Free In the Shadow of Swords by Val Gunn Page B

ARE YOU?”
    Marin studied the man with the strange offering.
    “My name is Nabeel Khoury,” he said.
    “And why do you trespass on my rite?”
    Khoury hesitated, and then sighed. “It is a long tale—and one that I must tell you, Marin Altaïr.”
    “How do you know my name?” she asked. “And how did you find me here?”
    “It is my business to know many things.” Khoury made a gesture of apology at Marin’s glare. “Ah… the timing of my presence is suspect, I admit, but I knew of no other moment when I would find you alone. Away from eyes that spy from afar—whether you know of them or not. You are not safe. Not here. Not anywhere.”
    Marin rose to her feet, stifling a grimace at the stiffness in her legs after kneeling for so long. “A woman I am, but most capable,” she said, staring into the man’s face. “This I can assure you, Nabeel Khoury.”
    Khoury gave her a polite smile. “Hiril Altaïr was even more capable than you, my good lady, and he is dead nonetheless.”
    Marin bristled. “As if I am unaware!” She picked up the silver vase from the floor and shook it in his face. “Who are you to follow me into the hills, interfere with my pilgrimage, and warn me of phantom dangers?”
    “I am the Rais of—” Khoury began.
    “So? How does this concern me?” she demanded, her anger cutting his words short.
    “May peace be with you, my good lady,” he said quickly. “I did not come here to anger you. Hear me out, I beg you.”
    Marin breathed in and out, mastering her anger. “I am listening.”
    “I come from Havar—and I bring you proof of the danger that follows you.”
    “Havar?” The word caught in Marin’s throat. The place where Hiril had been murdered.
    “Yes, Havar. As I told you, I am the Rais of the sheikdom, and…” Khoury faltered.
    “And?”
    “I watched your husband die.”
    15
    AN ECHOING roar filled Marin’s head, louder than any waterfall.
    “You… let him die?”
    “Yes.”
    “And did nothing to stop it?”
    Khoury lowered his eyes, his face burning with shame. “I did nothing,” he whispered.
    Marin’s hand whipped forward, smashing him in the head with the silver urn. Khoury cried out and fell, the books scattering across the floor. She stared down at him, her chest heaving, thinking to kick his ribs until they broke and pierced his heart, or maybe to crush his throat with her foot.
    Instead, she paced back and forth across the shrine, channeling her rage into each step. Of course she knew many ways to kill without a weapon, but this man was a witness to Hiril’s murder, whatever role he had played—or had refrained from playing. Suppressing her urge to commit murder, she relaxed her grip on the urn, scooped a little water from the nearest channel, and splashed it on Khoury’s face.
    “Wake up and speak to me, Rais.” Marin’s voice was cold and level.
    He sat up, grimacing. He touched his left cheek, sucked in a pained breath, and stared at his fingers.
    “No blood,” Marin told him, “but by tomorrow you will see a glorious bruise.” She shook her head and gave him a mocking grin.
    “I deserved nothing less,” said Khoury in a low voice. “I am a coward.”
    “And yet you command the city guard of Havar? And does the sheikh know that you stand about doing nothing while men are murdered before your eyes?”
    “When he so orders it.”
    Marin stared at him. “He… ordered my husband’s death?”
    “No. It was others. Those who are much more powerful than he.”
    Khoury hung his head once more, and Marin briefly considered striking him again. But there was more she needed to know.
    “Very well, then. You were ordered to stand and watch. Who was his murderer?”
    The man shook his head sadly. “Ciris Sarn.”
    Khoury’s voice was quiet, but the words bit deep. Marin knew the name. Everyone did. Sarn had grown into a legend that haunted people’s dreams. He was the most feared assassin in Mir’aj.
    “Ciris Sarn murdered Hiril?”