Weeks earlier Shobbat had come to the Temple of Elir-Sana seeking her help, but the affliction that had fallen upon him was not one Sa’ida could cure. She had no idea whether the khan was aware of his son’s condition. Perhaps Shobbat had fled to keep him from learning of it. Being the well-informed despot he was, Sahim probably knew all, but she felt it best to keep her own knowledge of the matter to herself. After bestowing Elir-Sana’s blessing upon the khan, she left the sweltering throne room.

Freed of his audience, Sahim leaned back, feeling the coolness of the golden panels against his back. What a pair! Sa’ida was half again his own age, as patient and intent as an adder. She could speak to the gods as easily as she addressed Sahim and had the power to heal nearly any calamity fate could inflict on a living body. Yet she only watched and waited, complaining about Torghanists she could vanquish in a single night. Who could fathom such a mind?

On the other hand, Condortal was like a weasel, a weak predator who struck from ambush and was not averse to carrion. His predecessor, Hengriff, had been a bold and dangerous man. Sahim had understood Hengriff. He could deal with men like him, but Condortal hadn’t even an assassin’s scruples. He dreamed of a Khur torn apart, fighting over the laddad, so his Order could step in and pick up the pieces. With rebellion smoldering in Qualinesti and the laddad fled to the Valley of the Blue Sands, what would Condortal’s masters do?

Sahim lived in a dangerous time and place. He played friends and foes against each other and emerged enriched and unscathed. No one was better than he at balancing on the knife-edge of disaster, at turning situations and people to his own advantage. It was a risky game he enjoyed to the fullest.

Except…

Where in Kargath’s name was Shobbat? And what had become of that damned sorcerer Faeterus and the bounty hunter Sahim had sent to drag him back?