'No need,' Kalam growled.
'Are you truly an outlaw?'
'Is this not proof enough?'
'Deliver into Sha'ik's hands the Book of Dryjhna, and your name shall be sung to the heavens for all time, Kalam. Betray the cause, and your name shall ride spit into the dust.'
The assassin shrouded the Book once more in its muslin wrap, then tucked it into the folds of his tunic. 'Our words are done.'
'Blessings of the Seven, Kalam Mekhar.'
With a grunt his only reply, Kalam moved to the doorway, pausing to scan outside. Seeing no-one under the moonlight, he slipped through the opening.
Still crouched against the wall, Mebra watched the assassin leave. He strained to hear telltale sounds of Kalam crossing the rocks, bricks and rubble, but heard nothing. The spy wiped sweat from his brow, tilted his head back against the cool stone and closed his eyes.
A few minutes later he heard the rustle of armour at the tower's entrance. 'You saw him?' Mebra asked, eyes still shut.
A low voice rumbled in reply. 'Lostara follows him. He has the Book?'
Mebra's thin mouth widened in a smile. 'Not the visitor I anticipated. Oh no, I could never have imagined such a fortuitous guest. That was Kalam Mekhar.'
'The Bridgeburner? Kiss of Hood, Mebra, had I known, we would have cut him down before he'd taken a step from this tower.'
'Had you tried,' Mebra said, 'you and Aralt and Lostara would now be feeding your blood to Jen'rahb's thirsty roots.'
The large warrior barked a laugh, stepping inside. Behind him, as the spy had guessed, loomed Aralt Arpat, guarding the entrance, tall and wide enough to block most of the moonlight.
Tene Baralta rested his gauntleted hands on the sword pommels on either side of his hips. 'What of the man you first approached?'
Mebra sighed. 'As I told you, we would likely have needed a dozen nights such as this one. The man took fright and is probably halfway to G'danisban by now. He ... reconsidered, as any reasonable man would.' The spy rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his telaba. 'I cannot believe our luck, Baralta—'
Tene Baralta's mailed hand was a blur as it flashed out and struck Mebra, the spurred links raking deep gashes across the man's face. Blood spattered the wall. The spy reeled back, hands to his torn face.
'You are too familiar,' Baralta said calmly. 'You have prepared Kalam, I take it? The proper ... instructions?'
Mebra spat blood, then nodded. 'You shall be able to trail him unerringly, Commander.'
'All the way to Sha'ik's camp?'
'Yes. But I beg you, be careful, sir. If Kalam senses you, he will destroy the Book. Stay a day behind him, even more.'
Tene Baralta removed a fragment of bhederin hide from a pouch at his belt. 'The calf yearns for its mother,' he said.
'And seeks her without fail,' Mebra finished. 'To kill Sha'ik, you shall need an army, Commander.'
The Red Blade smiled. 'That is our concern, Mebra.'
Mebra drew a deep breath, hesitating, then said, 'I ask only one thing, sir.'
'You ask?'
'I beg, Commander.'
'What is it?'
'Kalam lives.'
'Your wounds are uneven, Mebra. Allow me to caress the other side of your face.'
'Hear me out, Commander! The Bridgeburner has returned to Seven Cities. He claims himself a soldier of the Apocalypse. Yet is Kalam one to join Sha'ik's camp? Can a man born to lead content himself to follow?'
'What is your point?'
'Kalam is here for another reason, Commander. He sought only safe passage across the Pan'potsun Odhan. He takes the Book because to do so will ensure that passage. The assassin is heading south. Why? I think that is something the Red Blades – and the Empire – would know. And such knowledge can only be gained while he yet breathes.'
'You have suspicions.'
'Aren.'
Tene Baralta snorted. 'To slip a blade between Pormqual's ribs? We would all bless that, Mebra.'
'Kalam cares nothing for the High Fist.'
'Then what does he seek at Aren?'
'I can think of only one thing, Commander. A ship bound for Malaz.' Hunched, his face pulsing with pain, Mebra watched with hooded eyes as his words sank roots into the Red Blade commander's mind.
After a long moment, Tene Baralta asked in a low voice, 'What do you plan?'
Although it cost him, Mebra smiled.
Like massive limestone slabs each resting against the other, the cliffs rose from the desert floor the height of four hundred arm-spans. Gouged across the weathered face were deep fissures, and tucked inside the largest of these, a hundred and fifty arm-spans above the sands, was a tower. A single arched window showed black against the bricks.