“I have no wish to control the elementals,” said Cassander. “A simple warding circle will suffice to keep them at bay. The ifriti will turn their rage against everything else in their path, and I shall stand within the circle and watch Istarinmul burn. And you are quite correct that Callatas will retaliate as soon as he realizes what is happening. Likely he will blast the embassy to rubble. Which is why, of course, the Throne will not be in the embassy.”
“Where, then?” said Kalgri.
“The Brotherhood of Slavers has a fortified compound on in the Cyrican docks, on the other side of the city,” said Cassander. “I think it is about time someone put that to better use, do you not?”
Kalgri laughed again. “And the fact that the Brotherhood has so loyally supported Callatas and Erghulan has nothing to do with it?”
“In the final moments of their lives,” said Cassander, “in the very last instant before the flames consume their flesh, I like to think that both Callatas and Erghulan will reflect that they should not have opposed the Umbarian Order. Perhaps other lords and princes will take the lesson to heart.”
“Or you’ll have to kill them, too,” said Kalgri.
“I do not think that would disappoint you,” said Cassander. “What do you think, Red Huntress? Shall you watch Istarinmul burn? Or shall you run to Callatas to stop me?”
He watched her, a dozen different spells ready at the forefront of his thoughts. She might well decide to reveal his plan to Callatas, which meant he would have to kill her. On the other hand, she had made it clear she had no loyalty to anyone or anything except her own lust for slaughter.
The gauntlet on his right hand rasped as he opened and closed the fingers.
Kalgri glanced at the gauntlet, a smile flickering over her lips. Likely she knew everything he had just thought.
“If Callatas wanted to stop you,” said Kalgri, “he should have done so himself.”
Cassander inclined his head. “I am so glad you see things my way.”
“I imagine the Brotherhood of Slavers will disapprove of your plan,” said Kalgri.
“Their approval is of no consequence,” said Cassander, “as they will soon cease to exist. Do you care to assist me?”
Kalgri’s smile widened, her eyes flashing with purple fire. “It shall be enjoyable.”
###
The Voice hissed and murmured in Kalgri’s thoughts as Cassander called his Adamant Guards, gathering them for the attack upon the Brotherhood’s compound. The nagataaru was restless. It did not approve of Kalgri’s delay in answering Callatas’s summons, and it wanted her to return to Callatas and tell him that the Staff and the Seal had been found. Or, barring that, it wanted her to hunt down Caina Amalas and Nasser Glasshand and take the Staff and Seal from them.
Kalgri thought that a bad idea. For one thing, Kylon of House Kardamnos still had a valikon. The closest Kalgri had ever come to death had been when facing opponents armed with that damned sword, and the recollection alone was enough to still some of the Voice’s hissing complaints.
Until she was ready, until she was absolutely ready, she did not want to confront Caina and her allies again.
Besides, she knew where Caina was going. The Balarigar and her allies would try to take the relics to Catekharon, and they would return to Istarinmul to hire a ship. All Kalgri had to do was wait, and Caina and the relics would come to her.
Unless she timed it right…
Kalgri smiled behind her steel mask.
If she timed it right, Caina and her allies would be in Istarinmul when Cassander destroyed the city.
That would rather neatly take care of the problem. Kalgri wanted to kill Caina herself, but watching the Balarigar burn with the rest of Istarinmul would be almost as satisfactory.
Assuming Cassander could pull it off.
She watched as Cassander gave orders to his men, preparing for a stealthy assault upon the Brotherhood compound. Kalgri cared nothing for the Brotherhood of Slavers, and would rather enjoy watching the expressions on the smug faces of the cowled masters as they realized that death had come for them.
Yet she was also certain Cassander was no longer sane.
His newfound bloodlust proved that. Not that Kalgri objected to bloodlust. Yet when bloodlust overrode caution, that might prove a problem. Kalgri had not survived for over a century and a half by allowing her lust for killing to overrule her thinking. That had saved her life in Rumarah. Cassander had strode boldly into the Corsair’s Rest, certain of his inevitable triumph. Kalgri’s instincts had screamed a warning, and so she had fled a moment before the silver fire of uncontrolled Elixir Restorata had devoured the building.
She tapped the ghostsilver dagger at her belt, thinking. Cassander had given the blade back to her after his failed audience with Erghulan, having no further use for the shadow-cloak or the dagger. Kalgri had not yet told him that Caina Amalas lived.
She would not. Not yet, anyway. Not until it gave her the greatest advantage.
Not until telling Cassander would kill as many people as possible.
Kalgri shivered a little with anticipation at the thought of all those deaths.
Again her thoughts turned to the brass compass with the ghostsilver needle.
Kalgri was not certain, but she thought she could find Caina Amalas anytime she wished.
And when she did…
Perhaps Cassander and Caina could kill each other then.
Chapter 10: A Sword Is Not Enough
Kylon needed to practice his sword work against someone.
He had practiced the sword almost every day for as long as he could remember, almost since he had been old enough to walk. Kylon had trained under the finest stormdancers and swordsmen of New Kyre, and as he had approached manhood he had put that training to use, first aboard the ships of the Kyracian fleet, and then against the Empire in the war that Andromache and Rezir Shahan started.
Then the Red Huntress murdered his wife, and Kylon had fought for coin the gladiatorial arenas of Anshan and Istarinmul. Now he found himself in a different kind of a war, a war of spies and shadows and spirits and sorcerers. But a war was still a war, and he needed to keep his reflexes fresh. So he practiced with the valikon whenever the chance presented, but practicing by himself only did so much.
Kylon needed someone against whom he could spar.
Laertes would have done it, but the veteran centurion fought like a veteran centurion. He was formidable, but Kylon had killed men like him by the dozens during the war against the Empire. Morgant refused, which was just as well. Kylon wasn’t sure what the valikon would do against Morgant’s enspelled dagger, and both weapons were too valuable to risk in pointless experimentation.
For that matter, Kylon could tell that both Laertes and Morgant regarded sword work as a tool, something to be used and maintained, rather than mastered for its own sake.
Fortunately, Nasser had a love of swordplay for its own sake just as Kylon did, and he was one of the more formidable swordsmen that Kylon had seen. As the sun rose, they strode a hundred yards from the camp and dueled in the dim dawn light.
The valikon clanged against Nasser’s Anshani scimitar, ghostsilver scraping against the fine steel. Nasser stepped back, cat-quick, his left arm folded behind his back, his right extended as his curved blade flickered back and forth, picking off the thrusts of Kylon’s valikon. It was an admirable defensive posture, Kylon had to admit. If he took the valikon’s hilt in two hands and tried to batter down Nasser’s defense, it gave Nasser more than enough time to skewer him. In a real fight, Kylon could have used the sorcery of air to propel himself faster than Nasser could react. In a sparring match, Kylon used only his own strength and speed. He did not want to grow reliant upon sorcery. He had seen the clever tricks someone like Caina could employ against a sorcerer who grew too dependent upon his spells, and he did not want to share that fate. Sicarion had been able to block Kylon’s power, forcing him to rely upon his native skill, and Kylon never knew when
he might encounter a sorcerer with similar power.
Besides, it would be unsporting to use his power in a sparring match. And if he did, Nasser might feel obligated to club him to death with his crystalline left hand.
“I note,” said Nasser, circling around Kylon, “that the technique of Kyracian swordsmanship has not changed greatly since my day.”
“Your day?” said Kylon. “If you’ve been alive for nearly two hundred years, you’ve seen quite a lot of days.” He followed Nasser’s circling movement, trying to move on Nasser’s left side. Nasser was too fleet-footed for the movement to work, though, and he kept his right side facing Kylon.
“Alas, I should have been dead for a hundred and fifty of those years,” said Nasser, “so my day was when Iramis still stood in the Desert of Candles.” Kylon attacked again with a flurry of thrusts, and again Nasser retreated, flicking his scimitar back and forth to deflect the blows.
“Then you met stormdancers from that era?” said Kylon. “The final days of the Fourth Empire?” He launched another pair of thrusts, gauging Nasser’s reaction time.
“Indeed,” said Nasser, snapping his scimitar back up to guard position. “It was a most unsettled time. The Fourth Empire had split into three factions – the Magisterium, the loyalist magi, and the Emperor himself. Iramis kept itself neutral in the conflict, but all three factions tried to enlist the aid of the Istarish and your ancestors, and Istarinmul and New Kyre allied itself with one or another faction at various times. Therefore many Kyracian ships came to the harbor of Iramis, and I had the opportunity to speak with numerous Kyracian stormdancers.” The white smile flashed across his dark face. “Perhaps I knew one of your ancestors and knew it not.”
“A small world,” said Kylon. He thrust again, and once more Nasser deflected the strike.
“Surprisingly so, at times,” said Nasser. “At any rate, most of the magi of the Magisterium destroyed themselves at Caer Magia in the final year before Callatas burned Iramis. That put an end to the civil war within the Empire, and the remaining magi swore fealty to the Magisterium and the Emperor. The Fourth Empire ended, and the Fifth Empire began.”
“It is strange to think that Caer Magia was living history to you,” said Kylon. Once again he attacked, and again Nasser deflected it. “When I saw it, the place was a ruin, haunted by the shadows of those killed in the Magisterium’s folly.”
Nasser raised his eyebrows. “You have seen Caer Magia, then?”
“About four years ago,” said Kylon. “Before the Empire’s war against New Kyre ended.”
“I assume this was one of your past excursions with Caina?” said Nasser.
“I…ah,” said Kylon, and he smiled despite himself. “That’s for her to tell, not me.” Ever since Nasser had realized that Caina was a woman, he had been making polite and discreet inquiries about her past to Kylon. He could see why Caina had always gotten on so well with the last Prince of Iramis. Beneath Nasser’s genial charm, he had the same sort of cold, analytical mind as Caina…complete with the same insatiable curiosity.
The downside of that was the constant polite questions about Caina’s past.
“Commendably loyal,” said Nasser, deflecting another thrust.
“Well,” said Kylon, “both of you are always talking about how secrets are another form of armor. I’m not going to give away her armor.”
Nasser laughed. “Are you saying that we have become repetitive? Much like your attacks, I imagine…”
Kylon thrust again, but this time as Nasser deflected the blow, Kylon surged forward, both hands clamping around the valikon’s hilt. He rolled his wrists, snapping the blade up, and Nasser jerked back, getting his sword up in guard. Kylon had the momentum, and he attacked, hammering the valikon down with rapid, shallow two-handed swings. Nasser retreated, unable to deflect the swings one-handed, and finally had to rotate his body, getting both hands around the hilt of his scimitar. Kylon struck once, twice, three times, and Nasser caught the swings on the flat of his blade. On the third attack Nasser twisted his sword, and the valikon skidded down the scimitar’s curved blade. Kylon lost his momentum and stepped back, raising the valikon in a defensive posture.
“That,” said Nasser, “was unexpected. Rather like Caina being a woman, in fact.”
“She fooled you that profoundly?” said Kylon.
“Profoundly and completely,” said Nasser. “Which is remarkable. If I may be candid, she a lovely young woman, but she disappeared into the role of ‘Ciaran’ the Ghost. Had she less of a strong sense of purpose, she would have been a superb actress or one of the greatest swindlers of our age.” He laughed. “I do not like to admit when I have been fooled, but fooled I was.”
“She’s good at that,” said Kylon.
“Did she really try to kill you the first day you met?” said Nasser.
He swept the scimitar into a flourishing, spinning two-handed attack, raining blows on Kylon from a half-dozen different angles. Kylon retreated, using the valikon to parry. The scimitar’s curved blade let Nasser alter the angle of his attack at the last instant, and it took every bit of Kylon’s skill and attention to block them.
At last Nasser’s momentum played out, and Kylon moved out of reach, hoping to use his valikon’s longer blade.
“Perhaps,” said Kylon.
“Your discretion is commendable, but unnecessary in this matter,” said Nasser. “She already mentioned that you met during the battle of Marsis a few years past.”
Kylon sighed. “Fine.” He took a looping swing with the valikon, forcing Nasser back a step. “We captured her in the initial attack. She outwitted Rezir Shahan and got away from him, and my sister sent me to chase her down. First she pushed a stack of crates filled with pottery onto me. Nearly crushed me to a pulp. Then she tricked me into a house and almost burned it down on top of my head. When I found her again, she lured me into a puddle.”
“A puddle?” said Nasser, blinking in surprise. The surprise was not enough to hold him in place when Kylon attacked.
“A puddle,” said Kylon. “I had a sword of storm-forged steel, strong enough to withstand a freezing aura. She lured me into the water, and it froze around my feet long enough for her to get a dagger at my throat and my sword at hers. And that was how I met Caina Amalas.”
“Truly,” said Nasser, “it is remarkable that you are both still alive.”
“I cannot argue,” said Kylon. Sometimes he had wondered what would have happened if he had killed her in Marsis. It would have been a catastrophe. Rhames would have unleashed the Ascendant Bloodcrystal in the ruins of Caer Magia, or the Moroaica would have destroyed the world. And now that Kylon had taken her into his bed and his heart, the question grew all the sharper.
“Though the tale is almost…operatic, really,” said Nasser. “I have heard songs of women one might wish to kill or to bed at differing times, but it seems you have met one in truth.”
“I never thought I would bed her,” said Kylon, watching Nasser’s scimitar. “I never thought I would be here in Istarinmul.”
“Neither did I,” said Nasser. He feinted, sidestepped, and swept his scimitar around in a sideways blow. Kylon parried and shoved, using the motion to push himself out of Nasser’s reach. “But no one can see the future. Not even the Balarigar.”
“She was convinced she would die on the journey to Pyramid Isle,” said Kylon.
“She almost did,” said Nasser.
“Some oracle or prophet put the idea in her head,” said Kylon. “If I ever meet the man, I might beat some sense into his head.”
“She would have died,” said Nasser, “but you averted that fate.”
Kylon shook his head. “If I had paid better attention, it would not have come to that. And Samnirdamnus saved her, not me.”
Nasser snorted. “The spirit accomplished little without help. The djinni might have provided you with the tools to save her, but you were the one to use them. Do not rebuke yourself, Kylon of House Kardamnos.”
“I would disagree,” said Kylon.
“And that,” said Nasser, “is why you have done nothing to rebuke yourself with.”
Kylon opened his mouth to argue, and then a hoarse voice rolled out from the camp
“You two!” Morgant’s voice echoed over the grasses. “Are you going to play at swords all day? We have work to do!”
Kylon glanced back at the camp and saw that the others were awake. Laertes and Caina were tending to the horses, while Annarah occupied herself starting the fire and making breakfast.
“Stalemate again,” said Kylon.
Nasser shrugged and sheathed his scimitar, and Kylon returned the valikon to its scabbard. “I suspected if we fought in earnest, it would be a very short affair. Either you would overwhelm me with a burst of speed…”
“Or you would cave in my skull with that glass fist of yours,” said Kylon. He had seen Nasser punch his left hand through an Immortal’s helmet without slowing down. “Does it hurt when you do that?”
Nasser grimaced and flexed his gloved fingers. “It is, in point of fact, quite excruciatingly painful. The point where the crystal touches the living flesh of my arm feels as if it had been infected. Yet I have had a hundred and fifty years to get used to the sensation. And it has certain other advantages.”
“It won’t let you die, for one,” said Kylon. “Caina told me the Huntress shot you through the chest at Silent Ash Temple.”
“I cannot recommend the experience,” said Nasser as they started back to the camp.
Kylon frowned. “So what would happen if someone cut off your left hand?”
Nasser laughed. “I confess, I do not know. I haven’t been eager to attempt the experiment.”
They walked back to the camp. Nasser went to help Laertes load the horses. Kylon started to go after him, but Caina reached him first. She was wearing her caravan guard clothes, but her black hair hung loose about her face, swaying in the hot wind that blew across the steppes.
“Here,” she said, handing him one of the biscuits. “Breakfast.”
Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) Page 15