Ghost in the Razor

by Jonathan Moeller

  Morgant smiled. “Rather more than you do.”

  Caina’s face remained calm, but pure irritation flushed through her emotions. “Do elaborate.”

  “But less than I would like, alas,” said Morgant. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “The purpose of wraithblood is to reduce its users’ defenses against possession.”

  “Like from the nagataaru?” said Caina.

  “Exactly,” said Morgant. “I don’t know what Callatas intends with his spell. But the first part of the Apotheosis involves summoning a tremendous number of nagataaru, millions of them, all at once. That was why he destroyed Iramis and why he wanted the regalia of the Princes. He needed the Staff to summon the nagataaru and the Seal to control them all.”

  “And the wraithblood addicts,” said Caina, the thread of fear in her sense growing sharper, “provide bodies to house all the nagataaru.”

  “You understand,” said Morgant.

  “Why?” said Caina. “Why do this? What does Callatas want from the Apotheosis?”

  “I don’t know,” said Morgant. “Do you owe me a question, or do I? I’ve lost count, I’m afraid.”

  “I think we’re past that point,” said Caina. “I sought you out. Sulaman directed me to you.”

  “Sulaman?” said Morgant, and a ripple of surprise went through his emotions before they settled back into icy hardness. “Interesting. He’s not a fool. I am surprised that he sent you to me. He must think highly of you.”

  “Tell me what happened to Annarah,” said Caina. “If I can find the Staff and Seal before Callatas and conceal them from his reach, the Apotheosis will never happen.”

  Morgant gazed at the ceiling again, his blue eyes narrowed, and Kylon felt his emotions grow colder.

  “I have two rules, Balarigar,” said Morgant. “One, I do not kill anyone who has not earned death. Two, I keep my word.”

  “A feeble set of rules,” said Kylon.

  “Oh, Kyracian?” said Morgant. “Why is that?”

  “You decide who has earned death?” said Kylon. “I have known men who swear solemn oaths only to wriggle out of the smallest loopholes.”

  The assassin’s smile was colder than his emotional sense. “What do you know of keeping promises, boy? What do you know of keeping your word? You speak like a noble-born Kyracian, yet you are fighting for scraps of gold in the Ring of Cyrica. That means you were exiled, probably for failing in battle. Who did you fail, Kyracian? Which promises did you break?”

  Rage swept through Kylon, and a rime of frost spread from his boots and over the stone floor. Morgant raised an eyebrow, and Caina looked at him with concern. Again he saw Thalastre fall to her knees, the Huntress’s sword jutting from the curve of her belly, and his rage faded to sick grief and regret.

  Morgant was right. He had failed.

  “You should answer her question,” said Kylon, the frost around his feet melting, “instead of rambling about your rules.”

  “So be it,” said Morgant. “In brief, then. A long time ago I was a Kindred assassin, and Morgant the Razor was the most feared killer in three nations. I wearied of that life, faked my death, and became Markaine of Caer Marist. I was in what is now the Desert of Candles when Callatas destroyed Iramis. When I was escaping, Callatas found me, recognized me, and hired me to kill Annarah, one of the loremasters who had escaped the ruin of Iramis. I found her, decided that she did not deserve to die, and helped to hide herself. She gave me her pyrikon,” he flicked a finger in the direction of Caina’s wrist, “and I gave it to Callatas as proof that she was dead.”

  “He believed you?” said Caina.

  “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” said Morgant.

  “So where is Annarah now?” said Caina. “Where are the Staff and Seal?”

  “No,” said Morgant.

  “You’re not going to tell me,” said Caina.

  “Not,” said Morgant, his cold sense sharpening further, “until you prove you are worthy.”

  “Worthy of what?” said Caina.

  “Of helping Annarah,” said Morgant. “That was part of my word to her. That I would not reveal her location until I found someone worthy, someone strong enough to help her. You’re absolutely right, Balarigar. Callatas’s Apotheosis will destroy the world. That is the stakes we play for in this game. Not a war, not a petty skirmish between Kyracian pirates, but everything that is and ever will be. That is what will die if Callatas gets the Staff and the Seal.” His eyes flashed. “I am Morgant the Razor. I have lived for two hundred and five years, and I keep my word. And I will only tell Annarah’s location to someone worthy.”

  “Just how do I prove that I am worthy?” said Caina.

  “Very simple,” said Morgant. “I’ve already decided on a test. Defeat the Sifter.”

  She stared at him in silence.

  “That’s it?” Caina said. “Defeat the Sifter?”

  “You say it so lightly,” said Morgant. “Do you know what the Sifter is?”

  “Fiery?” said Caina. Kylon laughed before he could stop himself.

  “An ifrit, a kind of fire elemental,” said Morgant. “The nagataaru are malevolent. The ifriti simply delight in destruction. I assume one of the Umbarians bound the Sifter and sent it after you.”

  “Cassander Nilas, most likely,” said Caina. “I’ve irritated him a few times in the past.”

  “That is not terribly surprising,” said Morgant. “Defeat the Sifter, and prove to me you are strong enough for this task. Then I will tell you where Annarah is.”

  “This is foolishness,” said Kylon. “She is clearly trying to stop Callatas’s plan. Her aid could be invaluable. Why turn her away?”

  Morgant started to answer, but Caina answered him first.

  “Because,” said Caina. “If I’m captured by the Umbarians or by Callatas’s men, and if I have the knowledge of Annarah’s fate…then that knowledge will fall into the wrong hands.”

  “That knowledge could destroy the world in the wrong hands,” said Morgant. “I would prefer not to destroy the entire world.”

  “She already defeated the Sifter,” said Kylon. “The light from the pyrikon drove it off.”

  “I suspect it will be back,” said Caina.

  “Very well,” said Morgant. “What are you going to do next, Balarigar?”

  ###

  Caina stared at the wall for a moment, thinking.

  She was so close. Morgant had the knowledge she needed, the knowledge that Nasser Glasshand had sought for years. If Caina found the Staff and the Seal of Iramis before Callatas, she could stop the Apotheosis. Part of her wanted to scream with frustration, or ask Kylon to beat the information out of Morgant. She knew it would be useless. Caina suspected no amount of force would make Morgant do something he didn’t want to do, and attacking Morgant might well be suicidal.

  So. The best way to get the information was to play his game.

  She was going to have to play the game anyway if she wanted to survive. Even if she told Morgant to go to hell and walked away, the Sifter was still coming for her. She had a better chance of surviving with Morgant’s help than without it.

  And with Kylon’s, too, though he owed her nothing. Her heart ached for him. She knew the kind of pain he had gone through. Caina had seen Corvalis die in front of her, and she hadn’t been able to save him. Malarae had become her home, but she had been banished to Istarinmul.

  “The Kyracian, though,” said Morgant, cutting into her thoughts. “Do you trust him?”

  “Completely,” said Caina at once.

  “Why?” said Morgant.

  Kylon inclined his head to her, his expression grave.

  “Because,” said Caina. “We’ve been through some things together.” She remembered the Ascendant Bloodcrystal blazing in the black heart of Caer Magia, the shadows of the dead moving around it.

  “Who the devil are you, anyway?” said Morgant.

  “Kylon, once of House Kardamnos,” said Kylon.

  “Th
e Shipbreaker?” said Morgant, raising an eyebrow. “You have gone down in the world, haven’t you?”

  “Given that we are both standing in the sewer,” said Kylon, “I do not think you have grounds for criticism.”

  Morgant barked a laugh, and Caina ignored them as she thought.

  How to deal with the Sifter?

  Claudia was her first thought. Claudia had once been a sorceress of the Magisterium, and her skills had not waned. She had become strong enough to banish a lesser nagataaru, and she might have the strength to banish the Sifter. Yet Claudia was pregnant with her first child, something Caina would never know, and if the Sifter killed the child…

  No. Caina could not inflict that kind of loss on her. She had seen what it had done to Kylon.

  There were other ways. Caina had become the custodian of a sword called a valikon, a weapon forged by the loremasters of Iramis to destroy nagataaru. The Sifter was an ifrit, but Caina suspected that valikon might prove effective against it. If she could take the valikon before the Sifter found her, that would give her the edge she needed. Additionally, she also had the shadow-cloak of a Ghost nightfighter. The cloak shielded her from sorcerous observation, and it might also ward her from the Sifter’s sight.

  She might have the tools she needed to defeat the Sifter.

  “I suppose you’re coming with me?” said Caina, cutting into Morgant’s latest attempt at a witticism.

  “I am,” said Morgant. “You’ve caught my curiosity, Balarigar. Let us see if you are strong enough.” He shrugged. “And if you’re killed, I’m sure your death will inspire an excellent painting.”

  Caina looked at Kylon. “You are not a Ghost. You are not beholden to…”

  “I owe you a great deal, whether you admit it or not,” said Kylon. “Malik Rolukhan murdered my wife.” Morgant raised his eyebrows at that. “Or at least he helped, as did Cassander Nilas. They were…the outer edges of the evil you have been fighting in Istarinmul.” He looked as hard and as grim as he had the day he had tried to kill her in Marsis. “I will help you, if I can.”

  “Thank you,” said Caina. “Let’s go, then.”

  “You have a plan?” said Morgant. “For your sake I hope you have a plan.”

  “I do,” said Caina. “First, we need to make sure that the Sifter can’t find us while I put it into motion. This way, I think.”

  She beckoned, and they walked down one of the sewer tunnels.

  ###

  The Sifter claimed its new body.

  It had not expected the demonslayer to bear one of the wretched totems of Iramis of old. The puppet of the great prince of the nagataaru had destroyed Iramis, though its influence still lay heavy upon the tapestry, and its totems and weapons had been scattered far and wide. Most of them had been destroyed, but apparently Caina Amalas had found one.

  That was troubling. The pyrikon’s touch had disrupted the spell upon the Sifter’s material body. Fortunately, corpses were readily at hand, and it had taken the empty body of a dead Adamant Guard. It would serve as a vessel, and the demonslayer would not escape the Sifter a second time. The demonslayer had allies, the stormdancer and the djinni-touched bearer of the ancient Maatish weapon, but they lacked the power to stop the Sifter.

  The ifrit examined the lines of destiny in the city around it, their cords charged with power and fate and potentiality.

  It realized it could not find the demonslayer.

  For a moment it was puzzled. Surely she had not been killed in the interim? If she had, her destiny line would still be visible, if terminated. But it was as if her thread had simply vanished…

  Understanding came. The demonslayer had concealed herself. Such spells and tools existed among the mortals. They were effective…but they were short-lived.

  The Sifter was immortal.

  Even if the demonslayer had vanished, her warping effect upon the destiny lines of Istarinmul was still visible, and the Sifter could still find her. It would take time, but time meant nothing to the ifrit.

  In the end, Caina Amalas would burn in its power…and the feast would be all the sweeter.

  The Sifter left the plaza behind and started hunting.

  Chapter 8: Mathematically Pleasing

  “Here,” said Caina, climbing from the sewer grate and into the alley.

  “We haven’t gone far,” said Morgant. “This is the Cyrican Quarter.”

  “Where was that tenement you burned down?” said Kylon.

  “I didn’t burn down anything,” said Morgant. “The cellar was made of bricks. Bricks don’t burn, Kyracian. They might have neglected to mention that during your upbringing.” He shrugged. “Though I suppose that cellar is going to smell like burnt pork for quite some time.”

  “That was the Anshani Quarter,” said Caina, stepping out of the alley and looking around the street. Night had fallen, and the street was deserted. Rows of shops stood on either side of the street, two and three stories tall, and Caina smelled wood smoke and heated metal.

  “The street of the metalworkers,” said Morgant, looking around. “Are we going to see a goldsmith?”

  “A locksmith, actually,” said Caina, starting forward. Kylon and Morgant fell in behind her.

  “A locksmith, then?” said Morgant. “Well, that will certainly be effective against the Sifter. At least until it melts the locks.”

  “No,” said Caina, not looking back. “A chain and a lock for your mouth, to shut you up.”

  Morgant laughed. “See, Kyracian! Just as well that she isn’t your lover. Her tongue could strip the paint from a wall. You wouldn’t want her to touch you with it.”

  Caina ignored him. Morgant struck her as the sort of man who never stopped testing those around him for weakness. She had endured far worse than the jabs of an ancient assassin, and he seemed amused if she insulted him back. Hopefully Kylon would not lose his temper and kill Morgant. Once she would have thought that unlikely, but that was before Kylon had lost Thalastre.

  If he did kill Morgant, Caina hoped he would wait until she had obtained the knowledge of Annarah’s fate from the assassin.

  She stopped before a three-story shop and knocked.

  “That,” said Morgant, “is quite an impressive door.”

  It was. Most of the doors in the Cyrican Quarter were built of iron-banded planks. This door was a massive slab of solid steel, the hinges reinforced with iron braces driven into the stone wall.

  “Necessarily so,” said Caina. “The locksmith in question has many enemies.”

  “Plainly,” said Kylon.

  A small window in the steel door slid open, and Caina saw the gleam of eyes.

  “Azaces,” she said. “It’s Ciara. I need Nerina’s help.”

  The eyes flicked to Kylon and Morgant.

  “They’re with me,” said Caina. “They won’t make trouble for Nerina.”

  The window slid closed. Metal clanked as bolts released, and the slab of a door swung open, revealing a towering man clad in the sand-colored robes and turban of the Sarbian tribesmen. He was nearly seven feet tall, his face covered in a bushy black beard, his black eyes hard in his scarred, unsmiling face. The hilt of a two-handed scimitar rose over his shoulder, and more weapons waited at his belt.

  His hard eyes moved over Kylon and Morgant, and then back to Caina.

  “The Exile,” said Caina, indicating Kylon, “and Markaine of Caer Marist.”

  “Would you like to purchase a painting?” said Morgant.

  Azaces gave him a flat look and then led them upstairs.

  Most of the metalworkers and blacksmiths of the Cyrican Quarter kept their workshops on the first floor and lived in the upper levels. Nerina Strake kept her workshop on the top floor and lived on the second, using the first floor for storage. Though Caina doubted Nerina spent much time on the second floor. The woman hardly ever slept.

  Perhaps sleep was insufficiently distracting from the sting of her wraithblood addiction.

  Nerina’s workshop remained the
single most cluttered room that Caina had ever seen. Three long wooden tables ran the room’s length, each one sagging beneath the weight of tools, half-assembled locks, various mechanical contraptions, and notes. One wall held slates covered with scrawled equations written in chalk, while shelves adorned another. A wooden cabinet, the door open, held papers secured in leather folders, and high windows looked down upon the courtyard behind the shop.

  Kylon looked around, blinking, while Morgant seemed amused.

  Nerina Strake herself stood at one of the tables, working on a pair of keys. She wore trousers, a loose shirt, and heavy leather boots, no doubt to make it easier to work. A leather apron hung over her gaunt form, and a set of goggles with magnifying lenses had been pushed back into her ragged red hair. Her eyes, blue and ghostly from her wraithblood addiction, narrowed with concentration, and she muttered a string of numbers to herself. She was thin to the point of gauntness, and Caina noted with concern that Nerina had lost weight since her last visit. Sometimes Nerina grew so engrossed in her work that she forgot to eat until she passed out.

  Azaces grunted, and Nerina looked up.

  “Ciara!” she said with a smile, using the alias Caina had given her during their first meeting. “It is good to see you. You always bring me such interesting problems.” She looked back and forth between Kylon and Morgant. “Or guests.”

  “This is Markaine of Caer Marist,” said Caina, “and this man for various reasons has to call himself the Exile.”

  Nerina put down her tools and took several steps forward, staring at Morgant. The assassin looked right back at her, though he seemed puzzled.

  “Seventy-one,” said Nerina at last.

  Caina hid a smile.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Morgant.

  “Perhaps that’s your age,” said Kylon. “You look older, but clearly she was being gracious.”