Ghost in the Cowl (14 page)

But why? Even if half the city’s beggars were using the drug, the Alchemists could not earn much profit from it. Why make it?

Caina could not see the reason, and that disturbed her. 

“You are scowling,” said Damla. 

“What?” said Caina, shaking off her dark thoughts. “Forgive me. I was thinking about the wraithblood and the Alchemists. There is some connection, I am sure, though I cannot see what.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Damla. “Not after what you have done for me. And that is your business, I suppose, if you are a Ghost. To investigate these matters.”

“It is,” said Caina. “And I should get started.” She found herself yawning. “Tomorrow, though.”

“You may stay here as long as you wish without charge,” said Damla.

“I can pay,” said Caina. “It is no hardship.”

“I insist,” said Damla. “My sons are worth more than gold. You shall stay here and eat at my table for as long as you wish.” She grinned. “Though if you bring any guests, they shall have to pay.”

Caina laughed. “Only reasonable.” 

“You must be ravenous,” said Damla, “if you slept for two days.”

Caina’s stomach clenched. “A little.”

“Come, let us prepare you a meal,” said Damla. “Rice and peppers and spiced chicken, yes? And coffee, of course.”

“I can pay for it,” said Caina.

“Nonsense,” said Damla, stepping towards the door. “Business is slower than I would like, after the…unpleasantness, but it will pick up again.”

Caina grinned. “If you really wanted it to pick up, I suppose you could serve tables in your Circus outfit.”

Damla sighed. “If the Living Flame is merciful, I shall never have to wear such a thing in public again.” She paused. “Still, I admit it made an effective disguise. I thought Anburj would recognize me, that I would see at least some of Ulvan’s men at my door once my sons returned. But nothing. No one realizes I was at Ulvan’s palace.” She shook her head. “Truly, people see what they expect to see.”

“And a well-timed bluff,” said Caina, “is sometimes more effective than a sword.” 

“Well, then, Master Marius,” said Damla. “If you are to bluff, at least you can do so with a full stomach.”

They walked back to the common room, Damla speaking of how she would of course be happy to provide lodgings for additional couriers from the Collegium of Jewelers, and perhaps would be even willing to consider a reduced rate of rent. Caina stifled a smile. Damla, indeed, was learning the value of the bluff.

Was this how the circlemasters of the Ghosts built their circles? Caina had called herself a Ghost nightfighter, but in truth the Emperor had made her Istarinmul’s circlemaster, the leader of the eyes and ears of the Ghosts in Istarinmul. Of course, the Teskilati had killed all of Istarinmul’s Ghosts, so Caina had no one to lead. 

But she could make new Ghosts…and Damla, she suspected, would be willing. Bayram, too, for that matter. He was old enough, and men often talked freely before children, believing them beneath notice. 

But did Caina have that right? She could risk herself without fear. She had already lost Corvalis, and after that losing her own life hardly seemed like a great loss. Yet did Caina want to bring danger into Damla’s life and the lives of her sons?

Yet danger had found Damla anyway. Even if Caina had died in New Kyre, even if she had drunk herself into a stupor and cracked her head on the edge of a table in the Sanctuary, Ulvan’s Collectors would have come for Damla’s children anyway. 

And if Caina had not been there, they would never have seen their mother again. 

Perhaps Istarinmul needed more Ghosts. Perhaps the Brotherhood and the Alchemists and the emirs had enjoyed a free hand for too long.

Damla showed her to a booth, and Caina sat and thanked her. She gazed at the crowd of merchants and artisans, watching them drink their coffee and discuss the business of the day. Not a few of them discussed the upheaval at Ulvan’s palace. 

Damla’s slaves moved among them, serving food and drink. Why had they come back? They could have fled and found their freedom. Yet, as Damla had said, for them freedom would have meant prostitution at best and death by starvation at worst. And Damla was a vast difference from a man like Ulvan. Still, that did not excuse owning slaves. Yet what else could have Damla done? Everyone in Istarinmul who could own a slave did so, and gave no thought to its morality. Many of the slaves themselves likely did not.

Perhaps that was the worst thing of all. 

There was a worthy goal – finding a way to end slavery in Istarinmul. 

She smiled at her own hubris. Corvalis would have asked if she wanted to capture the moon, or quench the fire of the sun. 

One of the slaves arrived with a plate of food and a cup of coffee, and Caina thanked her and started to eat. Gods, but the food was good. Hunger added spice to everything, but the work of Damla’s cooks hardly needed enhancement. 

She listened as Sulaman stood up and recited a poem, accompanied by Mazyan’s drumming. To her surprise, he recited not an epic of Istarinmul, but a tale the legendary assassin Morgant the Razor. Caina had read of his life in her father’s books long ago. During the time of the Fourth Empire, when the Magisterium had ruled the Empire, he had assassinated one of the cruelest Padishahs in Istarinmul’s history, and then fled north to Malarae, where he then killed one of the magus-emperors.  After the fall of the Fourth Empire and the rise of the Fifth a century and a half past, he had returned to Istarinmul, and no history recorded his fate. Some said the Kindred had hunted him down as a traitor. Others claimed he had buried himself in a secret tomb, surrounded by the ransom of a dozen kings. Still another claimed he had found the love of a beautiful Istarish amirja and grown old with her. 

Caina watched the crowd, surprised. They listened to the epic of Morgant with glee, laughing at the right parts and clapping when Morgant slew the cruel Padishah. Suddenly she understood what Damla had meant about politics. The Istarish hated their rulers, but endured them because they had no choice. Yet if a slaver or an emir or an Alchemist showed the slightest bit of weakness, they would tear him apart. Perhaps…

The door banged open, and three men in the chain mail and crimson cloaks of the city watch stepped into the common room. The lead man wore the spiked helm of a khalmir, an officer, and looked over the room with a narrow-eyed scowl. 

“I would speak with the owner of this coffeehouse!” he said.

Caina cursed, reaching for one of the throwing knives in her sleeves. Had she been followed? Had Ulvan sent men to reclaim Bayram and Bahad? 

Damla glided forward, serene and calm in her widow’s black. “Welcome, sirs. I am the owner. How can I be of service?” 

Caina took a deep breath and braced herself.

“By order the Grand Wazir,” said the khalmir, lifting a scroll, “all businesses within the city walls are required to display this decree upon their doors.”

“Of course, sir,” said Damla. “I only beg that you be gentle with my door. Carpentry is most expensive.” Caina watched as Damla charmed the khalmir, two of her slaves hurrying forward with coffee for the brave men of the city watch as they went about their duties. The khalmir’s scowl softened as Damla laughed at his jokes, and soon he left with his men, the decree nailed to the door as normal conversation resumed.

Caina got to her feet and joined Damla by the door

“You should read this,” Damla said, voice quiet.

The decree had been written in Istarish, Anshani, and Cyrican, the three chief languages of Istarinmul. In all three languages, Erghulan Amirasku, Grand Wazir of Istarinmul, decreed that in the name of the Most Divine Padishah, the thief and assassin known as the Balarigar was declared an outlaw, and that a reward of twenty-five hundred bezants would be paid for his death. For his capture, the Grand Wazir offered five thousand bezants. 

“A small fortune,” said Damla.

“Aye,” said Caina. “It seems Master Ulvan was most distraught.” 

“Well, the Grand Wazir ought to raise the reward,” said Damla. “They can search all of Istarinmul, brick by brick and stone by stone, and they shall never find the man they seek.”

Caina laughed. “I suppose they will not.”

She gazed at the decree, at the Padishah’s seal upon it. It should have alarmed her, she knew. 

But instead she only felt a fierce eagerness as the cold anger stirred within her.

Chapter 13 - A Master Thief

A short time later, Caina climbed the stairs to her room, still tired from the exertions of the last few days, her belly filled with Damla’s excellent food. 

She pulled off her boots and coat and collapsed into the bed, not bothering even to pull back the blankets or undress. Caina had stayed in a lot of inns, but the House of Agabyzus was a cut above most of them. Still, for the last week Caina had slept upon either the stone floor of the Sanctuary or a bedroll in the tents of the Circus. Any bed would feel comfortable by contrast.

Caina rested her head against the pillow, gazing at the beams of the ceiling. Her mind whirled with everything that had happened, and even with her exhaustion, she wondered how she would sleep.

But sleep came for her nonetheless. 

###

And in her sleep, she dreamed.

Nightmares, Halfdan had once told her, were scars of the mind. Just as the flesh bore scars, so the mind carried nightmares, the marks of wounds that had stopped bleeding but could never be forgotten. She had seen the truth of his words again and again.

But sometimes another kind of dream entered her head.

She was sensitive to sorcery, thanks to the scars Maglarion had inflicted upon her. Because of that, sometimes creatures of sorcery and spirit could speak in her dreams. The spirit of Lydia Palaegus had spoken to her in Marsis, and the Moroaica’s spirit had visited her dreams for almost a year. A ruthless Nighmarian noblewoman had tried to use the power of an Ashbringer artifact to send a killing dream into Caina’s mind. The power of the Ascendant Bloodcrystal had projected itself into her sleeping mind, and she had spoken with the spirit of Jadriga’s father Horemb, a man dead for nearly twenty-five centuries. 

Sometimes Caina wished that she could leave a blank page inside her dreams, so all those spirits could simply leave her a message and let her get some damned sleep. 

And this dream, she suspected, was the second kind.

Again she saw the hooded man standing on the ridge overlooking the city of crystal and gold, the star of blue fire burning in his hand. It was the same man from her earlier drunken dream in the Sanctuary. Caina watched again as the man raised his hand and the golden city burned, its lush farmlands withering to desert as thousands of jagged crystalline pillars rose from the earth. 

She had never seen any of that in the waking world. She was sure of it. Yet she had dreamed of it twice now. Why?

Was something touching her dreams, as Jadriga had done?

The world blurred around Caina, and she found herself in the desert, amongst the crystal pillars. They each stood nine or ten feet tall, their tops jagged, and shone with a pale azure glow. 

And once more she found herself staring at Corvalis, his eyes closed.

The sight of him seared her heart, but this time she was suspicious.

“Who are you?” she said.

He opened his eyes, and they burned with that peculiar smokeless flame. 

“A memory,” he said in the same sarcastic drawl that Corvalis had never used. 

“If you are, my memory is very flawed,” said Caina, circling to his left. She looked down and saw that she wore her nightfighter clothes, a throwing knife ready in her right hand. “His eyes weren’t like that.”

“That’s better,” said Corvalis. “Let us instead discuss a more interesting question. Who are you? Are you the one that I have sought, my darling slayer of demons? Perhaps you are.”

“Who are you?” said Caina. “I am very tired of games.”

Corvalis laughed. “Indeed? That would surprise me. You are not wearied of games at all…and you happen to be very good at them. Though most games don’t end with your opponent hanging upside down from his own balcony.” 

“Depends on the game,” said Caina, stepping closer. 

“Ah,” said Corvalis, his burning eyes flicking to the knife. “Will you attack me, my dear child? Would you strike your down your beloved Corvalis?”

“Corvalis is already dead,” said Caina, “and you are not him!”

She flung the knife at him, and the burning eyes narrowed in amusement. The dream blurred around them, vanishing into nothingness, and Caina felt herself sinking back into deep sleep.

But she was ready for it.

She lashed at the world with her thoughts, the way she had when Ibrahmus Sinan had sent her into the netherworld to enter the Sacellum of the Living Flame. She had found she could shape the netherworld with her thoughts, and the dream reacted in the same way.

The world reformed the House of Kularus in Malarae. Empty tables and chairs stood on the main floor, while five stories of balconies climbed the walls, lined with booths so patrons could converse in privacy. It was night, and the House was empty and quiet. 

The false Corvalis stood near the kitchen doors, looking amused.

“You are better at this than I would have suspected,” he said. His eyes narrowed, his burning gaze digging into her. “Though given the number of times your subconscious mind has been invaded, I suppose you would have learned some kind of defenses, if only to keep your sanity intact.” He spread his hands, gazing up at the balconies. “Why here?”

“You’ll see some more defenses,” said Caina, “if you don’t tell me who you are.” 

“So I see,” said Corvalis, as if she had not spoken. “You were happy here and now you are not. Well, misery has been the human condition since long before you were born. Why should you be an exception, my dear demonslayer?” 

“And why should you?” said Caina, flinging the knife.

It struck Corvalis, and he shattered like a glass pane struck by a rock. The shards drew back together, and he reformed into Alexius Naerius, Emperor of Nighmar, the man who had thanked Caina for stopping the Moroaica…and then had exiled her to Istarinmul.

His eyes burned with smokeless fire. 

“There are a number of reasons I am an exception,” said the Emperor. “One very good one, as it happens.”

“And what reason is that?” said Caina. “You are not human?” 

“That would be telling. There are conventions about such things,” said the Emperor. 

“Then why are you here?” said Caina. “To possess me?”

“You know I cannot,” said the Emperor. “The Moroaica with all her power could not control you. How could I succeed where she failed?” 

“Then why are you here?” said Caina. “To chat? To discuss the weather? It’s hot. It’s always hot in Istarinmul.”

“Yes,” said the Emperor. “That is the point, isn’t it?” He tilted his head to the side, examining her with his burning eyes. “And I am indeed here simply to talk. And to warn you.”

“Of what?” said Caina. 

“You have impressed me,” said the Emperor. “Which is more of a compliment than you know. And I have been looking for someone like you for a very long time. Longer than you have been alive, certainly. You might be the one I have been seeking. Assuming you do not get yourself killed first.” 

“Why have you been seeking me?” said Caina.

“Consider this a…warning,” said the Emperor. “Yes, that is it. A warning. Not about me, of course. But for you. You are on a dangerous path, and you have so far eluded notice. But sooner or later, most likely sooner, you will draw the eye of those with the power to destroy you.”

“Tell me more,” said Caina.

“No,” said the Emperor. “Because if you are the one I have sought, if you truly are the Balarigar…then you will be able to figure it out for yourself.” He grinned, the way Alexius Naerius had never grinned. “Brace yourself, for there are some surprises in your future. And now…we are done.”

He clapped his hands, and the dream ended.

###

Caina’s eyes shot open, the clapping still ringing in her ears.

She sat up at once, yanking the dagger from underneath her pillow. After a confused moment she realized that the clapping was in fact knocking, and it was coming from the door to her room.

Her room in the House of Agabyzus. 

Caina put down her dagger, rubbed her face, and walked to the door.

“Aye?” she said, remembering to disguise her voice. 

“It is Bayram, Master Marius. Mother wishes to know if you would like breakfast.”

“Aye,” said Caina again, scratching the bristles of her head. “I would. I will come down in a moment.” 

“Mother said to tell you that there is a private bath for guests,” said Bayram. “We can prepare it, if you wish.” 

Caina grinned. “I think I will take breakfast in there.”

###

The bath was a copper tub in a small room on the first floor. Caina made sure the door was locked, the shutters closed and barred.

Then she took off her clothes and settled into the water with a sigh. It was delightfully hot, and she felt some of the ache leave her legs and hips. A tray next to the tub held breakfast, and Caina ate and drank coffee as she washed herself. Short hair was much easier to wash, though she missed her long hair nonetheless. 

She finished her food and lowered herself all the way into the water, only her face breaking the surface, and closed her eyes to think.

That dream. That damnable dream. 

If it even had been a dream. Had someone been trying to contact her through sorcery? One of the Alchemists, perhaps? Or some other sorcerer of power hidden in Istarinmul? 

Or something else?

She remembered the hint the man with the burning eyes had made, his brief suggestion that he was not human.

Caina put the matter out of her mind. There was nothing she could do about it, at least not now. If some sorcerer or elemental spirit was indeed following her, he would make his presence known in due time, and Caina could deal with him then. 

Her mind turned to other mysteries.

All those damned slaves in Ulvan’s cellar, the Alchemists buying up every slave they could find. It made no sense. At least none that Caina could see. Surely the Alchemists did not require that many slaves. Some project, perhaps? Some construction they wished kept secret from the rest of Istarinmul? It would make more sense to hire capable builders and buy their silence, rather that kidnapping unskilled workmen. 

Unless…

Caina sat up, water cascading down her shoulders.

Unless the Alchemists required the slaves for something other than their labor.

Maglarion had planned to kill everyone in Malarae and use their harvested life force to become a god. Kalastus had attempted much the same with his pyromancy in Rasadda. Mihaela’s invincible glypharmor had been powered by the enslaved souls of murdered sorcerers. So many sorcerers could use the lives of their victims as raw materials.

Could the Alchemists do the same?

And that damned wraithblood. Caina wanted to obtain some. Not to use it, but to discover if it was indeed sorcerous in nature. 

She sank into the bath, turning over the mysteries in her mind. 

Perhaps it was simply a diversion. She needed something to distract herself from Corvalis’s death and Halfdan’s death, and she had found it in the loss of Damla’s sons. Yet now that they were safe, she turned to the mystery of the wraithblood. Caina supposed it was better use of time than drinking herself senseless. 

But there was more to it than that. There was something wrong in Istarinmul, something she could not yet see.

“It does not make sense,” whispered Caina, staring at the ceiling.

Then she sat up so abruptly that water sloshed over the edge of the tub and onto the floor.

“Idiot,” she whispered. 

She had a satchel full of documents in the Sanctuary. 

Caina stood up, dried off, and got dressed.

###

A short time later she dumped the contents of the satchel across a table in the Sanctuary. A short search located a dusty wooden stool, and she dragged it over and sat down, sorting through the documents.

She paged through the ledger first. It was written in a neat hand, either Ulvan’s own or one of his scribes. The Master Slaver’s rise to wealth and power had been meteoric. In the last five years, he had gone from the rank of a lowly Collector to a full brother of the Brotherhood, and then to the rank of Master Slaver a few days past

However briefly.

And all of his wealth, all of his money, came from selling slaves to Grand Master Callatas of the College of Alchemists. Not to the College itself, or to other Alchemists. 

Just to Callatas himself. And only over the last five years.

Five or six years. That was when Nerina had said wraithblood had first appeared in Istarinmul. A peculiar coincidence. And Caina hated coincidences. They usually indicated an underlying pattern that she could not yet see. 

She examined the ledger further. In the last few months, most of Ulvan’s slaves had been sent to the Widow’s Tower. Before that, many had been sent to mines that Callatas owned in the Desert of Candles. 

Why would Callatas rely on just Ulvan to provide his slaves? He was the Grand Master of the College. Surely the Brotherhood would fall over itself to curry his favor.

Caina read the papers she had taken from the table in Ulvan’s bedchamber. Most were letters to his Collectors, urging them to undertake greater efforts to acquire new slaves. A few were from Callatas himself, demanding fresh slaves and complaining about the poor quality of those already delivered. 

There was one final thing in the satchel, the pouch she had taken from the bedchamber. Caina opened it and her eyes grew wide. Inside glittered a small fortune of cut gemstones, even more than the Emperor had given Caina before she had departed New Kyre. With these stones Caina could buy the House of Agabyzus and send Damla to a comfortable retirement. She could likely buy half the Cyrican Bazaar.

She had not merely arranged Ulvan’s downfall. To add insult to injury, she had robbed him. 

Caina laughed and got to her feet. She would have to take care – undoubtedly men already hunted for the Balarigar.

Yet as she looked at the pouch of gemstones, an idea simmered at the edges of her mind.

###

The coffeehouse was full again that night, and Caina ate in the common room. Sulaman the poet occupied his dais, and this time he told the tale of Nasser Glasshand, the legendary master thief who had robbed both the Alchemists and the emirs. The patrons enjoyed the poem with the same glee as the story of Morgant the Razor.