The Master of Izindi

By Dave Wallace

When young Zafir of Sakkara witnesses a political murder he must flee, to the only safe haven he can, the Monastery of Izindi. There he will master the skills that he will need to claim revenge, if the Masters of Izindi, dragons, djins, Gods, and Demons don't kill him first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave Wallace
• Release date: Jan 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465965011

Dave Wallace

I'm the son of F.L. Wallace, a sci-fi/mystery writer of the 1950s. The Master of Izindi is my first novel, with another fantasy novel tentatively titled "The Dark Place" on the way.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Master Storm

Zafir blinked as a lightning bolt rent the sky over Sakkara, then he edged nearer to the side of the street, where the crowds were thinner, and escape would be easier. It was the very end of the monsoon season that made its yearly appearance from the neighboring country of Ankou; a day where rain threatened, but had not yet fallen, leaving the air heavy with moisture and anticipation.

As he scanned the crowd, looking for an easy mark, Zafir dismissed the thought of rain. From his perspective, rain wouldn’t make much difference. Looking up at the sudden blare of trumpets from his place at the edge of the procession, he could just see the flags of the seventy-first Emir bobbing up and down.

He considered; then rejected one of the officers of the Guard who was standing just on the edge of the crowd. The man was armed, and like most of the Guard, on edge after the old Emir’s death.

The mood of the crowd was also dark; for the Emir was especially beloved, and his son looked upon with disfavor. Zafir considered going to the dock to scrounge a fish or two from the early morning catch. He dropped that idea for now, as he caught sight of a traveling merchant gawking at the funeral procession.

Zafir tailed the man for a bit, before deciding against trying to pick his pocket. The man was just too big, and Zafir imagined he saw a pair of bodyguards walking several steps behind. He couldn’t quite tell if they were connected to the merchant, but decided the risk was too great.

A low murmur from the crowd again caught Zafir’s attention. The Emir’s honor guard passed by close to Zafir, riding magnificent black stallions. He caught a few snippets of what he knew to be seditious talk from the center of the crowd, and grimaced. While he understood the mood of the crowd, he knew how dangerous such talk was, especially today, in front of the Guard.

A few of the officers on horseback heard the talk as well, and carefully looked through the crowd, trying to identify the guilty parties. That task proved futile, however, for the murmurs immediately ceased. Most of the crowd found the circumstances of the Emir’s death to be highly suspicious, but they had enough sense to keep quiet when confronted by armed men now loyal to the new Emir.

For Zafir’s part, he hardly cared. He arranged the ragged clothing covering his body as best he could against the chill of the early morning desert air, just as trumpets sounded once again, clear and loud in the heavy air. Another thunderclap drowned out the last note of the trumpets, and Zafir edged away from the procession.

He smiled then; the streets were crowded, but not so crowded as to prevent his escape. It was perfect, for the crowds would provide him with some cover, and a chance to disappear.

He scanned the crowd once again. The likely marks were either too well protected, or not worth the effort, and Zafir’s belly was beginning to protest his lack of success

In his ninth summer, Zafir was tall and strong for his age, and very quick. A shock of black hair framed a face browned by the desert sun, and poor rags clothed him. In short, he was very much like the other children who frequented the Market as thieves, a lack of distinction that served to his advantage when it came time to disappear after stealing a purse filled with coin. Quick with the polyglot patois of the street children, a mixture of the Empire’s tongue, and that of Ankou, he had a practiced hand at both learning secrets, for which he could sometimes receive a large, (to his mind), bonus; and at relieving careless parties of their excess money. Yet for all that, he never retained any reserve, spending his earnings as quickly as he made them.

After a few more minutes of searching, he at last saw his chance. It was a priest of one of the many religious orders in the Empire, one he couldn’t identify. He frowned briefly, for the vast bulk of humanity passed through the City, and even sometimes those who were not human. In his time, he had seen every sort of man he thought existed. Mentally he shrugged, dismissing the thought. If it were important, he would learn what order the man belonged to later.

He watched the priest as he walked through the crowd in the rainy streets of the Market. The Emir’s funeral procession was almost past. Only the casket and the Emir’s family remained.

The priest stopped as they went by; the dead Emir carried in his casket on a fine carriage of Ankouan hardwoods, while his family rode fine white horses with flowing manes. The new Emir, so distrusted by the populace, rode by on a huge white stallion, with an expressionless face staring straight ahead, never wavering. The dead man’s wife rode side-saddle on a small white mare, her veil covering a tear stained face. The two daughters rode alongside their husbands, openly displaying their grief.

The priest bowed in respect as the Emir’s casket passed, and muttered a small prayer for his family. Zafir couldn’t quite make out what he said.

The priest’s saffron edged white desert robes he wore didn’t belong to any of the more common orders, and no order that Zafir had ever heard of would permit the carrying of a sword. The sword itself seemed too finely wrought for a man of supposed priestly vows of poverty, a single edged straight sword with a small hilt inlaid with gold, in an Izmiri style transparent reed sheath. Characters from a language Zafir had never seen before ran the length of the blade. A turban of the finest white linen covered the priest’s head, and he wore light tan boots of the finest leather. All in all, Zafir thought, the priest smelled of money.

A perfect target, he thought. All he needed was a good opportunity.

The priest then left the procession route and wandered deeper into the market, looking about as he did so, with Zafir following at a discreet distance.

Zafir walked slowly by the stall of a seller of exotic fruit from the Warring States to the east of Ankou, and paused, pretending to examine a large melon, while watching the priest out of the corner of his eye. The priest paused at the wooden door to one of the many whitewashed buildings that lined the city wall at the edge of the Market. They were usually high-class shops where the wealthy purchased luxuries from foreign lands. This one had a sign with a picture of a book with the script of the Empire on its cover. It was a bookseller, or a magician’s shop, Zafir thought, for he did not know the owner of the place. The priest stared for a long time at the sign on the shop before shaking his head regretfully and moving on, deeper into the Market. Zafir put the melon down under the watchful eye of the fruit seller, and walked over to the shop that had fascinated the priest so. Try as he might, Zafir could see nothing unusual about the shop.

The priest was starting to get too far ahead. Zafir hurried after, keeping close to the various stalls that filled the street in an effort to remain unseen by his quarry.

Rounding a corner, he found the priest nowhere in sight. Disappointment gripped him momentarily before he composed himself and thought to look down the side streets and alleys the priest might have turned down. The first two streets were crowded, but neither his priest nor any other likely target presented themselves. That left an alley and one last lonely street as the only places his priest could have gone.

Poking his head into the alley cautiously, Zafir caught a glimpse of a priestly robe rounding a bend in the alley far ahead. He hesitated for a moment, not sure he wanted to confront the priest in such a lonely setting and give away his only advantage, then hunger won out over common sense, and he plunged into the alley, hurrying to make up the gap.

The alley was narrow and dark, over-topped by high brick buildings with narrow and strong wooden doors here and there throughout, all shut tightly. Not a soul was in sight. As he neared the bend, Zafir heard the sounds of an argument. Cautiously, he approached the bend, his intention to merely mark where the priest was going, and follow him to a more populated spot.

He listened intently as the argument grew more fierce. He frowned and moved closer, right to the corner.

You might as well tell us, priest, here and now, or later, in the Emir’s dungeons. It makes no difference to us, though it might to you, said a husky voice with a bit of a chuckle at the end.

Zafir froze at the mention of the Emir’s dungeons. He now desperately wished he had not chosen to go down the alley.

Another voice sounded now, clearer and just as confident as the first. Does the Emir, long life upon him, know that you are harassing harmless priests? it asked mildly.

A laugh, short and harsh followed. Harmless? the first voice asked mockingly. Who do you think ordered us to this, priest?

Just let’s kill him and get it done with, weighed in a third voice impatiently.

No, not until we know if he’s made his contact yet, responded the first voice. You know our orders, or would you like to be the one to tell the Commander we disobeyed, or worse, the Emir himself?

An audible gulp came, followed by an unintelligible mumble. Not, I thought not, responded the first voice.

All this talk of killing and torturing is distressing and unnecessary. I can assure you honored sergeant, I would tell you what you wish to know if I had any idea what you are talking about, continued the second voice in a reasonable tone.

Zafir risked a look around the corner. There, standing between five members of the Emir’s personal Guard, was a slight young man dressed in desert robes and a rather battered looking turban. A walking stick rested loosely in his right hand, and he appeared at ease. While he was not the priest he had followed, he dressed in a similar manner, though not quite the same.

The Guardsmen were facing away from Zafir, but the object of their attention cast a fleeting glance at him. He gleaned a look of warning from the priest combined with resignation in that brief glance, then the man moved.

It happened too fast for Zafir to see, and caught the Guardsmen off balance. With one flashing arc, the end of the staff hit the closest Guardsman in the temple, dropping him like a stone, then rebounded back, so that the opposite end found the groin of the largest Guardsman.

A sword then point appeared in the young man’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. A look of surprise appeared on his face, then blood emerged from his mouth in a thin trickle. Run, boy, he said as he fell heavily to the ground. At the same time, the big Guardsman who had been hit in the groin pointed shakily to Zafir, and the Guardsmen left standing ran towards him, naked swords in hand.

For his part Zafir had turned and ran almost before the young man hit the ground, heart pounding but head clear as he ran back down the alley and out onto the street, the sound of running feet close behind.

Emerging onto the street, Zafir dodged through the crowd, occasionally hitting someone, working his way to a warren of crisscrossing alleys known locally and informally as the Wizard’s Quarter, for the concentration of wizards and sorcerers who made their living there. To those who did not know it as Zafir did, it was a bewildering maze that seemed to defy logic, which it in fact did, helped along by a great spell cast by the inhabitants meant to keep would-be shoppers in the Quarter as long as possible.

It soon became apparent that his pursuers did not know the Wizard’s Quarter nearly as well, for the sounds of running fell off behind him, and then stopped altogether. Zafir came to a stop outside a little shop where the love-struck or the vengeance minded could buy charms or curses. The proprietor, a tall woman named Alima stepped out of her shop and looked curiously at the panting Zafir.

Pick the wrong mark? she asked with a slightly amused tone.

Zafir shook his head, for he knew her fairly well, and found her to be one of his few friends, which was in fact why he had headed this way, in hopes that she might hide him. Worse than that. Much worse, he said when he finally caught his breath.

He haltingly recounted his tale, all the while looking warily around, half expecting the Guardsmen to appear out of nowhere. As he progressed, Alima’s face grew more serious until she interrupted him, beckoning him into her shop.

Come on, get off the street, she said urgently, looking around with as much fear as Zafir himself. She pulled him into her shop and closed the shutters.

He had known Alima for most of his young life, first making her acquaintance after a failed robbery of her store. Astonishingly, (to him at least), she did not turn him into the Guard, or equally unpleasantly, turn him into a frog. She had merely laughed and given him a few small coins, then dismissed him with a warning to be more careful next time; a warning he took to heart ever after—-at least until now.

Alima was perhaps not yet thirty, pleasant looking rather than beautiful, and possessed of entirely too kind a heart for both the business she was in, and for the city itself. Over the years, she had taught Zafir minor tricks useful in his business; no real magic, more simple tricks and misdirection, and Zafir in his turn had grown to trust, and in his own way, even love the young woman for her kindness and friendship.

Now she looked at him with some exasperation mixed with fear. For the first time he noticed tiny lines under her eyes, and a few gray hairs in-artfully hidden. You’ve really gotten yourself into it this time, haven’t you? Those were the new Emir’s men, Zafir; they won’t stop tracking you until you’re dead, she said in a shaky voice. Worse, they would kill me if they found I helped you.

I’m sorry, Zafir said in a small voice. I didn’t think. I should leave, he continued, making for the back door.

Alima grabbed his wrist and stopped him, fear replaced by concern for the boy. You aren’t going out there looking like that, she said staring at him with a critical eye. They’ll have had a sorcerer put your face into the heads of a hundred Guardsmen by now, or soon after, and you won’t stand a chance of leaving the City without a disguise.

She nodded her head sadly when Zafir started at the mention of leaving the city. I’m afraid there’s nothing for it, Zafir, she said. No disguise will withstand the forces the Emir can bring to bear to hunt you for long, only long enough perhaps to see you out of the City. I don’t know what you stumbled onto, boy, but it is apparent they will kill to keep their secret.

Zafir sank down into a crouch, stunned. I hadn’t thought what to do beyond outrunning them. He looked at her without much hope. What can I do? The City is all I know.

Alima rummaged through a small wooden chest she dragged out from under a shelf, finding what she wanted, a change of clothes and a small pair of silver scissors. It won’t be that bad, she said reassuringly. I’ve done this before for others on occasion. When you get outside the Gate, bear toward the coast, then follow it North, toward Izmir. It is a fair distance, but if you make haste, and I would advise that you do, you can make the village of Al-Adibiyah, where I was born. My brother lives there and will give you shelter and a job helping him fish; for I will write a letter entreating him to do so. But now, we shall change your appearance so that you may pass through the City and through the Gates unremarked on.

She put words to action then, first cutting his hair short, in the style of the coast, then bidding him change his clothes for the altogether finer set she laid out before him. Heeding the sense of her words, Zafir changed his garments, and Alima went into the back of her shop, and brought back a small case.

She produced a bottle out of the case, I will give you a scar high on your cheek, that will draw the attention of any who look closely at you, but not of those who only glance. It should serve to convince any Guardsman who hasn’t yet gotten your face from the Emir’s Sorcerer that you are not the one they seek.

Zafir sat impatiently while she applied the liquid from the bottle, and waited until it dried, building the scar up layer by layer.

Stop squirming! she admonished him. I know you’re scared, and need to be off very soon, but this takes time. Time spent now will equal less trouble later. She looked him in the eye. Unless you wish to encounter the odd observant Guard who connects you with the boy they want?

Zafir shook his head numbly. He endured the rest of the procedure without complaint, until at last Alima finished, and produced a polished bronze mirror. Zafir gazed in wonder at the face that stared back at him; just different enough from his normal looks that pursuers might well be fooled.

It’s the scar that does the trick, he observed.

Alima smiled. Something I learned a long time ago from a traveling mendicant. Now we need to get you out of the city, and on your way to my brother. I will go with you, for the guards are like as not looking for a lone boy; together we should not attract attention.

Zafir tried to argue, but Alima would have none of it. Just by helping you, I’ve already put my neck in the same noose; it would be better for me if you weren’t caught—the Emir’s Sorcerer can make anyone talk.

Zafir shivered a bit at the mention of the Sorcerer, and agreed. It shall be as you say, dear Alima, for I have no desire to see that man in the dungeons of the Emir, and less still for you to see him there.

Just so, Alima said. Now remember, if we are stopped, we are brother and sister, and I am a weaver. We are on our way to Ankou for silks for my shop. That will take their minds away from our true destination. Your name is Zaim, and mine is Zinda—-for I do not wish any of them to identify me in any way later.

Zafir nodded, for these seemed to him good precautions to take, and Alima grabbed a veil and led him out the back of the shop, through shelves of intriguing goods from the far reaches of the Empire. As they walked out onto the street, Zafir looked quickly around, for his world had changed. The streets which, if not entirely friendly before, had been at least his own personal kingdom. Now they seemed unfriendly and dangerous. Every face masked a potential enemy, every hand hidden under a cloak could conceal a weapon.

But his quick glance satisfied him, for there were no Guards in sight. Only the usual denizens of the Wizard’s Quarter were out and about in the heat of mid-day. Zafir noted with satisfaction that Alima knew enough to stay off the side-streets and alleys, and keep to the crowded main road through the Wizard’s quarter, the better to avoid undue scrutiny. It was a trade-off, he knew, for they were more likely to encounter Guards on the main streets, but less likely to attract suspicion.

Still the first time they spotted Guards patrolling, Zafir and Alima both tensed, then relaxed as they remembered they were unlikely to be singled out. Indeed, Zafir let out a tiny sigh of relief as the Guard’s gaze passed over them without a second thought.

It worked just that way until they reached the Street of Iron, where the iron-mongers held shop. There, just outside of the Red Camel Inn, a place Zafir had robbed several months ago in the dead of night, an especially alert Guard stopped them.

Name and business? he demanded of Alima while looking hard at Zafir.

Zinda, weaver by trade, and my little brother Zaim, on a trip to Ankou for silk, she said easily in a voice pitched lower than normal.

The Guard looked to her, and Zafir gave an almost imperceptible smile; she was playing her part well. You are joining a caravan? the Guard asked.

Yes, she nodded. The mid-day caravan at the South Gate.

The Guard stared at her for a long few seconds, then nodded. You had best hurry, for they should leave soon.

My thanks, good sir, and may the blessings of Ardan be upon you.

Zafir relaxed, and Alima motioned him forward when a loud and commanding voice cried: Stop!

Chapter 2: The Priest’s Mission

The priest wandered through the streets of the Market almost aimlessly, occasionally pausing to talk to the owners of the stalls, or to some of the many people who filled the streets. The priest was tall and dressed not unlike the man Zafir had seen killed, but in a somewhat richer fashion, and his head was bare, having put away his turban. Had the Guardsmen who accosted the other priest laid eyes on him, they would not immediately have made the connection between the two, noting only that they both wore the robes of those who traveled much in the desert. Which of course also described half the merchants and itinerant priests in the City. The sharper eyed among among the Guardsmen would have noted the fine transparent reed sheath his sword rode in, or indeed the strange markings on the sword just visible when the light hit the sheath just so.

They might have noted the calm, confident way he walked, in spite of his apparent lack of a goal, or the minute signs of an ever-present alertness highlighted on his tanned face. He was a man of younger middle years, and piercing eyes, yet with a kind glance that nevertheless held a reserve of steel. All in all, they might have reckoned, rightly as it turned out, that he was a man to be taken account of, a man of some importance and more than a little power.

That he was a priest was not readily apparent. Unlike some of the orders bound to Sakarra, his did not wear any particularly distinguishing garb, and he wasn’t one of the poorer mendicants who carried the begging bowl that marked them as holy men.

At this juncture, the priest was beginning to get worried, though it did not show on his face. His contact, (the younger priest, now deceased), was overdue at the agreed upon meeting place, and none of the places their order used for leaving one another messages had been touched. He knew the younger priest to be a capable member of their order, but he was as yet inexperienced in using the skills commonly taught to members of his rank outside of the Monastery. And the older man knew the new Emir to be a ruthless and capable man, as indeed was the Sultan of Ankou, the other who might have done his contact harm.

Indeed, he strongly suspected the new Emir was responsible for the death of his own father, though he could prove nothing. Despite the views of the Abbott of the Order of Izindi, the priest had his own suspicions on just who had helped arrange the murder of the old Emir. With the stakes that high, the priest was inclined to begin to believe his younger comrade had met an ill fate, and he was starting to think a hasty retreat from the City might be in order.

As he turned a corner into the edge of the Wizard’s Quarter, he heard a shout.

Chapter 3: The Emir and the Sorcerer

The new Emir of Sakkara sat behind his desk in his study in the palace. He was a large burly man, with a neatly trimmed beard and a cruel face. Ice cold eyes were framed by jet black eyebrows, and gazed coldly at the Guard Captain who stood nervously before him. I presume the matter we discussed is concluded, Captain? the Emir asked in an even tone.

The Captain cleared his throat nervously. "The spy was indeed caught, your Lordship, in an empty alleyway near the Wizard’s Quarter, according to my men.

They attempted to interrogate him on the spot, when they were interrupted by a street urchin. The priest attacked them, we think to allow his contact to escape, and they were forced to kill him."

The Emir looked impassively at the Captain for a moment, and the Captain licked his lips nervously.

So, you don’t know if the priest actually made contact with this street urchin, or indeed if that was his contact? the Emir observed slowly in a quiet tone.

No, your Lordship, but my men gave chase immediately, said the now thoroughly unnerved Captain.

Gave chase? the Emir said precisely, mimicking the Captain’s tone. You mean you haven’t caught this boy—-it was a boy, was it not?

Yes, my Lord, it was a boy, and no, they have not yet caught them, the Captain acknowledged with a slight quaver in his voice.

And we still have no idea exactly what the priest learned?

No, my Lord.

A look of irritation crossed the Emir’s face, and he beckoned to the shadows behind him. A tall man with a wooden staff in his hands stepped forward, almost trailing the shadows behind him. The Captain gave an audible gulp, and took a reflexive step back, making a sign to avert evil.

None of that, Captain, said the man in a dry tone.

The Captain composed himself and stood at attention again.

I presume you’ve brought me some of the men who were there, Captain? the tall man asked.

The Captain nodded, tight-lipped, and motioned the two Guardsmen standing behind him forward. They came, faces rigid in fear. The tall man smiled and suddenly reached forward, touching both men’s temples. Sparks flew between his fingers and the men’s heads as they jerked about, unable to stand on their own, and yet unable to fall either. The tall man held that pose for a long moment, then withdrew his hands.

The sparks stopped, and the two Guardsmen dropped to the floor, stone dead.

You have it, Sorcerer? asked the Emir, ignoring the dead bodies, and the horrified look on the Captain’s face.

I do, my Lord, replied the Sorcerer. I can now disseminate the image of this boy to all the Guards in the City. And perhaps add some hunters of my own to the chase, if necessary.

Chapter 4: Leaving the City

The priest saw a boy, perhaps ten years or so of age, just a peasant from the looks of him, a street urchin no different from a thousand others, save perhaps for his eyes, even at this distance piercing, commanding a fierce presence. The boy was tall and dressed more finely than a street urchin ought, but the priest's trained eye saw through the clothes to the child underneath. Indeed, he saw further than he ought, further than Zafir himself ever had, to someone far nobler than the usual child of the streets.

The child seemed however to be in some little jeopardy, for a large Guard, and older man with a Sergeant's chevron on his vest, seemed likely to detain him. It was the Sergeant who had raised the cry. The young woman with the boy seemed likely to argue, though the priest could detect the worry and fear well concealed on her face.

A quick decision on the priest’s part, and the fortunes of the Empire changed forever. The priest found himself standing before the Sergeant and his men, ranged against the boy and the young woman, his feet having quite on their own accord, (or so the priest would later swear), having worked to deposit him in that unfriendliest of positions. The Sergeant, perpetually wary of such meetings, gave an unfriendly and intimidating look to the new arrival.

The priest for his part merely smiled gently at the Sergeant and his men. Might I inquire, my good sir, he asked politely of the Sergeant, Why you seem to be detaining my assistants here from their duties?

The Guardsman who first accosted Zafir and Alima asked You are weaver also?

The priest smiled whilst the Sergeant fumed silently, Yes, good sirs, and we intend to sell our goods in Ankou. For the priest had indeed correctly guessed that would be their story, as weavers commonly sold their goods back to Ankou in exchange for the raw silk and dyes to ply their trade, plus of course whatever profit they could take. In all, an inequitable arrangement, (for whichever side of the deal proved least skillful in bargaining), but a common one.

The Sergeant cleared his throat and glared at the man who had spoken, (who had the sense and grace to look quite abashed), before returning his attention to the priest. This is all very well and good, sir, but you have the look of a priest, rather than a weaver of cloth about you., and one of a martial bent, at that.

The priest smiled again, and inclined his head in acknowledgment, for the Sergeant was an old and wily man who had seen many things in his years of service to the Emirs of Sakarra, and been impressed by few of them—-his eyes missed little. This is true, my good sir, but weaving is the basis of my order, the order of Loket the Weaver God, who weaves the skein of our lives. We express ourselves through the arts of the sword, and here he nodded to the sword resting impatiently on his side, But the matter of our upkeep, and that of our Monastery, demands a practical means of support, which for us is weaving. I am one of those who rides the caravans to Ankou to sell our goods, which are currently resting with another of my Order outside the gates. These two, he said indicating Zafir and Alima, Are my apprentices, sent into the city to purchase supplies for the journey.

All of which was entirely plausible, and entirely untrue, but the Sergeant had no ready way of checking the matter without disrupting his post. In this, Zafir and Alima, and indeed the priest himself, were lucky, for the Sorcerer had not yet disseminated Zafir’s likeness to the Guards of the city, and only a general alarm existed at the sundry Guard posts throughout the city.

But at that time, all the Sergeant could do was to wave the unlikely trio on, which he did posthaste.

The priest cautioned Zafir and Alima to silence, with a single gesture, and they walked on toward the edge of the city. When they had gotten a fair distance from the group of Gaurdsmen, Alima turned to the priest and bowed slightly.

Our gratitude to you, worthy Master, she said in a low tone.

The priest nodded in return, then frowned slightly. It was a little thing, he said, also in a low tone so that curious onlookers would near nothing, Yet I would like to know just what sort of trouble you are in with them, for they are dangerous foes when roused and well-coordinated, which fortunately these did not yet seem to be.

Alima was set to give him a well-seeming lie when Zafir interrupted her with the truth, slightly varnished, but still substantially accurate: It was me that they were after, Honorable Master .

You? the Master inquired in amusement and some surprise. What did you do, cut the purse of the wrong merchant?

Zafir looked abashed, for it was a shrewd enough guess, and one that at any other time might have been well on the mark. No sir, I merely witnessed something I should perhaps have not, and for that I, and my friend, must it seems leave the City.

The Master smiled somewhat at the emphasis which implied the honorific to Sakkara, which while great and old, was not the great City of Izmir, traditionally the only city within the Empire itself accorded the honor. But he was more than a little curious now as to the nature of the boy’s offense, for he of course already had his suspicions as to the nature of his comrade’s absence. And just what was it that you witnessed, young man, that would compel the two of you to leave this fair city, which I suspect has been your home all of your life?

Zafir looked to Alima for guidance. She sighed and made a quick judgment. You might as well, Zafir, for he already knows far too much for our good, and yet does not seem like to do us harm.

Thereupon Zafir recounted his tale, describing the other priest as best he could, (and he did not in truth know that now deceased man to be a priest with any certainty, though he had his suspicions), the Master listening intently as he quietly guided them through the streets on to the Gates, all the while watching subtly for trouble.

At length, the Master bid Zafir to stop. This is indeed a dark business my young friends, for I know the man you described.

One of your Order, Master? Alima inquired.

Yes, the Master replied in a grim voice. A promising young man who never lived up to his potential. He buried his face in his hands for a brief instant, then recovered. Now he never will, snuffed out for the secrets of a man I believe to be unjust and tyrannical, and now likely treasonous.

Zafir shrugged, not unmindful of the priest’s real grief at the loss of his colleague, for that description would fit many men in the Empire. It was fast at least, Honorable Sir, he said consolingly.

The Master looked at Zafir with a sudden smile. For that at least I bear some comfort, he said ruefully. Yet we should discuss our next moves.

Our next moves? Alima asked.

The Master nodded. Indeed, for we all have reason to fear the Emir and his lackeys. You were wont to leave this city, as I understand it?

Zafir and Alima nodded.

A good plan, the Master said approvingly. I also take it that you had wit enough to go in an entirely different direction than the road to Ankou, as you told those Guards?

Of course, supplied Zafir, somewhat heatedly.

The Master smiled slightly. I meant no offense, young man, but I have learned it is best not to make assumptions—a lesson taught all of our students at an early age. He leaned close and spoke in a near whisper. Now then, this is how we shall proceed. We will make a few stops, quick as we can, for the general alarm, complete with your face in the mind of every Guardsman in the city, young man—-cannot be long in coming. But we are ill-prepared for a long journey through the desert, and that is the road we must take, you and I, young man, for those who hunt you will never stop until you are dead or safe, and the way to safety lies through the desert, at my monastery.

Zafir wasn’t keen at the mention of going to a monastery, where he imagined religious fervor competed with boredom and stern monks on a daily basis, but the mention of safety held a definite appeal.

He turned to Alima. As for you young lady, though your role seems to be only in helping him, I would think it best if you also left the city, whatever your original intent, for it should not take that Sergeant long to recall you face once the alarm is risen.

She nodded mutely in agreement, for she too had considered that.

Good, he said in approval. Then I suggest you keep to your original plan, which I assume was to take the coast road to one of the smaller villages.

Again she nodded. My home village lies on that road, I will be safe enough there.

Then we are settled, the priest said with satisfaction.

Zafir and Alima picked their way nervously through the crowd as they made their way to the City gates. Now and then, a Guardsman would come close to Zafir, and he would scream inside, as every part of him wanted to run, but he knew he had to endure, or be lost.

As they walked through the streets, Zafir peered suspiciously at every face. The Master appeared unworried, while Alima also managed a fair semblance of calm—though she was inwardly just as nervous as Zafir. They stopped at a stall on the Street of Flowers in the Merchant’s Quarter, and the Master haggled expertly over provisions, getting what Zafir knew to be a very good price.

The Master turned toward Zafir. We’ll leave through the Desert Gate, following the main road to Izmir for the first part of our journey, turning off at the fork near Harrow Mountain. It will be a two day journey over the Mountain to the Maze of Anthus.

Zafir paled. Both Harrow Mountain and the Maze of Anthus had an evil reputation. Travelers told tales of monsters and demons infesting the Maze, and ghosts inhabiting Harrow Mountain.

The Master noticed Zafir’s expression. "Yes, many of the tales are true, but we’ve no choice. The path we take is very lightly traveled, and it leads far away from any of the established roads. There is a