In the Shadow of Swords by Val Gunn

Marin sat on the floor next to Khoury. “But why would he do that?”
    Khoury turned and made a sweeping gesture at the ancient relics scattered about the shrine’s polished floor.
    “For these.”
    16
    MARIN DID not wait.
    She sailed aboard the same ship on which she’d traveled east, booking the westward passage only an hour before it cast off for the return to Cievv. The purser had warned of storms, but Marin simply smiled.
    The sailors were amazed by the change in her. Now she spoke with them, asking informed questions about open-water navigation and seeking news from faraway places. She did, however, keep her emotional distance and refuse to answer any personal inquiries.
    Marin was on her way to Ruinart; she must now seek answers of her own. Although she’d hardly expected to discover her indirect connection to the dreaded assassin Ciris Sarn at the shrine of Sey’r an-Shal, it was better than no answer at all.
    It was much better, in fact. The books she now possessed had changed everything. Nabeel Khoury was an honorable man—in his own way—and Marin knew this now. She owed him nothing less, despite his role in Hiril’s death. After this year of mourning, his revelations gave her a purpose.
    Vengeance.
    Yet her vengeance needed a strategy.
    Marin thought about this as the promised storm hit them shortly after they cleared Rimmn Island, as the ship bucked like a frightened horse, as the lantern swung crazily and spun shadows across the walls of her cabin. Her strategy must begin with the spymaster who had sent her husband on that last fatal mission. Ilss Cencova was a good man, shrewd and difficult to fool. He would surely want to know why she asked after Rassan Majalis’ secrets. What could she tell him? She had a stormy ocean voyage to think about it, and she would need the time. Few widowssought the answers she wanted, and few widows rode with the Four Banners and struck fear into enemies’ hearts. And, if Khoury was right, no one in all of Mir’aj possessed anything like what she carried in her cloak.
    The four books.
    What were these four books? She had to discover that, and whether they could help her destroy Ciris Sarn. She would have to do everything in her power, even if it meant playing false with those she trusted and respected.
    In another lifetime, lying would have outraged her honor. But now it was just another arrow in her quiver, another means to an end.
    Deception often hurt. Sometimes it killed.
    Well, what of it?
    She’d seen worse.

Part Three

    A HUNDRED SORROWS
    5.5.792 SC

1
    EVERYONE HAS SECRETS.
    Pavanan Munif knew this to be true. Today his secret had taken him away once more. A man like him didn’t just wander into al-Naffaq—the Pit. No one did. At least not willingly. Munif was lured here, driven by a hunger over which he had little control.
    Affyram .
    His one vice.
    His demon.
    But he wasn’t alone. Saffan had his boys. Dassai his whores. Malek too, and the Sultan. Munif was privy to them all.
    Chased from his high tower in the casbah , Munif found himself again in familiar surroundings. At least he was getting better. In the past, when his habit had ruled his every waking moment, he’d practically lived down here. Now, Munif had weaned himself to just once a week.
    Munif was tall. More than six feet, as most southerners were. His father was from the Kingdom, his mother was Rajani, born in Jaisvaran before emigrating to Qatana with her family. Munif’s hair was dark brown, streaked with gray. He had penetrating green eyes and a hawkish nose. His prominent cheekbones were high, and his lips were thin. His almond eyes and honey-colored skin hinted of his mother. Ten years earlier he’d been rakish, but age and affyram had taken their toll. Still, Munif was a match for almost anyone and, despite his thirty-seven years—and his demon—he kept himself in formidable condition.
    Munif was chief of the Jassaj agents in Riyyal, under the command of the Sultan himself. He