Ghost Relics

by Jonathan Moeller

  “The Maatish relics,” said Caina. “They’re dangerous.”

  “To sorcerers, I suppose,” said Admete.

  “No, to everyone,” said Caina. “In the wrong hands an enspelled artifact of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun could kill everyone in Istarinmul. I assume you remember the day of the golden dead?”

  Admete gave a tired little snort. “It is hardly the sort of thing one forgets.”

  “That was worked using Maatish sorcery,” said Caina. “I can guess at your plan. You stole the relics from an occultist and fled to Istarinmul in hopes of selling them.”

  Admete shrugged. “Is that such a bad plan?”

  “It is,” said Caina. “A genuine Maatish relic has the potential to kill thousands of people. If that does not trouble you, consider this. I have seen a group of thieves trying to sell Maatish artifacts to the highest bidder before. It ended with a necromancer slaughtering the thieves and reclaiming the relics. I strongly suspect that will happen to you without my help.”

  Admete sighed. “Just why would you help me? I tried to kidnap your friend.”

  “Because,” said Caina. “I’ve seen what relics from the Kingdom of the Rising Sun can do, and helping you is the best way to keep such horrors from happening again.”

  Admete said nothing.

  “And I suspect,” said Caina, “that without help you might die in the same way that Khamil was slain.”

  “Who are you?” said Admete. “Are you one of the Teskilati? An agent for the College of Alchemists, perhaps? Or another thief?”

  “Suffice it to say,” said Caina, “I am someone who wishes to remove the danger of the Maatish artifacts, and am willing to save your life to do so.”

  “It seems I have little choice but to accept your help, then,” said Admete. “Very well. You can call me Admete. I was once the daughter of a minor noble House of New Kyre, but my father ran afoul of Andromache, the High Seat of House Kardamnos, and she was a ruthless and brutal woman.”

  “I’ve heard that,” said Caina.

  “She destroyed our family,” said Admete. “I had no choice but to flee New Kyre. The life of an impoverished, unwed noblewoman is not a pleasant one, so I turned to thieving to support myself. I was better at it than I thought, but I could never obtain enough money to make myself secure. Then I met Yestik and Khamil, and they convinced me to join Tarniar’s expedition to the ruins of Old Maat.”

  “Tarniar?” said Caina.

  “An Anshani occultist,” said Admete. “Necromancy is taboo in Anshan, but it is not forbidden as it is in other nations. Tarniar wished to explore the ruins of the pharaohs and the necromancer-priests and glean their secrets. We wished simply to become rich, so we joined his company. The ruins of Maat…ah.” She let out a little laugh. “Have you ever seen them?”

  “No,” said Caina. “I’ve never been further south than the free cities.”

  “Suffice it to say, the ruins of Maat deserve their evil reputation,” said Admete. “We lost half our company to dried corpses that rose from the sands and attacked. Tarniar found what he sought, an old temple half-buried in the sands. He took…something from the ruins, something valuable, and secured it within a Strigosti trapbox.”

  “Which you then stole and took to Istarinmul,” said Caina.

  “Khamil was supposed to steal the keys, but he couldn’t get close enough to Tarniar,” said Admete. “I had hoped to empty out the trapbox a safe distance from Anshan and divide the loot three ways. Instead we needed to find a capable locksmith to open the damned box.”

  “Locksmiths capable of opening a Strigosti trapbox are rare indeed,” said Caina.

  “We looked everywhere in Anshan,” said Admete. “Finally Khamil suggested Strake’s daughter, so we came here.”

  “Tarniar followed you,” said Caina.

  “Yes,” hissed Admete. “I thought we had eluded him. But he must have found some of Khamil’s blood. We cut ourselves moving that damned trapbox.”

  “You’re afraid that you’re next,” said Caina.

  “It is a rational fear, is it not?” said Admete. “I do not know if Tarniar has any of my blood or of Yestik’s, but if he does, he will strike at us as soon as his powers recover enough to work the spell.”

  “Why kill you?” said Caina. “If he knows you’re here, why not just take his trapbox and be on his way?”

  Admete offered a thin smile. “We’ve hidden in a place even his powers cannot locate.”

  “I see,” said Caina, thinking. “Then you need help even more than I thought. Tarniar doesn’t want to just kill you. He wants to find you and force you to tell him where the trapbox is. Then he will kill you.”

  “You see my problem,” said Admete, voice dry. “I suppose you have some way to help me?”

  “I do,” said Caina. “Take me to the trapbox, and I’ll have Strake open it.”

  Admete frowned. “Then you and Strake will claim all the treasure for yourself?”

  “No,” said Caina. “I will destroy any enspelled relics in the box. Gold or jewels you can keep for yourself. Or split with Yestik, I don’t care which. Where is he, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” said Admete. “After the shadow killed Khamil, he ran. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “If he shows up, I’ll help him, too,” said Caina “So long as we destroy any enspelled relics, the rest of the treasure is yours. What do you say?”

  Admete stared at Caina for a long moment. “Why would you do all of this for a stranger?”

  “I’ve given you my reasons,” said Caina. “If that isn’t enough for you…I hate sorcery. It destroyed my life. Andromache of House Kardamnos destroyed yours. I suspect you are familiar with the feeling.”

  ‘Very well,” said Admete.

  “Good,” said Caina. “Stay here. I will return in an hour with Strake.”

  Caina left the Scimitar and went to make some preparations. Once they were finished, she stopped by one of her safe houses in the Cyrican Quarter and obtained a few items she needed. Then she returned to Nerina’s workshop.

  Nerina was still bent over the table as Azaces let her in, muttering to herself as she worked upon a lock.

  “Ever open a Strigosti trapbox?” said Caina.

  Nerina looked up, an intrigued light in her eerie blue eyes. “Four times. Each one was a splendid mathematical puzzle, a harmony of precise engineering coupled to sound equations.”

  Azaces let out a long growl of displeasure.

  “Five times,” said Nerina. “If one counts the time I accidentally set off the trap. But I was neither seriously nor permanently injured.”

  Azaces sighed.

  “Ready to open another one?” said Caina.

  Nerina smiled. “You always bring me such marvelous puzzles.”

  ###

  A short time later Caina returned to the Shining Scimitar, Azaces and Nerina trailing after her. Azaces’s ferocious scowl dissuaded anyone from approaching them. Nerina had donned the turban and dusty brown robe of a Sarbian desert nomad, and if not for her pale face and eerie eyes would have looked like Azaces’s younger brother.

  Admete rose as they approached. “You returned?”

  Caina nodded. “You’ve already met my companions.”

  Azaces glared at her.

  “You stand,” announced Nerina, “precisely sixty-four inches tall, and without your clothing and weapons I estimate that you weigh approximately,” she considered for a moment, eyelids fluttering, “one hundred and thirty-nine pounds.”

  Admete gave her a flat look. “You’re Nerina Strake?”

  “If it makes you feel better,” said Caina, “the first time we met she was wrong about my height by about two inches.”

  “What?” said Nerina. “I was not.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, of course. High heels. I always forget about those.”

  “We had best go,” said Caina. “Time is likely short. Still no sign of Yestik?”

  “No,” said Admete. “I fear what m
ight have befallen him. You are right. We are going…”

  “To the Tomb Quarter?” said Caina.

  Admete blinked. “How did you guess?”

  “I know,” said Caina, “a thing or two about sorcery.”

  ###

  Few people ever went to Istarinmul’s Tomb Quarter, especially at night.

  The Tomb Quarter rose on a series of hills north of the Emirs’ Quarter and the Golden Palace, just south of the Starfall Tower that guarded the straits between the Cyrican and the Alqaarin Seas. Tombs dotted the hills, some small and humble, others vast and opulent piles of gleaming marble and elaborate mosaics. Most of the tombs were squat, square buildings topped with pointed domes. Caina knew that catacombs and burial galleries extended deep below the surface.

  The Istarish burned their dead, and legends spoke of the unrighteous dead rising as vengeful wraiths of smoke and cinders. It was not just superstitious fear that kept the Istarish from the Tomb Quarter. Some of the tombs had been sealed with potent wards, wards that sometimes decayed and unleashed killing spells at anyone standing too close to a tomb’s door. Other tombs had been constructed to imprison powerful creatures, djinn and elemental spirits of the netherworld, and those tombs had powerful guardians. Bolder thieves, recognizing the Quarter’s evil reputation, sometimes made their lairs among the dead. If this were not enough, herds of feral monkeys had taken up residence among the tombs, and sometimes attacked passersby with barrages of dung.

  “This way,” said Admete, her voice soft as she led them down a narrow stone street. Tombs stood on either side, their domes rising overhead.

  “We’re going to one of the old plague tombs, aren’t we?” said Caina.

  “We are,” said Admete, glancing back. “How did you know?”

  “Plague tombs?” said Nerina.

  “Several centuries ago a minor plague struck Istarinmul,” said Caina. “It was not very virulent, but it killed in a painful manner. The Istarish feared infection enough that they sealed the plague victims in leaden coffins, and then buried them in lead-lined tombs.”

  “Why hide the trapbox there?” said Nerina. “Choosing a plague tomb would vastly increase the variables, to say nothing of the risk of infection.”

  Admete scoffed. “We are more likely to be killed by Tarnsiar than by plague.”

  “So long as the coffins remain sealed it should be safe enough,” said Caina. “And a sufficient amount of lead can disrupt certain kinds of divinatory sorcery.”

  “That is correct,” said Admete. “How did you know?”

  “I learned it the hard way,” said Caina. “How did you know?”

  Admete laughed. “You think I am a sorceress, plotting to steal the relic? No. For one, the Anshani kill any women who manifest arcane power. Also, Tarniar has a lead-lined room in his tower in Anshan. The occultists spy upon each other frequently, and Tarniar wanted somewhere to conduct certain dealings in private.”

  “Why don’t more people build lead-lined rooms, then?” said Nerina. “It seems the logical end of the equation.”

  “Lead is expensive,” said Admete.

  “So are sorcerers skilled in divination,” said Caina.

  They walked deeper into the Tomb Quarter’s shadows. Caina felt the pulsing power of the ancient wards upon the tombs, spells old and strong and mighty. Her eyes scanned the shadows, watching the darkness for any sign of attackers. She saw no one, and heard nothing, save for the faint rustling as the occasional monkey moved about. Admete led them up a set of stone stairs to the crest of a hill. Caina looked back and saw the city stretching away to the south, the Golden Palace and the College of Alchemists gleaming with their sorcerous illumination.

  “Here,” said Admete, stopping before a leaden door set in a stone arch. Caina saw that the door had once been sealed, but someone had forced it open. “We secured it in here.”

  “Azaces,” said Caina, and he handed over one of the two lanterns he had been carrying. Caina lit one and Azaces lit the other, while Admete pushed open the door. Together they descended into the tomb, the lanterns throwing back the light. The stairs ended in a large vaulted chamber, lead plates clicking beneath Caina’s boots. A double row of lead coffins ran down the length of the floor, at least forty of them, while niches upon the walls held hundreds of urns. Caina supposed the wealthier victims of the ancient plague had received coffins, while the poor had been burned and poured into the urns.

  The Strigosti trapbox sat between two pillars.

  It was the largest trapbox Caina had ever seen, a massive cube of black metal easily the size of three coffins put together. Elaborate, stark reliefs adorned its sides, and Caina saw dozens of tiny slits marking the side of the box. If anyone attempted to force the lid without disarming the traps, blades smeared with a lethal poison would erupt from the box.

  “Gods,” said Caina. “That thing must weigh a thousand pounds. No wonder you didn’t want to move it. How did you get it up here?”

  “Sailors,” said Admete, pulling back her hood and tugging off her turban, revealing black hair shot through with gray. “A group of Kyracian traders, passing through the Straits. Paid them to carry the damned thing up here. Since they were leaving for New Kyre the next day, I didn’t have to worry about them talking to anyone.”

  Caina laughed. “Clever.”

  “Can you open it?” said Admete to Nerina.

  But Nerina had already crossed the room, muttering equations to herself. She knelt next to the trapbox, running her hands over the elaborate metal reliefs, tapping them with her fingernails and listening to the sound. Then she produced a small notebook, propped it on her knee, and started scribbling.

  Caina set her lantern near the box, giving Nerina light to work, and Azaces did the same.

  “Mistress Strake?” said Admete. “Are you…is she…”

  “She’s fine,” said Caina as Nerina produced a leather bundle of tools and started disassembling the corner of the trapbox. “That’s what she does when she’s enjoying herself. Though if that box starts clicking or vibrating, we should probably run.”

  “A good idea,” said Admete, eyeing the trapbox.

  “Do you have any idea what Tarniar found in the ruins?” said Caina.

  Admete shrugged. “Some gold coins. Some jewels. A few old papyrus scrolls.” Caina remembered the Maatish scroll that had brought her father to his death. “An idol, too, this ugly golden statue of a man with an…an insect for a head.”

  “Insect?” said Caina.

  “A beetle, I think,” said Admete. “I never liked beetles.”

  “A scarab,” said Caina. A scarab-headed man was the symbol of Anubankh, the ancient Maatish god of necromancy. Such idols were often imbued with potent necromantic powers. In the wrong hands it could do tremendous harm.

  Odd that Caina didn’t feel any sorcerous aura from the trapbox. Perhaps Tarniar had lined it with lead or even ghostsilver to conceal its contents from sorcerous detection.

  She watched as Nerina worked. Caina had disarmed a few Strigosti trapboxes and had even managed to survive the process. Yet this box was far beyond Caina’s skills.

  She hoped it wasn’t beyond Nerina’s.

  Suddenly Caina felt the tingling presence of a sorcerous aura.

  She stepped back in alarm, reaching for the ghostsilver dagger in her belt.

  “What?” said Admete. “What is it? Is the trap going off?”

  “Of course not,” said Nerina. She paused. “Unless I miscalculated a variable. Then, yes, we’re all going to die. Other than that, we’re fine.”

  “That is not reassuring,” said Admete.

  “Someone’s casting a spell,” said Caina.

  “You can…feel spells?” said Admete. “Then you are a sorceress? That’s why you want the relic?”

  “No,” said Caina. “I’ve been hit by spells enough that I know when one’s coming. I think something in the box is activating…no, that’s not it.” She turned towards the stairs, and Azaces
drew his massive scimitar with a steely hiss. “We’ve been found.”

  Boots slapped against the stone stairs, and a man in a bright robe and turban staggered into the tomb, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

  “Yestik?” said Admete. “What the devil are you doing here? I thought you had run off and…”

  She started forward, and Caina grabbed her wrist.

  “Wait,” said Caina. “Look at his shadow.”

  Admete frowned, and her eyes grew wide.

  Yestik’s shadow was pointing towards the lanterns.

  “Yestik,” said Admete. “What happened to you?”

  “He served,” said a deep voice, “a useful purpose. Possibly the first useful purpose he ever served in his life. A purpose that is now fulfilled.”

  Yestik’s eyes rolled up into his head, blood pouring from his mouth and nose and ears as his shadow slithered around him like a hungry serpent. He collapsed motionless to the ground, his eyes glassy and staring.

  Nerina kept working, paying no attention to the dead man.

  “What the hell?” said Admete, yanking a dagger from her belt. “What happened to him?”

  “My dear Admete,” said the deep voice, “I am surprised you have not realized it yet.”

  A tall man with black hair and a long, gray-streaked beard stepped into the tomb, the hem of his ornate black robes whispering against the lead-plated floor. He moved with calm, easy confidence, and Caina felt the potent sorcerous power radiating from him.

  That explained the three black shadows swirling around his feet like writhing banners of smoke.

  “Tarniar,” said Admete, her voice tight with fear.

  Caina took a step away from Admete, closer to the lanterns. Azaces growled and raised his massive scimitar. Nerina seemed oblivious to the danger, and kept poking at the intricate maze of mechanisms within the trapbox.

  “A lead-lined tomb,” said Tarniar. “Clever. I should have realized it sooner.” He glanced at Yestik’s bleeding corpse. “Fortunately, our mutual friend was able to guide me here with a minimum of difficulty.”

  “What did you do to him?” said Admete.

  Tarniar grinned, his teeth white in his tangled gray beard. “I simply persuaded him to help me. He should be grateful, really. The traditional punishment for a thief is the loss of a hand. Though a man foolish enough to steal from an occultist of Anshan is usually crucified. Making his death useful was more merciful than he deserved.”