Ghost in the Cowl

by Moeller, Jonathan

  And then the fire came.

  A hooded man stood on a ridge overlooking the city, a star of blue light burning in his fist. He raised the star, and fire devoured the city, consuming it in a single instant. The farms turned to wasteland as the rains stopped, withering to desert, a desert filled with thousands of gleaming crystalline pillars.

  The desert shifted around Caina, and she found herself staring at Corvalis.

  She started forward with a desperate cry, reaching for him, but then he turned.

  In life his eyes had been a brilliant, jade-colored green, but now they burned like liquid flame.

  As if they had been made of smokeless fire.

  Smokeless fire. She had heard those words before. But where?

  “You’re not Corvalis,” said Caina.

  “Obviously,” said Corvalis. In life his voice had never carried that dry, sarcastic drawl. He began to circle around her. “Are you the one? You might be. If the shadows of the future harden into the stone of the present. Time, alas, is ever unreliable.”

  “Who are you?” said Caina.

  “A dream, of course, my dear slayer of demons,” said Corvalis, his burning eyes looking into hers. “Or the Balarigar, as the Szalds so loved to name you. They do like their stories. But is the story true? Are you the one? I have been looking for someone like you for a long time. Well, a short time, really. But from your perspective, several lifetimes.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Caina.

  “You will,” said Corvalis. He looked at the barren desert as the stars went out and the sun turned to ashes. “You will start to understand, I think, when you wake up. You’re going to have a very busy day ahead of you. Assuming, of course, that you do not first choke on your own vomit. Should you survive the night, I would advise you to avoid strong drink. You simply do not have the constitution for it.”

  The dream dissolved, and Caina sank into endless blackness.

  ###

  Later, much later, facts penetrated the haze filling Caina’s brain.

  The first was the odor. Something smelled unpleasant, and very close to her face. The second fact was the ache in her left side, the throbbing pain in her left knee and shoulder. She was lying on her side upon a cold stone floor, wearing only a shift, and consequently she was freezing.

  And then the headache tore through her forehead like a crossbow bolt.

  “Oh,” muttered Caina, squeezing her eyes shut.

  After a moment the thunder in her head subsided to a mere roar, and she pushed herself to a sitting position.

  She was still in the Sanctuary, sitting next to a small puddle of vomit she had no recollection of producing. Last night’s memories came swimming back. Her darkening mood, Sulaman’s poem, the meaning of the words Horemb had given her.

  Her mind collapsing into utter despair.

  “Gods,” muttered Caina, pressing the heels of her hands into her forehead. Little wonder people drank to forget their misery. She could barely think of anything through the headache.

  She could have died last night. Had she fallen asleep on her back, she might well have choked. Or she could have tripped and cracked her skull upon the floor.

  A wave of shame went through her. Corvalis had sacrificed himself to save her life. Drinking herself into a stupor and cracking her skull upon a table would have been a poor way to repay his sacrifice. The thought would have made her weep, but no tears came. Perhaps she had cried them all.

  Or, more likely, she was too dehydrated to cry. Gods, but that Caerish whisky was nasty stuff.

  Caina got to her feet, caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, and winced. She looked terrible, her face pale, her eyes bloodshot, and her hair…

  “Oh, dear,” said Caina, running her hand through what remained of her hair. It looked as if a madwoman had attacked it with a pair of scissors, leaving only a few ragged, uneven inches.

  Which, she supposed, was exactly what had happened.

  Vaguely she wondered what Corvalis would say if he could see her. Or Halfdan.

  Again she felt that wave of shame.

  No more. She would not destroy herself through drink. She owed that to Corvalis and Halfdan. She had to continue living, if only to honor their memory.

  And she could always get herself killed doing something useful.

  Caina retrieved a razor from the table and trimmed her hair, leaving only a half-inch of black stubble. It was not an attractive look on her, made her look gaunt and wasted. But at least her head would be cooler under the damnable Istarish sun. And it would make it easier to wear wigs to disguise herself, if necessary…

  She blinked at the thought, and let out a long breath.

  If she was thinking about wigs, that meant she was thinking about disguises…which meant she could do what she had come to Istarinmul to do.

  It seemed she was not ready to die yet after all.

  She wanted to curl upon the floor and weep, but she knew that if she started that again it would end badly. And there was work to be done in Istarinmul. True, she could hardly expect to change the city. But there were things she could do. The slaves, for one – perhaps she could help escaped slaves to freedom. Or she could discomfort the Slavers’ Brotherhood – they kidnapped slaves from across the world, and Caina had no qualms about making their lives miserable.

  Besides, the floor in the Sanctuary was damned uncomfortable. If she wanted to lie down and cry, she could at least find a proper bed.

  Caina cleaned up the various messes she had made, located fresh clothing, and dressed herself. With her close-cropped hair, she did indeed look like a ragged (if short) Caerish mercenary. She had always resisted cutting her hair short, even though it would have made disguise easier. How Corvalis would have laughed…

  Caina closed her eyes for a moment and waited for the pain to pass.

  Some coffee would be welcome, and the House of Agabyzus could provide that. And perhaps Damla knew the location of a reputable bathhouse. Caina could hardly use a public bath, not if she wanted to maintain her disguise. She could worry about it later. Right now it felt as if a war drum hammered away inside of her skull, and to her astonishment she was hungry. The solution to both problems waited in the House of Agabyzus. Caina would have to apologize to Damla for her behavior. She could pass it off by claiming that she was sick from the ship’s food.

  That at least would have a kernel of truth to it.

  She wrapped a sword belt around her waist, tucked throwing knives into hidden sheaths beneath the sleeves of her coat, and climbed the ladder to the square. The brilliant glare of the sun sent another stab of pain into her skull, and Caina squinted until her eyes adjusted and the pain settled to a tolerable level. After a moment she realized that it was almost noon. She had been unconscious for the better part of sixteen hours, if not longer.

  Whisky was not her drink.

  Caina walked through the alley to the Cyrican Bazaar, turned towards the House of Agabyzus, and froze in shock.

  Something was wrong.

  The coffeehouse’s shutters stood open, and within Caina saw destruction. The tables had been tipped over, the cushions shredded, the coffee cups and plates smashed. The door had been ripped off its hinges and lay upon the ground. Men and women went about their business in the Bazaar, but they gave the House of Agabyzus a wide berth, as if it held some deadly plague.

  Caina saw no sign of Damla or her sons or her slaves.

  Had they been robbed? Did Damla have enemies? Caina supposed a coffeehouse owner could acquire violent enemies, though it seemed unlikely.

  But Caina had enemies.

  If the Teskilati had learned she was here, they might have attacked the coffeehouse. And Caina would not put it past Lord Corbould to send assassins after her.

  Had Caina brought this disaster upon Damla’s head?

  She whispered a curse, reached into her coat for a throwing knife, and climbed over the broken door.

  Chapter 5 - Writ of Servitude
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  Caina swept her eyes over the devastated coffeehouse.

  Utter silence reigned within. She heard the noise of the Bazaar coming through the windows, but no sound came from inside the House of Agabyzus.

  Her eyes examined the wreckage, taking in details.

  Scratches upon the polished floor, the mark of armored boots. Not the Teskilati, then – from what Caina knew of the Padishah’s secret police, they preferred to make their victims disappear mysteriously. Armed attacks were not their style. Immortals wore armored boots, as did the Padishah’s foot soldiers. So did mercenaries, for that matter.

  She took another step, examining the debris.

  No trace of blood. No signs of any fighting. Damla and her sons had not put up a fight. The destruction was deliberate, methodical. Someone had taken the time to turn over the tables, to smash the cups, to slash the cushions and scatter their stuffing. In fact, they had done rather a poor job of it in places – many of the cushions bore only shallow cuts, and some of the cups and plates had struck the floor without shattering.

  The attackers had been in a hurry. Or they had simply been lazy. A moneylender’s hired thugs, perhaps? No, that did not make sense. An unscrupulous moneylender would make an example of his victims, but this much destruction would draw attention. The noise would have summoned the city watch.

  Unless the city watch had been bribed, of course.

  Caina shook her head, her mind racing. Despite her headache, the throwing knife remained rock-steady in her right hand. Perhaps danger was the best cure for a hangover. And she needed more information before she could decide upon a course of action.

  If she had brought this danger upon Damla’s family, she would do her best to undo it.

  She moved through the main floor, past the poet’s dais, and into the kitchen. The House of Agabyzus had a large kitchen, though not so large as the one in the House of Kularus in Malarae. Again Caina saw the signs of wanton, senseless destruction. The steel doors had been ripped from all four of the ovens, brick dust lying across the floor. Pots and pans had been yanked from their hooks and dented into shapeless piles, and even the sacks of coffee beans had been slashed.

  Yet for all the damage, Caina saw no sign that anyone had been killed, or that anything had been stolen. There was no blood, and some of the damaged pots would have fetched a good price from a pawnbroker. She suspected that someone had attacked the House of Agabyzus, carried off Damla, her sons, and her slaves, and lingered long enough to smash things.

  But why? Had the Collectors grown bold enough to attack prosperous shops and carry off their owners as slaves? Kidnapping foreigners from the docks was one thing, but attacking citizens of Istarinmul was quite…

  The ceiling creaked.

  Someone was moving around above her. One of the attackers, perhaps? Or had Damla or her sons or one of the slaves hidden upstairs?

  One way or another, Caina needed more information.

  She picked her way across the main floor, her boots making no sound against the boards. She reached the staircase and ascended, moving one slow, cautious step at a time. Again Caina heard a creak from the second floor. If she guessed right, someone was moving around in Damla’s rooms.

  One of the attackers, perhaps? Or an opportunistic thief?

  Caina moved down a narrow hallway, silent as death, and looked through the opened door at the end.

  Beyond she saw Damla’s bedroom, furnished with a large, comfortable bed, colorful Anshani carpets, a wardrobe against one wall, and a wooden chest against the foot of the bed. The chest was open, and someone had dumped its contents across the bed. Damla sorted through a bundle of papers with frantic speed. Her clothing was in disarray and her headscarf was gone, her black hair hanging loose around her shoulders.

  “Mistress Damla,” said Caina in a quiet voice, slipping her knife back into its sheath.

  Damla hissed in alarm and looked up. She had been crying, though she did not look injured. She grabbed something from the bed, and Caina found herself looking at the end of a loaded crossbow.

  “You,” whispered Damla. “Did you bring this upon us?”

  Caina raised her hands, grateful she had put away the knife. “What happened?”

  “Were you spying for him?” said Damla. “Master Marius…is that even your real name?”

  “What happened?” said Caina again.

  “So convenient,” said Damla. “You rented a room and talked with Anburj, and then you disappeared into the night. Then the soldiers came. Did you bring them here? Did you?”

  “What soldiers?” said Caina, taking a step closer. “Tell me what happened, please.”

  Damla pointed with the crossbow. “Don’t move! Get out of here!”

  “I can’t do both,” said Caina.

  “Where did you go last night?” said Damla. “Why didn’t you come back? Did you tell Anburj to bring his men here, that we would make an easy target?”

  “I didn’t come back because I got drunk and slept in the gutter,” said Caina. That was mostly true. “I woke up, came here, and found the House smashed.”

  “A likely story,” said Damla. She tried to sound threatening, but the crossbow trembled in her hands. “What happened to your hair?”

  Caina ran a hand along her scalp, the bristles rasping against her palm. “I cut it off.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s too damned hot in Istarinmul,” said Caina, “and you have more important things to think about than my hair. Damla, please, tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.”

  “No!” said Damla. “It is just another lie! You are working with them! Get out of here, now, or I shall shoot you!”

  “No,” said Caina, taking another step closer. “You won’t.”

  Damla scowled. “Are you so sure of that? Would you trust to my mercy after what you did to my sons?”

  “No,” said Caina, “but that crossbow isn’t loaded properly.”

  Damla squeezed the trigger. The weapon made a sad little twanging noise, and the quarrel remained motionless.

  For a moment they stared at the bow in silence.

  “The string, said Caina at last. “It wasn’t wound…”

  Damla threw it against the bed with a curse. “Useless thing. Useless, useless, useless damned thing! It was my husband’s. His weapons did not save him in Marsis, and neither will they save my sons now.”

  “Who took your sons?” said Caina.

  “Why?” said Damla. “Why are you trying to help me? Not that you can help me. But why would the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers care what happens to my sons?”

  “They don’t,” said Caina. “But I do. And why?” She thought for a moment. “I don’t like slavers.” Damla flinched. “That was what happened, wasn’t it? The Brotherhood took your sons.”

  “Yes,” hissed Damla. She closed her eyes. “My sons, my slaves, and even the freeborn servants I hired. The Brotherhood’s Collectors took them all.”

  “Tell me why,” said Caina.

  The words poured from Damla, as if it had taken all her strength to hold them back.

  “It was the middle of the night,” said Damla. “We had already closed, and Sulaman and Mazyan had left. It had been a good night. We sold much coffee, for Sulaman is very popular. Then the soldiers kicked down the door, rounded up everyone, and made us stand in the common room.”

  “Soldiers,” said Caina. “Were they Collectors?”

  “Yes,” said Damla.

  Caina said nothing, another wave of guilt rolling through her. If she had not buckled under the weight of her emotions, if she had not been drunk in the Sanctuary, then she would have been here. Perhaps she could have done something to stop it.

  On the other hand, she might well be in chains right now, had she done so.

  Or dead.

  “The Collectors took everyone?” said Caina.

  “The slaves and the servants,” said Damla. “They have been here for years, worked for my husband and my brother
before they died. But that was not enough. They took my sons, my sons, my sons…” Her voice started to crack.

  “Why did they take your sons?” said Caina.

  “Why do you care?” said Damla, her voice rising to a shout. “What does it matter? Don’t you understand?” She started to cry, her face twisting up. “It was…inevitable. My husband is dead. My brother is dead. And now my sons are gone. Everyone, I have lost everyone. I always knew I would lose everyone, and now that day has come.” She started to claw at her face. “I…I have…”

  Caina seized Damla’s wrists before she could hurt herself. Damla screamed again and tried to pull away, but Caina was stronger and knew how to handle herself. Damla struggled for a moment, but then went limp, still weeping.

  “Listen to me,” said Caina, voice low. “It might not be too late. Perhaps I can help you.”

  “How?” whispered Damla. “No one crosses the Brotherhood and lives.”

  “I don’t know how,” said Caina. “Not yet. But do not despair. Did the Collectors kill your sons?”

  “No,” said Damla. “No, they took them. They will be sold to the mines. A terrible fate.”

  “Perhaps we can avert it yet,” said Caina. “Tell me more. I need to know more before I can act.”

  Damla stared at her for a moment, and then nodded.

  “Maybe,” she said, tugging her wrists free. Caina let her go. “Perhaps you are simply a madman and I am listening to you ramble.” She shook her head. “But if there is any hope at all…” Damla closed her eyes, took a deep breath, opened them again. “Forgive me. I am…not myself.”

  “I understand better than you think,” said Caina. “Please, tell me more.”

  “Anburj led the Collectors, along with some other men from the guard of Ulvan of the Brotherhood,” said Damla. “That was why Anburj was here for Sulaman’s recitation. I thought it odd…he is a brutish man, and cares little for poetry. I always instructed my slave girls to make sure they were never alone with him, and took the same precaution myself.”

  “So then he only came to the Song of Istarr and the Demon Princes,” said Caina, “to scout, to see if any of the guests would be a threat later.” Had Anburj come to the House of Agabyzus to hunt for Caina? That seemed unlikely – most likely her erratic behavior last night would have made him think that the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers needed to hire a better quality of courier.