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 than he.
He passed the first sign—a six-inch square of parchment bearing markings in red and black ink. A warning. A panic-spell had been placed over the ruined house. Had Hengriff not been wearing a counter-charm, he would’ve been seized by unreasoning fear.
When he reached the atrium, with its dry fountain and garden of weeds, he passed the second sign. This one was a human skull, eye sockets packed with clay. A pebble of polished malachite had been pushed into each clay-filled socket, making grotesque eyes. That’s exactly what they were. The occupant of the blighted villa could watch the path with these magical eyes. Interlopers were dealt with harshly.
