Well. If anyone made trouble, he would just have to discourage them. Though it would be difficult to do that without drawing attention.
At the moment, Caina did not seem to care. Her face was hard and tight as she strode forward. She had either figured something out that had been bothering her, or there was about to be trouble.
Kylon kept the valikon loose in its scabbard. A group of young Anshani men pushed away from a doorway and started drifting towards them. Kylon looked at them, and drew the valikon an inch or two from its sheath. The men met his gaze, and just as quietly drifted back into their doorway.
Caina turned a corner, and Kylon found himself in a reeking alley between two towering tenements. To judge from the odor, the residents used the alleyway as a toilet. An Istarish man in a ragged brown robe and turban stood within the alley, humming to himself, and his dirty face brightened as Caina and Kylon approached.
“Ah, lovely lady,” said the Istarish man. “Have you come to me seeking pleasure?” He licked his lips and grinned. “I have much pleasure to offer…”
“I know,” said Caina, her voice cold. A coin flashed in her fingers. “One vial of wraithblood. I know you’re supposed to give it away for free, but give me the vial, take this coin, and go get a drink at the Shahenshah’s Seat. Don’t come back for an hour.”
“Lovely lady,” rasped the Istarish man, “the wraithblood is best enjoyed with company. I can make sure you do not hurt yourself while in the throes of the vision.” He gripped her shoulder. “And I can…”
Before Kylon could intercede, Caina moved fast, so fast she almost seemed to blur. Suddenly the Istarish man was on his knees, his eyes bulging with pain, his arm twisted at an uncomfortable angle as she stood behind him.
“You can give me a vial of wraithblood and take my coin to have a pleasant drink at the Shahenshah’s Seat,” said Caina, jerking her chin at Kylon, “or he can cut your head off. Decide now.”
“Coin,” croaked the man.
Caina released him, and the man stumbled to his feet, eyeing her as if she were a rabid animal. She handed over the coin, and dropped a small glass vial of dark fluid in her outstretched hand, and then sprinted away as if all the demons in the world were on his tail.
“He keeps running like that,” said Caina, holding up the vial of cloudy glass before her eyes, “his heart’s going to give out before he can enjoy that drink.”
Kylon’s first thought was that the wraithblood dealer might have given her a fake vial, but he reached out with the sorcery of water and felt the aura of arcane power gathered within the cheap glass. It was indeed a vial of genuine wraithblood, made from the blood of a murdered slave, and Kylon had sensed such a malevolent aura before in the Grand Master’s wraithblood laboratories.
“What do you see?” he said at last.
“Something I should have realized a long time ago,” said Caina. “Could you draw the valikon and hold it level, please? I need to try something.”
Kylon nodded and drew the ancient sword, the blade rasping against the leather of its scabbard. He held the weapon out before him, and Caina plucked the wax stopper from the wraithblood vial.
“It doesn’t boil when you touch it,” said Kylon. “Not the way the Elixir Restorata did.”
“That’s because it’s not completely an Elixir,” said Caina. “Gods, but I should have realized this sooner. Callatas is a Master Alchemist, so I assumed wraithblood was a kind of Elixir. But it’s not. It’s something worse. Watch this.”
She tipped the vial over the blade and let a few drops fall against the valikon. They hissed and snarled, sizzling like fat dripped onto a griddle. Caina stared at the sizzling drops for a few moments, then nodded and swept her hand across the flat of the blade, scooping up the wraithblood. For an instant Kylon feared that she would burn her hand, but Caina didn’t flinch.
“Look,” she said in a soft voice, holding out her cupped hand.
A small pile of ash rested in her palm. It looked as if the ashes were glittering, yet as Kylon looked closer, he saw that she wasn’t holding a handful of ashes. Instead she was holding something like salt that glittered in the sun, something like…
“Crystals,” said Kylon.
“Thousands and thousands of tiny bloodcrystals,” said Caina. “That’s what wraithblood is. That’s what it always has been. Thousands of tiny bloodcrystals, suspended in a minor alchemical Elixir to make it addictive.”
“What kind of bloodcrystal?” said Kylon. He felt a faint necromantic aura from the dust in Caina’s hand, but not a powerful one. He supposed it didn’t need to be powerful. If the wraithblood was addictive and the effect was cumulative, the individual bloodcrystals could be weak while their total effect added up over time.
“I’m not sure,” said Caina, frowning at the dust, “but I think…it looks like a smaller version of the Conjurant Bloodcrystal I saw in the Tomb of Kharnaces. Callatas must have stolen the design from him.”
“The Conjurant Bloodcrystal was designed to destroy the barrier between worlds,” said Kylon, “so these smaller ones must be fashioned to wear down the mind’s resistance to possession.”
“That’s why Callatas needed the blood of murdered slaves,” said Caina. “He must have planted some of the base crystal in each of the murdered slaves, and then grown the wraithblood within them. The metal troughs we saw in the laboratories were to harvest the wraithblood as it fell from their veins.”
“Grown?” said Kylon.
“Bloodcrystals have to be grown from the blood of either a living victim or a recently dead one,” said Caina. “Callatas would have need an original bloodcrystal, one he grew from the blood of his first victim. A base…”
Her voice trailed off, and her eyes widened.
“What is it?” said Kylon. Another idea must have come to her. He often had trouble following her deductions, but her logic was almost always sound.
“Kharnaces told me that every bloodcrystal must be grown from the blood of an original victim,” said Caina. “That’s called the base. The blood of other victims can be added later, but there always has to be a base…and if you provided the blood for the base, you’re immune to the effects of the bloodcrystal.”
“Really?” said Kylon. “How did you find that out?”
“The hard way,” said Caina.
She did not seem inclined to elaborate, so he did not press. “So someone provided the blood for the very first vial of wraithblood, and this blood has been the base for every single vial of wraithblood since?”
“I think so,” said Caina. “Bloodcrystals are grown, not manufactured. Every wraithblood laboratory must start with…oh, a seed vial, one from which the rest of the wraithblood is grown in the body of murdered slaves.”
“So if you found this original bloodcrystal,” said Kylon, “and you destroyed it…would it undo the rest of the wraithblood?”
Caina blinked. “It might. I don’t know for sure. But it might.” She smiled. “That could stop Callatas in his tracks. Forget the relics. If all the wraithblood was undone by destroying the original bloodcrystal, he could summon all the nagataaru he wanted, but they wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”
“Could Callatas have used himself as the base for the bloodcrystal?” said Kylon, intrigued by the possibility. Caina might have just puzzled out a secret that no one but Callatas himself knew, a weakness built into the foundation of his plans. If they could exploit that weakness…
“Maybe,” said Caina. “I don’t think a necromancer can use a bloodcrystal created from his own blood, at least not for very much. I think Callatas would have used someone else as a base for the bloodcrystals in the wraithblood.”
“Who, then?” said Kylon.
Caina sighed. “I have no idea. Could you hold out the valikon again?”
Kylon complied, and Caina dumped the dust in her hand upon the blade, and the crystalline grains crackled and flared and became smoking ash. She upended the rest of the vial over the sword, and the
wraithblood sizzled and hissed, becoming the crystalline dust, and then crumbling into inert ash. Kylon shook the sword, and the dust blew away down the alley.
“Vile thing,” muttered Caina. “Good riddance.”
“Ten thousand more vials to go,” said Kylon, returning the valikon to its sheath, “and we’ll be done.”
“I’m missing something, Kylon,” said Caina, shaking her head. A stray lock of black hair fell from her headscarf. “This is important, but I can’t see how. I’m missing something important, something huge.”
“You don’t have enough information,” said Kylon.
“Something that’s starting me right in the face,” said Caina.
He caught her elbow, and she looked up at him, blue eyes wide.
“Let’s go to the House of Agabyzus,” said Kylon, “and see if we can find more of that information.”
“Yes, you’re right,” she said, and she smiled. “It would be grimly amusing if we survived Pyramid Isle and Rumarah only to get mugged in an alley in the Anshani Quarter.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” said Kylon.
She smiled again, and they left the alley and headed for the Cyrican Quarter.
###
Caina looked around the Cyrican Bazaar.
The first time she had come here had been over two years ago, just after she had been banished from the Empire. She had been in near despair, and had nearly drank herself to death the first night in Istarinmul. Then the Master Slaver Ulvan had taken Damla’s sons, setting Caina on the path that had led her to Silent Ash Temple and the Inferno, to Pyramid Isle and that room in the Corsair’s Rest at Rumarah.
She shivered a little at the memory of the Huntress’s sword.
But that path had also led her to Kylon, just as his path of pain and loss had brought him to her. Out of grief they had found each other. Maybe that was a hopeful thought.
“Maybe,” said Caina aloud, “I am thinking too much.”
“What?” said Kylon.
She smiled and gave him a quick kiss. “Let’s visit Damla. We’ll find some information, or at least some of her excellent coffee. I’ve wanted a cup of her coffee since about four hours after we left Istarinmul.”
Kylon laughed. “If I had known you would take to coffee so thoroughly, I might have taken you to a tea house in Catekharon instead.”
“Coffee was a better choice,” said Caina. “There aren’t any tea houses in Istarinmul.”
They threaded their way through the crowds of the Cyrican Bazaar. The bazaar was not as large as the Anshani Bazaar, but with the lack of trade to the city it was more crowded, with merchants selling their wares from their booths and stalls, lamps and carpets and knives and pans and a thousand other things. She saw many Istarish soldiers in chain mail and their distinctive spiked helms, scimitars upon their belts and steel-studded shields upon their backs. Some had the plumed helms and ornamented cloaks of khalmirs, of officers, and scowled at everything in sight. Caina made sure to stay away from them. They would have been sworn to the Grand Wazir, and if they knew who she was, they would arrest or kill her on the spot.
Of course, the Balarigar was supposed to be dead.
The House of Agabyzus stood on one side of the Bazaar, three stories of whitewashed stone with a flat roof. Rented rooms occupied the top two floors of the coffee house, and the common room itself and the kitchens filled the bottom floor. Tall windows rose on the ground floor, the shutters thrown open to admit the air and sunlight.
Caina stopped at the front door. There were a number of notices and proclamations nailed to the door, including several bounty notices for the Balarigar and the sorceress falsely claiming to be a loremaster of lost Iramis. Over them all she saw a poster adorned the winged skull seal of the Umbarian Order, proclaiming that the woman known as Caina Amalas had been brought to justice by Cassander Nilas, and that the Umbarian ambassador would soon call upon the Grand Wazir for his reward.
A chill went through her. That reward might lead to the Umbarian fleet sailing to Malarae and the Umbarian army destroying the Empire.
“I suppose it’s true,” said Kylon, tapping the Umbarian notice with a finger.
“What’s that?” said Caina, shaking off her dark thoughts.
“You really can’t believe everything you read.”
Caina laughed at the absurdity of reading about her own death. “I do believe you are right.”
She pushed open the door and stepped into the House of Agabyzus. At mid-morning, there was still a good crowd, with merchants lingering over their breakfasts at the low round tables, sitting cross-legged upon cushions in the Istarish style, while others sat in the booths ringing the walls. Serving maids carried out trays of coffee and cakes for the patrons, moving back and forth from the kitchen. Once Damla had owned slaves, like every other merchant in Istarinmul, but after her ill-fated encounter with Ulvan’s Collectors, she had released her slaves and hired freeborn maids instead. Most of the freed slaves had elected to work for Damla, which in Caina’s opinion spoke volumes about her.
Damla herself hurried over as they entered, a fit woman in her middle thirties, clad in a widow’s black headscarf and dress. “Welcome, welcome, to the House of Agabyzus. Please, sit and take your ease, and…”
She froze, her dark eyes widening.
“Damla,” said Caina. “I cannot tell you how good it is to see you again.”
Damla let out a startled little cry, hurried forward, and caught Caina in a hug.
“By the Living Flame,” said Damla. “By the fires of the Living Flame. I thought you were dead. I was certain you were dead. All those awful proclamations all over the city…”
“Well,” said Caina, grinning. “You really can’t believe everything you read.”
“Yes,” said Damla, dabbing at her eyes. She pulled herself together, looking around as if fearing that she had made a scene. “Of course. And you, Master Exile. It is good to see you as well. Come, sit, sit. You can tell me of your journeys.”
“I will,” said Caina, “but I need to talk to Agabyzus as soon as possible.”
“Then fortune smiles upon you,” said Damla, “for he spent the night here.” She lowered her voice. “He is in great agitation. Something is happening in the city, though he had not told me of the details.”
Caina thought of Cassander, of the demands he would make of Erghulan. “I can imagine.”
“The city is…well, Agabyzus can tell you more,” said Damla, ushering them to an empty booth in the corner. “Bayram!” Damla’s eldest son, a sturdy-looking lad of about eighteen, emerged from the kitchen. He wore a leather apron and a studious, sober expression on his face, his fingers dusted with flour.
“Mother?” said Bayram. He looked at Caina, and his eyes widened a little. He hadn’t seen Caina’s face during his liberation from Ulvan’s cells, but the boy wasn’t stupid, and Caina suspected that he had figured out who she really was.
“Go upstairs to the guest room and fetch our visitor,” said Damla. “Tell him who has returned.”
“You had better go with him,” said Caina to Kylon. “He will be suspicious. If I turn up when I’m supposed to be dead, he will suspect a trap.”
“Oh,” said Damla. “I had not even thought of that. You aren’t an impostor, are you?”
“If she is,” said Kylon, “she has fooled even me.” He walked to Bayram. “Come on, lad.” The two of them disappeared up the stairs, and Caina and Damla sat in the booth. One of the maids returned with a tray of coffee, and Caina took a clay cup.
“Thank you,” said Caina, and she took a sip, sighed, and closed her eyes with contentment. “You have no idea how much I have missed this.”
“I am glad you are here,” said Damla. “We have keenly missed your guidance.”
“I was gone…a bit longer than I had hoped,” said Caina. She took another sip. “But I’m back now.”
“Did you fake your death?” said Damla. “To escape from Cassander?”
“No,” said Caina, her fingers coiling around the warm clay of her cup. “It’s a long and unpleasant story. Suffice it to say that Cassander Nilas had every reason to believe that I was dead.” Her fingers tightened against the cup. “I had every reason to believe that I was dead. I should have been dead.”
“How did you escape?” said Damla.
“I didn’t,” said Caina. “The Exile saved me.”
“Ah,” said Damla. “He would, wouldn’t he? Given how that he is obviously in love with you.”
“Yes,” said Caina in a quiet voice, smiling into her coffee.
“Oh.” Damla grinned. “Good. I am glad for you.”
“Tell me,” said Caina, “do Istarish women enjoy matchmaking as a pastime? You all but told me to seduce him.”
“I didn’t ‘all but’ tell you to seduce him,” said Damla. “I flat-out told you to seduce him.” Caina laughed. “And I am very pleased you heeded my counsel. I want you to have some joy in your life. Why should you not? You have done so much for my family.” She lowered her voice. “That writ of exemption from conscript you made for us?”
“Forged, technically,” said Caina.
“I had to use it,” said Damla. “One of the Grand Wazir’s officers came to the House of Agabyzus and thought to draft Bayram and Bahad to fill his quota. Fortunately, I had the writ, and that convinced him to depart. We have had no trouble since.” She shook her head. “Even from afar, you watched over my sons.”
“I’m glad,” said Caina. “I’m very glad.”
“Besides,” said Damla, “the Exile is good for you, I think. Someone like you…you don’t need a merchant or a scholar or a priest at your side, nor do you need a wealthy man to take care of you. No. You need a warrior.”
Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) Page 22
