Ghost in the Maze

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Laertes raised an eyebrow as he chewed, and a small smile played over Nasser’s bearded lips.

  “The man known as Nasser Glasshand,” said Nasser, “is entirely mythical. A tale the poets like to recite to the crowds.”

  “So is the Balarigar,” said Caina, “but here we are.”

  “Well,” said Nasser, “if you have decided to think of me as Nasser Glasshand, the most daring and devilishly handsome master thief…”

  Laertes rolled his eyes.

  “Ever to plague the emirs and Alchemists of Istarinmul,” continued Nasser, undaunted, “then who am I to object?”

  “Is your hand really made of glass?” said Caina.

  “What do you think?” said Nasser.

  He raised his left hand and opened and closed it a few times, the fingers flexing.

  “Not glass,” said Nasser. “I honestly cannot imagine where this ‘Glasshand’ business began.”

  “Of course,” said Caina.

  Yet she noted the movement seemed to pain Nasser. His expression had remained calm and amused, yet the veins in his temples bulged a bit, his left eyelid twitching. For that matter, she still felt the sorcerous aura around his left hand.

  A fist of flesh and blood could not smash an Immortal’s steel helmet with a single blow.

  “Tell me,” said Nasser. “What other tales have you heard of Nasser Glasshand?”

  Caina shrugged. “Several. That he is a thief without equal, that he has stolen from both Alchemists and emirs and lived to tell the tale. That he turned pirate and sailed upon the Alqaarin Sea. Or that he went south in search of the ruins of old Maat and vanished in the desert sands. Or that he returned with sorcerous treasures.” She hoped the last one was false. The sorcerous relics of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun had caused quite enough harm already.

  “And I have heard,” said Nasser, “that the Balarigar freed the slaves of Marsis and slew Rezir Shahan before his soldiers, that he can walk through shadows and vanish without a trace.”

  “Lies and calumnies,” said Caina. “I am sure we are both upright, respectable men, who would never steal anything.”

  “Indeed,” said Nasser. “Shall we get down to it, then?”

  Caina tensed. “To what?”

  “Why, to the real questions, of course,” said Nasser. “I imagine you have many questions for me.”

  She did. “And just why would you answer them?”

  “Because I have many questions for you,” said Nasser. “Information, after all, is its own form of currency, often far more valuable than gold or silver. Let us play a game, you and I. You shall ask me a question, and then I shall give you an honest answer. Then you may do the same to me. Is this agreeable?”

  “Very well,” said Caina.

  Nasser gestured with his right hand. “Then begin.”

  “How did you find me?” said Caina.

  Laertes snorted. “We followed the Immortals. And the naked slavers hanging upside down from chains.”

  “Do forgive Laertes,” said Nasser. “As you have no doubt deduced, he spent a great many years in the Emperor’s Legions and therefore acquired the black humor common to soldiers of all nations. But his answer is essentially accurate. After I learned the Balarigar was involved in the destruction of the Widow’s Tower, I desired greatly to speak with you. A study of your thefts revealed that you targeted slavers who had sold captives to Callatas for his various projects…and Vaysaal was one of Callatas’s lieutenants. After Callatas had him assassinated, I suspected you might wish to look around Vaysaal’s laboratory. My surmise was correct. Unfortunately, it seems that the Teskilati and the Kindred reached the same conclusion.” He grinned. “You have acquired the Grand Master’s enmity, Balarigar. Callatas did not even devote that many Immortals to the destruction of the Ghost circle after the war with the Empire.”

  “My charming personality, I’m sure,” said Caina.

  “No doubt,” said Nasser with a chuckle. “Now. My question. Are you a Ghost nightfighter? If you are, please understand that I have no wish to expose you, and no desire to bring harm to your Emperor. Rather, I wish to know what kind of man you are. Are you simply a talented thief, or do you have larger ambitions?”

  Caina considered her answer for a moment. She suspected that Nasser wanted to recruit her for something, most likely some audacious and profitable theft. So why did he care if she was a Ghost? Did he fear the vengeance of the Ghosts? Or did he want the help of the Ghosts and their resources?

  Of course, if he knew that the Ghosts of Istarinmul consisted of Caina, a coffee merchant, and the coffee merchant’s brother, he might think differently.

  “There are no such thing as the Ghosts, of course,” said Caina. “Merely legends and fables. Like the Balarigar and Nasser Glasshand. Stories concocted as scapegoats for the failures of ambitious fools.”

  Nasser raised an eyebrow. “Like Rezir Shahan, perhaps?”

  “Precisely,” said Caina. “Like Rezir Shahan. He died from his own mistakes. He certainly wasn’t killed by the Balarigar in front of thousands of witnesses, and the Balarigar certainly is not a Ghost nightfighter.”

  Laertes grunted. “So many words to say yes.”

  “Now, now, Laertes,” said Nasser. “Words have a pleasure all of their own. So the Balarigar is indeed a nightfighter of the Ghosts. Interesting…and that inspires many more questions. So you may ask a question of me now.”

  “I know how you found me,” said Caina. “Why did you help me escape?”

  “A question that requires an answer in three parts,” said Nasser. “First, because your escape would annoy Grand Master Callatas, and anything that annoys him is a fine thing. Second, if you perished in the Alchemists’ Quarter, I would lose the potential benefit of your assistance. And, thirdly…I think you and I might have some interests in common. Now it is my turn for a question.”

  Caina nodded.

  “If you are a Ghost nightfighter,” said Nasser, “than that means you regard wealth as a tool, not as a means in itself. So you were looking for something else in the palaces of those slavers, not merely their gold and jewels.”

  “Perhaps I hate slavers,” said Caina, “and merely wished to repay them for all the cruelties they have inflicted upon the innocent.” That was true enough.

  “An admirable goal,” said Nasser, “but if you desired simple revenge, it would be far easier to knife them in the street or pour poison into their cups. Why risk inflicting such daring public humiliations upon them? No, you were looking for something other than money, other than revenge.” He leaned forward, his dark eyes keen and sharp. “You were looking for secrets.”

  “That is a statement,” said Caina, her throat dry, “not a question.”

  “True. The question, then,” said Nasser. “Were you looking for knowledge about the Apotheosis?”

  Caina considered her answer. It was entirely possible that this was all a trick, a trap by the Teskilati or Callatas’s agents to draw her in. Nasser might have rescued her from Anburj, but perhaps he didn’t want the Kindred to claim the glory of killing her. Perhaps he simply wanted to keep the bounty for himself.

  But he was right. Caina needed allies.

  “Yes,” she said at last.

  Nasser nodded, and Laertes looked a touch grimmer.

  “The Apotheosis,” said Caina, leaning forward despite herself. “What is it?”

  “I do not know, not truly,” said Nasser. “Nonetheless, I will tell you what I know. It is a plan of Callatas’s, his grand scheme. Somehow it involves the wraithblood, though I know not how. Callatas has gathered a number of disciples around him, men from among the emirs and the Alchemists, and even common assassins and mercenaries, if they serve him well. I would call them a cult, but they worship nothing but their own power and advancement. Vaysaal was one. Ricimer was another, and there are many others. Which leads to my next question of you, Balarigar. How did Ricimer die?”

  “I killed him,” said Caina.

>   “Ah,” said Nasser.

  For the first time Laertes smiled. “Did you, now.”

  “Ricimer was a powerful Alchemist and his sorcery was potent,” said Nasser. “If you do not object to expanding upon your answer, I would be most curious as to the details.”

  “He bore a weapon of sorcery, a lightning-throwing fork,” said Caina. “He prepared to fling a killing bolt at me, but I threw a knife into the tines of his fork. The lightning was drawn to the knife, and then rebounded up the fork itself and slew him where he stood.”

  Laertes laughed. “I’ll be damned.”

  “After he was slain, a spirit calling itself a nagataaru possessed his corpse,” said Caina, which stole Laertes’s laughter. “Do you know what it is? I had never heard the word before that day.”

  “I know of them, but little else,” said Nasser. “They are a race of spirits that dwell in the netherworld, as do the elementals and the djinni and all the others. Spirits emulate mortal men in one regard – they have their own hierarchies and nations and empires, and these empires war eternally upon each other. The nagataaru are one such empire. Callatas often summons them and binds them as servants, though the practice is forbidden by both the Alchemists’ laws and the decrees of the Padishah.” The glint came back into his eye. “Though I do know this, one little piece of secret lore. You have heard the tale of Istarr and the seven Demon Princes of old, I trust.” Caina nodded. “The demon spirits that possessed the Princes were in fact seven of the high captains of the nagataaru, spirits of fell power and potent sorcery. The Istarish nobles do not like to remember it, but it was only with the aid of the mighty loremasters of Iramis that Istarr was able to defeat the Demon Prices and found Istarinmul.”

  “They do not like to remember Callatas destroyed Iramis a century and a half past,” said Caina, voice quiet.

  Nasser nodded. “That was his greatest crime, though there are many competitors for that particular honor. And I fear he may do worse yet, if left unchecked. Which I suspect is the answer to my next question. Why do you seek knowledge of Callatas’s Apotheosis?”

  Caina considered the question for a moment.

  “Because it must be stopped,” said Caina.

  “Why?” said Nasser. “Perhaps his intentions are benevolent. Perhaps the wraithblood shall uplift humanity to a new height of splendor and power.”

  “No,” said Caina, more heat in her voice than she intended.

  Nasser raised his eyebrow. “That seems to have struck a nerve.”

  “The Apotheosis must be stopped because I have seen it before,” said Caina. “I have…seen things, Ibrahaim Nasser, terrible things. Sorcerous catastrophes that almost happened.” Maglarion could have killed a million men, women, and children in a heartbeat, and Kalastus had tried to burn a quarter of a million people to ashes. “I trust you both saw the day the golden dead rose and attacked the living.” Both Nasser and Laertes nodded. “That is what Callatas intends. Something like that, something terrible that will slay millions. I am utterly certain of it.” Her gloved right hand closed into a fist. “And I will find a way to stop him. I have not…I have not,” again she saw the golden fire burn over New Kyre, saw the flash of the Moroaica’s spell as Corvalis died, “I have not come through so much to see Callatas unleash an age of horror upon the earth. I will stop him if I can.”

  Nasser and Laertes shared a look.

  “He might be helpful, then,” said Laertes.

  “I agree,” said Nasser.

  “Before you come to any decisions,” said Caina, “I have one more question for you.”

  Nasser gestured with his ungloved hand. “Proceed.”

  “All the stories about Nasser Glasshand say he is a master thief without equal,” said Caina. “That he robs from the wealthiest, most powerful men in the Padishah’s domain.”

  “And several other nations,” said Nasser with a smile.

  “So. Why go after Callatas, then?” said Caina. “Surely there are easier targets.”

  Nasser’s smile widened. “It may surprise you, Balarigar, but my motives are much the same as your own. I am a thief, yes, but like you, I see wealth only as a means to an end. And my end is to see Callatas stopped. He has wreaked too much harm already, and I mean to defeat him. You might even say that I am a patriot.”

  “Of Istarinmul?” said Caina. “But I don’t think you’re Istarish. Your accent…”

  She frowned. His accent was odd. She had heard it somewhere before, but she could not bring it to mind.

  “I would have been most surprised,” said Nasser, “if you could place my accent.” He took a drink of his wine. “I have no further questions for you. Unless you have more for me?”

  Caina did, but she did not want to tell Nasser any more than she had already, so she shook her head.

  “Capital,” said Nasser. “As I suspected, we do share a goal in arranging the downfall of Callatas. In that vein, I have a proposal for you.”

  “To do what?” said Caina.

  “Do you know of the Tarshahzon Gardens in the Emirs’ Quarter, just north of the Golden Palace?” said Nasser. Caina nodded. “Meet me there at noon the day after tomorrow, near the great painting at the northern end of the gardens, and we shall discuss the matter further.”

  “And if I decline?” said Caina.

  Nasser shrugged. “Then we go our separate ways with no ill will. But I believe that would be a foolish decision. You need allies, Ghost, and I can provide them. And I will offer a little more honey to sweeten the pot, as it were.”

  “What manner of honey?” said Caina.

  Nasser pointed at her left hand. “That ring on your finger. You found it in Vaysaal’s laboratory, yes? I know what it is.”

  “It’s called a pyrikon,” said Caina.

  The white smile flashed over his dark face. “And you know what a pyrikon is?”

  Caina sighed. “I assume you’ll tell me if I meet with you again?”

  “I see the legendary cleverness of the Ghosts is well-earned,” said Nasser. “Laertes.” The veteran nodded and retrieved a ragged brown cloak, the sort favored by the nomadic tribes to the south, and handed it to Caina. “A Ghost shadow-cloak is a bit conspicuous, ironically enough, so that will assist you when you leave. It wouldn’t do for you to perish before we have our meeting.”

  Caina took one more swallow of wine and stood. Her legs and arms ached from the long chase. “You’re so certain that I will come back.”

  “Yes,” said Nasser. “I am.”

  “We’ll see,” said Caina. She slung the ragged cloak around her shoulders. “Thank you for the assistance, by the way.”

  “A pleasure,” said Nasser, inclining his head.

  She turned to go to the door, and hesitated.

  “There is something else?” said Nasser.

  “Perhaps,” said Caina. “Another question, if you will.” Part of her mind screamed that this was a bad idea, but she had to know.

  “Of course,” said Nasser, “though then you must answer one in turn.”

  “Very well.” Caina turned to face him. “The star is the key to the crystal. Have you ever heard those words before?”

  Again Nasser and Laertes shared that glance. This time Laertes looked startled. Alarmed, even.

  “I have,” said Nasser. “They are the refrain of an epic poem describing the destruction of the city of Iramis at the hands of Callatas. I believe the last Prince of Iramis composed the poem as he wandered the wasteland of the Desert of Candles that had once been his domain. Quite tragic, really. Little wonder the Istarish love it so. They do so enjoy a good tragedy.”

  “I had heard,” said Caina, “that the poem was composed a century past. Iramis burned a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  Nasser smiled. “Well. The accounts differ. I suspect the poet Sulaman told you that.”

  “Yes,” said Caina. Nasser must have heard Sulaman recite the epic.

  “Now my question,” said Nasser. “Those words. Wher
e did you first hear them?”

  “I will tell you the truth,” said Caina, “but you will not believe me.”

  Nasser rose to his feet. “Indulge me.”

  “I stood in the netherworld on the day of the golden dead,” said Caina, “and the spirit of a man who died twenty-five centuries ago told me that I would need those words.”

  Nasser’s calm, faintly amused expression did not waver, but a flicker of tension went through his limbs, and Caina had the distinct impression that he had been taken aback.

  “I see,” he said at last.

  “You believe me, then?” said Caina.

  “Why should I not?” said Nasser. “An unusual tale, to be sure, but unusual things happen all the time. Go in peace, Balarigar. I shall took forward to seeing you in the Tarshahzon Gardens.”

  “You are certain I will come?” said Caina.

  Nasser grinned. “Greet Sulaman for me when you see him.”

  A chill went down Caina’s spine. “You know him?”

  “Who do you think,” said Nasser, “suggested that I seek you out?”

  Chapter 5 - The House of Agabyzus

  It was almost noon by the time Caina returned to the Sanctuary.

  She had taken a cautious route through the city, hiding her shadow-cloak in her satchel and covering herself with the ragged nomad’s cloak. Along the way she had stolen a turban and a rough wooden staff, and had feigned a limp. Anyone looking at her, she hoped, would see a tribesman visiting from the steppes of Trabazon, leaning upon a staff for support. Of course, the nomads of the Trabazon rarely had blue eyes, and almost always had skin darker than Caina’s. Yet the disguise worked. No one troubled Caina as she made her way across the city, though she saw many patrols of watchmen and more than a few Immortals. The Immortals rarely came into the poorer quarters unless escorting their masters, so Caina supposed Anburj must have extended his search.

  She wondered if Callatas would kill the Kindred assassin for his failure. He had come within a hair’s breadth of catching Caina, and if not for Nasser’s intervention, she might not have escaped. But given how close Anburj had come to success, Caina suspected Callatas would urge the assassin to redouble his efforts. Anburj had correctly predicted her actions once before, and he might well do so again. Which made a good argument for considering Nasser’s offer. The Balarigar had always worked alone, and Anburj might not expect her to work with Nasser and his crew.