Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) (3 page)

Caina felt an overpowering urge to punch Morgant, but ignored it. They had larger problems just now, and she had a great deal of experience resisting the urge to hit him.

The man gave her no end of opportunities to practice.

“We need to get out of here,” said Caina. “You can amuse yourself after we’ve escaped from the Immortals.”

“Sound counsel,” said Morgant, beckoning. He hastened through the house, descending the stairs to the cellar. Caina saw neither slaves nor residents as they followed him. Likely Morgant had frightened them all off.

“Why are we going to the cellar?” said Nerina. “It is statistically likely that we shall be trapped without escape.”

Morgant scoffed. “Bah. You think like a bookkeeper, Mistress Strake.” They reached the house’s cellar, the brick walls dusty, barrels and sacks stacked in piles. “Whereas I am an artist, and can therefore imagine possibilities that…”

“He’s going to use his dagger to cut a hole into the sewers,” said Kylon. 

“Typical,” muttered Morgant, stamping his feet and listening to the sound his boots made against the stone floor. “Typical for a Kyracian. No artistry. Little wonder your nation prefers the crude art of sculpture to the mastery of painting.” 

He stepped back and drew the black dagger from his belt, the red gem flashing in the gloom of the cellar. Morgant knelt and spun in a circle, plunging the dagger down. The blade sank into the hard stone floor as if it had been made of soft cheese, and Morgant cut a circle into the stone, the edges growing red-hot. Morgant stood, stepped back, and stomped one foot onto the circle. 

It fell loose, vanishing into the narrow brick tunnel of the sewers with a loud crash. 

“How did you do that?” said Nerina. “The tensile strength of steel is insufficient to cut stone, and even if it were, you would lack the muscular strength to…”

Caina heard the thump of boots on the floorboards above her head.

“Quiet,” she hissed. “Into the tunnel, quickly.”

Kylon went first, followed by Morgant. Azaces jumped into the tunnel next, and caught Nerina as she climbed down. Caina took one last look at the cellar stairs, sheathed her dagger, and jumped. She expected to land on her own, but Kylon caught her about the waist and lowered her to the floor without a thump. 

His hands were very strong, and he caught her without the slightest hint of effort. 

“Thanks,” said Caina, taking a step back before her mind explored that line of thought any further. She looked around the tunnel and got her bearings as Morgant produced a small lamp and lit it. “This way, I think. The sooner we are gone from here, the better.”

“What went wrong?” said Kylon. “We were waiting for the brothel to catch fire, but instead we heard fighting, and I saw you fleeing over the rooftops.”

“I expect it will be an interesting tale,” said Morgant. Caina led the way, Morgant’s flickering lamp throwing back the shadows. “Though I always thought you were clever. But after you attacked a hundred Immortals in broad daylight, I may have to rethink that.”

“Something went wrong,” said Caina. “Something I did not expect.” She looked at Nerina, who would not meet her eyes. “But I’m going to find out what happened.” Her gaze shifted to Morgant. “We’re not finished yet. We’re going to find a way into the Inferno, we’re going to rescue Annarah, and we’re going to stop Callatas and his Apotheosis.” 

“Such optimism,” muttered Morgant. “We will find out if it is warranted.”

“Yes,” said Caina. “We shall.” 

She knew just how close they had come to disaster today. If she had been a half-second slower, they would all have been killed. 

Sooner or later she would be too slow, or she would make one mistake too many.

But not, she vowed, before she stopped whatever Grand Master Callatas intended with his Apotheosis.

Chapter 2: Wraithblood

Morgant the Razor leaned back and rested his boots upon the small round table, simply because he knew it would annoy their host. 

Of course, the man who called himself Nasser Glasshand was far too practiced to let the annoyance show upon his expression. His dark face remained calm as ever, the lines of his beard trimmed with precision, his black clothing crisp and neat. Yet Morgant noted the faintest twitch of a finger as Nasser lifted his cup of coffee. 

A very long time ago, Nasser had tried to kill Morgant and failed. Well, Nasser ought to be grateful that Morgant was too clever for him. If Morgant had been dead, Callatas would have hired someone else to kill Annarah…and then Nasser would never get his chance to stop Callatas and his Apotheosis. 

On the other hand, Morgant needed Nasser now, if he was going to keep his word to Annarah.

Morgant lived by two rules. He never killed anyone who did not deserve it, and he kept his word. He had given his word to Annarah a century and a half ago, and he was going to keep it.

The woman who was Morgant’s best chance to keep his word sat cross-legged on a cushion, a cup of coffee in hand. 

“I’m not sure what went wrong,” said Caina. 

Morgant looked back and forth between Nasser and Caina, considering. Nasser’s old hideout had been at the Shahenshah’s Seat, a ramshackle tavern near the Bazaar of the Southern Road. Then an Umbarian magus had conjured an ifrit to kill Caina, and the Seat had burned down in the resultant battle. Now Nasser worked out of rented rooms over a sculpture works in the Old Quarter. Morgant was reasonably sure Nasser had chosen the location specifically to irritate him.

He looked at Caina. She still wore the disguise of a Cyrican merchant, her fake beard and her makeup flawless. Even her voice and accent changed, and almost anyone who met her would see a man. Her skills of disguise were excellent, but they had not fooled Morgant. They had, however, fooled Nasser and his associates, who still believed Caina to be a man. 

Morgant looked forward to Nasser’s reaction when he finally figured it out.

Of course, Caina had not figured out who Nasser Glasshand really was yet. He suspected she would do so soon. 

All the pieces were there, right in front of her. The leather glove that constantly covered Nasser’s left hand, and the inhuman feats he could perform with that hand. His ability to recover from apparently mortal wounds. His deep knowledge of Iramisian history…and the fact that he knew Morgant personally.

“Move your boots,” said a man’s voice, rough with a Nighmarian accent. 

A man of middle years looked down at Morgant. He had the build and stance of a Legionary veteran, his receding hair close-cropped, his arms heavy with muscle. He held a tray of food in his hands, and his hard eyes did not blink as they looked at Morgant. It was the sort of gaze that promised death if Morgant made trouble for Nasser.

Well. Nasser had always inspired loyalty in his men. 

“Of course, Laertes,” said Morgant, dropping his feet to the floor. “I am ever the soul of courtesy.” Laertes snorted and set down the tray, and Morgant helped himself to a date. 

“Now that the obvious lies are out of the way,” said Nasser in his smooth, deep voice, “perhaps we can learn what went wrong.” 

“Nerina saw her husband,” said Caina. 

Morgant glanced at Nerina Strake. She stood in the corner of the sitting room, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Azaces stood behind her like a storm cloud. Laertes’s hard eyes might have promised violence to anyone who threatened his employer, but Azaces’s scowl guaranteed it. 

Kylon of House Kardamnos stood near the door, arms crossed over his chest, his brown eyes looking at nothing in particular. He was a young man of average height, strong and quick, with brown hair and the tanned skin of a Kyracian who had spent quite a lot of time at sea. He was, in Morgant’s estimation, not particularly bright, but he was nonetheless one of the most formidable swordsmen that Morgant had ever met.

And that was even without Kylon’s powers of elemental sorcery. 

“Your husband?” said Nasser, his eyebrows climbing.

“Yes,” said Nerina, staring at the floor.

“Please forgive my ignorance, Mistress Strake,” said Nasser, “but I was given to understand that your husband has been dead for some years.”

“Four years,” said Nerina. “It was four years ago. He was dead. Murdered by my father’s numerous enemies, shortly after my father himself was murdered. Or…it may have been the other way around.” 

“Yet you saw him with the slaves in the Old Bazaar,” said Nasser.

“I did,” said Nerina, closing her eyes. “I was waiting on the roof, and occupying myself by calculating additional trajectories for my crossbow bolt should the wind change. I happened to look into the Bazaar, and I saw Malcolm. At first I thought I had experienced some sort of cognitive failure, but it was him. I am certain it was him.” She shivered a little. “Then I…I am afraid I lost my head.”

Morgant snorted. “An understatement.”

Caina glared at him and he fell silent, though he kept his smirk in place. Morgant was afraid that Nerina Strake had become a problem, and Morgant would have to deal with her before she jeopardized his task. Best to have Caina’s support when he acted. Caina was clever and efficient, but so regrettably sentimental. 

“I had to get him,” said Nerina. “I had to go to him, just as an equation has to balance out in the end. I…thought I could convince the Immortals to release him, or maybe that I could buy him away…oh, by the Living Flame.” She rubbed her hands against her face. “I was a fool. I should have thought it through and devised an equation with a better chance of balancing. Instead I nearly got us all killed.”

“True,” said Morgant. 

“It would be difficult,” said Caina, her voice quiet, “to keep your head if you saw a dead loved one return.”

“Difficult,” said Morgant, “but not impossible. Especially when that dead loved one is surrounded by Immortals.” 

“Nasser,” said Kylon. “Those slaves with the Immortals. They were going to the Inferno, were they not?”

“They were,” said Caina before Nasser answered. “The first caravan was heading to the Inferno, carrying supplies and slaves. Kuldan Cimak was going to follow tomorrow, once he had finished with his amusements in the Crimson Veil.”

Laertes snorted. “Given that Cimak is going to serve as a khalmir under the Lieutenant of the Inferno, I cannot blame him for that.” 

It had been a good plan, Morgant had to admit. Malik Rolukhan, the Master Alchemist in command of the Inferno, had never actually met Kuldan Cimak. Kidnapping the emir and having Caina take his place would allow them entry to the Inferno. With luck, they could enter the Inferno, rescue Annarah from her Sanctuary, and escape before anyone noticed.

That was before Nerina had ruined the plan, of course. 

“Very well,” said Nasser, setting down his coffee and tapping his fingers together. As ever, he wore a glove of black leather over his left hand, his left forearm concealed beneath a bracer. “We have suffered a setback, but the plan can be adapted. It is a long way from Istarinmul to the gates of the Inferno. Cimak can be abducted easily enough in the countryside.”

“He will have Immortals with him,” said Laertes.

“We can hire mercenaries for the task,” said Caina. “Between the two of us we have enough money to manage it. Kazravid and Shopur’s company, maybe. There’s another mercenary company I know from Rasadda, the Black Wolves. They used to work for the Magisterium, but came here to avoid the war between the Empire and the Umbarians. They would be willing to take the job.” 

“Cimak will not travel quickly,” said Nasser. “We can overtake him.”

“Battles are always chancy,” said Kylon. “Is this worth the risk?”

Morgant started to answer, but Nasser spoke first.

“I fear it is, Lord Kylon,” said Nasser. “No new officers have been sent to the Inferno for two years, and this is the first man that Malik Rolukhan has not known personally. This is a perfect opportunity, and I fear we will not have another chance.” He shrugged. “Risky, yes, but there is no profit without risk.” 

“Before we proceed with these fine plans,” said Morgant, “we need to settle another matter first.”

“And what matter is that, master painter?” said Nasser.

Morgant pointed at Nerina. “Her.”

Caina frowned. “What about her? That she saw her husband? If he is among the slaves in the caravan, we…”

“You are overlooking the obvious,” said Morgant. “Her husband is dead. Wraithblood induces hallucinations. The most probable explanation is that despite the danger, despite knowing the risk, Strake took wraithblood and hallucinated that she saw her husband among the Immortals.”

Azaces’s eyes narrowed, and Nerina’s mouth fell open.

She started talking. “No. That’s not true. I didn’t take any wraithblood. I have not consumed any wraithblood for over two years.” She shuddered. “I stopped even before I knew that Callatas manufactured it from the blood of murdered slaves. I did not hallucinate Malcolm. He was there, I am certain of it.” 

“Are you?” said Morgant. “You’ve seen the wraithblood addicts at the docks? You’ve heard them begging for money even while they rant at their hallucinations? Have you seen the things they’ll do for even a drop of wraithblood?” 

“I did not take any wraithblood,” said Nerina. “I know what I saw.” 

“I believe her,” said Caina.

“You’re an optimist,” said Morgant.

“Really?” said Caina, her eyes narrowing. “Since when?” 

“Since you risked your life in a completely unnecessary way to save the Kyracian at the Craven’s Tower,” said Morgant. He was curious how she would react to the barb. Her attraction to Kylon was just as obvious as her denial of it. Hopefully it would not distort her thinking. 

“Given that Kylon just kept the Immortals from killing me,” said Caina without missing a beat, “I would say it was a wise decision.”

Morgant grunted. “Good answer.” 

“Pardon,” said Nasser, “but while I do not presume to doubt Mistress Strake’s word, perhaps verification is at hand.” His dark eyes turned to Kylon. “Lord Kylon, can you tell if she is lying?” 

###

Kylon blinked and straightened up.