Cassander could hardly blame Caina for that. Kazyan managed to be both tedious and irritating, a rare feat indeed.
The plates of his gauntlet rasped as he opened and closed his fist.
“Well done!” rumbled an enormously obese Master Slaver, the only one who had not gotten to his feet. Caina had flung Master Slaver Ulvan off his own balcony, a chain wrapped around his legs and tied to the railing. The fall hadn’t killed Ulvan, but it had broken his legs and dislocated one of his hips, and the he had never been able to walk properly since. “Well done, indeed, my lord Cassander.”
“Did she suffer?” said another Master Slaver, a whip-thin, scowling man named Konyat. The man brutalized his slaves beyond even the general standards of the Istarish, so when Caina had left him hanging upside down from his bedroom ceiling, it had been nearly a day before his slaves had summoned the courage to enter his chambers without permission. “Did the bitch suffer? Tell me that, Lord Cassander.”
Cassander smiled, the grafted flesh tight against the left side of his jaw. “She burned to death.”
“Ah,” breathed Konyat.
“Was that suffering enough for you, Master Konyat?” said Cassander.
“No,” said Konyat. “I would have handed her over to the Teskilati torturers, to let them work their arts upon her.”
“Is that all?” snapped a middle-aged cowled master named Markut. If Cassander recalled correctly, Caina had left him hog-tied in his own slave cells. “I would have handed her over to the Immortals, let each and every one of them have their way with her. Then I would have marched her into the arena and loosed starving lions upon her…”
The other cowled masters chimed in, each offering their own preferences for the grisly death of Caina Amalas. Cassander felt a surge of irritation go through him as he listened to the fools prattle. He wanted to summon arcane power and start striking with spells.
He felt Kalgri’s eyes upon him, saw her faint smile. She knew what he was thinking.
“I would have crucified her upon the walls of the Golden Palace,” said Ulvan, “but smeared her flesh with honey to draw flies. Slaves would give her water, to keep her alive longer and draw out her torment…”
“Alas,” said Cassander, “I regret that I lack the imagination of the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. One would assume that being burned alive would be a sufficient punishment for the woman, but clearly not. Perhaps you can resurrect her and torment her anew.”
The Master Slavers gaped at him, and then burst into laughter.
“Forgive us, Lord Cassander,” said Ulvan, waving a thick hand at his peers. “We have all been wronged by that…that woman, that criminal, and every last one of us would wish to take personal vengeance upon her. We appealed to the Grand Wazir for justice, and he was able to do nothing! For two years that vile woman ran free in the city, and look what she wrought! The slave market has all but collapsed, the Inferno was destroyed, and the Padishah’s realm sunders into civil war.”
“If Erghulan had roused himself sooner,” said Konyat, his scowl unwavering, “then the Balarigar would have been slain soon after her unjustified attack upon Ulvan, and Istarinmul would be in a far better state than it is now.”
“I quite agree,” said Markut. “It is disgraceful that the Grand Wazir was not able to rid Istarinmul of such a threat to our business and our very lives.”
“Yes,” said old Kazyan. “You have our lasting gratitude, Lord Cassander. Now that the wretched woman is dead, we can rebuild our business and stabilize the slave trade across the world once more. Know that you and the Umbarian Order have our lasting gratitude.”
“How very splendid,” said Cassander, glancing towards the doors.
“In my opinion,” said Ulvan, “it is disgraceful that Erghulan banished you from Istarinmul.”
“Though,” said Konyat, “perhaps you should not have been so…vigorous…in your criticism of him.”
“Ah, well,” said Cassander. He heard a scuffling sound from outside the door. “I did not kill the Balarigar as brutally as you would like, and I did not lick Erghulan’s fingers as enthusiastically as you would wish. Truly, you are impossible to please.”
The cowled masters gaped at him.
“Lord Cassander,” said Ulvan. “I…”
“But I cannot blame you for that,” said Cassander, “for you are Erghulan’s dogs, and a dog must serve his master.”
A little rumble of discontent went up from the masters of the Brotherhood.
“Lord Cassander,” said Kazyan, “that is…”
“Entirely true?” said Cassander. He started to circle around the table, Kalgri following him. The Adamant Guards positioned themselves by the door. “You see, you have done Erghulan’s bidding, but Erghulan himself is just the servant of Callatas.” Again the cowled masters protested, but Cassander cut off their protest. “Come, cowled masters, you know I speak the truth. After all, I am banished from the great and glorious city of Istarinmul. I may speak more freely than any of you.”
Silence hung over the long dining hall.
“Did you know why Callatas had Erghulan buy so many slaves from you?” said Cassander.
No one answered him.
“Work gangs,” said Konyat at last. “To dig up Iramisian ruins in the Desert of Candles…”
“Some of them,” said Cassander, “but most went into the Grand Master’s laboratories, and there were murdered to produce wraithblood.”
“A preposterous slander,” said Ulvan, but his voice held little conviction.
“Oh, you knew,” said Cassander. “You transported all the slaves for him, delivered them to his wraithblood laboratories, and you knew they never came out again. Perhaps you only suspected, true. But you knew what he intended with those slaves, and you were content to collect your money.”
“You presume to judge us?” snapped Kazyan, shaking a liver-spotted fist at Cassander. “The Umbarian Order hardly treats its own slaves any better. I have heard the tales of your Undead Legion, the men slaughtered to be raised as undead soldiers, or the men twisted into monsters.” His gaze turned towards the Adamant Guards, who looked back without expression.
“Judge you?” said Cassander. “Do not be absurd. I admire men who do what needs to be done, regardless of the cost. I intend to follow your example. I, too, have a great work that needs to be done.”
“And what is that, pray?” said Ulvan.
“It is not your concern,” said Cassander. “Masters of the Brotherhood, I have killed Caina Amalas for you, and I require one thing, only one thing, as my reward.”
“And what is that?” said Kazyan.
“This building,” said Cassander. “Oh, and the courtyard and the attached docks. So, two things, really.”
Shocked silence hung over the hall for a moment, and then the cowled masters erupted with laughter.
“Surely you cannot be serious, Lord Cassander,” said Markut.
“I am quite serious,” said Cassander. “Deadly serious, you might say.”
“Why do you want the dock?” said Ulvan.
“That is not important,” said Cassander. He stopped pacing as the doors opened, and a centurion of the Adamant Guard walked into the dining hall, his armored carapace and drawn sword spattered with blood.
“What is this?” said Kazyan.
“Do you know,” said Cassander, gesturing at Kalgri, “who this woman is?”
Ulvan sneered. “One of your concubines, I assume. Though you have peculiar tastes to dress her in such an outlandish costume.”
Kalgri only smiled as she produced her shadow-cloak, slinging it over her shoulders. She donned her serene mask of red steel, drawing up the cowl of the shadow-cloak. The net effect of the armor and the cloak seemed to transform her into a bloody shadow.
A few of the masters realized what was about to happen.
“That,” said Markut, his voice hoarse, “that is…”
“The Red Huntress,” said Cassander. “The a
ssassin of myth and legend, but the legend is quite real, I assure you.” He glanced to the Adamant Guard. “Centurion?”
“The gate is secure, Lord Cassander,” said the centurion. “The docks and the boats, as well.”
“What is the meaning of this?” thundered Markut, shoving to his feet.
“Very good,” said Cassander. “Centurion, secure the mansion. No one is to leave.”
“Understood, my lord,” said the centurion.
Kalgri sighed a little in pleasure, rolling her shoulders.
“We will not be intimidated!” said Kazyan, shoving to his feet. “We will not be bullied. We are the cowled masters of the Brotherhood of Slavers of Istarinmul.” His old face was a mask of righteous fury. “And we shall not…”
His face kept its furious expression right up until Cassander blasted his head to smoking coals. Kazyan’s body fell with a thump to the bright mosaic of the floor, smoke rising from the charred crater that Cassander’s pyromantic spell had left between his shoulders.
For a moment stunned silence filled the hall.
Then the screaming began.
Kalgri surged forward, her ghostsilver sword and a steel dagger in hand, and she killed three cowled masters before they even realized what was happening. Cassander cast another spell, his will becoming a fist of psychokinetic force, and his spell picked up Konyat and flung the screaming man against the ceiling with enough force to shatter every bone in his body.
Konyat fell to the table with a wet thump, his blood spilling across the gleaming plates and the rich food.
Some of the cowled masters tried to fight. Markut vaulted over the table, a dagger in hand, charging until Cassander set him aflame. The cowled master fell screaming to the floor, rolling as he tried to extinguish the flames. Others tried to run, making for the doors to the courtyard or the stairs. The Adamant Guards cut down those trying to reach the courtyard, and Kalgri slaughtered any that tried to run for the stairs.
Cassander laughed with delight as he killed, the joy of it filling him. Granted, he had always found the Brotherhood to be pompous fools, and would have enjoyed killing them even before Rumarah and the Corsair’s Rest. But this, the sheer delightful joy of watching them scream and beg and die…it was as good as a woman and as intoxicating as wine.
Soon all the cowled masters were dead save one.
“No!” screamed Ulvan, trying to pull himself from his chair, his slipper-clad feet skidding against the smooth floor. “No, please, don’t, don’t, I’ll do anything, please, please…”
Cassander sent a blast of fire into him, and Ulvan screamed as his clothes and skin erupted into flame. That at last gave him the strength to stand, and he managed a few steps, wailing all the while. Then he fell, bounced off the table, and lay in a motionless, burning heap.
The smell was absolutely horrendous.
Cassander sighed, breathing it in as if it were the finest incense.
He turned his head and saw Kalgri staring at him.
“Go search the rest of the mansion,” said Cassander. “Likely a few of the slaves or the Collectors are hiding. They won’t be able to conceal themselves from the senses of the nagataaru. Once you’ve finished, join me on the top level of the central tower.”
Kalgri said nothing, but she drew back her cowl and vanished up the stairs.
“A guard has been posted at the gate,” said the centurion, who had watched the slaughter of the Brotherhood with cold indifference.
“The men are disguised as Collectors?” said Cassander.
“Yes, my lord,” said the centurion. “Should any visitors arrive, we shall tell them that the cowled masters are meeting in council, and will not see anyone until their deliberations are complete.”
“Good,” said Cassander. It was a feeble ruse. The Brotherhood headed a vast commercial empire scattered across both the Cyrican and the Alqaarin seas, and the cowled masters could not absent themselves from it for more than a few days without their absence becoming noticeable.
Of course, by the time anyone noticed, Istarinmul would be ashes.
Cassander supposed the Brotherhood’s network of slave routes would collapse, and the Order would likely take over the slave trade in the Alqaarin sea. It would be another achievement Cassander could claim once he returned to the Provosts in triumph, once Malarae had been seized and the Emperor defeated.
Still. One problem at a time.
“Send word to the porters,” said Cassander. “Have them bring the wagon with all speed.” The Throne of Corazain had been loaded into a specially prepared wagon, ringed with warding spells to conceal its powerful aura.
“My lord,” said the centurion. He bowed and departed, shouting orders to the other Adamant Guards.
Cassander stepped over the corpses of the cowled masters and took the stairs, climbing higher into the mansion. Here and there he found the corpse of a slave or a Collector. Kalgri had been thorough. Cassander found the stairs to the tower and climbed, the plates of his gauntlet rasping as his fist closed and opened again and again.
Killing the cowled masters had been satisfying, but he already wanted to kill more.
He reached the top floor of the tower. It had been built as a massive solar with a domed roof, the sun shining through an oculus at the apex of a dome to reflect off the polished golden-green marble of the floor. High windows covered the circular wall, offering a splendid view of the Cyrican sea to the west and the vast sprawl of Istarinmul to the east. Cassander saw the houses and businesses of the Cyrican Quarter, the merchant halls of the Old Quarter and the fortresses of the Tower Quarter, the brilliant domes and towers of the Emirs’ Quarter and the gilded domes of the Golden Palace itself.
From here he could watch as the entire city burned.
He smiled at that thought.
Yes, that might be enough death to satisfy him.
A boot clicked against the marble floor, and Cassander turned as Kalgri strode into the solar. Drops of blood fell from her ghostsilver sword as she walked, the shadow-cloak streaming around her like a veil of smoke.
“Were there any survivors?” said Cassander.
“What do you think?” said Kalgri.
“Good,” said Cassander, turning back to the windows. “The Throne will go here.”
“Here?” said Kalgri. She let out a disdainful laugh. “Sorcerers and towers. What is it with sorcerers and towers? Could you not pick a more obvious location?”
“Callatas and anyone else who might interfere,” said Cassander, “will target the Umbarian embassy, and by the time they realize their error, it will be too late to stop the destruction of the city. Besides, I will need to see the rift.”
“The rift?” said Kalgri.
“The power source for this little spell,” said Cassander. “I promised you death, Huntress, and you shall indeed see death on a scale that shall change the course of history. I will cast the preparatory warding and summoning spells as my servants bring the Throne. It would be helpful if you were to guard the compound and make sure anyone attempting to visit suffers a fatal accident.”
“You presume to give me orders now?” said Kalgri.
Cassander smiled at her. “Follow me, Huntress, and I shall indeed show you death like you have never seen before.”
For a moment Kalgri said nothing, and he got the impression that she was communing with the nagataaru in her skull. He wondered if he would have to kill her. Well, in another day, not even the Red Huntress would be able to stop what he had planned for Istarinmul.
“We shall see,” said Kalgri at last.
Chapter 13: Circus Games
The drumbeat echoed through the costume tent.
“You know,” said Caina, looking at herself in the mirror, “the last time I wore this was two years ago, and it still fits.”
Annarah laughed. “That is always a pleasant surprise, is it not?”
Outside came the steady boom of drums, and the glow of bonfires leaked through the cloth walls of the te
nt. Cronmer’s circus had assembled itself for the performance like a Legion erecting its encampment for the night, with Cronmer and Tiri and their eldest son Tozun barking out commands like Legionary centurions overseeing their troops. The circus had a score of different acts, from Vardo’s animals to acrobats to sword swallowers and numerous others, and Cronmer intended to show them all to the merchants and caravan guards waiting outside of Istarinmul’s walls. Some merchants and minor nobles had even come from the city to watch the circus, while others stood upon the battlements of the southern wall. If all went well, Cronmer said, he hoped to be invited to perform within the city, perhaps even before the Grand Wazir himself.
For Cronmer’s sake, Caina hoped things did not go that well. If Erghulan had sealed the city to keep rebel saboteurs from entering, the man was not in the mood for merriment.
The costume tent boiled with activity. The female acrobats and dancers helped each other into their costumes, which were adorned with a lot of feathers and fake jewels, likely to make up for the lack of fabric. In one corner the clowns helped each other apply their makeup in stylized patterns of white and black. From time to time Tiri poked her head through the flap and shouted instructions to someone.
Caina turned away from the mirror, a small makeup brush in her hand.
“Where did you learn to do this?” said Annarah, closing her eyes as Caina finished applying lines of kohl.
“When I was a girl,” said Caina, dabbing the brush below Annarah’s eyelids, “I spent some time working for the leading lady of the Grand Imperial Opera. She taught me about costumes and makeup and how to disguise myself, and how to use an accent to mask my voice. She couldn’t teach me to sing, though.”
“You have other talents,” said Annarah. “I always wanted to listen to a Nighmarian opera.”
“Really?” said Caina.
Annarah smiled. “I imagine it is a great deal like the circus, just more stylized.”
Caina laughed. “The performers are, anyway. I think Vardo managed to mention that he would be alone in his wagon tonight and that I would be welcome to visit him three or four times.”
Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) Page 18
