Chapter 3

A djinn awoke in a dimly lit, cavernous chamber. Sitting up and looking around him, he could barely make out tall marble columns reflecting the orange light of glowing flame off their polished surface. The handsome djinn had no idea where he was and no recollection of how he got here. He had no recollection of anything, in fact, and felt his head to see if there was a lump on it.

“Where am I?” he asked rhetorically, more to hear the sound of his voice in the shadowy darkness than because he expected an answer.

An answer was returned, however.

“You are in the Temple of Death in the city of Serinda.”

Startled, the djinn glanced quickly around and saw the figure of a woman clad in white standing over him. She was beautiful, her marblesmooth face reflecting the flame in the same manner as the towering columns. Despite her beauty, the djinn shivered when she approached. It may have been some trick of the indistinct light, but the djinn could have sworn there was something strange about the woman’s eyes.

“How did I get here?” the djinn asked, still feeling his head for swellings or bruises.

“You don’t remember.”

“No, I don’t remember. . . much of anything.”

“I see. Well, your name is Sond. Does that sound familiar?” Yes, the djinn thought, that seemed right. He nodded gingerly, expecting his head to hurt. It didn’t.

“You are an assassin—a skilled one. Your price is high. Few can afford you. But one did. A king. He paid you quite handsomely to kill a young man.”

“A king shouldn’t have to hire an assassin,” said Sond, rising slowly to his feet and staring at the woman suspiciously. What was there about her eyes?

“He does when the killing must be kept secret from everyone in court, even the queen. He does when the person to be assassinated is his own son!”

“His son?”

“The king discovered the boy plotting to overthrow him. The king dares not confront his son openly, or the boy’s mother would side with him, and she has her own army, powerful enough to split the kingdom. The king hired you to assassinate the young man; then he will spread the news that it was done by a neighboring kingdom, an enemy.

“You tracked your quarry to this city, Serinda. He stays in an arwat not far from here. But beware, Sond, for the young man is aware of you. Last night, you were attacked by his men who beat you and left you for dead. Some citizens found you and brought you to the Temple of Death, but you recovered, with my help.”

“Thank you,” said Sond warily. He moved nearer the woman, trying to see her more dearly, but she stepped back into a shadow.

“Your thanks are not required. Does any of this bring back memories?”

“Yes, it does,” Sond admitted, though it seemed to him more like a story he’d once heard a meddah relate than something that had happened to him. “How do you know—”

“You spoke of it in your delirium. Do not worry, it is not unusual for memories to flee a person’s mind, especially when they have taken such a brutal beating.”

Now that she spoke of it, Sond did feel pain in his body. He could almost see the faces of his attackers, the sticks they carried raining blows down upon his body while the young man whom they served stood looking on, smiling.

Anger stirred in his heart. “I must complete my mission, for the honor of my profession,” he said, feeling for the dagger in the sash at his waist, his hand dosing reassuringly over the hilt. “Where did you say he was staying?”

“In the arwat the next street over to the north. It has no name, but you can tell it by the lovely girls who dance on the balconies in the moonlight. When you enter, ask the proprietor to show you the room of a young man who calls himself Pukah.”

“His guards?”

“He believes you to be dead, imagines himself safe. You will find him alone, unprotected.” In her hand the woman held an amulet, swinging it by its chain.

Sond paid scant attention to the jewel. Eager to get on with his work, his memories growing clearer and more vivid by the moment, he looked about for an exit.

“There.” The woman pointed, and Sond saw moonlight and heard faint sounds of a city at night.

He hurried forward, then stopped, turning. “I am in your debt,” he said. “What is your name?”

“One you know in your heart. One you will hear again and again,” said the woman, and her lips spread over her teeth in a grin.

Sond had no trouble finding the arwat. A huge crowd was gathered outside to watch the girls dancing on the balcony. This Serinda was a lusty, brawling city, apparently. If Sond was at all worried about how the murder of a Prince might be viewed here, his fears were quickly eased. Life was cheap in Serinda, to judge by what he glimpsed in dark alleyways as he made his way through the streets. With only a glance at the dancing girls, one of whom seemed vaguely familiar, Sond entered the inn.

He found the proprietor—a short, fat man, who glanced at him and nodded in recognition, though Sond couldn’t recall ever having seen him before.

“I am looking for a man called Pukah,” said Sond in a low undertone. The woman had said the Prince’s guards would not be about, but it never hurt to be cautious.

The rabat-bashi burst into wheezing, gasping laughter, and Sond glared at him angrily. “Shut up! What is so funny?”

“A small joke just occurred to me,” said the proprietor, wiping his streaming eyes. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. A pity, too. Don’t glower so and keep your knife where it is, or you’ll regret it, friend.” Steel flashed in the proprietor’s hand. He could move fast, it seemed, for one so round. “Your man is upstairs, second door to the left. You’ll need a key.” Knife in one hand, he fumbled at a ring at his waist with the other. “Sure you don’t want to wait until sunrise?”

“Why should I?” Sond asked impatiently, snatching the key from the man’s hand.

“No reason.” The rabat-bashi shrugged. “You know your business, I guess. He was with a woman—a beauty, too. But she left some time ago. I’ll wager you’ll find him sleeping like a babe after his. . . um . . . exertions.”

Scowling, Sond didn’t wait to hear anymore but ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Pausing outside the door, he laid his ear to the keyhole, but it was futile to attempt to hear anything above the wailing of the music and the howls of the crowd outside. Ah, well, the noise would muffle any sound—such as a scream.

Quickly, Sond inserted the key, heard the lock click, and silently pushed open the door. The curtains were closed; he could see only a dark shape lying on white sheets. Padding softly across the floor, the djinn opened the curtains a crack, allowing moonlight to spill through and shine upon the figure in the bed. He wouldn’t want to kill the wrong man by mistake.

But this was his man, he was sure of it. Young, with a thin, pointedchinned face and an expression on his countenance indicating that—even in sleep—he thought very well of himself. Though Sond couldn’t say he recognized the face, that smug, selfsatisfied look evoked a response—a highly unpleasant one.

Drawing his dagger, Sond crept over to the bed where Pukah lay, apparently in deep slumber. To his consternation, however, the young man’s eyes suddenly opened wide.

The dagger’s blade gleamed in the moonlight. There was no mistaking the murderous intent on Sond’s face. He gripped the dagger in his sweating palm and prepared to fight.

But the young man lay in bed, staring at him with an odd expression—one of sorrow.

“Pukah?” questioned Sond grimly.

“Yes,” replied the young man, and there was a tremor in the voice as of one who holds very tightly to courage.

“You know why I am here.”

“Yes.” The voice was faint.

“Then you know that I bear you no malice. I am but the hand at the end of another’s arm. Your vengeful spirit will not seek me, but the man who paid me?”

Pukah nodded. It was obvious he could not reply. Rolling over on his stomach, he hid his face in the pillow, gripped it with both hands. His body was covered with sweat, he quivered, his lips trembled.

Sond stood over him, looking down at him, contemptuous of his victim’s fear. Lifting the dagger, the djinn drove it to the hilt between Pukah’s shoulder blades.