Ghost in the Razor

by Jonathan Moeller

  “The Shahenshah’s Seat,” said Caina.

  “Here?” said Morgant. “You know, I’ve seen the actual Shahenshah’s seat, the throne within the Palace of Fire in Anshan itself. It’s carved from one solid block of red granite, highlighted with panels of crimson gold. It sits before the Hall of the Eternal Flame in the heart of the palace, and the Shahenshah sits there to pronounce his judgments.”

  “Do you have a point?” said Kylon.

  “The inn is a poor comparison,” said Morgant. “It ought to have been called the Shahenshah’s Outhouse.”

  “Your offended sense of aesthetics notwithstanding,” said Caina, “this is where we need to go.” She considered for a moment. “One thing. The men we are about to meet think that I am a man, and I would prefer they continue to think that.”

  “Why?” said Kylon. “Do you not trust them?”

  “To a point,” said Caina, “but considering how many people want me dead, the fewer people who know who I am really am, the better.”

  “Sound enough logic,” said Morgant. “Your disguise should be effective. It takes a special woman to go out in public smelling like a nomadic goat herder.”

  Kylon frowned and started to say something, but Caina spoke first. “Faint praise, but it thunders in my ears. Let me do the talking.”

  She led the way across the Bazaar to the common room of the Shahenshah’s Seat. It was full of porters and teamsters and caravan guards taking their noon meal, the room filled with conversation and the scent of cooking food. Long benches and tables ran the length of the room, and men sat at the tables, eating and drinking. The only women in sight were either serving maids or prostitutes.

  A man leaned against the far wall, arms folded across his chest, eyes cool and distant as he regarded the crowd. He was in his middle fifties, thick and stocky, his arms and chest heavy with muscle. He wore a simple tunic, trousers, and dusty boots, a broadsword hanging in a sheath at his belt. His stance and haircut all but screamed that he was a veteran of the Imperial Legion of the Nighmarian Empire.

  His eyes flicked to Caina as she approached with Kylon and Morgant, and a half-amused, half-wary smile came over his face.

  “Laertes,” said Caina, switching to the deeper, harsher voice she used when disguised as a man.

  “Ciaran,” said Laertes. “Give any more thought to marrying one of my daughters?”

  Kylon blinked in surprise and tried to cover it by coughing.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Caina. “My life is a dangerous one. I wouldn’t want to leave one of your daughters a widow.”

  “A fine sentiment,” said Laertes. “There’s trouble, isn’t there?”

  “Why do you say that?” said Caina.

  Laertes jerked his chin at the door. “Because when you walk in here, you almost always have trouble on your heels.” Morgant laughed at that, and Laertes eyed him. “Plus, we’ve heard rumors. Some dead Kindred assassins were found in the tunnels below the Ring of Cyrica, and someone killed a large number of Adamant Guards on the edge of the Anshani Quarter. Apparently Lord Cassander is furious, and the Grand Wazir is annoyed that Cassander is letting his Guards run free through the streets.”

  “Both men are both chronically annoyed,” said Caina. “Is he here?”

  “Aye,” said Laertes. “He’ll want to talk to you, I think.” He looked at Kylon and Morgant. “New friends?”

  Kylon was an old friend, and Morgant was definitely not a friend, but Caina nodded. “Something of the sort.” She gestured at Kylon. “This man is known as the Exile, and the one in the black coat is called Markaine. We currently have something of a common interest.”

  “Exile,” said Laertes. “I saw you fight in the Ring of Cyrica two weeks ago.”

  Kylon nodded but said nothing.

  “Never seen you before,” said Laertes to Morgant, who only shrugged. “They can come up.” He pointed at Kylon and Morgant. “But if you make trouble, it will be on your own heads.”

  “Assuming they remained attached to our necks, you mean?” said Morgant.

  “I’m pleased you understand,” said Laertes. “This way.”

  He led the way to the Seat’s second floor, down a corridor, and to a door. Laertes swung the door open, and within was a sitting room dominated by a low, round Istarish table, ringed by cushions. Two men sat at the table. The first wore the patterned red and black robes of an Anshani anjar, a lower noble of the Shahenshah’s court. His dark beard and hair and been oiled, and his prominent nose and jaw made him look a bit like a hunting hawk, his dark eyes keen and fierce. A hunting bow rested near at hand, and his eyes widened when he saw Caina.

  “Kazravid,” said Caina. She had never expected to see him again.

  “Master Ciaran,” said Kazravid. “Well, well. Though you would have gotten yourself killed by now.”

  “It hasn’t been through lack of trying,” said Caina, following Laertes into the room. Kylon came after her, and then Morgant. “What are you doing here? I thought you had returned to Anshan.”

  Kazravid grimaced. “I encountered difficulties.”

  “Alas, our noble anjar was robbed,” said the second man, rising to his feet.

  He was in his late thirties or early forties, of Istarish or Anshani birth with brown skin. His head had been shaved, and the trimmed lines of a black beard encircled his lips and edged his chin. He wore a black shirt and black trousers, his left hand concealed beneath a black leather glove and bracer, a scimitar hanging from his belt. As ever, Caina felt the aura of potent sorcery around the gloved hand, and she saw Kylon’s eyes narrow as he felt it as well.

  “Damned steppe nomads,” grumbled Kazravid.

  “Fear not, noble anjar,” said Nasser Glasshand, a white smile flashing over his dark face. “I suspect the opportunity to make more money is at hand.” His eyes turned back to Caina. “You have brought guests, I see?”

  “I have,” said Caina, stepping to the side so Kylon and Morgant could enter. “This is Nasser Glasshand. This man is known as the Exile and…”

  Kylon’s hand fell to the hilt of the sword at his belt.

  Caina looked around in alarm, wondering if enemies had found them, or if the Sifter had caught up to them. But Kazravid jerked to his feet with a curse, and Laertes reached for his sword as well.

  Morgant and Nasser glared at each other. Neither man moved or spoke, but it was obvious violence was only a heartbeat away.

  “What the hell?” said Caina. “You two know each other?”

  She had suspected that Nasser was older than he appeared, that he had some method for staving off death. The Huntress had shot him through the chest, yet he had recovered in short order. Yet he knew Morgant on sight. That meant…

  Just how old was Nasser?

  “Nasser Glasshand?” said Morgant with a scornful laugh. “Is that what you are calling yourself now? Appropriate, really. The daring master thief? You certainly were good for nothing else.”

  “How are you still alive?” said Nasser. “You should have died a century and a half ago.”

  “I made friends,” said Morgant.

  “Callatas, wasn’t it?” said Nasser, stepping around the table, the fingers of his sword hand opening and closing. Morgant shifted his stance, his pale eyes getting colder. “You worked for Callatas all along. How did he reward you, hmm? A vial of Elixir Rejuvenata to extend your wretched life? Perhaps a necromantic bloodcrystal, so you could feast on the deaths of your victims?”

  “Nasser,” said Caina, but both men ignored her.

  “I would ask how you survived all this time,” said Morgant, “but I know how. You survived because you were a failure. You survived because you failed to defend your family, your office, and your city. You should have burned with the rest of them.” He let out a mocking laugh. “Instead, it seems the curse only got you halfway, Nasser Glasshand.” He spat out the last word like an insult. “Fitting. You can wallow in your guilt forever.”

  “As opposed to your gu
ilt, murderer?” said Nasser. “You slew Annarah. We could have put a stop to Callatas’s crimes decades ago with her help. Instead Callatas has been left to do his wretched work unchecked…”

  “Considering you failed to stop him the first time,” said Morgant, “it is not my fault.”

  “No one realized the power that Callatas had at his command, not even with the Star,” said Nasser. His face was calm, but his words were hard as iron, and his entire body radiated tension. Laertes took a deep breath, his hand hovering near his sword hilt. Kazravid took several prudent steps back from the table, giving him more room to unleash an arrow before the violence started. “No one! Not the loremasters, not the Prince, not the valikarion, no one.”

  “Really?” said Morgant. “Do you not recall why he was cast out in the first place? Do you not remember at whose knee he learned his sorcery? All that and you still underestimated him?”

  “Yes,” said Nasser. “I did.” He leveled a gloved finger at Morgant’s face. “But you…you slew Annarah. The Prince entrusted the regalia to her, and you tracked and murdered her!”

  “Idiot,” said Morgant. “I did not kill her.”

  “Then you have the Staff and the Seal now?” said Nasser. “Is that why you have dared to show your face again? You wish to sell them to Callatas?”

  “Given that I have no idea where they are, that would be rather foolish, wouldn’t it?” said Morgant. “And I did not slay Annarah.”

  “Then what did you do with her?” said Nasser. “What did you do with the Staff and the Seal?”

  Morgant said nothing for a moment, his hands flexing. Suddenly Caina regretted giving him that crimson scimitar.

  “I am not going to tell you,” said Morgant.

  Nasser bellowed in rage and brought his left fist down on the table. It was an inch thick, built of solid, sturdy wood, but his gloved fist tore a hole through it the size of Caina’s head. Laertes’s jaw fell open, and Caina shared his surprise. She and Nasser had gone into a great deal of danger together, and she had never seen him this angry.

  “You will tell me, assassin,” said Nasser.

  “I shall not,” said Morgant. “You are not worthy of the information.”

  “And just why not?” said Nasser.

  “Both of you, stop this,” said Caina. “We…”

  “Because you are weak,” said Morgant. “Too weak to save your family or your people. Right now, in all the world, I am the only one that knows what happened to Annarah. If I tell you, I’m sure Callatas will find the relics and work his Apotheosis within the week.”

  Nasser took another step closer. “You are going to tell me.”

  “Or?” said Morgant.

  “Listen to me,” said Caina, but they didn’t.

  ###

  Kylon watched the confrontation.

  He did not entirely understand what was happening. No doubt Nasser Glasshand was the ally Caina had mentioned, but he had flown into a fury at the sight of Morgant, his rage pulsing against Kylon’s senses like heat from a furnace. Morgant was no less angry, though his contemptuous anger was colder. The two men were going to come to blows, and Kazravid and Laertes would take Nasser’s side. They might kill Morgant, and then Caina would never find the relics.

  There was only one thing to do.

  “Shut up!” Kylon roared at the top of his lungs, employing the voice he had used when commanding the seventh fleet of New Kyre in battle against the Empire.

  Silence fell over the room as the men stared at him. Caina looked at him with wide blue eyes. He could not sense her emotions while she wore the shadow-cloak, but the surprise was plain upon her face.

  “I do not know what your grievance is with each other,” said Kylon. “But you will speak civilly until,” he remembered to use Caina’s fake name at the last minute, “until Ciaran has finished with you. Otherwise you shall answer to me.”

  “And just who are you, Kyracian?” said Kazravid. “You think you can take us all?”

  Kylon snatched the cup of steaming coffee Kazravid had left upon the table and called his power, focusing the sorcery of water upon it. The coffee froze to a solid black lump, and Kylon tossed it at Kazravid. The Anshani archer jerked his head to the side, and the lump of frozen coffee bounced off the floorboards.

  “Gods,” grunted Laertes. “A stormdancer.”

  “Just what are you, then?” said Kazravid. “Ciaran’s pet?”

  “He’s a friend,” said Caina. “And he’s right. This is not the time to fight amongst ourselves.”

  “That man should be dead,” said Nasser, his gloved hand pointing at Morgant.

  “Well, to be fair, so should you,” said Morgant. He smirked at Caina. “He’s almost as old as I am, you know. Has he told you who he really is yet? No? Ah. Well, Nasser, what do you say? Shall I tell your friend Ciaran of your great failures?”

  “I don’t know who he is,” said Caina, “and he doesn’t know who I am, not yet. I would prefer to keep it that way until necessary.”

  “And just why is that?” said Morgant.

  “Because,” said Caina, her voice quiet. “What I don’t know can’t be tortured out of me if Callatas or his hunters take me alive.”

  “To my surprise, that is sound reasoning,” said Morgant.

  “Then,” said Nasser with a frown, “you are not working with Callatas?”

  “Are you even stupider than I thought?” said Morgant. “No. Callatas thinks that I’m dead. He sent me to kill Annarah, yes.” He waved a thin hand at Caina’s left arm. “You’ve seen that she has Annarah’s pyrikon? How the hell do you think she got it? I gave it to Callatas. I brought the pyrikon to him and told him that Annarah was dead, and then I took the money and disappeared. As far as Callatas is concerned, I died decades ago. Even when I painted that mural…”

  “Wait,” said Nasser. “You are Markaine of Caer Marist?”

  “Aye,” said Morgant.

  Caina frowned. “How did Callatas keep from recognizing you when you painted his mural?”

  Morgant grinned. “You’re not the only one who is good at disguise, Balarigar.” He looked around. “You have realized that Ciaran here is the Balarigar, right? I haven’t just revealed some big damned secret?”

  “Of course we have,” said Kazravid. “We’re not stupid.”

  “Truly, noble anjar?” said Morgant. “You do a fine impersonation of it.”

  Kazravid scowled, but Nasser raised a hand, and the anjar stilled. Kylon glanced at Laertes, but the Legion veteran was still waiting. It seemed both Laertes and Kazravid followed Nasser’s lead.

  “We have an opportunity here,” said Caina. She pointed at herself and then at Nasser. “Callatas wants us both dead more than anyone else in the world.”

  “Especially him,” said Morgant. “How are you still alive, Nasser? I don’t just mean the longevity. Callatas should have found and killed you decades ago.”

  A white, mirthless smile flashed across Nasser’s face. “You are not the only man who knows how to disappear, assassin.”

  “If Callatas knew that Morgant was alive,” said Caina, “he would want him dead as well. So the three people Callatas wants dead most are in the same room. Surely there is an opportunity for us.”

  “What about you, Kyracian?” said Kazravid. “Are you some figure of history as well? Perhaps Rykon, the founder of New Kyre? Or the last Archon of Old Kyrace?”

  “Actually,” murmured Nasser, “that man is Kylon of House Kardamnos, more commonly known as the Shipbreaker.”

  Kylon blinked. Nasser was quite well informed.

  Kazravid laughed. “Indeed? Then I am Lord Corbould Maraeus and the Emissary of the Living Flame.”

  “I’ve met her,” said Caina. “You’re not her. This man is Lord Kylon.” Kylon met Kazravid’s gaze, and the anjar looked away first, a bit of alarm coloring his emotions. “Since both a Master Alchemists and Lord Cassander want him dead, you should keep that information to yourself.”

  �
�By the Living Flame,” muttered Kazravid. He sat back down, reached for his coffee, remembered that Kylon had froze it, and sighed. “I should have stayed in Anshan.”

  “There is greater opportunity for profit here,” said Nasser. “Now. Ciaran. You have come here for a reason, I trust?”

  “I did,” said Caina. “I didn’t know about your…history with Morgant.” She pointed at the assassin. “He knows what happened to Annarah. He won’t tell you…but he might tell me.”

  “Why?” said Nasser.

  “If the Balarigar proves worthy of the knowledge,” said Morgant. “You see, my lord of glass, my knowledge is dangerous. Whoever learns it is probably going to get killed, most likely at the hands of Callatas. If I am to keep my word to Annarah, then I must ensure that whoever I tell the secret is strong enough to survive.”

  “Your word,” said Nasser. “What good is the word of an assassin?”

  Morgant grinned, though the smile did not touch his emotional sense. “Tell me this, Glasshand. You know who I am. You know the things I have done. When has Morgant the Razor ever broken his word?”

  Nasser stared at the assassin. The anger remained in his sense, but not quite as hot as it had been a moment earlier. His intellect was reasserting itself against his rage. Kylon had often felt something similar from Caina, usually when they were in the middle of a crisis.

  This was a very dangerous man. Little wonder Caina had come to him for help.

  “What,” said Nasser at last, “do you have in mind?”

  “I have a creature after me,” said Caina. “A kind of fire elemental, an ifrit.”

  “Callatas does not often conjure elementals to do his bidding,” said Nasser.

  “He didn’t,” said Caina. “The creature called itself the Sifter, and it attacked in the company of Adamant Guards.” She let out a long breath. “I think Cassander Nilas conjured the spirit and set it after me.”

  Kazravid grunted. “You annoyed the Umbarians, too?”

  “I have a gift for winning friends,” said Caina.

  “Plainly.”

  “Morgant said that if I defeat the Sifter,” said Caina, “he will tell me what happened to Annarah.”