Ghost in the Maze

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Steel flashed, and Caina threw herself to the side. A dagger blurred past her face, and her attacker’s forearm smacked against her temple. She struck the roof and rolled, coming back to her feet, her head ringing from the blow as she yanked the daggers from her boots.

  Anburj stalked towards her, scimitar and dagger ready, and Caina whispered a curse behind her mask. He had been clever enough to anticipate that she would go to Vaysaal’s palace, and he had been smart enough to guess that she would try to escape over the rooftops. Caina was not sure she could defeat him. She could handle herself in a fight, but she preferred to attack from the shadows. Anburj was a Kindred assassin, and far stronger than she was. For that matter, he didn’t need to fight her. He only needed to hold her at bay until the Immortals arrived.

  Already she heard the clanking of armor as the Immortals began climbing the walls.

  Anburj glided towards her with the deadly grace of a hunting predator. There were no taunting words, no questions, and his black eyes were hard and cold. He meant to take her alive, or barring that, simply to kill her and present her head to his master.

  So Caina ran.

  She sprinted for the edge of the roof, and Anburj pursued. Caina reached the edge just as an Immortal pulled himself up, grunting with the effort, and reached for her ankle. Caina responded by stomping on his face and jumping over the alley to the next building. Anburj leapt over the alley with ease, and Caina kept running. Below she heard the clatter of armor as the Immortals pursued, running through the streets to keep her in sight.

  Caina kept running, jumping from roof to roof, but a cold inevitability began to close around her heart. Perhaps she had finally taken too great of a risk, had gambled too much, and now would pay the price. She wished she had found the truth of the Apotheosis. Caina resolved then not to let Anburj take her alive. If Caina was killed before any of her secrets were tortured from her, Damla and her sons would be safe. And Agabyzus was still free, and could continue the work of the Ghosts after she was dead.

  She ran across the roof of a wine shop, Anburj and a half-dozen Immortals in pursuit, and saw the opened window. It was across the alley, in the top floor of the neighboring house. Likely the owner of the house had left the shutters open to cool off after the heat of the day, confident that no one would try to enter a third-story window.

  Perhaps Caina could use it to put some distance between her and Anburj.

  She jumped across the alley and landed on the house’s roof, her legs flexing to absorb the impact. Then she whirled to face her pursuers, as if she had determined to make a last stand here. Anburj grinned and jumped, and the Immortals followed suit, fanning across the roof to encircle her.

  Caina sidestepped off the roof and twisted, grabbing the windowsill as she fell. She heaved herself over the windowsill and landed in an empty, dusty room. Perhaps this floor of the building was unused. She turned to close the shutters and bar them before Anburj and his men followed…

  A hand reached out and slammed the shutters shut, a bar dropping into place.

  Caina jumped back, daggers raised, as a man stepped out of the shadows.

  He was in his late thirties or early forties, of Istarish or Anshani birth with brown skin. His head had been shaved, and the trimmed lines of a black beard encircled his lips and edged his chin. He wore a loose black shirt tucked into black pants, a scimitar hanging from his belt. A black leather glove and bracer covered his left hand and forearm, and Caina felt a faint aura of sorcery from his hand.

  “Good evening,” said the man, a white smile flashing in his dark face. His voice was a deep, sonorous vibration, the sort of voice made for mighty orations. “I am pleased you chose to answer my humble invitation.” He tapped the shutters. “And that you elected not to kill me on sight. I do so abhor bloodshed before breakfast.”

  Caina opened her mouth to speak.

  “To forestall what shall be an inevitably tedious line of conversation,” said the man, turning towards the door, “first, I mean you no ill will, second, I know that you are the Balarigar, and third, you may address me as Ibrahaim for now, though proper introductions can follow if we live long enough. If you wish to fulfill your death wish at the hands of the Immortals, I shall not stop you, but I would prefer not to die here. We really ought to go.”

  Caina hesitated for a few heartbeats. She had never seen this man before, but he clearly knew of Balarigar. Not that it meant anything, since all of Istarinmul had heard of the Balarigar. Yet Ibrahaim had known to find her here. If he had meant her harm, he could simply have let Anburj kill her.

  The shutters thumped from a blow. The Immortals were trying to get into the house, and likely Anburj had dispatched men to the door.

  “Very well,” said Caina in her disguised voice.

  Ibrahaim grinned. “Let’s run.”

  He dashed from the room, and Caina followed. The door opened into a deserted corridor, and Ibrahaim raced down the stairs. Crashes echoed through the house as the Immortals took axes to the front door. Ibrahaim veered left, making for the kitchen and the back door.

  “There will be Immortals in the alley,” said Caina.

  “But most of them shall be at the front door,” said Ibrahaim. “We will have to fight. Prepare yourself!”

  Caina opened her mouth to ask how he intended to fight his way through the Immortals, but by then Ibrahaim had thrown open the door and dashed into the alley.

  And just as she had suspected, four Immortals awaited them, axes in hand as they prepared to hack down the back door. For just a heartbeat the Immortals stared at them, caught by surprise, but then raised their axes.

  And in that heartbeat, Ibrahaim moved.

  His scimitar seemed to jump from its scabbard and into his right hand, and he moved in a blur, his blade plunging into the armpit of an Immortal. The man fell, blood streaming down his black cuirass. One of the Immortals reacted faster, slashing at Ibrahaim with the axe. He dodged, his scimitar snapping left to deflect another Immortal’s thrust.

  And then he punched the Immortal in the face with his black-gloved left fist.

  It was one of the stupidest things Caina had ever seen. The Immortals’ skull masks were steel plate, reinforced and anchored to their helmets. There was no way a punch could harm them, let alone even stagger them. She expected to hear the bones of Ibrahaim’s hand shattering.

  Instead the skull mask crumpled like paper, accompanied by a loud clang and the hideous crunching noise of a collapsing skull. The Immortal fell, blood and brains leaking from the ruined mask as Ibrahaim ripped his fist free to face the remaining two Immortals.

  Caina gaped in astonishment for just a second, and then sprang into motion.

  Both Immortals faced Ibrahaim, their attention upon him, which made it easy for Caina to step behind the nearest man and drive her dagger into his back of his knee. The Immortals’ armored boots protected their feet and calves and the front of their knees, but not the back. The Immortal bellowed in fury as Caina yanked her dagger free and spun to face her, but his maimed knee would not support his weight, and his leg buckled. The Immortal fell with a snarl of pain, and Caina drove her bloody dagger into the right eye of his skull mask. She felt the blade sink deep. The Immortal went rigid, the axe falling from his hand, and fell upon his face with a clatter.

  Caina stepped away from the corpse, intending to aid Ibrahaim, but he had already dispatched the final Immortal.

  “You are finished already?” said Ibrahaim, shaking a few drops of blood from his scimitar’s blade. “Capital. I suggest we hasten. Please follow me.”

  He returned his weapon to its scabbard and ran into the alley, and Caina could think of nothing better to do than to follow him. Ibrahaim led her through the maze of alleys behind the shops of the Alchemists’ Quarter. They were cleaner and tidier than the alleys of the Alqaarin Quarter and the Anshani Quarter, but were nonetheless still a maze. At last Ibrahaim stopped before a narrow door and rapped out a specific series of knocks.


  He used his right hand, she noted. His left remained a fist at his side. He had not opened it for the entire time Caina had seen him. Perhaps he had lost his hand, and replaced it with a block of stone or steel, something that could smash through the armored helmet of an Immortal. Though he would have to be strong, tremendously strong, to pull that off, and his left arm looked no larger than his right.

  The door swung open, interrupting Caina’s thoughts.

  A man with a crossbow stood beyond the door. He was in his early fifties, and had the look of a Nighmarian commoner and the grim face, muscled arms, and upright stance of a veteran of the Emperor’s Legions. His gray hair had been cut down to bristle, and he wore a short-sleeved tunic, trousers, and heavy boots, a broadsword waiting in a scabbard at his belt. The Legion tattoo visible upon his right bicep confirmed Caina’s guess.

  “Ibrahaim Nasser,” grunted the man, his Istarish carrying a heavy Nighmarian accent. “You’re early.”

  Nasser? Caina had heard that name before. But where?

  “Punctuality is ever a virtue,” said Nasser.

  “That’s him?” said the veteran.

  “The Balarigar himself,” said Nasser. “This is Laertes, my business associate and a most reliable man.”

  Laertes grunted. “He’s shorter than I expected.”

  “Most figures of legend are,” said Nasser.

  “I suggest we move off the street,” said Caina, hearing the clatter of armor and the shouts of the pursuing Immortals.

  “An excellent idea,” said Nasser, and they stepped through the door. Laertes closed it behind them with one hand, the other cradling his crossbow. Caina watched both Laertes and Nasser for any sign of treachery, but neither man attacked her. She did not know their intentions, and they might well have lured her here to claim the bounty for themselves.

  On the other hand, they hadn’t tried to kill her yet, and the Immortals surely would.

  “We are trapped here,” said Caina, “and once they find the dead Immortals, they’ll start searching every house in the Quarter.”

  “You are correct,” said Nasser. “Fortunately, this building has a convenient outlet to the sewers. If you do not mind the smell, we can use the tunnels to escape the Alchemists’ Quarter by the time the Immortals search this building. Then we can have a civilized conversation in a more pleasant environment.”

  “And why,” said Caina, “do you think we want to have a conversation?”

  Again that smile flashed over Nasser’s face, his dark eyes glinting. “Oh, we want to have a conversation, Balarigar. Fear not – I have no wish to collect the impressive bounty upon your head. But I suspect we want many of the same things, and may help each other to claim them.”

  His eyes strayed to the bronze ring upon her finger as he spoke.

  She did not trust him, not even a little.

  But it was not as if Caina had a better option.

  “Lead on,” she said.

  Nasser grinned. “A fine decision. Come along, Laertes.”

  Chapter 4 - Glasshand

  It was past midnight by the time they reached Nasser’s bolt hole in the Anshani Quarter.

  To Caina’s surprise, Istarinmul’s subterranean sewers were as efficient and as effective as the sewers beneath the great cities of the Empire. Unfortunately, that meant the tunnels smelled vile, and her mask did little to filter out the hideous stink. Fortunately, Laertes and Nasser knew their way through the maze, and had taken the precaution of preparing hooded lanterns, lest an open flame ignite the vile gases filling the sewer.

  And as they walked, Caina realized where she had felt an aura similar to the one surrounding Nasser’s left hand.

  It had been during her first week in Istarinmul, at the festivities surrounding Ulvan’s ascension to the ranks of the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. Grand Master Callatas himself had attended the ceremony, and had worn a strange jewel around his neck, a lump of glowing blue crystal the size of a fist. The thing had radiated immense arcane power.

  She felt a similar, though weaker, aura from Nasser’s gloved hand.

  He carried the lantern with his right hand, she noted, and his left hand never relaxed its fist.

  They emerged from the sewers and into the towering, cramped tenements of the Anshani Quarter. Nasser led the way to a hulking tenement, descended a flight of stairs, and opened a door to a cellar apartment. A ring of cushions surrounded a low table, and a small closet contained a variety of wooden chests. The only light came from a dim lantern upon the table. It reminded Caina of the apartment where Corvalis had hidden Claudia in Cyrioch, the apartment where he had nearly died from the poison on Sicarion’s weapons.

  She could not afford to think about him now.

  Caina suspected she would need all her wits to deal with Ibrahaim Nasser.

  “I thought you promised a more pleasant environment,” said Caina.

  “Well, it is not much,” said Nasser, seating himself on one of the cushions, “but compared to the sewers, it is a palace.” Again that mocking smile reappeared. “And better than a cell beneath the College of Alchemists, no? Please, be seated and take your ease.”

  Caina sat cross-legged on a cushion opposite Nasser, keeping her weapons near at hand. Laertes went to the closet and began rummaging through the chests. He produced plates and loaded them with jerky and slices of cheese, and then filled three cups with mixed wine. He placed the plates and the cups upon the round table and then seated himself.

  “Eat, I urge you,” said Nasser, lifting one of the cups. “After your exertions you must be ravenous.”

  “And if I eat,” said Caina, “I’ll have to remove my mask.”

  Nasser offered a lazy shrug. “I imagine it would make eating easier.”

  “And if I refuse?” said Caina, watching Laertes. The Legion veteran sat motionless, his face giving away nothing. He reminded Caina somewhat of Ark, the former centurion of the Eighteenth Legion who had become a Ghost and then the owner of Malarae’s most prosperous foundry. Ark loved his wife and children, but he was capable of killing without hesitation or mercy.

  Laertes might do the same.

  “Then you may go, and we will not hinder you,” said Nasser. He took a sip of his wine, scowled at it, and shook his head. “Ever since Iramis burned, Istarish wine has never been the same. But that is not your concern. Go, and there will be no ill will between us.” He leaned forward, his smile glinting in the dim light. “But I think that would be a poor decision.”

  “Oh?” said Caina. “Just why is that?”

  “Because you are alone,” said Nasser, “and in dire need of allies.”

  Caina said nothing.

  “The Teskilati and Callatas might think you part of a grand conspiracy,” said Nasser, “but you and I know better, do we not?”

  “And how do you know that?” said Caina.

  “Because you went into Vaysaal’s palace alone,” said Nasser, “and you would not have done that unless you had help.” He set his wine cup upon the table. “I have been observing your exploits with great interest, Balarigar. Robbing the master slavers? Burning the Widow’s Tower to ash? Clearly you are a man of great intellect, cunning, and boldness. But you are just one man.”

  “You,” said Caina, “could not be more wrong.”

  “I suspect not,” said Nasser. “You have gained some potent foes, Balarigar, and you are in sore need of allies. I very much believe we can be allies, for I suspect that we have the same goals.”

  Caina said nothing. Nasser’s words were closer to the truth than he knew. She was the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, but at the moment the Ghost circle of Istarinmul consisted of Caina, a woman who owned a coffee shop, and a man left physically damaged from a year of torture in the Widow’s Tower. And Caina was attempting to learn the secrets of the most powerful and dangerous sorcerer in Istarinmul. She badly needed allies, strong allies.

  And if Ibrahaim Nasser was the man she suspected him to be, he c
ould be a useful ally.

  But if she was wrong…

  Well, at this point, what was one more risk?

  “That cheese does look good,” said Caina. Laertes snorted and popped a piece of the cheese into his mouth. She reached up, drew back her cowl, and tugged off her mask. Just as well she had kept the makeup on her face. That and her short hair would help her to pass as a man.

  Laertes snorted. “A Nighmarian nobleman?”

  Caina grunted, discarding her rasping snarl of a voice for a gruff, clipped tone. “What makes you say that?”

  Laertes blinked. “Your voice…how did you do that? It just changed.”

  Nasser laughed. “A useful skill for a thief and a spy, wouldn’t you say, my good centurion?”

  “You look like a Nighmarian nobleman,” said Laertes.

  “With blue eyes?” said Nasser. “I would say he looks more Szaldic.”

  Caina sighed and took a sip of the bitter Istarish wine. “If you must know, my father was a magistrate high in the Emperor’s favor who took a Szaldic mistress. Once he learned that she was pregnant, he cast her aside, and my mother raised me upon the streets of Malarae. She died when I was seven, and I have stolen for my bread ever since.”

  Laertes grunted and ate some more cheese.

  “A fine tale,” said Nasser, “but utterly false, I am afraid.”

  “Why is that?” said Caina.

  “Common thieves, no matter how bold,” said Nasser, gesturing at her cushion, “tend not to go about their business with Ghost shadow-cloaks.”

  “Perhaps I stole it,” said Caina.

  “The Ghosts of the Emperor of Nighmar,” said Nasser, “tend to take a dim view of those who steal from their brotherhood.”

  “Then you think I am a Ghost nightfighter?” said Caina.

  “I suspect as much,” said Nasser. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I suspect,” said Caina, setting down her wine cup, “that you are Nasser Glasshand.”