On the balcony, the Sultan stood side-by-side with Kadir, both with their arms crossed, but with identical grim expressions.

  The rebellious element of the Namar?nian army filled the broadway leading to the palace, side to side. They began advancing, their determined eyes determined fixed on the gates and their faces hidden. Tal Qarid, the firebrand, shrieked and cried out encouragement to them.

  A look of sadness overcame the Sultan's features.

  "So be it," he said. "We have given them the opportunity to turn aside. Kadir?"

  The bear-like soldier turned and barked an order. A dozen figures joined the Sultan on the balcony: pale men in black robes, each with a small red tattoo on their forehead.

  "The palace of the Sultan will forever remember the friendship and loyalty of the sanat-magi," Sultan Nurani said to them.

  "We do not do this for the Sultan or the palace," said one of the priests. "We do this for Baradon. For Namar?n. The gods weep at rebellion and disorder. We would restore things to their proper order."

  "Your words are honorable, as are your deeds," the Sultan said. "Let us correct these rebels."

  The approaching soldiers faltered for a moment, awed by the appearance of the sanat-magi.

  "Forward!" cried the Tal Qarid. "They are but a handful, and we are hundreds! They cannot stop the might of inevitability!" Slowly, the soldiers began moving forward again.

  "Now," said the Sultan quietly, "we shall see the conviction of these rebels."

  The sanat-magi began chanting. Some in high, flutey, sing-song voices, others in a low drone. One danced madly in place, gibbering and shrieking and flinging handfuls of powder from a bag at his waist off of the balcony.

  The gibbering priest reached a peak, and his muscles locked tight in mystic ecstasy. A wave of Power surged from him and washed over the oncoming soldiers.

  The advancing soldiers flinched as the Power prickled at their skin, raising the hairs on their arms and setting their teeth on edge. They glanced nervously at each other, but nothing was obviously wrong. Setting themselves, they continued marching forward.

  On one side of the crowd, one of the soldiers tripped, stumbled, and fell. Another turned to help him, and his spear slipped out of his hand. He tried to grab it, but his sash loosened, and his pants slid down.

  The gibbering priest made a shrieking sound, high and jagged, something like laughter, but there was no humor in it.

  Across the crowd, more soldiers fumbled, or stumbled, or crashed into each other. The advance nearly ground to a halt as a wave of clumsiness swept back and forth across the soldiers. The gibbering priest capered and shrieked his not-laughter.

  "Children's tricks!" screamed Tal Qarid. "This is their best defense? Advance! Advance!"

  "Cease while you can!" called the Sultan. "It is not too late to turn aside!"

  Yet the soldiers advanced. Slowly, and with numerous mishaps, they advanced. They were in the shadow of the palace now. The forest of spears lowered, leveled at the woefully slim line of palace guards in front of the gates.

  Kadir nodded to the sanat-magi.

  The droning priests raised their hands. Their drone grew louder, deeper, more inhuman. The wind rose, and their drone was carried aloft on it, out over the heads of the men, settling on the wind, settling on the soldiers.

  A soldier near the front twitched violently. His spear clattered to the ground. His eyes grew wide and round. He pulled out his dagger and sank it into the shoulder of the man next to him.

  The stricken soldier screamed in pain and sank to his knees. Throughout the crowd, other screams rose as those struck by the Power attacked everyone around them. The droning on the wind grew and shrank, pulsing in the ears of the rebels. More soldiers began attacking their fellows.

  Their orderly rows disintegrated as the soldiers began fighting back, attacking the maddened soldiers. Spears fell every direction as men dropped them to grapple with each other.

  "Firm your minds!" Tal Qarid cried. "Their whispers only affect the weak-willed! Attack! Attack and silence their spells!"

  Few were paying attention to the firebrand. The rebels dissolved into a disorganized melee as they battled among themselves. More than a few brutal fights blossomed between groups mistaking each other for the mad soldiers. The edges of the crowd frayed as some of the rebels began to slip away.

  The swirling chaos before the palace slowly calmed as the afflicted soldiers were brutally cut down. Many fought, many fell, and many more fled.

  Tal Qarid stared around at the ruin of his army, his face tight with fury. His expression twisted into a snarl as he took in the devastation: the twisted bodies, the blood running in the streets, and the vanishing backs of his soldiers.

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  The timing had been so perfect. The Sultan had been caught completely by surprise. The men were eager, hungry, struck by the thought of plundering the unspeakable wealth of the palace.

  And now his army was in tatters.

  His furious gaze turned to the row of black-robed men lined up on the balcony.

  Everything had been going swimmingly until the sanat-magi decided to interfere.

  "The priests!" he shrieked. "The evil priests defend this wicked Sultan! Kill them! Kill them and plunder the palace!"

  Tal Qarid's ranting got the men's eyes off the bodies of their companions and back on the palace. The remaining soldiers slowly picked up their spears and reorganized. Between the attacks of the madmen and the flight of those too frightened to continue, the army was holed through and thinned out. The soldiers that advanced now were grim, angry, and determined. Though they were far fewer, they still outnumbered the gate guards ten to one.

  The remnant advanced grimly, their eyes hungry. The guards at the palace gates lowered their spears at them.

  The Sultan glowered at the oncoming soldiers.

  "Those who would march forward to do their evil in the face of all reason and resistance will be destroyed utterly," the Sultan growled.

  Kadir signaled the sanat-magi again.

  The chanting priests, their voices high and flutey, began flicking their fingers toward the remnant. They danced and howled and sang.

  The frontline of advancing soldiers fell to the ground and began writhing. They gasped for breath, trying to scream. The breath seized within them, unable to escape through lungs that were flaying within their own bodies. Gurgling sounds floated up from them as the line of soldiers behind them fell to the ground as well.

  They clutched their throats and tore at their chests as they spasmed in pain. Without warning, flames shot from their mouths, escaping in a screaming whistle, screams that the soldiers could no longer make on their own. Fire erupted from their eyes and ears as they immolated from the inside out.

  Rank after rank fell as the Power of the sanat-magi took them. The Sultan stared down at them pitilessly from the balcony.

  "Rebels burn, as they should," he said flatly. "Let the world see the price of betrayal in Namar?n."

  Before the fourth rank had fallen, the rebel army broke completely. Men threw down their weapons and fled. Many tore off their sashes and tunics, flinging aside the garments that marked them as soldiers.

  Tal Qarid stood back, his face clenched with hate.

  "We'll be back!" he shrieked. "We will avenge our brethren! The Sultan will fall! Jahim will rule Baradon!"

  Then he, too, turned and fled, leaving behind the screaming of the wounded and the stillness of the dead.

  Several days later, Kadir walked slowly through the training hall. The air was still and musty; he hadn't been back here since the attack of the hashashim. Hadn't been back since he had trained the Shazedah.

  The room was dim, the sconces dark and cold. He took a brand and lit a few of the lamps on the wall. Clean, steady light filled the hall.

  Kadir took a stance in front of the striking stand. He smiled as he remembered the Shazedah spending hours here, strengthening her body against the bare wood. He struck: once, twice, thrice. The stand clattered as his fists hammered at the weathered wood.

  Kadir took a deep breath. Without warning, he hammered at the stand with a series of powerful blows. Fists, elbows, knees, and feet, he drove the heavy wooden stand back, scraping across the stone floor of the hall.

  Heaving, he stepped back. The familiar, welcome ache of hard contact pulsed through his limbs. His strength was returning, but it was a far cry from the power he'd had before the attack. His energy was thin. This brief exercise had drained him. Though his body wanted him to lean over and recover, he stood straight, forcing himself to stillness, even as he gasped breath through his nostrils.

  It would take a great deal of focused effort to restore himself. If he ever could.

  Kadir frowned thoughtfully and wandered away from the striking stand. He walked past the woven rugs that hung on the walls, paying attention to them, noting the fine art, the quality of the stitching. He passed tortoise, the fish, the rabbit, reflecting on the lessons each animal had to teach a warrior's heart.

  His mind wandered back to the attempted coup a few days before, and his lip curled in disgust. ?ābu, of all things, turning their spears on the palace! His stomach roiled, nauseous at the thought.

  He only wished the palace had had the manpower to run down the whole lot, to turn all their flesh into meat for the bone-collector.

  And yet... the root of agitation had found a home in willing hearts. The city was in turmoil. The granaries--what was left of them--were protected now, but thieves ran rampant. With the city guards focused on the granaries, criminals supped freely from the people in the night. And they were growing bolder.

  The criminals had lost their fear, but fear was a constant. If the criminals did not have it, the people would.

  His wandering brought him to the centerpiece of the ornamental rugs. He stopped in front of the tiger.

  The image was one of a stalking predator, his eyes afire, his claws long and curved, his fangs bared. Kadir laid his hand on it, staring into the glittering eyes stitched into the rug.

  "Babr-e mādeh," he said quietly. "Tiger-maiden. I was never the tiger, Shazedah. You were. You kept the people safe. You had the heart to protect them."

  He stood there for a long moment, lost in thought. His eyes hardened.

  Having come to a decision, he stepped back and bowed deeply to the tiger.

  "I will honor the Shazedah, as I have promised," he said. Then he turned and walked out of the training hall, aiming himself at the storage rooms where the silks were kept.

  The Golden Condor reeled in the lashing waves of Breakwater Bay.

  The sky was dark, with fat, low clouds pouring out a torrent on the ship. The wind whipped the vessel, whistling through the ship, carrying a freezing blast. Raindrops hammered down, driven harder than could be accounted for by the pull of the earth.

  Within the wheelhouse, Captain Boloq wrestled the wheel, his grin completely gone. On the deck, only a few men struggled against the storm; only those necessary to keep the ship moving through the storm. Everyone else was belowdecks, weathering the weather in what safety the interior could provide.

  Well, almost everyone else was belowdecks.

  Fortney Nurani stood near the bow of the ship, tied to the fore derrick by her waist. One of the thick hemp ropes was wrapped around her arm, and tied to a ringbolt on the deck.

  The wind scoured her with salt mist and rain. Her skin stung, needles of pain running across her entire body. Her dark hair was plastered to her head. The ship lurched, and she was flung against the rope that held her to the derrick. Her head snapped, and her shoulder strained as the rope she gripped yanked at her.

  Fortney squinted her eyes against the screaming lash of the storm. The howling storm deafened her. She clenched her teeth, facing down the violence of nature that assaulted her.

  Whatever awaited her in Arden, she would face it. Abovedecks, on her feet, with her eyes open.