GHOST NAILS
Jonathan Moeller
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Description
Caina Amalas is the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, the leader of the Emperor's spies in the city. Deadly danger stalks her at every turn, and Caina needs all the allies she can find.
So when someone tries to murder a powerful magistrate under the roof of one of her allies, Caina must act.
Because if she doesn't, the killer may come for her next...
***
Ghost Nails
Copyright 2015 by Jonathan Moeller.
Smashwords Edition.
Cover image copyright Fernando Cortés | Dreamstime.com
Ebook edition published January 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
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Chapter 1: The Magistrate’s Cake
My name is Damla, daughter of Torzamus, sister of Agabyzus, wife of Bahlar, and I have endured many losses.
My father owned the finest coffee house in the Cyrican Quarter, once called the House of Torzamus. After he died, the coffee house went to my eldest brother Agabyzus, and so became the House of Agabyzus. I helped him to run the House and took over most of the work, for Agabyzus had a secret. He was a member of the Ghosts, the spies of the Emperor of Nighmar, and was the leader of their circle in the city of Istarinmul. He never spoke of it, and I never asked, though I would not learn the truth for several years.
In time I met Bahlar and he courted me, and Agabyzus consented to our marriage. I miscarried twice, alas, but in time I had two sons, Bahad and Bayram, and they grew up strong and healthy. Bahlar had a good head for the coffee business, and the House of Agabyzus prospered. Those were good years, happy years.
Then the war started.
Bahlar was conscripted into the Padishah’s army and had to go to war, else the emir Rezir Shahan would have seized the House of Agabyzus and sold me and our sons as slaves. My husband fell in the great battle of Marsis, but Rezir Shahan, may the Living Flame roast his black soul, was slain as well. Our misfortunes continued when his brother Tanzir Shahan ended the war. Riots erupted in Istarinmul, inflicting damage upon the coffee house, and my brother Agabyzus was slain in the chaos.
I endured. I had no choice. I carried on, and with the help of my sons, kept the House of Agabyzus running. I vowed that I would make the House of Agabyzus a prosperous business, that when I died I would leave the coffee house to my sons for their livelihoods, that they would not have to become soldiers or laborers or be sold as slaves.
Then fresh disaster struck.
Ulvan of the Slavers’ Brotherhood forged papers, claiming that I owed him money, and he seized my sons as slaves to pay the debt. I didn’t know what to do. I was desperate, and I would have done anything, turned to anyone, to get my sons back.
Instead, Caina helped me.
I did not know what to make of her at first. A madwoman, probably, but she was willing to help me against Ulvan. I thought she would get herself killed, or get me killed, and I wept alone in the House of Agabyzus, certain I would never see my sons again.
Instead, she saved Bahad and Bayram, freeing them from Ulvan’s pens.
She ruined Ulvan, destroying his reputation, stealing most of his fortune, and crippling him in the process.
And she found my brother. Agabyzus had been a prisoner, and Caina snatched him from the Widow’s Tower before it burned.
Later she told me that she was a Ghost of the Empire, sent to rebuild the city’s Ghost circle, and I agreed to help her. I suppose that makes me a traitor to the Most Divine Padishah, but I do not care. The Most Divine Padishah and his magistrates sent my husband to his death, and they did nothing to protect my sons from Ulvan’s greed. I saw the scars the torturers of the Widow’s Tower wrote upon Agabyzus’s flesh.
Caina helped me, and the Padishah did not.
Though serving as a Ghost has brought little change to my life. Sometimes Caina sleeps in my guest rooms. Sometimes she brings other people here to discuss business. Often she asks about rumors or stories I have heard, for many merchants and factors take their coffee at my tables, and they speak of many things. I pass those rumors on to Caina…and sometimes a few days later a master slaver is robbed, or a corrupt merchant experiences a sudden downfall, or an Alchemist is banished from the city.
When that happens, I wonder at the dangerous turn my life has taken. Caina is the most wanted woman in the city, and the Grand Wazir and Grand Master of the College of Alchemists offer a bounty of two million bezants for her, dead or alive. If the secret police and the city watchmen knew that I had aided Caina, my family and I would be arrested, tortured, and beheaded in public. If they even suspected that she came here, they would burn the House of Agabyzus to the ground.
But I keep her secrets. She aided me when no one else would. Yet for the most part it affects my life but little. I spend my days running the House of Agabyzus.
Sometimes, though, running a coffee house can become dangerous.
###
It was the middle of the day, and merchants and factors and couriers filled my tables and booths, taking their lunches and drinking copious amounts of my coffee. I had just emerged from the kitchen after leaving instructions for the cooks to prepare a special meal. My maids hurried back and forth, carrying out trays of food and coffee.
I took two more steps and then stopped in alarm.
Caina had just come through the door.
That was not a good sign. Not today.
I took a deep breath, offered up a quick prayer to the Living Flame for strength, and hurried to her.
Caina is a lovely young woman, pale with black hair and hard eyes the color of blue marble. If she wanted, I suspected, she would have little trouble capturing the eye of any man she chose. Though at the moment she was disguised as a man, dressed in the bright robes and turban of a Cyrican merchant, a sword and a dagger at her belt. Makeup gave her the illusion of beard stubble, made her eyelids seem heavier and her face more lined. She had a knack for the art of disguise. Had I not know any better, I would have thought I was looking at a Cyrican man come to trade in the Padishah’s capital.
“Mistress Damla,” she said. She even sounded like a man when she wanted, speaking Istarish with a Cyrican accent. “This is the House of Agabyzus, yes?”
“It is, sir,” I said. “Please, come this way and be seated.” I touched her arm and guided her towards one of the booths and lowered my voice. “Is something amiss? Please tell me that nothing is amiss.”
She smiled and spoke in her normal voice, cool and calm. “Not yet. I can make trouble, if you wish.” She shrugged. “I have some business in the Tower Quarter tonight, but nothing I must do until then. So I thought I would sit with a cup of coffee and listen to rumors for a few hours.”
“Oh, good,” I said.
Caina glanced around. “Something wrong?”
“Not yet,” I said. “The Hakim of the Cyrican Bazaar is visiting today.”
She frowned. “You mean Korim Murasku?”
It did not surprise me that she knew the name of the Hakim of the Cyrican Bazaar. Was it not the business of a spy to know things? “Aye. He is coming today for a visit, to make his presence known.”
“And to receive,” said Caina, lowering her voice further, “his yearly bribe?”
“That too,” I said with
a sigh.
The Hakim of the Cyrican Bazaar reported to the Wazir of the Treasury, and it was the Hakim’s responsibility to oversee the Bazaar, to grant licenses to merchants and traders, to adjudicate disputes between merchants, and to judge any non-capital crimes that took place in the Bazaar. In practice, that meant I paid a yearly bribe to the Hakim to be left alone. Generally, the merchants of the Bazaar did as they wished, so long as they paid their bribes, paid their official taxes, paid their debts, and did not make trouble.
“So I see,” said Caina, “why you want things as quiet as possible for his visit.”
“I am glad that you understand,” I said. “I shall have the maids bring you some coffee. The usual?”
“You are as gracious as you are wise, mistress Damla,” said Caina, handing me some coins.
“I cannot take your money,” I said.
She smiled and thrust the coins into my palm. We had this argument every time. She had saved my sons and my brother, had likely kept me from doing something foolish that would have gotten me killed. I owed her everything, and she could have eaten here for free for the rest of her days. Nonetheless, I was grateful. The Living Flame knew that I needed the money. I was not poor, and certainly I had more money than most of the citizens of Istarinmul. Yet wealth could turn to poverty in an instant, and good fortune could crumble to ashes in but a moment.
The death of my husband and the near loss of my sons had proven that.
I bade one of my maids to fetch coffee for Caina, and then my eyes turned to the windows. “Ah. He is here.”
“Good luck,” said Caina.
I smiled at her, took a deep breath to compose myself, and started towards the door.
It opened before I arrived, and a slave clad in a fine gray robe strode inside, a silver collar around his neck. A portable writing desk hung from a strap across his shoulders. After him came two watchmen, armored in leather and armed with short swords and cudgels.
Korim Murasku, noble of Istarinmul and Hakim of the Cyrican Bazaar, came after him.
He was an enormous man, at least three times my weight, and his ornamented robes made him look rather like an ambulatory golden ball. In his right hand he carried his ceremonial rod of office, and in his left hand he leaned upon a heavy cane. A bushy black beard failed to mask his triple chin, and his bronze-colored skin gleamed with sweat, a steady wheeze coming from his lips. If the Hakim did not start taking better care of himself, in a few more years he would not be able to walk at all.
I bowed deeply and kissed his rod of office. “My lord Hakim. You honor my humble establishment with your presence.”
“Mistress Damla,” he said, his voice a watery rumble. “You look lovelier every time I see you.” Thankfully, he had never tried to seduce me, most likely because his vices lay in the direction of gluttony and avarice, not lechery. “You are still wearing widow’s black. You remain unwed, yes?”
“I fear so, my lord,” I said. “Alas, I am an old widow, and no men turn their eyes in my direction.”
Korim rumbled a laugh. “And you wish for your sons to receive their inheritance, yes?”
“I can conceal nothing from your insight, my lord,” I said.
“See that you do not forget it,” said Korim, half in jest, half in earnest. I lifted the leather pouch containing my yearly bribe, and at once Korim’s scribe collected it. “I should like to sample your wares, mistress Damla. I cannot have anyone selling shoddy merchandise in the Cyrican Bazaar.”
“I should think not, my lord,” I said. “This way, if you please.”
I led Korim and his party across the floor to the booth I had reserved for him. It was my largest booth, one that would allow the Hakim to slide his bulk behind its table without undue difficulty. Caina sat cross-legged upon one of the low cushions nearby, sipping coffee and watching Korim over her cup. The Hakim took no notice of her and heaved himself into the booth with a sigh.
I clapped my hands twice, and one of my maids, a young Istarish woman named Ismala, came forth from the kitchen, holding the tray that we had prepared. It held a large cup of coffee and a double-sized cake, spiced with cinnamon and glazed with sugar. Korim’s eyes positively lit up when he saw it. I suppose I could have dispensed with the bribe and simply sent him cakes every week.
I smiled and stepped to the side to let Ismala past, and I saw Caina look from the cake to Korim and back again, her eyes narrowing. I looked at the cake myself. It seemed perfectly fine to me, the sugary glaze glittering in the sunlight coming through the windows.
Caina stood up, took a quick step forward, and went right into Ismala’s path.
“Wait,” I said. “You’re…”
They both went down in a tangled heap, the cake bouncing away, coffee spilling across the floor. Ismala let out a surprised squawk. Caina rolled to her side and went to one knee, looking around.
“What is this, then?” said Korim, scowling. “Are all your maids so clumsy, Damla?”
Ismala looked at me in dismay. “Forgive me, mistress. I was clumsy, I…”
“No,” said Caina in her disguised voice, rising to her feet. She offered a deep bow to Korim. “Forgive me, my lord Hakim. I did not look before I rose, and I tripped the maid. The fault is entirely mine. Permit me to purchase you coffee and refreshments in atonement for my clumsiness.”
Korim let out a displeased rumble. “Well, yes. But be quick about it.”
Caina bowed again and straightened up, and I saw her holding the cake in one hand. I felt a flush of anger, but it soon turned to confusion. What was she doing? I had never seen her do anything clumsy, and she had been watching Ismala. Which meant that she had tripped the maid on purpose. But why?
“Come, mistress Damla,” said Caina, stepping towards me. “Let me purchase new food for the honorable Hakim.”
Her face was grave behind the makeup.
“Yes, of course, at once,” I said, and headed for the kitchen.
“Wait,” hissed Caina, once we were out of earshot. “Don’t go into the kitchen. Not yet.”
“Why did you do that?” I said. “I cannot afford to offend Korim.”
“Look at the cake,” said Caina.
“It is a cake. I see nothing unusual about it.”
“It is not,” said Caina, “supposed to have shiny spots in the glaze, is it?”
I started to answer, and then frowned. Small specks of the glaze did look shinier than the others, as if lumps had formed within the sugar. They looked almost metallic…
A cold feeling settled into my belly.
“Look,” said Caina, and she tore the cake in half.
The cold feeling got worse.
Someone had filled the interior of the cake with dozens of small nails.
“If he had taken a bite of that,” said Caina, “at best it would have ripped open his tongue or cheek and he would have been furious. At worst he would have swallowed, torn a blood vessel in his throat, and bled to death right here in the coffee house.”
“The Living Flame preserve us,” I whispered, a tremor going through my legs. “A magistrate of the Padishah murdered under my roof? The House of Agabyzus would have been ruined. I would have been arrested for murder. I…” I looked her in the eye. “Once more you have saved us from disaster.”
“The problem isn’t over yet,” said Caina, her voice grim. “Did you do this? Did you want to murder Korim?”
“Of course not!” I said.
“Because if you wanted him dead,” she said, “there are much better ways to go about it.”
A different kind of chill went through me. I knew that she was not joking. Most of the city thought that the Balarigar, the master thief who had terrorized the Brotherhood of Slavers and destroyed the Widow’s Tower, was a man. I knew better. I also knew that a woman who could rob a score of master slavers and escape alive was also the sort of woman who could arrange for the death of a Hakim.
“No,” I said. “Korim is not precisely a friend, but…he has n
ever caused me trouble. When Ulvan’s men kidnapped my sons, he even took up the matter with the Wazir of the Treasury, and obtained some money to repair my damaged furniture.”
“Really?” said Caina. “I didn’t know that. So he’s not a friend, but…when you bribe him, he stays bribed.”
“Basically, yes,” I said.
“That is more integrity than most of the magistrates of this city,” said Caina. “So who wants him dead?” She blinked. “No, no, too many possibilities. We need to narrow it down. This cake. Who made it?”
“Novaya,” I said. “My new pastry cook. She took over after Kalgri disappeared.”
For some reason a twitch went over Caina’s face at the mention of Kalgri. “Did she make it last night, or fresh this morning?”
I blinked. “I could not serve the Hakim stale cake! He would be offended. It was made fresh…”
“Then whoever put the nails in the cake,” said Caina, “is still here. We must move quickly.”
***
Chapter 2: The Cook’s Suitor
We walked into the kitchens. When my father had built his coffee house, he had possessed the foresight to build an ample kitchen, with room for expansion as the House’s business had grown. Rows of coffee presses stood upon counters and ovens lined the walls, and a half-dozen of my maids worked here, preparing coffees and baking cakes and flatbread.
They were all free workers. Once they had been slaves. I had owned slaves, as Agabyzus had, as my father had before me. Most Istarish men and women of even modest means owned slaves and thought nothing of it. After what had happened to my sons, I could not look at a slave without remembering the sickening dread that I had felt.
I had freed all my slaves as soon as I could afford to do so. Some went their own way. Most chose to keep working for me. I had been surprised by that, but it made sense. Working in the House of Agabyzus was better than toiling in the fields or the workshops or in a brothel.
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