LITMIR.BIZ

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greeted and where the cutting and sewing was done. Half a dozen garments were on display and one caught Jim’s eye. It was a robe, the sort preferred by the desert tribes of the Jal-Pur, worn open in front, which could be closed and secured with a large sash, and a matching cloth head cover. Jim had spent enough time in the desert to know that punishing cold nights and stinging sand storms required a well-made covering. This had the look of a merchant’s robes, but not robes a wealthy merchant would wear. If this garment was ready for a client who had paid in advance, its disappearance would quickly be noticed. If it was stock ready to be bought by someone who happened by, perhaps not as soon. He checked swiftly through the other garments and discarded them as not being useful and then made a decision.

      He removed his shirt, a simple white linen top with an open collar and quarter-length sleeves, and chose a more finely-fashioned red shirt which would go nicely with the deep indigo of the robe. The grey flannel trousers he wore would have to suffice.

      In his belt he had the coin purse returned to him by Kaseem, and he counted out a few coins, estimating the price he would have got with haggling, and left half-again as much, placing it where the shopkeeper would find it. He hoped the silver coins would convince the man that someone had sold the garments but neglected to put away the coins; or at least give the man less reason to call the city watch. Since the local watchmen were as corrupt and unreliable as they were in any other port city in the Empire, Jim felt he stood a reasonable chance of being out of the city before the alarm was raised.

      He slipped on the shirt and robe, then moved back through the storage room and again peered out of the door. The tempo of the city was quickening as he slipped out into the alley. He walked purposefully to the corner and entered the flow of traffic. As he made his way towards the docks, he looked around and found what he sought next, a boot-maker. The shop was just opening as he entered and the proprietor greeted him. ‘Sir, what service can we offer you?’

      ‘Boots,’ Jim said in the language of the desert men.

      The boot-maker looked confused for a moment, then Jim repeated the word in Keshian, heavily accented to sound as if he was not terribly fluent.

      ‘I make the finest boots in the Empire,’ claimed the man, speaking loudly and slowly as if it would make it easier for Jim to understand him. He indicated that Jim should sit on a bench and he would measure him.

      Jim said, ‘No, boots now.’

      The man was apologetic. ‘I have no boots already made, sir. Each man’s foot is of a different size, so I need a week or so to measure, cut leather and fashion it; you understand?’

      Jim pointed to six pairs of boots on a shelf behind the man. ‘What of those?’

      ‘Those are awaiting their purchasers,’ said the boot-maker, but a calculating look crossed his face. ‘Perhaps …’

      Jim dropped his leather purse on the counter. The noise the coins made was unambiguous.

      ‘Let me see the size …’

      Ten minutes later Jim left the shop wearing black leather boots which were almost a perfect fit; they were a tiny bit short in the toes, but being leather would stretch if he wore them long enough.

      Another stop at a weapons merchant and he was striding down the street looking as much like a desert rider of the Jal-Pur as he could manage given the circumstances. He spoke the language fluently and without accent and knew enough about the region to deceive most people who didn’t know him on sight. His headgear was worn in the fashion of the Jal-Pur, the nose and mouth cover left to hang loosely to one side, so it could be pulled up in seconds if a sandstorm suddenly blew up. It was just enough to hide his features without looking as if he was trying to hide them.

      That was what he was concerned about. The four assassins had not only known him, one knew him well: Amed Dabu Asam, who until he had tried to kill Jim had been his most trusted agent in the region.

      They had come mere hours after Destan had conveyed Jim to Kaseem’s safe house, and it was by the barest chance they had been alerted to someone being just outside the door, a bare creak of wood where someone misstepped ever so slightly, a creak that had meant the difference between life and death as Jim, Destan and Kaseem had all been crouched in a secret room with weapons ready where a moment before they would have been taken unawares.

      The revelation that Amed was no longer to be trusted had cast an even darker shadow over the events unfolding around them. Jim had sighed. ‘If Amed is a traitor, there is no one in my organization I can fully trust.’

      Kaseem had answered, ‘I know the feeling. Some of the men who tried to kill me had served my father before me.’

      The two leaders of the rival intelligence services had vowed to return to their respective capital cities to ferret out the traitors. Both had also vowed that all activity previously directed at one another would be put aside until the real architect of this mad war and multiple betrayals had been uncovered.

      Kaseem needed to reach his people’s camp and appear to be digging in for a long siege: he had a cousin who looked remarkably like him, and with a few minor alterations to his appearance, any spies or traitors who might be nearby would glimpse the fugitive prince of the desert. While his cousin kept his eyes focused on the desert, Kaseem would slip away in disguise to the City of Kesh looking nothing like himself.

      As for Jim, he had to reach Sorcerer’s Isle and speak with Pug.

      He reached the docks without incident and hesitated for a moment. There were at least two hundred boats and ships at the quays or at anchor in the harbour, a higher number than was usual for this port, but given the circumstances in the Bitter Sea these days, Jim assumed some of them were there because their owners had no desire to sail waters crowded with three hostile navies.

      Since little cargo was coming ashore or being ferried out to a waiting ship, the dock was crowded with stevedores looking for work. As he walked past, a few looked at him expectantly, thinking Jim was perhaps a ship owner or agent.

      He glanced about and then saw a band of street boys congregating around a vendor’s fruit cart near one of the major streets that intersected with the docks, no doubt waiting for their opportunity to purloin a rich pear or savoury plum when the seller wasn’t looking. Scant chance of that as the man had one eye fixed on the ragged crew while he shouted the quality of his wares to all and sundry.

      Jim discreetly held up a copper coin until one of the boys took notice. He glanced to see if any of his compatriots had noticed and seeing they hadn’t, he scampered over to stand in front of Jim, just far enough away that he could leap out of arm’s reach if Jim attempted to harm him. But all Jim said was, ‘Mialaba?’

      The boy pointed silently to the end of the dock and Jim flipped the coin to him and moved quickly away. The far end of the harbour was occupied by boats of various sizes, but no cargo vessels. All appeared to be short-haulers. Ferries, and shallow launches waited to take cargo and passengers out to ships at anchor, while a few fishing vessels in from nearby villages were unloading the previous day’s catch.

      Jim moved with urgency, but not so quickly as to call attention to himself. He was experiencing what he called his ‘bump of trouble’, a name inherited from his ancestor, the first Jimmy: a sense of impending danger. It had been annoying him the entire time he had been in this city.

      As he worked his way down the dock he saw at last a small two-masted lugger. A sailor was repairing ropes on the bow and Jim called up, ‘Mialaba?’

      ‘Yes,’ said the sailor barely looking up.

      ‘Nefu?’

      The man stood up and moved to the back of the boat, then returned a moment later with a second man, who said, ‘You looking for me?’

      ‘If your name is Nefu.’

      ‘It is.’ He was a barrel-chested man of at least fifty summers, with a balding head surrounded by a fringe of hair so white James assumed he must have been fair-haired when he was younger, red or blond. His skin was weather-beaten and worn, and he looked as if he should be holding

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