“I’m surprised you would use something like this,” said Kylon. “You always hated sorcery so much.”
She sighed. “I’m not pleased about it. But given the kind of enemies we face, it would be foolish to turn away any tool. Even a sorcerous one. And there are…degrees of evil. Elixir Rejuvenata is created from the murder of unborn children. Elixir Restorata isn’t. If I need it to save someone’s life, I will use it.”
“You could use it to save your life,” said Kylon. “With the risks you take…”
“Actually, I can’t,” said Caina. “Watch this.”
She put one finger upon the nearest vial.
The liquid within the vial began to boil, the crystal itself trembling. The vials were radiating arcane power, but the vial beneath Caina’s finger generated more power, much more. More power than the liquid and the crystal could physically contain…
“Stop!” Kylon said, but she had already removed her finger. The vial shuddered and went still, the Elixir within calming. “What was that?”
“It doesn’t respond well to me,” said Caina. “I asked Claudia about it, and she thinks it has something to do with whatever lets me sense the presence of sorcerous force. When I touch the Elixir, it pulls more power into itself than its physical materials can contain. So if I tried to drink it…”
“It would make a mess,” said Kylon.
“The sort of mess that would blow up a building,” said Caina. “Or several buildings. I suppose there are more painful ways to kill yourself, but I would rather not find out.”
“You can’t take this with you,” said Kylon. “It’s too powerful. Anyone with even a modicum of arcane ability will sense it a dozen yards off.”
She smiled again and wrapped the vials of Elixir in the leather sheet, and the arcane aura vanished from Kylon’s senses.
“Lead foil,” she said. “Useful stuff. Blocks out arcane observation.” She looked at the ceiling. “I thought about having the entire Sanctuary wrapped in lead foil, but that wasn’t practical.”
“Or affordable,” said Kylon.
“Mmm,” said Caina. “Claudia came up with the idea for the ward plates, and that has worked well, so far.” She picked up the wrapped bundle. “We have everything we need. It’s time to go hunting.”
“I think I’ll need a disguise,” said Kylon.
Caina looked at the wardrobes and the racks of clothing. “I think I can accommodate you.”
She stooped once more, picked up a sheathed scimitar from beneath the table, and led him to the wardrobes.
###
“Five,” said Morgant.
Azaces held up three fingers.
“Well, then,” said Morgant. “Your roll.”
The big Sarbian nodded and rolled the dice. Morgant watched the little wooden cubes spin, totaled up the number, and sighed. Azaces grunted, and Morgant slid a small stack of copper coins across the table.
“You have a knack for this,” said Morgant. “Tell me. Are those weighted dice?”
Azaces gave him a flat glare, and Morgant chuckled.
“Not that I object to cheating,” said Morgant. “Only if you don’t get caught.”
Azaces said nothing. But, then, the lack of a tongue meant he never would.
Morgant sat at a small table near the front door to Nerina Strake’s shop. Nerina herself sat slumped in one of the nearby chairs, her head bowed, her breathing coming slow and steady. After Caina left with Kylon, Morgant had asked Nerina to explain some of her locks to him. It had been partly to pass the time, partly because he was curious, and partly because he wanted to know what kind of allies the Balarigar possessed. Nerina spent the next five hours talking at great length about her theories of locks, about the importance of mathematical precision in constructing mechanical devices. Morgant had understood maybe a tenth of it. He had tried insulting her a few times, despite Azaces’s scowls, just to see how she would react, but that proved useless. Nerina calmly explained in detailed mathematical terms why he was wrong. Once he had made a joke about her height, and the locksmith had then drawn a massive equation over one of her chalkboards to explain why her height was within the median range and the mean for both Istarish women and Caerish-born women. The lecture and the equation had taken over an hour, and after that Nerina had sat down and fallen asleep, apparently exhausted by the effort.
“That,” said Morgant, “is a very dangerous young woman.”
Azaces said nothing, gathering the dice in a small pouch. He produced a deck of cards and started to deal, his thick, scarred fingers gripping the cards with surprising dexterity.
“Not in a fight, I think,” said Morgant, collecting his hand of cards. The images upon them were surprisingly well done, Padishahs and Emirs and Alchemists wrought in bright, stylized color. “That’s what she has you for. But that clever brain of hers is dangerous in the right hands. Have her work for a Padishah or a king, and she’s going to build a new kind of siege engine that will change warfare. Just as well that she works for the Balarigar, then.”
Azaces considered his cards for a moment, then slid a stack of copper coins into the center of the table.
“So why does she work for the Balarigar?” said Morgant. “I can guess. She has the eyes of a wraithblood addict, but I haven’t seen her use it. So she kicked the habit, but racked up debts. The Balarigar helped her pay off those debts, and now they’re friends.” He considered his cards, and added some coins to the pile on the table.
Azaces grunted and added a silver coin to the wager.
“Isn’t that interesting?” said Morgant. “I know why the Balarigar left me here, by the way.”
Azaces said nothing, waiting for Morgant to decide upon a wager.
“Because people talk to you,” said Morgant. “You can’t speak, and I suspect you can neither read nor write. So people forget you’re there, and they tell you things. The Balarigar wants to know more about me…so here we are.”
Azaces offered an indifferent shrug.
“Cuts both ways, though,” said Morgant. He added another coin to the pile. Azaces’s eyes narrowed at that. “Do you want to know something funny? Yesterday I encountered a madwoman who declared war upon the Brotherhood of Slavers and Grand Master Callatas, a madwoman who has waged that war with disguises, bluffs, and trickery. Following her is an exiled Kyracian nobleman with a death wish and a grudge against a Master Alchemist. They took refuge at the workshop of a wraithblood-addicted locksmith. Quite an unusual story, no?”
Azaces’s snort might have carried a note of amusement.
“But the strangest thing here,” said Morgant, “the one thing that doesn’t make sense…is you.”
The amusement vanished, and the big man’s eyes hardened.
“Why are you here?” said Morgant, glancing at Nerina. “Why work for her? She’s a wraithblood addict, and likely would have gotten herself killed by now if you were not here to guard her.” Azaces’s hard, unblinking eyes drilled into Morgant. “You’re not sleeping with her. You’re not in love with her, else you would have slept with her by now or left. You’re not quite old enough to be her real father, and she doesn’t look anything like you. Though wouldn’t that have been an amusing story? Ragodan Strake, cuckolded by a mute Sarbian slave.”
Still Azaces gave no hint of his thoughts.
“But that doesn’t fit,” said Morgant. “So…the most logical explanation is guilt. Regret. That makes a man do things he might not otherwise do. You wronged Nerina Strake somehow, and now you watch over her to assuage the guilt.”
Azaces said nothing, but his eyes flickered briefly to Nerina, as if he feared that she would overhear.
“Ah,” said Morgant.
The big Sarbian scowled at him, and slapped three additional silver coins into the wager.
“I think I understand,” said Morgant. “You gave your word that you would watch over her. That is why you are still here. I can understand that. I gave my word, too. A very, very long time ago. Which i
s why I am here. Perhaps the Balarigar can help me keep my word at last.” He added more coins to the wager. “Ah. That is clever. I wound up telling you more than I intended. Though I’m not sure how you’ll communicate that to the Balarigar.”
Azaces laid his cards on the table, and Morgant followed suit.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
Azaces let out a rumbling chuckle and pulled the coins towards himself.
“Or maybe I’m completely wrong about you,” said Morgant, “and you’re just very good at bluffing.”
Azaces said nothing as he gathered his winnings, though he gave off a distinct air of satisfaction.
“Smugness is not a virtue,” said Morgant.
Azaces responded with a rude gesture, and Morgant laughed.
He was about to suggest another game when a knock came at the heavy steel door. Azaces got to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, hands falling to his weapons. Nerina blinked awake and sat up. She had slept through their conversation, though the knocking had awakened her.
“Eh?” she said. “What’s that?” She looked at Morgant. “You’re still here? Did you steal anything?”
“Mistress Strake,” said Morgant, “if I were to make you the subject of a painting, no one would purchase it, as anyone looking upon it would consider you too implausible to exist.”
Nerina nodded. “Mathematical anomalies are always implausible until one has done the necessary equations.”
Azaces opened the little window, grunted, and opened the door.
Kylon of House Kardamnos and another man walked into the sitting room. Morgant blinked, and then his brain caught up to his eyes and he recognized Caina Amalas. She had disguised herself as one of the Istarish tribesmen of the southern steppes, with a ragged brown robe, loose trousers, heavy sandals, and a scimitar and dagger at her belt. A turban covered her head, its loose cloth hanging to her shoulders. Expertly applied makeup gave her the illusion of stubble. Kylon wore a similar costume, though he seemed uncomfortable and out of place. Doubtless the subtleties of disguise were not part of a Kyracian nobleman’s education. He had acquired a second sword, a heavy falchion strapped to his back.
“You look so much like one of the southern nomads,” said Morgant, “that I’m surprised you haven’t been accused of having an illicit romance with a goat.”
Kylon frowned, but Caina let out a short laugh. “That’s the point. The steppe nomads often come to Istarinmul to trade, so they’re a common sight. Yet they’re prickly enough that no one bothers them without good reason. It will serve as a disguise.”
“You’re too pale to pass yourself off as an Istarish nomad,” said Morgant, “and I certainly am.”
Caina reached into her satchel and tossed him a cap with a silver badge. It was the same style of cap she had worn yesterday. “Which is why you’ll wear this.” Morgant put the cap on. “You’ll like some merchant negotiating to buy wool and meat and cheese from the nomads.”
“Ridiculous,” said Morgant. “Have you ever eaten Istarish goat cheese? I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy.”
“I didn’t say you would be a successful merchant,” said Caina. “Which is why you’re still buying goat cheese from nomads at your advanced age.”
He considered her, and caught a glimpse of something dark at the base of her neck. Of course – a Ghost shadow-cloak. That was why she was wearing the turban and the robe. One could hardly walk about in broad daylight wearing a Ghost shadow-cloak, especially when the Balarigar had a bounty of two million bezants upon her head. The turban and the robe concealed the shadow-cloak, and in turn the cloak obscured her from sorcerous observation and from the supernatural senses of the Sifter.
Though it would not hide her from the Sifter’s eyes of flesh, or from more mundane forms of observation.
“Or,” said Caina with a wide, bright smile, “you could always paint the goat cheese.”
“Paint it,” said Morgant.
“A portrait, I mean,” said Caina. “A still life of a piece of Istarish goat cheese. I’m sure that would be an artistic triumph on the same level as your mural of the Fall of Iramis.”
“Frankly,” said Kylon, “I would rather buy the cheese.”
Morgant grinned. She was insulting him, seeing how he reacted. That was good.
“Learning the game, are we?” said Morgant, adjusting his cap. “Well. Shall we meet this ally of yours? Perhaps you can bring him some goat cheese for a gift.”
“His taste is far too good for that,” said Caina. “Nerina, thank you for sheltering us. I trust Markaine was stimulating company?”
“Not really,” said Nerina. “I tried to explain the underlying mathematical principles of proper artwork to him. His work would be more compelling if he painted geometric shapes instead of…of people and things.” She sighed. “No one understands.”
“Azaces?” said Caina. “Any trouble?”
Morgant watched the big warrior, wondering how he would respond.
At last Azaces shook his head.
Interesting.
“Good,” said Caina. “Thank you again, Nerina and Azaces. Let’s go.”
Morgant and Kylon followed her onto the street. Caina walked several steps, and then stopped and snapped her fingers as if she had forgotten something.
“Also,” said Caina, reaching into her robe, “I think this is yours.”
She tossed a sheathed scimitar and a sword belt at him, and Morgant caught it. Curious, he drew the blade, and blinked in surprise. The blade was a deep crimson, like the bloody talon of some great beast.
And he had not seen this sword for a very long time.
“What’s this?” said Morgant. “Where did you get this?”
“I’ve been looking for you for a while,” said Caina. “Following clues and fables and myths. A sorcerer called the Collector had a sword that allegedly had been yours. Was it?”
“It was,” said Morgant. “I lost this a century ago. Bit of a long story, really. It used to belong to an assassin called Carzim. I…”
“We can hear the story later,” said Caina. “The longer we dawdle, the more time the Sifter has to find us.”
“Very well,” said Morgant, looping the sword belt around his waist.
Perhaps she was, indeed, the one who would prove worthy of his secrets. Perhaps the Knight of Wind and Air had been right.
If not…well, Morgant suspected he would find out soon enough.
Chapter 12: Old Enemies
Caina walked from the Cyrican Quarter, making her way to the Anshani Quarter, Istarinmul’s most populous district. Once, long ago, she supposed the Quarter had been mostly Anshani, but now the poorest free residents of Istarinmul lived here, regardless of their nation and tribe. Most of the Istarish citizens in the Anshani Quarter received a free bread ration from the Wazir of Grain, while the foreign-born residents organized themselves into criminal gangs and supported themselves by robbery and petty mercenary work, or by kidnapping travelers and selling them to the Brotherhood of Slavers. It was dangerous to visit the Anshani Quarter after dark, and there were parts of the Quarter that were dangerous to visit at any time of the day.
Yet the main streets were safe enough, patrolled by the city watch, and Caina wanted to avoid any trouble. Mostly because Kylon and Morgant could mow their way through a small army of thugs, and Morgant in particular would not spare anyone who attacked him. Butchering their way through the Anshani Quarter would attract unwelcome attention.
“Where are we going?” said Morgant at last. Tenements rose on either side of the street, some of them nearly twenty stories tall. A few of the buildings had an alarming sag, which perhaps explained why the carts and pedestrians moved faster here.
“The Anshani Bazaar,” said Caina. “Also known the Bazaar of the Southern Road.”
“I know what it is, dear child,” said Morgant. “I’ve lived in Istarinmul longer than you have. A lot longer, I should point out. In fact, when your mother first looked with l
ust upon your father…”
“My mother never lusted after anything except power,” said Caina. “And if you’ve lived here that long, then you don’t need me to tell you where we are.”
Morgant snorted, but said nothing. Caina was relieved. Kylon remained quiet, walking in grim silence. Perhaps that was just as well. His Istarish was serviceable, but she doubted he would ever speak it without a thick Kyracian accent.
They reached the Anshani Bazaar at noon. Merchant stalls and booths packed the Bazaar, men and women from every nation under the sun buying and selling, the steady roar of a thousand conversations rolling over the vast square, the sound mixed with the braying of mules, the creak of wagon wheels, and the squealing of pigs come to market. A hundred different smells packed the air, wood smoke and horse dung and cooked meat and exotic spices and the odor of men who had spent weeks on the road without a proper bath. Beyond the Bazaar stood the city’s outer wall, and past that stretched the massive caravanserai of the Great Southern Road, where endless merchant traffic passed between Anshan and Istarinmul and Cyrica.
Kylon stopped and rubbed his temples for a moment. He had told Caina once that he found crowds difficult, that he had to concentrate to keep the emotions from overwhelming him. Evidently he had managed the discipline necessary, given how well he handled himself in battle.
Caina led the way to an inn on one side of the Bazaar. It was a ramshackle, sprawling building of whitewashed stone. The wealthy merchants coming from the south preferred to stay at the inns of the Cyrican Quarter or the Emirs’ Quarter, if they could afford it. But their guards and porters and teamsters stayed at the Shahenshah’s Seat, drinking themselves senseless on its cheap wine and cavorting with the Anshani Quarter’s whores.
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