Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Not even,” said Nasser, “for the amount of gold I offer?”

  “Not even for that kind of money,” said Murat. “Gold is no good if you do not live to spend it. I cannot fight devils that I cannot kill with my scimitar or my throwing knives…”

  “Throwing knives?” said Caina.

  ###

  Kylon looked at Caina, sensing the sudden focus in her aura.

  She had an idea.

  “You use throwing knives?” said Caina.

  “Of course,” said Murat. The Alqaarin captain had the emotional sense of a ruthless man accustomed to violence, but Caina had captured his attention. Some men used weapons, but others both used them and appreciated them the way other men appreciated wine or art or sculpture. It seemed that Sanjar Murat was such a man.

  Come to think of it, Caina was such a woman. Kylon had seen the sheer number of knives and daggers she owned.

  “Odd weapon to use aboard a ship,” said Caina.

  “Not as much as you might think,” said Murat. “Sailors rarely wear armor, of course, and I often find myself in fights while in port.”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” said Morgant.

  “I see the knives in your sleeves,” said Murat, dropping into his chair. “You shouldn’t use them.”

  “Oh?” said Caina, a flicker of amusement going through her aura. “Why is that?”

  “Dangerous weapon,” said Murat. “You could lose a finger or two.”

  “If you don’t know what you’re doing,” said Caina. “I doubt a sailor would acquire the necessary knowledge.”

  Murat smiled, though the smile held no friendliness. “And I doubt a caravan guard would acquire the skill.”

  “Would he?” said Caina, and her hand blurred.

  A knife embedded itself in the table next to Murat’s hand, quivering a little. The corsair captain flinched, scowled, and then burst out laughing.

  “Are you trying to start a fight, Master Ciaran?” said Murat. “All I have to do is shout and twenty of my men will kill you.”

  “Not a fight, but a challenge,” said Caina. “I saw your men dicing. Are you adverse to a gamble, captain?”

  Murat leaned back in his chair. “Speak your meaning.”

  “Let’s have a wager,” said Caina. She plucked the knife out of the table and started tossing it to herself. “A little game of knives. If you win, we’ll go our way and find another ship.”

  “And if you win?” said Murat. “Which is unlikely.”

  “You’ll take us to Pyramid Isle for half the agreed fee,” said Caina. “None of your men need to come ashore. We’ll take one of your longboats. You’ll wait near the island for a week, and if we don’t return in that time, you’ll be free to go. If we do return, you’ll take us back to Rumarah, and you’ll receive the second half of your fee then.”

  Murat considered for a moment. Caina watched him, still tossing the knife to herself, and Kylon watched them both. He sensed the cold ice in Caina’s aura as she concentrated, the warring doubt and fear and greed in Murat’s aura. Whatever had happened on Pyramid Isle, it had frightened the hardened corsair.

  But in the end, the greed conquered fear. The man was a pirate, after all.

  “Very well,” said Murat, standing up again. “When I win, you’ll go away and trouble me no more. In the unlikely event that I lose, I will make some easy money.”

  He shouted for his men, and they went to work, pushing aside the table. One of the pirates somehow found an archery butt and set it against the wall. Kylon had the suspicion that this was not the first time Murat had been challenged to a contest of throwing knives. A crowd gathered around them, murmuring in low voices, and even the maids stopped what they were doing to watch.

  “Too many witnesses,” said Kylon in a low voice. “This is too public.”

  Morgant shrugged. “No way around it.”

  “If the Umbarians have spies, they’ll see it,” said Kylon.

  “Unlikely they’ll follow us to Pyramid Isle,” said Morgant.

  “No,” said Kylon, “but I’m more concerned they’ll be waiting for us when we return.” Cassander Nilas was not the sort of man to let even serious setbacks stop him.

  “True,” said Morgant. “Well, then. We’ll have to make sure everyone remembers something else, won’t we?”

  Kylon frowned. “What did you have in mind? You’re not going to burn down the building, are you?”

  Morgant scoffed. “That is Ciaran’s favorite tactic, not mine.” He stepped forward and raised his voice. “Wagers! Place your wagers now!” From somewhere in his coat he produced a small notebook and a cloth bag. “Place your wagers now!”

  Kylon stared at him in astonishment, but the trick seemed to be working. Both the corsairs and the various other patrons of the inn crowded around Morgant. Nasser, catching on to the ruse, began to organize things, shouting out the rules to the contest. Caina and Murat would stand twenty paces from the target, and Nasser assigned points to the rings on the archery butt. They would each throw three sets of five knives each, and whoever totaled the highest points would win. Caina and Murat gave their assent to the rules, and Morgant continued to collect money.

  Kylon stepped to Morgant’s side, shouldering through the crowd.

  “What, Kyracian?” said Morgant, scribbling in his little notebook. Annarah had taken charge of the money bag, watching the whole thing with amusement. “I’m a bit busy.”

  Kylon dropped some coins into the bag. “Put me down for five bezants on Ciaran.”

  Morgant snorted, but made the entry, and Annarah smiled at that.

  The contest began. Murat threw the first set of knives. He moved with the same sort of motions Kylon had seen Caina use, his arm and shoulder going back then blurring forward with terrific speed, his entire body snapping like a bowstring. The knives thudded into the archery butt, one after another, and Murat left a pattern in the inner three rings.

  The corsairs whooped and cheered as their captain collected his knives from the target. Caina considered for a moment, then shrugged out of her pack. She reached into her satchel and drew out a slender wooden box, opening it to reveal eight gleaming throwing knives secured with leather loops. Kylon wondered where she had gotten that. She slid out five of the knives, placed them on a table, nodded to herself, and started throwing the blades, one after another.

  She tied with Murat.

  Rapt silence fell over the common room as the contest continued, the knives thudding into the archery butt again and again. At last Caina’s final knife slammed into the target, and Kylon added up the points. Murat was good, but Caina was slightly better, and she won by two points. Those who had wagered on Caina cheered and went to Morgant to collect their money. Murat conferred with his corsairs for a moment, then went to Nasser and Caina.

  “No one can say that Sanjar Murat is not a man of his word,” said Murat. “You have won our little game, and I accept your terms. Be at my ship by dawn tomorrow. We shall sail for Pyramid Isle with the tide.”

  Nasser offered a polite bow. “Thank you, captain. As ever, I look forward to doing business with you.”

  Murat snorted. “You might pay me a lot of money to take you to your deaths. But that is upon your head, not mine.” He looked at Caina. “And you, Ciaran. Where did you learn to throw knives like that?”

  Caina shrugged. “I joined a circus when I was younger.”

  Chapter 12: Maybe Not

  The next morning Caina and the others headed to the harbor and to Murat’s ship.

  The Sandstorm was a sleek-looking Alqaarin war galley, a ship built for battle. A cruel iron beak topped the prow, and ballistae waited upon both the stern and the forecastle. Two banks of staggered oars jutted from the ship’s flanks. Murat’s crew was a motley, hard-bitten bunch, but they knew their business.

  Before dawn they had left the harbor and drove to the east, making for Pyramid Isle.

  “Four days, I deem,” said Murat, standing next to his helmsm
an at the wheel. “If the weather holds. Four days and we shall be at Pyramid Isle.”

  “You know the route around the reefs?” said Nasser.

  Murat scoffed. “The Sandstorm still floats, does she not? Fear not, Glasshand. I know my ship, and I know these waters.” He laughed. “You should probably figure out a way to stay alive once we reach the island, yes? I don’t want to see you die.”

  Nasser laughed. “How very charitable of you, captain.”

  “A dead man cannot pay me.”

  Caina took a few moments to explore the ship while keeping out of the crew’s way. The Sandstorm’s hold was empty, but Caina saw the chains bolted to the wall of the hold, the faint stink that had soaked into the wood. The ship had carried slaves, more than once. A few years ago, that would have been all the excuse Caina needed to kill Murat.

  And now?

  She needed the ship to reach Pyramid Isle, to find the regalia and stop the Apotheosis.

  And if Caina was going to die, she did not want more blood upon her hands, even if Murat was not an innocent. If she could just let Kylon escape with his life, that would be a victory.

  The thought weighed heavily upon her, so as Nasser and Morgant and Annarah made plans for their arrival at Pyramid Isle, Caina retreated to her small cabin, a foul-smelling room even smaller than the cabin aboard the Eastern Fire. It had been in a cabin like this, she remembered, that she had slept with Corvalis for the last time as they sailed from Marsis to New Kyre.

  Her thoughts turned to Kylon. Nothing had happened between them. That was for the best. It would make it easier for him after she was killed.

  Caina told herself that, several times.

  With those troubling thoughts, she lay down upon her bunk and drifted to sleep.

  ###

  And in her sleep, she dreamed.

  Again she stood in the Desert of Candles, the cold wind moaning around her, her skirts rippling around her legs. The dry white fountain stood before her, the crystalline statue of the beautiful woman and her children standing upon the central plinth. Caina now knew that the statues were Nasser’s wife and children, that he had seen his family die in front of him. He had watched his family die in front of him, and yet he had continued on, for centuries.

  Caina had seen her father die in front of her, had seen Halfdan and Corvalis die.

  But if Sulaman was correct, she would not have to continue on much longer. There was a peculiar sort of relief to it. Yet the thought of her friends and allies brought sadness. She would have to leave them behind, leave the work unfinished.

  She thought of Kylon and the sadness sharpened into pain.

  “So your end is coming, my darling demonslayer?”

  Caina turned as Samnirdamnus, djinni of the Azure Court and Knight of Wind and Air, approached her.

  He had appeared to her in many forms, sometimes as Kylon, sometimes as Corvalis, sometimes as the Emperor Alexius Naerius or others. Today, for some reason, he wore the form of Halfdan, a man with iron-gray hair and the build of a manual laborer, clad in the furred robe of a merchant. His eyes burned with the smokeless flame of the djinn.

  Caina stared at him for a moment.

  “My end?” said Caina. “Then you see my death as well?”

  “The poet warned you,” said Samnirdamnus. He stopped a few places away, the smokeless flame throwing stark shadows across the hard lines of Halfdan’s face. “He foresaw your death.”

  “He did,” said Caina. “Was he correct?”

  “He spoke the truth of his vision,” said Samnirdamnus. “Should you continue to the Staff and Seal of Iramis, should you lay hands upon them, you will surely die.”

  “I know,” said Caina. “But what happens if I turn back?”

  “You will die as well,” said Samnirdamnus, “when Callatas triumphs, for if you turn back, he shall achieve his victory.”

  “Fine, then,” said Caina. “I die either way. So I might as well die in the way that stops Callatas and prevents the Apotheosis.”

  “Yes,” murmured Samnirdamnus, “I thought you would say that. You are the demonslayer, the Balarigar, and it is not in your nature to turn aside. Even if the path leads you to destruction. Not when it can save others who shall have what you never will.”

  Caina said nothing, looking at the ghostly blue gloom of the Desert.

  “Will it?” said Caina. “Can I save them if I do this?”

  “Their future is uncertain,” said Samnirdamnus. “But that is better than the certainty that awaits the world if Callatas prevails.”

  His form shivered and blurred, and became Kylon. Caina’s heart caught in her throat. He looked the way Kylon had on the day she had met him in Marsis, strong and proud in his gray leather armor, the sea-colored cloak blowing from his shoulders, a sword of storm-forged steel resting upon his hip.

  “Kylon,” said Caina. “If I do this…his future is uncertain as well?”

  “This is so,” said Samnirdamnus.

  Caina nodded, blinked, and looked away. “Good. That is…good.”

  “You love him,” said Samnirdamnus.

  Caina closed her eyes. “Yes.”

  “So you can admit it to yourself, if to no one else.”

  Caina opened one eye. “I admitted it to you. Does that not count? Of course, you’re in my head, so I assume you know everything that I know. Do you even understand what it means to love someone?”

  For a long moment Samnirdamnus said nothing, the cold wind stirring Kylon’s cloak.

  “No,” said the djinni at last. “I do not.”

  “Why not?” said Caina.

  “Love is not required of the djinn of the Azure Court,” said Samnirdamnus. “It is an alien thing to us, just as the material world is alien to us. We have duty. We have obligation. We have our tasks laid upon us. That is sufficient. What use do we have for love? That is the province of mortals.”

  “You told me,” said Caina, “that you had been looking for me. Or for someone like me. Were you looking for someone who could find the Staff and the Seal?”

  “No,” said Samnirdamnus. “I thought you might have been the one I sought, the one who would be the key…”

  “What key?” said Caina.

  The djinni smirked. “The star is the key to the crystal.”

  “For the gods’ sake,” said Caina. “If I’m about to die, you could at least tell me what that stupid prophecy means.”

  “I thought you were the one I sought,” said Samnirdamnus, “but if you die, then it seems that I was wrong.”

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  “All right,” said Caina. “I’m not the one you were looking for. I’m going to die. Since it seems we are about to have a parting of the ways, can you tell me nothing useful?”

  “You are going,” said Samnirdamnus, “to the place where it began.”

  Caina gestured at the fountain. “I thought this was where it began, the day that Iramis burned.”

  “This was the end of the beginning,” said Samnirdamnus. “This was when Callatas locked himself onto his path, a path that ends with the Apotheosis. But his path did not begin when Iramis burned.”

  “Where did it begin, then?” said Caina. “In the Tomb of Kharnaces?”

  “No,” said Samnirdamnus. “Callatas’s path began in Iramis itself. The Tomb of Kharnaces, though, was where he learned of his path. Where he learned the secrets of the nagataaru.”

  “He learned them from Kharnaces?” said Caina. “Then Kharnaces truly is still…alive?”

  “In a certain sense,” said Samnirdamnus. “Great Necromancers can exist for a long time, even from the perspective of spirits. Of course, you already know this.”

  “I do,” said Caina, thinking of Rhames and the Moroaica. “If Callatas first learned of the nagataaru in the Tomb, what can you tell me about Kharnaces?”

  “The Maatish considered him a heretic, for he forsook the gods of Maat to offer prayers to the nagataaru,” said Samnirdamnus. “Yet he
was more than that, far more. He was a genius, possessed of great skill and vision. He was also completely and utterly insane.”

  “That’s not a good combination,” said Caina.

  “Indeed not,” said Samnirdamnus. “The Maatish certainly thought not, which was why they exiled him to Pyramid Isle before the Herald of Ruin destroyed the Kingdom of the Rising Sun. In time, Kharnaces learned to reach beyond his imprisonment, and the loremasters of Iramis fought him, binding him further within his Tomb.”

  “So why did Callatas go there?” said Caina.

  “I do not know,” said Samnirdamnus. “Something happened to him in Iramis, something that made him seek secrets of terrible power. So he went to the Tomb of Kharnaces, and spent some years there, doing I know not what. When he returned, he stole the Star of Iramis and demanded the Staff of Iramis and the Seal of Iramis, and you know what happened after that.”

  “Is Kharnaces still hibernating?” said Caina.

  “I do not know,” said Samnirdamnus.

  “You don’t?” said Caina. “Why not? You can see almost anywhere.”

  “I cannot see inside his Tomb,” said Samnirdamnus, “for the wards surrounding his Tomb are far too powerful. Beware, my darling demonslayer.”

  “Of something specific?” said Caina. “Or simply everything?”

  “Of destiny,” said Samnirdamnus. “For if you continue upon your path, your death awaits you…but a Great Necromancer is powerful enough to warp fate.”

  Caina frowned. “Warp fate?”

  “There are two potential fates before you,” said Samnirdamnus. “Your death, or the victory of Callatas in his Apotheosis. Yet Kharnaces is powerful enough to rework destiny into a third image.”

  “What fate is that?” said Caina.

  “The darkness in the Tomb of Kharnaces,” said Samnirdamnus, “devours all other possible fates.”