Ghost in the Maze

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Caina suspected that was why Nasser had rescued her. Despite all his high talk about defeating Callatas and the Apotheosis, he might have his eye upon a rich prize, and wanted the Balarigar’s help to steal it.

  Or he was telling the truth. Though even if he was, Caina was sure he had only given her a piece of the truth. Of course, Caina had done the same with him.

  Or she was simply mistaken, and he was preparing to hand her over to the Teskilati and claim the bounty for himself.

  Either way, there was no reason to trust him.

  So she took her time making her away across the city, crossing back over her path and taking great care to make sure that she was not followed. At last she returned to the dry fountain behind the House of Agabyzus, unlocked the door, and descended to the Sanctuary. She discarded her sweat-sodden nightfighter garb and washed and bandaged her wounds. None of them were serious, but she had numerous small cuts upon her arms, and one long, shallow cut on her ribs where the steel plates of her jacket had broken. Bruises covered her hips and thighs from various falls, and her joints and shoulders ached from all the running and the climbing.

  Still, it could have been far worse.

  She wasted the better part of an hour trying to remove the twisted bronze ring. Caina tried soap, wax, grease, everything she could think of. All she managed to do was make the skin around her finger red and raw from scrubbing. The pyrikon did not budge, and the constant tingling of its faint aura remained unchanged.

  That was annoying. Worse, it was dangerous. She used a dozen different disguises to move unseen through Istarinmul, and wearing a distinctive piece of jewelry with each disguise might well ruin them. Even more dangerous, it was possible Callatas or Vaysaal had embedded a tracking spell upon the ring. Her shadow-cloak protected her from divinatory sorcery, but she could not always wear it. If there was a tracking spell upon the ring, she could not elude Callatas and his hunters.

  They would find her and kill her.

  For a long, grim moment Caina considered cutting off the finger with the ring still on it. That would badly damage her ability to fight and climb, though she favored her right hand. It would also prove a liability when employing disguises.

  And the thought made her skin crawl. Caina had done a lot of unpleasant things, but she had never had to cut off a piece of herself.

  At last she discarded the notion. She had no proof there was a tracking spell upon the ring. And for all she knew, if she cut off the finger, the ring would simply attach itself to another.

  Caina dressed in the clothes of a courier of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, boots and trousers and a loose shirt beneath a coat that was too warm for the harsh sun of Istarinmul. A sheathed short sword and a dagger went in a leather belt around her waist, and Caina paused before the mirror to wash away her makeup and apply a new coat. When she finished, she saw Marius, a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, staring back at her.

  After a moment’s thought, she wrapped a bandage around her left hand to conceal the pyrikon.

  She nodded in satisfaction, climbed out of the Sanctuary, and walked around the courtyard to the Cyrican Bazaar and the House of Agabyzus.

  The Bazaar hosted a bustling maze of stalls and booths, merchants selling carpets and pans and knives and fried skewers of meat. A dozen competing smells hung heavy in the air, wood smoke and cooking meat and exotic spices and roasting coffee. Women in bright robes and headscarves bought and sold, while slaves in gray tunics went about the business of their masters.

  The House of Agabyzus rose over the market, a three-story building of whitewashed stone with a flat roof. Caina pushed open the front door and strode into the common room. Dozens of low, round tables dotted the floor, ringed with cushions in the Istarish style, booths lining the walls so patrons could converse without anyone overhearing them. Anshani carpets hung from the walls between the wide windows, and a dais stood against the far wall where a poet could recite the epic poems of the Istarish people. It was midday, and merchants and their bodyguards filled the tables and booths, haggling and negotiating over lunch and coffee. So much business and plotting took place in the coffee houses of Istarinmul. A clever woman could listen to their conversations and learn many things.

  Caina had done just that in Malarae, masquerading as Sonya Tornesti, the frivolous, empty-headed mistress of coffee merchant Anton Kularus. But she could not do that in Istarinmul. Disguising herself as a man was the best way to move unnoticed through the city. Only two people in all Istarinmul knew that she was a woman.

  One of them hurried towards Caina now, a smile on her face.

  Damla was in her middle thirties. Istarish women preferred bright colors, but Damla wore widow’s black. She was still in mourning for her husband, dead three years past during Rezir Shahan’s attack upon Marsis. Caina knew the feeling.

  “Master Marius, welcome,” said Damla, her smile widening. “It is good to see you under my roof once again.”

  “And I am glad to be here,” said Caina.

  “You will always be welcome in the House of Agabyzus,” said Damla. She glanced to the door near the dais, and her two sons, Bayram and Bahad, emerged from the kitchen carrying trays of food. Bayram was seventeen, stern and dour, while Bahad was twelve with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You will be welcome here for the rest of your days, Master Marius.”

  There was a faint catch in her voice as she said it. Her sons had been kidnapped by the Master Slaver Ulvan, who intended to sell them to Callatas to make wraithblood. But Bayram and Bahad had been freed, along with all the other captives, and Ulvan had been humiliated and impoverished.

  Caina had seen to that.

  “And I am grateful for your welcome, and all your hospitality,” said Caina.

  “You are too kind,” said Damla.

  “No, I’m really not,” said Caina.

  And she meant it. When Caina had first set foot in Damla’s coffee house, she had been half-crazed with grief from the deaths of Halfdan and Corvalis, and had almost drank herself to death the first night. The abduction of Bayram and Bahad had shocked Caina out of her grief and apathy, had spurred her to action. That had set Caina on the road to discovering Callatas’s crimes and the Apotheosis. It had saved Caina’s life. Had her mind remained in that dark state, she might have done something foolish, might have destroyed herself or thrown her life away in some reckless gamble.

  So now, she thought with a twist of amusement, she could throw her life away trying to find the truth of Callatas’s Apotheosis.

  “Thank you,” said Damla. “We had heard there was an…uproar in the Emirs’ Quarter last night. A riot, perhaps.”

  “I’m sure I know nothing about that,” said Caina.

  Damla almost managed not to smile. “I’m sure. You will want to talk to him?”

  “If it can be arranged,” said Caina.

  “Easily,” said Damla. “He is here now. This way.”

  She led Caina across the floor to a booth in the corner. A gaunt Istarish man sat there, clad in a tan robe and turban, his face encircled in a trimmed gray beard. Despite the steaming cup of coffee before him, he looked tired, weary, and his dark eyes never stopped sweeping the room.

  Unsurprising, given that Agabyzus had spent over a year in a cell of the Widow’s Tower, suffering every torture Ricimer’s men could inflict upon him. The six weeks since Caina had rescued him had made him stronger and healthier, but the mark of his ordeal would never quite leave him. Some scars never healed entirely.

  Caina knew that well.

  “Ah,” said Agabyzus. “You’ve returned.”

  “A guest to see you, sir,” said Damla, smiling down at her older brother.

  “Thank you,” said Agabyzus. “If you could bring some more coffee and a few cakes, that would be marvelous.”

  “Certainly,” said Damla. “We shall fatten you up yet.”

  She walked back toward the kitchen, black skirts whispering around her ankles, and Caina sat across
from Agabyzus. He had once been the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, until he had started investigating Callatas and the wraithblood. In retaliation, Callatas had sent the Teskilati to destroy the Ghost circle of Istarinmul, taking many alive and torturing them to death in the Widow’s Tower.

  Agabyzus was the sole survivor, and he had gladly surrendered control of the Ghost circle to Caina.

  What was left of it, anyway.

  “There was a great deal of chaos in the Emirs’ Quarter last night,” said Agabyzus in a low voice, “and you appear to have injured your hand.”

  “Not yet,” said Caina, and she unwrapped the bandage just enough to let him see the pyrikon. To judge from his reaction, he had seen it before. “You know what this is?”

  “No,” said Agabyzus, “but I have seen such rings before. Callatas’s most loyal lieutenants wear them sometimes. Ricimer had one, though I suppose it melted when the Widow’s Tower burned.” His frown deepened. “Why are you wearing that? If someone recognizes it you shall be in grave danger.”

  “I can’t take it off,” said Caina. “It wrapped itself around my finger when I found it. There’s some kind of sorcery on it. I’m not sure what.”

  “The Master Alchemist Vaysaal is assassinated, there is an uproar in the Emirs’ Quarter,” said Agabyzus, “and you turn up the next day with that ring.” He shook his head, and for a moment he almost looked amused. “Truly, you have a knack for chaos.”

  “I cannot argue with that,” said Caina.

  “Did you kill Vaysaal?” said Agabyzus. “That was a dreadful risk.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” said Caina. “I just took advantage of his death.”

  She told Agabyzus about her raid of Vaysaal’s palace, the wraithblood laboratory, and the trap Anburj had set for her. Agabyzus listened in silence, his face grave. Damla returned with a tray holding coffee and spiced cakes, and Caina realized that she had not eaten any of Nasser’s food, which meant she had not eaten anything since entering Vaysaal’s palace. She accepted the food with thanks and ate and drank as she talked.

  “That,” said Agabyzus when she finished, “was a mad risk.”

  Caina shrugged. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

  “Your boldness saved my life and the lives of my nephews,” said Agabyzus, “but, still, I would counsel you to moderation in the future. Getting yourself killed will not bring back those you have lost.”

  Caina scowled. “Is that what you think I am doing? Trying to kill myself to atone for my sins? I am past that.”

  “If you say so,” said Agabyzus, his doubt plain.

  But he had a point. Before the deaths of Corvalis and Halfdan, she had never been so reckless. She would not have entered Vaysaal’s palace without a better plan, would have first spent several days infiltrating the servants and learning their comings and goings. Or perhaps she had always been this bold, and had come to view the past through the lens of her love for Corvalis.

  “The opportunity came, and I took it,” said Caina. “What’s done is done.”

  “I have no right to command you,” said Agabyzus. “And your boldness saved my life. I have no right to criticize it. But I do have the right and the duty to counsel you, and I would counsel you to greater caution.” He sighed. “If we are to rebuild the Ghosts of Istarinmul, if we are to stop whatever villainy Callatas intends to inflict upon the people, it is up to you. I am but a shadow of the man that I was before the Widow’s Tower. I will help you however I can, but the final decisions lie in your hands.”

  “And your knowledge and contacts have been most helpful,” said Caina. “Now I have further need of them. What can you tell me about the man calling himself Nasser Glasshand?”

  Agabyzus sighed and leaned back into his seat, drumming his bony fingers against the table.

  “There have been,” he said at last, “tales of a thief calling himself Nasser Glasshand circulating through Istarinmul for decades, maybe even a century.”

  “Then I met with an imposter,” said Caina. “The man I spoke with could not have been much older than forty.”

  Agabyzus shrugged. “My belief is that the name of Nasser Glasshand is an identity, a title, passed down from holder to holder. Because while the tales have been circulating for a century, most of them are true. Someone calling himself Glasshand did indeed pull off some daring thefts in that span of time, some even while I was circlemaster.”

  “Why do they call him Glasshand?” said Caina.

  “According to the stories,” said Agabyzus, “his left hand is made of living glass.”

  “That sounds unwieldy,” said Caina.

  “In some of the tales, his glass hand lets him open any locked door or deflect spells,” said Agabyzus. “You met the man, not I. Is his left hand made of glass?”

  “I doubt it,” said Caina. “He wore a glove over it the entire time, and I saw the fingers move.”

  Agabyzus nodded. “To maintain his legend, no doubt.”

  “And yet,” said Caina. “He punched an Immortal with his left fist, and crushed the Immortal’s mask and shattered his skull with a single blow. A sword stroke from a strong man could not penetrate that helmet, yet Nasser crushed it with a single punch. And there is a sorcerous aura around his hand.”

  “Perhaps he is a renegade sorcerer, then,” said Agabyzus. “Certainly some of the rumors of his exploits attribute sorcerous powers to him.”

  “Some of the rumors of my exploits attribute sorcerous powers to me,” said Caina, “and those are only theatricality.” She grinned. “And boldness.”

  Agabyzus inclined his head in acknowledgement of the point.

  “But the aura,” said Caina. “It’s just around his left hand. And it seemed like a far weaker version of the aura radiating from that crystal Callatas wears around his neck.”

  “Then you think he is an agent of Callatas?” said Agabyzus.

  “I do not know,” said Caina. “If he was, he would have killed me. Or stood by and done nothing while the Immortals killed me. Why play such an elaborate game?”

  “To track down the rest of the Ghosts, perhaps?” said Agabyzus.

  “What Ghosts?” said Caina. “We are the Ghosts of Istarinmul.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Caina took another sip of the bitter Istarish coffee. It made for a nice contrast with the sweet cakes. Damla had some skilled cooks under her roof.

  “I suspect,” said Agabyzus at last, “that he is indeed who he claims to be. Furthermore I believe he rescued you to acquire your help.”

  “With what?” said Caina.

  “A theft, of course,” said Agabyzus. “The Balarigar is clearly a thief of immense talent. So is Nasser, but a team can accomplish things that one man cannot. I suspect Nasser has his eye on a well-defended target, and is assembling a band of allies to help him claim it.”

  “That was my thought as well,” said Caina.

  “You will go to his meeting tomorrow?” said Agabyzus.

  “I think so,” said Caina. “I need not commit to anything. If Nasser does indeed intend to rob the Alchemists or the emirs, that will only disrupt Callatas’s plans, so I shall aid him. I might learn more about Callatas’s goals and the Apotheosis.” She shrugged. “And both you and Nasser are right about one thing. The Ghosts need allies. We will not be able to stop Callatas on our own, not without help.”

  “So be it,” said Agabyzus.

  They ate and drank in silence for a while.

  “Have any letters come?” said Caina at last.

  She was the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, and from time to time she expected to receive instructions from the Emperor. Or letters from the high circlemasters in Malarae, containing orders and tasks to accomplish. Or warnings from the other circlemasters about renegades coming to Istarinmul. Yet she had been in Istarinmul for over four months, and in that time no letters had come from Malarae.

  “None,” said Agabyzus, his frown turning into a grimace.

  “What is it?�
�� said Caina.

  “I used to receive a letter every two weeks, sometimes every few days,” said Agabyzus. “Nothing. The letters…they would be left at a pre-arranged location. I can understand why the letters stopped after the end of the war. The Emperor assumed the Ghosts of Istarinmul were all dead. But after you arrived…you should have received some instructions by now.”

  “Perhaps the Emperor is waiting for us to establish the circle before he sends instructions,” said Caina.

  Yet part of her wondered if she had been abandoned. She had acquired powerful enemies in the Empire before her banishment, Lord Corbould Maraeus and the First Magus Decius Aberon and others. They had wanted to execute her after New Kyre, but instead the Emperor had made her the new circlemaster of Istarinmul. Perhaps Corbould and his allies had convinced the Emperor to ignore her until she pushed too hard and got herself killed. A more roundabout form of execution, as it were.

  The thought stung more than she liked.

  “No,” said Agabyzus, his voice quiet. “I think it is far worse than that. I suspect…I very strongly suspect both the Ghosts and the Emperor have far larger problems than just now.”

  “Why do you say that?” said Caina.

  “The Teskilati wiped out the Ghost circle,” said Agabyzus, “but my informants are still in place. I have been speaking with them, and they tell me of the rumors coming out of the Empire, of the stories the merchants tell.”

  “What is happening?” said Caina.

  Agabyzus shook his head. “The tales are…confused. They say civil war has broken out in the Empire, that the Magisterium has splintered into multiple factions. One merchant claimed the Ashbringers of old have returned to bring fire and ruin upon the Empire. Another merchant claims all the Imperial provinces east of Artifel and Arzaxia have risen in revolt under a renegade faction of the Magisterium, and are waging war against the Emperor.”