Ghost in the Maze

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Caina shrugged. “I prefer daggers. And stabbing in the back over face-to-face fighting.”

  “Spoken like a true master thief.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I knew that man,” croaked Tarqaz, pointing at a dead daevagoth. “He worked in the kitchens. He…spilled wine while the master was eating, and…”

  “If it will ease your mind,” said Nasser, “Callatas can never hurt him again.”

  “It does not.” The eunuch drew himself up. “Let us proceed. The only thing that will ease my mind is stealing from…from the author of such horrors.”

  “Well spoken,” said Nasser. “Ciaran, if you please.”

  Caina retrieved her throwing knives and sword, cleaned the slime from their blades, and walked to the door of brass and gold. The pyrikon’s glow grew brighter as she did, and the others followed her. She stopped before the door, and lifted her left hand to touch the mechanism.

  And as she did, the pyrikon unwrapped from her finger.

  The bronze segments opened, unfolding and expanding like a flower. The bronze stretched, curling around her wrist and expanding to form something that looked like a serrated dagger.

  No. A key.

  “That,” said Nerina, “is mathematically improbable.”

  The end of the pyrikon sank into the door, and the mechanism came to life. Gears spun and clanked, and sorcerous power washed over Caina. The pyrikon retracted, wrapped around Caina’s hand, and reshaped itself into a delicate bronze bracelet on her left wrist.

  She hesitated and tugged on the bracelet. The pyrikon came off her wrist without difficulty, and she felt an enormous wave of relief.

  “I would,” murmured Nasser, “keep that on for now. It got us through the Maze.”

  Caina gave a hesitant nod and returned the pyrikon to her wrist. Its sorcerous tingle felt almost familiar now.

  Then she watched as the elaborate mechanism upon the door released, its components sinking into the stone arch and the door itself. The door shuddered and swung open without a sound. Beyond stretched a corridor of black stone lit by glowing crystals upon bronze stands, crystalline statues of transmuted slaves standing in niches. In the distance Caina saw more wooden doors.

  “The laboratory of the Grand Master,” said Nasser. “Shall we?”

  Caina nodded and drew daggers in both hands, and the others followed suit.

  Then she led the way into Callatas’s laboratory.

  Chapter 16 - Forgotten Lore

  The corridor was silent, the faces of the crystalline statues frozen in silent screams.

  “Don’t touch the statues,” said Anaxander, his voice low.

  Caina wasn’t about to. Unlike the other statues she had seen, she felt the presence of potent sorcery upon their crystalline forms. It was some sort of ward, she suspected.

  She didn’t want to find out what the ward did.

  “Why not?” said Kazravid, ever belligerent. Yet his hands did not stray from his bow, and his eyes roved back and forth over the corridor.

  “Warding spells,” said Anaxander. “I suspect touching the statues would be…messy.”

  “Fortunately,” said Nasser, “we are not here to steal the statues.”

  Strabane grunted. “I don’t suppose that sorcerous ring or bracelet or whatever it is shows the way forward?”

  “No,” said Caina, “but there’s only one way forward.”

  She walked down the corridor, heading towards the doors at the end. The others followed, weapons in hand, watching for any daevagoths or whatever other horrors Callatas’s sorcery had conjured up. But no foes or traps presented themselves. Perhaps they had passed the worst of the defenses. The poison mist, Samnirdamnus’s death spell, and the pack of daevagoths would have been more than enough to kill most intruders.

  Yet they had penetrated the defenses nonetheless. Surely Callatas must have anticipated the possibility and prepared more traps.

  Her eyes strayed to the pyrikon on her left wrist. She wanted to remove it before it affixed itself to her finger again, but Nasser’s counsel was sensible. Still, its transformation had surprised her. She had never seen sorcery like that before. The pyrikon had been graceful, almost beautiful, in its transformation, and it seemed odd that a man like Callatas could have made such a thing. But beauty could hide corruption and darkness.

  Caina pushed the thought from her mind and kept walking.

  The corridor of glassy statues ended in another pair of double doors. Anaxander cast the spell to sense the presence of sorcery, but Caina felt no spells upon the doors. There were, however, several sources of arcane power in the room beyond.

  “No wards,” said Anaxander.

  “Nerina, Kazravid,” said Nasser. “Keep your bows ready. If there are guards beyond the door, I would like to greet them appropriately.” Kazravid nodded, setting an arrow to his string, while Nerina loaded her crossbow with a metallic click. Caina sheathed her dagger and drew a throwing knife, the blade ready in her hand. “Strabane, Laertes…if you would do the honors.”

  The two men tugged on the double doors, and slowly the heavy doors swung upon silent hinges. The doors had been massively reinforced, with planks built around a steel core, the hinges bound with more metal bands.

  As if Callatas wanted to keep something out. Or keep something trapped within.

  The stench of rotting meat and clotted blood flooded Caina’s nostrils.

  “By the Living Flame,” muttered Kazravid, “it’s a menagerie of the damned.”

  The chamber beyond the door was a large hall, its walls lined with niches. Steel bars sealed off each of the niches and transformed them into cells. Many of the bars were dented and scratched, as if attacked by claws and fangs and struck by massive hammers.

  Monsters lurked in each of the niches.

  Callatas had not limited his experiments to the creation of daevagoths.

  One cell held a man standing eight feet high, his skin gray and glistening, black veins threading beneath his flesh. Instead of a head, the coiled bodies of five serpents rose from his neck, each one terminating in the hooded head of a cobra. The creature sat motionless against the stone wall, but the cobra heads waved back and forth in silence, their forked tongues darting back and forth, their yellow eyes staring at Caina.

  Another cell held a creature that looked like a daevagoth, but far larger. The spider was the size of a horse, and a cluster of a dozen human heads rose from the carapace. Thick strands of ropy webbing filled the cell, and the hideous creature sat suspended in the middle of them, its dozens of eyes closed. A third cell held a thing that looked like a cross between a wolf and a scorpion, the barb on its tail as long as a sword blade. Still another contained a creature like an ape covered in plates of bony armor, or a hairless lion with a human head, each creature more deformed and twisted than the next.

  Most of the creatures seemed asleep, or at least dormant. They did not stir as Caina took cautious steps into the hall. There was a smaller door on the far end of the chamber, large enough for only one man.

  “Demons,” muttered Strabane, his brow furrowed, his sword steady in his hand.

  “Creatures,” said Nasser. “Created by Callatas and his alchemy. Keep moving. And stay well away from the bars. Some of them can reach from their cages.”

  They walked in single file through the chamber. Part of Caina’s heart felt a pang of regret. Those creatures had not asked to be made into monsters, and the gods alone knew how long they had been imprisoned in this horrible place. Yet she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if she opened even one of the cages, the creature within would kill everything it could find, starting with her.

  Even as the thought crossed her mind, the pyrikon shuddered on her wrist and began to give off blue light.

  “What is it doing?” said Kazravid. “Why is your hand glowing?”

  “Ah,” said Caina, looking around the chamber. Each cage had its own lock, and the locks were glowing as well. “I think…it can open
the cages.”

  “What?” said Kazravid. “Are you serious? Have you…”

  “Do not be absurd,” said Caina. “And keep your voice down. I’m not letting anything out.”

  “Hasten,” hissed Nasser. “If some of those beasts awaken,” he glanced at something that looked like a hippopotamus with the head of a squid and the paws of a lion, “those steel bars may not prove as much of an impediment as we might wish.”

  They reached the next door. Anaxander started to mutter, casting the spell to sense the presence of sorcery, but Caina waved her hand over the door and felt nothing. She saw no sign of mechanical traps, so she pulled the door open and stepped into the next room.

  She found herself in one of the biggest libraries she had ever seen.

  It rose three stories above her head, two levels of balconies encircling the walls. Light came from crystal spheres hanging by chains from the ceiling. Shelves filled each of the balconies, laden with books and scrolls and papers and tablets of clay. Here and there curios rested on the shelves – a dagger, an old helmet, an idol fashioned of dried mud. Glass cases ran along one wall, displaying more relics.

  “The man enjoys his books,” said Laertes.

  “Is this it?” said Kazravid. “Is this the laboratory?”

  “No, this is his library,” said Nasser. “Many alchemical spells involve fire, and for obvious reasons Callatas keeps his tomes well away from any spells that might go awry.”

  Anaxander nodded. “There are wards against fire through the walls and upon the shelves.” He snorted. “I don’t think a candle could even ignite in this room.”

  “We must tarry here a moment,” said Nasser.

  “Why?” said Kazravid. “Books do not command as high a price on the black market as a vial of Elixir Restorata.”

  “The right book can. And I wish to borrow a book,” said Nasser. “This will only take a moment.” He gestured at the curio cases. “I suggest you pass the time by looting the cases. Many of the items within are valuable.”

  Kazravid grunted. “A sound suggestion. Sorcerer! Are those cases warded?”

  “They’re not,” said Anaxander. “But the glass has…”

  Kazravid walked to the nearest case and hammered the pommel of his scimitar against it, only for the weapon to rebound from the glass without leaving a scratch.

  “But the glass has been alchemically transmuted,” said Anaxander, “to have the strength of steel. The wood, too.”

  Nasser strode to one of the bookcases beneath the balcony and began scanning the titles.

  And as he did, Caina had a realization.

  “To hell with that, then,” said Kazravid. He pointed at Nerina. “You. Strake. Can you pick the lock?”

  “On the balance of probability, most likely,” said Nerina.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” said Kazravid. “Open the damn thing, and I’ll let you have the first pick of the gold and the jewels within. And you needn’t worry about me cheating you, since your large friend will cut off my head if I do.”

  Azaces nodded.

  “Fair enough,” said Nerina, and she reached into her robe, produced her tools, and went to work.

  Caina crossed the library and joined Nasser.

  “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” said Caina in a low voice.

  “Oh?” said Nasser, not looking up from the shelves

  “This theft,” said Caina. “The reason we are here. You want this book, whatever it is.”

  “The loss of this book,” said Nasser, “will hinder Callatas greatly. And will aid me in stopping him.” He glanced at her. “And aid you, as well.”

  Caina said nothing for a moment.

  “Can’t you do it any faster?” said Kazravid.

  “Picking a lock,” said Nerina, “is a precise operation requiring the exact balancing of many variables. It cannot be rushed.”

  “I could do it faster,” said Kazravid.

  “Perhaps. What is nine times eleven?”

  “Ah,” said Kazravid. “It is…”

  “Ninety-nine,” said Anaxander.

  Laertes laughed.

  “Shut up,” said Kazravid.

  “Then let me help you find the book,” said Caina.

  “Do you read High Iramisian?” said Nasser.

  “I didn’t even know there was such a language,” said Caina.

  “I thought not. Well, you are a surprising man, so what was one more surprise?” He pointed at the spine of a book. “The characters will look Anshani, but more stylized. The book I seek has a sigil upon its spine, one that looks a great deal like,” he hesitated for a moment, “like the way the pyrikon looked when it took the shape of a ring. A ring made of bronze scales, bound together in a twisted chain, wrapped around a seven-pointed star.”

  “What does that sigil represent?” said Caina.

  She did not expect an answer, but received one nonetheless.

  “It was the sigil, in ancient times,” said Nasser, “of the Princes of Iramis.”

  Caina’s eyes widened.

  “We had best hurry,” said Nasser. “I don’t know how much time we have. And our allies might grow discontented if they realize we have interests other than money.”

  Caina started scanning the shelves. She hurried up and down the rows of books, glancing over the titles. Callatas had a vast collection of books and scrolls, and they were arranged in no order that she could discern. Many of the volumes were written in the language Nasser had called High Iramisian. Callatas had destroyed Iramis, so why keep so many of its books? Perhaps he had craved the knowledge of Iramis’s sorcerers – the loremasters, whoever they had been.

  “Got it!” said Nerina, and Caina heard the creak as the curio case opened.

  “Let me have a look!” said Kazravid. Azaces gave a menacing growl. “After you, of course, mistress Strake.”

  “My lord anjar,” said Nerina, “you are as much of a gentleman as I am.”

  This time both Anaxander and Strabane laughed with Laertes.

  “She is not,” said Kazravid, “that funny.”

  Caina headed for the stairs, intending to search the shelves on the second level, and felt the faint tingle of sorcery.

  She turned her head. The spell came from something on a nearby shelf. A closer look revealed a book with the sigil Nasser had indicated, a pyrikon ring wrapped around a star with seven points. In fact, the sigil looked exactly the way the pyrikon had when it had been wrapped around Caina’s finger. Perhaps Callatas had stolen the design for the shapeshifting key from the Iramisians.

  But why would he do that?

  Her unease grew. Wraithblood had only first appeared in Istarinmul five or six years ago. But Callatas himself was centuries old. Perhaps the wraithblood was not a new development. Perhaps it was merely another phase in his Apotheosis, another step in a plan devised before Iramis had burned.

  The final phase, perhaps?

  Another mystery to contemplate later.

  Caina drew the book from the shelf with her left hand, and as she did she felt a pulse of power from the pyrikon around her wrist. The book answered in kind as Caina lifted it. It was as if the spell upon the bracelet and the spell upon the book recognized each other.

  “Nasser,” said Caina, and he joined her.

  “Ah,” he said, and she handed him the heavy book. He took it reverently, gazing upon the title. “I have sought this for a very long time.” He tucked the tome away in his brown robes. “And now on to Callatas’s laboratory. We both seek further secrets.”

  “That, and our allies will kill us if we leave without any Elixir Restorata,” said Caina. “What is in the book?”

  Nasser hesitated. “If we live through this, we can discuss it more.”

  “Ciaran!” shouted Nerina. “I think you might want this.”

  “A silver dagger?” said Kazravid. Caina turned and saw the anjar rummaging through the opened case, stuffing jewels and various coins into his pockets. “Pretty, b
ut useless. Silver doesn’t hold an edge well, and it tarnishes too easily. Not that I object to artwork, but I prefer that my weapons are wrought of steel.”

  “True,” said Nerina. “In that event, you will not object when I give this to Ciaran.”

  Kazravid grunted and kept rooting through the curio case, while Strabane and Anaxander helped themselves to more coins and jewels. Nerina hurried toward Caina, Azaces following, a sheathed dagger resting in her hands.

  “I appreciate the thought,” said Caina, “but a steel dagger would be more useful than a silver blade.”

  Nerina grinned. “There are different kinds of silver. Take a look.”

  Caina shrugged, took the weapon, and drew the dagger from its sheath. The straight, leaf-shaped blade was a foot long, the hilt wrapped in black leather. The weapon was lighter than she had expected, and…

  She felt her eyes widen.

  The dagger had been forged of ghostsilver.

  The rare metal was lighter and stronger than steel, and contrary to what Kazravid had said, it could hold a deadly sharp edge. But it was also proof against sorcery. A weapon forged from ghostsilver could penetrate a sorcerer’s warding spells to strike flesh, could damage and sometimes even break wards upon physical objects.

  “Do you like it?” said Nerina.

  Caina turned the dagger over, trying to keep her emotions from her face.

  She had carried a dagger like this as a Ghost nightfighter. The weapon had been destroyed during her final confrontation with the Moroaica in the netherworld, destroyed during the same fight that had killed Corvalis. She had lost everything that day.

  This dagger looked and felt different than her old weapon.

  Yet it felt as if she had regained something.

  “Thank you,” said Caina, sliding the dagger into its sheath. She hooked the sheath to her belt. “This is a princely gift.”

  Nerina grinned. “You can put it to better use than I ever would.”

  “A waste, Ciaran,” said Kazravid. He jingled a bit as he walked closer. “Melt it down and sell the silver. A silver knife is useful for cutting butter and not much else. And this is Istarinmul. It’s so hot the butter melts before you even need to cut it.”