Ghost in the Maze

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “What?” she said. “Azaces, why are you letting strangers into the room? Did not Ciara tell us to…” Her eerie eyes opened wide. “Wait. Ciara?”

  Caina nodded.

  “A very good disguise!” said Nerina, putting aside the notebook and getting to her feet. “The odds of you going unnoticed would be quite high.”

  “They must be,” said Caina, “since I’m still alive and I found my way here.”

  Nerina shook her head. “Mathematics is a more reliable guide to reality than crude experience.”

  “If you say so,” said Caina.

  “So,” said Nerina. “You wished to hire me for something? Though I am curious why a woman who threw knives at her sister for the circus wishes to hire a locksmith for a secretive task.”

  Caina smiled. “You said yourself you thought I was something other than a circus performer. Where does the arithmetic lead you?”

  Nerina considered, her pale blue eyes examining Caina. “Given how easily you fooled those mercenaries, and how quickly you adapted to unexpected developments…on the balance of probability, I would say you were a thief or a con artist of some kind.” She nodded. “Which makes your presence at Ulvan’s palace the night before he was robbed a most remarkable coincidence.” She contemplated this for a moment. “Are you working with the man called the Balarigar?”

  “You could say that,” said Caina.

  “Then you want me to help you steal something,” said Nerina.

  “Yes,” said Caina. “If you would prefer, I will leave now and never return. But if this interests you…come to the Shahenshah’s Seat, a tavern near the Gate of the Southern Road, tomorrow night. Do you know the place?”

  Nerina shook her head, but Azaces nodded. To Caina’s surprise, he did not seem displeased by the prospect of joining a criminal enterprise.

  “Why should I help you?” said Nerina.

  Caina spread her hands. “If you want to know more, you’ll have to come tomorrow. I am not the one planning the job. I was merely sent to recruit you. But if you work with us, I can guarantee two things.”

  “And those are?” said Nerina.

  “One, that if we succeed, you shall have more than enough money to cover your debts,” said Caina.

  “That is a conditional promise, not a guarantee,” said Nerina.

  “True,” said Caina. “One conditional promise, and one guarantee. If you work with us, if you help us in our task…I guarantee that you will not be bored. You will be so busy that you will not even have time to think about wraithblood.”

  Nerina stared at Caina, and she met the locksmith’s strange blue eyes without blinking.

  “Those shadows,” said Nerina at last.

  “You still see the haze around me,” said Caina. “The shadows, whatever they are.”

  “You do not know what they are?” said Nerina. Caina shook her head. “Pity. I was wondering myself. I know nothing about sorcery. So…arithmetically imprecise. You are not a sorceress?”

  “No,” said Caina. She debated how much of the truth to tell Nerina. “I…was wounded by sorcery when I was a child. And several times since. Perhaps you are seeing those marks.”

  “Perhaps,” said Nerina. She gazed into the distance for a long time. “There are many strange things about you, Ciara of Istarinmul or Natalia of the Nine Knives or whoever you really are. Already I find you an intriguing puzzle, and I suspect the probability is high that you will bring me more intriguing puzzles. Very well. I accept your offer.”

  “Good,” said Caina. “Remain out of sight here tonight, and tomorrow I shall return and accompany you to the Shahenshah’s Seat. Then you will have a chance to solve the biggest puzzle you have ever seen.”

  The puzzle of getting into Callatas’s laboratory and getting out alive with his secrets.

  Assuming, of course, that such a thing was even possible.

  Chapter 9 - Den of Thieves

  “There is,” said Caina the next night, “one thing you have to know first.”

  “Oh?” said Nerina. “Only one?”

  Azaces towered behind them like a brown-clad storm cloud, his scowl never wavering.

  Night had fallen, and they walked deeper into the Anshani Quarter. It was the largest district of Istarinmul, and had once been home to the Anshani satrap that had ruled over Istarinmul. After the Anshani had been driven out and the Padishah had reclaimed the Most Divine Throne, the Quarter had expanded ever further south, away from the wealthier districts to the north. Most of the freeborn Istarish entitled to a grain dole from the Wazir of Grain lived here, along with impoverished foreign laborers, freedmen, disgraced nobles and merchants, and mercenaries and caravan guards. Towering tenements rose on either side of the street, their windows dark. Taverns occupied the ground floor of almost every tenement, and those shone with dim firelight and echoed with loud, almost raucous laughter.

  Gangs of bored-looking young Istarish men lounged near the entrances to the taverns, watching the streets for prey. Their eyes considered Caina and Azaces and moved on. Caina still wore her caravan guard disguise, and walked with a considered swagger, hand lingering near her sword hilt.

  Though she suspected Azaces inspired far more wariness than she did.

  Nerina seemed oblivious to the danger, her eyes wandering over the tenements as she muttered equations to herself. Though she did carry that wicked-looking black crossbow over her shoulder, and the weapon looked ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

  “Aye,” said Caina. “The men awaiting us. They don’t know that I am a woman.”

  “Ah,” said Nerina. “Clever. An additional variable when you wish to conceal your identity. You wish this variable to remain obfuscated, I trust?”

  Caina took a moment to work out the meaning of the sentence. “Yes.”

  “Your identity is safe with me,” said Nerina, “and unfortunately Father ensured that Azaces cannot tell anyone.” Azaces remained impassive, his eyes scanning for threats. “Though if asked, what am I to say your name is? Ciara is obviously a woman’s name.”

  Caina thought for a moment. “It’s a common enough Caerish name. So use the male form of it. Ciaran.”

  “That will be easy to remember,” said Nerina. “Lead on, Ciaran.”

  They finally came to the southernmost gate of the city, the Gate of the Southern Road. The Anshani Bazaar sprawled before the gate, the shops and stalls selling merchandise and goods from the Shahenshah’s domain. A massive caravanserai spread outside the gate, and the sound of braying mules and arguing men came over the wall. Caravans from Istarinmul went south, carrying slaves and coffee and alchemically-enhanced steel, while caravans came north with Anshani carpets and silk and gems.

  The Shahenshah’s Seat sat next to the gate itself, a ramshackle, sprawling tavern of whitewashed stone. The wealthy merchants coming from the south preferred to stay at the inns of the Cyrican Quarter or the Emirs’ Quarter, if they could afford it. But their guards and porters and teamsters stayed at the Shahenshah’s Seat, drinking themselves senseless on its wine and cavorting with the Anshani Quarter’s whores.

  It was the perfect place for a man like Nasser Glasshand to hide. So many foreigners came and went that no one would notice one more man. Or even a gang of disreputable men.

  “This way,” said Caina.

  The guards at the door let them pass, and Caina stepped into the common room. The noise of laughter and argument filled her ears, while the smell of cheap wine and sweat assaulted her nose. Rough-looking men filled the tables and benches, drinking and dicing and arguing. A quick glance revealed that Caina and Nerina were likely the only women in the room who were not prostitutes. Just as well that Caina had come disguised as a man. And Nerina’s dusty, ill-fitting clothes were hardly flattering. She looked like one more lost wraithblood addict.

  The bouncers had not permitted any addicts into the Shahenshah’s Seat, but Caina had seen them lurking the alleys.

  “What a remarkable place,” said Ner
ina. “I see seven different kinds of alcohol, thirteen other kinds of depressants, and at least five different forms of stimulants.” She sniffed the air. “No…seven. Definitely seven. And weapons from…”

  Caina let Nerina chatter on, her eyes sweeping the room. She spotted Laertes leaning against the wall, his expression grim as ever, a cup of wine in his right hand. The other patrons, even the drunken ones, gave him a wide birth.

  “Wait here,” said Caina, and Azaces nodded. Caina crossed the room, and Laertes looked up as she approached.

  “Well,” he said. “Ibrahaim’s new shadow. You did come back.”

  “You thought I would not?” said Caina, switching to one of her disguised voices.

  Laertes snorted. “Considering what we plan to do, fleeing the city would be the sensible choice.” He glanced at Nerina and Azaces. “Who’s that?”

  “The locksmith,” said Caina.

  “Her?” said Laertes, his scowl deepening a little. “The wraithblood addict? Truly?” Azaces’s hard eyes turned toward them. “Wait. I know her. Ragodan Strake’s daughter, isn’t it?”

  “Aye,” said Caina.

  “Of all the locksmiths in the city, you picked her?” said Laertes. “I knew old Ragodan. Right hard bastard. Tried to hire me on as muscle after I left the Legion and came to Istarinmul.” He spat on the floor. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Slavers are filthy folk, and Ragodan deserved what he got when the Kindred found him.”

  “So instead of slaving,” said Caina, “you’re working for a thief?”

  For the first time, Laertes smiled. “Compared to slaving, thieving is honest work.” He pushed away from the wall. “We might as well make the best of it. A pity she’s a woman.”

  “Why’s that?” said Caina.

  “Thieving is cleaner than buying slaves,” said Laertes, “but it’s still a hard business. I have daughters, and I wouldn’t like to see them mixed up in this. But enough talk. Let’s go. Ibrahaim awaits.”

  Caina beckoned, and Nerina and Azaces crossed the common room. A few men turned inquisitive eyes Nerina’s way, once they realized that she was a woman, but a single look at Azaces put them off.

  “Nerina Strake,” said Caina, “this is Laertes.”

  “A pleasure,” said Laertes.

  Nerina’s eerie eyes flicked over him.

  “You weight one hundred and ninety-six pounds,” she said, “and stand seventy-three inches tall.”

  Laertes opened his mouth, closed it again.

  “She’s observant,” said Caina.

  “Whatever,” said Laertes. “This way.”

  Laertes led the way to the stairs and then the second floor. He walked down a narrow hall lined with doors, stopped before the last one on the left, and knocked several times in a specific pattern. A moment later locks rattled, and the door swung open.

  “Ah,” came Nasser’s voice. “You’ve arrived. Capital. We can begin.” Caina caught a glimpse of him just past the door. “Do come inside.”

  Laertes beckoned, and Caina stepped through the door, Azaces and Nerina following.

  Within the room was dominated by round table ringed with cushions. Four men sat at the table, drinking coffee and speaking in low voices. The first was a hulking giant of a man, clad only in leather trousers and boots, the baldric holding his sword tight against his muscled chest. To judge from the scars, he had once been a gladiator. The second man was shorter and thinner, and wore the patterned red and black robes of Anshani nobility, his hair and beard trimmed and oiled. A short Anshani hunting bow and a quiver of arrows rested nearby. The third man, to Caina’s alarm, wore a ragged black robe that looked as if it had once been the robe of a brother of the Imperial Magisterium, and she felt the faint tingle of an active spell from him. Despite that, the man in the black robe looked like a drunkard, his black hair shot with gray, his face unshaven and his eyes bloodshot. The final man was quite obviously a slave, clad in a gray robe with a collar around his neck. Yet his gray robe was of fine material, and his steel collar had been worked with silver. A household slave, then, and one entrusted with authority over his master’s affairs.

  He looked nervous, so nervous that he might faint, his plump hands kneading the front of his robe.

  All four men looked at Caina, Nerina, and Azaces. Nerina shifted a bit beneath their gaze. Azaces remained as impassive as a pillar of stone. Caina folded her arms over her chest and examined them right back, meeting their gazes without flinching.

  “Nasser,” Caina said. “You said there would be food here.”

  The hulking gladiator chuckled in a deep voice. “A man after my own heart.” He had the lilting accent of the Kaltari Highlands, the hill country south of Istarinmul proper.

  “Since we are all civilized men,” said Nasser, stepping closer to the table, “let us begin with introductions.” He was still dressed as a merchant, his left fist concealed beneath its glove. “By what name shall we call you today, sir?”

  The man in the black robe wheezed out a laugh.

  “Ciaran,” said Caina.

  “Yes,” said the Anshani noble, his voice a sardonic drawl, “I am sure that is your real name, too.”

  “This mistrustful fellow,” said Nasser, pointing at the noble, “is Kazravid, once of the Shahenshah’s court in Anshan, now sojourning in our fair city. A finer archer I have never encountered. Our large friend,” he gestured at the gladiator, who sipped his coffee with indifference, “is Strabane, a former fighter in the pits…”

  “Undefeated,” said Strabane. He lifted a skewer of fried vegetables and lamb and started to eat, smacking his lips with relish.

  “And now a sword for hire,” said Nasser. “Perhaps the single strongest man I have ever met. This,” he gestured at the thin man in the black robe, “is Anaxander of Artifel, formerly a magus of the Imperial Magisterium of the Nighmarian Empire.”

  Caina just barely kept herself from reaching for her weapons.

  “Formerly,” said Anaxander, his voice mournful. “Once I was a scholar, delving into the mysteries of arcane science, free of any interest in the petty material concerns of mundane life. Then, alas, I was falsely accused of impropriety, and had to flee for my life. Now I am forced to sell my sciences to thieves and brigands in order to purchase my daily bread. Alas, alas! Has ever man endured such misfortune?”

  Kazravid snorted and slapped the magus on the back. “Perhaps you ought to compose a poem about it.”

  “I may just do that,” said Anaxander, oblivious to the sarcasm. “What do you think?” He cleared his throat and started to declaim. “The magus wise, brilliant and bright! His crass superiors, lacking…”

  “And this,” said Nasser. Anaxander sighed again and abandoned his recitation. “And this is Tarqaz…who is a seneschal in the household of Grand Master Callatas.”

  Another piece of Nasser’s plan clicked into place. If Nasser had a man on the inside of Callatas’s palace, that would make any theft all the easier. But it would take a bold man, a man of courage and nerve, to betray Grand Master Callatas.

  Tarqaz did not look like that man.

  His nervousness increased as Caina looked at him, sweat glittering on the pale skin of his forehead. He was stout to the point of plumpness, and looked as if he had never seen a day of physical labor in his life. Caina wondered what he was doing here, what had driven him to betray Callatas and consort with thieves.

  “Welcome, Master Ciaran,” said Tarqaz. His voice was higher than Caina would have expected, and combined with his lack of beard she realized that he was a eunuch.

  “So,” said Kazravid, folding his arms and staring at Caina. “What useful skills do you bring to this enterprise, hmm?”

  “This and that,” said Caina. He was testing her, she knew, and Nasser seemed inclined to permit it. Perhaps she wanted to see how she would react.

  “Like what?” said Kazravid. “You’re a short fellow, so I don’t know how much good you’ll be in a fight. You can carry my bow an
d clean my weapons, if you like.”

  “I notice things,” said Caina.

  Kazravid snorted. “Like what?”

  “You, for instance,” said Caina, “are an Anshani noble banished from the Shahenshah’s domain. You like to claim that you were a khadjar, perhaps even close to Arsakan or the Shahenshah himself, but you were merely an anjar at best. You’re completely broke and owe a considerable amount of money to some unsavory people,” she squinted at him for a bit, “and you are staying at an inn near the Alqaarin Quarter.”

  Kazravid growled. “You are a spy, then?”

  “Something like that,” said Caina.

  “So you hired him to spy on us, Glasshand?” said Kazravid.

  “Perhaps,” said Caina, “or I noticed your speech was that of an Anshani noble. The very fact you are sitting in a tavern like the Shahenshah’s Seat means you are in exile, and the fact that no retainers went into exile with you means that you were an anjar, not a khadjar. That, and the pattern of your robe is commonly worn by anjars. Additionally, the robe is threadbare and worn, as are your boots. You are trying to keep up appearances, but you don’t have the money to live as you feel you should. But your weapons are well-maintained, and you have scratches on your knuckles and bruises on your neck. You’ve been in a fight, and recently – most likely with thugs hired by moneylenders to whom you own funds.”

  Silence answered her, and then Strabane started to laugh.

  “He has you there, Kazravid,” said the former gladiator.

  “Do be silent,” said Kazravid. “And if he looks at you, what shall he deduce? That you like cheap wine and cheaper whores?”

  Strabane shrugged. “A man must be honest with himself.”

  Kazravid scowled and looked at Nerina. “And who is the woman, Glasshand?”

  “This,” said Nasser, “is Nerina Strake, the finest locksmith in all Istarinmul. Her talents shall be useful in the challenges we face.”