City of Whispers ( Imperial Assassin Book) Epic Adventure Fantasy by Katt Powers ➱ Book Tour with Giveaway

 

City of Whispers

Imperial Assassin Book 1

by Katt Powers

Genre: Epic Adventure Fantasy

A disgraced assassin. A sinister plot. Will her one shot at redemption send her to the grave?

Dhani Karim is furious. Wrongfully expelled from the Imperial Assassins, the snarky killer is forced into a lowly unranked position in a remote desert colony, working with a guy who’s clearly damaged goods. And when they barely survive an attack on what should have been a routine assignment, she fears clearing her name could cost her life.

Struggling to navigate a land where she’s the only person who can’t wield magic, things get worse when she receives a death threat and her unwanted partner vanishes. But when the clues lead to a violent cult, Dhani finds herself in a race against time to stop a bloodbath that will consume thousands of innocent lives.

Can she expose a deadly conspiracy before it causes a massacre?

City of Whispers is the thrilling first book in the Imperial Assassin fantasy adventure series. If you like kickass heroines, high-octane action, and off-the-charts snark, then you’ll love Katt Powers’ gritty tale.

Buy City of Whispers for a pulse-pounding page-turner today!

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Copyright © 2021 by Katt Powers/Amanda Markham.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or

by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the

publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. For more information,

please contact katt@kattpowers.com

First edition

ISBN: 978-0-6450855-1-8 (hardcover)

ISBN: 978-0-6450855-2-5 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-6450855-0-1 (ebook)

Book cover design by designedbyboots.com

Copy editing by Nikki B

Proof reading by Gadget

This is a work fantasy fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are

either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

www.kattpowers.com

This book is written in United Kingdom (UK) English. This means words like color and favorite are spelled colour and favourite as is standard in UK English. It also means you’ll see phrases like: she walked towards the door rather than the US she walked toward the door, and whilst sometimes used in place of while. However, several other less common UK English terms also appear, and I’ve listed these below. In UK English the word storey, as in ‘the tavern was a two-storey building’ is used, describing the number of floors (storeys) a building possesses. In US English, this would be a two-story building, meaning the building had two floors. Mould, as in ‘the bathroom walls were covered in black mould’. In US English, this would be mold. The swear word arse is, of course, used in place of the US ‘ass’. Ass is used to refer to the donkey-type animal.

Chapter 1 Spring 1493 (Jhiriyan Calendar) Izurum, Talmakhan Region, Imperial Colony of Tizrak Yirda 

No one expected a group of figures to burst out from the temple’s bone-white walls, revolvers in hand—shiny new pieces, gun-metal grey, oiled, and glistening. After all, no one expected to die at a wedding. Certainly not the priest, suddenly standing cheek-to-jowl with two black-clad, pistol-wielding men, nor his attendant as he was thrown head-first down the steps. More men streamed out from the temple’s cloying darkness, others stormed in through the compound gates. The priest’s mouth opened in a horrified, round-lipped gasp. For a gut-squeezing moment, Dhani Karim stared through the heat shimmer, watching the scene unfold. The band stopped playing. The fiddler’s cheeks paled. A long way away, like a voice calling out across a field, her mind added the words nationalist cult to wedding and came up with massacre. Then, the shooting began. Wedding guests scattered from under the marquee, cried out, and fell. Chairs flew sideways, a platter piled with naan and a jug of wine wobbled and shattered on the ground. Beyond the dribbling fountain, Fikret grabbed Esmille and scanned the crowd for little Rivek. His shoulders sagged in anguish. The child was nowhere to be found. A woman shrieked the nationalist cult’s name, and then: “RUN!” After that, the hiss and sizzle of people hurling the killing Flame at their attackers turned the afternoon fiery red. A bullet smashed into the wooden arbor a hand’s breadth from Dhani’s ear. Splinters and crimson bougainvillea stung her cheek; blood blistered on her skin. A bolt of scarlet flame scorched the air just metres away, close enough it tugged at her solar plexus. Her knuckles popped as she reefed a blade from its holster. Now would have been a good time to develop the ability to hurl Deenjah or some other kind of magic. Creator above! She’d settle for tossing sparkly pink fairies if it gave her an advantage. She stole a glance at her olive-copper skin. Nope. Not going to happen. Still a Jhiriyan Homelander. Still mute to the Flames. Blades and batons would have to do. She crouched low and ran, retracing her steps beneath the bougainvillea-covered walkway. A bullet whizzed past. A man screamed and cried out to the Gods. Burned hair and charred skin choked her nose, making her gag. Sweat stung her bleeding cheek.  

At the end of the walkway, she made a hard right, angling for the temple’s western steps. A desperate flanking move, sure, but one that might—might—just save lives. Especially if she could get her hands on a gun. On the temple balcony, the priest had somehow fallen over. His ample form lay prostrate on the tiles, his legs peddling frantic circles in the air. Slowly—somewhere around the speed of waterlogged continental drift—he rolled onto his belly and began to elbow his bulk towards the temple’s main chamber. As people scattered, an old man and a small boy, both wedding guests, stumbled and fell, blocking her path to the temple steps. A ginger cat tumbled out of the child’s arms and onto the dirt. It froze, arching its back and hissing. A hooded man rushed in to cut off the pair’s escape, wielding a pistol. Dhani skidded to a halt. Time could have slowed if the Creator, Father Ulgan, Mother Yamir—heck, even a long-forgotten, one-eyed tortoise god with foot fungus—had even the slightest sense of compassion. Time didn’t slow. It zeroed in for a direct collision, delivered to the gut with a bull camel’s kick. The hooded man wheeled, aiming the pistol at the old man’s head. The small boy bounced to his feet, screaming for his great-grandfather and Selti—a common name for Tizraki cats—to run. Tears glistened on the child’s pale, dirt-streaked face. His bright blue tunic had a rent down the centre, exposing a grazed belly. Dhani unclipped her steel baton, testing its weight in her hand. Adrenaline flooded her mouth with a sharp, metal tang. Behind the mask, the gunman’s eyes bulged like saucers. He gripped the gun with both hands, its muzzle cutting a shaky arc from the old man to the boy to the spitting ginger cat. Dhani took aim. Maybe the Gods cared after all. Either that or the gunman’s trembling muzzle said he feared their judgement in the afterlife. “Please, don’t!” the old man begged, trying to rise on trembling arms. His great-grandson cowered, now wailing for his mother. Shots popped off on the other side of the temple courtyard. Women, men, children screamed. A blaze of red Flame rent the air. Another. The wedding marquee fell, ballooning inwards like some great, dying sea beast. Dhani drew back her arm, muscles tense, mind narrowed on the gunman and his shakier-than-a-twig-in-an-earthquake aim. The gunman twitched the weapon from the old man to the boy—then pointed it instead at the hissing, spitting cat. Her entire being cinched. Oh no, no, no, you don’t. No one—no one—killed a cat in front of Dhani Karim. She flung the baton with every fibre of strength she possessed. It spun through the air as the pistol cracked, the cat The cat! Hindquarters bunched, the cat sprung upwards, a prodigious leap, claws extended, fangs bared, and attached itself to the gunman’s thigh at the exact moment the spinning metal baton crunched into the side of his head. The man dropped as if his bones had leapt clean out of his body leaving behind a fleshy sack. The pistol fell from his grasp, clanged on the paved walkway, and spun, coming to rest next to a potted miniature lemon. The child’s jaw swung, though whether it was at the sudden appearance of a blonde-haired, copper-skinned Jhiriyan in a sea of raven Tizraki heads or the baton strike to the gunman’s skull, Dhani couldn’t say. She moved at once, ready to offer a hand up to the old man. A click-click stopped her before she’d taken a second step. Another masked man emerged from behind a trellis on her left, pistol clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Its cold, dead eye glared directly at her head. “Time to die, Metalskin bitch.”

Chapter 2 

Two days earlier… 

Dhani Karim strode towards an arbor covered in eye-watering crimson bougainvillea. The morning sun stung her neck, hot and raw with the promise of a skin-blistering day. A fly buzzed her ear. She punched the insect to oblivion with a white-knuckled fist. The bastard had frisked her. Frisked her! Even after the five-minute march across the compound, fury still burned on her cheeks. Reporting for duty at Izurum’s Regional Command should have been easy. Standard Ha’filu—Secret Service—protocol, outlined in precise and excruciating detail within the Service manual, no space for ambiguity. She’d present her orders at the gatehouse then hand over her knives, her dagger, her metal baton, and the bracelet on her wrist that doubled as a garrotte. In return, the security detail would hand her a receipt. But to be frisked by a bull-necked local with over-friendly fingers? Not on today’s agenda. Not on any day’s agenda. Likewise not on the agenda—ever—had been having her breasts groped, her butt grabbed and her crotch fondled. The guard responsible had at least one cracked rib after her elbow had suddenly slipped, but it offered little consolation. Sooner or later, she’d have to return to the gatehouse and retrieve her weapons from Touchy-Feely the guard. Maybe this time, she’d crack his head. Ai Creator! Happy days. And today of all days, she didn’t need the attention. Her gut tightened at what lay ahead. In response, her heart began to pound. She cycled through a well-worn mantra, drawing solace from a fast-dwindling supply. No emotion. No weakness. No retreat. Her destination loomed at the end of the arbor-sheltered walkway: a squat, single story blockhouse shaded by a wide verandah. The building boasted the same tired, complete-the-form-in-triplicate colonial architecture she’d encountered the length and breadth of Tizrak Yirda: rows of louvered glass windows covered by insect screens, a lone entrance door likewise shuttered behind a screen. The stone and timber verandah posts, the terracotta tiles, and the potted geraniums—she’d seen it all before. Even the blowfly battering the door’s wire screen like a tiny, single-minded siege engine was nothing novel or new. Thump. Thump. Thump. She drew breath, inhaling dust, heat, pinyon pine, and cinnamon. Her fingers brushed a communique in her pocket—brusque and short—commanding her presence at nine bells. She squinted up at the sun. By her calculation, she was ten minutes early. She forced her shoulders to relax, attempting to ease the tension in her neck.  Four hundred and twelve days. An entire year in purgatory at the Empire’s steaming arse-end, pushing paper about a desk. Her sole opportunity to clear her name, and even then, there were few guarantees. The General claimed this was the only option the Service’s brass would accept. She’d never quite believed him. A flick of a pen, a slight perceived by some faceless Kishaat caste bureaucrat she’d never met, and any chance of rejoining the Ta’Hafiq, the Imperial Assassins, would be gone forever. And Creator only knew, in her life—lowly Gishatriya caste, the child of a drunk and a money-laundering dockside bar owner—certainty had never been a friend. But what choice did she have? For the time being, she was an unranked Secret Service operative—a dirt-level, lowlife pond scum nothing. She pulled the screen door open and stepped into the building’s cool. A foyer with the usual array of Imperial regalia greeted her. Behind a lone battleship of a mahogany desk, a thin-faced local adjutant stared back at her. Several years her junior, the adjutant wore a charcoal grey uniform and sported a scruffy goatee. Affixed to the wall behind him was a two-metre tall Jhiriyan coat of arms, the Empire’s sinuous gold dragon superimposed over its royal blue cedar, gloss enamel on polished brass. Elsewhere, a large wall clock, also enamel over polished brass, emitted an imperious tock-tock-tock. Alongside the Imperial arms—predictably—hung a pair of sepia portraits: one of the Emperor Safid, the other of Tizrak Yirda’s current ruler, portly Prince Attomir. The Prince beamed out at the world through his unruly two-tone beard, happy with his lot in life. The Emperor didn’t smile. Safid Ereldemore never did. His thin lips and weary gaze simply pressed down on Dhani, damning her to her predicament. No use delaying. She snapped the papers from her pocket and offered them to the waiting adjutant. “Operative Karim reporting for duty. I have an appointment with the Regional Controller at nine bells.” The sudden scowl on the adjutant’s face read like a newspaper headline: a twist of the lip and a cool, thousand-yard stare. She knew the look immediately, knew the familiar sting of guilt as well. Despite two hundred years of famine-ending colonisation, the occasional piped sewer, and a standard currency, there were still Tizraki nationals who resented the Empire and every Jhiriyan Homelander who’d ever drawn breath. “Your appointment has been moved to ten bells, Operative Karim.” The adjutant tapped his writing nib on an open register, a gesture equal parts go away and I-don’t-give-a-fuck. “There’s your name, second from the top, inked in at ten. The handwriting’s mine.” It took less than a moment to scan the man’s precise calligraphy—perfectly straight, perfectly neat, perfectly smug—and decide they’d never be friends. It took another moment and a slow, calming breath to stop herself reaching out and squeezing his neck. The wall clock ticked out three seconds. She sucked on a cheek. Let her fingers drift over the empty knife holster on her thigh. Had second, third—even fifth and sixth thoughts about what to do next. Perhaps this was an omen. It wasn’t too late to leave. Not too late to flip both the Secret Service and Safid Ereldemore’s tired sepia stare a resounding middle finger. With her skills, work wouldn’t be hard to find. Here on the Continent, there was always someone willing to pay an assassin or a discrete, highly trained thief. Instead, her boots rooted themselves to the lifeless grey tiles. Call it duty, call it loyalty, call it stupidity. Even she wasn’t cold enough to tear out the hearts of the only people who cared. She owed the General and his wife the blood in her veins, the breath in her lungs, her name, her honour, her fealty. To herself, she’d made a blood promise, clear your name of the heinous crime you didn’t commit. The adjutant sat back in his chair, waiting. His beady gaze flickered to the door and back, once, twice, and again. “Will there be anything else, Operative Karim?” Dhani eyed the short, windowless hall that ended in the Regional Controller’s closed door, hair on her still-sweaty neck prickling. But what had she expected, really? Bethsehal Shalamir had to know by now that her newest unranked operative was a disgraced former assassin. Pond scum, indeed. “As a matter of fact, there is something else, Adjutant…” She searched the desk for a nameplate, found it half-hidden by a newspaper and a small brass statue of a Tizraki horse-and-snake hearth god she couldn’t name. Ziraat-something. How ironic. Named after a Tizraki folk hero famous for his continent-sized ego and outrageous red hat. “Perhaps Adjutant Ziraat, you could explain why I wasn’t informed of the change earlier?” “I only know what the Regional Controller told me.” Ziraat’s too-sharp chin and its fine black fluff jerked to the left. Clearly, he wanted her gone. “Seat’s in the corridor if you care to wait. Your partner’s not here yet though.” Her partner. It took two full breaths and a clenched jaw just to keep the fury contained. She’d never needed a partner before. She didn’t need one now. Another slap to the cheek. “I’ll wait,” she said. “Suit yourself.” Ziraat’s lips flattened, unhappy with her decision. His rodent-gaze flickered to the screen door and lingered, before finally settling on the empty knife holster strapped to her thigh. He squirmed in his seat as if caught thieving, guilty tattooed in his narrow, shifting gaze. Dhani glanced back at the screen door and beyond but there was no-one there. The blockhouse courtyard stood empty save for the trellised walkway and its garish crimson bougainvillea. She scowled at the bougainvillea. Everywhere Jhiriyans went it was always the bloody same: bougainvillea, Imperial portraits, records, ledgers, and accounts. Oh, had she mentioned bougainvillea? A shrug and she let it pass. Nothing she said or did would change a thing. She was a tooth on a tiny cog, an insignificant, nameless component in the great, hulking gears comprising the brass, iron, and steel of the Imperium. A low caste nobody. No living family. No home. The name she now used not even the one she’d been born with. With a final glare at Ziraat-named-for-a-bloviating-hat, she turned on her heel and took the first seat in the corridor. Resting her head against the wall, she closed her eyes. First battle completed. Let the year in purgatory begin. — The Regional Controller’s office matched her personnel file, a space so ordered and predictable, Dhani stifled a yawn. Three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with manuals and ledgers but devoid of personal effects. Two chairs were upholstered in utility brown. On the far wall, maps of the Continent and Tizrak Yirda hanging plumb-line straight. A desk that suggested an obsession with neatness, bearing nothing more than a set of orders carrying General El’Meshid’s signature, two gold writing nibs, and a bottle of ink. Behind it, Regional Controller Bethsehal Shalamir sat waiting, lips neatly pursed on a cut-glass sharp, perfectly proportioned face. Coming to attention, Dhani fixed her stare on a point just above the Regional Controller’s golden blonde head. To her right, her new partner did the same. Overhead, a ceiling fan clicked. “I’ll make this brief,” Shalamir began, voice crisp as the white silk scarf draped around the high collar of her periwinkle blue shirt. She didn’t offer them a seat; Dhani hadn’t expected it. “General El’Meshid gave me no choice but to accept both of you into my command, so I’m going to tell you the same thing I told him. I don’t want either of you here. I have no time for traitors or…” The woman’s cobalt glare drilled holes in Dhani’s skin. “Murderous criminals.” A long pause followed, the fan’s errant click counting out the passage of seconds. If the oversight with the appointment had been a prelude, the dry, stale taste in Dhani’s mouth foretold the main act. Before leaving the capital, she’d read Shalamir’s file and tried not to fall asleep. Shulim—earl in Jhiriyan—Bethsehal Shalamir, thirty-six years old, unmarried, youngest child of a noble House of middling rank. Despite her relative youth, Shalamir had carved out a reputation in the Ha’filu as a fixer—an officer sent to restore order in places where Imperial discipline lacked. Her record read like a romance of rules, protocols, and tradition complimented by two dozen perfectly executed covert operations. The file held no surprises about what to expect during her year in Izurum working under Bethsehal Shalamir: boredom, more boredom, paperwork, paperwork, paperwork, and sore feet. “Very well, let’s get this finished and the pair of you out of my sight.” Shalamir turned her attention to the looming figure at Dhani’s right. “Captain Gorshayik, I’ve had a brief look over your personnel file.” “Yes, ma’am,” came the rumbling reply in deep, Tizraki-accented Jhiriyan. Street thug had been Dhani’s initial impression when she’d first set eyes upon Parvan Gorshayik. The fleshy scars on his throat and cheek didn’t help, nor did his oak-tree arms or bear-sized height. That he’d once been a historian in a university archive was as hard to imagine as him working undercover on some highly classified secret mission. He looked like he belonged in a dockside bar, throwing unruly patrons out by the scruffs of their necks. Gorshayik shifted his weight and the Regional Controller continued, “Five operatives under your command died because you chose a course of action you’d been advised against, Captain Gorshayik.” Shalamir’s eyebrow lifted. “You will not repeat that kind of treacherous insubordination here.” “No, ma’am.” Shalamir tipped her chin towards the Emperor’s portrait hanging behind her desk. One delicate eyebrow arched. “I may not agree with the current regime on many things, but I do understand why they’ve given you a second chance, Captain. The Service needs Colonials like yourself, natives who fit in.” Her fingers brushed her scarf again, smoothing out a crease. “Personally, I’ve always found you Tizraki lazy and far too fond of food and wine to be reliable, but who am I to question the Imperium?” Gorshayik didn’t react to the insult. Shalamir didn’t seem inclined to care. “Operative Karim.” The woman’s gaze settled on Dhani. A knife-like smile thinned her lips but it held no more warmth than a thousand-year-old corpse. “I’m not privy to the misdemeanour which had you thrown out of the Ta’Hafiq but given what little of your somewhat unorthodox personnel record I’ve been permitted to read, I can only assume it was a vile and despicable act.” Dhani set her gaze on the Emperor’s sagging jawline and bored stare. Her gut churned. A farce. A complete lie. In her head, discipline shrilled the Ta’Hafiq’s mantra: no emotion. No weakness. No retreat. The reason she’d been suspended from the Ta’Hafiq—the Imperial Assassins—was classified information, privy only to those in the oxygen-starved heights of the Secret Service far beyond Shalamir’s rank. Not that that would deter a noble from asking and, of course, expecting an answer she’d never get. “You don’t want to be here, Karim, and we both know it,” Shalamir continued when the silence grew too grim. “Eight years in the Ta’Hafiq and fifty-three confirmed kills. You think you’re too good for Internal Affairs, don’t you? But if you ask me, a failed assassin is nothing more than a liability to the Imperium, a festering canker that needs to be lanced.” Dhani met the challenge with an impassive stare. Shalamir had the first part correct; she didn’t want to be here at all and she was too good for Internal Affairs, but the words failed assassin set her blood aflame. She flared her nostrils, staring at Shalamir’s white silk scarf and its embroidered House motif—some kind of pudgy, leaping antelope. Ten years ago, rebuking a member of the Shaliaat—Jhiriyah’s noble caste—would have been unthinkable. Indeed, in the Homeland even now, she wouldn’t have dared. But here at the Empire’s far-flung edges, after years of busted bones, burned brain cells, blood and sweat, she refused to be cowered. “May I ask a question, ma’am?” Dhani fixed her gaze on the wall again, her voice a droll, clipped monotone, a polite register of Jhiriyan, low caste to high. Shalamir waved a dismissive hand. “Go ahead.” “Did you support the old regime, ma’am?” The woman’s olive-copper skin blanched. Beside her, Parvan Gorshayik inhaled a sharp breath. Dhani tightened her jaw. Let Shalamir suck sour lemons on that. A noble in Shalamir’s position should have known better than to mention her political allegiances at all—especially to a junior operative from a lower Homeland caste. “You know very well what House Shalamir thought of the Emperor Mishal’s removal, unranked Operative Karim.” The blade-like smile returned to the Regional Commander’s lips, chasing the moment of surprise from her face. “But it’s ancient history, fifteen years past. House Nohirrim is gone and House Ereldemore ascendant. The Empire has moved on. And besides, we’ve all sworn an oath to serve the Imperium, haven’t we?” Dhani studied the Emperor’s portrait again. The thrill of a meaningless victory coursed through her veins like a Deenjin’s Flame. Score one for Karim. Another notch to carve on her favourite embroidery hoop. “Indeed we have, ma’am,” she said, toneless and flat. “May the sun never set on the Imperium.” Beyond the window, Ziraat the adjutant passed by, locked in animated conversation with a brawny man dressed in a pauper’s blue tunic. The Regional Controller frowned at the pair, checked the time, then cleared her throat. “Captain Gorshayik, Operative Karim, enough of this pleasant banter.” She opened a drawer and removed a brown folder. “A man named Scythe has information pertaining to a case one of my senior operatives is working on. I want you to find Scythe and bring him in.” She pushed the folder towards Parvan Gorshayik. “This is what we have on Scythe, Captain.” The big Tizraki took the folder, opened it, scanned the documents inside, and snapped it shut. “Ma’am?” he said. “Yes, Captain?” “The case Scythe has information on? What is it?” “Not your concern, Gorshayik. Find Scythe and bring him in. That’s your mission.” Gorshayik offered the file to Dhani. She accepted the folder and studied its frugal content. Well, that was interesting. A single page. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. She closed the file and found Bethsehal Shalamir watching her. “That’s it, ma’am?” she said. “Four names and the same half-paragraph of nothing we’ve just been told?” The Regional Controller rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh, my dear. You have a lot to learn, don’t you? This isn’t the Ta’Hafiq. You won’t be treated like some kind of deity and handed encyclopaedic case notes researched by a suite of operatives whose names you’ll never deign to ask. You’re the operative here. You walk the streets, you flap your jaw at the inns, the souks, the caravanserais, and ashishqa dens. You saddle your behind to a chair and do your own research.” Her gaze wandered towards Parvan Gorshayik’s coal-dark hair. “I’m sure your new partner will be happy to refresh your memory regarding basic Secret Service procedures.” Shalamir’s expression cooled. She flattened her palms to the desk, fingers spread. “Now, both of you are dismissed.” Dhani inclined her head and saluted, touching the fingertips of her right hand to her heart. Her scalp prickled, her mouth dried and soured. Too simple, too easy. For all of Shalamir’s posturing, all she wanted them to do was find someone and bring them in? There had to be a catch. It came as they reached the door. “Oh, and by the way,” Shalamir said in a voice like a trap snapping shut. Dhani paused. Gorshayik froze, his deep brown eyes twin points of flame. When they turned about, the Regional Controller’s lips had thinned to a razor-smile behind her elegantly steepled fingers. “I’m returning to the Homeland for my brother’s wedding,” she said. “I want this Scythe found before I leave.” “And when would that be?” Dhani asked. “Three days.” Shalamir beamed, showing her neat, white teeth. “And Karim?” “Ma’am?” The honorific stung her throat. The woman switched to Court Jhiriyan, a hard, hacking register only nobles were permitted to speak. “Fail to find Scythe and I’ll slap a court-martial on you for insubordination so fast, you won’t be able to blink.”

Chapter 3 

The office they’d been allocated resembled a broom closet, only twice as cramped. Located in a grim, flat-roofed blockhouse near the compound’s centre, Dhani cracked open the door and stuck her head inside the room. One look and she inhaled dust, dirt, gloom, and claustrophobia in that order. She shoved at the door. It banged against something unseen and refused to budge, forcing her to turn sideways to squeeze through. More of the same awaited within. Two heavy desks jammed together—one obstructing the door—both scoured with cuts and ink smears. A pair of threadbare, lumpy chairs. A set of faded maps of the Continent and Tizrak Yirda, years out of date, hanging next to a grimy window with a torn insect screen. A brass lamp ancient enough to qualify as a museum relic and a bottle of desiccated ink, no lid. On one corner of a desk lay a dead cockroach, legs crossed skyward in eternal repose—probably succumbed to depression—and everywhere a layer of fine, red desert dust. Dhani wrinkled her nose. Three days, Shalamir had said. Given the size of the office, she’d be lucky to last three minutes. Behind her, Parvan Gorshayik grunted at the door, shoved it twice, and forced his way in. Dhani stepped back to make way and collided with a chair. “Welcome to paradise,” she said with a sweep of a hand. The chair settled back on all four legs. “How did you get here?” “I beg your pardon, Captain?” He glared. “How did you get here? To Izurum? Your personnel file doesn’t mention you being deaf.” She arched an eyebrow at the rebuke. Not quite the response she’d expected. Was he pissed off about the office? The heat? The unfortunate brown roach on the desk? A glance at him said no to all of the above. Gorshayik’s eyes burned holes in her skin, his expression that of a man so perpetually angry at life, fury had engraved its autograph on his being. Otherwise, he looked little different to any other Tizraki man: a strong jaw, olive skin, glossy black hair, and a full, neat beard. A straight, slightly broad nose, lips neither full nor thin. The devotional horse-head necklace at his throat said he followed Father Ulgan, his deep blue tunic with its white and gold embroidery on the cuffs and seams smacked of expensive tastes. She cocked an eyebrow. Either he’d dressed to impress Bethsehal Shalamir or he had a penchant for fine clothes. A tunic like that had probably cost at least a week’s wages. Time began again as he tossed the file onto a desk. It slid towards her, clearing a path in the dust—a revealing gesture, forceful but measured, an act of will. Parvan Gorshayik was that kind of man. She caught the file before it collected the roach. The insect didn’t deserve the disrespect. “I believe I asked you a question, Karim.”  So that was how it was going to be. She raised her chin. Parvan Gorshayik wouldn’t be the first—or last—bully she’d worked with. “I came to Izurum the same way you did, Captain. Steam train from Istanakhand to Dursay, coach from Dursay to Talmakhan, then another from Talmakhan to here. The coach down from Talmakhan was delayed a day because the River Gilgit flowed out of season. Desert’s full of surprises.” “Your orders were to travel with me.” Dhani sucked on a cheek. Either it was an oversight on his behalf or an outright lie. The only orders she’d received had been the formal letter instructing her to ‘…report to Ha’filu Regional Command in Izurum’ and a date. “Orders?” “Standard operating procedure. Partners who work together, travel together. You’re supposed to know these things.” She flexed her jaw. Released the tension from her cheeks and smoothed any trace of emotion from her face. Difficult, was how the General had described Parvan Gorshayik, difficult, damaged, but underneath, a good man and a valuable operative. None of the latter was on display as Gorshayik watched her, probably trying to anticipate her next response and outmanoeuvre it. Heat flared in her gut. Good man, difficult man, it didn’t matter either way. If they were to survive a year working together, it was going to begin with respect. “My apologies, Captain,” she said, forcing a too-sweet smile. “But if you check my personnel file, you won’t find mind reading listed amongst my skills.” “Lose the attitude, Karim.” “Attitude? Are you always this rude or did seventeen angry hornets fly up your arse and sting you?” His cheek twitched but he didn’t respond to the insult. Instead, he continued the rapid-fire interrogation. “You’re not staying at the safe house in Geraktin. Why?” “In my experience safe houses are rarely safe.” “You don’t trust the Service?” She flared her nostrils. Who she trusted and who she didn’t were none of his business. Needless to say, his name wasn’t on the list. “I don’t trust anyone, including the Imperium.” “Yet, you work for the Empire. I assume you’ve sworn an oath to serve it?” “I work for the General. That’s all you need to know.” Dhani folded her arms and studied her nails. They needed a trim. “I’ve run missions in Izurum before if you must know. I have my own lodgings in Faissa.” “You’re going to relocate.” “No, I’m not.” She jerked her chin about and returned his glare. This was going nowhere and they didn’t have time to waste. “If you’re done with the power games, Captain, can we get on with the mission? The clock is ticking.” The comment hung in the air between them. Dhani counted five seconds and then ten. Gorshayik watched her with a force so smothering, every hair on her body registered the threat, and of its own accord, bristled in defence. Then, he moved, his fists slamming down on the nearest desk. “Karim, listen to me.” The uncanny prickling on her flesh vanished. She released a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. “I know you don’t want a partner,” he continued, “and I don’t particularly want you as a partner either, but for the time being neither of us have a choice.” “Impressive, Captain. Are you always this perceptive?” Gorshayik swore under his breath, the desk groaning beneath his weight. His attention fixed on some point on the wall beyond her, his mouth thinned to a hard line. He drew a long, slow breath. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s clear the air. I’m sure you’re aware of the recommendation I’m supposed to write regarding your behaviour? The one you’ll need to rejoin the Ta’Hafiq?” He paused for effect. Dhani refolded her arms. Of course, she knew. The Review Board’s request for an independent recommendation was the only reason she’d agreed to the posting at all—one frail thread of hope in a tapestry of deceit. “After we’ve worked together for nine moons, I’m to provide commentary on your rehabilitation along with evidence you’ve demonstrated remorse and compassion after your…” His tone darkened. “Indiscretion.” Her cheeks cooled. Through the window, a pair of Homelander women ambled down a covered walkway, their pace suggesting they were locked in an all-consuming conversation. Their neat, blonde braids and subdued black clothing had Ha’filu written all over them. So he knew. Parvan Gorshayik knew about the slave woman and children she’d been framed for murdering in the rotting backstreets of Casa-del-Toro, the world’s most dangerous city. That he knew the entirety of what happened that night—of the betrayal from within the Ta’Hafiq’s ranks, of a mission gone to hell and the gaping hole in her heart—was doubtful. The Ta’Hafiq was an organisation shrouded in secrecy. A covert operative in the Secret Service’s general ranks would never be privy to such information. Gorshayik continued, “I’m willing to concede there was a reason for your actions in Casa-del-Toro, otherwise General El’Meshid wouldn’t have given you a second chance. I’m also aware that the General and his wife hold some deep affection for you.” He paused long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable. “I’d hate to inform them their trust has been misplaced.” The women in the courtyard disappeared behind the walkway’s crimson bougainvillea. Dhani cycled through three calming breaths. Parvan Gorshayik was right on both counts. The only person she’d killed in Casa-del-Toro that night had been the man she’d been ordered to kill. And Behzad El’Meshid—sober, stern and caring—had pulled her broken body from a pile of refuse a decade earlier, given her a new name, a new life, and most importantly, a purpose. In comparison, her real father—a cheerful but ineffectual man—donated sperm then hurried off to celebrate at the nearest whiskey vat. “Very well, Captain,” she said at last. “You’ve made your point.” “Then we can move on.” “We can.” She turned away from the window. “But let’s get a few things straight. First, I’m not moving to Geraktin. I use the lodgings in Faissa for several reasons, anonymity being one of them.” He gave a curt nod. “Acceptable. And the rest?” “I agreed to this partnership as a means to an end, nothing else. I don’t do small talk, I’m not here to be your friend, and I keep my private affairs to myself. I don’t know you, and don’t assume you know me from what’s written in my file or the rumours you’ve heard. But I promise you this. Whatever our differences, we will find a way to work together. I intend to clear my name and rejoin the Ta’Hafiq.” “Understood.” Someone passed in the hall outside, footsteps slowing as if to eavesdrop before quickly hurrying on. She waited until they’d faded before speaking again. “You should also know the General briefed me a little about your condition…” She hesitated. The words tasted like cold ash in her throat. Her mother’s voice ghosted from memory, chastising her for being too blunt and direct. In the end, Dhani simply lowered her head. “I’m also sorry about your wife and son,” she said. Gorshayik’s fingers curled. The glint of a gold wedding bracelet on his right wrist caught her eye and she looked away. Eight moons was still too soon, she guessed. How did anyone ever recover from something like that? Most likely they didn’t. Little wonder he had a condition. “Thank you,” he said, low and hoarse. Dhani cleared her throat. “So, this operation?” She opened the folder and pushed it towards him. “Four names and three addresses. Not a lot of information.” He made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sniff. “I suspect there is no Scythe and this is a fool’s errand to keep us busy until Shalamir figures out a better way to get rid of us.” “Well, at least we can agree about that.” She studied the file again. “Where do you want to start?” “At the Service archive. We’ll see if any of these men have files.” He tapped a finger on the last name on the list. “Papat Yenidogat. A priest shouldn’t be hard to find.” Dhani frowned. “Yenidogat? I’ve heard the name before.” “You said you’ve worked in Izurum previously?” “I have.” She’d worked in Izurum a number of times over the past few years. Regularly enough to have several caches containing weapons, clothing and a handful of cash hidden in the city and its shantytown, Koyulerin, just beyond the southern wall. Like most Ta’Hafiq missions, however, those she’d conducted here were brief: locate target, eliminate or obtain target, get out quick. She couldn’t claim a local’s deep familiarity with the city or its inhabitants. “Do you have contacts you could call on for information?” He looked up in earnest, the first time he’d expressed anything other than frustration with the entire arrangement. “Scythe is an unusual nickname for a Tizraki,” he continued. “The kind of name that begs attention. If this person exists, someone will know them.” “There’s one or two people I could ask.” “Good.” He pulled a brass pocket watch from a pocket and checked the time. He held it for a moment, gaze lingering on the piece before tucking it away again. “Let’s head over to the Service archive. After lunch, we’ll start talking to the people on the list.” “So…that’s the plan? Talk to them?” “That’s the plan. Unless you have some other suggestion?” For the sake of peace—and the recommendation he eventually had to sign—Dhani shrugged acceptance. Don’t piss off the Tizraki bear with a bag of hornets up its arse on the first day. There’d be a year’s worth of days, four hundred and twelve to be exact, in which to do the same. “Talking is fine.” She tapped the list of names. “I’ll take Erdogal Timoyucik and Jursek Cerevin. Their addresses are in Tergayit on the southern side of the city. You can take Temek Huyurgal and Papat Yenidogat. I’m sure a Tizraki priest would rather talk to a Tizraki than a gods-denying Homelander, anyway.” The fires-of-hell look flickered in his eyes once more and disappeared. He stared at the file, at the cockroach, at smears of dust on the table. “We’re partners, Karim. We do this together.” “This partnership will work better if I work alone, Captain.” “This isn’t the Ta’Hafiq.” Dhani ground her teeth. A hall clock elsewhere in the building chimed a muffled eleven bells. Three days. Surely even a man as stubborn as Parvan Gorshayik could understand efficiency? She found her most begrudging smile and painted it on her lips. “In three days, I’m facing court martial, Captain Gorshayik. It might not matter to you, but I’ll wager a hundred dironi that Bethsehal Shalamir already has an execution order drawn up and a firing squad etching my name on their bullets. I don’t have time to waste.” “You should have thought about that before you gave Shulim Bethsehal lip.” “Shulim Bethsehal should have kept her mouth shut about her political allegiances. I’d rather not know her underwear gets hot and sweaty over an emperor deposed for nation-sized embezzlement.” Gorshayik muttered something unintelligible under his breath. When he looked up, his gaze locked with hers and held. “Have you ever run an intelligence mission before, Karim?” “A number of them.” “From the beginning? Gathered the facts, created an evidence matrix, mapped out a relationship diagram?” Checkmate. She sucked in both cheeks. But how hard could it be, trawling Izurum’s streets for people with bad pseudonyms and shuffling paper about a desk? Her first year in the Ta’Hafiq comprised the same basic training as every other Secret Service operative when it came to gathering intelligence. Give her a week, a re-read of a few Service manuals and she’d be equal to anyone else working in Internal Affairs. After all, as an assassin she’d sweated blood, pulled muscles, bent bones, and busted her brain harder than any ordinary operative ever would—all in the name of carrying out the Imperium’s darkest biddings. “I’ve fifty-three confirmed kills as an assassin, Captain Gorshayik. Finding someone with a bad alias shouldn’t be too much of a problem.” Gorshayik stared her down, unmoved. “This is Internal Affairs, Karim. You can forget about pulling a blade here anytime soon unless it’s in self-defence.” He brushed a finger along the scar on his cheek, drawing it away just as quickly. “For now, we run this mission by the Service rulebook, which means we do it together and we do it under my command.” So they were back to stalemate again. A caustic voice in her head told her to get used to it. “There are four names on that list, Captain. You take two, I take two. I don’t see anything wrong with that.” Gorshayik straightened to his full height. That she had to look up when she was as tall as—or even taller than—most Tizraki men was vaguely irritating. “This isn’t a democracy, Karim. I’m the captain and you follow orders. If that’s too hard to understand, then think about the recommendation I have to write in nine moons.” With that, he took a single stride and banged open the door. Not looking back, he flicked a hand at the file. “Bring the list. We’re going to the archive and then we’re going out together, whether you like it or not.” Dhani snatched the list from the desk and shoved it into a pocket. She didn’t need her mother’s ghost to tell her this was going to be the longest of very long years.

Chapter 4 

Erdogal Timoyucik didn’t have a file. The second man on the list, Jursek Cerevin, did. The Registrar, a young Tizraki man dressed in a crisp, black uniform, locked the archive door behind him and dumped three tattered files on the desk. Creases, dirt, and greasy thumb prints attested to their frequent use. “Jursik Cerevin is known,” the Registrar said, not making eye contact, “for money-laundering, fencing stolen goods, operating an illegal whisky still, public obstruction and attempting to organise a protection racket.” His voice rose in inflection as he read the next name off the list. Dhani arched an eyebrow. The Registrar sounded…surprised. “Temek Huyurgal, master cordwain. No file.” The last file he set down was so thin it couldn’t have held more than a single page. As the Registrar spoke the name, his fingers drifted to a bone horseshoe pendant—another of Father Ulgan’s devotional symbols—touching it briefly out of respect. “Papat Kyvil Yenidogat, priest of Father Ulgan’s temple in Zidurat. Biography only. No known misdemeanours or political affiliations.” The man pushed the register across the desk then tilted his head up to meet Parvan Gorshayik’s gaze. “Sign here, Captain. Should you make additions to any of the files, please inform the duty Registrar upon their return. Understood?” Gorshayik nodded and signed the register in neat Tizraki calligraphy. He scooped up the files, turned on his heel, and marched in silence under the stinging sun back across the compound, returning to the flat-roofed blockhouse and their cat-sized, dust filled office. Dhani spent the next hour combing Cerevin’s files, trawling through case notes and interview extracts whilst Gorshayik made jottings and lists on a pad of lined paper he’d found in a drawer. After reading a few pages of Cerevin’s file, her gut feeling was that he likely knew nothing about Scythe. The man was merely a serial entrepreneur of the wrong kind, an easy target for Ha’filu operatives when beginning a new case. Just after midday, Gorshayik pulled out his pocket watch and grunted. He set the pen down, rose from the chair, and announced, “I’m going to midday prayer. I’ll meet you at the Ciyurit temple’s north gate at half-one. After that, we’ll go looking for Erdogal Timoyucik and Jursek Cerevin.” Then he left. His footsteps faded along the corridor’s dusty tiles. The blockhouse door groaned open and then slammed shut. Dhani eased back in the chair, ignoring the springs drilling holes in her butt. She stared out the window. The Tizraki’s mincing strides and broad back appeared briefly beneath the bougainvillea-covered walkway and vanished from sight. Across the compound, midday heat shimmered off a collection of dreary, flat-roofed blockhouses, all as uniformly neat and orderly as Bethsehal Shalamir’s desk. Beyond the compound’s wall, the city threw up thousands of rectangular buildings, few taller than three stories, all of them the same tiresome ochre brown. Punctuating the city’s low relief were several dozen white towers topped with onion domes, marking temples belonging to Mother Yamir or Father Ulgan, some domes summer blue, others tiled in deepest black. She tapped her fingers on the wood, cracked her knuckles, rolled her shoulders. The cockroach still lay upside-down on a corner of the desk, six legs crossed in eternal repose, dry and brittle as kindling. Dead, like her career. She blew out a breath. Half a day gone. Four hundred and eleven-point-five to go. But who was counting? She locked the office door, collected her five throwing blades, her baton and talon-shaped dagger from a guard who wasn’t Touchy-Feely at compound’s security office, and left. Lunch was spiced lamb kofte from a nearby street stall washed down with strong, bitter-sweet kaffai. Then, she made her way to the ebony domes and whitewashed walls of Father Ulgan’s temple in Ciyurit, tugged a dark blue scarf from a pocket, and tied it over her head. Tizraki might have loved their food and wine, but above all, they loved their gods. Prayers were three times each day, sunrise, zenith, and sunset. Most Tizraki attended at least one of those services. The devout attended all three. The least she could do as a foreign woman from a conquering nation was to show her respect by covering her head. Ten minutes later, Parvan Gorshayik strode out amidst a stream of faithful wearing a dark blue temple turban, a good head’s height above the rest of the crowd. He paused to return the turban to a small child who’d appeared beside him. The child took it with a nod before scampering off to a teenage boy at a street stall hiring turbans and scarves to those who needed them. Gorshayik came to a stop before Dhani, a shaft of sunlight illuminating the raven gloss of his hair. He took in the scarf on her head, the hand of blades holstered on her thigh, the dagger and metal baton in her belt. His mouth thinned, but he made no comment. “We’re going to see Erdogal Timoyucik, Captain?” she said. “We are.” He didn’t quite smile, but the corners of his lips twitched. Dhani nodded. It wasn’t much, but a glimmer of hope sparked within. Even she could work with that. — The mid-afternoon sun stung her skin like whisky set aflame. It took an hour to cross the city and find Timoyucik’s address amidst the maze of unnamed, unnumbered streets in Izurum’s less-than-salubrious Tergayit district, and Dhani was glad for the scarf covering her head. Eventually, they found the crumbling, high-walled adobe compound where Erdogal Timoyucik lived, a place whose occupants largely comprised elders with faces like ancient leather and mouths filled with questionable dentition. After several minutes of eliciting nothing from a cluster of sun-wrinkled, white haired and apparently deaf women seated around a courtyard well, Dhani pulled a gold dironi from a pocket and held it aloft. In Tizraki  culture flashing wealth about was rude, but in her experience, money—especially the Empire’s coin—loosened tongues nearly as well as a knife to the throat. “Erdogal Timoyucik owes me fifty peshak,” she called into doorways and windows surrounding the well. “A gold dironi to anyone who can tell me where he is.” Gorshayik swore and grabbed at her, but she sidestepped and avoided him. “Karim! Gods forbid, you know—” “Dead,” a sudden voice called from above. “Timoyucik is dead.” A woman appeared at a second storey window, broad-faced and middle-aged, her head part-covered with a fine blue scarf as if she’d just come from a temple. “Timoyucik had a heart attack yesterday morning,” the woman said. “Dropped dead right in this very courtyard. His family buried him at midday. I’ve just come from Mother Yamir’s temple, tidying up after the service.” Suddenly, the cluster of crones found their tongues. One old woman raised a walking stick and pointed at the low, circular stone well. “Old Timoyucik died right near the well just last week. One-hundred and thirty-three, he was.” “Ai! Noori,” the toothless woman next to her said, spraying a mist of spittle as she spoke up. “He were one-hundred and thirty-five!” “He was old as a tortoise,” another crone wheezed. This one wore a very fine, bright red temple tunic. Her head was covered in a matching scarf. “Two hundred years at least!” “He was five hundred,” Noori declared again, tapping her stick. “Probably more.” “Gods above! He was one-hundred and twenty-five, and big as a whale!” The woman in the window shook her head. “He ate too much pork fat and his heart gave out. Those crones went to the funeral this morning and they’ve forgotten already.” She scowled down at the one wearing the red tunic and scarf. “No one lives two hundred years, Milya. The Gods give us one-hundred and thirty years and that’s that.” The woman’s gaze returned to Dhani. “Hai, you! Metalskin! I’ve told you what you wanted, now throw me up that coin.” Dhani tossed the coin up at the window. The woman snatched it from the air like a hawk diving on a glittering, gold mouse. She glanced down at her hands and their olive-copper skin with its faint metallic gleam. Some Homelanders took offence at being called Metalskin, but after seven years living on the Continent, she’d long since grown accustomed to it. “You would be wise to refrain from such improprieties in future,” Parvan Gorshayik said in a dangerous tone as they left the courtyard and headed towards the address they had for Jursek Cerevin. “I’m sure you understand Tizraki customs about such things.” She scuffed her boots in the grime, chewing over the least offensive answer as they turned out of an alley and into a wider street. Every street in this part of Izurum looked much the same: scarcely wide enough for two carts to pass, flanked by rows of adjoining, high-walled compounds in various states of decay. “It worked, didn’t it?” she said, finally. “We can cross one name off the list.” “It was ill-mannered.” She arched an eyebrow. “I guess you’d be the expert on that.” “Karim.” His glare was hot enough to scorch brick. She curled her fingers and released them. The urge to slap Parvan Gorshayik, to call him out as rude and insulting before his own gods, came and went. “They saw exactly what they expected to see, Captain. An ignorant Homelander waving her money about in the company of her hired thug, come to collect on a debt.” She sidestepped a chicken too lazy to give up the cockroach it was pecking in the middle of the street. “And now we know exactly where Erdogal Timoyucik is.” Gorshayik slowed his pace. “Hired…thug?” She cast a glance his way. His jaw flexed, his nostrils flared. It was difficult not to stare at the fleshy, pink scar marring his neck. Sensitive about his looks, she guessed. “Bodyguard, then,” she said. “Someone an uppity Homelander would hire to accompany her to less savoury parts of the city.” He didn’t reply until they reached the next corner, where he stopped and pointed a finger at her chest. “Cerevin lives in Kergot Lane, just down here. Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.” Jursek Cerevin was so happy to see them, he threw a bucket of night soil out his window and onto the street. Dhani grabbed Parvan Gorshayik’s sleeve as soon as footsteps began drumming inside the house, hauling him off the front porch and around the corner of the building. A moment later, a metal bucket sailed out the window, its contents exploding onto the dusty street with a resounding plish! The stench was instant and rich. “We need to talk, Cerevin,” Gorshayik called back. “You come here again,” Jursek Cerevin screeched in a whining, high pitched voice, “and the next thing through the window is a shotgun. Fuck off, whoever you are. Sarmek?” “I can go around back and get inside.” Dhani nodded at the rear fence of Cerevin’s house, a two-metre-high adobe wall covered in flaking white paint. It didn’t look as if the man had hired thugs of his own, just the fence, a solid back door and a pair of smoking refuse piles left to burn on the hard-packed dirt. Something in the man’s whining tone told her the shotgun was a bluff, too. Odds on, he’d have an ancient muzzleloader hanging above his mantlepiece that hadn’t been cleaned or fired in years. “Blade to the throat or the balls, I’m sure he’ll change his mind.” A puff of wind chased the stink of shit and stale urine along the street. Gorshayik wrinkled his nose, eyes tracing circles in the dirt at his feet. He muttered something under his breath. It sounded like complete waste of time. “We’ll come back later.” He glanced at the hand of blades on her thigh. If he didn’t approve of her openly carrying weapons, he’d so far held his peace. And those were just the weapons he could see. In the side of her boot was another blade, the skewers holding her bun in place held metal points. The tiny lock pick and rake hidden in her brassiere didn’t count as weapons, but she went nowhere without them. “Come on,” he snapped like a bear trap slamming shut. “We’re talking to Temek Huyurgal before he shuts up shop.” — By the time they’d made their way from Tergayit over to Mursik in the city’s north where Temek Huyurgal’s workshop lay, the sun was drawing long, golden shadows across the city’s streets. Unlike the confusing web of lanes and unpaved alleys in Tergayit, Mursik sat upon a low rise in Izurum’s north. The streets were laid with cobbled blocks made of a rust-red local quartzite and boasted newly piped sewers and drains. Dhani squinted up at the well-maintained family compounds and businesses on the hill. Someone had probably paid the Majapayit Lurgak, Izurum’s current ruler, a tidy sum for streets as neat as this. Given that Mursik was home to the city’s finest artisans—such as high-end tailors, hosiers, and milliners—it came as no surprise. The wealthy looked after their own, no matter what your nation’s name. Temek Huyurgal ran a large cordwainery not far from Mursik’s main souk. The word factory came to mind when she adjusted her scarf, ducked, and followed Parvan Gorshayik’s broad back in through the building’s low stone door. A quick count of raven Tizraki heads inside the structure told her at least forty people worked for Huyurgal, turning out fine leather sandals, boots, and delicate temple moccasins from rows of orderly, hand-cranked sewing machines, workbenches, and leather rollers. A few of the workers traced careful red Flames over leather, using Deenjah to inscribe intricate designs into leather. A reluctant Huyurgal agreed to speak with them. He was a man in his early sixties wearing a turquoise earring in one ear and a stained jute apron over a plain, dark blue tunic. His beard was obsidian, his charcoal eyes deep set, his mouth etched with a few early lines. His right hand lacked two joints of its little finger. Even more unusual, Temek Huyurgal was sweating, far more than even the warm spring sun on the arid savannahs suggested he should be. “You from the Office of Revenue?” the cordwain demanded, looking Parvan Gorshayik up and down. His gaze settled on the scar on the big Tizraki’s left cheek. “Should we be?” Gorshayik replied, completely stone-faced. Dhani cocked an eyebrow, impressed. Huyurgal’s eyes flittered away. A tooth sawed at his bottom lip, he shifted balance between his feet. “My apologies. Quarterly tax just slipped my mind. I’ll send my son up with the money tomorrow.” He returned to the leather roller he was repairing. “I’m busy. You going to stand there all day and stare?” “We’re not from Revenue,” Gorshayik said. The cordwain’s head jerked up. His cheeks drained of blood. Dhani tensed, ready to react. Temek Huyurgal looked like a hare caught in the open, about to bolt for cover. “Who sent you?” “Is there somewhere private we could talk?” She offered a smile, hoping to reassure him. “Perhaps an office?” Huyurgal licked his lips. He studied the hand of blades on her thigh before his attention drifted upwards and settled on her face. “Anything you’ve got to say, you say it here.” “Very well.” Gorshayik folded his arms. The stance made his chest and shoulders seem broader than they already were. The description thug-like warred with bear-like in Dhani’s mind. Again, she settled on angry bear with a hornet up its arse. “We’re looking for a man named Scythe. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” “Never heard of him.” “You’re certain about that?” Gorshayik said. “I’m certain.” Huyurgal tapped the hammer on the machine and didn’t look up. “You people Imperium?” “Ha’filu.” Any blood left in the man’s cheeks packed up its belongings and fled. His forehead glistened with a new flush of sweat. He banged the hammer twice on the roller before speaking, each blow harder than the last. Dhani studied the hammer, keeping her expression completely blank. Scythe was a name Temek Huyurgal had clearly heard before. Any fool could see that. Perhaps they’d both been wrong and the mission wasn’t a wild goose chase, after all. “Look, I don’t know anyone called Scythe and I’m sorry about my quarterly tax. Like I said, I’ll send my son with the payment tomorrow.” Huyurgal tapped the hammer against the metal again. “Now, I’m busy. It’s nearly closing time and I need to get this fixed. We’ve a rush of orders to get ready in time for the Equinox festival next week.” “If you remember anything.” Gorshayik offered the man a slip of paper. “This is where to find me.” Temek Huyurgal stared at the slip for a moment then took it. “I won’t, but thanks.” They turned and retraced their steps through the noisy workshop. When Dhani turned back, Huyurgal was staring at the paper. The cordwain’s hands were shaking 

Chapter 5 

The sun had dropped below the city’s western wall as they left the cluster of lanes around Temek Huyurgal’s workshop and headed back down the gentle slope of Mursik’s main street. The evening air had cooled from blast furnace hot to simmering soup, and red-liveried lamplighters scurried about with ladders, priming the Deenjah-emitting rods within lamps affixed to iron lampposts or attached to buildings. Dhani lowered her head when one lamplighter caught her staring, murmuring an apology under her breath. Like the cobbled streets and sewers, the deenjili lamps spoke of wealth and privilege residents elsewhere in the city wouldn’t see for a generation—if at all. They soon joined a forest of people on the street, Tizraki mostly, save for the golden heads of a few tall, willowy, golden-haired Homelanders also dotting the crowd. These were the well-to-do returning home from offices, workshops, and businesses, whilst others hurried towards the Mursik Souk whose food stalls filled the air with spices and the mouth-watering aromas of roasting lamb, goat, and pork. Dhani checked over her shoulder, scanning faces in the crowd. Her pulse kicked up a notch and she held her breath. Old habits. She scanned for a tail, for those who looked away a little too swiftly, those who turned suddenly down a lane or hurried into a shop. She found no one suspicious and refocused her attention on the street ahead. “Your thoughts, Karim?” Parvan Gorshayik asked after a long silence. They passed a cross street that lead to the souk—a long, rectangular space thronging with light, food stalls and people. The scent of spiced meat grew strong. Dhani’s stomach rumbled. “Was Huyurgal scared or lying?” “Both.” She lowered her voice. “We should go back and wait. Corner him when he leaves the workshop.” “A merchant like that should have had a file.” An eyebrow lifted. His lips parted as if he were going to add something but he thought better of it and held his peace. “I find it odd he did not.” Dhani nodded. Keeping records was something the Ha’filu excelled at. After visiting Temek Huyurgal and his workshop, she agreed. The cordwain should have at least a biographical sketch, even a single page, like the priest’s. “Agreed. It’s strange. Perhaps the file was checked out to someone else and the Registrar simply didn’t bother to look?” Gorshayik shrugged, withdrew his watch from a pocket and frowned at its face. A flicker of something came and went in his eyes, too swift to read. Urgency? Impatience? If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn he had somewhere else to be. She shrugged and let it go. Most likely, checking his watch was just another habit in a library catalogue that included rudeness, bullying, arrogance, and pig-headedness. “We’ll pay him another visit tomorrow,” he said. “See if he’s more forthcoming then.” “So where are we going now?”  “Back to Tergayit to talk to Jursek Cerevin.” She raised an eyebrow, unable to keep the surprise from her face. “Back to Cerevin? Why not the priest?” “The priest can wait.” Dhani stared into the crowds, bunching her fingers into a loose fist. It made no sense. Why backtrack all the way across the city to Jursek Cerevin and his night soil when all they had to do was wait for jumpy Temek Huyurgal to shut up shop? It was a complete waste of time—time they didn’t have. She said, “We should go back and lean on Huyurgal whilst we’re here in Mursik. Like you said, he knows something.” “We’re going to see Cerevin, Karim. We still haven’t crossed him off the list.” The list? She rolled her eyes—it was impossible not to—and slowed her pace. Gorshayik’s methodology here was to work his way down an arbitrary list? In order, without deviation. It took some effort—and another eye roll—not to turn about and smack him in the head. “My guess,” she said, “is that Jursek Cerevin knows nothing. His name is on the list simply because he’s an easy target. He’s probably tired of Ha’filu turning up and questioning him about every other misdemeanour in Izurum.” She sidestepped a missing flagstone in the pavement. Ai Creator, she knew she was right. They could string Jurvik Cerevin up by the left testicle and slice his little fingers to the quick and he’d tell them nothing…because he had nothing to tell. She kicked at a stone and watched it scamper along the street. Temek Huyurgal, on the other hand, needed a knife to the trachea in a dark alley when he least expected it. And if blade to the throat didn’t work, a dagger to the genitals would. “What if I go back and wait for Temek Huyurgal and find out what he knows? Whilst I’m doing that, you find a cab down to the southern gate and talk to Papat Yenidogat?” Gorshayik didn’t so much as break stride. “Which part of partners do you not understand, Karim?” “The part where we have three days to finish this mission.” “Last time I checked, I was running this operation, unranked Operative Karim.” She clenched both fists. Four bloody Winds! What was wrong with him? A condition was one thing, but running about Izurum like a chicken missing its head because of a list? That crossed into the realms of obsession. Or insanity. She eyed the puckered scar on his left cheek. Perhaps this condition had screwed Parvan Gorshayik sideways in the head a little more than the General wanted to admit. After a few more steps, Dhani drew a steadying breath. She counted off another four strides and chose her next words carefully. “Captain Gorshayik, would you care to enlighten me as to what your plan is here? Because from where I’m standing, what we’re doing makes no sense.” Gorshayik’s jaw flexed. He murmured Father Ulgan give me strength and began to walk on again at a brisk pace. His strides were so long, Dhani had to jog to catch him. “Karim,” he said when she reached his side. He made a deliberate point of not looking at her, but past her, at some unfortunate building on the other side of the street. “In nine moons, I have a report to write about your behaviour. Remember that next time you’re about to open your mouth.” “A report. I see.” A flush of anger warmed her cheeks. The bastard. He was going to take every opportunity he could to hold that over her head. She curled her fingers. Well, he wasn’t the only one being asked to write a report on their partner’s ability to undertake their duties. “Just like the monthly reports I have to send the General about your condition and its effect on your ability to carry out your duties?” Gorshayik stiffened. The knife-edge smile thinning her lips was pure spite. “But unlike some, I’m not so petty as to play games with someone else’s career.” He turned just enough that his gaze met hers. The expression was so scorching, so damning, she missed a step. For an instant, there came a hint of something dark, something deep and pervasive, the same kind of smouldering madness she’d once glimpsed in the eyes of a deluded priest convinced of his own godhood moments before she’d put a dagger in his heart. “Don’t push me, Karim,” he said in a voice no more than a rattling hiss. “Assassin or not, you’ll live to regret it.” — They caught an open cab back to Tergayit’s outskirts, a twin seater sulky drawn by a pair of bored mules whose driver sang love songs to his animals in a quavering tenor. Dhani sat on the back seat of the sulky, listening to the driver’s serenading of his animals, pretending to ignore Parvan Gorshayik. The big Tizraki sat rod straight, his knees jammed hard against the driver’s seat whilst he alternatively glowered at some point in the gathering gloom or at the inscriptions on his pocket watch as he turned it over and over in his hands. She tightened her grip on the sulky’s side and stared at the darkening street. Inside, she fumed. Don’t push him or she’d regret it? What did that even mean? An empty threat or was he in fact asylum-certified, opium-addict-deluded, no-oars-in-the-water mad? And she had an entire year of this ahead. She traced her fingers over the cold, hard steel of her throwing blades and recited the Ta’Hafiq’s mantra in her head. No emotion. No weakness. No retreat. If she could survive the murderous betrayal of Casa-del-Toro, a childhood raised in a bar and life as a fugitive on the streets of Jhiriyah’s most notorious city, she’d survive this. “This is as far as I go,” the driver said after a time, reining his mules at a cross street where shops with tattered canvas awnings gave way to grubby family compounds. He pushed his cap back and flashed a nervous smile. Dhani returned it. The man’s top incisors were missing, putting his age somewhere around fifty. His second set of adult teeth were just making an appearance in his gums, ensuring he spoke with a pronounced lisp. “Any further into Tergayit and I’ll have to pay the racketeers or risk a knife between the ribs.” The man’s gap-toothed smile flashed again. “That’ll be two peshak, sir.”  Gorshayik nodded, giving up a faint groan as he unfolded his legs and swung out of the sulky. He surprised Dhani completely, offering a hand to help her down. She stared at it for a moment then shrugged. No use holding grudges. She took the offered hand and jumped to the dusty ground. After paying the driver, they worked their way through Tergayit’s tangle of alleys and lanes, stopping several times to ask directions or to bypass groups of young men who seemed to be lingering—malingering more likely—at various intersections. Along with the unfriendly locals, packs of mange-ridden dogs prowled in piles of refuse, whilst stringy white chickens squawked over maggots, mice, or roosting places. Lamps, where they existed at all, were powered by oil rather than deenjili rods imported from a foreign land at great expense. More often than not, the area’s residents simply raised balls of bluish white Deenjah from their fingertips and set them to float in the air a metre or so in front of their heads. They were halfway back to Jursek Cerevin’s home when Dhani noticed the tail: a pair of slab-faced, beefy men wearing temple turbans and grubby, dark blue tunics. Every time she checked over her shoulder, the pair looked away and started talking. Their attention, however, remained affixed to her and Parvan Gorshayik. “We’ve got company,” she said after they’d taken a second turn and the pair still hadn’t disappeared. “Two men wearing temple turbans.” Gorshayik glanced back, frowned, then swung left as soon as a lane presented itself. “We’ll lose them.” The sound of boot leather slapped down the lane. Dhani looked over her shoulder again. Turban One and Turban Two hadn’t caught up yet, but their scurrying footfalls announced they weren’t far away. “Wouldn’t you rather know why they’re following us? There’s only two of them. You take one, I’ll take the other.” He looked up at the pink-smeared cobalt sky. The light was fading swiftly now the sun had set. “We don’t have time.” She almost missed a step. Don’t have time? It was the second time he’d said as much. Did that mean he’d finally decided the mission’s timeframe was slim and they had to hurry, or had she been right before and he had somewhere else he needed to be? Before she could ask, a distraught wail filled the evening gloom. A wooden door in a compound wall was flung open and a young man ran out, colliding with Gorshayik. The big Tizraki’s frame absorbed the impact and he staggered only a step before regaining his balance. A group of women poured through the arched doorway after the young man who’d bumped into Gorshyik, all crying, each pleading with him to come back inside. The man didn’t move. For three heartbeats, Parvan Gorshayik stared down at the tear-streaked man. The man stared back as if Gorshayik were a wall or a lamp post or some other non-human, immovable object. In his arms, he held a small bundle: an infant swaddled in a blood-stained cotton sheet. Dhani drew breath and lowered her head. A tiny infant. Newborn. Blue-lipped. Unmoving. Clearly dead. Time began again as the man whirled away and lurched off down the lane, wailing. The trio of women called after him, begging him to come back. Gorshayik didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he stood statue still, cheeks pale, staring into space as the grieving father’s sandals slapped out an unsteady rhythm on the unpaved street. A dog howled behind a nearby compound wall. A child squealed. The women remained rooted to the spot, clutching each other as they sobbed and wept. Then, the big Tizraki made an immediate about-face. Without a word, Gorshayik, turned on his heel and began to walk back the way they’d came—surprising Turban One and Turban Two who’d just entered the lane. Dhani drew a knife. Her gut tightened. The pair of turbans came to an abrupt halt and exchanged a wary glance. “Where are you going?” She grabbed a fistful of Gorshayik’s tunic, slowing him down. “Cerevin’s house is back that way and our friends are blocking our way.” “Alley. Here,” Gorshayik said, stiff, like his jaw had rusted shut and it was an effort to speak. “Go.” He squeezed into a narrow space between two compound walls, nose wrinkling at the overpowering stench of rotting fruit, piss, and shit. Dhani followed, the General’s words echoing in her head as she slid along the flaking adobe walls, spoken the same afternoon she’d been given the choice that had been no choice at all. Parvan Gorshayik is an empty carapace imploding upon itself. It had seemed a strange turn of phrase at the time, yet right now, after the encounter with the stricken father and his stillborn child, she knew exactly what Behzad El’Meshid meant. The alley ended abruptly, opening into a shadowy courtyard, a square of no man’s land surrounded by a number of high-walled compounds. At the courtyard’s centre—predictably—was a public well encircled by a calf-high brick fence. A wooden trapdoor covered the well, keeping out the bugs, rats, and dust. An alley on the other side of the square, slightly wider than the one they’d just emerged from, offered the only other way out. Behind her, a grunt and a whisper told her the pair of tails had entered the alley and were on their way down. Warm evening air stirred her skin. Her pulse kicked up a notch in her veins. “Hurry,” she hissed to Gorshayik, who’d stopped dead in front of her. “They’re not far behind us.” Instead of moving however, he sucked in a sharp breath. A faint swish in her ears and a tug beneath her ribs warned of him raising the Flames. Tightening her grip on the blade, she tracked his gaze. The blood froze in her veins. At the opposite side of the courtyard, less than ten strides away, three men stepped out of the shadows, left hands blazing with the blood red of the killing Flame.

Can you, for those who don't know you already, tell something about yourself and how you became an author? 

I’m an Australian and I’m both an anthropologist and an archaeologist. For Americans, it’s really important to note that archaeology and anthropology are totally separate disciplines in Australia - like chalk and cheese.

I’ve always made up stories in my head, even as a small child. In fact, I preferred my own company and my toys even when I was very small, and amused myself for days. 

My author journey started when I was about 12. I was horse-mad (yes, I had horses) and wrote horse stories, longhand, on foolscap paper.  

Then I started reading fantasy. This was the early 1980s (ok, I’m old), and I read books like The Sword of Shannara, then Lord of the Rings, Duncton Wood, The Belgariad, The Dragonlance series...I was hooked. 

From there, it was just natural that I started writing fantasy. 

Long story short, I got my first publishing contract in 2002 with Magellan Books. The following year I got an agent, and had an offer on a novel from one of the Big Five publishers. 

Unfortunately two things happened. My marriage fell apart, and then I became very ill from a hereditary illness. I almost died four times. 

I stopped writing fiction until 2015. City of Whispers is my first novel since 2003.

 I live on a 24 acre bush property on the Murray River in the state of South Australia. There’s no street lights, we’re about 30 kilometres from the nearest town and we can’t see our neighbours. I despise streetlights with a passion, so this is heaven for me.

I’m married, have two children and a fabulous step-daughter and son-in-law (who are both huge fantasy readers). We have two very naughty dogs, Wiley and Scout. 

 

What is something unique/quirky about you? 

I’ve lived most of my adult life in outback Australia, which means when I’m doing fieldwork, I’ve had to camp alone. This doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Cities are far more scary than anything you find in the outback. 

I’m of Aboriginal (Wiradjuri) descent, speak an Aboriginal language (Arrernte, pronounced uh-RUN-duh), and have been through Women’s Law (women’s initiation) for the Two Women Dreaming near Watarrka (Kings Canyon), in the Northern Territory. This means I have pretty serious kinship and spiritual responsibilities to both the land and the ladies who put me through Law. They are my aunties, mothers and grandmothers Aboriginal way, even though they are not blood relations as white people have family. 

Tell us something really interesting that's happened to you! 

Probably the most interesting thing? Hmm. I’ve climbed halfway up Mt Everest. That was the travel highlight of my life. 

 

Where were you born/grew up at? 

I was born in Sydney and spent some of my younger life growing both there and in a very famous country town called Bowral. Anyone who’s a cricket fan will know that Bowral is the hometown of the legendary Aussie cricketer, Sir Don Bradman. 

 

What do you do to unwind and relax? 

I exercise - no joke. Everyday, I walk or run between 10-15 kilometres. Partly I do this to unwind and I also do it to keep fit for my archaeology job. A lot of archaeology is field surveys, where you might have to walk up to 30 kilometres in a day. 

 

When did you first consider yourself a writer? 

When I started winning short story competitions - then I knew I was at a place in my writing where other people thought I could write.

 

Do you have a favorite movie? 

I have a few! Independence Day, LoTR, all the Indiana Jones movies (except the fourth one), Himalaya, Amelia, Love Actually, The Day After Tomorrow, The Lion King, Avatar.

You can probably tell I have eclectic tastes.

 

What inspired you to write this book? 

City of Whispers came about as I was REALLY annoyed by how so-called kickass female characters were being written by some female writers. Snarky, stick-thin glamazons who never seemed to train, had no muscles or scars, but were somehow experts with weapons...and they were usually 17 years old. 

So I set about creating a totally believable, kickass female character. She’s 28 at the start of the series, snarky, ruthless, morally grey, and a little world-weary. There’s scars, both inside and out, she’s not angsty, knows what she wants but life keeps screwing her 50 times sideways and kicking her down. 

I was writing another book (which I will publish), and in it, I had a minor character who was an assassin-bodyguard for an empress.

In 2016, I was out bush doing fieldwork in an Aboriginal community called Wingellina (Google it. I assure you it’s REMOTE), and as I was going to sleep, the idea for the Imperial Assassin series featuring the empress’s bodyguard came into my head. 

 

What can we expect from you in the future? 

I’ll finish off the Imperial Assassin series and at this stage have three more series planned. Some are in the same world, but others are not. 

 

Do you have any “side stories” about the characters? 

Yes, I do. I share them as short stories or and extra scenes to my newsletter subscribers. 

After a time living in the NSW Southern Highlands, she worked as an anthropologist in the Northern Territory for many years. 

A decade ago, she retrained as an archaeologist specialising in human remains and Aboriginal archaeology. She now works as a senior archaeologist for a large ecology and heritage consultancy. She is of Aboriginal descent and is deeply grateful to have spent over 20 years protecting Aboriginal heritage. 

She is currently writing two series:

The Imperial Assassin series follows the adventures of Dhani Karim, wrongly expelled from the Imperial Assassins for a murder she didn’t commit. Demoted to a rankless covert operative, she fights to prove her innocence and regain her place in the Assassins.

The Children of Dust and Flame series involves Nimala Sirasena, a young woman forced to become the Empire’s secret weapon to save her adopted family. Nimala must overcome hate, prejudice and her own mysterious background if she’s to succeed and save the people she loves.

Katt currently lives on 24 acres in the Murray-Mallee region of South Australia with her husband, two very naughty dogs and lots of prickles.

She does not like Vegemite and has never seen the movie Titanic.

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