Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Thank you,” said Caina. “I know it was not pleasant to revisit those memories, but your help is appreciated.”

  Moryzai’s account of the undead troubled her. Of all the tales she had heard of the Inferno, none of them had mentioned the undead. Of course, Samnirdamnus had hinted at it with his talk of ancient Maatish necromancy. Caina suspected that there was a Maatish relic buried somewhere in the Inferno, something that raised the undead and commanded them to defend the fortress. Though if that was true, she wondered why Callatas hadn’t claimed the relic or destroyed it.

  Maybe he didn’t care.

  No – even if he didn’t care, he would have destroyed the relic or claimed it to prevent his enemies from using it against him.

  Maybe the relic was too powerful for him to control or destroy.

  Or, worse yet, perhaps the relic was under the control of something else. Maybe one of the undead Great Necromancers of ancient Maat still lurked in the depths of the Inferno. The priest Rhames had been one of the Undying, and his sorcery had been so terrifyingly powerful that he had defeated the Moroaica in a battle of spells. If another sorcerer of Rhames’s potency waited beneath the Inferno…

  Moryzai was speaking. Caina rebuked herself and turned her thoughts back towards him.

  “It is no trouble,” said Moryzai with an airy wave of his thick hand. “Your employer is paying for my fine dinner, after all.”

  “A sum that could have bought food for five grown men,” said Agabyzus, eyeing the table.

  Moryzai grinned and slapped his belly. “A sum that could have brought food for five lesser men, sir. I am may be a eunuch, but no man has a stomach as strong as mine.” His smile faded. “Tell your employer to take care, madam. I would not return to the Inferno for any reason. Not if you offered me every golden bezant in the Padishah’s treasury.”

  “I shall,” said Caina. “Thank you.” She turned and left the private dining room, Agabyzus following her.

  “He is right, you know,” murmured Agabyzus. “To warn you against going to the Inferno.”

  Caina nodded.

  “Is it truly vital that you do this?” said Agabyzus, glancing towards the common room. “To go to the Inferno?”

  “It is,” said Caina. “If we survive it, I shall tell you more. But…it is vital. It is absolutely vital. The fate of Istarinmul and maybe the rest of the world depends on it.”

  “I see,” said Agabyzus, his gaunt face hardening with understanding. He had seen the wraithblood laboratory in the Widow’s Tower, had seen the nagataaru possess Ricimer’s corpse. “Then may the Living Flame be with you.”

  “May the Living Flame be with us all,” said Caina. “For I fear we shall surely need all the help we can find.”

  Chapter 5: Instructions

  Kylon walked through the Cyrican Bazaar, watching the crowds.

  No one noticed him.

  He felt a faint sense of wonder at that. In another few weeks it would be two years since the Red Huntress had murdered Thalastre and he had been exiled from New Kyre. Sometimes it felt like an eternity. Sometimes it felt like had just happened yesterday, and he could still hear the screams, feel the hot blood spattering across his face, see the harsh purple flame of the blade the Red Huntress had conjured.

  Just now, though, it seemed distant.

  He was still not used to the sensation of walking unnoticed through a crowd.

  Kylon supposed it was a common thing, but he still marveled at it. He had been born to one of the most powerful noble Houses of New Kyre, and after his mother and father had been killed, his public role had increased. He had been at his sister Andromache’s side as she performed the duties of a High Seat and later Archon of the Assembly. He had trained as a stormdancer and served upon the war vessels of New Kyre, fighting pirates and privateers. When Andromache died in Marsis, Kylon became High Seat and later an Archon in turn. He had been one of the most powerful men in New Kyre. Everyone he had gone, he had been attended by slaves and retainers, and a large portion of New Kyre’s population knew him on sight. Kylon had rarely been alone, and he had never been anonymous.

  Now he was.

  The anonymity, at least, was…refreshing.

  He found he enjoyed it. All his life he had been surrounded by slaves and servants and luxuries, and he did not miss them. That had been, he supposed, why he had enjoyed serving about the warships of the Kyracian fleet. There had been no politics there, no slaves, no scheming, simply duty and purpose.

  He walked past a booth selling carpets, the merchant engaged in a furious haggling match with a pair of elderly women. Neither merchant nor women looked up as he passed. Kylon was simply another man in the crowd, a Kyracian caravan guard in leather armor with a sword and a pair of daggers at his belt.

  But that wasn’t true. He was only pretending to be a caravan guard. Kylon had a mission and purpose here. Vengeance for his murdered wife and child…and a mission to stop the evil that had killed his wife from claiming others.

  His anonymity was only a tool to that end.

  Nonetheless, it was pleasant.

  Kylon stopped at a booth long enough to buy a pair of wooden skewers loaded with cooked vegetables and meat. He paid the merchant and kept walking, the skewers in his left hand, his right hand free to draw his sword. Caina was the one with the colossal bounty upon her head, yet Kylon knew that neither Malik Rolukhan nor Cassander Nilas had forgotten him, and he would not be surprised if Kindred assassins or Silent Hunters turned up in the Cyrican Bazaar.

  Best to be prepared if they did.

  He stopped near the booth of the lamp seller, his eyes roving over the crowds. At this time of day, most of the crowds in the Bazaar were slaves and women, the men at work in their shops or workshops. Kylon took a deep breath, keeping his arcane senses under control. Men were but water, and his sorcery gave him control over water, permitting him to sense the emotions of others…and sometimes the emotions of a crowd grew overwhelming. It had taken him years to learn the discipline necessary to function in a crowd, to function in a battle. Though he supposed a battle was simply a crowd that was trying to kill itself…

  “Kyracian.”

  Kylon turned, his right hand inching towards his sword hilt. The lamp merchant, a short, sour-looking man with a well-trimmed beard and a garish robe and turban, beckoned to him. The man was grinning, which seemed out of place in his gloomy face.

  “Yes?” said Kylon. “What do you want?”

  “You are waiting, yes?” said the lamp merchant. “You are waiting for your kizalkadan?”

  Kylon blinked. In the five months he had spent in Istarinmul, he had learned quite a bit of Istarish, and Caina had gone out of her way to teach him more. Yet there were so many words he did not know, and “kizalkadan” was one of them. Sometimes he thought he would never get his head around the damned language.

  “My what?” said Kylon.

  “Your kizalkadan,” said the merchant, still grinning. “You have made a very good choice, my friend.” Kylon extended his arcane senses, but felt nothing threatening from the little man, only amusement and a desire for profit. “You should purchase a lamp.”

  “Why would I do that?” said Kylon.

  “Because you could give it to your kizalkadan as a gift,” said the merchant. “It could be a…symbolic gift, yes? That she brings light to your life or some such rubbish. Women enjoy such gifts, my young friend.”

  Kylon stared at him for a moment.

  “What,” he said at last, “the hell are you talking about?”

  The merchant sighed. “Foreigners. Are they all so dense? You should be wary, for if you cannot keep your kizalkadan, a bolder man will take her.”

  “What is a kizalkadan?” said Kylon.

  A woman’s voice laughed. “He means me, I fear.”

  Kylon turned as Caina walked towards him, the mixed cold and fire of her emotional sense washing over him. She was dressed as a common Istarish woman today in a dress and headscarf of bright
yellow with black trim on the hems and sleeves. The ghostsilver dagger rested in a sheath at her belt, a satchel slung over one shoulder. Beneath her arm she carried a bundle that most likely contained the valikon. She looked like a pretty young woman going about her morning errands. No one who looked at her could possibly think she was the shadow-cloaked Balarigar who had terrorized the slavers and thrilled the commoners.

  Kylon supposed that was the point.

  She smiled at him, that odd flicker going through her emotional sense. She was glad to see him, which he found oddly touching.

  “You see?” said the lamp merchant, waving his hands. “You should educate him, mistress. Your Kyracian friend is ignorant.”

  “Well, I do try,” said Caina. Her tone was light and airy. She stepped forward, and then to Kylon’s astonishment, she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “Come along, yes? Let us go for a walk.”

  She threaded her left arm through his right and guided him into the press of the Bazaar. Physical contact meant he sensed her emotions with more clarity, and he felt the cold ice behind her smiling, cheerful façade, felt the deep rage that had hardened into something stern and terrible within her heart.

  Yet, nonetheless, she was glad to see him.

  And there was something else, something…

  He blinked.

  Embarrassment?

  “What,” he said at last, “does the word ‘kizalkadan’ mean?”

  “Ah.” She looked down and smiled. “It is a slang term in Istarish. Roughly translated, it means…unmarried female lover.”

  “I see,” said Kylon. “I apologize.”

  “Whatever for?” said Caina. “It is a perfect disguise. We are just another couple talking a walk. No one would take a second look at us.”

  “Yes,” said Kylon. Now it was his turn to feel embarrassment.

  Unmarried female lover…

  Gods of storm and brine, what was wrong with him? Thalastre had barely been in her grave for two years. This was Caina Amalas. She was a Ghost circlemaster, the Balarigar, the bane of sorcerers and slavers. Not the sort of woman one took as a lover.

  Kylon wasn’t sure what to do.

  Andromache had sent him slave women on a regular basis, arguing that a stormdancer and a noble of New Kyre had the right of comfort. After she had been killed, he had stopped. While he could not deny that he had enjoyed it, the experience had left him feeling cold and empty. Then he had married Thalastre, and had never thought to take another woman into his bed for as long as he lived.

  And now…

  He was acutely aware of the feel of Caina’s arm, firm and warm, against his own.

  And what should he do now?

  “You should have some breakfast,” said Kylon, handing her one of the skewers. “You always forget to eat.”

  Caina raised an eyebrow. “Do I?”

  “I’ve spent the last four months chasing shadows with you,” said Kylon. “You forget to eat. It has…it has…”

  She waited, her expression unchanging.

  Kylon sighed. “Do you mind if we speak Kyracian?”

  Caina laughed. That wasn’t fake. He felt the amusement, utterly devoid of malice, flash through her sense. “Of course not.” She switched to fluent Kyracian without missing a beat. “I should keep in practice. There is not much opportunity to use Kyracian here. Though you should still practice your Istarish.”

  “Very well,” said Kylon. “But only if you eat breakfast.”

  “Fair enough,” said Caina with another laugh. She took a bite off the skewer. “You haggle like a Kyracian merchant, though.”

  “I am Kyracian,” said Kylon. “It is in my blood.”

  “I cannot argue with that,” said Caina, taking another bite. She chewed and swallowed, her emotional sense changing. “Did you get the gold to Dio?”

  “I did,” said Kylon. “He and the Black Wolves were quite amenable to the contract. Evidently the Umbarian Order has made the eastern Empire inhospitable, so they came here in search of richer waters. He will await us with Shopur’s company tomorrow at the Bazaar of the Southern Road.”

  “Good,” said Caina. “Thank you. He never saw me without a mask, but he’s not stupid, and if he realizes who I am, he will not hesitate to turn me over to the Grand Wazir for the bounty.”

  “This Dio seems an extremely ruthless man,” said Kylon. “I would not trust him.”

  “I won’t,” said Caina, “but he is a man of his word.”

  “How did you even meet him?” said Kylon. They walked through the crowds, drawing near to a white-plastered coffee house three stories tall. The Sanctuary of the Ghosts was hidden behind it, where he had slept and recovered from his wounds the first night after he had met Caina in Istarinmul.

  “Oh, it was years ago,” she said, her eyes growing distant with memory. “In Rasadda, in the Saddaic provinces. He’d been hired to kill me, but I killed the magus who hired him, and he worked for me instead.”

  “Something of a dubious way to meet a man,” said Kylon.

  “I don’t know,” said Caina, and she grinned at him. “I met you the same way, didn’t I?”

  He laughed, surprised. “You did your best to kill me, too.” He had never thought he could laugh about anything that had happened at Marsis. Yet now here he was walking arm in arm with the woman he had tried to kill and who had tried to kill him during the battle.

  A woman with whom he was thinking about…

  About what, exactly?

  He didn’t know.

  “What is it?” said Caina.

  “Life is strange,” said Kylon in a quiet voice. “Is it not?”

  “I cannot argue with that,” she said, pulling her arm from his. “Wait here. I have some business in the coffee house, and I’ll return shortly.” She hesitated, looking up at him with those cold blue eyes, and then kissed him on the cheek again.

  Kylon blinked in surprise, both at the gesture and at the peculiar ripple in her emotional sense.

  She smiled again and headed for the coffee house’s door, disappearing inside. Kylon watched her go, and then turned his head as something cold and rigid brushed against his senses.

  Morgant the Razor strode from the crowds, stark in his black coat.

  ###

  Caina stepped into the common room of the House of Agabyzus.

  She was relieved to see that it had not changed since her last visit. Low tables dotted the room, ringed with cushions. Booths lined the walls, and tall windows looked onto the Bazaar, the shutters thrown open to admit light and the air. At this hour of the morning, the House of Agabyzus was mostly empty, save for a few merchants lingering over their coffee as they discussed business.

  Once the House had belonged to Agabyzus. After the Teskilati had taken him prisoner, his sister had inherited the business and run it ever since. At the moment, Damla stood in the center of the common room, staring at Caina in shock. She wore a widow’s black dress and headscarf, her dark eyes wide as she stared at Caina.

  “What’s wrong?” said Caina, looking around. She half-feared that she had walked into a trap, that Kindred assassins would erupt from the booths. Or had something happened to Damla’s sons? Had Ulvan decided to take vengeance upon Damla?

  “Nothing,” said Damla. “Nothing. I was just…startled, that is all. Please, let us sit and share coffee and news.”

  She led Caina to a booth with a view of the door and the windows overlooking the Bazaar, and one of Damla’s maids appeared with cups of coffee. Caina flicked a quick glance over the young woman as she propped the valikon’s bundle against the wall. The maid looked Istarish, three or four years older than Caina, with long black hair hanging in a braid beneath her headscarf, her black eyes downcast. Caina saw no sign of weapons, and as far as she could tell the woman was no threat. Yet Kalgri had disguised herself as one of Damla’s maids for months, watching Caina’s every movement, and Caina had not suspected anything until the Red Huntress had almost sent an arrow through her throa
t.

  The maid left, and Caina took a sip of coffee.

  “That’s good,” she said.

  “The beans are fresh,” said Damla. “Alas, it is growing difficult to obtain fresh coffee. There are so many rumors of bandits and brigands and rebel emirs to the south that the prices for everything keep rising. It is just as well the roads to Akasar and Istarish Cyrica are still open. I fear we might have riots otherwise.”

  “I think that things may get worse,” said Caina, “before they get better.”

  Damla nodded. She, too, was a member of Istarinmul’s Ghost circle, and her sons had almost been sent to one of Callatas’s wraithblood laboratories. Damla did not know everything, but she knew that Callatas was plotting something deadly, that his plans were the root of Istarinmul’s recent troubles.

  “Aye,” said Damla with a sigh. “But is that not always the way of things?” She took a sip of her own coffee and steeled herself. “What would you have of me?”

  “Nothing too onerous,” said Caina.

  “Your idea of onerous and mine are quite different,” said Damla. “Shall we don scandalous costumes and join a circus?”

  “To be fair,” said Caina, “the last time, during that business with the hakim of the Cyrican Bazaar, I was the one who had to wear the scandalous costume.”

  “Yes,” said Damla. “You might have a use for that costume if…” She shook her head. “You usually have a reason for coming here. Is there trouble?”

  She seemed distracted, or curious, as if there was some subject she was not quite sure how to broach. Caina decided to ferret it out later.

  “Nothing that involves you,” said Caina. “I am leaving the city for a time. If all goes well, I’ll only be gone for a few weeks, but it could be as long as two months.” She reached into her satchel and drew out an envelope. “If I haven’t returned in three months, open this and follow the directions inside.” She had given a similar note to Agabyzus. If Caina died while trying to enter the Inferno, Damla and Agabyzus would go to Martin Dorius and Claudia Aberon Dorius. Together, they would choose a new circlemaster and try to find a way to stop Callatas and his Apotheosis.