“It is fine coffee, though,” she heard herself say. “Very fine.”
“I have a thought,” said Anburj, leaning closer. A wave of revulsion went through Caina, and she forced herself not to jerk away. “You represent the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, yes?”
“I am a courier,” said Caina. “I can hardly claim to be their representative.”
“Nevertheless,” said Anburj. “Many wealthy mine owners were killed when the golden dead rose, and their properties lie unclaimed. You ought to suggest that your masters purchase them. My master, you see, will soon be a Master Slaver of the Brotherhood. He can provide your masters with cheap labor.”
“Slaves,” said Caina. Her voice sounded so calm.
“Of course,” said Anburj. “Your Empire has ridiculous laws against slavery, at least outside of the Cyrican provinces, but Master Ulvan’s Collectors can gather vast numbers of laborers cheaply. Once the rebels in the countryside are put down, the price of slaves will plummet.”
Murad shook his head. “The College of Alchemists has been buying every slave they can find of late.”
“Even the Alchemists cannot need an infinite supply of labor,” said Anburj. “Well, Marius, what do you say? Everyone shall prosper. My master shall reap profits from selling slaves. Your masters shall obtain cheap gemstones to sell. And you shall rise high in their favor for arranging it.”
Caina wanted to draw her dagger and strike him. She wanted to run from the House of Agabyzus and weep.
“I shall certainly pass on your proposal to them, captain,” said Caina. “Though I cannot make any promises, you understand.”
Anburj grunted. “They would be fools to disregard it. Master Ulvan has risen high, and he shall ascend higher yet.”
“Indeed,” said Caina. Something shivered within her, and her hand twitched against the cup of coffee. She wanted to draw a dagger, wanted to strike at these cruel slavers and…
“Master Marius?”
One of the serving slaves approached the table and bowed. “Forgive the interruption, but Mistress Damla wishes a moment of your time.”
Caina saw Damla standing near the dais, watching them.
“Heh,” said Murad. “The widow? She’s a fair one, but no dowry. Pity. I would enjoy the pleasant sights beneath those black robes.”
“Bah,” said Anburj. “Her birth is too low. Still, I would not object to having her warm my blankets.” He smirked at Caina. “She must have a taste for foreigners.”
“Yes, I am sure that is it,” said Caina, throwing a few more coins upon the table. “Excuse me, sirs.”
She rose and followed the slave to Damla.
“You wished a word?” said Caina.
Damla took the sleeve of her coat. “That man. You should not talk to him.”
“Anburj?” said Caina. “The slaver’s captain?”
“Aye,” said Damla. “He is a cruel one, and if he decides that you have cheated him, he will have you snatched from your bed and sold upon his master’s block.” She lowered her voice further. “And he has friends among the Teskilati.”
“Thank you,” said Caina. “I will make sure to avoid him.”
Damla nodded, glancing at the crowd.
“Why?” said Caina.
“Oh?” said Damla.
“Why warn me?” said Caina. “You don’t know me.”
Again Damla smiled that brilliant smile. “You were kind to my sons. Most men, they treat my sons like dogs, or worse than the emirs treat their slaves. But you gave Bayram a coin. Thank you.”
Caina swallowed and nodded, and the thin man upon the dais stood up.
“Ah, we must be silent now,” whispered Damla. “The poet shall recite for us.”
A silence fell over the House of Agabyzus. A short, dour-looking man with the build of a blacksmith seated himself at the edge of the dais, produced a short, thick drum, and set it between his knees. Caina found herself looking at the poet. He was tall and thin, clad only in a simple brown robe, with a close-cropped beard and an ascetic look. His age could have been anywhere between thirty-five or fifty.
“My friends,” said Damla, raising her voice. “Tonight, we are honored by the words of the poet Sulaman, who shall recite the Song of Istarr and the Demon Princes, of the great deeds our ancestors performed of old.”
Sulaman nodded to the drummer, who began to beat a slow, steady rhythm on the drum.
And Sulaman recited in a deep, resonant voice.
The patrons leaned forward, rapt, and Caina watched them, fascinated despite her apathy. She had heard that the Istarish were mad for poetry, but she had never seen it firsthand. The ancestors of the Istarish had once been horse-riding nomads, dwelling on the vast steppes of southeast Anshan, their history recorded in a cycle of epic poems. After the destruction of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun two thousand years past, they had migrated north, settling in what was now Istarinmul. The Istarish had learned the art of writing from the Anshani, but the old poems remained.
Sulaman spoke in a voice halfway between a song and an incantation, keeping time to the drummer’s beat. He recited the tale of Istarr, the warlord who had led the Istarish people north from the ruin of Maat to a new land ruled by demon-possessed sorcerers who reigned with a fist of iron, the dread Demon Princes of legend. Istarr waged seventy-seven battles against the seven Demon Princes (surely a poetic flourish), aided by the might of the djinni of the desert and the djinni of the air. At last Istarr faced the final Demon Prince before the gates of Iramis while hosts of djinni dueled overhead, and was overcome by the sorcerer’s fell power. But his beloved wife threw herself before Istarr, taking the sorcerer’s fatal attack into her flesh, giving Istarr the moment he needed to slay the Demon Prince and lead his people to freedom.
Caina stared at Sulaman, caught between horror and fascination.
She felt as if she stood in the netherworld again, the temple of Anubankh in Khaset collapsing around her, the full wrath of the Moroaica’s sorcery thundering toward her, only for Corvalis to shove her aside and the spell to burn into him…
She felt her eyes burning, felt the weight of Damla’s gaze upon her. This was bad. There was a very real possibility that she would lose control of herself and start sobbing, which would rather compromise her identity as Marius, hard-bitten veteran courier of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers.
Caina gritted her teeth and made herself stand motionless, listening to Sulaman speak of Istarr’s sorrow as he built a new kingdom where his people could live free. Caina choked back a bitter laugh. Free? Was anyone in Istarinmul free? Even the Alchemists and the Brotherhood were slaves to their own lust for power and wealth.
Perhaps it would have been better if Istarr had perished with his beloved, if Istarinmul had burned beneath the wrath of the seven Demon Princes.
At last Sulaman finished the beautiful, terrible epic, and bowed to the patrons. The crowd responded with applause, and many of the merchants came forward. The scowling drummer produced a bowl, and the merchants dropped coins into it, the money clinking.
Caina took a deep breath, closed her eyes, opened them again. Then she stepped forward and dropped a few copper coins into the bowl. It would look suspicious if she did not, and she had already drawn far too much attention to herself. Still, many of the women in the crowd were weeping, and not a few of the men as well.
The Istarish enjoyed their epic poems.
“You have never heard the Song of Istarr and the Demon Princes before?”
Caina blinked her stinging eyes and found Sulaman looking at her.
“Pardon?” said Caina, her voice thick.
“It has upset you?” said the poet.
“I…” started Caina.
“Forgive him, master poet,” said Damla. Given how much business Sulaman’s presence drew, little wonder she did not want to offend him. “Master Marius is new to Istarinmul.”
“No,” said Caina, striving for calm and almost reaching it. “It…was a lovely poem.
Mistress Damla is right. This is the first day I have ever set foot in Istarinmul, and the poem was…unexpected, that is all.”
“I am sorry if it caused you pain,” said Sulaman. “For such tales often cause pain, when we recall the vast span of years and how many have suffered and died in vain. But you, Master Marius…the poem seemed to disturb you.”
“I lost friends,” Caina heard herself say, “when the golden dead rose.”
She had lost friends, but she had lost more than that.
Everything, really. Halfdan. Her place with the Ghosts. The House of Kularus. Her home in Malarae. Her friends in Malarae, who had been unable to protect her from Lord Corbould Maraeus’s misplaced ire.
And Corvalis. Corvalis most of all.
“I am sorry for your losses,” said Sulaman. “Many lost kin and friends when the golden dead rose.”
“And I am sorry for yours,” Caina made herself say. “I am not the only one to have lost someone.”
“I fear that you are correct,” said Sulaman. “The city was already in great upheaval after the war, and the golden dead made matters worse.” He sighed. “Perhaps the madmen in the countryside are right, and the golden dead are the punishment of the Living Flame upon us for our sins. For I fear that the sins of Istarinmul are black and deep indeed.”
“Do not say such things, sir,” said the drummer. “The golden dead were the work of some mad sorcerer, I’d warrant.”
“Perhaps, Mazyan,” said Sulaman.
“I am inclined to agree,” said Caina, who knew firsthand that Mazyan was correct.
“Forgive me, Master Marius,” said Sulaman, “for dwelling upon such melancholy matters.”
“A question, master poet, if I may,” said Caina.
“Of course,” said Sulaman.
“The star is the key to the crystal,” said Caina. “Have you ever heard those words before?”
“I have,” said Sulaman.
“What are they?” said Caina, leaning closer. Some of her intensity must have shown, because Mazyan scowled and reached for his dagger. Caina forced herself to calm, but the whole of her mind thundered with those words. The spirit of Horemb had told them to her, after Corvalis had died and the Moroaica had been vanquished. What did they mean? Were they a riddle? A warning? A prophecy?
“I believe,” said Sulaman, “they are the words from a poem.”
Caina blinked. “A…a poem?” Her voice caught a bit. “What poem?”
“A newer epic, only a century old,” said Sulaman. “It describes the ill-omened day that the Master Alchemist Callatas used his sorcery to destroy Iramis in a single instant. It is the refrain of the poem, I believe. Though I do not know what it means.”
“A poem?” repeated Caina. “That’s all? A poem? That’s it?”
Caina had killed the Moroaica, had seen the man she loved die, and Horemb’s spirit had quoted a poem at her? Had that been a joke? A final cruel mockery? The room seemed to spin around her, and Caina wanted to scream, wanted to strike something, to kill someone, to collapse the floor and weep until her lungs gave out.
The shadows in her mind seemed to choke her vision.
Mazyan’s perpetual scowl depended. “Have the poet’s words offended you, foreigner?”
“No,” said Caina. “I thought it meant something else. That is all.”
“Are you all right?” said Damla. “Forgive me, Master Marius, but you look…rather ill.”
“Come to think of it, I am,” said Caina. She made herself smile, and Mazyan’s hand tightened further against his dagger. “I…think I need some fresh air. Pardon me, sirs.” She dropped a few more coins into the bowl. “Master poet, thank you for your words.”
“The Living Flame go with you, Master Marius,” said Sulaman. There was pity in his eyes, and for some reason that enraged Caina further.
She walked from the House of Agabyzus without another word.
Chapter 4 - Breaking
A few moments later Caina staggered into the Sanctuary, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. The dim glow from the iron stands illuminated the tables, the cabinets and shelves, the brickwork walls. The faint splash of the aqueduct came to her ears, soft and quiet.
She walked to the table holding tools and leaned upon it, breathing hard. Her fingers tightened against the wood, so hard the knuckles shone white against the skin.
She had lost everything.
It had happened to her before, when her mother had murdered her father and sold her to Maglarion. But Halfdan had rescued her, and for years rage had driven Caina, rage and grief. But one could not live on rage forever. She had met Corvalis. She had started the House of Kularus. She had hoped to settle down with Corvalis and move on.
And all that was gone now.
Caina felt herself shaking, her eyes burning.
Now she was alone. Halfdan was dead, murdered by Sicarion, and she could not turn to him for help. Caina wanted to talk to Theodosia, to Ark and Tanya, but they were in Malarae, and she had been banished to Istarinmul. Sent to rebuild the city’s Ghost circle, to spy on the Istarish for the Emperor.
But to what end? Istarinmul had been a cruel and brutal place long before Caina had been born, and would be long after she was dead. Nothing she did would change that.
Useless, useless, useless.
A sob ripped out of her, almost against her will, and her legs buckled beneath her. Caina slumped against the table, her body shaking with the tears. For a long time she could do nothing else, her chest hitching with the draw of her breath. At last it trailed off, and she felt a little more in control of herself.
But the shadows still danced in her mind.
A poem. A line from a poem.
A damned useless line from a damned meaningless poem about dead men. Again the fury rose in Caina, mingled with grief, and she started to think about veins.
Distraction. She needed to distract herself.
She got to her feet, threw off her coat, and started to work through the unarmed forms.
High block, low kick, middle punch, backward throw, all the moves she had practiced over and over again until they were imprinted upon her very muscles. She always felt better after, calmer, more at peace. She worked through them for an hour, until her heart hammered against her ribs, her breath sharp and fast.
This time they did nothing.
Caina worked through them for another hour, again and again, her arms and legs aching with the effort. Sweat drenched her clothing, and she started pulling it off with snarled curses, yanking off her boots and throwing them aside, tugging off her shirt and trousers until she stood in her sweaty shift.
Again she worked through the unarmed forms, faster and faster.
Caina stood upon her left leg, her right raised past her head, when a burning cramp shot through her overstressed muscles. She lost her balance and fell hard upon her side, her head bouncing off the stone floor. Another wave of pain rolled through her, and Caina hissed as her legs clenched.
At last the cramp subsided, and she got to her feet, the sweat cold and clammy against her skin. She staggered forward and caught her reflection in the mirror, her blue eyes maddened and bloodshot, her blond hair hanging in disarray around her face. Her hair…she had hated dyeing it blond. Corvalis had teased her for it, expressing feigned shock at her vanity, but had run his hands through it anyway, and then pulled her close to kiss her…
Caina thought again of veins.
She stooped over her discarded belt and pulled out a dagger. A few aching steps moved her closer to the mirror, the dagger in her right hand. Her reflection looked like some crazed specter, a madwoman bent on vengeance.
She started hacking at her hair, cutting it off sweaty lock by sweaty lock. She could not stand the sight of it another moment. Soon nothing remained by a ragged shock of black hair, little more than two inches long.
Caina looked nothing like Sonya Tornesti, nothing like the woman Corvalis had loved.
And that made her feel worse.
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She did not want to feel anything. She wanted numbness, forgetfulness.
Oblivion.
Her eyes stayed to the casks of spirits under one of the tables.
She dragged one out, her muscles straining, and located a wooden cup. She found that it contained Caerish whisky, which tasted absolutely terrible and made her mouth and lips and throat burn as it sank into her belly. But, then, no one drank whisky for the taste, did they? They drank it to forget.
The drink hit her hard. Soon she felt warm, far warmer, and the room spun around her. She drained another cup, and another, a veil of warm wool seeming to encircle her head as the Sanctuary blurred and shifted.
Sometime between the fifth and sixth cup, she heard shouting and smashing wood from above, but dismissed it. It was entirely possible she was hearing things. Or the Teskilati had discovered that she was a Ghost and were hacking their way into the Sanctuary.
Caina did not care which.
At the moment, she was more concerned with keeping her balance. She doubted she could stand, and even sitting upright was proving a challenge.
Sometime after the eighth (or possibly ninth) cup Caina slumped onto her side, the world whirling around her.
And then darkness came.
###
And in her darkness, Caina dreamed.
She saw the things she expected, the usual images that populated her nightmares. Maglarion and her mother. Kalastus screaming as his own pyromancy devoured his flesh. Andromache’s lightning falling upon Marsis, Nicolai screaming in terror.
There were newer horrors. The golden dead rising in the chaos of the Agora of Nations, the rift spreading overhead. Sicarion’s blade erupting from Halfdan’s chest. The Moroaica’s green fire slamming into Corvalis, his limp corpse lying upon the ground.
Caina fled from those dreams, but they pursued her nonetheless.
And then some unseen force seized her, and she saw something new.
Something she had never seen with her waking eyes.
A city walled in golden stone, sitting in a fertile plain, strong and prosperous and orderly. There were no slaves in the city, only free men and women. Ships from every nation crossed the sea to dock in the city’s harbors, to trade in its markets.
Ghost in the Cowl Page 4