Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Annarah’s green eyes wandered over the circus wagons. “A reminder of better times.”

  “What is this?”

  A thin Nighmarian man, handsome in a gaunt sort of way, stomped towards them. He wore a brilliant red coat, red trousers tucked into gleaming black boots, and a crisp white shirt. In his right hand he held a coiled whip. “Be off with you! Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of Wonders And Marvels has claimed this spot! If you wished to be closer to the gate, then you should have arrived sooner. Be off with you, or you shall taste the lash of Vardo himself!”

  Morgant started to reach for his weapons, but Caina stepped forward and smiled. “Have you forgotten me so soon, Vardo?” She offered a theatrical sigh. “All those fine and honeyed words you offered me were just empty wind? I am saddened.”

  Vardo looked at her, and then his eyes widened. “Ciara?”

  “Then you do remember my name?” said Caina. She smiled again, reached back, and took Kylon’s hand, who looked surprised. “It is just as well I have found comfort in the arms of another.”

  Vardo offered a florid bow. “Do forgive Vardo’s grievous lapse, my lovely Szaldic rose.” He bowed again over Caina’s free hand and planted a kiss upon her knuckles. “Alas, the transcendent splendor of your beauty so overwhelmed his power of reason that Vardo could not recall your face to his mind.”

  “Eloquent,” said Morgant. “But, then, I suspect it would take very little to overwhelm your power of reason.”

  Caina could not tell if he meant to insult her or Vardo. Probably both, she decided. Fortunately, the insult had sailed right over Vardo’s head.

  “You are a lion tamer, Master Vardo?” said Nasser.

  “A lion tamer?” said Vardo, drawing himself up, Caina forgotten. “A lion tamer? My dear sir, Vardo is the master of all beasts! At the snap of his fingers, birds fall from the sky to perch upon his shoulders. At the crack of his whip, lions dance for the amusement of his audience. At the sound of his voice, wild boars march after him like Legionaries following the Emperor into battle…”

  “Did Cronmer ever buy you that elephant?” said Caina before Vardo could ramp up his monologue.

  Vardo deflated. “Alas, no, my lovely northern rose. Cronmer cited the cost of the elephant’s provender or some such rubbish. Vardo’s genius is not appreciated.”

  “Where is Cronmer?” said Caina.

  Vardo waved his coiled whip. “Somewhere towards the front. Likely preparing for the performance tonight.”

  “You’re performing tonight?” said Caina. That might be helpful.

  “Yes. Now, Vardo must commune with his beasts to prepare them for the audience.” He bowed against and walked towards a wagon containing a pair of cages. The cages housed two Anshani grass lions, the beasts watching the crowds around them with aloof indifference.

  “If birds truly land on his shoulders,” said Morgant, “they’re going to ruin that jacket.” Annarah raised a hand to her mouth to cover a laugh.

  “Come on,” said Caina. “Let’s find Cronmer.”

  She led the way through the circus’s wagons. Around them the laborers and carpenters of the circus were busy assembling sets or preparing costumes. A familiar hoarse voice rose over the mayhem, shouting imprecations and commands in Caerish.

  “No, I don’t give a damn about the color of the wheels,” said the voice. A huge titan of a man stood near one of the wagons, taller than Kylon and Nasser, his chest like a barrel despite his impressive paunch. He had gray hair and a drooping gray mustache. “We’ll worry about it once we’re in the city. Right now go find Tozun and tell him the clowns need two more inflatable bladders. They should be in the wagon with the acrobats’ costumes. Go, already!” The big man sighed and turned, and his eyes fell upon Caina.

  “Greetings again, Master Cronmer,” said Caina. “I hope you are well?”

  “Who are you?” said Cronmer. “And what do you…wait.” He blinked, and his seamed face split in a wide grin. “Well, I’ll be damned. If it isn’t Ciara! Natalia of the Nine Knives herself! Thought you’d gotten too respectable for circus work.”

  “And I thought you had left Istarinmul, Master Cronmer,” said Caina.

  “We did,” said Cronmer. “Had a good tour out in Akasar and Istarish Cyrica.” He scowled. “But, gods, the countryside has gotten dangerous. Collectors everywhere, and none of them too picky about where they find their slaves. We actually had to fight off a group of them. Then the Inferno burned, and it’s all gone to hell since. We are getting into Istarinmul, hiring a ship, and going back to the Empire. Well, the western Empire, anyway, since crazy sorcerers are ruling most of the eastern Empire now. Tiri!” He turned his head. “Tiri! Guess who just wandered into our camp.”

  A short Istarish woman of middle years emerged from one of the wagons and walked to Cronmer’s side. Cronmer towered over her, and the two of them bickered constantly. Yet they had been married for over twenty years and had six children, so clearly something had worked.

  “The Living Flame does send surprises,” said Tiri. “Ciara! I never expected to see you here. How is your sister?”

  “Married,” said Caina, “and living in Cyrioch now. My brother and I took her there with her new husband, and he stayed with Nuri.”

  “Who are your friends?” said Tiri.

  “Companions I met on the road,” said Caina. “Vitrum of Istarinmul.” Nasser offered one of his elegant bows, and Tiri smiled. “Corio of Malarae, Markaine of Caer Marist, Nadirah of Anshani, and…” She let herself stammer a little when she got to Kylon, as if nervous, and she touched his hand. “And this is Milartes of New Kyre.”

  “Ah,” said Tiri with a knowing smile. “I see. Well, a pleasure to meet you all. Will you attend our performance tonight?”

  “Performance?” said Caina. “Out here in the caravanserai?”

  “Out here in the caravanserai,” rumbled Cronmer. “It seems the Grand Wazir is terrified of rebel saboteurs making their way into the city. So the guards at the gates interrogate everyone who enters. Enough traffic passes this way that the line extends for days. Therefore the hakim of the Anshani Bazaar has commissioned the circus to perform every night until we are allowed to enter the city.” Cronmer smiled behind his bushy mustache. “It has been quite lucrative, really.”

  “About that,” said Caina. “Do you happen to have a knife-throwing act?”

  “Not at the moment,” said Cronmer. “We had a good one for a while. Unfortunately, he impregnated some minor emir’s daughter in Istarish Cyrica and had to flee for his life. Never saw him again. Hope he got away.” He shook his head. “Poor lad.”

  “He should not have seduced that foolish girl,” said Tiri.

  “I think she rather wanted to be seduced, dear.”

  “Anyway,” said Caina, before Cronmer and Tiri could start arguing, “I was wondering if I could join the circus for a few days. I’ve got to visit family in Malarae, but after traveling to Cyrioch I find myself shorter on funds than I might like.”

  “That is the trouble with funds,” said Cronmer. “They’re always too short.”

  “If you need a knife-throwing act,” said Caina, “I would be happy to help out. In exchange for a reasonable fee, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Cronmer with a snort. “Can you still throw knives?”

  “I don’t know,” said Caina. “You tell me.” She rolled her wrist, a knife sliding from its sheath and into her hand. Her fingers gripped the flat of the blade, her arm snapping back, and then she stepped forward, her arm cracking like Vardo’s whip. The blade whirled from her fingers and landed between Cronmer’s boots, quivering a little.

  Cronmer raised an eyebrow. “A few feet higher, and you’d have left my wife a very disappointed woman.”

  Caina smiled. “I wasn’t aiming for that.”

  “For which I am duly grateful,” said Cronmer. “It seems you’ve been motivated to keep in practice.”

  Caina thought of all the fights she ha
d seen since that night at Ulvan’s palace. “You’ve no idea.”

  “Pity your sister isn’t here,” said Cronmer. “Now that was a compelling show. We tied her up and you threw knives at her.” Morgant raised an eyebrow at that. “Watching a pretty woman throw knives is one thing. Watching one pretty woman throw knives at another…that gets the audience going.” He looked at Annarah. “What about you, madam? Would you like to perform?”

  “Now, now,” said Tiri. “Do not trouble the poor woman.”

  “You mean,” said Annarah in a quiet voice, “I…could be in the circus?”

  Caina looked at her. Annarah was a loremaster of Iramis, a woman who had faced tremendous dangers without flinching, and one of the most sensible and sober people that Caina had ever met. Yet for a moment, just a moment, she looked almost as excited as a child at the prospect of appearing in the Traveling Circus Of Marvels And Wonders.

  “For the gods’ sake,” muttered Morgant.

  “Certainly,” said Cronmer. “If you trust Ciara to throw knives at you and miss.” He stooped, plucked out Caina’s knife from the ground, and handed it back to her.

  “I trust her considerably more than that, sir,” said Annarah.

  “Then it’s settled,” said Cronmer. “Go talk to Tozun, and he’ll find you some costumes…”

  “It occurs to me,” said Morgant with a malicious smile, “that we can make the show even better.”

  “Oh?” said Cronmer. “And just what you know about showmanship, ah…”

  “Markaine of Caer Marist,” said Morgant. “I am a painter. And I happen to know quite a bit about showmanship. It’s not something most people understand. They don’t appreciate the artistry of it, the showmanship, the flair. Holding the attention of an audience is hard work.”

  “It is,” said Cronmer. “Not many people understand that.”

  “You have to tell a story,” said Morgant, “if you really want to hold the audience’s attention. So let’s tell a story.” He pointed at Annarah. “She’s tied up.” He pointed then at Caina. “She’s throwing knives at her.” He grinned and pointed at Kylon. “And he comes to rescue her.”

  Kylon blinked. “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” said Morgant. “You are paying attention, aren’t you?”

  “And just how I am supposed to rescue her?” said Kylon. He seemed half-amused, half-incredulous about the entire thing.

  “This man used to be a gladiator,” said Morgant.

  Cronmer grunted. “Truly?”

  Kylon grunted. “I needed the money.”

  “And when he was a gladiator,” said Morgant, “he had a useful trick. He could deflect a throwing knife with his sword.”

  “Truly?” said Cronmer again.

  “It was the damnedest thing I ever saw,” said Morgant.

  “Now this,” said Cronmer, “I have to see.”

  “What do you think?” said Caina. She had no doubt that Kylon could do it. With the sorcery of air, he moved fast enough to avoid an arrow, to say nothing of deflecting a throwing knife. And Caina had to admit it was a good idea. The more impressive the show, the easier it would be to gain Cronmer’s trust, and the more likely he would let them accompany his circus into the city.

  “Why not?” said Kylon. “I suppose it can be no harder than fighting in the gladiatorial ring.” He looked around, and then pointed at a covered wagon with blue-painted walls. “I’ll stand there. If you miss, the knife will hit the wall and won’t hurt anyone.”

  “Miss?” said Caina, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well, you are throwing knives at him,” said Morgant. “I expect he would prefer that you miss.”

  She was briefly tempted to throw a knife at him, just to see how he would react, but pushed aside the thought. Kylon turned before the blue wagon and drew the valikon over his shoulder, the blade flashing in the noon sunlight.

  Cronmer whistled. “Hell of a fancy sword, son.”

  “I used it in gladiatorial matches,” said Kylon. “It’s just a layer of chrome over the steel. The crowds loved it, especially when it could catch the sunlight after a victory.”

  He was getting better at lying. It was, Caina reflected, probably her influence.

  “Ready?” said Caina.

  Kylon nodded, and she saw the shimmer of silvery-blue light around him as he drew upon the sorcery of air, the light mingling with the valikon’s furious white aura. Caina closed her eyes, concentrating her mind, and found that she could still see the silvery-blue glow even with her eyes closed.

  It was a damned peculiar sensation.

  She opened her eyes. “Ready?”

  Kylon nodded, both his hands on the valikon’s hilt.

  Caina drew back her arm and flung the knife. Her throw was perfect, and for a horrible moment she was afraid that it had been too good, that the blade would strike Kylon in the throat. Her throw had been perfect, but Kylon was just as good. The valikon snapped up, and Caina’s knife rebounded from the ancient weapon with a clang.

  Cronmer grinned and clapped. “Well done! They’ll pay extra to see that!”

  Tiri frowned. “It might have been a fluke, though.”

  “Watch this, then,” said Caina, rolling her wrist again.

  She flung three more knives at Kylon, and every time he deflected them, the valikon blurring back and forth as the blades rebounded from the sword.

  “Now that,” said Cronmer, “is a neat trick. Where did you learn to do that?”

  Kylon shrugged. “I had good teachers.”

  “I’ll say.” Cronmer stooped, collected Caina’s knives, and handed them back to her. “Well, you’re hired. Now, as for the matter of payment…”

  After that, it was all over but the haggling.

  “Well done,” murmured Nasser after Cronmer and Tiri went to attend to some other crisis. “Well done, indeed. If we are seen to be part of the circus, we shall have no trouble gaining entry to Istarinmul.”

  “Circus performers are above suspicion in Istarinmul?” said Laertes.

  “Beneath it, rather,” said Nasser. “Rather like gladiators, slaves, and servants. The wealthy and the powerful tend to overlook them. It is why the Ghosts often recruit informants from their ranks.”

  “It is,” said Caina. “Let’s hope it works this time. Annarah, come with me. We should find Tozun and have him get some costumes for us.”

  “Costumes?” said Annarah.

  “Yes,” said Caina. She hesitated. “I probably should have mentioned that.”

  Chapter 12: Paid As Traitors Deserve

  “Lord Cassander,” said the Collector at the gate. “Welcome. You do the Brotherhood great honor by coming here.”

  “I assure you,” lied Cassander, “the honor is entirely mine.”

  He stood at the gates of the Brotherhood’s private dock, flanked by a half-dozen Adamant Guards, Kalgri silent at his side. He had to admit that the Brotherhood’s private dock made for a formidable fortress. A thick stone wall topped with iron spikes surrounded the entire complex, and beyond rose a mansion crowned with a five-story tower, the windows high and narrow enough to serve as arrow slits. Eight private quays jutted into the water, and here the ships of the Brotherhood came to unload their fresh cargoes of captives harvested around the world. A faint stench hung over the complex, a mixture of sweat and excrement and old blood and despair.

  The smell of the thousands upon thousands of slaves who had passed through this place over the centuries.

  “This way, Lord Cassander,” said the Collector, gesturing to the mansion. “The cowled masters await you and your…ah, companion in the dining hall.”

  Kalgri said nothing as she looked at the Collector with cold blue eyes. She wore her crimson armor, though not the shadow-cloak or the steel mask. The Collector was perceptive enough to recognize the danger, and he looked away as he swallowed.

  They walked across the courtyard. It looked a great deal like a cattle stockyard, with pens lining the walls, though very few stock
yards had yards upon yards of iron chains and shackles pinned to the walls, or steel cages to hold the more valuable slaves. Cassander glanced back as the gate swung shut with a metallic clang, the Collectors returning to their guard posts.

  He could not see the twenty Silent Hunters who had followed him into the courtyard, but that was unimportant. They had their tasks. The compound had only one gate, but there were men at the docks, and some of them might have the wit to take boats and escape into the Cyrican harbor.

  Cassander’s plan required that no one leave the compound.

  Two more Collectors stood guard at the double doors to the mansion, and they bowed and opened the doors. Cassander strode past them without looking. Inside the dining hall of the cowled masters was decorated to the point of comical ostentation. A gleaming mosaic of wilderness scenes clicked beneath Cassander’s boots. Ornate frescoes covered the walls, showing the triumphs of the cowled masters. One fresco displayed field slaves toiling under the supervision of the cowled masters, raising grain to feed Istarinmul. Another showed gladiators training in the Arena of Padishahs. A third showed a beautiful woman standing naked upon an auction block, emirs bidding upon her. A long table of gleaming wood stretched the length of the hall, covered with polished plates and glasses of delicate crystal.

  The cowled masters of the Brotherhood of Slavers sat at the table, each one of them clad in their ceremonial garb of mantles and cowls of black leather. The garments looked hideously uncomfortable, and unlike Cassander’s coat, had not been enspelled to deflect weapons.

  “Masters of the Brotherhood,” announced the Collector, “I present Lord Cassander of the Umbarian Order.”

  He bowed and withdrew, closing the doors behind him, and as one the cowled masters rose to their feet and applauded.

  “Three cheers!” said one of the cowled masters, an old, paunchy man named Kazyan. “Three cheers for the man who slew the Balarigar!” If Cassander remembered right, Caina had robbed Kazyan, drugged him, and sent him naked onto the sands of the Ring of Thorns. Kazyan had been a laughingstock for months after, and poets had even composed ballads about his humiliation, despite Kazyan’s vigorous efforts to prosecute anyone caught reciting such libelous poems.