Ghost in the Razor

by Jonathan Moeller

  The pain in her neck burned, the darkness swallowing her. Desperate, Caina thrust the staff at the Sifter.

  A surge of sorcerous power went through the staff, and white light flared down its length. The Sifter rocked back with a hiss of fury, releasing Caina’s neck. She landed hard, coughing and wheezing, and managed to lean on the staff to keep herself from falling into the crimson flames. The staff looked too delicate to support her weight, yet it remained as rigid and unyielding as a steel bar. The Sifter stared at her with narrowed eyes, and Caina swung the staff.

  It was a slow, awkward blow, and the Sifter could have avoided it. Yet white light burst from the staff, and the Sifter reeled back. Caina thrust the staff again, and this time the end jabbed the Sifter’s chest. The form of the Adamant Guard exploded into the cloud of flames and embers Caina had seen before, and the ifrit whirled and flowed backwards out the door of the Seat.

  The ifrit was retreating.

  Caina opened her mouth to speak, and found that she could not stop coughing. There was too much damned smoke in the room. Half the floor had become a blanket of fire, and flames writhed along the ceiling. The staff vanished from her hand, and for a moment she feared she had dropped it, but she felt the pyrikon’s familiar weight settle upon her left wrist. Caina turned, blinking in the hellish glare of the fire, and started to stumble. A strong arm curled around her waist, and she felt a tingle of sorcery.

  “This way!” said Kylon. The smoke did not seem to discomfort him as much. The sorcery of air, no doubt. They hastened through the burning common room and into the kitchens. Nasser and Morgant and the others waited there. Nasser smashed the lock on the cellar door with his left fist and kicked open the door. Caina nodded her thanks to Kylon and shook free of his arm.

  “The valikon,” she rasped. “We can’t lose it. Do you…”

  “In the scabbard,” he said. He was bruised and bloody from minor cuts, but had come through the fighting otherwise unscathed. “Come on. We cannot stay here. The Sifter will take a new body or the Immortals will come for us.”

  They hastened down the stairs into the cellar. Like most of the cellars Caina had seen in Istarinmul, the Seat’s cellar was a vault of brick, thick pillars supporting the weight of the building overhead. Sacks of flour and casks of beer rested against the wall, along with benches, old tables, and what Caina suspected were bed linens that had never actually been washed. The air was cleaner down here, though it still stank of smoke, and Caina sucked in breath after breath.

  Nasser strode to the wall and opened one of the casks. The cask was a dummy, and inside gleamed a brass lever. Nasser’s fingers curled around it.

  “Wait,” said Kylon, hurrying to his side.

  “Do you want to burn to death here?” said Kazravid.

  “Keep your voice down,” said Kylon. Kazravid’s scowl widened, but Kylon kept talking in a low voice. “I assume that’s a secret door?” Nasser nodded. “There are three men waiting on the other side of the door. Immortals or Kindred, I can’t tell which.”

  “How do you know?” said Kazravid.

  Caina waved her fingers in imitation of a sorcerer casting a spell. “Stormdancer.”

  “Kazravid,” whispered Nasser. The Anshani anjar nodded, stepped back, and raised his bow. Laertes moved in front of him, raising the heavy Legion shield he preferred in melee. Kylon moved to the left of Nasser. Caina slipped a throwing knife into her hands, taking a deep breath as she tried to ignore the burning pain in her throat.

  Nasser nodded and yanked the lever, raising his scimitar.

  A section of the wall swung aside with a rasp, revealing a brick-lined tunnel leading into the darkness. Three men in chain mail and leather jerkins stood there, swords and daggers in hand. Kindred assassins, Caina realized, and the three men charged forward in silence.

  Kazravid loosed, and his arrow slammed into the forearm of the nearest man. The assassin stumbled with a scream, and Caina flung her throwing knife, taking the assassin in the throat. The Kindred fell to his knees, dying, and Nasser and Kylon struck in unison. Neither of the remaining Kindred assassins had expected attack from the side, and Kylon and Nasser killed them both in a few heartbeats.

  “Lord Kylon,” said Nasser. “Any others?”

  Kylon gave a sharp shake of his head. “Not that I can sense.”

  A loud cracking noise came from above, followed by a shudder that made Caina’s bones vibrate.

  “The building’s coming down,” said Morgant.

  “I suspect we shall not have to worry about immediate pursuit,” said Nasser.

  They hastened into the tunnel.

  “More to the point,” said Morgant, “where are we going?”

  “I have not yet decided,” said Nasser.

  “Yes, you’ve made so many successful decisions in the past,” said Morgant.

  Nasser ignored the sarcasm. “Clearly, we need a location shielded from arcane observation. I think…”

  “Does this tunnel,” said Caina. She coughed and rubbed her throat for a moment. “Does this tunnel link to the sewers?”

  “It does,” said Nasser.

  “Then I know where to go,” said Caina.

  “By all means, then,” said Nasser. “Take the lead.”

  Caina walked to the front, but Kylon kept close behind her, hand on his sword hilt.

  Chapter 14: Traps

  Kylon followed Caina as she made her way through the maze of Istarinmul’s sewers.

  He was glad she knew where she was going, because after the fifth turn Kylon doubted he could have found his way back to the cellar of the Shahenshah’s Seat. His sense of direction worked best when upon a ship, sailing the open sea, or traveling across the countryside. Fortunately, Caina knew her way through this stone maze.

  Even more fortunately, Nasser had thought to bring light. He donned a leather bracer upon his right forearm, a bracer mounted with a small glass sphere. A faint arcane aura surrounded the sphere, and it gave off a gentle glow, enough to illuminate the stone galleries. That was helpful, since some of the tunnels had rivers of filth running down the center. The stench was nearly a living thing, and it made Kylon miss the smoke of the Shahenshah’s Seat. Other tunnels were dry and dusty, as if they had not seen water in generations.

  At last they stopped in an empty chamber with a floor of sand, and Caina halted before the wall.

  “Here,” said Caina, tugging a loose brick from the wall. She reached into the hole and pulled something. A click came to Kylon’s ears, and a section of the wall slid aside to reveal a rusted iron ladder. She started climbing, and Kylon followed her.

  They emerged into another cellar lit by the glow of glass spheres upon iron stands, smaller than the one below the Seat. It looked like the outpost of an army, or perhaps a scouts’ camp. Kylon saw blankets, bandages, and sacks of food and casks of wine. A wooden shelf held tools and weapons, and on the far wall another ladder climbed up to the ceiling.

  There was a faint ward over the cellar. Kylon wondered who had cast it. Claudia, perhaps? Yet the spell felt old, as if it had been in place for decades, fading but still functional.

  The others emerged one by one into the cellar, and Caina closed the door after them.

  “What is this place?” said Laertes. “Reminds me of an outpost for Legionary scouts.”

  “A safe house,” said Caina. “We’re in the Old Quarter, underneath the timber merchants’ new hall.”

  “If the Sifter is using spells to track you,” said Nasser, “I fear this house will not remain safe for very long.”

  “It’s warded,” said Kylon.

  Caina crossed to a barrel and sat down with a sigh.

  “Warded?” said Kazravid. “Where did you find this place?”

  “I found it while I was looking for him,” said Caina, jerking her head towards Morgant. “This was the cellar of a minor Alchemist a hundred years ago. Rumor had it that Morgant the Razor killed him.”

  “I didn’t,” said Morgant
with a small smile. “In case anyone was wondering.”

  “However the Alchemist died,” said Caina, “his mansion burned down and a new street had been built over the ruins. I thought something of Morgant might have been left behind, so I investigated. I didn’t find anything about Morgant, but I did find the cellar. The Alchemist had warding spells over his mansion, and they remained active upon the cellar.”

  “So you established a safe house here,” said Nasser. “Well done.”

  Caina rubbed her face, pulling off her turban and the cowl of her shadow-cloak, her emotional aura brushing against Kylon’s sense as she did so. “I hope so. If we’re not murdered in our sleep, then it was clever.”

  She looked exhausted, her eyes bloodshot from the smoke, her neck and jaw bruised, her disguised voice flatter than usual. There was a new color in her emotional sense, a weary, tired guilt.

  “Nasser,” she said. “The Shahenshah’s Seat. Who owned it?”

  “An Anshani merchant,” said Nasser.

  “If we live through this,” said Caina, “find him, and I’ll send him some money.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “He didn’t deserve to have his livelihood burned to the ground. Gods. If I had known that the Sifter would have been able to find us so fast…”

  “One cannot,” said Nasser, “always see the consequences of every decision.”

  “You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” said Morgant.

  Again Nasser ignored the assassin, though Kylon felt the pulse of rage that went through the man’s emotional aura. Rage, and a considerable amount of guilt.

  “Everyone does,” said Caina, “sooner or later.” She straightened up. “Let’s have some food, and then we can decide what to do next.”

  “Those sacks, I assume?” said Laertes, pointing.

  Caina grinned. “How did you know?”

  “Because,” said Laertes, “this is not the first scout’s camp I’ve seen. Kazravid! Give me a hand with this.”

  Kazravid sniffed. “I am an anjar of the noble kin of Anshan.”

  “Then you can eat last,” said Laertes with a smirk.

  Kazravid sighed and walked to join him as they unpacked the food.

  Caina stood, stretched, and opened the lid of the cask she had been sitting on. The smell of cheap wine came to Kylon’s nostrils, and she crossed to one of the shelves, picking up clay cups. She filled one cup, handed it to Kylon, and then filled another. He expected her to drink it, but instead she handed it to Morgant.

  “Why?” she said.

  “Why I am going to drink this wine, you mean?” said Morgant. “Well, I am thirsty. Fighting is thirsty work.” Laertes snorted, digging loaves of hard bread and jerky from one of the sacks. Caina filled another cup and passed it to him.

  “Why didn’t you let the Sifter kill me?” said Caina.

  Morgant shrugged, took a sip of the wine, winced at the taste, and then took another sip. “It didn’t seem sporting.”

  “I was wrong,” said Caina. “I thought the valikon would kill the Sifter, but apparently the weapon only works on nagataaru, or on spirits housed within living flesh. I made a mistake, and it was about to kill me. The whole point of this was to see if I was worthy of your damned secret. So why not let the Sifter kill me? I failed the test.”

  “Maybe you could become worthy,” said Morgant.

  “You hardly seem an optimist,” said Nasser.

  Kylon expected another mocking remark from the assassin, but there was nothing. His cold, rigid emotional sense flickered with something. Doubt? Regret? Could the man even still feel regret?

  “I…do not know why I did it,” said Morgant. “Perhaps you reminded me of Annarah. Perhaps I admired the courage with which you faced death. It would have made a splendid painting. Or maybe I wished to ask you a question.”

  “What question?” said Caina.

  “Does the world deserve to die?” said Morgant.

  Again that strange flicker went through his aura.

  “Your…two rules, is that it?” said Caina. “You keep your word, and you only kill those who deserve it. Have you changed your mind?”

  “Does the world deserve death, I wonder?” said Morgant. “Whatever Callatas is doing with his Apotheosis will likely kill the world if he succeeds. Does not the world deserve it? Men like Callatas and Cassander Nilas rule most of the world.” From another man Kylon would have expected sadness or regret. Morgant only seemed…amused? Thoughtful? Resigned? “Why not kill the world? Does it not deserve death?”

  “No,” said Caina.

  Silence fell over the cellar as the others watched them.

  “Why not?” said Morgant. “Let us say you killed Callatas tomorrow, and the Star of Iramis fell into your hand, and you had the power to burn the world to ashes. Why not do it? Why not kill the world?”

  “Because you would kill the innocent alongside the guilty,” said Caina.

  “Perhaps everyone is guilty,” said Morgant.

  “No, everyone is not,” said Caina. “You would burn the unborn children in their mothers’ wombs. The living children, too. What crime have they done? Or the slaves? Or the merchants? Most of the people of Istarinmul are trying to live their lives, trying to keep their heads down and stay unnoticed by men like Callatas and Cassander.” She tilted her head to the side, regarding Morgant with bloodshot eyes. “You said you only had two rules. You keep your word, and you only kill those who deserve it.” Her lip curled. “Is that how you get around it? Everyone is guilty and the world deserves to die, so you can kill whoever you like?”

  “No,” said Morgant. “That is why I left the Kindred. I killed innocents who did not deserve their fate…such a long, long time ago. But after that…no, I only slew those who deserved it.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the world deserves to die for producing men such as us.”

  “Did you ever meet a sorceress who called herself the Moroaica?” said Caina.

  “Who?” said Morgant.

  “That’s a Szaldic myth,” said Kazravid. “Some old witch or ogress who terrorizes children. She even turns up in some tales in Anshan that call her the Bloodmaiden.”

  “She used to talk as you do,” said Caina, her voice soft, her emotional sense growing cold with the memory. “About killing and remaking the world.”

  Kazravid snorted. “Ridiculous. You claim to have met a myth?”

  Kylon expected Caina to argue, but she only offered a small smile and looked back at Morgant.

  “So, no, the world does not deserve death,” said Caina. “Maybe some men and women within it do. But not the whole world.” She frowned. “Why are you asking me questions like this? A madman like Callatas or a creature like the Moroaica might have the power to destroy the world, but you do not and I certainly do not.”

  Morgant frowned, and that flicker of doubt in his emotional aura grew stronger.

  “I…do not know,” he said, his voice missing some of its usual arrogant edge. “I do not remember.”

  “You do not remember?” said Nasser, incredulous. “This conversation began five minutes ago.”

  “I’m two hundred and six years old,” said Morgant, the arrogance returning. “Or two hundred and five. I’m so old that I cannot remember how old I am. Even older than you, my lord of ashes and glass. A man of my wisdom and experience is entitled to the occasional minor lapse of memory.”

  “Morgant,” said Caina. “Why did you ask me that?”

  “You…reminded me of Annarah when you were about to die,” said Morgant. He blinked. “Someone asked me that question a long, long time ago. The answer was important.”

  “Who?” said Caina.

  “I don’t remember, either,” said Morgant. “Only that it was important.”

  “For the gods’ sakes,” said Caina, and the rage in her heart burned hotter. “Have you been lying to me the entire time? You don’t know where Annarah is, but you’ve been playing this stupid little game anyway?”

  “I
know what happened to Annarah,” said Morgant. “That I remember with perfect clarity. That knowledge is so dangerous that I have not spoken of it to anyone for a century and a half. But the question, though…the question is important. Though I remember not why.”

  “You wasted a lot of time,” said Kylon, “pretending to be a mad artist.”

  “Just why is that, boy?” said Morgant.

  “You have no need to masquerade as a mad artist,” said Kylon, “because you are a mad artist, utterly and completely.”

  Morgant only laughed.

  “As fascinating as this philosophical discussion is,” said Nasser, “we have more pressing concerns.”

  “Such as not getting burned to death by a crazed devil of the netherworld, for one,” said Kazravid. He pointed at Nasser. “If you get killed, who is going to pay me?”

  Caina shook her head. “I was sure the valikon would be able to destroy the Sifter.”

  “As was I,” said Nasser. “Unfortunately, I am not an expert on the arcane sciences once wielded by the loremasters of Iramis.”

  “Plainly,” said Morgant.

  “The Sifter itself said that the valikon could only harm it while it wore living flesh,” said Kylon.

  “The sword harmed the kadrataagu at Silent Ash Temple,” said Laertes.

  “Kadrataagu?” said Kylon.

  “Nagataaru-possessed people,” said Caina. “The Huntress and Rolukhan are in cooperation their nagataaru. In a kadrataagu, the host has been overwhelmed and the nagataaru is in control. The kadrataagu were still alive, Laertes. Deformed and twisted, yes, but still living.”

  “The valikon was forged to destroy nagataaru,” said Nasser, “in ancient days, when the nagataaru-possessed Demon Princes ruled what is now Istarinmul. If the sword’s primary purpose was to kill nagataaru, perhaps it is less effective against other spirits.”

  “Then we must force the Sifter into a living body?” said Laertes.