Ghost in the Razor

by Jonathan Moeller

  Morgant snorted, but Nerina shook her head.

  “No, no, no,” said Nerina. “You are seventy-one inches tall.” She pointed at Caina. “See? I remembered to compensate for the boots this time. When I first met Ciara at the circus, I assumed she was sixty-eight inches tall, but I neglected to include the heels of her sandals in my calculations. She is actually sixty-six inches tall.”

  “I…see,” said Morgant. For the first time the assassin seemed nonplussed.

  “It’s closer to sixty-five, actually,” said Caina.

  “More precise standards of measurement are required,” said Nerina. “You also weight just under one hundred and sixty pounds, minus the weight of the weapons and other items in your coat.”

  “Tell me,” said Morgant. “Does wraithblood usually induce mathematical lunacy?”

  Nerina let out a snorting laugh. “Of course not. Wraithblood induces visions of stunning beauty and then horrifying terror. I could tell you about them.”

  “Do you…always calculate height when you met people for the first time?” said Kylon.

  “Yes,” said Nerina. “I forget social mores, so this seems like an excellent way to begin conversations. You are seventy-four inches tall and about one hundred and eighty-five pounds.” She stared at him for a moment. “Also, your percentage of body fat to your overall mass is well within the range most mathematically likely to be aesthetically pleasing.”

  “Thank you,” said Kylon. “I think.”

  “This is Nerina Strake,” said Caina, “the best locksmith in Istarinmul.”

  “Good for her,” said Morgant. “Why did you bring us here? I don’t care how complicated this madwoman can make her locks.” Azaces glared at him. “A lock won’t stop what’s after us.”

  “No,” said Caina, “but this will.”

  She walked to the wall. A heavy lead plate hung there, its surface carved with arcane sigils. A ring of a dozen of the plates encircled the room, and they gave off a faint aura of sorcery.

  “Those are enspelled,” said Kylon. He frowned. “Faintly, though. If I try to sense them…it’s like my power just bounces off them. Like water off an oiled cloak.”

  “Lead in sufficient quantities will block sorcery,” said Caina. “Lead is expensive, though, so a magus of my acquaintance came up with this.” She would trust Kylon with the knowledge that Claudia was a Ghost, but not Morgant. “Enspelled lead plates, encircling a perimeter. So long as we stay within this building, no one can find us with any tracking or divinatory spells.”

  “Clever,” said Morgant, squinting at one of the plates. “I can think of a few times that would have been useful.”

  “Do you fear sorcerous detection, mistress Nerina?” said Kylon.

  For some reason a little color came into her face when she looked at Kylon. “Quite so, master Exile. I believe you can balance the equation yourself.”

  “I was never very good at arithmetic,” said Kylon.

  “Well,” said Nerina, brightening as she returned to her favorite topic, “as you have no doubt guessed, I sometimes assist Ciara in her noble work. We have had occasion to irritate a nontrivial number of powerful sorcerers. Obtaining this refuge seemed like a prudent measure to reduce the probability of painful death at the hands of our enemies. But probability dictates that you must be a sorcerer as well, if you spoke of sensing the wards upon the plates.”

  “I am,” said Kylon, “though not of great power.”

  “I see,” said Nerina. “We must converse at greater length upon the topic. I dislike sorcery because it refuses to behave in an orderly manner, but I suspect there is an underlying mathematical order to it that I have not yet been able to…”

  “Perhaps later,” said Caina. Once Nerina began a monologue about one of her interests, she was almost impossible to stop. “We have more immediate problems.” Morgant folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. Azaces glared at him, but the assassin pretended not to notice. Likely the hulking Sarbian had decided that Morgant represented the greatest potential threat to his mistress. “I have an ifrit after me.”

  “Ifriti are mythical,” said Nerina.

  Morgant snorted. “Wouldn’t that be convenient?”

  “One just tried to kill me,” said Caina. “So I’m certain they’re not mythical. If you do not object, Nerina, we would like to rest here for the night, and then continue on in the morning.”

  “Of course,” said Nerina. “I do have food. Somewhere.” Azaces grunted and jerked his chin at the floor. “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Kylon,” said Caina. “You should attend to your wounds. It would be cruel for you to survive the day of the golden dead only to perish from an infection picked up in the sewer.”

  “Perhaps,” said Kylon. “But it would be no less than I deserve.”

  Caina gave him a look.

  He smiled a little, nodded, and pulled off his bloodstained shirt. None of the cuts looked serious, though the one across his ribs looked painful.

  “That will need stitches,” said Caina.

  “Azaces can help with that,” said Nerina, blinking. “He has had some practice.”

  The big Sarbian nodded and opened one of the cabinets. The cabinet looked better organized than most of the workshop, and Caina suspected that Azaces kept his own supplies there. Her suspicion was confirmed when he drew out bandages, needle, and thread from the cabinet.

  “Boiling wine,” said Nerina. “You shall require boiling wine. Ciara, could you help me? I need to speak with you as well.”

  “Of course,” said Caina.

  Nerina led her from the workshop to the ground floor. The kitchen was in the back of the house, dusty and disused. Nerina lit the stove, poured some wine into a kettle, and started to boil it.

  “You need to eat more,” said Caina.

  “I know,” said Nerina. “I keep forgetting. The mathematics dictate that energy in must equal or exceed energy out, but…” She shook her head and ran a thin hand through her ragged red hair. “Nothing satisfies like wraithblood, I fear.”

  “You haven’t started again, have you?” said Caina.

  “No,” said Nerina. “I still crave it, of course…but now that I know it is made from the blood of murdered slaves, it is much easier to resist the craving.” She shuddered, folding her arms around herself. “But the craving is still there. Even knowing the truth. The mind…I wish the human mind were as mathematically precise as reality.”

  “It isn’t, though,” said Caina.

  “No,” said Nerina. “Wait.” She slapped her forehead. “I had a message for you, from the Lord Ambassador of the Empire. That’s what I needed to tell you.”

  “You did?” said Caina. That meant either Claudia or Martin had sent it.

  “You are to beware of Cassander Nilas, the Umbarian ambassador to the Padishah,” said Nerina. “For some reason, he has stopped trying to convince the Grand Wazir to ally with the Emperor, and has decided instead to devote all his efforts to hunting you down.”

  “I see,” said Caina. That explained why the Sifter had shown up out of nowhere. Likely Cassander had conjured the elemental and sent it after her.

  “He knows who you really are, apparently,” said Nerina, “yet hasn’t made that knowledge public.”

  “Likely he didn’t want to alarm me,” said Caina, “hoping to take me unawares.”

  Nerina nodded. “But he has circulated your description among a small group of elite assassins and mercenaries, promising to assist them if they can find you.”

  Caina sighed. “I’ll be careful, then.” In truth, with the enormous bounty on her head, she had to be careful no matter what she did. Sometimes it felt like she was caught in a closing trap. Caina could not return to the Empire, and no matter where she went in Istarinmul, someone would be hunting her. She could flee to Anshan or the free cities or the sultanates of Alqaarin, but abandoning Istarinmul meant that Callatas could continue his atrocities with a free hand.

 
She could not allow that. Not even if it cost her life.

  “I’ll be more careful,” said Caina at last.

  Nerina nodded. “I delivered the message. What you do with it, of course, is your concern. You’re better at the equations of spycraft than I am. And…there is one other thing I wish to ask you.”

  “Of course,” said Caina.

  “It is…a very precise equation,” said Nerina.

  “Go on,” said Caina. “We’ve been through enough trouble together. Ask me anything.”

  Nerina took a deep breath. “I think that I wish to seduce the Exile.”

  It took Caina a few seconds to get her head around that. “I’m sorry?”

  “I find the Exile attractive and I wish to seduce him,” said Nerina.

  “I…see,” said Caina at last. She knew that Nerina had been married, though Caina had been unable to imagine the kind of man who would have been patient enough to tolerate Nerina’s eccentricities. Caina had always suspected the marriage had been a match arranged by Nerina’s father, the brutal slave trader Ragodan Strake. Yet Nerina had obviously loved her husband Malcolm. His murder had broken Nerina, had driven her further into wraithblood addiction. “May I ask why?”

  “I find his proportions to be mathematically pleasing,” said Nerina.

  “Well, yes,” said Caina. “They are at that. But you only just met him. He…”

  “Oh,” said Nerina, her eerie eyes growing wide. “Oh, I didn’t realize. Social mores.” She slapped her forehead again. “I didn’t realize it.”

  “Realize what?” said Caina, rubbing her jaw. Gods, but it had been a taxing day.

  “That he was yours,” said Nerina.

  “Mine?” said Caina.

  “Your lover,” said Nerina.

  “No!” said Caina, her temper starting to slip a little. “Why does everyone…” She forced herself back to calm. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because you trust him,” said Nerina. “You do not trust anyone, Ciara. I have known you for exactly one year, six months, two weeks, and three days, but you have never told me your real name. I understand that, since it is one more variable in the equation of maintaining your disguise. Yet on the balance of probability, I think the Exile knows your real name, and more about you than anyone else in Istarinmul.” She thought for a moment. “You…seem to relax around him.”

  “I knew him from before,” said Caina. “Before I was banished to Istarinmul. We…did things together.”

  Nerina raised a single red eyebrow.

  Caina scowled. “Not like that. We went into danger together.”

  “Danger as bad as when we went to the netherworld?” said Nerina.

  “Yes,” said Caina. “Some of it was even worse than that.” The day of the golden dead had been, certainly. Or when they had gone into Caer Magia to stop Rhames from claiming the Ascendant Bloodcrystal. “I never thought I would see him again…and then I ran into him today. Why do you want to seduce him? Do you want to get married again?”

  “Not particularly,” said Nerina. “Malcolm was…special. He understood me. I don’t think anyone else ever could. But the Exile is mathematically pleasing to look upon.” She shrugged. “And I miss the physical sensation of intercourse.”

  “Ah,” said Caina. “Then you and Azaces…” She had wondered why Azaces had stayed loyal to Nerina for so long, and the possibility that they shared a bed had crossed Caina’s mind, unlikely as it seemed.

  “Azaces?” said Nerina, wrinkling her nose. “No. He’s like an uncle. One I didn’t hate, anyway. He goes to one of the taverns by the Cyrican Harbor twice a week. I think he has a woman there. Or hires one.” She shrugged. “He can do as he wishes. He has been very kind to me. After Malcolm was murdered, I…did not do very well. The only reason I did not kill myself through wraithblood was Azaces.”

  “The Exile,” said Caina. “His wife was murdered in front of him, and he couldn’t save her.”

  “Oh,” said Nerina. “Like me. Like you.” Caina had told Nerina some of what had happened to Corvalis, but not all of it.

  “I was never married,” said Caina.

  “But you still had a loss,” said Nerina. “Your equation was unbalanced.”

  “Yes,” said Caina. “I think…I think you shouldn’t seduce the Exile for now, Nerina. He blames himself for what happened to his wife. He’s still mourning for her.”

  “The mourning is never removed from the equation,” said Nerina. “One learns to add other variables to balance it.”

  “Perhaps,” said Caina. “But I don’t think the Exile would respond well. If you did seduce him, he would blame himself, feel that he had betrayed his wife.”

  “Your assessment of the equation is likely correct,” said Nerina. “Perhaps it was a foolish impulse.”

  “Probably. What if you had gotten pregnant?” said Caina.

  “That would have added a great many variables to numerous equations,” said Nerina.

  There was an understatement.

  Caina was relieved that she had talked Nerina out of it. Kylon had been a Kyracian High Seat, and Thalastre had a gracious and beautiful noblewoman, one eager to bear children for him. Nerina was Caina’s friend, but she would not have been a good match for Kylon, not even as a mistress. Despite Morgant’s mockery, Caina would not have been a good match for him, either. She admired and trusted him, but he had wanted children. Caina could not have them, not for him or any other man.

  In truth, Caina would not have been a good match for anyone, not with so many enemies hunting for her life. Even if she abandoned Istarinmul and the Ghosts tomorrow, she could never have children, and most men wanted children to carry on their name. Corvalis had not cared…but like Malcolm, he had been a rare man. Now that he was dead, perhaps the part of Caina’s life when she could actually share her life with a man was over.

  “I am sorry,” said Nerina.

  Caina blinked, shaking off the dark thoughts. “What for? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I am not very good at this sort of talk,” said Nerina. “So mathematically imprecise. But you looked very sad.”

  “Memories,” said Caina. She forced a smile. “Though if you want to seduce someone, there’s always Markaine.”

  Nerina shuddered at that. “By the Living Flame, no. That man is…uncanny.”

  “Uncanny?” said Caina. “That is probably the least mathematical word I have ever heard you use.”

  “Is he really Markaine of Caer Marist, the painter?” said Nerina.

  “You know of him,” said Caina, surprised. “I didn’t think you enjoyed art.”

  “I do not,” said Nerina. “It has no mathematical utility. Especially paintings. Sculptures, though…assuming they adhere to proper ratios and proportions, sculptures can be quite pleasing.” She smiled. “Like the Exile.”

  “We are wandering from the topic again,” said Caina. Nerina had a knack for it. “How did you know about Markaine?”

  “My father liked his paintings,” said Nerina. Her voice took a flat, cold tone whenever she discussed Ragodan Strake. “Rather a lot. Markaine himself…he’s too thin. He looks like a big gray spider in a black coat.”

  “You’re not wrong,” said Caina. She looked at the kettle. “Wine’s boiling.”

  “Oh, good,” said Nerina. “Thirty-seven seconds sooner than I estimated.”

  They took the kettle back to the workshop. Kylon sat on one of the stools, his face expressionless as Azaces bandaged the minor wounds on his arm. The towering man worked with surprising gentleness, and Caina found herself wondering what he had done before becoming Ragodan Strake’s slave. Morgant prowled around the workshop, hands tucked into the small of his back, scrutinizing the various devices.

  “If you steal anything,” said Nerina, passing the kettle to Azaces, “it is one hundred percent certain that I shall have Azaces kill you.”

  “Ah,” said Morgant. “But is it one hundred percent certain that he will kill me?”
>
  Azaces growled.

  Morgant laughed. “Peace. I am a painter, not a thief.” He gestured at Caina. “Your friend the Balarigar, she’s the thief.”

  “I know you are a painter,” said Nerina. “My father was quite fond of your work.”

  “A man of taste, then,” said Morgant.

  “He was a cruel monster and I’m glad he is dead,” said Nerina.

  “Well,” said Morgant. “No one is perfect.”

  Azaces washed out the gash over Kylon’s ribs with the boiling wine and stitched it closed. The process looked excruciatingly painful. Kylon did not cry out or even groan, but from time to time a muscle twitched in his jaw, his hands balling into fists. At last Azaces grunted and straightened up.

  “Thank you,” said Kylon, retrieving his shirt.

  Azaces inclined his head and resumed his usual place by the door, silent and impassive.

  “Now what?” said Kylon. “The Sifter will not have abandoned its hunt.”

  “You and Markaine will wait here,” said Caina. “The Sifter saw us together, so it might decide to track you. For that matter, Malik Rolukhan might be able to track you with a spell. So long as you are here, neither Rolukhan nor the Sifter can find you.”

  “That assumes you shall not be here,” said Morgant. “Where are you going?”

  “To get a few things I’ll need to defeat the Sifter,” said Caina.

  “By yourself?” said Kylon, frowning.

  “They’re in a location that has similar wards,” said Caina. “It’s not far from here. If I get there quickly, I can shelter behind the wards and return here.” She shrugged. “If I’m not back by noon tomorrow, you can assume that I’m dead and do as you wish. If I do return with the items, we’ll meet an ally who might be able to help us banish the Sifter.”

  “No,” said Kylon.

  Morgant snorted. “You have a better plan, Kyracian?”

  “I do not,” said Kylon, “but you should not go alone. Not with the Sifter pursuing you, and not with the price upon your head. If you are attacked you will need aid.”

  Caina opened her mouth, and then closed it again. He wasn’t wrong. Yet the items Caina needed were in the Sanctuary, and she was the only one in Istarinmul who knew where it was. Not even Agabyzus knew, and he knew more of the Ghost circle’s secrets than anyone but Caina herself.