Ghost in the Cowl (10 page)

Ulvan shrugged, his ornate robes glinting in the firelight. “To you, perhaps. But with respect, Grand Master, not all men share your…ascetic tastes. Have I not earned my wealth?” Caina scowled, thinking of Bayram and Bahad. “Shall not the people of Istarinmul see my magnificence and prestige?”

“Hollow vanity,” said Callatas. “Typical of this debauched and corrupted age.”

“But it has its uses, Master,” said Ricimer. The Alchemist had a cold, precise voice. “Ulvan is a Master Slaver now, with a corresponding rise in prestige and influence. That will make it easier for him to acquire slaves…and far easier for him to transfer those slaves to you.” 

“Perhaps,” said Callatas. “So. How many do you have for me?”

“Now?” said Ulvan, affronted. “You wish to discuss business now?”

Callatas said nothing, staring at Ulvan.

The Master Slaver swallowed, sweat glistening on his bearded face. “Yes, of course. My Collectors have been diligent, and have acquired nearly two hundred additional slaves in the last week.”

“Nearly?” said Callatas.

“One hundred and ninety-four,” admitted Ulvan.

“I asked for four hundred,” said Callatas. 

“The College of Alchemists might be able to transmute lead to gold,” said Ulvan, “but even the Brotherhood cannot conjure slaves out of thin air. The market…the market is very bad right now. The catastrophe of the golden dead…”

“The catastrophe of the golden dead merely proves that I am right,” said Callatas with annoyance. “I should have acted sooner. I would have acted sooner…if not for the consistent failure of my suppliers.”

“Your philosophical insights are far beyond my intelligence, I fear,” said Ulvan. “But practical considerations, my lord Grand Master, are my problem, and they are most severe. The golden dead threw the Padishah’s realm into chaos, and half the overland roads are inaccessible. And I dare not send Collectors to kidnap fresh slaves from the Empire, not with the peace with the Emperor still new. If the Grand Wazir finds out that we have aggravated the Empire…he is sympathetic to your plans, Grand Master, but if we annoy the Empire, he will turn against you.” 

“Then find other sources,” said Callatas.

Ulvan spread his meaty hands. “I have. More slaves are coming from the Alqaarin sultanates as we speak. And my scribes have been forging Writs of Servitude, permitting us to take slaves from the citizens of Istarinmul.”

Ricimer frowned. “That is risky, sir. Seize the wrong person, and we shall draw unwelcome attention.” 

“It is a risk,” admitted Ulvan, “but a minimal one. My scribes have made sure to pick targets who lack the resources to fight back. And should it come before a magistrate, well…hakims and wazirs can be bribed, and Erghulan can use his influence to intervene on our behalf. Though should the Most Divine Padishah take an interest…”

“He will not,” said Callatas. “I am certain of that.” 

“So I can assure you, Grand Master,” said Ulvan, “that I am making every effort to meet your needs.”

“See that you continue,” said Callatas. “It is my favor, Ulvan, that has raised you to the rank of Master Slaver. The other cowled masters are complacent fools, but you had the vision to aid me, and you shall be rewarded for it. When can you send the new slaves to the Widow’s Tower?”

The name stirred a memory in Caina’s head. She had heard of it – a fortress and an armory outside of Istarinmul proper, guarding the southeastern road towards the Desert of Candles. 

“Within seven days, Grand Master,” said Ulvan. “The necessary carts must be…”

“No,” said Callatas. “You shall send them tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” said Ulvan, flabbergasted. “But, Grand Master. The logistics of…”

“If you cannot obtain the quantity I desire,” said Callatas, “I shall at least settle for prompt delivery. Tomorrow, Master Slaver, at the Widow’s Tower, before dark. All of your slaves. You shall be paid the usual fee…with extra for timely delivery.”

“Very well,” said Ulvan. “It can be done, though they shall not arrive until the end of the day. It is a half-day’s walk to the Widow's Tower from the Alqaarin Quarter.”

“The Alqaarin Quarter,” murmured Callatas, and for the first time he looked almost amused. “Did you know that it was once called the Iramisian Quarter?”

Damla claimed that Callatas’s sorcery had destroyed the city of Iramis in a single instant. Ulvan, too, seemed to have heard the story, given how quickly he bowed.

“You may rely upon me, Grand Master,” said Ulvan. “You shall not be disappointed.”

“I hope not,” said Callatas. 

Ulvan bowed yet again. “But if you will excuse me, I must return to my guests. Too much time and my absence will be noted.”

“Go,” said Callatas. “I will join you presently.”

Ulvan bowed still another time and waddled away, leaving Callatas alone with Ricimer. 

For a moment the two Alchemists stood in silence.

“He is a fool, Master,” said Ricimer.

“Truly,” said Callatas. “But even fools have their uses. And he cannot help being what he is. He is a typical product of Istarish civilization – slovenly, gluttonous, enslaved to the appetites of his flesh. A contemptible fool. Yet held up as the exemplar, the ideal of an Istarish slaver.” He gazed at the sky. “For now.”

“For now,” agreed Ricimer. 

“Odd, is it not?” said Callatas. “That you should understand my vision instead of my brother Alchemists? Though perhaps it is not surprising. The life of the northern barbarians is savage and brutal…but cleaner, and free from the corruptions of an elderly civilization. But enough musings. Have the Teskilati contacted you?”

“They have, Grand Master,” said Ricimer. “The Ghosts have not returned to Istarinmul.”

A chill went down Caina’s spine. 

“Oh, they shall,” said Callatas.

Ricimer shrugged. “Perhaps the Ghosts will not return, now that there is peace between the Padishah and the Emperor.”

“The Emperor,” said Callatas, “does not fully control the Ghosts. Their brotherhood styles itself as the defender of the common man, of slaves and the helpless and the weak. They will return, and they will prove troublesome. Remind the Teskilati. I shall pay the usual reward for any dead Ghost.” 

A cheer went up from the crowds filling the gardens. 

“Perhaps we should return,” said Ricimer. “The formal ceremony shall begin soon, and your absence would be noticed.”

“Bah,” said Callatas. “Foolishness, all of it. Still, you speak wisdom. Though the day will come when this nonsense will ends forever.”

Ricimer grinned, and the two Alchemists walked from sight.

Caina let out a long breath and counted to fifty. No one appeared from the palace’s doors, and the sound of the revels continued. She got to her feet and crept through the bushes, straightening up as she came back to one of the gravel paths. The gladiatorial match had ended, and another had begun. Tumbling acrobats formed elaborate dances before the dais as Cronmer exhorted the crowd. 

Why? Why did Callatas and Ricimer need so many slaves? For that matter, why did they need slaves so badly that they were willing to risk offending the nobility and magistrates of Istarinmul? No one powerful cared about someone like Damla, but if Ulvan kept his course, sooner or later he would kidnap the relative of someone influential, and the other Master Slavers would use it as an excuse to turn on him.

But she could consider the puzzle later, once she had gotten Damla’s sons free.

Assuming she survived the process, of course. 

It had to be tonight. Ulvan would move the slaves tomorrow, and they would be under heavy guard for the journey to the Widow’s Tower. That created opportunities, but Ulvan would be ready for any escape attempts. That meant Caina had to get Bayram and Bahad out tonight, while Ulvan and his men slept off their revels. 

Caina slipped into the tent and returned her robe and turban and cloak to the chest with a sigh of relief. As scanty as her costume was, at least it kept her cool – the Istarish nights were only slightly cooler than the Istarish days.

“Damla?” said Caina, looking around.

But Damla had vanished.

Chapter 9 - The Locksmith

Caina donned her sandals and wig with a curse, giving her reflection a quick check.

She rebuked herself. Leaving Damla alone had been foolish. Caina was accustomed to danger, but she had forgotten the strain mortal peril had on someone unused to it. And Damla’s sons were locked in cells beneath Ulvan’s palace. What if Damla had flung herself screaming at the guards, demanding that they release her sons? Or what if she tried to sneak into the mansion and rescue them? 

The consequences would be disastrous. 

Caina looked across the chaos of the gardens, trying to find where Damla might have gone.

A blast of trumpets rang out, and sudden silence fell over the gardens. Grand Wazir Erghulan got to his feet, stern and commanding in his armor. He stepped from the dais, flanked by a pair of silent Immortals. 

“Hear me!” said Erghulan. “We have gathered to honor Ulvan of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. For at the dawn of history, the Living Flame decreed that some men should be masters and some men should be slaves. The masters must be strong and just, wise and noble, as are the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood.”

It was harder than Caina expected not to spit upon the ground. 

“And the slaves must be diligent and obedient, humble and devoted to their masters,” said Erghulan. “For the masters oversee the Padishah’s domains, ordering all things for the good of the people. Yet the hands of the slaves build our realm, as they cheerfully devote themselves to the wise plans of their masters.” 

Caina took another look around the crowds. There was no sign of Damla. Caina wanted to go look for her, but she dared not. Wandering around during the Grand Wazir’s speech would draw too much attention. 

“It is the noble work of the slave traders, the diligent men of the Brotherhood,” said Erghulan, “that builds our realm of Istarinmul. For they bring new slaves into the realm, take men and women from other nations and train them in their true and proper purpose as slaves of the masters of Istarinmul.” 

Caina had heard such self-serving nonsense from Istarish slavers before. She opened her mouth to make a mocking remark to Corvalis…

Then she remembered that Corvalis was not there, nor would he ever be.

The usual grief went through her, but this time a flood of rage accompanied it. Yet for some reason the fury focused upon Ulvan and Erghulan, on the cruel, arrogant speech coming from the Grand Wazir’s lips. Neither man was responsible for Corvalis’s death.

But the rage burned nonetheless. Even if they had not killed Corvalis, how many lives had they ruined? How many families had they torn apart? 

How many had felt the same despair as Damla, sown by the work of Ulvan and those like him?

She kept her face calm, but she could not prevent her right hand from curling into a fist, her fingers yearning for the handle of a throwing knife. She might die in the attempt, but she vowed she would find a way to free Bayram and Bahad.

And, if she could, to make Ulvan pay for his crimes. 

Erghulan beckoned, and a dozen men in ornate robes joined him. They wore the black leather cloaks of the Slavers’ Brotherhood, bound with brooches in the shape of a hand grasping a coiled whip. Unlike the other slave traders Caina had seen, they wore leather cowls over their cloaks, concealing their faces in shadow. Each man carried a steel rod about eighteen inches long, tipped in a flat steel disk about three inches across marked with an ornate sigil.

The steel rods were brands, Caina realized, and the cowled men were Master Slavers of the Brotherhood. They used the brands for marking their merchandise. Like a smith impressing his seal upon the swords made at his forge. 

“And there is one,” said Erghulan, “who has proven himself beyond the others of the noble Brotherhood. Through his efforts we have been supplied with the slaves to maintain our realm. Ulvan of the Brotherhood!” The Grand Wazir beckoned. “Rise.” 

Ulvan rose from his throne with a grunt of effort, descended the dais, and went to his knees before Erghulan.

“Ulvan of Istarinmul, brother of the Slavers’ Brotherhood,” said Erghulan in the formal tones of ritual. “Are you a true and loyal servant of Nahas Tarshahzon, the Most Divine Padishah of Istarinmul?” 

“I am the truest and most loyal servant of the Padishah!” declared Ulvan. 

“Ulvan of the Brotherhood,” recited the cowled masters in unison, speaking in formal Istarish. “Do you swear to abide by the laws of our noble Brotherhood, and never betray our secrets?”

“I so swear,” said Ulvan.

“Do you swear loyalty to the cowled masters, to abide by our decrees?” said the cowled masters.

“I so swear.”

“And do you swear to never free your slaves, to rule them with a benevolent and firm hand?” 

“I so swear.”

Again Caina’s right hand tightened into a fist.

“Then rise, Ulvan, Master Slaver of the Brotherhood,” said the masters.

Ulvan rose, albeit with some difficult, and Erghulan affixed the leather cowl of mastery to his cloak. One of the masters presented Ulvan with his own brand, and the new-made Master Slaver took it with pride.

Caina wondered if he would use it on any of his captives before handing them over to Callatas. 

“Behold!” said Erghulan. “Master Slaver Ulvan of the Brotherhood!”

The merchants and emirs and Alchemists cheered, though most of the bodyguards and the Circus performers remained silent. 

“Thank you all for attending this celebration!” said Ulvan, stepping back upon the dais. “There is food and drink in honor of this august occasion! Let the revels resume!”

Again the emirs and merchants and Alchemists cheered, and even Callatas clapped a few times. Cronmer started bellowing, and the acrobats and clowns went back into motion. A juggler catching flaming balls strolled past Caina, and she stepped around him, looking for Damla. Had she gone into the palace? If the Immortals or Ulvan’s guards caught her, they would kill her without hesitation. Caina turned, intending to find Tiri. Perhaps she or Tozun knew where…

Again Caina felt the tingle of sorcery against her skin.

She stopped, hand reaching for a weapon that was not there. Had Callatas come for her? No, the aura was too weak. It felt like…

A wraithblood addict.

The locksmith Strake stood a few paces away, staring at Caina. Up close, the woman looked delicate, almost frail. And she could not have been much older than Caina, no more than twenty-five or twenty-six at the most. Her head tilted to the side, her eerie blue eyes examining Caina. 

“Do you wish something of me?” said Caina.

Strake blinked. “Mathematically.” 

“I am sorry?” said Caina. 

“It makes more sense mathematically, now that I see you up close,” said Strake. “You are sixty-eight inches tall, and weigh approximately one hundred and twenty-seven pounds. My initial calculations postulated that you lacked the necessary strength to drive the knives with sufficient velocity to penetrate flesh, which would explain the safety of your act. But upon closer examination, I calculate that your mass contains a substantially higher percentage of muscle than most women of your height and age. Therefore you could have killed the other woman with your knives, and I there conclude that you are exceptionally skilled at calculating trajectories and velocities.” 

Caina blinked. 

Of all the things Strake could might said, she had not expected that. 

“I see,” said Caina at last.

“Oh!” said Strake, slapping one hand against her forehead. “Oh, I forgot again.”

“Forgot what?” said Caina. 

“Social mores,” said Strake. “It is considered rude to discuss mathematics before offering greetings.” She sighed. “I always forget.” 

“I see,” said Caina again, unsure if she ought to be alarmed or amused.

“Social mores, social mores,” said Strake, closing her eyes as if trying to remember a list. “Ah…yes, introductions first. My name. Nerina Strake. Yours?”

“Ciara, Mistress Strake,” said Caina.

She had known another woman named Nerina, years ago in Malarae. That had not ended at all well. 

“Call me Nerina,” said Nerina. “It is easier to say, quicker, and therefore a more efficient use of time. Next.” She closed her eyes, recalling the list. “I am to inquire about the state of your health, your husband, and any children.”

“I am healthy,” said Caina, “and I have neither husband nor children.”

Nor would she ever. 

Yet something else stirred in her mind. Nerina Strake. That name sounded familiar. But why? 

“And I believe the next item on the list,” said Caina, “would be for me to inquire after your husband and children and health.”

“Yes, that’s right!” said Nerina. “My health is indifferent – I have a strong constitution, but I am addicted to wraithblood, though I have not taken any for three months. I have no children and am unlikely to do so, as my husband was killed two years ago.” 

“Oh,” said Caina. “I am sorry.” 

“Thank you,” said Nerina, blinking her eerie eyes. “But you understand. I calculate that you, too, are a widow.”

“I am not,” said Caina, suddenly alarmed. “I was never married.”

“No?” said Nerina. “But you are plainly in mourning. The dark circles under your eyes and their bloodshot state indicates frequent weeping. You have lost weight, most likely because you have lost interest in eating. The logical result of this equation is you are in mourning for someone close.” She swallowed. “And, on a nonmathematical level, I am…familiar with the variables of that equation.” 

“I see,” said Caina at last, her mind racing.

She had always been observant, always able to deduce facts from things she noticed about people. Under Halfdan’s teaching and the training of the Ghosts, the skill had grown keener, and it had saved her life more than once. 

And it seemed that Nerina Strake possessed that skill as well. 

“I am…sorry for your loss,” said Nerina. “Is that the correct thing to say? I am never sure. Words, unlike numbers, are so imprecise.”

“Yes, that is the correct thing to say,” said Caina. “Thank you. And I am sorry for your loss.” 

A muscle twitched in Nerina’s thin face. “Thank you as well. It…emotions are difficult. I much prefer mathematics. Far more precise. I…”

A dark-bearded man with a scarred face stepped next to Nerina. He looked Sarbian, and stood nearly seven feet tall, clad in chain mail and a desert robe, a huge two-handed Sarbian scimitar slung over his shoulder. He scowled at Caina, and unlike most of the men she had seen tonight, he did not look at her with desire.

He looked at her with the cold frown of a man assessing a threat. 

“Do not be alarmed,” said Nerina. “This is Azaces, my bodyguard.”

Azaces said nothing. 

“Please forgive him for not adhering to the customary social conventions,” said Nerina. “He was born a slave, spent time fighting in the gladiatorial pits, and at some point had his tongue removed.” 

“Why are you here?” said Caina.

“Ulvan invited me as a guest,” said Nerina. “I produced the locks on his strong room and personal chambers. It seemed…a welcome distraction.” 

“No, I mean here, talking to me,” said Caina. “If you’re Ulvan’s personal locksmith, then you don’t need to waste time talking to circus performers.” Had Nerina built the locks Ulvan used to bind his slaves?

“This is true,” said Nerina, “but I wish to ask you a question.” She thought about it. “Two, in fact.”

Caina was not at all sure the woman standing before her was sane. Yet she seemed to have a better command of herself than most wraithblood addicts. Perhaps here was an opportunity to learn more about wraithblood. 

“Very well,” said Caina, “but you must answer an equal amount of questions in turn.”

Azaces made a displeased noise. 

“That seems equitable,” said Nerina. “I shall ask first.”

Caina nodded. “Go ahead.” 

“When you throw the knives,” said Nerina, “do you first calculate the precise vector, angle, trajectory, and amount of force necessary to reach the target?”

“Do I sit down and work out equations like a siege engineer with a catapult?” said Caina. Nerina nodded. “No. Well, I did a little, when I was younger, when I first started doing this. But now it is all instinct and experience. I have thrown many, many knives in a variety of different circumstances, and can quickly gauge the best throw.”

“Oh.” Nerina sounded disappointed. “That is logical. Still, I had hoped that you would realize that mathematics are the underlying nature of reality, and that any physical structure or action must conform to those mathematical laws in order to achieve maximum effects.” 

Caina smiled. “Sometimes I am in a hurry, and must rely upon my instincts and experience, rather than waiting to calculate the precise angle.”

Such as when someone was trying to kill her. 

“In the midst of a performance, for instance,” said Nerina, nodding.

“Something like that,” said Caina. “You remind me of a locksmith I knew, Radast of Marsis. He, too, tried to construct locks based on an underlying mathematical reality.”

And that could be a severe problem. Radast’s locks had been devilishly clever and difficult to pick. If this mad locksmith had constructed Ulvan’s locks, Caina’s task would be all the harder. 

“How long have you been throwing knives?” said Nerina.

Caina shrugged. “Half my life, I think. My…father was a traveling merchant, and I frequently accompanied him. I grew bored, and I met a circus performer who taught me to throw blades. It has proven useful since.” 

Nerina nodded. “Thank you. A second question.” 

“Go ahead,” said Caina, looking around for Damla. There was still no sign of her. 

“Who are you?” said Nerina.

“My name is Ciara,” said Caina. “The ‘Natalia of the Nine Knives’ title is just for my act. I was born in Mornu, in Varia Province in the Empire of Nighmar.” 

“That is it?” said Nerina, frowning. “That is all? Nothing…else? You are not a wielder of arcane forces?”

“Why would you think that?” said Caina.

Nerina opened her mouth, closed it again, and sighed in frustration. “I wish there were a way to express it mathematically.”