Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I did,” said Caina. “But…the money didn’t mean anything. Neither did the House of Kularus, in the end.”

  “The people,” said Kylon, his voice soft.

  “Aye,” said Caina.

  They walked in silence for a moment.

  Kylon laughed a little.

  “What?” said Caina.

  “It was just as well Morgant isn’t here,” said Kylon. “I was just imagining his comments.”

  “He has a way with words,” said Caina.

  Kylon opened his mouth to say something else, and then fell quiet. They had nearly reached the half-rebuilt Shahenshah’s Seat, and two figures in sand-colored robes walked towards them. One was a towering giant of a man, scarred and grim-faced, the hilt of a two-handed scimitar rising over his shoulder. The second was much shorter and carried a crossbow slung over one shoulder and a leather bag of tools.

  “Azaces and Nerina,” said Kylon.

  “Ah, Ciara,” said Nerina as they approached. “I am pleased to see you. We are nine minutes early, so I am glad we did not miss you.”

  “It never hurts to be early,” said Caina. Nerina never looked particularly healthy, but she looked worse than usual, her eerie blue eyes bloodshot, her eyes themselves ringed with dark circles. Azaces remained grim and silent as ever. “You haven’t slept well, I take it?”

  “No,” said Nerina. “I never sleep well. The balance of probability is that insomnia is a long-term effect of wraithblood abuse, much like the color of my eyes.” She took a ragged breath. “And I have not slept for more than an hour at a time since the Crimson Veil.”

  “Malcolm,” said Caina.

  “I cannot think of anything else,” said Nerina. “Sometimes I convince myself that I must have imagined it, but…no. It was him.” She swallowed. “Thank you for letting me come with you.”

  “Your skills will be useful,” said Caina. “They were in the Maze and at the Craven’s Tower.”

  “I know Morgant does not want me to come,” said Nerina. “Nor does Nasser. They think my presence will be a negative variable on the equation of our success.”

  “They do,” said Caina. They were not entirely wrong, either. If Nerina saw Malcolm in the Inferno and reacted the way she had at the Crimson Veil, it would be disastrous. Yet Caina could not blame her. If she had seen Corvalis reappear, she might well have reacted the same.

  A small part of her mind pointed out that she had threatened to kill Morgant when he had refused to help Kylon in the Craven’s Tower. Morgant knew where to find Annarah, who in turn knew how to find the Staff and Seal of Iramis and stop the Apotheosis, but Caina had been willing to throw all that away to save Kylon.

  Was she any different than Nerina in the end?

  Caina ignored that part of her mind for now.

  “They do,” said Caina again, “but I don’t. We’re going to go into the Inferno and come out alive again, and we’re bringing Annarah and Malcolm with us.”

  Nerina blinked. “You truly mean that?”

  “I do,” said Caina.

  Azaces let out a long sigh.

  “I think what Azaces means to say,” said Kylon, “is that you are determined to do this, or die in the attempt.”

  “I suspected that was the meaning,” said Nerina, “but I did not want to point it out.” She brightened. “See? Social mores. I am capable of sometimes grasping them.”

  “Miracles abound,” said Caina. “Let’s go.”

  She led the way past the half-rebuilt tavern, through the Bazaar, and out the southern gate of Istarinmul. Beyond the gate the Great Southern Road rolled away across the dry plains. A sprawling caravanserai lay outside the southern walls, a maze of tents and ox-drawn carts and horse-pulled wagons. The smell of manure filled the air, and Caina heard the snort of oxen and arguments conducted in a dozen different languages.

  She kept walking until she saw the small army gathered at the southern edge of the caravanserai.

  There were two groups of mercenaries, all of them mounted. The nearest company was entirely Anshani, clad in the black-and-red patterned robes favored by Anshani anjars, noble-born warriors. Beneath their robes the Anshani horsemen wore chain mail, and most of them had spiked helmets with a neck guard. They carried short recurved horse bows, and scimitars waited at their belts.

  The second company was more varied, a mixture of Caerish, Ulkaari, Saddaic, Mardonish, and Nighmarian men. They had a mixture of chain mail and plate, but all the mercenary soldiers were well-armored and well-armed. Over their armor they all wore vests of black leather. Caina recognized several of them from Rasadda.

  “The Company of Shopur,” said Caina, “and the Black Wolves.”

  “That many horsemen,” said Kylon, “must be expensive.”

  “Aye,” said Caina. She had access to quite a lot of money, most of it stolen from the cowled masters of the Brotherhood of Slavers, and even with Nasser’s funds it had taken a good chunk of that money to hire both the Company of Shopur and the Black Wolves. Caina hoped the investment would pay off.

  She walked to the head of the horsemen. Nasser waited there in his usual black clothing, Laertes silent and grim at his side. Morgant stood a short distance away, speaking to no one, his eyes roving back and forth. Caina recognized Dio, the captain of the Black Wolves, a villainous-looking Nighmarian man with flat gray eyes, close-cropped black hair, and an oft-broken nose. Next to him waited Shopur, the captain of the Anshani mercenaries, a big man resplendent in fine robes and expensive chain mail. Kazravid stood next to Shopur, his black hair and beard oiled, his robes clean if worn, a short bow in his hands. Kazravid was a womanizing gambler with a tendency to land in debt, but he was one of the best archers Caina had ever seen.

  “Let me do the talking,” murmured Caina.

  Nerina opened her mouth to say something.

  “Don’t point out the weight and height of the mercenaries,” said Caina. “It will not be helpful just now.”

  Nerina sighed and closed her mouth.

  “Ah,” said Nasser. “Capital. The final members of our little enterprise. Shopur, you will recall Master Ciaran and the Exile from our previous ventures.”

  Shopur snorted. “That I do.” He spoke Istarish with a thick Anshani accent. “Profitable venture, but a fiery one.”

  “Ciaran,” said Kazravid. “What madness do you have planned for us this time?”

  “Just a quick jaunt across the countryside,” said Caina. “Lovely weather for it, isn’t it?”

  Kazravid snorted. “A beautiful day to kidnap an emir.”

  “It really is,” said Caina.

  “I suggest,” said Nasser, “that we move out at once. Cimak will be traveling slowly, but best not to let the grass grow under our feet.”

  “That is unlikely,” said Nerina, “given that the horses will consume the grass at a rate of…”

  Kazravid sighed, and Morgant scoffed a little, shaking his head.

  “Let us depart,” said Nasser.

  ###

  Morgant was in a foul mood.

  For one, he did not like horses. He preferred to operate from the shadows, striking from concealment. It was much harder to hide on the back of a horse. Nor was he fond of the open countryside. A man could lose himself on the steppes of Trabazon, that was true, but the steppes offered precious little in way of concealment. Still, while he had been born in the city, raised in the city, and had spent most of his extremely long adult life in the city, he knew how to survive in the wilderness, but he still preferred a city.

  But those were annoyances. He had endured far worse than that.

  That was not what had put him in a foul mood.

  He rode in silence, watching the others. Nasser rode at the head of the column, conferring with Dio, Shopur, and Kazravid on a regular basis. Morgant was amused to see how easily Nasser had taken command of the little army. No doubt Shopur and Dio thought themselves independent men, tough-minded and hard, but Nasser Glasshand had the sort of charisma t
hat made men obey his commands willingly.

  Morgant snorted and looked at Nasser’s gloved left hand. Glass hand, indeed. He wondered how Dio and Shopur would react if they knew what was really under that black glove and leather bracer. He wondered if Caina had figured out who Nasser really was yet. She was too clever not to notice the truth, sooner or later.

  Especially if their path took them toward the Desert of Candles.

  His eyes wondered towards Caina Amalas. She rode competently enough, though he could tell that she preferred her own feet. Sensible, really. At least she rode better than the Kyracian, who had obviously spent more time on the deck of a trireme than upon the back of a horse. And Kylon still rode better than Nerina, who was all but strangling her mount in an effort to keep upright. Shopur and Dio thought that Caina, Kylon, Azaces, and Nerina were part of Nasser’s retinue, though likely the mercenary commanders wondered why Nasser had chosen such inept horsemen for his bodyguards.

  Kylon said something to Caina, and she laughed, smiling at him. For just a moment, there was a glimpse of emotion through the disguise she wore around her like a cloak. He doubted anyone else had seen it. Well, the Kyracian likely had, but it had been aimed at him.

  Morgant wondered if that would complicate his task.

  That was what put him in a foul mood.

  He had only two rules. He did not kill someone unless they deserved it, and he kept his word. Everything else had fallen away from him over the centuries, but he still had his two rules. He had promised that he would help Annarah, and had spent a century and a half trying to find a way to do so. He had also promised Caina that if she defeated the Sifter, he would give her the knowledge she had sought, a way to find the Staff and the Seal of Iramis. Of course, to find the relics before Callatas did, she needed to help Morgant rescue Annarah.

  A neat and tidy solution.

  Or so Morgant had thought.

  Looking at Caina with Kylon, looking at the flashes of happiness that sometimes came over her face while she talked with him, Morgant wondered if he had made a mistake.

  Oh, she was clever, no doubt. Brave to the point of madness, true. She had bullied the Sifter into submission, and Morgant had absolutely no doubt that she would have run herself through with the valikon in order to destroy the Sifter. She was strong and clever, exactly what he needed to infiltrate the Inferno and rescue Annarah.

  But these moments of weakness she showed…

  The Kyracian. The wraithblood-addicted locksmith. The mute Sarbian warrior. The widowed coffee merchant and her grim brother. Caina surrounded herself with damaged people. Morgant had seen some of the other Ghosts of the circle she had assembled in Istarinmul, more than Caina had intended for him to see.

  She cared about them too much. To rescue Annarah, to keep his word, Morgant would have been willing to sacrifice every single Ghost in Istarinmul. Caina was not. That was a serious weakness, and one that would lead to her death someday.

  Worse, it might make Morgant fail to keep his word.

  Well, the dice had been thrown. It only remained to see how they landed. In the end, Morgant could not enter the Inferno on his own, and he needed allies. He had met many powerful sorcerers over the decades, many capable warriors, and many cunning thieves, but he had never met anyone who had quite the combination of Caina’s brilliance and sheer recklessness. She would get herself killed sooner or later, undoubtedly sooner, but she could help him rescue Annarah first.

  One problem at a time.

  First they had to kidnap Kuldan Cimak and deal with his Immortals. Then Caina had to impersonate the emir. In the meantime, Morgant supposed he could amuse himself by playing the Black Wolves or the Anshani archers at cards or dice. Or he could play Kylon at cards. That would be an interesting challenge. A Kyracian stormdancer could sense emotions, but Morgant controlled his well enough to keep Kylon from having any advantage. It would be amusing, and perhaps instructive, to see how Caina reacted to Morgant humiliating out Kylon of every last coin. Her infatuation with the Kyracian might cloud her judgment at a critical moment…

  “Does the world deserve to die?”

  A cold jolt went down his spine.

  He knew that voice, but its speaker could not possibly be here. Which meant…

  Morgant looked up.

  All the color had drained away, leaving the world painted in endless shades of gray. The horses stood frozen in mid-stride. Nasser still conferred with Dio and Shopur and Kazravid, his right hand motionless in the middle of a gesture, his gloved left hand gripping the reins. Caina stared at Kylon, just the hint of a smile starting on her lips. It was an oddly striking sight, like the first crack of the ice upon a frozen lake. It would have made for a compelling painting. Any other time, Morgant might have reached for his sketchbook.

  Instead he turned his head.

  Annarah stood a few yards away, her white robes a brilliant flare against the shadowed world around him. She was a tall woman, and though she was young her hair was the color of platinum, stark against her dark skin. In her right hand she held a shaft of bronze-colored metal as tall as she was, her pyrikon in staff form.

  Her eyes should have been black.

  Instead they burned with smokeless flame.

  “The Knight of Wind and Air,” said Morgant. For some reason the djinni preferred to appear to him in the form of Annarah herself. Why, Morgant had never understood. Some obscure joke, no doubt.

  “Morgant the Razor,” said the Knight of Wind and Air with Annarah’s voice, the words heavy with sardonic mockery. Annarah had never spoken like that. She had been gentle almost to the point of ineffective diffidence. “I see you still haven’t managed to answer your question.”

  “And what question is that?” said Morgant.

  “Does the world deserve to die?” said the Knight. “Two hundred years of life across a dozen different nations, Morgant the Razor, and you still don’t know the answer to that question.” Annarah’s face twisted into a mocking smile, the light of the smokeless flame playing across her face. “If I took a weapon of fell power, a thunderbolt that could burn every city in the world in a single instant, if I took that weapon and placed it in your hand…I do not know if you would use it. I do not think that you know if you would use it or not.”

  “So does the world deserve to die?” said Morgant. “Answer me that.” The question fluttered at the edges of his mind. He didn’t know. On some level he didn’t care. He had seen so much death and suffering that it no longer meant anything to him. Yet it still repulsed some part of him. Perhaps the world did deserve to burn.

  He had asked that question to Annarah, he knew. She had given him an answer…and he had forgotten it. More precisely, she had taken it when she had modified his memory to keep him from remembering the location of the Staff and the Seal. Perhaps she had done that on purpose, to make sure that he would come back to rescue her.

  “Why do you ask me?” said the Knight. “It is not my world, is it? It’s yours. And hers.” The staff pointed at Caina, still frozen in the moment. “Tell me. Does she wish for the world to die?”

  “You could ask her,” said Morgant.

  “I have,” said the Knight of Wind and Air. “She may well be the one I have sought ever since Callatas stole the Star. But your answer also interests me.”

  “Is immortality truly so boring?” said Morgant.

  “Not in the least,” said the Knight. “I have my purpose, and I have followed my purpose since before you were born, before your world congealed out of the dust of the cosmos. You have your purpose, do you not? Your two rules. You do not kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it, and you keep your word. Tell me, then. What would Caina Amalas say? How would she answer the question? Does the world deserve to die?”

  Morgant snorted. “I did ask her. She told me some nonsense about the innocent and children. As if anyone is innocent. Children are only the seeds of future villains. I suppose if I asked her now she would say the same thing, but she would be looking
at the Kyracian as she said it and thinking about luring him into her bed.”

  The Knight raised one of Annarah’s eyebrows. “Indeed. Is that jealousy?”

  “No,” said Morgant. “She will lead the Kyracian to his death. Or she’ll die trying to save him. I have my word to keep. The children can play games with each other.”

  “An interesting answer,” said the Knight of Wind and Air. “What if I told you that the power to kill the world shall soon come to your hands?”

  “Then I would assume that you are drunk,” said Morgant.

  “I am an immaterial spirit,” said the Knight. “I require neither food nor drink for my sustenance.”

  Morgant waved a hand. “Or you’re…whatever the equivalent of drunkenness is in a spirit.”

  “No,” said the Knight. “Very soon now, you will have the chance to kill the world. If you wish it.”

  “And just how shall I accomplish such a feat?” said Morgant.

  “You will have a choice,” said the Knight.

  “I suppose you will not be any more specific,” said Morgant.

  “I shall be very specific,” said the Knight, the smokeless fire in Annarah’s eyes flashing brighter. “Soon you shall find a relic of sorcery. A torque wrought of gold, marked with hieroglyphics, a scarab carved of green jade at its center.”

  “This relic,” said Morgant. “Let me guess. It is some dire weapon of ancient Maatish sorcery that will destroy the world if used.”

  “Not at all,” said the Knight. “It is, in fact, reasonably harmless. But a tremendous fate lies upon it and you.”

  Morgant laughed. “Yes, a sorcerous relic of doom. How terribly likely. If I repent of my sins and swear to be good and kind forevermore, will I avert the dreadful fate that awaits us all…”

  “No,” said the Knight, and there was a note of iron in Annarah’s voice that had not been there before. “Hear me well, Morgant the Razor. Time is a tapestry and destiny is a thread, and your thread is about to cross the paths of many others. Soon you shall have a choice about what path you will walk for the remainder of your days.”