The consequences would be disastrous.
Caina looked across the chaos of the gardens, trying to find where Damla might have gone.
A blast of trumpets rang out, and sudden silence fell over the gardens. Grand Wazir Erghulan got to his feet, stern and commanding in his armor. He stepped from the dais, flanked by a pair of silent Immortals.
“Hear me!” said Erghulan. “We have gathered to honor Ulvan of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. For at the dawn of history, the Living Flame decreed that some men should be masters and some men should be slaves. The masters must be strong and just, wise and noble, as are the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood.”
It was harder than Caina expected not to spit upon the ground.
“And the slaves must be diligent and obedient, humble and devoted to their masters,” said Erghulan. “For the masters oversee the Padishah’s domains, ordering all things for the good of the people. Yet the hands of the slaves build our realm, as they cheerfully devote themselves to the wise plans of their masters.”
Caina took another look around the crowds. There was no sign of Damla. Caina wanted to go look for her, but she dared not. Wandering around during the Grand Wazir’s speech would draw too much attention.
“It is the noble work of the slave traders, the diligent men of the Brotherhood,” said Erghulan, “that builds our realm of Istarinmul. For they bring new slaves into the realm, take men and women from other nations and train them in their true and proper purpose as slaves of the masters of Istarinmul.”
Caina had heard such self-serving nonsense from Istarish slavers before. She opened her mouth to make a mocking remark to Corvalis…
Then she remembered that Corvalis was not there, nor would he ever be.
The usual grief went through her, but this time a flood of rage accompanied it. Yet for some reason the fury focused upon Ulvan and Erghulan, on the cruel, arrogant speech coming from the Grand Wazir’s lips. Neither man was responsible for Corvalis’s death.
But the rage burned nonetheless. Even if they had not killed Corvalis, how many lives had they ruined? How many families had they torn apart?
How many had felt the same despair as Damla, sown by the work of Ulvan and those like him?
She kept her face calm, but she could not prevent her right hand from curling into a fist, her fingers yearning for the handle of a throwing knife. She might die in the attempt, but she vowed she would find a way to free Bayram and Bahad.
And, if she could, to make Ulvan pay for his crimes.
Erghulan beckoned, and a dozen men in ornate robes joined him. They wore the black leather cloaks of the Slavers’ Brotherhood, bound with brooches in the shape of a hand grasping a coiled whip. Unlike the other slave traders Caina had seen, they wore leather cowls over their cloaks, concealing their faces in shadow. Each man carried a steel rod about eighteen inches long, tipped in a flat steel disk about three inches across marked with an ornate sigil.
The steel rods were brands, Caina realized, and the cowled men were Master Slavers of the Brotherhood. They used the brands for marking their merchandise. Like a smith impressing his seal upon the swords made at his forge.
“And there is one,” said Erghulan, “who has proven himself beyond the others of the noble Brotherhood. Through his efforts we have been supplied with the slaves to maintain our realm. Ulvan of the Brotherhood!” The Grand Wazir beckoned. “Rise.”
Ulvan rose from his throne with a grunt of effort, descended the dais, and went to his knees before Erghulan.
“Ulvan of Istarinmul, brother of the Slavers’ Brotherhood,” said Erghulan in the formal tones of ritual. “Are you a true and loyal servant of Nahas Tarshahzon, the Most Divine Padishah of Istarinmul?”
“I am the truest and most loyal servant of the Padishah!” declared Ulvan.
“Ulvan of the Brotherhood,” recited the cowled masters in unison, speaking in formal Istarish. “Do you swear to abide by the laws of our noble Brotherhood, and never betray our secrets?”
“I so swear,” said Ulvan.
“Do you swear loyalty to the cowled masters, to abide by our decrees?” said the cowled masters.
“I so swear.”
“And do you swear to never free your slaves, to rule them with a benevolent and firm hand?”
“I so swear.”
Again Caina’s right hand tightened into a fist.
“Then rise, Ulvan, Master Slaver of the Brotherhood,” said the masters.
Ulvan rose, albeit with some difficult, and Erghulan affixed the leather cowl of mastery to his cloak. One of the masters presented Ulvan with his own brand, and the new-made Master Slaver took it with pride.
Caina wondered if he would use it on any of his captives before handing them over to Callatas.
“Behold!” said Erghulan. “Master Slaver Ulvan of the Brotherhood!”
The merchants and emirs and Alchemists cheered, though most of the bodyguards and the Circus performers remained silent.
“Thank you all for attending this celebration!” said Ulvan, stepping back upon the dais. “There is food and drink in honor of this august occasion! Let the revels resume!”
Again the emirs and merchants and Alchemists cheered, and even Callatas clapped a few times. Cronmer started bellowing, and the acrobats and clowns went back into motion. A juggler catching flaming balls strolled past Caina, and she stepped around him, looking for Damla. Had she gone into the palace? If the Immortals or Ulvan’s guards caught her, they would kill her without hesitation. Caina turned, intending to find Tiri. Perhaps she or Tozun knew where…
Again Caina felt the tingle of sorcery against her skin.
She stopped, hand reaching for a weapon that was not there. Had Callatas come for her? No, the aura was too weak. It felt like…
A wraithblood addict.
The locksmith Strake stood a few paces away, staring at Caina. Up close, the woman looked delicate, almost frail. And she could not have been much older than Caina, no more than twenty-five or twenty-six at the most. Her head tilted to the side, her eerie blue eyes examining Caina.
“Do you wish something of me?” said Caina.
Strake blinked. “Mathematically.”
“I am sorry?” said Caina.
“It makes more sense mathematically, now that I see you up close,” said Strake. “You are sixty-eight inches tall, and weigh approximately one hundred and twenty-seven pounds. My initial calculations postulated that you lacked the necessary strength to drive the knives with sufficient velocity to penetrate flesh, which would explain the safety of your act. But upon closer examination, I calculate that your mass contains a substantially higher percentage of muscle than most women of your height and age. Therefore you could have killed the other woman with your knives, and I there conclude that you are exceptionally skilled at calculating trajectories and velocities.”
Caina blinked.
Of all the things Strake could might said, she had not expected that.
“I see,” said Caina at last.
“Oh!” said Strake, slapping one hand against her forehead. “Oh, I forgot again.”
“Forgot what?” said Caina.
“Social mores,” said Strake. “It is considered rude to discuss mathematics before offering greetings.” She sighed. “I always forget.”
“I see,” said Caina again, unsure if she ought to be alarmed or amused.
“Social mores, social mores,” said Strake, closing her eyes as if trying to remember a list. “Ah…yes, introductions first. My name. Nerina Strake. Yours?”
“Ciara, Mistress Strake,” said Caina.
She had known another woman named Nerina, years ago in Malarae. That had not ended at all well.
“Call me Nerina,” said Nerina. “It is easier to say, quicker, and therefore a more efficient use of time. Next.” She closed her eyes, recalling the list. “I am to inquire about the state of your health, your husband, and any children.”
“I am healthy,” said Ca
ina, “and I have neither husband nor children.”
Nor would she ever.
Yet something else stirred in her mind. Nerina Strake. That name sounded familiar. But why?
“And I believe the next item on the list,” said Caina, “would be for me to inquire after your husband and children and health.”
“Yes, that’s right!” said Nerina. “My health is indifferent – I have a strong constitution, but I am addicted to wraithblood, though I have not taken any for three months. I have no children and am unlikely to do so, as my husband was killed two years ago.”
“Oh,” said Caina. “I am sorry.”
“Thank you,” said Nerina, blinking her eerie eyes. “But you understand. I calculate that you, too, are a widow.”
“I am not,” said Caina, suddenly alarmed. “I was never married.”
“No?” said Nerina. “But you are plainly in mourning. The dark circles under your eyes and their bloodshot state indicates frequent weeping. You have lost weight, most likely because you have lost interest in eating. The logical result of this equation is you are in mourning for someone close.” She swallowed. “And, on a nonmathematical level, I am…familiar with the variables of that equation.”
“I see,” said Caina at last, her mind racing.
She had always been observant, always able to deduce facts from things she noticed about people. Under Halfdan’s teaching and the training of the Ghosts, the skill had grown keener, and it had saved her life more than once.
And it seemed that Nerina Strake possessed that skill as well.
“I am…sorry for your loss,” said Nerina. “Is that the correct thing to say? I am never sure. Words, unlike numbers, are so imprecise.”
“Yes, that is the correct thing to say,” said Caina. “Thank you. And I am sorry for your loss.”
A muscle twitched in Nerina’s thin face. “Thank you as well. It…emotions are difficult. I much prefer mathematics. Far more precise. I…”
A dark-bearded man with a scarred face stepped next to Nerina. He looked Sarbian, and stood nearly seven feet tall, clad in chain mail and a desert robe, a huge two-handed Sarbian scimitar slung over his shoulder. He scowled at Caina, and unlike most of the men she had seen tonight, he did not look at her with desire.
He looked at her with the cold frown of a man assessing a threat.
“Do not be alarmed,” said Nerina. “This is Azaces, my bodyguard.”
Azaces said nothing.
“Please forgive him for not adhering to the customary social conventions,” said Nerina. “He was born a slave, spent time fighting in the gladiatorial pits, and at some point had his tongue removed.”
“Why are you here?” said Caina.
“Ulvan invited me as a guest,” said Nerina. “I produced the locks on his strong room and personal chambers. It seemed…a welcome distraction.”
“No, I mean here, talking to me,” said Caina. “If you’re Ulvan’s personal locksmith, then you don’t need to waste time talking to circus performers.” Had Nerina built the locks Ulvan used to bind his slaves?
“This is true,” said Nerina, “but I wish to ask you a question.” She thought about it. “Two, in fact.”
Caina was not at all sure the woman standing before her was sane. Yet she seemed to have a better command of herself than most wraithblood addicts. Perhaps here was an opportunity to learn more about wraithblood.
“Very well,” said Caina, “but you must answer an equal amount of questions in turn.”
Azaces made a displeased noise.
“That seems equitable,” said Nerina. “I shall ask first.”
Caina nodded. “Go ahead.”
“When you throw the knives,” said Nerina, “do you first calculate the precise vector, angle, trajectory, and amount of force necessary to reach the target?”
“Do I sit down and work out equations like a siege engineer with a catapult?” said Caina. Nerina nodded. “No. Well, I did a little, when I was younger, when I first started doing this. But now it is all instinct and experience. I have thrown many, many knives in a variety of different circumstances, and can quickly gauge the best throw.”
“Oh.” Nerina sounded disappointed. “That is logical. Still, I had hoped that you would realize that mathematics are the underlying nature of reality, and that any physical structure or action must conform to those mathematical laws in order to achieve maximum effects.”
Caina smiled. “Sometimes I am in a hurry, and must rely upon my instincts and experience, rather than waiting to calculate the precise angle.”
Such as when someone was trying to kill her.
“In the midst of a performance, for instance,” said Nerina, nodding.
“Something like that,” said Caina. “You remind me of a locksmith I knew, Radast of Marsis. He, too, tried to construct locks based on an underlying mathematical reality.”
And that could be a severe problem. Radast’s locks had been devilishly clever and difficult to pick. If this mad locksmith had constructed Ulvan’s locks, Caina’s task would be all the harder.
“How long have you been throwing knives?” said Nerina.
Caina shrugged. “Half my life, I think. My…father was a traveling merchant, and I frequently accompanied him. I grew bored, and I met a circus performer who taught me to throw blades. It has proven useful since.”
Nerina nodded. “Thank you. A second question.”
“Go ahead,” said Caina, looking around for Damla. There was still no sign of her.
“Who are you?” said Nerina.
“My name is Ciara,” said Caina. “The ‘Natalia of the Nine Knives’ title is just for my act. I was born in Mornu, in Varia Province in the Empire of Nighmar.”
“That is it?” said Nerina, frowning. “That is all? Nothing…else? You are not a wielder of arcane forces?”
“Why would you think that?” said Caina.
Nerina opened her mouth, closed it again, and sighed in frustration. “I wish there were a way to express it mathematically.”
“Try using language,” said Caina. “Why would you think that I am a sorceress?”
Nerina thought for a moment. “The shadows.”
“Now it is my turn,” said Caina, taking care to conceal her curiosity, “for two questions.”
Nerina nodded. “This is equitable.”
“You see shadows when you look at me, don’t you?” said Caina. “I suspect is it is because of the wraithblood.”
Azaces growled deep in his throat, his eyes narrowing further.
“How did you know?” said Nerina.
“That you are a wraithblood addict?” said Caina. “The eyes. Obviously.”
“No,” said Nerina. “That when I look at you I see shadows.”
“I’ve spoken with other wraithblood addicts,” said Caina. “Ones who have…lost control of themselves, in a way that you have not. They kept talking about shadows when they look at me.”
“Yes,” said Nerina. “That makes sense. There is…a shadow on you, somehow. It is difficult to quantify. Certainly I could not do so with an equation. Wraithblood…induces hallucinations, powerful hallucinations. Yet they are often random, especially when meeting strangers. But I have not taken any wraithblood for three months. And…this is new.” She reached under her headscarf and scratched her ragged red hair for a moment. It looked as if she had cut it herself without benefit of a mirror. “There is a…haze of shadow that wraps around you. I have never seen anything like it, even when I was in the deepest grips of wraithblood hallucination.”
“A haze of shadow?” said Caina.
Nerina gave a sharp shake of her head. “That is the best way I can express it. Sometimes it looks like a web, or…perhaps a shadow falling upon you. Do you have any explanation for it?”
“No,” lied Caina. But she could think of several. She had been scarred by Maglarion’s necromancy. She had carried the spirit of the Moroaica within her for nearly a year, and surely that had left its mark
upon her. She had traveled into the netherworld twice and returned, and had been in New Kyre when Jadriga had unleashed the golden dead.
Or was it something else, something that she did not yet understand?
This was neither the time nor the place to worry about such things, and Caina had to find Damla before something dangerous happened. But this might be Caina’s only chance to speak with a lucid wraithblood addict, and the wraithblood disturbed her. Who would make and sell a sorcerous elixir to Istarinmul’s poor? Alcohol and opium and hallucinogens were one thing. But a sorcerous elixir? Who would do that?
And why?
“Tell me about wraithblood,” said Caina. “Everything you know. That is my second question.”
Again Azaces made that displeased growl.
“It is a drug,” said Nerina, her expression distant. “Only available in Istarinmul. It first appeared six years past, and no one knows who makes it. In physical appearance is a thick black sludge, hence the name. The user consumes it orally, and wraithblood has neither taste nor smell. When taken it induces euphoria, an indifference to pain, and bursts of manic energy.” She smiled. “I finished a lot of locks.”
“But there are more…deleterious effects,” said Caina.
“Not at first,” said Nerina. “After perhaps a year of heavy use. The hallucinations begin. At first they are…benign, lovely. Dead loved ones, or persons of emotional significance. Fantasies of wish fulfillment.” Her voice remained calm, a scholar discussing mathematics, but a muscle near her left eye twitched. “The visions become more disturbing after that. Images of blood and death and mayhem. A recurrence of bad memories. Some form of insanity usually appears, often followed by debilitation and death. The eyes change color during this phase of addiction, though the change can occur months before the visions become harmful.”
“If you knew how dangerous this elixir was,” said Caina, “why did you take it?”
“My father addicted me to it,” said Nerina.
“Your father?” said Caina, stunned.
“Ragodan Strake,” said Nerina.
And suddenly Caina remembered where she had heard the name of Strake before.
Ghost in the Cowl Page 11