Ghost in the Cowl (8 page)

A short man in a white robe and turban walked through the gate, and Caina recognized Grand Master Callatas. 

She had seen him just over two years ago, in the gathering of sorcerers at Catekharon, and he had not changed. Callatas had the gauntness of the ascetic, the slightly stooped posture of a man who had spent long hours bent over books and scrolls. He had deep-set gray eyes, the hard line of his jaw and chin shaded by a close-cropped beard. He looked like a scholarly, even grandfatherly, old man, but Caina knew better. He was centuries old, and Master Alchemists extended their lives with the use of Elixir Rejuvenata produced from the ashes of unborn children.

And if the story about Iramis was true, Callatas had the blood of hundreds of thousands upon his ancient hands. 

His eyes swept over her, and for an instant Caina was sure that he would recognize her. But his gaze kept moving. Likely he had not even noticed her presence in Catekharon. There she had been disguised as a merchant’s spoiled daughter, and such a woman would have been unworthy of a Master Alchemist’s attention. A circus performer would be far beneath his notice.

Or perhaps the red wig had thrown him. 

A strange jewel, perhaps the size of a child’s fist, rested against Callatas’s chest, dangling from a fine chain of gold. Caina did not recognize the type of stone, but it was a deep, azure blue, and almost seemed to glow. The waves of mighty power she felt were coming from the gemstone, she was sure of it. But what was it? She could not discern its function from its sorcerous aura.

“That amulet Callatas wears,” said Caina. “Do you know what it is?”

“Valuable, probably,” said Damla. “He is never seen in public without it.” 

A second Alchemist followed Callatas. He stood head and shoulders taller, and he had the look of the Arthagi barbarians from beyond the Empire’s northern marches, his red hair slicked back and his beard thick and bushy. He would not have been out of place fighting as a gladiator in the pits. His blue eyes swept back and forth, evaluating everything as a threat.

“That man with Callatas,” murmured Caina. “Do you know of him?” 

“I believe his name is Ricimer,” said Damla. “I have heard dark tales about him. A barbarian slave from the north who had arcane ability and joined the College of Alchemists. They say he is Callatas’s right hand.” 

Ulvan walked forward and bowed before the Grand Master and the Grand Wazir, as deeply as his girth would allow. 

“My lord Erghulan, my lord Callatas,” said Ulvan in a loud voice. “In the name of the Most Divine Padishah, I welcome you to my humble home.” Callatas gave a little snort as he looked at Ulvan’s elaborate marble palace. “Truly, you do great honor to your humble servant, and I rejoice in your presence and bless the fortune that has led your feet to my door.” 

“You have done well, Ulvan,” said Erghulan, clapping the slaver upon the shoulder. “The Living Flame has blessed your efforts. Slaves are the foundation of Istarinmul, the source of our wealth and strength. Their labors free the Istarish to devote ourselves to the crafts of war and ruling.” Given that Istarinmul had sued for peace in the war against the Empire, Caina had her doubts about that. “The work of your noble Brotherhood is valuable to the Most Divine Padishah.”

“Yes,” said Callatas. “The College of Alchemists appreciates your efforts, Ulvan. Not all of your brothers have been able to meet our demand for laborers.” A brief, mocking smile flashed over Ricimer’s face. “You have the gratitude and friendship of the College for your efforts.”

“I am but a simple, honest merchant,” said Ulvan, “and your gratitude overwhelms me.”

Damla hissed in fury, but thankfully made no other move. The blue-glowing eyes of the Immortals swept over the crowd, watching for any sign of threat, and Caina had felt more than one of them staring at her. She knew what would happen to a young woman who fell into the hands of the Immortals. Death did not hold any fear for her, not after losing Corvalis, but a quick death would be preferable to the tortures the Immortals would inflict if they decided that she was a threat. 

“Come, my friends,” said Ulvan. “Refreshments and entertainments have been prepared, and I invite you to sit and take your ease.” 

He led the way to a trio of cushioned chairs upon a wooden dais at the far end of the garden. The Grand Wazir took the place of honor, while Ulvan sat at his right and Callatas at his left, Ricimer standing behind him. Attractive female slaves hurried forward, bearing trays of food and drink.

“Master of revels!” said Ulvan to one of his slaves. “You may begin the celebrations.” 

The slave ran over to Cronmer. 

“My lord and ladies!” thundered Cronmer, speaking with stentorian flair. He wore a brilliant red coat with black trim over a crisp white shirt and black trousers, his boots polished so brightly he could have used them as a mirror. Caina had to admit that he cut quite an impressive figure. “Masters and emirs! Merchants and Alchemists, and all good people of Istarinmul! By the generosity of our patron Ulvan, Master Slaver of the Brotherhood, we have come before you tonight to perform, to scintillate, to dazzle, to marvel, and in short, to thrill you and awe you. Gentle ladies and those with weak constitutions should withdraw, for the marvels you are about to witness will shock you! Behold the splendors,” Cronmer flung out his arms, “of the Circus Of Wonders And Marvels!”

Applause answered him, loud and enthusiastic. Cronmer knew indeed how to put on a show. Even the Grand Wazir looked entertained, though Callatas watched the proceedings with a distant, bored expression. 

And the festivities began.

A dozen different entertainments went on at once. In the corners of the gardens, gladiators struggled to the death in fighting pits, ringed by merchants and minor noblemen laying wagers. Gladiatorial matches were popular in Istarinmul, and they drew a crowd.

But to Caina’s surprise, most eyes were upon the acts of the Circus.

Some of Tozun’s carpenters had raised mirrors and large lanterns upon the courtyard walls, and used them to focus brilliant light upon the gardens. The acrobats moved in stunning leaps, twirling and falling from high platforms only to land uninjured, or forming giant human pyramids that collapsed into graceful patterns. In another portion of the grounds the clowns capered, putting on an elaborate farce that, if Caina guessed correctly, displayed Istarish slaves defeating proud, strutting Anshani anjars and the Shahenshah of Anshan.

It was almost funny. Though Caina still did not like clowns. 

In another corner, a large crowd watched Vardo and his lions. The animal tamer wore a costume even more florid than Cronmer’s, and bellowed his commands with dramatic flair. The lions heeded his commands, withdrawing from his cracking whip, and loosed impressive roars that made a few of the women shriek and the men reach for their swords.

Through it all Caina saw Tozun hurrying back and forth, barking commands like the Lord Commander of an Imperial Legion, a small army of carpenters and laborers running after him. A pity they were not in Malarae. He and Theodosia would have got on splendidly…

“Are you nervous?” whispered Damla.

“Not really,” said Caina. “Are you?”

“Yes,” said Damla. She shook her head. “It is so peculiar. In the last week I have lost my livelihood and all that remains of my family. And now I am frightened about appearing before a crowd in this costume.” 

“But it’s just a costume,” said Caina, “and we’re not really circus performers. We have our own reasons for being here.”

“Yes,” said Damla. She hesitated. “Have you…seen anything useful?”

“Quite a few things,” said Caina, looking at the gleaming white palace. While the Circus had been setting up in the morning, the grounds of Ulvan’s palace had been chaos, and Caina had taken a discreet look around. Ulvan had nearly two hundred slaves locked away in his cellars, waiting to be sold, and Caina was sure that Bayram and Bahad were among them. “I think that…”

Tozun and a pair of carpenters appeared before them. “Natalia of the Nine Knives. You’re up next.”

“Where?” said Caina.

“Before the dais,” said Tozun. “Apparently my father thinks your act is so impressive that he wants it right in front of the Grand Wazir and the Grand Master. Try not to hit either one of them with a knife, please. I’d prefer not to be executed tonight.”

“But if you were,” said Caina, “you wouldn’t have to settle the quarrel between Vardo and the acrobats.”

Tozun barked a laugh, and Damla looked askance at them both.

“And now, my lords and emirs and Alchemists!” said Cronmer, his voice ringing over the crowds. Caina was amazed that he could make himself so loud without the aid of a spell. “Tonight, for the honor of our patron, the Grand Wazir, and the Grand Master, we have a spectacle never before seen by the good people of Istarinmul!”

“That’s you,” said Tozun.

“Ready?” said Caina.

“No,” said Damla.

“That’s the spirit,” said Tozun.

“From the frozen wastes of the distant north!” thundered Cronmer. “From beyond the boundaries of the Empire of Nighmar itself, a deposed barbarian queen comes before us! Once she ruled a hundred thousand screaming savages with a fist of iron! Now she comes to display her prowess with the blade. Men and women of Istarinmul, behold Natalia of the Nine Knives!”

A Szaldic warrior queen. Caina could only imagine what Tanya would say. 

“Oh, the Living Flame preserve us,” whispered Damla.

“Remember to smile,” said Caina, and she started forward. 

The lights upon the wall rotated, illuminating an empty space before the dais. Caina strode into the light. Or, more precisely, she strutted into the light, rolling her hips with every step, her shoulders thrown back, her chin raised. She felt every eye upon her, saw Ulvan lean forward, his cushioned throne creaking beneath his bulk. Caina reached the center of the gardens and stopped, hands upon her hips, and gazed at the crowd. She felt very alone, and very exposed, and desperately wished her costume covered more of her skin. 

But she kept those emotions from her face, and gazed at the emirs and merchants and slavers and Alchemists with royal hauteur. Damla stood at Caina’s side, and she saw the other woman’s tension and fear. 

Just as well. It would enhance the act. 

A boy eleven hurried towards Caina, carrying a silver tray. Timost was Tozun’s eldest son, and had inherited both his father’s serious nature and his grandmother’s formidable scowl. If the Circus remained a family business, likely Timost would one day inherit his father’s job. 

“Perhaps you think I am lying!” said Cronmer, striding closer. “Perhaps you think this fair young maiden, so queenly and noble, could not possibly wield deadly blades with her delicate hands. But no man calls Cronmer a liar! Behold!” 

He reached into his coat, produced an apple, and flung it into the air.

Caina whirled, her skirt billowing around her, and snatched a knife from Timost’s tray. One side of the tray held the blunted throwing knives. The other held knives sharpened to a deadly edge, and she flung the blade.

The knife caught the apple in midair, and it fell into two halves to the ground, followed shortly thereafter by the knife itself.

A murmur of appreciation went through the crowd. 

“A fluke, you say?” said Cronmer. “Mere chance? Well, let us put that to the test!”

Cronmer threw two more apples into the air, and Caina hurled two more knives. The throws were easy, and it looked more impressive than it really was. Her blades bisected both apples, and again the murmur of appreciation went through the crowd. One of the apple halves rolled to a stop near Caina’s toes, and she stooped, picked up the apple, and held it over her head. 

Then she lowered it to her mouth and took a bite. 

A gale of laughter went up, followed by applause. 

“Our Natalia can indeed throw knives!” said Cronmer. “But a waste of a good apple, you say? Perhaps we should have real stakes. Men, the ropes!”

“Please don’t kill me,” whispered Damla.

“Don’t worry,” murmured Caina, watching the Grand Wazir and Ulvan. Both men seemed enthralled by the show, though Callatas’s mind was elsewhere. “If we die tonight, it won’t be me that kills you.”

“How terribly reassuring,” said Damla, and then two of the carpenters stepped forward and grabbed her arms.

She put up a good show of shrieking and struggling and calling down furious curses upon their heads. They wrestled her to a wooden board the size of a door and tied her to it, binding her hands over the top of her head. 

“Behold,” said Cronmer, “this lovely woman of Istarinmul, unable to move a single inch in either direction. Targets have been painted upon the wood,” he gestured at red circles marking the boards, “and Natalia of the Nine Knives shall throw her razor-edged instruments of death! Shall she hit the circles? Or shall her hand waver, her wrist tremble, and the deadly knives go amiss?”

One of Tiri’s musicians came forward with a drum and began to beat it, striking a slow rhythm. Caina began to walk in a circle around Timost, letting herself sway a little with every step, the maneuver made easier by her sandals’ spiked heels. The drummer’s beat increased, going faster and faster, and at last Caina grabbed one of the blunted throwing knives from the tray, tossed it to herself, and caught it by the blade. 

The drumming rose to a crescendo, and Caina flung the knife.

It sank into the board in an inch from Damla’s left ear. She let out a shriek of surprise that Caina was certain had not been feigned, and fresh applause and cheers rang out. Caina walked in a circle again, and then grabbed another knife, tossing it from hand to hand.

And then she put it into the board an inch from Damla’s right ear. 

Again the crowds cheered.

Of course, it was only a trick. The knives were blunted, and the worst they could do was give Damla a bad bruise. Furthermore, the board behind her wasn’t entirely wood. It was actually a thick layer of cork over a plank backing, the cork cleverly painted to look like weathered boards. Behind each painted circle rested a powerful lodestone. The lodestone’s force attracted the steel of the knives and pinned them in place.