“Now your son shall rise higher yet,” said Annarah. “When he finishes his studies and becomes a scribe, he shall have the opportunity to provide well for your grandchildren. He did not dishonor you by choosing a different trade. Rather, he followed your example.”
“I had not considered it in that light,” said the merchant. “I always thought scribes were dishonest folk, twisting words and making up documents to cheat hard-working men like myself out of our just profits.”
“Oh, aye, hard-working indeed,” said Morgant with disdain. He spoke Istarish with a thick burr, his words colored with the accent of Caeria Ulterior. “Selling these knives for thrice their actual worth does work up a sweat, does it not?” He picked up one of the knives, tossed it to himself, and set it back upon the counter. “Tell me, when your father dug ditches, did he always leave them just a foot too shallow? It must run the family. If it does, I suppose your son will forget a word or two in his legal documents when…”
Annarah gave him a look, and Morgant rolled his eyes, but he fell silent.
“Speak with your son when he returns from Cyrica Urbana,” said Annarah. “I do not have the right to command anyone, but that is what I think you should do.”
“Yes,” said the merchant, nodding. “You may be right. I shall ponder upon what you have said.” His eyes flicked to Caina. “Ah, good sir! Welcome! Are you planning a trip upon the Great Southern Road? In these perilous times, you should invest in some protection! My blades are the finest in all of Istarinmul…”
“If you want to invest in protection, just give your money directly to the bandits,” said Morgant, stepping away from the booth. “Much more efficient.”
“My apologies, master merchant, but we are late for an appointment,” said Caina. “Come along.”
Annarah smiled one last time at the knife merchant and followed Caina and Morgant from the booth.
“What was that about?” said Caina.
“The usual,” said Morgant. “Our mutual friend saw a wounded puppy and had to bandage it.”
Annarah shrugged. “I saw his aura. There was great pain in it. A few words revealed that he was estranged from his eldest son. His pain was needless.”
“You cast a spell to see that?” said Caina, glancing at the pyrikon on Annarah’s wrist.
“No,” said Annarah. “That is one of the abilities of the loremasters, one of the gifts granted to use by the Words of Lore. It is…hard to articulate. We can see auras. Or threads.”
“Threads?” said Caina.
“The lines of destiny, perhaps,” said Annarah. “Some of the loremasters suspected that the mortal world is in fact an endless web of chains, with each decision made by a mortal creating a new link in that chain. Others theorized that time was in fact a tapestry, and that the choices of each individual wove a thread into that tapestry.”
Despite the heat of the day, Caina felt a little chill. “I’ve heard something similar.” The Sifter had seen the world through that lens, and Caina had glimpsed something of the ifrit’s malevolent, alien thoughts. “Tell me something. Do you see anything in my aura? My destiny thread?”
“Why?” said Annarah.
“Indulge me,” said Caina, thinking of Sulaman’s warning.
Annarah shrugged, her green eyes focusing upon Caina. A faint tingle rolled over Caina as Annarah drew upon the peculiar form of sorcery the loremasters had called the Words of Lore. At last Annarah shook her head and looked away.
“Nothing in particular,” said Annarah. “Only…that there was great pain in your past. And momentous events revolve around you.”
Morgant laughed. “At least you don’t gaze into a crystal ball and ask for silver to cross your palm before you make these pronouncements. Though if we ever run short of money, you could go into business as fortuneteller.”
Annarah was perhaps the only person Caina had met who never seemed annoyed by Morgant’s endless barbs. She only raised a silver-white eyebrow and smiled. “I see the same thing when I look at you, Master Markaine of Caer Marist.”
“I am the best painter in Istarinmul,” said Morgant. “Of course you see momentous events swirling around me.”
“Speaking of paint,” said Caina, “I wish you would dye your hair. If you go around helping people…”
“Constantly,” said Morgant.
“A silver-haired woman with uncanny knowledge is bound to draw attention,” said Caina. “Callatas has a bounty of a million bezants upon your head. There are a lot of people looking for you.”
Annarah smiled. “The bounty upon your head is twice as high as mine. Yet here we are, walking openly through the Bazaar.”
“True,” said Morgant, “but she’s wearing a false beard that looks as though a rat used it for bedding.”
“That’s the point,” said Caina. This part of the Bazaar was mostly deserted, so it ought to be safe enough to talk, but she wished Annarah would turn from the subject until they were behind closed doors. “The bounty decrees don’t include my description yet. So I’m dressed as a man. It’s worked so far.”
“Yet they’ve almost caught you any number of times,” said Morgant.
“Aye,” said Caina. The Kindred had set several traps for her. The Red Huntress had come after her. Cassander Nilas had conjured the Sifter and set the ifrit to hunt her down.
“Someday we shall have to confront Callatas,” said Annarah. She gave a sad shake of her head, her braid rustling against her back. “He was once called Callatas the Wise, the most respected of the loremasters of Iramis. Then he turned his back upon us. He burned Iramis, and in the centuries since, he has wrought the most appalling crimes. The wraithblood may be the greatest of them. I want to know what happened to him. I want to know why one of my kindest and wisest teachers became Grand Master Callatas.”
They reached the half-rebuilt Shahenshah’s Seat. The walls of the sprawling tavern had survived, though the fire had gutted the interior and collapsed the roof. The workmen had cleared away the debris and whitewashed the walls anew, rebuilding the first floor in the process. The carpenters intended to rebuild floor by floor, which meant that the owner had already reopened the first floor for business, selling beer and wine and cheap bread while the work continued overhead. Caina had financed some of the rebuilding herself, funneling money to the owner in exchange for certain modifications to the building.
A Ghost circlemaster could never have too many safe houses.
The common room was dim, lit only by the sunlight leaking through the opened shutters. The air smelled of sawdust and plaster, the odors drowning beneath the sour reek of sweat and vomit. Fresh-cut tables and benches littered the room, and even at this hour of the morning there were a large number of caravan guards, porters, teamsters, and farriers sitting at the benches, drinking cheap beer and speaking in low voices.
Caina crossed the room, Annarah and Morgant following her. Annarah drew some appreciative glances from the men as she walked, but her expression remained serene. A man with close-cropped graying hair leaned against the far wall, arms folded over his muscled chest. He had the look and stance of a veteran of the Imperial Legions, and wore a simple tunic, trousers, and heavy boots, a broadsword sheathed at his belt. He looked at Caina for a moment, and then nodded.
“Master Ciaran,” said the man.
“Laertes,” said Caina. “Is he ready?”
“He’s waiting for you,” said Laertes, casting a glance over the others. “The Kyracian’s already here. Come along.”
“You can take the centurion out of the Legion,” said Morgant, “but you can’t take the Legion out of the centurion. Do you sometimes forget and accidentally salute your employer as your tribune?”
Laertes only grunted and led the way to a narrow door. Beyond the stairs descended to the Seat’s cellar, the brick walls still scorched and blackened from the fire. A new doorway had been built in the corner, and Laertes crossed to it and knocked a few times. The door swung open, lantern light spilling out, a
nd Caina stepped into the secret room. She had stocked it with weapons and supplies and other useful things a Ghost might need. As a concession to her guests, she had included a low round table ringed with cushions. Kylon leaned against the wall near the door, wearing the leather armor and rough clothes of a caravan guard, his muscled arms folded over his chest. He smiled at Caina, and she smiled back at him.
Nasser Glasshand, once the last prince of Iramis, rose from his cushion and smiled.
“Ah,” he said in his deep voice, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. “Our friends have arrived. Ciaran, loremaster, welcome.” He wore dark, simple clothing, a scimitar belted at his waist, a glove and bracer of black leather covering his left hand. Given that his left hand was fashioned of some sort of peculiar living crystal, a side effect of the spell that had destroyed Iramis, Caina understood the need for the glove. Nasser’s hand was even more distinctive and unusual than Annarah’s hair.
“My lord Prince,” said Annarah with a bow.
“No greeting for me?” said Morgant.
Nasser’s white smile flashed like a knife. “Laertes did not throw you into the street.”
In answer Morgant snorted, sat upon one of the cushions, and propped his boots on the table. He reached into his coat and drew out a scarab made of jade, wrapped in a short, thick golden chain, and began tossing it to himself. Caina sensed the faint sorcerous aura around the torque, the power worked into it by the long-dead necromancer-priests of ancient Maat.
Though death did little more than inconvenience the Great Necromancers of Maat.
Laertes snorted. “You’re still carrying that stupid thing around?”
“It’s important,” said Morgant.
“It’s damaged,” said Kylon.
“Aye,” said Morgant, “but it’s still important. Not sure why.” He tossed it to himself again. “Unless the Knight of Wind and Air decided to play a joke on me.”
“No,” said Annarah. “The djinn of the Court of Azure Flame have never been hostile to mankind or the mortal world. Powerful and alien to our understanding, but not malicious. If the Knight told you to take a damaged wedjet-dahn, he had a reason for it.”
Kylon frowned. “But it’s damaged. A wedjet-dahn was designed to absorb and divert hostile spells, correct?” Annarah nodded. “What use could a djinni possibly have for it? If a hostile spell strikes it, it will amplify the effect and divert it into its bearer?” Annarah nodded again. “Then one might as well carry a cracked shield or wear a cuirass with a hole over the heart.”
“You’re awfully picky, Kyracian,” said Morgant, still tossing the jade scarab and its chain to himself.
“I’m not the one who risked my life to carry it out of the Inferno,” said Kylon.
“That,” said Morgant, pointing at Kylon. He hesitated. “That is actually a good argument. Better than usual for you, anyway. Have you taken a woman into your bed recently?”
“What?” said Caina.
Both Kylon and Annarah looked at her.
“You understand, Master Ciaran,” said Morgant, looking at Caina. “Young men like you and the Kyracian. You see a pretty face on a shapely woman, and you can think of nothing else. I’m sure you know exactly what I mean.” He glanced at Nasser. “That’s why the young men need our guidance, you know. The benefit of our age and wisdom.”
“Do you ever stop talking?” said Laertes, loading a tray with food from one of the shelves.
Annarah laughed. “Given the taunts you told me that he shouted at Rolukhan in the Inferno, I doubt any us could silence him.”
“If you feel the need to dazzle us with your efforts at oration, Master Markaine,” said Nasser, his voice dry as the Desert of Candles, “then I suggest you turn your attention to the task at hand.”
“I’m an assassin, not a thief,” said Morgant.
“Theft is similar to kidnapping, and I thought you said that kidnapping was only a lesser subset of assassination,” said Kylon.
“It is,” said Morgant. “You’ll recall that when we kidnapped the emir Kuldan Cimak, I did most of the work.”
“When did you kidnap an emir?” said Annarah, blinking.
“Oh, after we set fire to his inn,” said Morgant. “It was a very busy day. But I suppose it wasn’t kidnapping, since I convinced him to follow us willingly. The inn was also a whorehouse, which by a roundabout route, returns us to my main point. Lord Kylon is in need a woman. Wouldn’t you agree, Master Ciaran?”
Morgant smiled at Caina. Once again she felt the urge to punch him. He always poked, always prodded, seeking for a weak point, and with unfailing accuracy he had found one of hers. Was it that obvious?
“I think that Lord Kylon is entirely capable of making up his own mind,” said Caina.
Kylon looked at her, and something in his eyes sent a shiver down her back. If they had been alone…
“Capital,” said Nasser. “I’m so glad we can agree on this important matter. If you can refrain from amusing yourself for a few moments, Morgant, perhaps we can attend to business.”
“Yes,” said Annarah. “The lives of uncounted millions hang in the balance.”
“Please, be seated,” said Nasser, gesturing at the cushions. Caina and Annarah sat, Annarah folding her legs beneath her with prim grace. Caina might have preferred a skirt herself, but trousers did mean she could sit cross-legged without difficulty. Kylon remained standing by the door, and Laertes produced a tray holding dates and cups of coffee. Morgant popped a date into his mouth and took a cup of coffee.
“I thought you said you don’t drink coffee,” said Kylon.
“I don’t,” said Morgant, taking a sip. “Makes you too jittery. But there are times when it is advantageous to be jittery. Such as when visiting the tomb of a Great Necromancer of Maat.”
“Aye,” said Caina. “This island. Where exactly is it?”
“In the Alqaarin Sea, about three or four days’ east of Rumarah,” said Annarah. “I do not believe it has a name.”
“It has acquired one in the century and a half since the fall of Iramis,” said Nasser. “The island is commonly called Pyramid Isle.”
“Pyramid?” said Caina. “There’s an actual pyramid on the island?” From what she had learned of Maatish history, the pharaohs and Great Necromancers had usually buried themselves in vast underground complexes, but sometimes they had built colossal stone pyramids over their tombs.
“No,” said Nasser. “A barren hill in the center of the island looks a great deal like a pyramid. The island is not large, no more than a day’s march from one side to another. The hill stands in the center with a ring of jungle around it.”
“Not at the base of the hill, though,” said Annarah, her green eyes distant. “Nothing grows there. Nothing grows at the entrance of the Tomb. Like a line drawn upon a map. There are…creatures in the jungle as well. Undead things. Created by either Kharnaces or the ancient Maatish to serve as guardians.” She gazed into the coffee, remembering. “A ring of wardstones stands around the jungle. The ancient loremasters raised the stones and inscribed them with the Words of Lore to keep the undead things trapped within the jungle.”
“Sometimes bolder smugglers use the beach to conduct deals or to store hidden caches of goods,” said Nasser.
Annarah looked aghast. “Truly? Men go to the island?”
“In ancient days, the authority of the Prince of Iramis was enough to keep ships from Pyramid Isle,” said Nasser.
“Your authority has diminished just a touch,” said Morgant.
“Regrettably so, I fear,” said Nasser.
“Where in the Tomb are the Staff and the Seal?” said Kylon. “I assume it is a large place.”
“It is,” said Annarah. “A vast maze of galleries and tunnels and chambers, all dug into the stone of the island. We put the regalia near the surface, just within the library.”
“Library?” said Kylon.
“Every Great Necromancer of Maat was buried with a complete library
of scrolls detailing their spells and secrets and history,” said Annarah.
“Gods,” said Caina. “Those would be almost as dangerous as the Staff and the Seal in the wrong hands.” One Maatish scroll had killed Caina’s father and had almost killed everyone in Malarae. She wanted to reach for the leather cord around her neck, the cord that held her father’s worn old signet ring. “We should probably burn them on our way out.”
“That would be inadvisable,” said Nasser.
“Why not?” said Caina, but the answer came to her as she spoke. “They’re warded, aren’t they?”
“They are,” said Annarah. “There were many traps and sorcerous wards within the Tomb, and the Words of Lore were able to override some of them. I suspected that if I dispelled the wards completely, the backlash would feed into Kharnaces himself…”
“Who would then awaken from his hibernation,” said Caina.
“You see the danger,” said Nasser. “Our objective, therefore, is to enter the Tomb, retrieve the Staff and the Seal, and then to depart Pyramid Isle without altering Kharnaces of our presence.”
“Can we be sure he is still asleep?” said Kylon.
“Oh, it’s easy to tell, Kyracian,” said Morgant. “You can tell on account of how the world hasn’t ended yet.”
“For once, the Razor’s words contain a larger than usual kernel of truth,” said Nasser. Caina let out a short laugh. “Pyramid Isle is outside of the largest extent of the ancient Maatish realm, but the Great Necromancers entombed Kharnaces there. He was a heretic, and turned from the worship of the Maatish gods to revere the nagataaru.”
“Callatas learned about the nagataaru from Kharnaces, I’m sure of it,” said Annarah. “He went to the Tomb after he forsook our order and left Iramis. Whatever happened to him there…it changed him. It turned him from the man he was to the monster he is today.”
“The point, Lord Kylon,” said Nasser, “is that Callatas seeks to harness the nagataaru as a tool. Kharnaces revered the nagataaru as gods. Callatas needs the Staff and the Seal to summon and bind large numbers of nagataaru. If Kharnaces awakens from his hibernation and discovers the Staff and the Seal in his tomb…”
Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6) Page 6