Caina shrugged. “You won’t get too warm, at least.”
Damla’s answering glare was just short of murderous.
Acrobats, clowns, musicians, and other performers occupied the tents, applying makeup and donning their costumes in haste. It reminded Caina of her time spying for Theodosia at the Grand Imperial Opera. To be sure, the Grand Imperial Opera sang for the high nobles and wealthy merchants of the Empire, while the Circus Of Wonders And Marvels had a wider audience. Yet it seemed familiar to Caina. The same laborers and carpenters, grumbling to themselves and complaining about the performers. The same manic egoism among the singers and the acrobats and the clowns, each one believing himself to be the center of the world. And the same endless lurid romantic intrigues. Caina had been propositioned four times in the last three days, and had managed to dissuade her suitors without hurting their feelings or injuring them.
Just as well. Injuring them would have upset Cronmer and Tiri, and Caina had come to respect them. She had no idea how they kept order in this madhouse of a circus, but they looked after their people with the same iron-handed benevolence Caina had once seen in Marzhod of Cyrioch or Halfdan…
She blinked, her eyes stinging for a moment, and turned her attention to Damla.
“A scandalous costume,” muttered Damla. “It is ridiculous.”
Caina could not disagree.
Damla wore a skirt of gauzy blue silk that barely reached to mid-thigh. Above it she wore a tight, sleeveless vest that reached to the bottom of her ribs, the fabric taut across her chest. If she inhaled too deeply, Caina suspected the vest’s buttons would pop right off. Bracelets and anklets gleamed around her wrists and ankles, brass and glass imitating gold and jewels. Caina herself had applied Damla’s makeup as way Theodosia had taught her, reddening Damla’s lips and using black lines and shadow to make her eyes look bigger. Damla’s long black hair had been piled in an elaborate crown, held in place with pins and a diadem, and Caina felt a brief pang of jealousy.
An absurd thing to think about now.
Still, Damla wore it well. For a woman who had borne two children, she was fitter than Caina would have expected, no doubt from staying on her feet at all day. She looked like some emir’s favorite mistress, the one he trusted to rule his other concubines. There was no trace of the House of Agabyzus’s respectable owner.
“My costume is no less ridiculous,” said Caina.
Damla shook her head as Caina regarded herself in the mirror.
She wore a skirt of red silk knotted over her left thigh, leaving her left leg bare. An intricate net of red silk encircled her neck and chest and did a marginal job of concealing her breasts, leaving her back and shoulders and stomach bare, which Tiri believed would enhance the performance. Like Damla, she wore costume jewelry upon her wrists and ankles and ears. Unlike Damla, she wore a red wig that looked almost realistic, the hair bound with a diadem, her eyes lined with dark makeup. Tiri had insisted upon the wig because Caina looked Szaldic, and apparently the Istarish nobles believed that Szalds had red hair, though Caina had never seen a Szaldic man or woman with hair of that color.
She had worn a costume like this when she had infiltrated the Kindred Sanctuary in Cyrioch, and she remembered how it felt when Corvalis had looked at her…
She tried to ignore the stab of pain that went through her. This was not a night for distractions, and she needed to keep her wits sharp.
“There is an advantage to looking ridiculous,” said Caina. “No one will take us seriously. And if no one takes us seriously, that will make it easier for us to do what needs to be done.”
“I suppose this is true,” said Damla. “I want to see my sons again, but by the Living Flame, I hope they do not see me dressed up in this…this harlot’s costume.”
They wouldn’t. Caina knew that Ulvan kept his “merchandise” secured in fortified cells below his palatial mansion.
“Well,” said Caina. “Let’s…”
The tent flap opened, and Tozun stepped inside, wearing his usual scowl. Cronmer’s and Tiri’s eldest son had inherited his mother’s dark skin and black hair, and his father’s solid build and thick mustache. Cronmer and Tiri had a flair for showmanship and keeping the peace among their workers, but neither one of them had a head for numbers. Tozun knew exactly how many pieces of costume jewelry the Circus owned, along with the precise price of food for Vardo’s Anshani grass lion.
“Listen to me!” shouted Tozun, and the crowd inside the tent fell silent. “I just talked with Ulvan’s master of revels. The Grand Wazir Erghulan is coming on behalf of the Padishah, and Grand Master Callatas of the Alchemists will be attending as well.”
A murmur went through the performers, and Caina felt her eyebrows rise. Erghulan and Callatas were the two most powerful men in the city. Ulvan had indeed risen high, if he could bring such guests to his ceremony.
“We will wait in the courtyard until the Grand Master and the Grand Wazir arrive,” said Tozun. “The performances will begin once Ulvan greets his guests, and we shall pause when the Grand Wazir invests Ulvan with his new office. Then the performances shall resume until the festivities conclude.”
He began giving instructions to the others. Groups of acrobats and clowns filed out, like troops marching to battle. Damla took a deep breath and smoothed her skirt.
“You won’t hit me with a knife, will you?” said Damla.
“No,” murmured Caina, watching the men and women of the Circus go about their business. She remembered helping Theodosia prepare for a performance, running errands for the carpenters and the costumers. Later she had attended the performances with Corvalis, in her guise as Sonya Tornesti…
Suddenly she felt so alone, standing in this darkened tent in a foreign city, far from her home and her friends.
But she had set herself upon this path, and she would not turn back. And there was no one else to help Damla. All the other Ghosts of Istarinmul were dead. If Caina did not help her, no one would.
And her sons would die in slavery.
“Natalia of the Nine Knives!” said Tozun.
“That’s us,” said Caina, glancing in the mirror and giving that damnable wig one final adjustment. Then she took a deep breath, slipped on a pair of high-heeled sandals, and walked to Tozun, Damla following after.
“Ah, Ciara, Nuri, good,” said Tozun, giving them a cursory glance. “You’re ready. Refreshing to find a pair of performers who can actually show up on time.
“Tardiness,” said Damla, “is a vice.”
“Truly,” said Tozun. “I don’t know when we’ll fit you in. Wait for my father to call for Natalia of the Nine Knives. Then I’ll send some of the carpenters to tie you to the board,” he nodded at Damla, “and to bring you the knives.”
Caina nodded.
“Off to the gardens,” said Tozun with a jerk of his head. “Wait by Vardo’s lot. Stay quiet when the Grand Wazir and the Master Alchemist arrive. The highborn of Istarinmul like lots of crowds when they have their grand ceremonies, so long as we commoners keep quiet and orderly.”
“My life is nothing but order,” lied Caina.
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Tozun. He stepped to the side and began shouting for the clowns, and Caina led Damla into the courtyards of Ulvan of the Slavers’ Brotherhood.
The courtyard surrounding his sprawling palace of white stone was a broad, wide garden, planted with small trees and bushes, gravel paths winding past bubbling fountains. Countless torches provided light, throwing dancing shadows over everything. Hundreds of Istarish nobles in fine robes milled through the grounds, their slaves trailing after, carrying trays of food and drink. Vardo’s cages stood near the tent, the animal trainer himself bellowing commands to his assistants.
“I don’t want to wait near the lions,” said Damla.
“Don’t worry,” said Caina, moving away from the cages. She took careful steps in her high-heeled sandals, and threw a silent curse at the uneven grass. “He’ll herd them into that ring,
and then have them do tricks. Or they’ll eat him.”
Damla loosed a short, surprised laugh. “A pity he didn’t get his damned elephant, then.”
“Aye,” said Caina. “We…”
She felt the prickle of sorcerous power against her bare skin.
Caina turned. She saw a dozen Alchemists in their gold-trimmed white robes moving through the crowd, and she made sure to keep well away from them. She had only ever spoken with one Alchemist, Ibrahmus Sinan, and he had been hunting Muravin’s daughter, intending to cut the unborn child from her womb and use it to create his Elixir Rejuvenata, his pathway to immortality.
Caina had ensured that had not ended well for him. She doubted that Sinan’s fellows were better men.
“Ciara?” said Damla.
“Nothing,” said Caina. No doubt she had just sensed the presence of the Alchemists’ warding spells. Some of them also knew the secret of imputing the strength of steel to cloth while letting it retain its flexibility and light weight, and clothed themselves in robes of alchemically strengthened cloth to guard against assassins.
She turned again, and saw the black-clad woman staring at her.
The young woman wore a black widow’s robe and headscarf. Unlike Damla, who had taken care with her appearance, even in widow’s black, this woman looked…disheveled. Dust and iron filings clung to the skirts of her gown, and the threadbare sleeves looked as if they often caught upon sharp objects. Wisps of reddish-gold hair jutted from her black headscarf. Her face was pale and thin, almost gaunt, and dark circles ringed her eyes.
Eyes that were the pale blue of a wraithblood addict.
And she was staring right at Caina.
The woman was the first wraithblood addict Caina had seen who looked lucid. A wave of curiosity seized her. Ulvan would not have admitted an enslaved or impoverished wraithblood addict to his grand party, and his guards would have turned away or killed any beggars who tried to sneak into the festivities. Here perhaps was a chance to learn more about the wraithblood.
And why the addicts always claimed to see shadows around Caina…
“You know her?” said Damla, following Caina’s gaze.
“No,” said Caina.
“By the Living Flame, I hope she does not recognize me in this costume,” said Damla.
“Wait,” said Caina. “You recognize her?”
“Aye, that’s Strake, the mad locksmith,” said Damla. “Best locksmith in the city. Half the emirs and the Alchemists buy their locks from her. Vile woman, though. Her father…”
Before Damla finished, a blast of trumpets rang out, and the crowds in the gardens fell silent.
Immortals marched through the gates and into the gardens.
Caina watched the elite soldiers in silence. They wore black armor of the finest steel, plate over chain, scimitars at their belts and heavy shields upon their left arms. Each man also carried a coiled chain whip at his belt, and Caina had seen firsthand the damage they could inflict with the unwieldy weapons. Every one of the Immortals wore a black helmet and mask, the mask shaped like a grinning skull.
And through the eyeholes of the skull masks she saw a pale blue glow, a side effect of the sorcerous elixirs of strength and speed they consumed. The elixirs also induced murderous insanity and a lust for cruelty, and consequently the Immortals were the most feared soldiers in the world. Ostensibly the Padishah commanded the Immortals, but the Master Alchemists controlled them, and powerful emirs and Alchemists often received squads of Immortals for their personal guards.
And as a way, Caina suspected, of keeping those emirs and Alchemists loyal to the Masters of the College.
The Immortals formed an aisle of dark steel, and Ulvan of the Brotherhood himself emerged from the palace and strode toward the gates, trailed by a pair of his bodyguards. He was fat, so fat that in a few years he would likely have trouble walking, and wore a brilliantly ornamented crimson robe. The black leather mantle of a member of the Brotherhood hung from his shoulders, pinned by a broach in the shape of the Brotherhood’s coiled whip sigil.
Damla glared at the slaver, a shiver of rage going through her.
“No, don’t,” murmured Caina, touching her shoulder. “Stay calm. We don’t want to draw attention.”
Damla managed a nod, though her eyes narrowed to glittering black slits.
A final group of Immortals came through the gates, followed by an Istarish man in the formal robes of a herald, who began to declaim in a mighty voice, his words echoing over the garden.
"Behold!" he boomed. "He comes! He who is the Emir of the steppes of Trabazon! He who is Captain of the Towers of the Sea! He who is the magistrate of magistrates, the Wazir of the Wazirs, and the strong right hand of the Most Divine Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon! Erghulan Amirasku comes!"
A tall man followed the herald, and for the first time Caina looked upon Erghulan Amirasku, Grand Wazir of Istarinmul.
Unlike Ulvan, there was not an inch of fat upon the man. He had to be in his middle fifties, his bronze-colored skin scored with deep lines, his remaining hair close-cropped and gray. Yet he moved with the balance and strength of a much younger man. Unlike the other nobles, he eschewed finery for the chain mail and armor of an Istarish cavalryman, a scimitar at his belt.
Suddenly Caina felt another wave of arcane power against her skin, stronger than before. She looked around, wondering if the locksmith Strake had come closer, but Caina saw no sign of the woman. Was one of the Alchemists casting a spell? The power doubled in strength, and then again. It was terribly strong – Caina had sensed sorcery on that scale before, but not very often.
The herald began to speak again.
"Behold!" he boomed. "He comes! He who is the Grand Master of the Alchemists! He who is the Most Divine Padishah’s trusted advisor and counsellor! He who is the Destroyer of Iramis and the master of all the mysteries of sorcery! Callatas comes!"
A short man in a white robe and turban walked through the gate, and Caina recognized Grand Master Callatas.
She had seen him just over two years ago, in the gathering of sorcerers at Catekharon, and he had not changed. Callatas had the gauntness of the ascetic, the slightly stooped posture of a man who had spent long hours bent over books and scrolls. He had deep-set gray eyes, the hard line of his jaw and chin shaded by a close-cropped beard. He looked like a scholarly, even grandfatherly, old man, but Caina knew better. He was centuries old, and Master Alchemists extended their lives with the use of Elixir Rejuvenata produced from the ashes of unborn children.
And if the story about Iramis was true, Callatas had the blood of hundreds of thousands upon his ancient hands.
His eyes swept over her, and for an instant Caina was sure that he would recognize her. But his gaze kept moving. Likely he had not even noticed her presence in Catekharon. There she had been disguised as a merchant’s spoiled daughter, and such a woman would have been unworthy of a Master Alchemist’s attention. A circus performer would be far beneath his notice.
Or perhaps the red wig had thrown him.
A strange jewel, perhaps the size of a child’s fist, rested against Callatas’s chest, dangling from a fine chain of gold. Caina did not recognize the type of stone, but it was a deep, azure blue, and almost seemed to glow. The waves of mighty power she felt were coming from the gemstone, she was sure of it. But what was it? She could not discern its function from its sorcerous aura.
“That amulet Callatas wears,” said Caina. “Do you know what it is?”
“Valuable, probably,” said Damla. “He is never seen in public without it.”
A second Alchemist followed Callatas. He stood head and shoulders taller, and he had the look of the Arthagi barbarians from beyond the Empire’s northern marches, his red hair slicked back and his beard thick and bushy. He would not have been out of place fighting as a gladiator in the pits. His blue eyes swept back and forth, evaluating everything as a threat.
“That man with Callatas,” murmured Caina. “Do you know of him?
”
“I believe his name is Ricimer,” said Damla. “I have heard dark tales about him. A barbarian slave from the north who had arcane ability and joined the College of Alchemists. They say he is Callatas’s right hand.”
Ulvan walked forward and bowed before the Grand Master and the Grand Wazir, as deeply as his girth would allow.
“My lord Erghulan, my lord Callatas,” said Ulvan in a loud voice. “In the name of the Most Divine Padishah, I welcome you to my humble home.” Callatas gave a little snort as he looked at Ulvan’s elaborate marble palace. “Truly, you do great honor to your humble servant, and I rejoice in your presence and bless the fortune that has led your feet to my door.”
“You have done well, Ulvan,” said Erghulan, clapping the slaver upon the shoulder. “The Living Flame has blessed your efforts. Slaves are the foundation of Istarinmul, the source of our wealth and strength. Their labors free the Istarish to devote ourselves to the crafts of war and ruling.” Given that Istarinmul had sued for peace in the war against the Empire, Caina had her doubts about that. “The work of your noble Brotherhood is valuable to the Most Divine Padishah.”
“Yes,” said Callatas. “The College of Alchemists appreciates your efforts, Ulvan. Not all of your brothers have been able to meet our demand for laborers.” A brief, mocking smile flashed over Ricimer’s face. “You have the gratitude and friendship of the College for your efforts.”
“I am but a simple, honest merchant,” said Ulvan, “and your gratitude overwhelms me.”
Damla hissed in fury, but thankfully made no other move. The blue-glowing eyes of the Immortals swept over the crowd, watching for any sign of threat, and Caina had felt more than one of them staring at her. She knew what would happen to a young woman who fell into the hands of the Immortals. Death did not hold any fear for her, not after losing Corvalis, but a quick death would be preferable to the tortures the Immortals would inflict if they decided that she was a threat.
“Come, my friends,” said Ulvan. “Refreshments and entertainments have been prepared, and I invite you to sit and take your ease.”
Ghost in the Cowl Page 8