Ghost in the Cowl

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Then Caina remembered why Corvalis was not there, remembered that he would never be there again.

  She closed her eyes and cried in silence for a while, resting her head against the rolled-up blanket that served as her pillow.

  Bit by bit her mind came back into focus as she remembered where she was and how she had gotten there. Istarinmul and the House of Agabyzus. Sulaman and his damned poems. Damla weeping, and the knives and flames in the Circus. Ulvan’s shrieking as the chain rasped against stone of the railing…

  The insane, mad risks Caina had just taken.

  The risks she had survived.

  She felt herself shaking, felt her lips twitching.

  And then she began to laugh like a madwoman, unable to stop herself.

  Gods, what a fool she was! Storming Ulvan’s mansion like that, with no time to prepare, no help, no aid but her own wits and speed.

  And she had come through it all and survived.

  That sent her into another peal of giddy laughter. The elation of it filled her. Perhaps grief had maddened her. Or perhaps she had always been a risk-taking lunatic, craving danger as a drunkard craved wine. Whenever she and Corvalis had survived mortal danger together, once they reached safety they had been unable to keep their hands off each other.

  “Oh, Corvalis,” said Caina, still laughing and crying. “Oh, I wish you were here.”

  She blinked away a few more tears, yawned, and got to her feet. Her mouth felt as dry as the deserts outside of Istarinmul’s walls, and she drank half the jar of water she had filled earlier. How long had she been asleep? To judge from the ache in her arms and shoulders, it had been for some time.

  The Teskilati and the Immortals had not found her.

  Perhaps it was safe to visit the coffeehouse.

  Caina moved through the unarmed forms, working the stiffness from her limbs. After she found and donned the dusty coat and trousers and boots of Marius, courier to the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers. They did not smell particularly good. Caina was going to have to find a laundress and a bathhouse. Well, under her guise as Marius, she would have money, and perhaps she could rent a private room with a bath.

  She climbed the ladder to the square and looked around. It was almost dusk, the sun fading in the west. She had slept most of the day. Unsurprising, given her exertions of the last few days, and the months before that.

  She walked through the alley to the Cyrican Bazaar and stopped in surprise.

  The House of Agabyzus was open.

  More, it looked like it was thriving.

  Through the windows Caina saw that the tables were filled. Carpenters worked to repair the damaged shutters. She even saw Sulaman sitting upon his dais, Mazyan waiting with his drum and a scowl.

  How had Damla done all this already?

  Surprised, Caina walked through the doors. A slave woman hurried over, smiling. Caina recognized her from Ulvan’s cellars. Damla’s slaves had come back to her?

  “May I help you, sir?” said the slave.

  “Yes,” said Caina, rubbing her hand over her head. Odd that the rasp of the bristles beneath her palm helped her to think. “Some coffee, please, and some food…”

  “Master Marius!”

  Damla hurried to her. She had traded her circus girl’s costume for the sober black of a widow once more, her sandals tapping against the floor. A brilliant smile spread over her face, her teeth white in her dark face.

  “Master Marius,” said Damla.

  “Mistress Damla,” said Caina. “You are looking well. All things considered.”

  “Thank you,” said Damla. “I am glad to see you again, sir. More glad than you can possibly know. After the second day, I thought…”

  “Wait,” said Caina. “It has been two days?” Gods, how long had she been asleep?

  “A full day, a night, and most of another day,” said Damla. “Once my slaves and my sons returned from their unlawful and unjust imprisonment, we went to work.” She spread her hands. “The House of Agabyzus is open for business once more.”

  “So I see,” said Caina.

  “Some letters came for you,” said Damla, “from the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers. I have kept them safe. You must want to see them, yes? This way.”

  She led Caina across the floor and past the poet’s dais. Sulaman gazed at Caina as she passed, a contemplative expression on his face. All at once Caina wondered if the poet was an informant for the Teskilati. It would make sense – he would see and hear many things, and the secret police would pay well for the information.

  Well, that was a problem she could deal with later.

  “Mother!”

  Bahad ran across the floor.

  “Yes, dear one?” said Damla.

  “Bayram says we are out of oil for bread,” said Bahad. He blinked, and then bowed. “Master Marius. Good evening, sir. How are you?”

  He was so formal that Caina laughed. “Well. I am very well. And I am glad you see you well, young sir. I heard there was trouble.”

  A shadow came over his face. “Yes…there was.” Then he smiled. “But the Balarigar came. I always thought that was just a story the Szalds told, but I guess not.”

  “Do not bore our guests with stories,” said Damla. “Go tell your brother that there is more oil in the pantry, behind the dates.”

  Bahad ran off, and Caina followed Damla into a small office near the kitchen. A small writing desk supported a thick ledger, no doubt Damla’s business records. Damla closed the door behind them.

  “I am surprised,” said Caina, “that your slaves came back.”

  “I…am glad they did,” said Damla, brushing her hands against the front of her robe, as if nervous. “I…where would they go? They have no families, not yet, and they would starve or become prostitutes if left alone. I hope I can make freedwomen of them someday.”

  Caina nodded, and Damla started crying.

  She blinked in surprise, and before she could react, Damla hugged her.

  “Thank you,” whispered Damla, “thank you, thank you. Oh, by the Living Flame, thank you. I…I thought you were a madwoman, a lunatic. I thought there was no hope left. I knew I would never see my sons again. I’ve lost so much, Ciara. My mother and father. My brothers. My husband. And…and I was sure I had lost Bayram and Bahad forever. Thank you, thank you.” She stepped back, sniffling, and rubbed at her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Caina, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “I was certain you were dead,” said Damla. “I’ve heard…I’ve heard so many different stories about what happened. My sons and the slaves would only say that a hooded shadow with the voice of a demon freed them. All the Szaldic slaves speak of the Balarigar now. Ciara, the city is ablaze with rumors. Some say a renegade sorcerer attacked Ulvan and brought him low, or that his enemies tried to have him assassinated. I heard one story that said the Balarigar made him crawl around on his hands and knees in his own garden, then slew a dozen Immortals and escaped.”

  “No, that didn’t happen,” said Caina. “I didn’t kill anyone. There really wouldn’t have been time.”

  “I am grateful to you, so grateful,” said Damla. “But, Ciara…what truly happened? You told me to set that fire and go home…and then my sons returned and Ulvan has been brought low.” She gazed at Caina in bewilderment. “What did you do? Are you truly a sorceress of power?”

  “Of course not,” said Caina. “I told you who I am. I am a Ghost nightfighter.” She considered for a moment. “I can tell you what I did. You deserve that much. But I warn you that the knowledge will put you in danger. I am certain that the Brotherhood, the Alchemists, and the Teskilati all want to know the truth of what happened two nights past.”

  “I owe you everything,” said Damla. “If you were a man, I would let you take me here and now.”

  Caina blinked. “Ah. Thank you. I think.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Damla. “That…sounded better in my head. But I will not betray you
r secrets. And I am baffled how you defeated Ulvan.”

  So Caina told her. Damla listened without interruption, her eyes sometimes widening, her hand sometimes going to her mouth in surprise.

  “No wonder you slept for two days,” said Damla.

  Caina nodded. “Never tell anyone. Not your sons, not your husband if you remarry, not anyone. If the Teskilati discover you know what really happened, they will find you and they will kill you.”

  “I know,” said Damla. “And they will kill my sons. Your secrets are safe with me. You…you truly are the Balarigar?”

  Caina scowled. “That’s just a word. A myth. A tale of the Szalds.”

  Of course, the Moroaica had been a tale of the Szalds, and she had been real enough.

  “But when they tell the stories about the Balarigar…the things he did at Marsis and Cyrioch and Malarae and New Kyre…that is you?” said Damla.

  Caina sighed. “I got lucky and didn’t die a few times when I really should have, and the name sort of…stuck.”

  Damla said nothing for a moment.

  “I don’t know what happened to your husband,” said Caina. “I was at Marsis, yes. A lot of people died that day. I am sorry.”

  Damla nodded. “I suppose I do not have the right to expect two miracles of you, do I? Because you have given me a miracle. You have given me my sons back. And I thought…I thought…”

  “Thought what?” said Caina.

  “Forgive me,” said Damla, “but I thought you were just a madwoman.”

  Caina stepped closer. “Listen to me very carefully. You have to understand this.” Damla nodded. “You’re not wrong.”

  Damla burst out laughing, and Caina followed suit.

  “You’ll have to be careful,” said Caina once they had calmed down. “Ulvan might try to take your sons again.”

  “Perhaps,” said Damla. “We will take precautions, of course, but I would be surprised. Ulvan is in disgrace.” She frowned. “You are not Istarish, so it is hard to explain. But when all his captives escaped, Ulvan lost a tremendous amount of respect. So long as he was successful, no one would have cared what he did. But now that his slaves escaped…he is weakened. Like a wounded man falling into the sea. All the sharks are drawn to him. Before, he could have forged as many Writs of Captivity as he pleased. Now his enemies will use every weakness against him.”

  “Politics is the same anywhere,” said Caina.

  “I suppose this is true,” said Damla with a shrug. “And I have heard other rumors. The Grand Wazir and the cowled masters of the Brotherhood have brought Ulvan up on charges.”

  “For the forged Writs?” said Caina.

  “No,” said Damla. “For allowing his captives to escape. The Brotherhood receives a cut of every sale, and I imagine the Master Slavers were not pleased to lose that money.”

  “Nor,” said Caina, “would Callatas be pleased. He was quite insistent that the slaves arrive tomorrow.”

  Damla nodded. “No doubt he wanted the workers to produce Hellfire.”

  “No doubt,” murmured Caina.

  But she was not convinced.

  If it had been just the captives in Ulvan’s cellars, it might have made sense. But Caina remembered the Collector who had tried to seize her from the docks, remembered the rumors about the Alchemists buying every slave they could find. Why do that? It reminded Caina of Marsis, of Naelon Icaraeus supplying slaves to Jadriga as she prepared her great work. She doubted the Alchemists had a noble purpose in mind.

  And the wraithblood. Were the Alchemists involved in that? Wraithblood was sorcerous in nature, and the Alchemists were the most powerful sorcerers in Istarinmul and certainly the most organized. Were they making the wraithblood? Or were individual Alchemists doing so?

  But why? Even if half the city’s beggars were using the drug, the Alchemists could not earn much profit from it. Why make it?

  Caina could not see the reason, and that disturbed her.

  “You are scowling,” said Damla.

  “What?” said Caina, shaking off her dark thoughts. “Forgive me. I was thinking about the wraithblood and the Alchemists. There is some connection, I am sure, though I cannot see what.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” said Damla. “Not after what you have done for me. And that is your business, I suppose, if you are a Ghost. To investigate these matters.”

  “It is,” said Caina. “And I should get started.” She found herself yawning. “Tomorrow, though.”

  “You may stay here as long as you wish without charge,” said Damla.

  “I can pay,” said Caina. “It is no hardship.”

  “I insist,” said Damla. “My sons are worth more than gold. You shall stay here and eat at my table for as long as you wish.” She grinned. “Though if you bring any guests, they shall have to pay.”

  Caina laughed. “Only reasonable.”

  “You must be ravenous,” said Damla, “if you slept for two days.”

  Caina’s stomach clenched. “A little.”

  “Come, let us prepare you a meal,” said Damla. “Rice and peppers and spiced chicken, yes? And coffee, of course.”

  “I can pay for it,” said Caina.

  “Nonsense,” said Damla, stepping towards the door. “Business is slower than I would like, after the…unpleasantness, but it will pick up again.”

  Caina grinned. “If you really wanted it to pick up, I suppose you could serve tables in your Circus outfit.”

  Damla sighed. “If the Living Flame is merciful, I shall never have to wear such a thing in public again.” She paused. “Still, I admit it made an effective disguise. I thought Anburj would recognize me, that I would see at least some of Ulvan’s men at my door once my sons returned. But nothing. No one realizes I was at Ulvan’s palace.” She shook her head. “Truly, people see what they expect to see.”

  “And a well-timed bluff,” said Caina, “is sometimes more effective than a sword.”

  “Well, then, Master Marius,” said Damla. “If you are to bluff, at least you can do so with a full stomach.”

  They walked back to the common room, Damla speaking of how she would of course be happy to provide lodgings for additional couriers from the Collegium of Jewelers, and perhaps would be even willing to consider a reduced rate of rent. Caina stifled a smile. Damla, indeed, was learning the value of the bluff.

  Was this how the circlemasters of the Ghosts built their circles? Caina had called herself a Ghost nightfighter, but in truth the Emperor had made her Istarinmul’s circlemaster, the leader of the eyes and ears of the Ghosts in Istarinmul. Of course, the Teskilati had killed all of Istarinmul’s Ghosts, so Caina had no one to lead.

  But she could make new Ghosts…and Damla, she suspected, would be willing. Bayram, too, for that matter. He was old enough, and men often talked freely before children, believing them beneath notice.

  But did Caina have that right? She could risk herself without fear. She had already lost Corvalis, and after that losing her own life hardly seemed like a great loss. Yet did Caina want to bring danger into Damla’s life and the lives of her sons?

  Yet danger had found Damla anyway. Even if Caina had died in New Kyre, even if she had drunk herself into a stupor and cracked her head on the edge of a table in the Sanctuary, Ulvan’s Collectors would have come for Damla’s children anyway.

  And if Caina had not been there, they would never have seen their mother again.

  Perhaps Istarinmul needed more Ghosts. Perhaps the Brotherhood and the Alchemists and the emirs had enjoyed a free hand for too long.

  Damla showed her to a booth, and Caina sat and thanked her. She gazed at the crowd of merchants and artisans, watching them drink their coffee and discuss the business of the day. Not a few of them discussed the upheaval at Ulvan’s palace.

  Damla’s slaves moved among them, serving food and drink. Why had they come back? They could have fled and found their freedom. Yet, as Damla had said, for them freedom would have meant prostitution at be
st and death by starvation at worst. And Damla was a vast difference from a man like Ulvan. Still, that did not excuse owning slaves. Yet what else could have Damla done? Everyone in Istarinmul who could own a slave did so, and gave no thought to its morality. Many of the slaves themselves likely did not.

  Perhaps that was the worst thing of all.

  There was a worthy goal – finding a way to end slavery in Istarinmul.

  She smiled at her own hubris. Corvalis would have asked if she wanted to capture the moon, or quench the fire of the sun.

  One of the slaves arrived with a plate of food and a cup of coffee, and Caina thanked her and started to eat. Gods, but the food was good. Hunger added spice to everything, but the work of Damla’s cooks hardly needed enhancement.

  She listened as Sulaman stood up and recited a poem, accompanied by Mazyan’s drumming. To her surprise, he recited not an epic of Istarinmul, but a tale the legendary assassin Morgant the Razor. Caina had read of his life in her father’s books long ago. During the time of the Fourth Empire, when the Magisterium had ruled the Empire, he had assassinated one of the cruelest Padishahs in Istarinmul’s history, and then fled north to Malarae, where he then killed one of the magus-emperors. After the fall of the Fourth Empire and the rise of the Fifth a century and a half past, he had returned to Istarinmul, and no history recorded his fate. Some said the Kindred had hunted him down as a traitor. Others claimed he had buried himself in a secret tomb, surrounded by the ransom of a dozen kings. Still another claimed he had found the love of a beautiful Istarish amirja and grown old with her.

  Caina watched the crowd, surprised. They listened to the epic of Morgant with glee, laughing at the right parts and clapping when Morgant slew the cruel Padishah. Suddenly she understood what Damla had meant about politics. The Istarish hated their rulers, but endured them because they had no choice. Yet if a slaver or an emir or an Alchemist showed the slightest bit of weakness, they would tear him apart. Perhaps…