Ghost in the Cowl (2 page)

They were blue. Most men of Anshani and Istarish descent had brown or black eyes, but there were always exceptions. Yet this man’s eyes were a pale, ghostly, blue. The color of flames licking at the bottom of an iron pan. 

No one had eyes that color.

The old beggar looked at Caina, his eyes widening.

“Who are you?” said Caina in Istarish, remembering to keep her Caerish accent in place.

“Wraithblood,” he whispered.

“Wraithblood,” said Caina. “That is your name?”

“Wraithblood,” said the old man. “Coins. Give me coins. I will buy the black blood again. And then I shall see my wife and sons and my daughters. They all died so long ago. I can…I can tell them I am sorry. I can…coins.” He raised his wasted hands, as if to paw at Caina’s legs, but they dropped into his lap. “Coins. I will buy wraithblood. Buy the black blood.” 

“What happened to you?” said Caina. 

“I…I do not remember,” said the old beggar. “The blood…the blood takes away the pain. I…I think…”

His strange eyes grew huge, and he shied against the wall.

“I can see you,” he whispered. 

“Of course you can,” said Caina. “I am right here.”

“The shadows,” said the beggar. “I can…I can see all the shadows. So many shadows! They are following you! All the shadows!” He began to weep. “Don’t let them hurt me, please, don’t let them…”

“I won’t hurt you,” said Caina. “I…”

“Here, now,” said a gruff voice. “What is this? Begging is illegal.”

Caina turned, and saw a stout man approaching. He was about twenty-five, and unlike the slaves and the beggars, he looked well-fed. He wore gleaming chain mail beneath a jerkin of black leather, and a scimitar rested at his belt. A steel badge pinned to his jerkin showed a hand holding a coiled, thorn-studded whip.

The sigil of the Slavers’ Brotherhood of Istarinmul. 

This man was a Collector, one of the Brotherhood’s lowest ranks, a hunter who ranged about seeking new slaves for the Brotherhood’s markets.

Or one who kidnapped solitary foreigners from the docks.

Such as Caina. 

“His eyes,” said Caina.

“Eh?” said the Collector, surprised. “What about them?”

“Is he sick?” said Caina. 

“What?” said the Collector. “No, he’s addicted to wraithblood.”

“What is wraithblood?” said Caina, watching for the Collector’s associates. 

“A drug,” said the Collector. “The poor and other such vermin prefer it. Apparently it gives visions of dead loved ones and other such rot. Eventually it drives its users insane and turns their eyes blue.” He swept a thick arm over the street. “You’ll see hundreds of them here. The Padishah ought to have them killed and spare honest men the stench.”

“Indeed,” said Caina. The Collector was looking at her with barely concealed greed. A plan, hard and cold, came together in her mind. “Which way to the Cyrican Quarter? I’ve messages to deliver.”

“Why, right that way,” said the Collector. “Head up the street with the warehouses and take a right turn at the public fountain. You will come to the Cyrican Bazaar shortly.”

In between her frenetic exercise sessions and throwing knives at the mast, Caina had taken the time to memorize a map of Istarinmul. The Collector’s directions were wrong.

Likely leading her into a trap.

“Thank you,” said Caina, and she left without another word. 

She counted to twenty, and then glanced over her shoulder to see the Collector hastening away, no doubt to warn his friends. 

The old beggar stared at her, his strange eyes full of terror. 

Caina looked over the other beggars and saw many like the old man, their eyes transformed to that pale blue color. 

And from every one of them she felt the faint hint of a sorcerous aura.

Strange. Very strange. But Caina had more immediate concerns at the moment.

She turned the corner and walked down the street lined with warehouses. It was deserted at the moment. 

The perfect place to make a foreigner disappear into a slaver’s inventory.

Caina considered for a moment, then went to one of the warehouses. The masonry was rough, and she found ample handholds and footholds. A moment later she climbed to the roof, and jumped from warehouse to warehouse, taking care to avoid the skylights.

No one ever looked up. 

She jumped to the last warehouse, dropped down, and crawled to the edge of the roof. The street ended in a square surrounded by three towering, rickety tenements of whitewashed brick. A small fountain occupied the center of the square, and the place looked deserted.

Save for the four men in black leather jerkins waiting there. One of them carried a net, and another a set of iron shackles. Their plans for Caina were clear enough. Likely they planned to sell her to the mines, or perhaps to the fighting pits.

She felt a flicker of grim amusement as she imagined their reaction once they learned they had kidnapped a woman. Caina was not unattractive, and she knew how to dress and carry herself to appear pleasing to the eyes of men, but the massive scar across her belly would keep them from selling her to some nobleman’s harem. Likely they would sell her as a kitchen drudge or a domestic servant, and such slaves commanded far lower prices than strong backs for the mines. 

Well, she would inflict far more serious disappointments upon them before the day was done.

Caina crawled back along the roof and peered through one of the skylights. The warehouse below was deserted, and stored massive heaps of bulging sacks, lashed in place by rope nets. After a moment’s examination, Caina realized that the sacks held rice. The plantations of Istarinmul grew coffee and fruit and olives and many other things, but the Istarish themselves ate a great deal of rice.

Enough rice to pile it in sacks twenty feet high.

Caina dropped through the skylight and landed on one of the piles, a puff of dust rising from her boots. She scrambled down the net to the floor, and examined the knots for a moment. Then she drew her short sword and went to work, cutting ropes here and there. She stepped back, nodded in satisfaction, and after a moment’s thought hid her heavy pack behind another one of the piles.

She was going to have to run very quickly, and she did not want it slowing her down.

Then she went out the front door, making sure to leave it open behind her. 

Caina walked the remainder of the street and into the square. She ought to feel frightened, she knew, but she felt nothing but an icy indifference. Though she did feel anger. 

Quite a lot of it, now that she thought about it.

She took on more step into the square as the Collectors moved toward her.

“Welcome,” said the Collector she had spoken with earlier, smiling as he raised a club. “You’re going to come with us. Put down your weapons and come quietly. If not, well…you’ll fetch just as high of a price with a few bruises.” 

Caina made an expression of terror come over her face, and then spun and ran for the rice warehouse.

“Take him!” roared the lead Collector, and the men sprang after her.

They were fast. Which made sense, since they kidnapped people for a living. Caina head the crack of leather as two of the Collectors unfurled whips, no doubt to entangle her legs and pull her down. 

But she had a head start, and she dashed back into the warehouse. 

And as she did, she yanked a dagger from its sheath and slashed through the remaining rope holding the massive stack of rice sacks in place.

The Collectors ran through the door after her.

“You’re just making it harder on yourself,” said the leader, grinning. “I am going to…”

Right about then the twenty-foot stack of sacks collapsed, and two or three tons of dry rice fell upon the Collectors. 

The sheer force of the impact drove one man to the ground with such force that his head cracked against the hard floor. The other three men disappeared as dozens of forty-pound rice sacks fell upon them with bone-cracking force. Caina heard limbs snap, heard the Collectors scream. One man clawed his way free, and Caina cut his throat before he regained his feet. Another was trapped beneath three sacks, screaming in pain, and Caina put him out of his misery.

The lead Collector staggered to his feet, his left arm hanging at an odd angle. He turned towards Caina with a furious curse, but she seized his left arm and twisted. The Collector fell with a scream of agony, and she kicked him in the gut and sent him sprawling. He tried to stand, but she put her boot on his broken arm and he went rigid.

“Who are you?” whispered the Collector.

“Why did you try to take me?” said Caina.

“The…the Brotherhood,” said the Collector, “they’re buying slaves right and left.” His words tumbled out in a terrified rush. “It…it ought to flood the market, but the prices keep going up and up. I’ve never seen anything like it. It…it wasn’t personal, I just need the money…”

She looked into his eyes and saw the fear there. And for some reason she remembered the final words of Horemb the scribe before he passed to the next world, the words he had claimed would one day aid her.

“The star is the key to the crystal,” she said. “Do you know what that means?” 

“I…I don’t know, I swear,” said the Collector. “A poem? I don’t know. Let me go. I’ll do whatever you want. What do you want?”

The question cut into her like a knife.

She remembered Corvalis, remembered his strong arms around her. His dark wit, and the way his green eyes flashed when he found something funny. The aplomb with which he had masqueraded as Anton Kularus, merchant of coffee. His mouth against hers, his body against hers…

She did not know what might have passed over her expression, but dread flooded the Collector’s face.

“I want Corvalis back,” she told him, “but I will settle for one less slave trader in the world.”

He started to scream, but her dagger cut the cry short.

Caina cleaned her weapons and her hands and stepped over the mess to the door. Whoever found the dead Collectors would likely assume they had fallen to fighting and accidentally knocked over the sacks. So long as Caina departed quickly, she need not worry about vengeance from the Brotherhood or the dead men’s families. 

Odd, that. She had just killed four men…and she felt nothing at all. Once she would have felt guilty over it. But now, it seemed, she felt nothing but grief. 

And rage.

Still, the Collectors had deserved it. How many innocent men and women and children had they sold into slavery? 

Again Caina felt the overwhelming sense of futility, but shoved it aside with some effort. 

She left the warehouse, made sure she was unobserved, and set off for the Cyrican Quarter and the House of Agabyzus.

Chapter 2 - The House of Agabyzus

An hour later, Caina walked into the Cyrican Bazaar. 

The Cyrican Quarter lacked the squalor of the dockside districts. It faced west, toward the Empire’s province of Cyrica, which Caina supposed explained the name. The district housed small shops and houses, and Caina saw fewer slaves here. The Bazaar hosted a bustling maze of stalls and booths, merchants selling carpets and pans and knives and fried skewers of meat. Women in bright robes and headscarves bought and sold, and slaves hurried about the errands of their masters.

Caina stopped before a stall selling gleaming pots and pans and scrutinized her reflection, checking for spots of blood. If she was masquerading as a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, she could not show up at the House of Agabyzus spotted with the blood of four dead Collectors. Fortunately, none of the Collectors’ blood had gotten on her clothes and face.

For a moment her reflection held her attention. Her face looked harsher than she remembered, thinner, the lines of her cheekbones sharper. Dark shadows encircled her blue eyes, and her long blond hair, tied back in a tail, had started going black at the roots. The dye she had used was wearing off. Not that it mattered – she had used the dye to disguise herself as Sonya Tornesti, the mistress of the wealthy coffee merchant Anton Kularus. But Anton Kularus was merely the disguise of Corvalis, and Corvalis was dead. 

Again that wave of searing pain went through Caina.

“Are you going to buy anything, or shall you gawk at my merchandise all day?”

Caina saw the pan merchant, a short little man in a florid robe and turban, glaring at her.

“Which way,” said Caina, surprised at the calm in her voice, “to the House of Agabyzus?”

“The coffeehouse?” said the merchant. “Over there, across the Bazaar. Are you drunk? This is clearly not the coffeehouse.”

“No,” said Caina, turning away.

“And you will buy nothing?” shouted the merchant. “Your mother was a diseased whore!”

“That,” said Caina without looking back, “would have been an improvement.” 

A short walk took her to the House of Agabyzus. It was a flat-roofed building of whitewashed stone, with the coffeehouse on the main floor and rooms for rent on the top two levels. The smell of roasting coffee filled Caina’s nostrils, and a storm of memories washed through her mind. Sitting in the coffeehouse of Catekharon with Corvalis and Kylon of House Kardamnos, planning to stop Mihaela’s cruel scheme. Standing upon the floor of the House of Kularus in Malarae, masquerading as Sonya Tornesti in her jewels and gowns. Corvalis drawing her into his study, a mischievous glint in his eye as he slid her gown away from her shoulders…

Caina closed her eyes and whispered a curse, waiting until the pain had passed.

Then she took a deep breath and headed toward the door. Once, if the Emperor was correct, the Ghost circle of Istarinmul had been based out of this coffeehouse, at least until the Teskilati had exterminated the Ghosts of Istarinmul. And here the Ghost circle of Istarinmul would rise again, with Caina as its circlemaster. 

The prospect filled her with neither anticipation nor dread. Merely…indifference. It all seemed so futile now, so utterly meaningless.

But she could think of nothing else to do, so she pushed open the door and stepped inside. 

The interior of the House of Agabyzus both looked and smelled pleasant. Unlit lanterns hung from chains attached to the beams of the low ceiling, sunlight pouring through the wide, pointed windows. Dozens of low, round tables dotted the floor, ringed with cushions in the Istarish style, booths lining the walls so patrons could converse in private. Anshani carpets hung from the walls, covering the bare spaces between the windows. A dais stood against the far wall, no doubt where a poet could recite the epic sagas the Istarish enjoyed so much. Perhaps a dozen merchants sat around tables, speaking in low voices. Caina suspected the House of Agabyzus did more business at night, after the workday was done. 

A woman in her middle thirties hurried toward Caina. Istarish women preferred to dress in bright colors, but this woman wore the black robe and headscarf of a widow. She smiled, her white teeth brilliant in the bronze skin of her face.

“Welcome, traveler, to the House of Agabyzus,” said the woman. “My name is Damla, and this is my coffeehouse. You are most welcome.”

“You are the owner?” said Caina, surprised. 

“This is so, sir,” said Damla. “Agabyzus was my brother. He and my husband went into business together and opened this coffeehouse. We had many years of prosperity…but, alas, my brother fell during one of the riots after the end of the war, and my husband was drafted into the army of the emir Rezir Shahan…” 

A chill went down Caina’s spine. She had killed Rezir Shahan in Marsis. She had killed quite a few of his men.

She might have killed this poor woman’s husband. 

“And I fear he fell during the great defeat at Marsis,” said Damla.

“I am sorry,” said Caina. “I am…I am sorry for your loss, mistress Damla. Truly, I am.” She rebuked herself for showing so much emotion. Agabyzus had been circlemaster of the Ghosts of Istarinmul, but his sister had known nothing of it.

Or so the Emperor had claimed. 

“Thank you,” said Damla, “but the troubles of one woman are no concern of yours, sir. How may we serve you?”

Caina forced her mind back to the task at hand. “My name is Marius, and I am a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers. I should have a room waiting for me here.”

“Yes, of course,” said Damla. “The letters came but a few days past.” She clapped her hands. “Bayram! Bahad!” 

Two boys emerged from the kitchen and hurried to Damla’s side. Caina saw the family resemblance at once. The older boy was sixteen, and looked solemn, almost dour. The younger was eleven or twelve, thin as a whip and a mischievous glint in his eye. 

“My sons, Bayram and Bahad,” said Damla. “Bayram, go tell the maids to get the fifth room ready. Bahad can take your pack, Master Marius.”

“That is all right,” said Caina. “I will carry it. If I lose these documents, the master merchants will have my head.”

That, and considering the amount of money she had hidden in the pack, Caina wanted to keep it close at hand.

“Of course,” said Damla without missing a beat. “Would you take some refreshment?” Caina nodded. “Bahad, go have the cooks prepare some food and coffee.” She clapped her hands, and the two boys ran off. 

“Your sons are most obedient,” said Caina.

Damla smiled. “They have been a great help to me, especially after my brother and husband died. We must look after each other. I hope Bayram will inherit the business after I die, and he look after his brother. I do not want my sons to fall into poverty…or to sell themselves in slavery.” A shadow went over her face. “That…is a most dire fate.”

“Truly,” said Caina. “May I ask you a question?”

“Whatever you wish,” said Damla.

“On my walk from the western harbor,” said Caina, “I saw many beggars with blue eyes. What happened to them?”

Damla lowered her voice. “I would urge you not to walk alone in the dockside, even by day. The Collectors of the Slavers’ Brotherhood are quite active, and would not hesitate to snatch a single foreigner from the street.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Caina. “I will take care.”

“Good,” said Damla, her voice still low. “Do not complain too loudly about the Brotherhood, though. The Master Slavers are close to the captains of the Teskilati, and those who speak against the Brotherhood often disappear in the night.” 

“I will watch my tongue,” said Caina.

“That is prudent,” said Damla. “As for the men and women with blue eyes…I fear they are wraithblood addicts.”

“Wraithblood?” said Caina. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It is a drug, an elixir,” said Damla. “Such substances are common among the slaves and the poorer citizens. Drugs to ease pain and to induce pleasing visions. Much like strong drink, I suppose, but cheaper. Wraithblood, though, is something worse.”

“How so?” said Caina.

Damla shrugged. “From what I understand, it produces visions of dead loved ones and a sensation of euphoria. Yet if overused, it inevitably causes madness. Violent madness, even. Sometimes they try to kill everyone in sight. The eyes…the strange blue eyes are a side effect of the addiction’s final stage. Like a drunkard whose eyes turn yellow. It is a sure sign that death is near.” 

“What does wraithblood look like?” said Caina.

“A black slime,” said Damla. “Usually in small vials of cheap glass. Like thick, black blood.”

“A charming prospect,” said Caina.

Damla shrugged again. “I do not care for the taste of strong drink, but many men kill themselves with it regardless.” 

“Who makes it?” said Caina.

“I do not know,” said Damla. “Unskilled apothecaries, I suppose. The sort of vermin who prey upon the suffering of the weak.”

“The Alchemists, maybe?” said Caina. “Does the College of Alchemists produce wraithblood?”

Damla gave her a sharp look. “Why would you say that?”

Caina could not tell her the truth about the sorcerous aura, so she picked another comparison. “The eyes of the Immortals are almost the same color, that same ghostly blue. And the Immortals are violent and vicious as well.”

“I had not thought of it like that, I confess,” said Damla. “You…have seen Immortals?”

Caina had, in fact, killed several of them during the battle of Marsis. The Immortals were the elite soldiers of Istarinmul, assigned as the personal guards of the Padishah, the high emirs, and the Alchemists. The Alchemists fed them sorcerous elixirs to enhance their speed and strength, though at the cost of murderous rage. Caina had barely escaped from them with her life.

“Once or twice,” said Caina. 

“I have only seen them from a distance,” said Damla, “but I would not want to go near them. An Immortal would kill a man on a whim. Stay far away from them.”

“I shall,” said Caina, considering. “Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions? Trade with Istarinmul was cut off when the war began, and the master merchants of the Collegium will wish to know how things stand in Istarinmul.” 

“Of course,” said Damla. “Though I fear I am but a humble coffee merchant, and know little of the doings of the great and the mighty. But Istarinmul…Istarinmul is not well, Master Marius.” She shook her head. “All the emirs agree that Rezir Shahan’s attack upon Marsis was folly. Many men and ships were lost, and Conn Maraeus drove the Padishah’s soldiers from the Argamaz. Then the golden dead rose, and the city was in chaos for days.” She lowered her voice further, as if fearing the eyes and ears of the Teskilati. “The Padishah has not been seen in public since Rezir’s brother Tanzir negotiated peace with the Empire, and the Padishah’s son and heir has disappeared. It is said that the Grand Wazir Erghulan and the Grand Master Callatas of the Alchemists are now the true rulers of Istarinmul.” She lowered her voice further. “Do not repeat this…but some whisper that Callatas is cursed by the Living Flame, that our woes are divine punishment for Callatas’s terrible crimes.” 

“Why?” said Caina. “Which crimes?” She had met Callatas once, briefly, during the gathering at Catekharon two years past. Halfdan had warned her against him, had said that he was as cruel and ruthless as any of magus of the Imperial Magisterium.

Gods, but she wished Halfdan was here to advise her now.

“You have not heard the tale?” said Damla. “It was a hundred and fifty years ago. Once, the city of Iramis was the second city of Istarinmul, the most beautiful and prosperous city in the Padishah’s domain. It was the Jewel of the Alqaarin Sea, or so the poets said. But the Prince of Iramis offended Callatas, and Callatas demanded one child from every family in Iramis as a slave. The Prince refused, and so Callatas used his sorcery to burn the city to ash and molten glass in a single instant. Once the richest farmland in the world surrounded Iramis, but Callatas’s sorcery turned it to wasteland. Now it is called the Desert of Candles. And ever since, not a single drop of rain has fallen upon the city of Istarinmul.” 

Caina had read tales of Iramis and its dashing Prince in her father’s library, but she had thought only them tales. Perhaps Iramis had been a real city that Callatas had destroyed, or perhaps something else had happened.

But it did not speak well of Callatas that the people of Istarinmul believed him capable of murdering hundreds of thousands of people in a single instant. 

“But that is an old story, old history,” said Damla. “You should tell your masters that Istarinmul is not safe. That the Padishah is old and sick, and his son has vanished. When he dies…every emir will try to seize the Most Divine Throne, and the streets will run with blood.” She sighed. “We have lived to see evil times.” 

“I am sorry,” said Caina. 

“Well, it is not your doing,” said Damla. Which was not entirely true, but the older woman did not know that. “Good times or evil, we do what we must.”

Bayram returned. “The room is ready, Mother.” 

“Show our guest to his room, Bayram,” said Damla. “The blessings of the Living Flame be upon you, Master Marius.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. “You have been most hospitable.”

Damla grinned. It made her look years younger. “You northerners are always surprised. Well, we are Istarish, and hospitality is sacred. Be welcome here, Marius of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers.”

Caina thanked her, and Bayram led her to the third floor. They passed two slaves as they went, a younger woman and an older man both clad in gray tunics and sandals. Damla owned slaves, and Caina felt herself grow angry. Yet everyone in Istarinmul owned slaves, at least anyone able to afford one. Likely every one of the shopkeepers and artisans of the Cyrican Quarter had two or three slaves to help in the shop or take care of the children. 

At least Damla’s slaves looked well-fed, with no signs of mistreatment. 

Gods, but Caina hated Istarinmul.  

“Your room, Master Marius,” said Bayram with a bow, opening a door on the third floor. The room beyond was small but clean, with a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a chamber pot, and a window that faced the harbor to admit the night breeze.