Ghost in the Razor

by Jonathan Moeller

  She turned a corner and whispered a quiet curse under her breath.

  “Trouble?” murmured Morgant. His eyes flickered over the street. “I don’t see anyone. Just some wraithblood addicts.” Dozens of them sat against the wall, clad in ragged clothes. Some of them rocked back and forth, while others stared blankly at the sky. A few others muttered to themselves, or carried on conversations with people who were not there.

  “Aye,” said Caina. That was trouble enough. At least for her. “You’ll see.”

  She walked down the street, Morgant following. Many wraithblood addicts tended to congregate near the harbors. The foreigners coming off the merchant ships were often willing to throw a few coins to the beggars.

  The addicts started to notice her, their ghostly blue eyes turning in her direction. She heard the requests for money, money to buy wraithblood, the dark potion that let them see beautiful visions. The addicts moved closer, their unwashed scent filling Caina’s nostrils. Morgant’s indifferent mask never wavered, but his bony hands twitched closer to his weapons.

  “No, don’t bother,” said Caina, still walking. “Watch.”

  The wraithblood addicts shuffled closer…and then they recoiled in fear, their eerie eyes growing wide.

  “I see you,” whispered one. “I can see you, I can see you!”

  “I am standing right here, fool,” said Morgant.

  “He’s not talking about you,” said Caina.

  “The shadow, I see the shadow upon you!” said another.

  “The fire burns, it throws the shadow upon you,” said still another. “It burns in the web of time! I…I can see it…”

  “Don’t hurt me,” said a fourth, throwing his arms over his head. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!”

  Caina kept walking, and the wraithblood addicts cringed away from her in terror, huddling against the walls. Morgant watched them with narrowed eyes, his hands remaining near his weapons, but the wraithblood addicts made no threatening moves. The addicts usually did not become violent, unless the final debilitating stage of their addiction induced murderous hallucinations.

  “What did you do to them?” said Morgant.

  “Nothing,” said Caina. “Nothing at all. I noticed it when I first came to Istarinmul. Wraithblood addicts can see…a shadow around me. I don’t really know what it is.”

  “Strake did not mention it,” said Morgant, eyes narrowed. Likely he was annoyed that he had missed it.

  “Nerina has seen it before,” said Caina. “It was how we met. And she’s not insane.”

  “A generous assessment,” said Morgant.

  “She is in control of herself,” conceded Caina. “I don’t know what the shadow is. Kalgri…the Huntress thought it was the shadow of something that would happen to me in the future. Like an omen.”

  “Pleasant thought,” said Morgant. “What do you think that it is?”

  “I don’t know,” said Caina. “It keeps the wraithblood addicts away from me, though.”

  “I am surprised they haven’t all starved to death yet,” said Morgant.

  “They would,” said Caina, “but one of the Orders of the Living Flame is devoted to charitable works, and the Sisters provide food for the wraithblood addicts.”

  “Ah,” said Morgant. “One suspects that the daring master thief known as the Balarigar may have made sizeable anonymous donations to that Order.”

  Caina sighed, annoyed with herself. She hadn’t intended to tell him that, but he had figured it out. “Yes. But…you may be right.”

  “Well, obviously. About what, though?”

  Caina glanced around. “You said the purpose of the Apotheosis was to summon a large number of nagataaru, that Callatas intends to put them in the bodies of the wraithblood addicts. That is why the Padishah’s magistrates allow the Sisters of the Living Flame to feed the addicts. He needs them alive for when he works the Apotheosis.”

  “Perhaps you should kill them all, then,” said Morgant. “Deny them to the Grand Master.”

  “No,” said Caina, anger creeping into her tone. “They don’t deserve that, and they certainly don’t deserve to have nagataaru stuffed inside their heads. For a man who claims that he never slew anyone who didn’t deserve it, you are quick to kill.”

  Morgant smirked, and for a burning moment Caina wanted to beat him over the head with something heavy until he told her what had happened to Annarah. She knew it was a futile idea. For one thing, she could not take him in hand-to-hand combat. And some part of her understood him. Caina had secrets, too. She had not told Damla everything, nor Agabyzus, nor Nerina, nor Nasser or any of the other friends and allies she had made in Istarinmul. That knowledge was dangerous and could bring them to harm. Perhaps Morgant’s secret was the same.

  Though now that Caina thought about it, the man who knew her best in all of Istarinmul was Kylon. An odd thought, given that they had tried to kill each other during their first meeting in Marsis.

  Caina walked in silence to their destination, a tavern at the edge of the dockside quarter. Like most structures in Istarinmul, it was built of sun-beaten adobe, whitewashed to deflect the sun’s glare. Unlike most buildings in Istarinmul, worn nets hung from the side of the tavern, along with rusted harpoons.

  “The Whaler’s Rest,” said Morgant. “How tediously clever.”

  “I never liked fish,” said Caina.

  “Whales aren’t fish.”

  “Don’t care.” She pushed open the door.

  There were taverns in the docks that catered to every nation and tribe under the sun, but The Whaler’s Rest sold beer and wine to fishermen and sailors. The interior was dim, the floor covered with boards taken from the decks of scrapped ships. More nets hung from the wooden rafters overhead, and harpoons and anchors and various other nautical tools Caina did not recognize had been bolted to the walls. She spotted Nasser, Kazravid, Laertes, and Kylon sitting at a table in the corner, speaking with an Anshani man in the chain mail and leather jerkin of a mercenary. The Anshani man rose and bowed to Nasser and Kazravid, who answered in kind. Caina took a prudent step to the side as the Anshani mercenary crossed the room and departed the tavern, and then joined Nasser and the others at their table, Morgant settling next to her.

  “Who was that?” said Caina.

  “That,” said Kazravid, “is a friend of mine. Shopur, another noble-born anjar of Anshan. Like me, he was banished for regrettable misunderstandings…”

  Laertes coughed.

  Kazravid glared at the Legion veteran and kept speaking. “He went into mercenary work, and recently made his way to Istarinmul. It seems the southern emirs have begun hiring mercenaries to protect their lands. The Brotherhood is so desperate for fresh inventory that they’ve begun raiding southern Istarinmul and kidnapping free peasants. Shopur and his lads were on their way to the Vale of Fallen Stars to take contract with the emir Tanzir Shahan.”

  “I see,” said Caina. She had met Tanzir Shahan in Malarae a few years ago, and it was hard to imagine that fat, timid young man hiring mercenaries and defying the Brotherhood of Slavers. But people changed, and perhaps Tanzir had taken more from his sojourn in Malarae than Caina had thought.

  “In the meantime,” said Nasser, “the honorable Shopur has agreed to perform a few tasks for us, in exchange for a reasonable share of the contents of the vault within the Craven’s Tower.”

  “Anshani mercenaries?” said Morgant. “You’ll need more than that to take the Craven’s Tower, Glasshand.”

  “This is so,” said Nasser. “Given the number of Immortals we shall face within the Tower, I suspect more swords shall be welcome.”

  “Actually,” said Caina, “I have an idea about that.”

  She explained her plan. Kylon’s eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead, while both Laertes and Kazravid looked alarmed.

  “You are a madman,” said Kazravid.

  “Actually,” said Caina, “I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

  Kylon twitched, as if he
had just barely kept himself from laughing.

  Nasser smiled. “I think, Master Ciaran, that it may be a workable idea.”

  ###

  That afternoon, Caina and Kylon went to see Nerina Strake. Azaces opened the door for them, and they climbed up to Nerina’s workshop. Nerina stood at one of her slates, scribbling with a piece of chalk as she muttered equations under her breath.

  “Ciara!” she said, turning from the board with a smile. “Master Exile.” Her cheeks colored a bit as she looked at Kylon. Caina wondered if Kylon had picked up on Nerina’s attraction to him. With his ability to sense emotions, likely he had, though he had been polite enough not to say anything. “I am pleased to see that you survived against all probability.”

  “You expected us to die?” said Caina.

  “I heard rumor of the fire at the Shahenshah’s Seat,” said Nerina, her smile fading. “I remembered that Nasser had used it as a base when we….ah,” she glanced at Kylon, “when we performed that task together. When I heard of the fire, I feared that the Sifter had found you.”

  “The Sifter did,” said Caina. “Along with a Kindred assassin and numerous Immortals. We managed to get away, but unfortunately the Seat burned in the process.”

  “That is regrettable,” said Nerina. “The beer there had such a peculiar taste, and the bread was quite stale. Actually, maybe its loss is not so regrettable after all.”

  “Speaking of fires,” said Caina, “how adverse are you to starting them?”

  Nerina shrugged. “I have no strong feelings on the matter.”

  “Specifically, we need you to build us a small catapult,” said Caina. “We also need you to calculate the trajectory of a shot. It has to be accurate, because we’re only going to get one chance.”

  “Well,” said Nerina. “Well.”

  She turned, tapping the piece of chalk against her lips, and suddenly scribbled an equation across the board. Caina had no idea what it meant, but Nerina made a humming sound, as if satisfied, and turned back to face them.

  “What did you have in mind?” said Nerina.

  Azaces sighed, walked to one of the cabinets, and began collecting additional weapons.

  ###

  Caina thought that Nerina would want to use the roof of the tavern to construct her catapult, or one of the nearby shops, but the locksmith refused. Apparently the catapult needed to be farther away, else it would overshoot its target by a considerable margin, and the target was not large. Caina guessed that the small building within the Tower’s courtyard was no more than twenty feet square, with a flimsy wooden roof to direct any explosions upward. Of course, if every amphora of Hellfire in the outbuilding detonated at once, the explosion would go through the roof, the walls, the curtain wall, and perhaps part of the drum tower itself.

  That was assuming, of course, that Nerina calculated the shot accurately.

  In the end, Nerina chose an abandoned warehouse some distance from the Craven’s Tower. It proved a trivial matter to break into the warehouse and bribe the local watchmen to stay away. Nasser provided Nerina with funds, which was just as well, since Nerina produced an exacting and expensive list of the materials she required. The catapult needed exactly the right kind of wood, cut to precise specifications, and steel of sufficient quality.

  “Calculating the shot is a very demanding equation,” said Nerina. “Everything must be considered as a variable. The weight of the shot, the distance, the wind, the strength of the arm, the tension of the torsion gears, all of it must be considered.”

  Morgant snorted, but Nasser only nodded. “I question not your expertise, Mistress Strake. You shall have whatever materials you require, and assuming our task is successful, a share of the money from the Padishah’s vaults.”

  “Oh,” said Nerina, “the problem alone is fascinating enough. The money is merely a…”

  Azaces grunted.

  “She’ll take a share,” said Caina. Nasser nodded, but Nerina was already at work.

  Later Caina stood guard with Kylon. The warehouse had been empty, but that was just as well, since Nerina needed the space to work. For additional labor, Nasser hired a crew of sailors. It was an inspired choice. In two days their vessel would leave for a voyage to the ports of eastern Alqaarin, and would not return for months, putting them well out of reach of the Teskilati. Morgant had suggested killing them all to ensure their silence, but Caina had been sure that he was joking.

  Mostly.

  “I need to ask you something,” said Kylon in a quiet voice.

  “Oh?” said Caina, looking up from the half-finished catapult. At Nerina’s direction, the sailors had cut a square hole in the ceiling while Nerina herself worked over the catapult, hammering and cutting.

  “If I am killed here,” said Kylon, “would you…”

  “Kylon,” said Caina.

  “Would you find a way to send word to the Assembly of New Kyre of my fate?” said Kylon. “Let them know that I died trying to do my duty, to avenge my wife and the guests murdered under my roof.”

  “Kylon,” said Caina, but he kept talking.

  “If possible, send my body back to New Kyre,” said Kylon. “I…would like to be buried beneath the Tower of Kardamnos. My cousin is High Seat now, but I saved his life from a nagataaru once. I cannot imagine that he will be so spiteful as to deny the final request of a dead man.”

  “You’re not dead yet,” said Caina.

  “I could be soon,” said Kylon. “Rolukhan wants me dead, and Ikhardin and the Sifter were working together at the Shahenshah’s Seat.”

  “If this plan works, we’ll banish the Sifter,” said Caina. “Ikhardin might have a bloodcrystal, but he’s only a man of flesh and blood. He can be killed. If the plan works, we’ll get into the Craven’s Tower, defeat the Sifter in the wraithblood laboratory, and get out again with as much of the Padishah’s gold as we can carry.”

  “If the plan works,” said Kylon. “You have no way of guaranteeing that.”

  “No,” said Caina. “No one does. You know how this works. You commanded armies in battle.”

  “Fleets,” said Kylon.

  “The principle is the same,” said Caina. “You planned the best you could, and then you threw the dice. This is no different.”

  “Does it trouble you?” said Kylon.

  “The danger?” said Caina. “It should. But I’m used…”

  “No,” said Kylon. “The thievery, I mean. Stealing the Padishah’s gold. He is the lawful ruler of Istarinmul.”

  “He is,” said Caina, “but the Craven’s Tower is being used as a wraithblood laboratory. You’ll understand when you see it, when you see the murdered slaves on the steel tables, when you feel the spells that twist their blood into poison. The ends do not always justify the means, I know…but the Padishah has allowed Callatas a free hand for years. I will feel no more guilt about stealing from his treasury than I did from robbing the cowled masters of the Brotherhood.”

  Kylon let out a tired little laugh. “I never stole anything in my life before I came to Istarinmul. Now I am preparing to rob the Padishah.”

  “If we live through this,” said Caina, “it will make a good story.”

  “If we don’t,” said Kylon, “if it goes bad…get yourself free. Do not hesitate on my account.”

  Caina frowned. “What are you…”

  “Your life,” said Kylon, “is more valuable than mine. More valuable than any of the others.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Caina.

  “Yes, it is,” said Kylon. “You’re the only one who can stop what Callatas and Rolukhan are trying to do.”

  “What do you mean?” said Caina.

  “I came here to kill Rolukhan and Cassander and avenge Thalastre,” said Kylon, “but they are only the outstretched hand of a greater evil. Rolukhan is Callatas’s servant, and Cassander his ally. Whatever Callatas plans, you are the one best suited to stop him.”

  “Nasser could,” said Caina. “Or…”


  “Nasser and Morgant, if they’re as old as I think, spent a century and a half failing,” said Kylon. “In a year and a half you have done more to disrupt Callatas’s plans than they have done in a hundred and fifty. Nasser and Morgant hate each other, that is plain, but you have forced them to work together. You rebuilt the Ghost circle of Istarinmul.” He took a deep breath. “Your life is more valuable than any of ours, and if it comes to it, you should run.”

  Caina said nothing. She had no such intention of doing any of that, and she knew what motivated Kylon. He blamed himself for Thalastre’s death, thought he deserved death for it. Caina had thought that way once, too. She did not know what she could do to convince him otherwise, but she would find away.

  Assuming, of course, that they did not all die within the Craven’s Tower.

  Because Kylon was right about one thing. They were heading into deadly danger.

  Chapter 16: Blood and Hellfire

  “My friends.” The basso rumble of Nasser’s soft voice cut into the silence. “The hour for action has come.”

  Caina looked up.

  She waited with Kylon, Kazravid, and Morgant in one of the warehouses of the Saddaic Quarter, not far from the warehouse where Nerina and her catapult awaited. At midnight, the guard shift at the Craven’s Tower would change, and for a moment most of the fortress’s Immortals would be moving back and forth near the Tower’s gate.

  And near the outbuilding that stored the Tower’s supply of Hellfire.

  Nerina had prepared the missile for her catapult with care. It was a thirty-pound barrel of lamp oil, leavened with an additional five pounds of iron nails. Pitch had smeared over the barrel, and before she loosed the catapult, Nerina would set the pitch alight. If Nerina’s calculations were correct, the barrel would land in the outbuilding and explode, the nails within breaching the sealed amphorae of Hellfire. The resultant explosion would impressive.

  If Nerina had done her calculations correctly.