Ghost in the Razor

by Jonathan Moeller

  She had been asking about that damned mural. It had amused Morgant to paint it, mostly since Callatas had never realized who Markaine of Caer Marist really was, but the young Ghost had an astute eye. Morgant had indeed witnessed the destruction of Iramis. Another day and he would have been inside Iramis and perished with all the rest.

  The Balarigar didn’t know any of that.

  His fingers clenched tighter against the handle of his cane.

  But she suspected that Markaine of Caer Marist knew something. Why else would she ask about the Fall of Iramis? Why talk about Morgant the Razor? There was only one reason a Ghost nightfighter would be interested in both Iramis and Morgant.

  The answer came to him in a flash.

  She was trying to stop Callatas’s Apotheosis. That explained why the Balarigar had been terrorizing the slavers. Callatas could not create wraithblood without a constant supply of slaves to murder. For that matter, Callatas could not work the Apotheosis without the ring and the staff of the Prince, the Seal and Staff of Iramis, and Morgant had no idea where to find them.

  The only person who knew where to find them, in point of fact, was not available for casual questioning.

  Yet if the Balarigar sought to stop the Apotheosis, and if she was clever enough to find him…then Morgant was the logical person to question.

  So why the devil had she run off like that?

  She had departed without a word the minute the Exile had taken off his helmet. Morgant considered the gladiator. He was a strong young man, not quite thirty, with close-cropped brown hair and bloodshot brown eyes. Kyracian, by the look of him, but there were many Kyracian gladiators. Morgant could not see what had caught the Balarigar’s interest.

  Perhaps she had been struck by a sudden lust for a gladiator. Some women found them alluring. Though given how much money she had stolen from the Brotherhood of Slavers, if the Balarigar wanted a gladiator in her bed she could afford to buy a different one for every night of the week.

  Morgant watched her descend into the galleries, and for a moment, just a moment, considered killing her.

  She likely didn’t know it, but she was pushing Istarinmul toward civil war. The Slavers’ Brotherhood had begun kidnapping peasants and farmers from the southern lands of Istarinmul to sell in the city. The southern emirs, led by fat Tanzir Shahan, were in an uproar. The Grand Wazir Erghulan had done nothing to rein in the Brotherhood, and if matters continued sooner or later Tanzir and the southern emirs would call their men and march on Istarinmul itself.

  If Morgant killed the Balarigar, perhaps all that bloodshed could be avoided.

  Suddenly he decided that he did not care. The Balarigar was not his concern, and neither was Callatas and his Apotheosis. Morgant cared nothing for the fate of Istarinmul. He always kept his word, but he had not given his word to either the Balarigar or Callatas, and he owed them nothing.

  It had been a very long time since he had given his word to anyone.

  Morgant rose, making sure to feign a limp and lean upon his cane. He decided to return to his house, practice his blades for exercise, and then to paint for the rest of the day. A scene with gladiators, he decided. Those always sold well, though he did not care about money. Perhaps in this painting he would include a blue-eyed woman watching a Kyracian gladiator with a rapt expression, her lips parted, her bosom heaving. That would amuse him, but he was the only one who would get the joke, alas.

  He had lived for so long that he was the only one who understood his jokes.

  Morgant took one step forward and the world froze around him.

  He turned, more curious than alarmed. All the color leached out of the Ring of Cyrica, until it seemed as if the arena and the spectators around him had been drawn from pencil and charcoal. The people stood motionless, caught in an instant of time. Nearby Morgant saw a fat merchant drinking wine, the cup held frozen an inch from his lips.

  He turned again, and saw the Knight of Wind and Air standing nearby.

  As ever, the djinni wore the shape of Annarah, the last loremaster of Iramis, a tall, strong woman in a white robe, the cloth stark against her dark skin. Her long hair was as white as snow and hung to her hips, and she carried her pyrikon staff, her badge of office, in her right hand. The illusion looked exactly as Morgant remembered her, save in one aspect.

  Her eyes were wrought of smokeless flame, the smokeless flame of the djinn of the court of the Azure Sovereign.

  “You,” said Morgant.

  “Yes, me,” said the Knight. Annarah had always spoken softly, politely, but the Knight’s voice was a sardonic drawl. “It is good to see that your vast age has not dulled your wits. Overmuch.”

  “One of your kindred ensured that I lived this long,” said Morgant. “If you have any complaints, you may take them up with her.”

  “You could have killed yourself at any time,” said the Knight, “but you have not. Because you gave your word. The dreaded Morgant the Razor lived by only two rules, did he not?”

  Morgant said nothing.

  “He never killed anyone who had not earned death,” said the Knight, a mocking smile on Annarah’s face, “and he always kept his word once given.”

  “Yes,” said Morgant.

  “You gave your word to Annarah one hundred and fifty years ago,” said the Knight.

  “One hundred and fifty one,” said Morgant, “in point of fact. My wits may be dulled with age, but I still know how to count.”

  “The chance has come,” said the Knight, “to keep your word to Annarah.”

  Morgant felt his eyes narrow, felt his hand twitch towards the dagger he kept concealed beneath his coat.

  “How?” he said at last.

  “The woman,” said the Knight, the fire in Annarah’s eyes flashing brighter. “You have realized who she is?”

  “The one the Szalds call the Balarigar,” said Morgant. “Likely Caina Amalas, a Ghost nightfighter.”

  “Precisely,” said the Knight. “I have been looking for someone like her for a very long time. Ever since Callatas raised the Star and burned Iramis to ashes. She may very well be the one I have sought.”

  “How nice for you,” said Morgant. “Why should I care?”

  The smirk on Annarah’s face widened. “Because if she is the one I have sought…then she is also the one who will help you to keep your word to Annarah.”

  Morgant said nothing, keeping the surprise from his face. That was just a reflex, though. The djinni could read his mind.

  “How?” he said at last. “She is just a child. How shall she help me keep my word to Annarah?”

  “That child,” said the Knight, “has done more in her twenty-four years than most men and women do in their lifetimes. You’ve heard the rumors about the Balarigar. Many of them are true. She can help you keep your word to the last loremaster. Assuming, of course, the Balarigar is still alive.”

  “Is she about to die?” said Morgant.

  “It is highly probable she will die in the next hour,” said the Knight of Wind and Air, “unless she has your aid.”

  “If she is killed so easily,” said Morgant, “I doubt she could help me.”

  Even after all these years, it was disconcerting to see the Knight’s mocking smile upon Annarah’s face. “If she dies…then you will never know, will you? You can go back to scribbling sketches and smearing paint across canvas while you ponder a way to keep your word. Which will never come if Callatas destroys Istarinmul in the coming year, an event which is all but certain if the Balarigar dies in the next hour.”

  Morgant sighed. “Ever the manipulator.”

  “Me?” said the Knight. “I have merely presented you with facts and nothing more, my dear assassin. You must decide how to interpret them.”

  “Which is exactly why you are such a good manipulator,” said Morgant.

  “Mortals are ever predictable,” said the Knight. “Except when they are not.”

  “The Balarigar,” said Morgant, pointing his cane in her direct
ion. “If she is the one you have been looking for since Iramis fell…have you appeared to her as well?”

  The Knight’s smirk widened. “Why don’t you ask her? I’m sure the two of you shall have some delightful conversations.”

  “More manipulation,” muttered Morgant.

  “No?” said the Knight. “Very well. I shall state this plainly. The woman is your last, best chance of keeping your word to Annarah. And if you do not help her…you shall likely be dead within the year.”

  Morgant laughed. “Dead from what?”

  “Dead from the same thing that will kill everyone else in Istarinmul,” said the Knight. “And most of the rest of this world.”

  “Callatas and his Apotheosis,” said Morgant. It had been a century and a half, but he still remembered the fear in Annarah’s voice as she spoke of it.

  “You will, no doubt, say that you owe the people of Istarinmul nothing,” said the Knight. “You will say that if they cannot defend themselves, then they deserve their fate, and that you are not obligated to defend them.” The djinni’s burning eyes flashed brighter, so bright that Annarah’s face almost seemed as if it had been wrought of molten gold. “But consider this. A million people live in Istarinmul, Morgant the Razor…would you let them all die?”

  He would. He knew that he could, if necessary.

  “And how would you explain that to Annarah,” murmured the spirit, “if you ever saw her again?”

  Morgant had no answer for that.

  The Knight grinned once more, and suddenly Annarah vanished, and the world around Morgant exploded into light and color once more, almost as if the Knight had dumped jars of paint across a canvas. He gasped a little at the sudden change, and for a moment needed to lean upon his cane in truth. Around him the crowds murmured, and enterprising slaves in gray tunics moved up and down the aisles, selling wine and sausages and peanuts.

  He ignored them all, staring at the entrance to the galleries below the Ring.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

  Morgant the Razor kept his word.

  He started for the galleries, following the Balarigar.

  Chapter 3: Failures

  Caina had been in the galleries below the Ring of Cyrica before and knew her way around.

  It was surprisingly bright in the brickwork tunnels, thanks to a clever system of mirrors that reflected Istarinmul’s burning sun into the galleries. Large rooms held racks of wooden practice weapons, and others housed wild beasts and the various props and scenery that the more elaborate games required. It reminded Caina of the workshops below the Grand Imperial Opera in Malarae, though the gladiatorial games had more blood than even the goriest Nighmarian opera. There were also barracks for the gladiators themselves, both the enslaved men and the rarer freeborn gladiators.

  A scowling, bearded Istarish watchman blocked the door to the gladiators’ barracks. He wore a spiked helm and a shirt of scale mail, a scimitar hanging at his belt. To judge from the bulge of the belly beneath his armor, he had not lifted the blade in anger for some time.

  “You,” said the watchman. “The gladiators are not to be disturbed.”

  “I wish to speak with one of the freeborn gladiators,” said Caina. “The Exile.”

  The watchman snorted. “The Exile is not a sociable man. Be off with you.”

  Caina sighed, reached into a pocket, and handed over a golden bezant. The man regarded the coin, nodded, and tucked it away.

  “I never saw you,” said the watchman. “Keep a respectful tongue in your head, though. You give lip to the gladiators, you might accidentally trip and have a sword fall down your throat.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” said Caina. “Where’s the Exile’s room?”

  “End of the hall,” said the watchman. “The one with a window.”

  Caina nodded and made her way down the hall.

  ###

  The hakim in charge of the Wazir of Games’s treasury was a short, doughy man, clad in the ornamented robes and jeweled turban of a magistrate of the Padishah’s government.

  “Your purse, Exile,” he said, pushing a leather bag across the wooden table.

  Kylon, once of House Kardamnos and New Kyre, took the bag and counted the coins inside.

  It was an odd feeling. Once he would have never thought to count his own money. Andromache had been in command of House Kardamnos, and even after Kylon had become High Seat, he had left the details of the money in the hands of the slaves and his seneschals. After he had married Thalastre, he had left the House’s finances in her hands as he dealt with the increasingly treacherous politics of the Assembly.

  And then…

  A memory flashed through his mind, a sword of darkness lined in purple fire, a serene mask of crimson steel, a woman screaming his name…

  Kylon saw that the hakim across the table had flinched away, the hakim’s guards resting their hands upon their sword hilts. His emotions had been showing again, and Kylon rebuked himself and brought his face back to calm.

  He felt the fear of the men through his arcane senses, but the fear faded as Kylon calmed himself down.

  “Forgive me, honored hakim,” said Kylon. The words felt odd on his tongue. His Istarish was rough. He had thought its similarity with Anshani would make it easier to learn, but it was just different enough to confuse him. “I have been cheated often in the past, and I find it prudent to count the money.”

  “Very wise, Exile,” said the hakim. “Though the Padishah’s magistrates are the most honest of men.”

  It was hard not to laugh at that, but Kylon managed it.

  The money was all there. Not that he needed it personally. He needed very little, and in truth all he wanted to do was to drink himself into oblivion, and that did not cost very much. But the money would prove a useful tool in his task.

  “Thank you,” said Kylon, rising and offering a bow to the hakim.

  “Very good,” said the hakim. “Your next bout will be in three days. If you win that one, the Wazir of Games will likely have you fight in the Ring of Thorns itself. The purses there are much larger. If you continue to win victories, perhaps you shall even fight in the Arena of Padishahs itself.”

  That was a good thought. The Arena of Padishahs might give Kylon access to the men he wanted to kill.

  He took the leather bag and walked from the hakim’s chamber without another word, making his way through the training room and into the gladiators’ barracks. He had pulled on a shirt and a pair of loose trousers after his match, the thin cloth sticking to the sweat upon his chest and back. The corridors were deserted now, the gritty floor rasping beneath Kylon’s sandals. The emotions from the crowds above, bloodlust and excitement and impatience, washed over his sorcerous senses, and he forced the sensations from his mind.

  He reached his room, unlocked it, and opened the door. Kylon did not live here, but stored his equipment here while fighting in the Ring. The room had a cot, a table, and a wooden stool. A high, barred window let in a few narrow rays of sunlight, and…

  Kylon yanked his broadsword from its sheath.

  A man sat upon the stool. Kylon had closed off his arcane senses, and so had not sensed the man’s presence. The intruder looked like a Nighmarian merchant, clad in a dark robe over trousers and boots, a cap with a silver badge upon his head. His red hair had been pulled into a tail, and a beard shaded the sharp lines of his jaws and cheeks. Dark circles ringed his cold blue eyes, and the man showed absolutely no sign of alarm as Kylon pointed his sword.

  “You’re from that moneylender in the Anshani Quarter, aren’t you?” said Kylon. “I told him that I wasn’t going to throw any of the duels.” The moneylender had disagreed, and sent thugs to break Kylon’s legs. He had killed two of them and wounded the rest, and the moneylender had left him alone after that. “Did he fail to learn his lesson the first time?”

  “Kylon.” It was a woman’s voice, soft and cold. “It’s been a long time.”

 
Kylon looked around for the woman, and realized that the voice had come from the man.

  He looked at the robed figure, and suddenly a flicker of recognition went through him. Those cold eyes were familiar. He reached for his power of water sorcery and opened his arcane senses. The emotional sense of the man felt like ice wrapped around a core of molten hatred, the ice shot through with weariness and pain.

  He remembered that emotional sense, and he remembered those eyes.

  His sword’s tip lowered.

  “Caina?” he said at last, his voice hoarse with surprise.

  Caina Amalas, the Balarigar, the woman who had disguised herself as Anna Callenius and Rania Scorneus and Sonya Tornesti, smiled at him, and he suddenly saw her beneath the makeup and the male clothing. “Yes. I think we should talk.”

  He blinked several times, stunned by her sudden appearance. “You dyed your hair again.”

  “This?” She removed the cap, and then tugged off a red wig. Beneath the wig her black hair had been cut to stubble. It made her eyes seem larger, almost eerie. “Just a disguise. You have seen the decrees scattered around Istarinmul? Two million bezants for the head of the Balarigar?” He managed to nod. “You see why I take precautions.”

  “I saw those decrees,” said Kylon. He sat upon the cot, the cheap wooden frame creaking beneath his weight. “I thought it might have been you. I knew the Emperor banished you to Istarinmul. But I was sure that you were dead by now.”

  “Why?” said Caina.

  “You challenged powerful foes,” said Kylon. “And…I thought you might have wanted to die, that you had driven yourself to your death.”

  “Why?” said Caina again, her voice softer this time.

  Did she know? Did she know how badly he had failed his House and his people?

  “Because you looked like you wanted to die when you left New Kyre, after the Moroaica was defeated,” said Kylon. “You felt like you wanted to die.” He remembered the cold despair that had saturated her emotional sense as the Emperor banished her to Istarinmul at Lord Corbould’s urging. He still felt a hint of that despair within her, but it had hardened, adding another layer to the icy determination that filled her. “I…understand that a little better now. But I suppose you know that already.”