“Then he will do exactly the same thing Callatas would do, but for a different reason,” said Kylon.
“I should have chosen a different place to hide them,” said Annarah. She shook her head, her silvery braid sliding against her back. “I thought I would be absent only a few years at most. Not a century and a half. It…”
“It has also,” said Nasser, “kept Callatas from finding them for a century and a half. Yes, he worked great evil in that time. He would have done far worse if he had been able to claim the entirety of the regalia.”
“So,” said Caina. “How will we get to Pyramid Isle?”
“By ship, of course,” said Nasser, flashing his white smile. “We require a smuggler with a knowledge of the treacherous waters around Pyramid Isle, and a willingness to travel there. The Princes of Iramis no longer keep travelers away from the island, but it has a well-deserved evil reputation, so most pirates and smugglers refuse to go there at all. We therefore need a captain and a ship with whom I have worked before, who is willing to make the voyage, and is at least reasonably trustworthy. Given those limitations, our only viable option is a man named Sanjar Murat.”
Caina blinked. “I’ve heard of him. He’s an Alqaarin corsair, isn’t he?”
“We’ve worked together on various enterprises in the past,” said Nasser. “He is not particularly trustworthy, but will remain loyal so long as he is paid on time and faces at least some risk from a betrayal.” He looked at Kylon and Morgant. “I trust you are capable of providing that threat?”
Morgant only smirked, and Kylon offered a grim nod.
“He won’t come to Istarinmul,” said Caina. “He annoyed the Brotherhood too often by stealing away cargoes of slaves, and there’s a bounty of five thousand bezants upon his head.”
“No,” said Nasser. “He will, however, dock at Rumarah, and I know his ship is going to remain there for the next two weeks.”
“Rumarah,” murmured Annarah, looking at Morgant. “We met there. I suppose it is only appropriate that we go there again.”
“It’s changed since then,” said Morgant. “A hundred and fifty years ago, Rumarah was the chief port of the Princes, save for Iramis itself. Now it’s a den of pirates and slavers. The sort of place where one could buy and sell just about anything.” He smirked at Kylon. “The Kyracian could even buy himself some female companionship.”
Caina’s hand curled into a fist on her lap, but Kylon spoke first.
“And how would we pay for it?” said Kylon. “Shall you offer to paint the slavers a picture? Once they finished laughing, we would still need to pay them.”
“Ah, an answering insult! That’s better,” said Morgant. “You could use some practice, but that’s better.”
“How are we going to get to Rumarah within two weeks?” said Caina, before Morgant could start again. “It’s about nine or ten days across the Trabazon steppes and the Desert of Candles to Rumarah, and I doubt the Great Southern Road is any safer since the destruction of the Inferno. For that matter, a dust storm could delay us until Murat’s ship leaves Rumarah.”
“We’ll take ship from the Alqaarin Harbor to Rumarah,” said Nasser. “By water, the journey to Rumarah should only take four or five days, depending on the weather.”
“And upon pirates,” said Kylon. “The Alqaarin Sea is thick with corsairs from the various Alqaarin sultanates. The Umbarian fleet patrols those waters as well.”
“The Umbarian fleet keeps well away from Istarinmul at the moment,” said Nasser. “The Order does not wish to provoke the Grand Wazir while Cassander courts him.”
“There’s a ghastly mental image,” said Morgant.
“Perhaps you can paint it,” said Kylon.
“On balance, I believe that a sea voyage to Rumarah presents the least amount of risk,” said Nasser. “I have procured the services of a Saddaic merchant vessel, the Eastern Fire.”
“The Eastern Fire?” said Caina, surprised. “That’s Camus Talazain’s ship, isn’t it?”
“You know him?” said Nasser.
“I met his father a few months ago,” said Caina. “Business of the Ghosts. Talazain’s ship is a good choice. The Saddai hate the Umbarians, and I doubt Talazain would betray us to the Order.”
“Let us hope we encounter no magi of the Order,” said Laertes. “The thought of facing a pyromantic sorcerer while in a wooden ship is not a pleasant one.”
“No,” said Annarah. “Once the loremasters saw it as our duty to ensure that sorcery was not used as a tool of oppression and terror. Often we failed…yet even the proudest necromancer or the maddest pyromancer always kept one eye over his shoulder for fear of the loremasters. If the Umbarian magi attack us, perhaps I can reteach them that fear.”
Her voice was gentle, but there was an iron hardness beneath it. Annarah spent so much time trying to help people that it was easy to mistake her as soft. Malik Rolukhan had made that mistake in the final moments of his life. It also explained why Morgant listened to her.
“Then we are agreed?” said Nasser. “We shall take ship to Rumarah, and then to Pyramid Isle?”
“So long as the two of you pay for it,” said Morgant.
“Doesn’t being the greatest painter in Istarinmul pay better?” said Kylon.
“It pays quite well,” said Morgant. “Better than fighting in gladiatorial games, I presume.” He waved his half-filled coffee cup at Caina and Nasser. “But they’re the famous master thieves. They can pay for it.”
“The arrangements,” said Nasser in his smooth voice, “have already been made.” He gestured around the room. “Of all our allies and friends, we are the best equipped for this task. This is our chance to cripple Callatas’s efforts and prevent his Apotheosis, and maybe even destroy his power permanently.”
“Such an inspiring oration,” said Morgant.
“Your praise cheers me so,” said Nasser.
“When do we leave?” said Caina.
“In two days, at first tide,” said Nasser.
“Good,” said Caina, getting to her feet. “I have a few arrangements to make before we go.”
“Very well,” said Nasser. “We should gather again at the Desert Maiden in the Alqaarin Quarter in two days’ time, before dawn.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Kylon, moving to Caina’s side.
“Of course you will,” said Morgant.
Laertes grunted. “Why shouldn’t he? None of us should go anywhere alone. Too many people want us dead. The Exile is a trusty fellow. Could have used a few more like him when I was in the Legion.”
“Thank you,” said Kylon.
“Perhaps I should introduce you to one of my daughters,” said Laertes. “I can never persuade Master Ciaran to meet them, and…”
Nasser laughed. “Should we survive our endeavors, you shall have the funds to provide ample dowries for all your daughters.”
Kylon opened his mouth, closed it again. “Would it not be a scandal for a centurion’s daughter to marry an exiled Kyracian noble?”
“Better that than a magus,” said Laertes. “Meaning no disrespect, Lady Annarah.”
She smiled. “In my day the Imperial Magisterium had something of a grim reputation.”
“It really hasn’t improved,” said Caina, stepping towards the door.
For just a moment, she hesitated. Sulaman had predicted her death if she went after the Staff and the Seal, and Caina considered remaining behind. Perhaps Nasser and Annarah could do it without her help. There were so many ways Caina could die on the journey – she could fall to pirates, to storms, to the undead defenders within the Tomb. She could even die in the city, if the Teskilati or the Umbarians or some random bounty hunter caught up to her.
Perhaps whoever had left those curved knives would find her at last.
Yet Caina could not abandon her friends to face those dangers alone. This war might have started long before Caina had been born…but she had made it worse. She had terrorized the Brotherhood into des
peration, she had destroyed the Inferno, and she had pushed Istarinmul into civil war.
Caina had a responsibility. She had joined the Ghosts in pain and rage, and she had kept to that path to make sure others would not suffer as she had suffered, that others could have the families and lives that she never would. Caina would not turn from that path now.
Not even at the cost of her life.
“Ciaran?” said Kylon. He could sense her emotions, and she wondered what he detected from her.
With cold finality, she realized that her attraction to him and her growing feelings for him did not matter, not when Caina knew that she was about to die. He had already lost Thalastre. She could not put him through that again.
“I have some things to get ready,” said Caina. “Meet me at the Cyrican Bazaar tomorrow at noon, in the usual spot.”
She left before anyone said anything.
###
Kalgri waited motionless behind a row of barrels in the cellar of the Shahenshah’s Seat, wrapped in her stolen shadow-cloak. Nasser Glasshand’s security measures were excellent, but a man could only defend against dangers that he knew were there. Neither Nasser nor Caina knew that Kalgri had returned, that she had been following them for months.
The Voice hissed and snarled in her thoughts, full of rage and hunger. Using the shadow-cloak blinded the spirit, preventing it from sensing the world around her. It was inconvenient, but necessary. Kylon of House Kardamnos could sense the presence of nagataaru, and he could also sense the emotions of those around him. The shadow-cloak blocked both abilities.
They would not realize that Kalgri was there.
Until the very end, of course.
It would be the last thing they ever realized.
Kalgri listened to their conversation, her mind sorting through the details.
So. The Desert Maiden in two days. She knew the place. A miserable little tavern in the Alqaarin Quarter. It would be easy enough to surround, and then…
The door swung open, and Caina walked into the cellar, heading for the stairs to the common room.
Kalgri licked her lips, her right hand coiling into a fist.
Caina should not have left alone.
Kalgri’s plan was working. She had watched Caina long enough to know exactly how the Ghost thought. Caina’s fear and pain were making her isolate herself, making her take unnecessary risks. Likely she had some thought of sacrificing herself to save the others.
Kalgri would be delighted to oblige.
Then, of course, she would kill the others. She only hoped she had the chance to kill Caina in front of Kylon. How he had roared when Kalgri had beheaded his wife in front of him! The Voice had gorged itself upon her death and the death of her unborn child, and the memory of it sent a little shiver of pleasure down Kalgri’s nerves.
Soon there would be greater pleasures than that.
First, Kalgri had work to do.
She vanished from the cellar like a shadow, making her way to the Umbarian embassy and Cassander Nilas.
Chapter 5: Mistaken Identity
Caina spent the night alone in the Sanctuary of the Ghosts behind the House of Agabyzus.
She did not sleep well. Nightmares flashed through her mind, recollections of deaths she had seen. Again she saw Maglarion cut her father’s throat with his glittering knife. Sicarion’s blade burst from Halfdan’s chest, her mentor’s eyes wide with astonishment. Green fire flashed, and Corvalis fell dead at her feet, slain by the Moroaica’s sorcery. Sometimes the visions blurred together, and she saw the Red Huntress, her steel mask expressionless as she drove her sword into Kylon’s throat. Caina screamed and ran to him, but the dream unraveled into mist.
She awoke on her cot sometime before dawn, her throat dry, her head pounding. Caina sat up with a sigh, rubbed her face, and walked into the Sanctuary’s main room. It was a large stone vault, lit by enspelled glass spheres upon iron stands. Long tables held tools and supplies, and chests contained a variety of clothing Caina used in her disguises.
She had to check in with the other Ghosts, leave them instructions in the event of her death.
The probable certainty of her death.
In a way, Caina realized, she would be saying farewell.
She chose a blue dress with black trim, tight across the bodice but with loose sleeves for concealing knives. Her hair had grown long enough to cover her ears, and she combed it back and covered it with a blue headscarf. A black leather belt went around her waist, her sheathed ghostsilver dagger pinned to it. She put on some makeup, reddening her cheeks and lining her eyes, though she went without any jewelry. Given the mood of the city, a woman walking alone with jewelry was likely to be robbed. It would be a grimly amusing end if she challenged the Brotherhood and Callatas and the nagataaru only to fall victim to a thug who wanted to steal some earrings.
She considered herself in the mirror, and nodded to herself.
It was time to get to work.
Caina would visit the Ghosts in the Cyrican Quarter first. The Cyrican Quarter and Bazaar were safe enough, and she could go there alone without too much risk of robbery. Once she met Kylon at noon, she could visit the more dangerous regions of the city in his company. Of course, she would have to stay vigilant. Given the enormous bounty upon her head, robbers were the least of her worries.
Caina slung a satchel of documents over her shoulder, climbed the ladder to the empty courtyard, sealed the Sanctuary behind her, and headed to the street of the metalworkers. The shop of Kassan Qhoridaz, she noted with some satisfaction, was still closed. Perhaps that would keep the Umbarian spies and the Teskilati from turning their attention towards Nerina’s shop again.
Nerina’s bodyguard Azaces opened the door at Caina’s knock. He was a towering Sarbian man, nearly seven feet tall, and wore the dusty brown robes and turban favored by the nomads of the Sarbian deserts, though Azaces almost always wore a coat of chain mail beneath his robes. The hilt of a two-handed scimitar rose over his shoulder, and for a moment he frowned at Caina, his dark face scowling. He didn’t recognize her, likely because she had spent more time around him dressed as man than as a woman.
“Azaces,” said Caina, and he nodded. He lifted a small slate, scratched on it with a piece of chalk, and turned it to face her.
“Greetings,” he had written.
Annarah, among her other endeavors, had been teaching the mute Sarbian warrior to read.
“Greetings to you as well,” said Caina. “Are Nerina and Malcolm in?”
Azaces nodded, and together they climbed to the third floor of the house. Nerina’s workshop took up the entire top floor, with shuttered windows looking down upon the courtyard where Caina and Kylon had killed the Teskilati agent and the Silent Hunters. Cabinets stored an array of tools, and long tables held a bewildering array of locks, traps, and other mechanical devices. Long slates displayed scribbled equations in chalk.
Nerina Strake stood at one of the tables, wearing heavy boots, loose trousers and shirt, and a thick leather apron, a pair of magnifying lenses dropped over her eyes as she worked upon a lock. She was a few inches shorter than Caina, thin to the point of looking gaunt, and her red hair was as unkempt as usual, though she had started growing it longer. Her husband Malcolm stood at one of the slates, sketching out a design for armor and scowling. He was a short man, but heavily muscled, so strong that Caina suspected he had a harder grip than Azaces himself. He had more gray in his brown hair and beard than his years warranted, but his imprisonment in the Inferno had not been pleasant.
Azaces let out a grunt, and Nerina looked up, lifting her lenses.
“Ciara!” she said, smiling. She had the eerie blue eyes of a wraithblood addict, though she had not taken any wraithblood in over two years. “Malcolm, it’s Ciara.”
“Eh?” said Malcolm, blinking. “What is it?” He spoke Istarish with the same burred accent as Morgant. “Ciara! Welcome.” He stepped forward, and Nerina moved to his side, leaning against him as she did. “It
is good to see you.”
“And you as well,” said Caina. “That Teskilati agent you saw? You won’t need to worry about him any longer.”
“Yes,” said Nerina. “The corpses upon Kassan Qhoridaz’s doorstep? I calculated nearly one hundred percent probability you had something to do with it.”
“A reasonable calculation,” said Caina. She looked at the shorter woman, trying to figure out what had changed. Then it struck Caina. Nerina was…happy. Or, at least, as happy as a woman like her could be. There had always been a core of quiet misery to Nerina, one that she had buried first with wraithblood and then with constant work. Caina wondered if she had the same core of quiet misery within her.
“Then you killed him?” said Malcolm. “The naked men with sigils carved into their flesh were something of a surprise.”
“Silent Hunters,” said Caina. “The Umbarian Order’s assassins. They can turn invisible for one hour per day, so long as they aren’t wearing clothes.”
“That sounds uncomfortable,” said Nerina. “Also, chilly.”
“The ward plates should warn you against them,” said Caina, gesturing at the lead plates affixed to the walls. Claudia Aberon Dorius had made them at Caina’s request, and she had placed the plates at the Sanctuary and a few other vital locations throughout Istarinmul. The warding spells upon the plates shielded Nerina’s workshop from sorcerous observation. Additionally, if a Silent Hunter tried to enter the house while using his power, the ward would collapse his spell of invisibility. Of course, the Hunter could always employ his power after entering the house, but it would be noticeable if a stranger entered the house, stripped naked, and then turned invisible. “Keep an eye out for any strangers, or anyone sniffing around your two workshops. With the civil war starting in the south, the Teskilati are trying to find the Ghosts.”
Malcolm nodded. “That occurred to me as well.”
“We shall be vigilant,” said Nerina. “I have determined an equation to discern whether or not a passing person is likely to be a spy, based upon seventeen different variables…”
Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6) Page 7