Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6)

by Jonathan Moeller

  But the loremasters hadn’t possessed the Staff and the Seal at the time, had they?

  “I believe,” said Cassander, “that we shall need to procure a ship at once.”

  Chapter 11: Knives and Liquor

  Five days after they fled Istarinmul in haste, the Eastern Fire came to the harbor of Rumarah.

  Such as it was.

  Kylon stood on the galley’s prow, watching land approach. To the west he saw the empty, dead expanse of the Desert of Candles, the dust stirring in the cold wind that came from the desert. To the south and southwest he saw the vast brown reach of the Trabazon steppes, crossed endlessly by caravans on the Great Southern Road. Here and there he saw distant plumes of black smoke rising against the clear blue sky. It seemed the fighting had extended this far south.

  The town of Rumarah squatted at the water’s edge like a fungus growing upon the shore of a pond.

  The harbor was a large, broad lagoon. Beyond rose the town itself, a ramshackle collection of wooden shacks and whitewashed Istarish houses and warehouses and taverns. The town had no walls, but Kylon suspected Rumarah was the sort of place where bandits came to trade and drink and whore, not to raid. The town seemed to have been built around a collection of ancient stone ruins. Kylon saw towers and walls, still beautiful despite the passage of years, the walls adorned with geometric designs while a seven-pointed star within a ring marked the sides of the towers.

  “Rumarah,” said a woman’s voice.

  Kylon turned as Annarah approached, her silver hair stirring in the cold wind that came from the Desert. She was not old enough for her hair to have turned silver. Kylon wondered if it was a trait of Iramisian blood, or if her ordeals had aged her.

  “So it is,” said Morgant, trailing after Annarah. “It looks the worse for wear. Much as you do, Kyracian.”

  Come to think of it, spending too much time around Morgant would age anyone prematurely.

  “It wasn’t always like this,” said Annarah. “It was a beautiful city. The second port of the Prince’s realm, after Iramis itself. Ships from all over the world came here.”

  “I fear,” said Nasser, Laertes at his side as he drew near, “that Rumarah was mostly abandoned after Callatas burned Iramis. The Grand Master had the Padishah sack the city, but by then it had been all but deserted. The ruins stood empty for some years, for the location was considered accursed, but the lagoon makes too fine a harbor. Corsairs, pirates, and independent slavers rebuilt Rumarah, and it has been active ever since. An emir sits in Rumarah and swears to the Padishah, but the man is more interested in profit than governance. So long as the corsair captains and the independent slavers pay protection money, the emir allows them to operate as they wish.”

  “Such a splendid den of iniquity,” said Morgant.

  “You are sure we can find a trustworthy captain here?” said Kylon. “This corsair, this Sanjar Murat, might not be reliable.”

  “Of course he is not reliable,” said Nasser. “Nevertheless, we have done business before, and he has always upheld his end of the bargain.”

  “Captain Talazain has kept faith with us,” said Kylon. “Perhaps he could be hired to take us to Pyramid Isle.”

  “That would be optimal,” said Nasser, “but Captain Talazain and his crew will not go anywhere near Pyramid Isle. Its reputation is too black. Murat has been there before, and will make the trip in exchange for sufficient payment.”

  “Assuming he does not betray us,” said Kylon.

  “Well,” said Morgant with a smile, “we’ll just have to encourage proper behavior from him.”

  “I’ll see to Talazain’s payment once we dock,” said Nasser. “Lord Kylon, go rouse Ciaran. We’ll want to head to the Corsair’s Rest at once. Rumarah is not a safe place, and the sooner we are back at sea, the better.”

  “As opposed to a ship full of corsairs that wants to kill us?” said Morgant.

  Nasser’s white smile flashed across his dark face, though it did not touch his eyes. “Why, that is what you are for, Markaine of Caer Marist. Perhaps you can paint them such a beautiful picture you could persuade the corsairs to repent of their wicked ways.”

  Morgant snorted. “You never did appreciate art.”

  “I’ll get Ciaran and meet you on the deck,” said Kylon. He did not want to listen to Morgant and Nasser have another one of their endless exchanges of polite insults. Strangely, both Nasser and Morgant seemed to enjoy their sparring on some level. Perhaps that was why Kylon had failed at politics. He had no taste for such things.

  He descended to the lower deck, made his way down the narrow corridor, and knocked on the door to Caina’s cabin. The crew slept on the deck or beneath the benches next to the oars, but Nasser’s gold had bought Kylon and the others individual cabins. Caina had retreated into her cabin as soon as the Eastern Fire had reached open water, and had only emerged a few times since. There hadn’t been much for her to do on the ship, and she was also still convinced that she was going to die. Isolating herself seemed to be her way of preparing for it.

  Kylon lifted his hand to knock and paused, a grim idea stirring at the back of her mind.

  Isolated…

  That seemed significant. It had started after she found those curved knives outside her various safe houses. Some shadow had been growing in her mind, chewing at her. It was almost as if…

  As if it was deliberate.

  Kylon shook his head, trying to pull his suspicions into facts, and came up with nothing. These damned games with shadows. He wanted a sword, and an enemy at which to swing it.

  But he had wielded a sword and faced an enemy at the Tower of Kardamnos, and that had been one of the greatest failures of his life. If he didn’t want to repeat that experience, perhaps he should get better at shadow games.

  Kylon also realized he had been standing in front of the door of a woman he cared a great deal about for several minutes now, and laughed at himself. He could only imagine the comments if Morgant saw him.

  He knocked.

  “It’s Kylon,” he said.

  The door opened a moment later. Caina still wore the caravan guard’s disguise, though he saw the knife concealed in her hand. She looked at him and smiled, some of the tension leaving her emotional sense. Again he felt the urge to kiss her.

  “We’re here?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Kylon. “Rumarah seems like a den of villainy.”

  “Ah,” said Caina. She reached into the tiny cabin and drew out her satchel and pack. “After two years in Istarinmul, it’ll feel just like home.”

  ###

  Caina had been in some rough places during her time with the Ghosts, but Rumarah was one of the rougher ones.

  She followed Nasser and the others from the harbor and into the town proper. The street ran next to an ancient Iramisian wall, its side adorned with the geometric designs the Iramisians had often placed upon their stonework. Despite its age, the wall and the ruined towers still had a faded grandeur.

  The same could not be said of the rest of the town. Houses and taverns had been thrown up haphazardly, the streets a twisting maze of crooked lanes and curving alleys. Armed men traveled in groups, hands on their weapons and wary eyes upon each other. It was a bit like moving through rival packs of wolves, and the air was tense with the threat of violence. Many of the men were independent slavers, Caina knew. The rival sultanates of Alqaarin did not have a centralized cartel for selling slaves like the Brotherhood of Istarinmul, which made the Alqaarin slavers more chaotic. Many of the slavers turned cold eyes towards Annarah, and had she been walking alone, Caina had no doubt Annarah would have been naked and chained in a slaver’s pen within the hour.

  Though if the slavers tried it, Morgant would get to amuse himself.

  They came to a sprawling bazaar at the foot of a half-crumbled Iramisian tower. Like the Bazaars of Istarinmul, merchant stalls filled the space, men crying their wares to anyone passing by. Unlike the Bazaars of Istarinmul, every single stall had
an armed guard, sometimes more than one, and many of the merchants themselves carried multiple weapons. At the far end of the bazaar rose a garish-looking inn. It had been built in imitation of the great palaces of Istarinmul, complete with a massive dome over the central roof, though it had been painted a gaudy yellow. Two wings spread out from the central dome, fronted with marble, though Caina saw where the marble façade had fallen away to reveal the rough brick beneath.

  “The Corsairs’ Rest,” said Nasser. “The finest tavern, inn, and brothel in Rumarah. The corsair captains and their officers spend their nights here when they are in port.”

  Kylon grunted. “Along with the whores and the merchants hoping to relive the crews of their pay?”

  “Sailors are the same the world over,” said Nasser.

  They came to the double doors of the Rest. Two scarred men in chain mail stood there, keeping watch on the market. One of the men bowed and opened the door, evidently recognizing Nasser, and Caina and the others followed him into the Rest’s common room.

  The room was a large round chamber, the dome rising overhead. Balconies ringed the walls, doorways leading to the private rooms. Slave women in tight, revealing dresses moved back and forth, carrying trays of food and drink, and men lounged upon chairs and benches, eating and drinking, the air heavy with the smell of wine and perfume. Sometimes the slave women went into one of the side rooms with a guest, money changing hands. Their clothes were so revealing that Caina was surprised that violence hadn’t broken out, but a dozen armed guards stood throughout the common room. Evidently the owner of the Corsair’s Rest had taken great steps to keep order.

  A flicker of regret and sorrow went through Caina as she looked at the enslaved prostitutes. That could easily have been her life. Had Halfdan not rescued her from Maglarion’s lair, had she fallen into the hands of a man of less principle. Or if Maglarion had decided to sell her to the Istarish slavers instead of letting her rot in a cell. The sorrow sharpened as she thought of Halfdan, the man who had made her what she was.

  If Sulaman’s prophecy was true, perhaps she would see him again soon.

  She felt Kylon’s eyes upon her, but she did not look at him.

  “You’ve been here before?” said Annarah in a quiet voice.

  “Several times,” said Nasser. “This is an ill place, but skilled men can be hired here.”

  “And you didn’t enjoy the local amenities?” said Morgant. “I still think that Master Ciaran could use a woman to take the edge off.” He grinned at Caina. “He seems wound up. Ready to snap.”

  Caina scowled at him.

  “I’ve been saying that since Drynemet,” said Laertes.

  “Or the Kyracian, certainly,” said Morgant, still grinning. “What do you say, Laertes? We could all chip in and rent the Kyracian a woman for an hour.”

  A wave of anger went through Caina, but she forced it from her face.

  “At your age,” said Caina, “I suppose the best you could hope for is to live vicariously.”

  Laertes laughed, and Morgant started to say something else.

  “Morgant,” said Annarah. “This isn’t the time.”

  “Agreed,” said Nasser with glacial calm. “Especially since the man we wish to meet is here.”

  He led the way under one of the balconies to a group of men sitting at a long wooden table. They had the weathered skin of veteran sailors and the rough look of corsairs, with swords and daggers at their belts. About half were Istarish or Anshani, and half were Alqaarin, their skin darker than the bronze shade common among those of Istarish and Anshan birth. At the head of the table sat a huge Alqaarin man, nearly seven feet tall, clad in black boots, black trousers, and an open red coat that displayed an impressive expanse of muscled chest. His dark face was leathery and scarred, and he wore an elaborate plumed hat and a pointed black beard that framed gleaming white teeth. A leather bandolier stretched over his chest, holding a dozen throwing knives ready in their sheaths. An Istarish girl of about eighteen sat upon his lap, wearing a shift of translucent silk and nothing else, her arms thrown about the towering man’s neck. The man was smiling at the girl, but the smile faded as he looked at Nasser.

  “Well, well,” he rumbled in Istarish with a thick Alqaarin accent. “Look what the storm wind has blown into the harbor. Nasser the Glasshand himself.” He gave the girl a gentle push to her feet. “Run along. I have business to discuss.” He slapped her bottom and she scurried away.

  “Captain Sanjar Murat,” said Nasser. “How felicitous to see you once again.”

  Murat snorted. “Still following this madman, Laertes? Come with me, and I’ll show you more gold than he ever could.”

  Laertes shrugged. “Can’t spend gold if I’m dead, Captain.”

  “All men die,” said Murat, rising to his feet. “A peculiar company you have this time, Glasshand. A Kyracian. An old man in a black coat.” Morgant grinned at a wolf’s grin at him, one predator assessing another. “A caravan guard.” Caina kept her expression blank. “And a most lovely woman.” He crossed to Annarah, doffed his plumed hat to reveal a shaved head, and offered her an elaborate bow. “Welcome to Rumarah, my vision of loveliness. You have the silver hair of a woman rich with wisdom, but the beauty of a rose in its bloom. Truly, one would think the ancient Iramisians walked among us again.”

  The towering corsair captain and his honeyed words might have flustered another woman, but Annarah only smiled. If Morgant could not throw her off balance, Sanjar Murat would not. “One would think so.”

  “Are you selling her, Nasser?” said Murat.

  “I am a free woman, captain,” said Annarah. “You should open negotiations with me. By failing to do so, I fear you have gravely offended me.”

  “Bah,” said Murat, dropping back into his chair. “I never discuss business with women.” His black eyes flicked back to Nasser. “Well, Glasshand, I am here as your message requested. My crew has been getting fat and lazy. I trust you have something interesting for me?”

  “A simple task,” said Nasser. “A short voyage. Four days from Rumarah, and then back again.”

  “A peculiar trip,” said Murat. “You might reach Al-Mhurqat in that time, or perhaps Istarinmul itself. Or the old Imperial city of Arzaxia, assuming the mad magi of the Umbarians have not burned it yet.” He grinned. “There are many opportunities for a corsair in these unsettled times. Is that what you wish? To capture some ship?”

  “No,” said Nasser. “We wish to go to an island.”

  Murat snorted. “That is all? A trip to an island? There are many islands in the Alqaarin Sea, and just as many ships to take you there.”

  “Specifically,” said Nasser, “we wish to go to Pyramid Isle.”

  The other sailors at the table fell silent. They had been talking in low voices, their attention focused upon a game of dice, but as one they fell silent and looked at the captain. Murat said nothing for a moment, drumming the fingers of his right hand upon the table.

  “Leave us,” said Murat.

  The sailors rose and filed out of the common room, leaving Nasser and Caina and the others alone with the corsair captain.

  “Pyramid Isle,” said Murat at last, rubbing his pointed beard with his free hand. “Why?”

  “I wish to retrieve something from there,” said Nasser.

  “Do you?” said Murat. “What? Some old smugglers’ cache?” His lip twisted. “Perhaps a map to buried treasure?”

  “Let us just say that my research has discerned the location of a lost relic,” said Nasser. “I wish to retrieve it from Pyramid Isle.”

  “And you are asking me to take you there,” said Murat.

  “Yes,” said Nasser. “I know you have been there before. We wish passage to the island and back. That is all.”

  Murat stared at him for a while longer.

  “No,” he said. “Not to Pyramid Isle.”

  “Why not?” said Nasser. “You’ve been there before many times. I know you have hidden caches of goods u
pon the island.”

  Murat rose to his feet and paced a few steps back and forth.

  “The island,” said Murat at last, “is…waking up.”

  Caina frowned. Kharnaces had been in hibernation when Annarah and Morgant had hidden the Staff and the Seal in his Tomb. The heretical Great Necromancer must have remained in hibernation ever since, as he had not taken up the relics to summon uncounted hordes of nagataaru to devour the world. But if Kharnaces awakened and found the regalia…

  “What do you mean, awakening?” said Caina.

  Murat blinked at her, and then glanced to Nasser. “Who is this?”

  “Master Ciaran,” said Nasser. “An expert in certain fields. I have found it wise to heed his advice.”

  “What do you mean the island is awakening?” said Caina. “Islands don’t typically do that.”

  “This island does,” said Murat. “As the Glasshand has mentioned, from time to time I stored valuable items upon it shores. Pyramid Island has an evil reputation.”

  “Is the reputation deserved?” said Caina. She wanted to know if Murat’s experience of the island matched the rumors Nasser had heard.

  “Entirely,” said Murat. “The beach is safe enough, so long as one does not pass the warding stones the Iramisians left at the edge of the jungle. Within the jungle are dangerous creatures that feast upon the flesh of living men. So very dangerous to go there, but I found the island a secure place to store loot between raids.” He reached down to the table and picked up his cup of wine. “Not after the last trip, though.”

  “What happened?” said Caina.

  Murat took a swig of wine. “We arrived to dig up our cache. At first it was quiet enough, and we loaded the goods onto the longboat and then to the ship. As the sun went down, we saw lights in the jungle, like candles of green fire. The island shook, and we heard moans and screams from the trees. We saw shapes in the jungle, things that looked like twisted men. After that, we took the longboat back to the ship and returned to Rumarah as quickly as we could,” he gestured at Nasser, “and your message awaited us. A pity. We will not return to Pyramid Isle.”