“You could not kill Callatas,” said Corvalis. “He would destroy you long before you could do him permanent harm. And I have no need for wealth or baubles.”
“Then what do you want?” said Caina.
“Why, the same thing you do,” said Corvalis. “Liberation.”
“From what?” said Caina.
He only smiled.
“Who are you?” said Caina.
“I would tell you,” said Corvalis, “but it would be a waste of effort.”
“Why?” said Caina.
“Because,” said Corvalis, “you are going to meet me very soon.”
“How?” said Caina.
“Why tell you, when you shall soon see for yourself?” said Corvalis. He grinned, cold and ruthless. “I do hope the experience doesn’t kill you, my darling demonslayer.”
“Then you want to kill me,” said Caina. “So you’re one of my enemies, then. Someone with a grudge.”
“Neither,” said Corvalis. “I might have to kill you when we meet at last. If you cannot figure out how to stop me. Which would be a pity. I have such high hopes for you. But then I have been disappointed before.”
Corvalis turned away, and the dream faded around them. But Caina had seen this before, had endured more shared dreams with sorcerers and spirits than she cared to remember. She reached out with her thoughts, her will commanding the dream to remain intact. The wavering Desert of Candles stabilized around her, and Corvalis turned once more, surprise dissolving his sardonic smile.
“You are getting better at that,” said Corvalis.
“I didn’t say we were done,” said Caina.
“So forceful,” murmured Corvalis. He seemed pleased. “A good sign.”
“Ibrahaim Nasser,” said Caina. “Do you know who he is?”
“The thief with a hand of glass,” said Corvalis. “We’ve met.”
“You have?” said Caina. “When?”
“Oh, a short time ago,” said Corvalis.
“Can I trust him?” said Caina.
Corvalis grinned. “Can you trust me?”
“Of course not,” said Caina. “But that was not the question. Can I trust Nasser Glasshand?”
“If I were you, I would not,” said Corvalis. “But you may rely upon this, my darling slayer of demons. Nasser wants the same thing I do, and the same thing that that you do.”
“Liberation,” said Caina. “The liberation of what? The slaves? The prisoners? Who?”
“Yes,” said Corvalis. He glanced at the sky for a moment. “Ah, I fear our time is up. I look forward to meeting you in the flesh. As it were. Though I fear you might not.”
He gestured, and this time the dream dissolved into nothingness, and Caina knew no more.
###
Slowly Caina came back to awareness.
She lay upon the camp bed in the attic, in the same position as when she had fallen asleep. Caina sat up, blinking. She stood and hobbled to one of the gaps in the wall, peering at the street below as she rubbed her sore legs. It was only a few hours before her meeting with Nasser at the Tarshahzon Gardens.
It was a risk, of course, but both Nasser and Agabyzus were right. Caina could not continue on as she had. If she was going to stop whatever Callatas intended with his Apotheosis, she needed allies.
Perhaps Nasser could become one.
Caina worked through the unarmed forms until some of the stiffness had eased from her arms and legs and hips. Then she washed herself as best she could and donned a disguise. She chose the robe and turban of an Istarish merchant of middling prosperity, clothes that would not stand out in the Tarshahzon Gardens, but not fine enough to get her mugged in the street. Caina strapped throwing knives to her forearms, concealed daggers her boot sheaths, and then applied a bit of makeup to create the illusion of stubble.
She examined herself in a mirror and saw an Istarish merchant staring back at her, and nodded in approval. A wave of sadness went over her. She had once spent hours making herself look beautiful, selecting gowns and jewels and makeup and arranging her long black hair in intricate designs. That had merely been a tool, of course, but she was vain enough to admit that she had enjoyed the process. Now her black hair was close-cropped stubble, and she spent a great deal of time making herself look unremarkable.
But Corvalis was dead. Why bother making herself look attractive?
Caina left the attic room. She slipped back into the alley, closed the secret door behind her, and set off for the Tarshahzon Gardens.
Chapter 7 - The Fall of Iramis
Caina had never met Nahas Tarshahzon, the Most Divine Padishah of Istarinmul, and had been unable to decide if he was cruel or simply inept. Perhaps he fully supported Grand Master Callatas and the Slavers’ Brotherhood, permitting them to run rampant and do as they pleased without consequence. Or perhaps he was weak and inept, unable to stand up to his strong-willed nobles and magistrates. Or maybe he simply did not care, occupied himself with wine and food and slave girls, and never stirred from the Golden Palace to rule his domain.
Agabyzus had heard one rumor that the Padishah was dead, and Callatas and Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku had kept the death secret, ruling in Nahas’s name while keeping his son and the lawful heir imprisoned.
Yet none of those interpretations were favorable to the Padishah, and Caina wondered if all the Padishahs had been either cruel or disinterested in the welfare of their subjects. But Caina had to admit that the Padishahs had done one thing for their people.
They had kept the Tarshahzon Gardens open.
The Gardens sprawled on the city’s northeastern edge, between the walls of Istarinmul and the outer courts of the Golden Palace itself. Long ago, one of the Padishahs had devoted this part of the city to the Living Flame after a victory over the sultans of Alqaarin, and had filled the ground with a flowering garden. Gravel paths wound past trees and ranks of flowering bushes, and statues rose upon marble plinths, Padishahs and emirs and generals brandishing scimitars or sitting upon stallions. By long tradition, any citizen of Istarinmul could visit, and an order of monks devoted to the Living Flame maintained the Gardens.
About forty years ago, Nahas’s father had tried to claim the Gardens for his own use, preparing to build a wall to seal them off from the public. The resultant riots had lasted for a week and burned a quarter of the city, and Nahas’s father had been forced to back down, dying in disgrace a few years later and opening the way for Nahas to take the Most Divine Throne.
The Tarshahzon Gardens remained open to the public.
Ancient tradition, Caina suspected, often had more weight than any law.
She headed north, walking past trees and flowers, past families taking picnics in the shade. The Gardens were crowded. Given how grim the rest of the city was, Caina could see why. She even saw slaves taking their ease here, talking in small groups or resting beneath the branches of the trees.
Monuments dotted the garden, and Caina saw a small shrine at the northern end of the Gardens. Nasser had told her to meet him there, so she headed for it. The shrine was a rectangular building of pale green marble. Three walls consisted of columned arcades, while the fourth supported a massive painting, an epic scene that covered the entire wall. Benches faced the painting, permitting people to take their ease and admire the artwork, or (as Caina suspected was more likely) have a place to drink out of the sun’s pounding heat.
Odd that the shrine seemed deserted.
Curious, she passed through the colonnade and looked at the painting, wondering what it depicted. Some battle from Istarinmul’s history, no doubt.
Instead she froze in shock.
She had seen the painting in her dreams.
The city of golden walls occupied the right third of the painting, the towers and spires and banners worked with haunting detail. Caina saw the faces of the men upon the walls, their horror as fire blazed to life to devour them and their families. Outside the golden walls spread the fertile fields and orchards, turning to ash
as the inferno consumed them, jagged knives of blue crystal rising from the earth.
And atop a hill, in the center of the painting, stood Grand Master Callatas, his gold-trimmed white robes flying around him in the heat of the flames. His features looked just as they had when Caina had seen him at Ulvan’s palace, gaunt and ascetic and hard with pride. His eyes were like disks of gray steel, and the blue crystal burned like a star in his upraised fist.
The painting was a masterwork. Looking at it, Caina could almost hear the screams of the children of the doomed city, could almost smell the roasting flesh and feel the hot wind. Little wonder this shrine was deserted. Who would want to stare at a scene of such horror?
“A remarkable painting, is it not?”
Caina spun, her hand moving to her weapons. A man in an Istarish robe and turban had appeared behind her, his left hand gloved, a white smile flashing across his dark face…
“Nasser,” said Caina, annoyed with herself. She had been too wrapped up in the terrible beauty of the painting to have noticed his approach. “I almost put a dagger in your throat.”
“That would have been unfortunate,” said Nasser. He gestured. “Tell me. What do you make of the painting?”
“It is,” said Caina, trying to find the words. She had seen it happen in her dreams, thanks to the man with the eyes of smokeless flame. But this painting had grandeur and horror that the vision lacked. Somehow the artist had captured the tragedy of the scene, had preserved Callatas’s pride and sneering contempt in paint. “It is…remarkable.”
“Truly,” said Nasser. “It was painted by Markaine of Caer Marist, who despite having been born within the Empire is claimed by the Istarish as one of their greatest artists. This painting is called ‘The Fall of Iramis’. Are you familiar with the story?”
“No,” said Caina, curious how Nasser would respond.
“Iramis was once the second city of Istarinmul, the jewel and breadbasket of the world,” said Nasser. “Then Callatas demanded a child from every Iramisian family be given to him as a slave. Naturally, the city’s Prince refused, and in retaliation Callatas utterly destroyed Iramis and turned its fertile fields into the Desert of Candles.”
“That jewel,” said Caina, pointing at Callatas’s hand. “I’ve seen the Grand Master in public. He wears a blue crystal around his neck. Is that…”
“The same crystal?” said Nasser. “I believe so. It is a sorcerous relic of immense power, offering command over the elemental spirits of the netherworld. Callatas used it to destroy Iramis, and presumably he can employ its power again. You can see why few people ever challenge the Grand Master.”
“I can also see why you chose to meet here,” said Caina.
Nasser raised his eyebrows beneath his crisp white turban. “The symbolic value of the painting?”
“That,” said Caina, “and it’s so…disturbing. No one seeking a few hours of leisure will come here.” She tilted her head to the side. “Why hasn’t the painting faded with the sun?” She took a few steps closer and felt the faint tingle. “Ah. Callatas put a preservation spell over it, didn’t he?” She scowled. “The old villain likes that it shows him murdering so many people.”
“He does,” said Nasser. “And you have the ability to sense the presence of arcane force, do you not?”
Caina turned, cursing herself as a fool. “I deduced it, that’s all. Obviously the Istarish sun would fade the paint otherwise.”
“Obviously,” said Nasser, lifting his gloved hand, “but I saw you flinch when you drew too close to my hand. And you managed to get into the Widow’s Tower and out again without getting killed.” He smiled. “You are not the only one able to make deductions.”
“Plainly,” said Caina.
“Are you a sorcerer?” said Nasser.
“No,” said Caina. “I have no arcane ability at all, thank the gods.”
Nasser nodded. “Then let me make another deduction. You were severely wounded by sorcery at some point in your life, and from that you acquired a sensitivity to arcane forces. Like an old scar that never quite heals. The ability has only grown more sensitive as you have aged.”
“Something like that,” said Caina.
That seemed to please him. “Shall we sit? I have always found that discussions are more civilized while sitting, are they not?”
He sat on one of the marble benches facing the vast painting, and Caina sat next to him.
For a moment they sat in silence. Caina alternated between looking at the painting and at Nasser. He seemed utterly calm, even relaxed.
Yet his left hand remained clenched in a fist, and she sensed the arcane power around it.
“Tell me,” said Nasser at last, “what do you think of Istarinmul?”
Caina decided to tell the truth. “My first night here, I was so depressed I almost drank myself to death.”
Nasser laughed
“I wasn’t joking,” said Caina.
“I thought not,” said Nasser. “I fear fair Istarinmul often has that effect upon visitors.” He waved his right hand at the gardens. “Look at them. Are they not beautiful? A vision of paradise. And yet a few miles to the southeast waits the Desert of Candles, the wasteland created by Callatas’s sorcery. Men and women stroll in ease through these Gardens, yet in this same city, men and women are auctioned upon the slaver’s block, sold to toil in the mines or the fields or the fighting rings until they die. This is a city built upon blood.”
“And so you steal from it,” said Caina.
Nasser grinned. “So do you.”
Caina could not argue with that.
“Who are you, out of curiosity?” said Nasser. “What drives a man to join the Ghosts, leave his homeland, come to a city like Istarinmul, and wage a war upon some of the most powerful men in the world?”
“I lost a bet,” said Caina. “I gambled everything, and I won and lost at the same time.”
That also was true enough.
Nasser chuckled. “No straight answer, eh?”
“Why should I?” said Caina. “You’ve given me very few straight answers.”
“I cannot argue with that,” said Nasser.
“Laertes was wrong about one thing,” said Caina. “Games with words are enjoyable, and while we could sit here and exchange witticisms all day, we both have more important things to do.”
“Of course,” said Nasser. “I have a proposal for you.”
“You have a proposal for me,” said Caina, “but I will only hear it if you first fulfill your end of the bargain.”
“And what bargain is that?” said Nasser, raising his eyebrows.
Caina unwound the bandage around her left hand. “You said you would tell me what this is.”
The bronze ring glinted upon her finger.
“Ah, of course,” said Nasser. “That is just as well, since it ties directly to my proposal. The ring is called a pyrikon.”
“I knew that,” said Caina.
“Do you know what a pyrikon does?”
“No,” said Caina.
“The pyrikon in question is keyed to a specific warding spell,” said Nasser. “A powerful Alchemist can create a transmutation spell to cover the entire interior of a building. If anyone sets foot within the building, the spell transmutes the air into poisonous gas. The gas is almost instantaneously fatal.”
“And the pyrikon shields its bearer from the effect?” said Caina.
“Precisely,” said Nasser. “Anyone wearing the pyrikon can enter the warding spell without harm.”
“Well and good,” said Caina. “So why can’t I take it off?”
“Because,” said Nasser, “Callatas himself bound that pyrikon, and it can only be removed at the inner gate of the Maze.”
“I don’t know what the Maze is,” said Caina, “but I suspect I’m not going to like it.”
“You suspect correctly,” said Nasser. “Callatas’s palace is almost as large as the Golden Palace itself. Within his palace is a labyrinth called the Ma
ze, and his private laboratory is hidden within the heart of the Maze. The ring,” he pointed at her hand, “has a twofold purpose. The first is to allow the bearer to pass through the warding spell over the Maze itself. The second is to unlock the inner gate of the Maze, allowing the bearer to enter the laboratory itself. Only then can the ring be removed.”
“And Callatas gives these things to his most trusted lieutenants, I assume?” said Caina.
“You assume correctly,” said Nasser. “That is the only way you can remove the ring, my bold master thief. Unlock the inner gate to Callatas’s laboratory at the heart of the Maze.”
“Ah,” said Caina. “I suspect that is going to lead to your proposal, is it not?”
Nasser grinned. “You are perceptive, aren’t you?”
Caina sighed. “You want to rob Callatas himself.”
“Exactly,” said Nasser.
“That is utterly mad,” said Caina.
“So the raven called the crow black,” said Nasser.
“I might be mad,” said Caina, “but that means I know madness when I see it. Callatas’s palace is a fortress. There are a thousand Immortals quartered within its walls, to say nothing of wards and sorcerous guardians and the gods know whatever horrors he has brewed in his alchemical vats.” After the destruction of the Widow’s Tower, she had considered robbing Callatas’s palace, seeking out his laboratory, and rifling through his notes. One look over the outer walls of his palace had convinced her that would be immediate suicide. “To say nothing of this Maze and whatever additional defenses he has within it. If you need money, there are far easier targets.”
“I have enough money,” said Nasser, “to buy my own island in the Alqaarin Sea and live in comfort for the rest of my days with a dozen naked slave women to attend my every whim. Money is like water. The lack of it will kill you very quickly. But once you have a sufficient amount, you have no further need for it. Other things must then serve as currency.”
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