Ghost in the Cowl (19 page)

And as they did, their backs to her, Caina acted. 

She silently opened the latch upon one of the shutters of the windows. In her other hand she held a bit of hardened gelatin, the stuff Damla’s cooks used in preparation of sugary pastries. Caina jammed the gelatin into the latch and pushed it back into place. To a cursory overview, it would look like the latch was secured, but it would not lock into place.

A simple trick, but the simple tricks were the best.

Caina suspected that she was about to find out if Nerina’s observational prowess matched her mathematical ability.

She arranged her face into a calm mask as Azaces got the box down.

“That would be perfect, thank you,” said Caina. 

“Are you sure you do not want anything bigger?” said Nerina.

“No, this will serve excellently,” said Caina. She felt bad about deceiving Nerina. But if her plan worked, no one would ever know.

And if her plan failed, Caina would die horribly sometime in the next few days. 

“Thank you again,” said Caina, paying Nerina. Azaces took the money without expression. Neither one of them had noticed the shutter.

“Do come again,” said Nerina. “We have such stimulating talks.” 

Caina smiled. “I think I will.” 

She left without looking back.

###

Twelve hours later, Caina moved into the darkened courtyard behind Nerina’s shop. She wore the disguise of a caravan guard once again, ragged clothes and worn leather armor. 

It was three hours past midnight, and the streets of the Cyrican Quarter were deserted, saved for the occasional watchman making his rounds. Caina tossed a grapnel onto the lip of Nerina’s window, tugged the rope a few times, and scrambled up the wall.

She felt the shutter. If Nerina had realized the deception, this was all going to fall apart. Or, if Nerina had felt particularly vindictive, she might have rigged a mechanical trap to go off when Caina opened the shutters. Caina had seen the needles upon Nerina’s work tables, the spikes and the serrated blades and the bottles of poison.

She took a deep breath and opened the shutter.

Nothing happened. 

She pried it open the rest of the way and peered inside. Caina had half-expected that Nerina would spend the night working, a way to distract herself from her wraithblood addiction, but even the most diligent locksmith needed to sleep sometimes. The workshop was deserted.

She rolled over the sill, came to the cabinet, reached inside, and drew out the leather folder marked with the name of the Widow’s Tower. Inside were several sheets of paper marked in Nerina’s crabbed hand, accompanied by diagrams of tumblers and gears and teeth. Mathematical equations, far more complex than Caina could possibly understand, encircled the edges of the sheets. 

But Caina didn’t need to follow the equations, not for what she had in mind. 

She reached into a pouch at her belt, drew out a scrap of paper and a stick of charcoal, and jotted down notes of her own, careful not to let any of the black dust mark the table. Then she returned the folder to the cabinet, made sure she had left everything exactly as she had found it, and then retreated back down her rope and into the courtyard. With the shutters closed and her rope retrieved, Caina was back on the streets a moment later, one more weary traveler hoping to find a bed. 

No one noticed her. 

###

The next afternoon Caina stooped over the workbench in the Sanctuary, brushing away metal filings with a finger. 

She grunted, straightened up, and examined a finished key. Halfdan had taught her to pick locks and disarm traps a long ago. Nerina’s notes had been precise, and cutting the key had not been difficult. 

So now Caina held a master key to the Widow’s Tower. 

At least, she thought so. 

She would find out tomorrow.

Chapter 18 - Smokeless Flame

Caina prepared herself with the care of a Legionary going into battle. 

She shaved her black hair back down to bristly stubble, and donned the loose, worn clothes a wandering mercenary like Logar of Caeria Superior might wear. Over that went studded leather armor, and beneath the armor she hid her mask and rolled-up shadow-cloak. A belt with scimitar, dagger, and throwing knives went around her waist, daggers into her boot sheaths and throwing knives up her sleeves. She wished she could have taken some rope, but there was no good way to conceal it, and walking into the Widow’s Tower with a rope and grapnel would draw unwelcome attention. She concealed some lockpicks and other tools in her belt, along with the master key she had made for the Tower’s locks. Then she applied some light makeup, enough to give her the illusion of stubble, to make her face older. 

Caina stepped back and checked her reflection in the Sanctuary’s mirror. She saw Logar the mercenary staring back at her. There was no hint that she was a woman, not a trace of Sonya Tornesti or Anna Callenius or Marianna Nereide or the other aliases Caina had used over the years.

No hint of herself. Of the woman Corvalis had loved and Halfdan had trained. 

A wave of overwhelming sadness went through her.

But a flickering of misgiving accompanied it. 

She was about to do something incredibly dangerous. True, she had planned it carefully and gone about it more systematically than her improvised raid on Ulvan’s palace, but infiltrating the Widow’s Tower was still a tremendous risk. Her first night in Istarinmul, she had broken down and drunk herself into a stupor in hopes of finding oblivion. Damla’s misfortune had shocked Caina out of it.

But the darkness of grief still waited inside her head.

Hadn’t she decided that if she was going to die, she might as well die while doing something useful? She had saved Damla’s sons and the other captives in Ulvan’s mansion, had brought fear and terror to the Brotherhood. But was it just an elaborate method of suicide? Of driving herself against dangerous enemies until she miscalculated and got killed? 

Was that why she was planning to break into the Widow’s Tower? And if she wanted to be useful, there were safer ways to do it. She could slowly undermine the Brotherhood, sabotage them whenever she could. She could gather information and send it to the Ghost circlemasters in Malarae. 

In fact, it was odd that she had received no instructions from the Ghosts in Malarae. Perhaps the upheaval from the golden dead occupied their time. But there were many different ways Caina could build a new Ghost circle in Istarinmul. 

All of which presented less risk that entering the Tower. 

Caina stared at her disguise in the mirror. 

Was she trying to kill herself?

“No,” she said at last. 

She was in mourning, and she had taken a great deal of risks in the last two months…but there was still something wrong in Istarinmul.

Something terribly wrong. 

All those slaves, kidnapped so boldly from the streets. Grand Master Callatas buying every slave he could find and sending them to the Widow’s Tower. Mysterious men in cloaks giving away wraithblood for free. The strange things Callatas had said at Ulvan’s ascension. A Kindred assassin working as Ulvan’s captain of guards. 

The beach of bones below the Widow’s Tower, the corpses of the murdered slaves rotting away. 

And Caina suspected that all those threads met in the Widow’s Tower. One way or another, she was going to find out the truth tonight.

Her mind resolved, she examined her reflection once more, nodded, and left the Sanctuary.

###

Caina stopped at the House of Agabyzus before heading to the Desert Maiden. 

Damla did not recognize her at first. Caina’s disguise as Logar had been effective as she hoped.

“Welcome to the House of Agabyzus,” said Damla. “I…” 

Her eyes widened a bit.

“Marius?” she said at last. “Is that…”

Caina winked, and Damla led her into a booth.

“By the Living Flame,” she murmured. “I shall never get used to how…thoroughly you can change your appearance. You are like a djinn of the desert, able to change your guise like water, to assume a charming form to beguile the hearts of men.”

Caina gestured at herself. “If this is a charming form to beguile the hearts of men, then clearly I am going about it wrong.” 

Damla laughed. “Aye, and if Ulvan could see you now, I do not think he would lust for you as he did.” The mirth drained from her expression. “You are going about your…business, then?”

“Yes,” said Caina. “Damla, I may be gone for several days. And…I may not come back at all.” Damla started to speak, but Caina kept talking. “There are two things you must know before I go. First, if I am gone for longer than a week, look under the loose floorboard in the corner of my room, beneath the window. You can keep whatever you find there.”

Caina had left a purse of money there, some of the gold and gems she had stolen from the cowled masters. It was enough that Damla could pay her expenses for ten years, maybe longer. 

“I will,” said Damla. “But…”

“Second,” said Caina. “Thank you for everything. You have been a great help to me.”

Damla laughed. “You are thanking me? I ought to thank you. I would have lost my sons, if not for you. I would have lost everything else as well, but all that could have been borne, had my sons still been with me.” 

“You almost lost your sons,” said Caina. “I…did lose someone.”

Damla lowered her voice to a whisper. “Corvalis.” 

Caina nodded. “I am afraid I may not have been in my right mind for some time. Your kindness helped. Thank you.” 

“It is the very least I could do,” said Damla. Suddenly she smiled.

“What?” said Caina. “What is it?”

“Forgive me, but…it just what you said. You were not in your right mind. From the tales you have told me, you have not been in your right mind for a very long time.”

Caina laughed. “I fear I cannot disagree.” 

“And you shall always be welcome here,” said Damla. “Whether in a day, seven days, or seven years times seven. Always.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. She felt her eyes grow damp, but for the first time in months, it was not from sorrow. “I must go.”

“Wait.” Damla touched her wrist and lowered her voice further. “I have heard what the Szaldic slaves have said, that the Balarigar is the demonslayer sent by their gods.”

“That’s just a myth,” said Caina. “Just a legend that began because I happened to be in the right place at the right time.” Or the wrong place, really. “And I have seen no demons in Istarinmul. Just evil men.” 

“Maybe so,” said Damla, “but you almost make me believe. Perhaps the Living Flame has sent you. Certainly the Living Flame sent you to my family.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Caina. “I saw what had to be done and I did it. And I was fortunate enough not to get killed in the process. That is all.” 

Damla nodded. “Farewell, Ghost. May the Living Flame go with you.”

Caina thanked her once more, got to her feet, and left the House of Agabyzus.

Something within her suspected that it would be for the final time.

She did not look back.

###

An hour later Caina climbed to the second floor of the Desert Maiden and stopped before the door to one of Yunus’s lieutenants, a man named Tormor. 

A few moments’ work picked the lock. The room within was cramped and dim, and smelled vile. Tormor lay sprawled upon the reeking bed, snoring, his breath strong with wine. 

Caina knelt next to him, drew a damp cloth pad from her belt, clamped her free hand over his mouth, and slapped the pad over his nose. Tormor’s eyes popped open, and he inhaled a lungful for the elixir in the pad.

He went limp after that. 

She poured another dose down his throat, enough to keep him out for the better part of the day. Then Caina spent the next ten minutes wrestling him into the empty chest at the foot of his bed. In the end she got him folded neatly into the chest, his head between his knees, and closed the lid over him. When he woke up he would have a nasty headache and some excruciating cramps, but would be otherwise uninjured. Likely he would have no idea how he ended up the chest, and would no doubt blame it on too much wine. 

By then Caina would be inside the Widow’s Tower. 

Perhaps she might even come out alive again.

She locked the door behind her and went down to the common room to wait.

###

“Where the bloody hell is Tormor?” bellowed Yunus, pounding the wall of the common room for emphasis.

He had lost an unhealthy amount of weight, and a faint tremor went through his limbs. Wraithblood addicts tended towards gauntness, and Caina wondered if the drug suppressed the appetite. Yunus’s eyes were brown, yet Caina saw tiny flakes of blue scattered across the irises. 

His wraithblood addiction was about to enter the final, often terminal, stage.

“I don’t know,” said another lieutenant, a Szaldic man named Vasily. “He’s supposed to be here. Knocked at his door and no one answered.”

“Did you look inside the room?” said Yunus. 

Vasily shrugged. “Door was locked.”

“Then break the damned thing down!” said Yunus. Vasily and two other mercenaries ran to obey, and Yunus paced back and forth, ranting to no one in particular. “Anburj and Lord Ricimer…they will not shut up. More men, more men to guard the Widow’s Tower! As if anyone would want to attack the damned pit of sorcery.” He rubbed his temples. “But if I am short, I will never hear the end of it. Worse, they will reduce their payments.” 

Caina said nothing as she sat at a table and held a cup of wine.

The men returned. “He’s not there.”

“What?” said Yunus. “Where did he go?”

Vasily shrugged. “I don’t know. He went into his room last night, I’m sure of it. Door was locked, bed looked like he had slept in it, but he’s not there.”

“Probably went for a piss and fell in,” said another man, and the mercenaries laughed. 

Yunus was not amused. “And when Anburj cuts our pay for showing up without the right number of men, will that be funny? Will we have a good laugh then, hmm?” 

No one laughed at that.

“Then just recruit another man,” said Vasily.

“Where?” said Yunus. “We’re due at the damned Tower in another hour and a half to relieve the night shift. We can’t find…”

He turned, eyes falling upon Caina. She met his gaze and raised her eyebrows, and he stalked over, his scabbard thumping against his leg with every step.

“Up for some dice, captain?” said Caina.

“Logar,” said Yunus. “You’re looking for work.”

“Still am, aye,” said Caina, pretending to sip her wine. She was not fond of wine, and the Desert Maiden’s selection had not improved her opinion. “Going to drink up my money sooner or later. Probably sooner.”

“I have an opening,” said Yunus.

Caina scowled. “What, you mean at the Widow’s Tower?”

“Aye,” said Yunus. “The pay is good. Half-bezant for standing with a spear and getting bored.”

“No,” said Caina. “I’ve heard stories about the Widow’s Tower.” She dared not appear too eager. “The Alchemists brew up Hellfire from the blood of demons. At night they dip slaves in Hellfire and light them up as candles. I don’t want any part of it.” 

“No, none of that happens,” said Yunus. “The Alchemists have laboratories on the top floors, aye, but we stay away from them. The Immortals guard them.”

“Immortals?” said Caina. “No one in their right mind goes near those madmen.”

“Aye, but that’s the genius of it, you see?” said Yunus. “We don’t go near them. We just guard the walls. The Immortals watch over Lord Ricimer’s laboratories. We hardly ever see him or the Immortals, and we’ve never seen any Hellfire used. Just lots and lots of slaves, delivered all the time.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll pay you a full bezant for the day. The contract specifies I get a bonus for a certain number of guards. If I fall short, I lose the bonus.”

‘Fine,” said Caina. “I’ll do it for three bezants.”

“Blackmailer!” said Yunus. “You’ll do it for…one and a half, and be grateful for it.”

“Two and a quarter.”

“One and five-eights.”

“Two.”

Yunus sighed. “Fine. Two bezants. You are a blackmailer and a thief, Logar, but at least you are reliable. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get drunk properly.”

“I’ve got a strong constitution, captain,” said Caina. “And can’t afford the strong stuff.”

“Well, you will after today,” said Yunus, clapping Caina on the shoulder. “Good man.”

And so Caina found herself recruited into Yunus’s mercenary company.

###

A brisk march later, Cana found herself standing with a group of fifty men just below the outer wall of the Widow’s Tower. 

She had been issued the unfortunate Tormor’s helmet, quiver, and crossbow, and now carried the weapon in her hands, the quiver of quarrels hanging from her belt. She waited with the other mercenaries as Yunus shouted at the guards upon the wall. After a moment the portcullis rattled open, Yunus bellowed a command, and the men marched into the courtyard.

And at last Caina found herself within the Widow’s Tower. 

The courtyard within was packed earth, baked rock-hard by centuries of Istarinmul’s harsh sun. More guards stood upon the ramparts, keeping watch upon the sea and the road. A stable stood against the curtain wall, holding several horses and mules. A pair of double doors led into the first of the massive three drum towers, and Caina saw the tracks of wagon wheels worn into the dirt. Likely the slave wagons unloaded their cargo here.

She sensed the crawling presence of sorcery.

Someone was casting powerful spells upon the top levels of the drum towers. 

A shudder went through her. 

Extremely powerful spells.

The doors to the drum tower opened, and Anburj stalked out, still wearing his chain mail and sword. Caina went motionless, lest Anburj recognize her. 

Ricimer followed in his white robes. The Alchemist’s face was a perpetual scowl behind his close-cropped red beard, his eyes distant with thought.