac. Her feet were tired and she was thirsty. The clinging humidity stole more moisture than it gave. A public fountain presented itself—no more than a marble trough set beside the street, warm silty water spilling from an ancient lion's broken jaws. She drank deeply, striving to keep track of children running past and the old men sitting before the doors of the houses. When she stood up, covering her face again, she realized the trail had led into a residential district.

The crowd on the street was sparse—nothing like the jostling, hot mob around the port or on one of the big avenues—and there were no official buildings, only a small temple with a stepped facade. Shirin frowned. Did the woman just go home? Or is the Order's house a hidden one? Then she remembered the Duchess' house in Rome—also on a street of houses, very quiet, unassuming. No grand temple here. Just a domus beside a sun-dappled street.

She thought of going to the blank door and knocking. Her stomach grumbled in response. I am hungry. She dabbed water from the edge of her mouth with her sleeve, then continued down the street, counting doorways. The little avenue turned and Shirin found herself at the edge of a small square. The graceful pillars of a small, neighborhood temple drew her attention for a moment, but then the smell of roasting meat made her lithe neck turn. A hostelry sat opposite the decrepit temple and men and women were eating under an arbor of vines and crosshatched slats.

Without thinking, Shirin entered the hostelry and sat, drawing back her hood, slumping in relief against the cool bricks of the ancient wall. Despite her weariness, she was careful to place her things close at hand, half- hidden under the cloak. The proprietor appeared as Shirin tucked in a fraying edge of cloth.

'Noble lady,' the man said, brisk in manner, dark brown eyes flitting over her travel-stained cloak and well-made but threadbare clothing. She could feel him gauging her, finding her wanting. 'Wine? There is roast mutton, some lentils...'

'That will be fine,' she said, giving him a reserved look. She caught sight of an amulet hanging around his neck: horns and a bull's head. He bowed, waiting impatiently while Shirin pressed two coins into his hand. The innkeeper hurried off, sandals slapping sharply on the tiled floor. The Khazar woman relaxed again, wondering if there were private rooms to eat, either above the taverna or nearby. From this place, she could see the entrance to the little street, but no more.

'Here you are.' The innkeeper returned with a platter and slid wooden bowls of olives, shelled nuts, steaming hot lentils and a slab of mutton onto the table in front of her. 'You've a knife?'

'Yes,' Shirin said, her stomach stabbing with pangs of hunger. Despite an urgent desire to tear into the meat, she raised the wine cup and spilled a little on the floor. 'For the bull and the sun,' she whispered, just loud enough for the innkeeper to hear. The words woke a genuine smile and the man bowed in proper greeting. Shirin made a seated bow in return, waiting until he had bustled back inside before she slipped out her knife and cut a slab of spiced meat for herself.

—|—

A familiar accent roused Shirin from a warm doze. She was lying on a bench on the roof of the inn, under flower- and vine-heavy trellises, her cloak as a blanket, a borrowed basket as a pillow. Men clattered up the stairs, muttering in low tones. Shirin's eyes opened, then settled to bare slits. Two men appeared in the stairwell, bent under heavy burdens. Dust tickled her nose and she smelled the desert, camels, sweat and chipped limestone. Laborers? Speaking Greek with Persian accents—not likely!

'Ah, now,' a man said, the harder, sharper Azeri accent clear in his voice. 'Someone's taken my spot.' Shirin forced herself to remain still, keeping her breathing even and measured, her lips slightly parted, as if in deep sleep.

'Shhh...' hissed the other man, groaning as he rolled the wrapped bundle from his shoulders onto the wooden floor. There was a clunking sound, from stone or metal. 'Master Theon said a priestess was resting up here.'

'Huh.' Shirin heard the first man's tunic rustle, his boots scrape on the floor as he turned away. 'She'll keep me warm tonight, then, if she's still here!'

The stairwell muffled the other man's response as he descended. Shirin waited a dozen heartbeats, then opened her eyes. The rooftop terrace was empty save for the benches and pallets on the floor—and two heavy, dusty bundles of cloth, bound with rope. Shirin rolled silently from the bench, gathering up her bag and cloak. She padded to the bundles, listening intently for any footstep on the stairs. Heavy, yellow dust trickled out of creases in the canvas wrapping. A soft nudge with her foot was rewarded with the clink of metal on metal. Kneeling beside the mysterious package, Shirin's nostrils flared. Oiled metal, she recognized, hot from the sun, dusty and dirty. Her fingers traced the outline of a boot print on the weathered boards of the floor. Black mud lay scattered at the head of the stairs. The river, she mused, then stood, drawing the cloak around her, covering her face. But the packages are not damp—they came by boat?

Shirin took a breath, settling her nerves, then stepped down the stairs, treading lightly. The upper floor of the inn was empty and she paused on the stairs before entering the common room.

The big main room was filled with noise—men were banging their boots by the door, tan-colored cloaks streaked with clinging yellow dust hung from hooks, the innkeeper—Theon?—was handing out heavy red-and-black cups of watered wine. Shirin fell into a hunter's quiet stance, paused at the doorway, ready to enter, yet still outside the immediate perception of the soldiers crowding the room. There was no doubt these men were soldiers—Persian soldiers—with their long ringlets cropped in Roman fashion, their calloused hands raising cups in celebration of journey's end.

'A wasted trip,' she heard, ears pricking up in recognition. A cultured voice, a smooth, powerful baritone— I know that voice, Shirin realized with a start—growled close by. Two men—one tall, broad shouldered, narrow-waisted; the other short and graying, with a square head cocked in an attitude of listening. 'A week digging in the dust—for nothing! Some chipped pieces of stone, a broken bowl...'