Caina frowned. “Is it true?”
“I know not,” said Agabyzus. “But I have spoken with the merchants visiting from Malarae and Arzaxia, and they all say the same thing. And I have noticed something else. The rumors say that the rebel magi have seized the city of Rasadda…and no merchant ships have come to Istarinmul from Rasadda since the end of the war.”
Caina felt a chill. Rumors were one thing, but that was quite another. She thought of Ark and Theodosia and the other friends she had left behind in Malarae. What would a civil war to do them? Would the fighting reach Malarae? If the Magisterium had indeed broken into warring factions…there was no telling how much damage such a war could do.
“But we can do nothing for them, can we?” said Caina. “They are on their own.”
“And so are we, I fear,” said Agabyzus.
Caina bowed her head and thought for a moment.
“One more question,” said Caina. “The poet Sulaman. How well do you know him?”
Agabyzus shrugged. “Well enough, though I know little about him personally. His verses are well-received by the emirs and the wealthier nobles, and if he wanted to, he could live in comfort and never leave the Emirs’ and Masters’ Quarters. Yet he often came to the House of Agabyzus to recite his poems here. Evidently he tires of the wealthy and prefers a more appreciative audience.”
“Is he one of us?” said Caina. “A Ghost?”
“No,” said Agabyzus.
“Is he one of the Teskilati?” said Caina.
“I do not believe so,” said Agabyzus. “Yet…the Teskilati destroyed us. They knew exactly where to find us. And we used to conduct a great deal of our business out of the coffee house. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” said Caina, “Nasser mentioned that Sulaman pointed him in my direction.”
“I see,” said Agabyzus. “Well, you can speak to Sulaman yourself. He is reciting here tonight.”
###
That night Caina sat at one of the tables in the House of Agabyzus, playing dice with a group of merchants and their guards, and watched as Sulaman and his bodyguard Mazyan made their way to the poet’s dais. Sulaman was tall and thin, clad in a simple brown robe, with a close-cropped black beard shot through with gray and an ascetic, scholarly look to his face. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five, and Caina had never been able to pin down his age. Mazyan had the look of a killer and the build of a boulder, a perpetual scowl on his face as his hard eyes swept the crowd.
“Tonight, my guests,” said Damla, and the crowds filling the tables and booths fell silent, “tonight we are honored by the presence of the poet Sulaman, and he shall recite for us the great epic of the Padishah’s seven wars against the Shahenshah of Anshan, and how…”
“Forgive me, mistress Damla,” said Sulaman, his voice quiet and deep. “By your pleasure, I shall recite a different epic, the tale of the fall of Iramis and the creation of the Desert of Candles.”
He glanced at Caina as he spoke, just for a moment.
“Of course, master poet,” said Damla. “As you think best.”
Sulaman nodded, and Mazyan seated himself on the edge of the dais, tucking a small drum between his knees. He beat a steady rhythm upon the drum, slow and solemn, like the tramp of an army upon the march.
Or a funeral dirge.
Sulaman began to speak, reciting verses in the formal structure of Istarish poetry. He spoke of the city of Iramis, ruled by its benevolent Prince, its fields the most fertile and prosperous in all the world. Slavery was not permitted in Iramis by decree of its Prince, and yet Iramis’s fields fed all of Istarinmul and half the world, and the city’s loremasters used their sorcerous powers for the benefit of mankind, defending humanity from the dark powers of the netherworld.
And then Callatas had come.
From Iramis he had demanded a single child from every family as a slave. The Prince refused and raised his armies to march against Istarinmul. And in response Callatas used his sorcery to destroy Iramis and her armies, to burn the magnificent city and its people to ashes in the space of a single heartbeat. In Sulaman’s words Caina could glimpse the towers of golden stone, could see the flames devouring flesh and stone and hear the people screaming.
But she did not need to imagine it. She had seen it in her dreams, a vision summoned by the strange spirit with eyes of smokeless flame.
The wrath of Callatas’s sorcery burned the farmlands of Iramis as well, transforming them into the barren Desert of Candles. From that day forward not a single drop of rain had fallen upon the lands of Istarinmul, perhaps a punishment from the Living Flame for Callatas’s great crime. The Slavers’ Brotherhood had grown more and more powerful, kidnapping thousands of slaves to work the fields and feed the city. And Callatas grew stronger, ruling Istarinmul with a fist of iron as his influence grew ever wider.
At last Sulaman finished his poem, and silence fell over the House of Agabyzus, the crowd staring at him.
And then to Caina’s surprise, they started to applaud, rising to their feet.
The Istarish enjoyed their epic poems, even the grim ones.
Many merchants made their way to the dais, dropping gold and silver coins in a bowl Mazyan produced. Caina rose to her feet and waited until the crowds had thinned, and then made her way to the dais. Mazyan scowled at her, and Sulaman looked at her with his deep brown eyes.
“Master poet,” said Caina.
“Master courier,” said Sulaman. She dropped a gold coin in his bowl. “Thank you for your largess.”
“Thank you for the poem,” said Caina.
“I am pleased it did not trouble you,” said Sulaman, “as did the poem of Istarr and the seven Demon Princes of old.”
“I have more things to trouble me,” said Caina, “than merely poems. Though I suspect the poem will trouble you.”
“Oh?” said Sulaman, raising an eyebrow, while Mazyan scowled and reached for his scimitar.
“That poem about Callatas,” said Caina. “I think the Grand Master would take it ill, if word of it reached his ears.”
“Is that a threat?” said Mazyan.
“Merely an observation,” said Caina. “I am only a courier. No one fears my wrath. The wrath of Grand Master Callatas, however, is rather more formidable.”
“You are correct,” said Sulaman. “But the Grand Master does not care. Indeed, he approves of the poem, for it increases the dread around his name. He glories in his blackest crime, and holds the destruction of Iramis and its people his greatest achievement.”
“And do you?” said Caina. “Did Callatas strike a great blow for the glory of Istarinmul?”
“I am merely a poet,” said Sulaman. “I only recite, I fear. Come, Master Marius. Walk with me for a while, if you will.”
Mazyan gathered his bowl and drum, and Caina, Sulaman, and Mazyan stepped into the darkened Cyrican Bazaar. The stalls and shops had closed for the night, and silence hung over the market. In the distance Caina saw the gleam of the Golden Palace and the College of Alchemists, lit by the glow of sorcerous light.
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Who are you?” said Caina.
“I am the poet Sulaman,” said Sulaman, “and I am a man who fears for the future of Istarinmul, should Callatas work his will here as he worked it in Iramis. And I believe you are such a man as well, you who call yourself Marius of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers.”
He knew. Somehow, he knew that Caina was not who she said she was. That did not surprise her, not entirely. Sulaman had given her a purse of gold after she had saved Bayram and Bahad and the other captives in Ulvan’s cells. He must have suspected that she was associated with the Balarigar in some fashion.
But did he know that she was the Balarigar?
“How much do you know about me?” said Caina.
He smiled briefly. “More than you know, and not as much as I would like. I suspect you would say the same about me. But I will say this. I mean you no ill
will, and will aid you in whatever small way is within my meager powers.”
“Because we both oppose Callatas,” said Caina.
“This is so,” said Sulaman. “And that is why I suggested that Ibrahaim Nasser speak to you. He, too, is a man who opposes Callatas.”
“Then you do know him,” said Caina.
“For many years, yes.”
“Who is he really?” said Caina.
“A master thief, from whom much was stolen,” said Sulaman. “A liar who serves the truth. An outlaw who is in service to the law. A homeless man who fights for his home.”
“An answer equally both poetic and vague,” said Caina.
“The best poems often are,” said Sulaman. “You may do as you wish. I have no bond or right of command over you. But I urge you to listen to what Nasser has to say. It would go well for you. It would go well for all of us.”
“Why?” said Caina.
“Because,” said Sulaman, “I know not what Callatas’s Apotheosis is. But I do know one thing about it. He first attempted it at Iramis.”
The chill she felt grew deeper. “And now Iramis is ashes.”
“You understand, then,” said Sulaman. “Good night, Master Marius. I pray the Living Flame lights your path and leads you to wisdom.”
He offered a bow and strode away. Mazyan scowled at Caina once more and followed the poet.
Caina stared after them, standing alone in the darkness.
“I will certainly need it,” she muttered at last.
Chapter 6 - Visions
A short time later, Caina returned home.
But it was not home, not really. She thought of the city of Malarae as her home, and that was lost to her. “Home” in Istarinmul was wherever she happened to be sleeping at the moment. But she had not slept in nearly two days, and she needed some proper rest before confronting Nasser.
Caina had stolen a great deal of money from the cowled masters of the Brotherhood, and had used some of it to prepare hiding places and bolt holes around the city. Halfdan had always done so, and his hidden safe houses had saved their lives more than once. So Caina had followed her teacher’s example, purchasing buildings and renting properties under a variety of false names. A warehouse near the Cyrican docks. A rented room over a tavern in the Alqaarin Quarter. An abandoned smithy in the Forge Quarter, and several others. In each one Caina secured supplies, food, weapons and medicines, along with a variety of disguises.
She made her way to a boarding house in the Tower Quarter. The Quarter was named for the Crows’ Tower, the sprawling fortress where the watchmen kept their headquarters, and if rumor was true, the Teskilati maintained secret dungeons to secure their more valuable prisoners. Many of the younger, unmarried watchmen lodged in various boarding houses around the Crows’ Tower. Most of the boarding houses were ugly four-story cubes of whitewashed brick that had once been barracks and prisons.
So Caina had bought one.
Specifically, a boarding house with a secret chamber in the attic. Caina had spotted it while helping a widow named Talisla escape some robbers, noting the unusual thickness of the outer wall. A quick investigation had revealed a hidden passage in the wall and an abandoned chamber in the attic. It had likely once been used to hold prisoners, but to judge from the dust, it had been abandoned for a very long time.
Caina had bought the boarding house under a false name, hired Talisla to manage the house and rent rooms, and then had prepared the secret room as a bolt hole.
She stepped into the alley, making sure she was unobserved, and then opened the hidden door. After closing and locking it behind her, she ascended a narrow stair to the hidden chamber. Dim light leaked through the slats of the roof, and Caina had assembled a cache of supplies here alongside a camp bed. Another hidden passage led to the cellar and then to the sewers, while a coiled rope and a hidden trapdoor permitted her to climb down the side of the boarding house. If she was cornered here, she could likely escape. But she was reasonably sure no one knew this place existed.
It was a safe enough place to sleep.
Caina stripped off her sweaty clothing with a sigh of relief. Malarae had been warm, but Istarinmul was brutally hot. She washed as best she could with soap and a barrel of water, scrubbing away the sweat of the last two days’ exertions. Her limbs ached from all the running and climbing, and she would be sore tomorrow.
She looked at the ring on her left hand with annoyance. Well, Nasser had promised to tell her what it was, if she showed up tomorrow. Perhaps he could tell her how to remove it.
Caina lay down on the camp bed, getting comfortable. A deep wave of loneliness and sadness washed over her. Gods, but she missed Corvalis. The grief no longer maddened her, but it had not left her. Perhaps it would never leave her.
Still. The old proverb said work was the best cure for sorrow.
At the very least, work made her tired enough to sleep.
Caina sank into sleep and knew nothing more.
###
And in her sleep, she dreamed once more.
It was a dream she had seen before.
She stood again on a ridge overlooking a vast, fertile plain, its fields and vineyards and pastures overflowing with crops and cattle. In the midst of the plain rose a gleaming city walled in golden stone, its towers domed in crystal, a thousand banners flying from its ramparts. The great city had a hundred gates and a broad harbor, and men from every nation and kingdom under the sun came to trade in its markets.
And then the hooded man came to the edge of the ridge, his dark cloak stirring around him. He raised his hand, and in his fist burned a star of azure flame, a nexus of sorcery potent enough to shatter mountains and boil seas. The golden city burned in an instant, burned so thoroughly and completely that not even a single stone remained atop another. The inferno spread across the plain, and the fields and pastures turned to ash, leaving behind only dust and lifeless sand.
And the standing crystals. Hundreds of thousands of crystalline pillars rose from the dust, irregular columns nine or ten feet tall. They emitted an eerie, pale light, and it seemed as if thousands of ghostly blue candles dotted the desert.
The dream blurred, and Caina found herself standing in that bleak desert among the pale blue columns of jagged crystal. It was dusk, and more light came from the eerie gleam of the crystalline columns than from the sun setting to the west. A cold wind moaned past her, and a faint keening sound seemed to come from the glowing pillars.
Almost like the sounds of distant screams.
The man with eyes of smokeless flame, spirit or sorcerer or whatever he was, awaited her.
When she had seen him in the mirror at Vaysaal’s palace, he had only been an indistinct shadow. Here, he wore the form of Corvalis Aberon, which annoyed Caina to no end. She suspected that was part of his game, a ruse to rattle her and irritate her. Though his warnings had saved her life, once in the Widow’s Tower, and again in Vaysaal’s palace.
She wished she knew why.
“My dear child of the shadows,” said Corvalis, smiling. The image of Corvalis wore his usual black coat, boots, trousers, and white shirt. In life his eyes had been green, but now the smokeless flame of his eyes painted his cheeks and jaw with harsh shadows. “Here we are again. Around in circles we go. But that is true of history itself, is it not?”
“This desert and the burning city,” said Caina. “Why do you keep showing them to me?”
“So you can admire the scenery, of course,” said Corvalis. The eyes of smokeless flame flashed. “This lovely, lush terrain.” He brushed some of the dust from the sleeve of his coat. “Do you know where you are, incidentally?”
“In one of my rooms, sleeping,” said Caina.
Corvalis smirked. “Accurate, but useless. Your body might lie there, but your mind does not. Where is your mind?”
“This is the Desert of Candles,” said Caina, glancing at one of the crystalline columns. “You keep showing me the destruction of Iramis. The man in the clo
ak must be Callatas, and that fire in his hand is the gem he wears around his neck.”
“A not unreasonable supposition,” said Corvalis.
“Why show it to me?” said Caina. “It was a hundred and fifty years ago.”
Corvalis laughed, long and loud. “A hundred and fifty years? You say that as if it were a long time, my darling demonslayer. Of course, it is a long time to you, is it not? You are twenty-three years old, and so cold, so wise. But only twenty-three years. That is not such a large part of the groaning pile of years that lie upon the pages of history…and neither is a century and a half.”
“Then Callatas’s Apotheosis has something to do with the destruction of Iramis,” said Caina. It made a glimmer of sense. Callatas had been buying slaves to create wraithblood…but he had also sent many of them into the Desert of Candles, excavating the ruins of ancient Iramisian tombs.
“Cause usually proceeds effect,” said Corvalis. “Except when it does not.”
“Such as?” said Caina.
His smile was as eerie as the blue crystals. “You may find out quite soon.”
“Thank you,” said Caina.
“For what?”
“For warning me at Vaysaal’s palace,” said Caina. “If I had gone in the other direction, I would have been killed.”
Corvalis shrugged “I have been looking for someone like you for a very long time now.”
“I thought you said one hundred and fifty years was a very short time,” said Caina.
He smirked, the fires of his eyes flashing. “Ah, how like a mortal you are. You might indeed be the one I have sought. Or you might not. If you get yourself killed on an Immortal’s blade, then clearly you are not the one I require. Yet you might become more than you are. Having you die in the palace of some miserable Master Alchemist would be an unfortunate waste.”
“Then you want something from me,” said Caina.
“Maybe I am merely benevolent,” said Corvalis.
“And I am the Queen of Anshan,” said Caina. “You want something from me. What is it? Do you want me to kill Callatas? You keep showing me the destruction of Iramis. Or do you want me to steal something for you?”
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