Instantly a knife at his throat stopped him in his tracks, but all he did was say quietly, “I am Jelal. I come from the West.” Anything else, he knew, and the knife wielder would have used his blade, not to mention the two other men he was sure were in the pitch-black room.
Flint struck steel, light flared, and a lamp that smoked and reeked of rancid oil was held to his face. Two, he saw, beside the one who still held a razor edge to his throat, and even the man with the lamp, a thick half-moon scar curling around his right eye, clutched a bared dagger.
The scar-faced man stepped aside and jerked his head toward a door leading deeper into the building. “Go on,” he said. Only then was the knife lowered from Jelal’s throat.
Jelal did not say anything
. This was not the first such meeting for him, nor even the twentieth. He went on through the second door.
The windowless room he entered was what was to be expected in this quarter of the city, rough walls of clay brick, a dirt floor, a crude table tilted on a cracked leg. What was not to be expected were the beeswax candles giving light, the white linen cloth spread on the table top, or the crystal flagon of wine sitting on the cloth beside two cups of hammered gold. Nor was the man seated behind the table one to be expected in such a place. A plain dark cloak, nondescript yet of quality too fine for that region of Sultanapur, covered much of his garb. His narrow thinnosed face, with mustaches and small beard neatly waxed to points, seemed more suited to a palace than a district of beggars. He spoke as soon as Jelal entered.
“It is well you come today, Jelal. Each time I must come out into the city increases the risk I will be seen and identified. You have made contact?” He waved a soft-skinned hand with a heavy gold seal-ring on the forefinger toward the crystal flagon. “Have some wine for the heat.”
“I have made contact,” Jelal replied carefully, “but—”
“Good, my boy. I knew that you would, even in so short a time. Four years in Corinthia and Koth and Khauran, posing as every sort of merchant and peddler, legal and otherwise, and never once caught or even suspected. You are perhaps the best man I have ever had. But I fear your task in Sultanapur has changed.”
Jelal drew himself up. “My lord, I request to be reposted to the Ibari Scouts.”
Lord Khalid, the man who ordered and controlled all the spies of King Yildiz of Turan, stared in amazement. “Mitra strike me, why?”
“My lord, you say I was never once suspected in four years, and it is true. But it is true because I not only acted the part, I was a merchant, or a peddler as the instant demanded, spending most of my days buying and selling, talking of markets and prices. My lord, I became a soldier in part to avoid becoming a merchant like my father. I was a good soldier, and I ask to serve Turan and the King where I can serve them best, as a soldier once more in the Ibari Mountains.”
The spy master drummed his fingers on the table. “My boy, you were chosen for the very reasons you cite. Your service was all in the southern mountains, so no western foreigner is likely to ever have seen you as a soldier. Your boyhood training to be a merchant not only prepared you to play that part to perfection, but also, because of a merchant’s need to winnow fact from rumor to find the proper market and price, it made sure that you could do the same with other kinds of rumors and give reports of great value. As you have. You serve Turan best where you are.”
“But, my lord—”
“Enough, Jelal. There is no time. What do you know of events in Sultanapur this day?”
Jelal sighed. “There are many rumors,” he began slowly, “reporting everything but an invasion. Piecing together the most likely, I should say that Prince Tureg Amal was killed this morning. Beyond that I should say the strongest rumor is that a northlander was involved. As it was not what I came to Sultanapur for, I put no more than half my mind to it, I fear.”
“Half your mind, and you get one of two right.” The older man nodded approvingly. “You are indeed the best of my men. I do not know where the rumor of a northlander was born. Perhaps someone saw such a man in the street.”
“But the guardsmen, my lord. They seek—”
“Yes, yes. The rumors have spread even to them, and I’ve done nothing to change that state of affairs for the moment. Let the true culprits think they have escaped notice. It is not the first time soldiers have been sent chasing shadows, nor will it be the last. And a few innocent foreigners—if any of them can truly be called innocent—a few such put to the question, or even killed, is a small price to pay if it helps us take the true villains unaware. Believe me when I say the throne of Turan could be at stake.”
Jelal managed a nod. He was aware from experience just how coldly practical this soft-appearing man could be, even if the stakes were considerably less than the Turanian throne. “And the prince, my lord? You said I was half right.”
“Tureg Amal,” Kalid sighed, “drunkard, wastrel, lecher, and High Admiral of Turan, died this morning of a poisoned needle thrust into his neck. Not by a northern giant, as the rumors say, but by a woman. A Vendhyan assassin, according to reports.”
“An assassin?” Jelal said. “My lord, the prince’s ways with women are well know. Could he not perhaps simply have driven some wench to murder?”
The spy master shook his head. “As much as I should prefer it so, no. The servants at Tureg Amal’s palace have been questioned thoroughly. A Vendhyan woman was delivered to the palace this morning, supposedly a gift from a merchant of that country seeking added protection for his cargoes on the Vilayet. Within the hour the prince was dead, the keeper of his zenanna drugged, and the woman had disappeared unseen from a heavily guarded palace.”
“It certainly sounds the work of an assassin,” Jelal agreed, “but—”
“There could be worse,” the older man cut him off. “The commander of the prince’s bodyguard, one Captain Murad, was also slain this morning, along with two of his men, apparently in a tavern brawl. I do not like such coincidences. Perhaps it was unrelated, and perhaps they were silenced after effecting the woman’s escape. And if men of the High Admiral’s bodyguard took gold to aid in his death…well, that scandal could do more harm than the old fool’s murder.”
“Be that as it may, my lord, the other does not make sense. I understand that the wazam of Vendhya is in Aghrapur to negotiate a treaty with King Yildiz. Surely the King of Vendhya would not countenance an assassination while his chief counselor was in our capital, in our very hands. And if he did, why the High Admiral? The King’s death would create turmoil, while the prince’s creates only anger toward Vendhya.”
“The King’s death by a Vendhyan assassin would also create war with Vendhya,” Khalid said dryly, “while Tureg Amal’s…” He shrugged. “I do not know the why of it, my boy, but Vendhyans suck intrigue with their mothers’ milk and do nothing without a purpose, usually nefarious. As for the wazam, Karim Singh sailed from Aghrapur yesterday. And the treaty? I was suspicious of it before, now I am doubly so. Less than five years ago they nearly went to war with us over their claims to Secunderam. Now, without a protest, the wazam puts his seal on a treaty that does not so much as mention that city. And one that favors Turan on several other points, as well. I had thought they sought to lull us while they prepared some stroke. Now I no longer know what to think.” He began to roll the tip of his beard between his thumb and forefinger, the greatest outward sign of inner turmoil that he ever showed.
Reluctantly Jelal felt the puzzle catching at him, as it so often had before. The desire to return to soldiering was still there but pushed to the back of his mind. For the moment. “What can I do, my lord?” he asked at last. “The Vendhyan assassin is surely no longer in the city.”
“That is true,” the spy master replied, and his voice hardened as he spoke. “But I want answers. I need them. The King depends on me for them. What is Vendhya up to? Are we to expect a war? Captain Murad’s death may lead to some answers. Use the contacts you have made with the lawless underside of Sultanapur. Find a trail to the answers I need and follow it all the way to Vendhya if you must. But bring me the answers.”
“I will, my lord,” Jelal promised. But to himself he promised that this was the last time. Whether he was returned to the Ibari Scouts or not, after this one last puzzle, he would be a spy no more.