Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) (10 page)

“Ah,” said Caina at last. 

“Is he…” said Damla, her voice trailing off as she tried to find the correct phrasing.

“He’s a friend,” said Caina. 

“Another Ghost,” said Damla.

“No, he’s not a Ghost,” said Caina. “We knew each other from before I came to Istarinmul.” She sighed. “An assassin murdered his wife and he was banished from his homeland, and he ended up here. We met again by chance a few months ago, and he has been helping me ever since.” 

“I see,” said Damla. “Forgive me, but I was sure that you were…ah, together.”

Caina sighed. “Everyone says that. Do you mind if I ask why?” 

“You…looked so happy when you kissed him,” said Damla. “You looked so happy that I didn’t recognize you.”

“Ah,” said Caina. 

Damla hesitated again.

“Come on,” said Caina with a laugh. “You can be honest with me.”

“This man,” said Damla, “this Kyracian…”

“Call him the Exile,” said Caina. It was the title Kylon had given to other Ghosts in their work over the last few months.

“The Exile,” said Damla. “How well do you know him?”

“Quite well,” said Caina. “He tried to kill me in Marsis.”

Damla’s eyes widened. 

“We made peace,” said Caina. “He helped me with some business in the free cities after that. Then I helped him save his wife when she was poisoned. He helped to stop the golden dead.”

“Is he your friend?” said Damla.

“Yes,” said Caina.

“Do you trust him?” 

“Yes.”

“Then,” said Damla, “why do you not seduce him?” 

Caina said nothing, staring into her coffee. 

“Forgive me if it is none of my business,” said Damla. “I am becoming a meddlesome old woman.”

“No,” said Caina. “I keep telling you that you’re not that old. And you’ve earned the right to be honest with me.”

“So why do you not seduce him?” said Damla. “Or let him seduce you? He is a friend and you trust him, and you are clearly drawn to him. I may not be as clever as you, but I am not blind, either.”

“It wouldn’t be a good idea,” said Caina. 

“Why not?” said Damla. 

“Because we’re in too much danger,” said Caina. “We both could be killed at any time.” She took a sip of coffee. “Losing Corvalis was almost too much for me, Damla. If…” She shook her head. “It’s been barely two years since his wife was murdered in front of him. That’s not…it’s not the sort of thing a man recovers from, not really. Corvalis, at least, died saving the world. The Exile’s wife died for nothing, only to satisfy the cruel whims of the assassin sent to kill him. I don’t think he could stand to lose someone else like that. It would…”

She realized that she had started rambling and fell silent. 

“It is not my place to offer counsel,” said Damla.

“I wish you would,” said Caina. “I don’t have many people who can offer me advice.” 

Damla considered for a moment. “I understand what you are thinking.”

“I know,” said Caina. Damla’s husband had been conscripted into Rezir Shahan’s army and had died in the fighting at Marsis. 

“You are right,” said Damla. “All the risks are very real. You might lose him, and he may lose you. With all the risks you run, you might well get killed.” She took a deep breath. “Losing my husband was one of the worst things that happened to me. Yet if I had known it would happen, if I had known from the beginning how things would have ended when I met him…I still would have married him. I regret losing him every day. I would regret never having met him even more.” 

“I see,” said Caina. “Thank you.” She liked that counsel. It was what she wanted to do, in truth. 

But she couldn’t do what she wanted to do. If she could work her will, she would return to the House of Kularus in Malarae, run the coffee house, and leave behind all the blood and the death and the sorrow that had followed her through the Ghosts. Yet if she did that, there would be no one to stop Callatas. She could not turn her back on Istarinmul, not when she knew the truth. 

Trying to take Kylon as a lover would be a dangerous distraction. 

Besides, she thought, Kylon was a nobleman of New Kyre. Would he be content to settle down with a woman who wanted to be a coffee merchant? Especially one who could not have children?

“Thank you,” said Caina. “I will think on what you have said.”

“Good luck,” said Damla. “With everything. I will watch the door, and hope to see you walk into my common room. Then I shall give you as much free coffee as you can drink, and you will tell me of your travels.” She smiled. “And anything else interesting that might happen.”

“I look forward to it,” said Caina, and she picked up the wrapped valikon and stepped into the Cyrican Bazaar. Kylon still stood where she had left him, and she saw the dark-clad figure of Morgant standing near him. Morgant seemed amused. Kylon’s face was calm, but she knew him well enough to see the annoyance there. She couldn’t blame him. Morgant was good at a lot of things, and annoying people was chief among them. 

That, and killing people.

She stepped forward and stopped as the gleam of metal caught her eye. 

Something small and metallic lay in the dust.

Caina went cold.

A small curved knife rested near the door to the House of Agabyzus. 

###

“I don’t drink coffee,” said Morgant. 

“Don’t you?” said Kylon. 

“It makes you too jittery,” said Morgant. “Ruins your nerves. Why, I remember once, I was in Cyrioch, and I…”

Kylon suppressed a sigh. Morgant would interpret a sigh as a sign of weakness, which would only encourage him to talk more. It amused the assassin to put on the guise of a rambling, absent-minded artist, but Kylon could sense the cold flicker of the ancient assassin’s emotions, and the icy iron of his sense never wavered, his pale blue eyes keeping constant watch on the crowds around them.

“You could make bad decisions,” said Morgant. “Come down in the world like a brick dropped into a pond. Go from one of the most powerful men in a small nation to a caravan guard standing in a bazaar next to a stall selling,” he glanced over, “glassware of questionable quality.” 

“If you are so subtle,” said Kylon, “I shall never grasp your point.”

“I suppose I shall have to use shorter words,” said Morgant, “considering my audience.”

“Or your skills lie in painting,” said Kylon, “and rhetoric is quite beyond you.” 

Morgant’s teeth flashed in a grin. With his pale, gaunt face, it made his features look almost skull-like. “That’s better, Kyracian. I thought your wits might have abandoned you after drinking so much coffee. Made you forget things.”

“Such as?” said Kylon, wondering where this was going. 

“Your wife, for one,” said Morgant.

Anger blazed through Kylon like a wildfire, and he almost drew his sword and ran the assassin through. Almost. He heard something creak and realized that it was the knuckles of his sword hand, which had balled into a fist. 

He met the assassin’s pale eyes. “Go on.” 

Morgant smirked. “I suppose a Kyracian nobleman is used to certain comforts of the flesh. You could buy a slave woman, but the price has gotten prohibitively expensive. Perhaps you could go to the Crimson Veil and rent a room for an hour or two. Or you could continue to charm our mutual friend, though that seems like so much work.”

The rage pulsed through him. “Jealous?”

Morgant scoffed. “Not at all. She’s pretty enough, aye, but she’s dangerous. There are flowers in southern Anshan that are stunningly beautiful, their colors more vivid and bright than anything found anywhere else in nature. One brush from their thorns is enough to bring about an agonizing death.”

“Is that what you think she is?” said Kylon. “A poisoned flower?”

“Perhaps,” said Morgant with a shrug. “It’s not my concern. You’re the one who keeps staring at her, Kyracian. Especially at her backside.”

“Why are you talking about this?” said Kylon.

“A man needs to know his reasons for doing a task,” said Morgant.

“Then your reason must be to catch my fist in your face,” said Kylon, “because that’s what is going to happen if you bring up my wife again.” 

Morgant grinned at that. “I know my reasons, Kyracian. I am going to keep my word. What is your reason? Because you want to seduce her? Or you want vengeance for your wife?”

Kylon scowled…and then it clicked. 

“Gods of storm and brine,” he muttered. “That’s what you’re worried about? You think my wish for vengeance might disrupt your promise?”

“If you want to get yourself killed avenging your wife, well and good,” said Morgant. “You can do what you wish…but if your desire for vengeance or your lust for the Balarigar interferes with my ability to keep my word, then I will kill you.”

“No,” said Kylon. “Malik Rolukhan and Cassander Nilas murdered my wife…but they were just the tools of Callatas. This isn’t going to be finished until his plans are broken and he is dead at my feet.”

“Good,” said Morgant. “Clarity of purpose is always refreshing, don’t you think?”

“Try to kill me if you wish,” said Kylon, “but you will not like how it ends. Not at all.”

Morgant’s smile only widened at that. Damned madman.

Kylon turned back towards the coffee house as Caina emerged from the door. Relief flooded through him. She was better at handling Morgant than he was, and always seemed to have a witty answer to his endless verbal barbs. Maybe…

Caina froze on the front step of the coffee house, and he felt the jolt of alarm go through her sense. 

“What is it?” said Morgant. He was no stormdancer, but he too had noticed Caina’s alarm.

“I don’t know,” said Kylon, looking around. The traffic and business of the Bazaar proceeded uninterrupted. A few watchmen strolled through the crowd, but they merely seemed vigilant, not alarmed. Kylon saw no sign of any enemies. 

Caina bent and picked up something small and shining from the ground. Kylon walked to join her, and Morgant followed him. 

“What is it?” said Kylon said to her.

“This knife,” she said, holding it out. It was a small, curved, delicate-looking weapon. Kylon would have thought it was a throwing knife, but the curved blade made it useless for that. “Did you see who dropped it?”

Kylon shook his head. “It was in the dust?”

“Stupid thing,” said Morgant. “It would snap if you used it for anything serious. I suppose you could use it to cut canvas for a painting, but it wouldn’t be good for much else. Slicing soft cheese, perhaps.” 

Caina shook her head. “This is the second one I’ve found. There was an identical one outside one of my safe houses yesterday.”

“What is the significance of that?” said Kylon. 

“It means,” said Morgant, “that someone is trying to send her a message. Are all Kyracians so inept at intrigue? Little wonder New Kyre didn’t win the war…”

“Two hundred years old and you don’t recognize this kind of knife?” snapped Caina. “Be quiet unless you have something useful to say.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and Kylon was surprised at the strength of her reaction. She rarely let any emotion show unless it was part of her disguise. Finding the knife had disturbed her more than she wanted to let on. “No. We’ll just have to keep our eyes open.”

“What now, then?” said Kylon. It didn’t make any sense. If one of Caina’s enemies had found her, why bother leaving knives in the dust? Why not just show up with a century of Immortals and kill her? 

“We’ll keep to the plan for now,” said Caina. “I want to leave tomorrow to catch Kuldan Cimak’s caravan, and if someone is following me…well, a few hundred armed mercenaries might teach him better manners. Let’s go.” 

Kylon nodded, and they walked from the Cyrican Bazaar, Morgant trailing after them like a shadow. 

No enemies showed themselves.

Chapter 6: A Little Task

The next morning Caina walked into the Bazaar of the Southern Road, adjusting her threadbare cloak. 

Today she had returned to one her most useful disguises, a ragged caravan guard in leather armor with a dusty cloak and boots and worn old trousers, sword and dagger at her belt. A cheap turban covered her short hair, aiding her disguise and having the pleasant side effect of keeping the sun off her head. Countless caravans passed through Istarinmul, and every single one of those caravans hired guards to ward off bandits and raiders. One more caravan guard would not draw notice. 

Especially now that the countryside was so unsafe. 

The valikon rested under her arm, wrapped in its bundle. Upon her left wrist she wore a bronze-colored bracelet of delicate design. It had been Annarah’s pyrikon, and the thing had been linked to Caina ever since she had stolen it from the laboratory of a Master Alchemist. Perhaps she would soon have the chance to return it to Annarah.

She threaded through the crowds filling the Bazaar of the Southern Road. The caravanserai waited outside of Istarinmul’s southern wall, and the merchants filling the Bazaar catered to travelers, selling boots and bread and weapons for prices three times higher than could be found in the rest of the city. Foreigners, mostly Anshani and Alqaarin, with a sprinkling of Sarbians and Cyricans, moved through the stalls, buying and selling. On one side of the Bazaar rose the wooden framework and stacked bricks of a half-constructed building. Once the spot had been occupied by the Shahenshah’s Seat, an inn and tavern favored by the caravan guards and the teamsters coming up the Great Southern Road. Then it had burned down when an ifrit had attacked the inn.

Caina felt bad about that, since the Sifter had been coming to kill her. So she had arranged through a variety of intermediaries to fund the owner’s efforts to rebuild, and the Shahenshah’s Seat would arise anew. That also let her slip a reasonable bribe to the builders. When the Shahenshah’s Seat was finished, it would have a few concealed rooms within its walls. 

A Ghost circlemaster could never have too many safe houses.

She spotted Kylon standing near a booth, wearing clothes similar to hers. Granted, he was taller and much more muscular than she was, so he made for a more formidable caravan guard. He looked at the knives on display in the booth, shook his head in disgust, and walked away.