Ghost in the Maze

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “Then how are we getting out?” said Kazravid.

  “I remembered the way,” said Caina.

  Kazravid flinched. She had answered him in her disguised voice, the rasping growl of the Balarigar. “How did you do that? Change your voice? Are you sure you are not a sorcerer?”

  “Practice,” said Caina. “Now shut up, all of you, and follow me. We’re not safe yet. Those Immortals will figure out what happened soon enough.”

  She set off at a dash through the corridors, Azaces bearing a limp Nerina in his thick arms, Nasser at Caina’s side, the others following. They hurried through the tunnels and soon returned to the chamber of the menagerie. The creatures were agitated, pacing back and forth in their cages, snarling and hissing and making unearthly moans and groans.

  The pyrikon started to glow upon her left wrist again, and Caina had an idea.

  “Go through the doors, all of you,” she said. “Leave them open a crack, and slam them the minute I come through. If I don’t come through, run.”

  “You are sure about this?” said Nasser.

  “Quite,” said Caina, heading towards the nearest cage door. The pyrikon started to reshape itself around her left hand, forming itself into the long key once more.

  “Oh, dear gods,” said Anaxander. “You’re not…”

  “Move!” roared Laertes, pushing the magus towards the double doors to the Maze.

  Caina ran from cage to cage, releasing the locks as the others sprinted back into the Maze proper. The misshapen beasts stared at her in silence, as if unable to believe she would be so stupid. She opened the locks, but left the cell doors closed. At last she finished and sprinted for the doors.

  About then the creatures figured out what she had done.

  The horse-sided daevagoth burst from its cage and chased after her, the enormous scorpion-tail waving, and the other beasts followed. Caina dashed across the chamber and leapt through the narrow gap left between the doors, the pyrikon folding itself back into a bracelet. Strabane and Laertes shoved the doors closed after her, and they closed with an echoing clang.

  A heartbeat later something heavy slammed against the doors with a thump.

  “I think you made them mad,” said Strabane.

  “Aye,” said Caina. “And when those Immortals start hunting for us, they’ll find something a little more unpleasant instead. Go!”

  She led the way through the tunnels of the Maze. The poison mist swirled up to stop them, but it pulsed away from the power of the pyrikon. At last they came to the stairs leading up to the tower of white stone. Caina heard shouting and screams echoing from above. That made sense – from the perspective of the guests, Anburj had only summoned the Immortals into the Maze a few short moments ago. Callatas cared nothing for the safety or comfort of his guests, and he would have made no effort to disguise the movements of the Immortals.

  Perhaps the chaos in the courtyard offered Caina and the others their best chance of escape.

  She raced up the stairs and into the round chamber at the base of the tower, looked out the door, and saw the Immortals charging.

  Hundreds of them filled the courtyard, scimitars and chain whips in hand, shoving and pushing their way through the guests.

  And every last one of them converged upon the garden surrounding the tower of the Maze.

  Caina pulled the bronze doors shut, barring them in place. A moment later the thumping and pounding began, the doors creaking. They would hold for some time, but sooner or later the Immortals would force their way inside.

  “Why did you do that?” said Kazravid as he climbed up, staring at the closed door. A heartbeat later another thump echoed through the tower. “Oh.”

  “We’re trapped, aren’t we?” said Anaxander.

  “Do not give up,” said Nasser. “There is always a way out.”

  “Oh, is there?” said Kazravid. “Then you had better think it up quickly, hadn’t you?”

  Caina turned back to the others. Could they retreat back into the Maze and hide there? The poison mist would keep the Immortals from following. But sooner or later Callatas would dispel the mist to allow his men to enter. Or he would simply descend into the Maze himself and kill them all. From what Caina had seen of the Grand Master’s sorcerous potency, she had no wish to face him in anything resembling a far fight.

  “Up,” she said.

  “Then we shall simply be trapped on top of the tower,” said Laertes.

  Nasser smiled as he understood Caina’s intent. “It is taller than the outer wall.”

  “So?” said Kazravid. “Then we’ll merely have a good view as we die.”

  “You told Nasser you could shoot an arrow with a rope and grapnel attached,” said Caina. “Was that just an idle boast?”

  “Of course not!” said Kazravid. “Kazravid of Anshan does not make idle…oh.” His eyes widened. “That might work!”

  “Then run!” said Caina.

  She sprinted up the spiral stairs, shadow-cloak billowing behind her, and Nasser and the gang of thieves followed. Caina burst onto the tower’s round, flat roof, the gleaming bulk of Callatas’s palace rising to her left, the outer wall and the rest of the Emirs’ Quarter to her right. An ornate iron railing encircled the tower’s flat roof. Chaos ruled in the courtyard, the guests shouting and arguing and trying to flee, and a knot of nearly fifty Immortals had gathered at the base of the tower.

  “Gods,” said Anaxander, “they’ll just shoot us down. Or Callatas will blast us to ashes.”

  “Then hasten!” said Nasser.

  Kazravid did not hesitate. From his quiver he drew a prepared arrow, its head a barbed grapnel. In one fluid motion he raised the bow, drew, and released. The arrow hissed in a high arc overhead, a coil of slender rope following it, and hit the ramparts of the outer wall. The grapnel struck fast, and Kazravid knotted it around the iron railing.

  “We can slide down the rope to the outer wall,” said Kazravid.

  “Well and good,” said Strabane, “but even a blind archer could shoot us full of crossbow quarrels while we do it.”

  “Unless they’re distracted,” said Caina, buttoning up her coat. It was damnably warm, but it hid the white of her shirt. Then she reached behind her coat and drew out a coiled rope and collapsible grapnel of her own.

  “What kind of distraction are you planning?” said Nasser.

  “Simplicity itself,” said Caina. “I’m the Balarigar. They want me dead more than they want you dead.”

  For the very first time since she had met him, Ibrahaim Nasser looked alarmed.

  “Do not,” said Nasser. “There is no need to sacrifice yourself like this…”

  “Too late,” said Caina, hooking the grapnel to the iron railing. She started uncoiling the rope, counting off the feet. It was slender yet strong enough to bear her weight, and she was grateful she had possessed the foresight to tie knots into the rope for every foot of length. “I’m going to make a lot of noise. When I do, get to the outer wall and run as fast as you can.”

  “But,” said Nasser, “you must…”

  Caina jumped onto the iron railing and caught her balance.

  “Callatas!” she roared at the top her lungs, her voice echoing over the courtyard and the gardens. “Come and face me, Callatas! For I am the Balarigar, and I have come to make you pay for your crimes!”

  Kazravid made a choking noise and hurried towards his rope.

  “There,” said Caina, making the calculation in her head, the rope loose in her hands. “That ought to get their attention, don’t you think?”

  “You are entirely mad,” said Strabane.

  “Almost certainly,” said Caina. “Go! Nasser, good luck.”

  She sprinted forward and jumped off the edge of the roof, the rope in both hands. Caina plummeted forward, her cloak billowing around her, the gardens rushing up to meet her with terrifying speed. If she had miscalculated, if she had misjudged the length of her rope, she was going to come to a very abrupt death. But as
the arc of her fall carried her past the tower, the rope began to curve around the tower’s length. The rope swung Caina around the tower like a pendulum, and by her fourth revolution she reached the end of the rope.

  And she was only seven or eight feet above the ground.

  She had calculated correctly.

  Caina released the rope, tucked her shoulder, hit the ground, and rolled. The impact shot through her with stunning force, but none of her bones broke, and Caina sprang back to her feet, forcing herself to breathe, and started running. The Immortals at the base of the tower were in disarray, with some of them sprinting after Caina in pursuit, while others kept up their assault on the tower door.

  Caina needed to find a serious distraction, else they were going to kill her and Nasser and the others.

  Fortunately, she knew just where to find one.

  She dashed into the gardens, avoiding the path and making straight for the courtyard. The path wound back and forth, but she took a straight route through the twisted plants. They stirred as she passed, their vines twitching, their pods starting to curl open, but Caina jumped over the tangling roots and dodged the coiling vines.

  The wooden racks still stood at the edge of the courtyard, the rockets resting in place. The Alchemists, in the panic over the Immortals, had abandoned their rockets before they could fire them all. In fact, one of the purple torches still blazed upon the ground.

  Caina spun one of the racks around and tipped it over, pointing the rockets into the garden. Then she seized the torch and lit the rockets’ fuses. More Immortals spotted her across the courtyard and started running, while the guests screamed and ran for the gates or the inner palace. Caina turned every rack she could, lighting their fuses, and then dashed into the chaos of the courtyard as the Immortals erupted from the gardens.

  The first of the rockets went off a heartbeat later.

  Six of them flew into the gardens, exploding in brilliant bursts of green and crimson sparks. Several of the mutated plants went up in flames, their vines and roots lashing at the air as they burned. The charge of the Immortals came to a confused halt as they ducked for cover, taking shelter from the volley of rockets.

  Then the remainder of the rockets went off.

  Caina had feared aiming them into the courtyard, knowing that they might well burn innocent people to death. Of course, most of Istarinmul’s nobles and Alchemists were hardly innocent, but Caina was a Ghost, not a Kindred assassin, and she would not start killing indiscriminately. Fortunately, her hasty improvisation proved effective. The rockets hissed from their racks and slammed into the side of the palace, exploding in brilliant bursts of multicolored sparks. The explosions did little damage to the marble walls of the palace. Yet they shattered the windows, and Caina glimpsed fires starting within the inner palace. And the constant explosions threw tangled thickets of shadow across the courtyard.

  And Caina was wearing a shadow-cloak.

  She sprinted and wove through the crowds, dodging past the terrified nobles and their slaves. She shot a glance at the garden, and glimpsed the rope stretching from the tower to the outer wall. It was empty. Had Nasser and the others gotten away?

  Caina ran through the gates and into the street outside Callatas’s place. Merchants and emirs and Alchemists fled in all directions. At the base of the wall Caina spotted a piled rope, and there stood Nasser and the others, breathing hard from their rapid descent down the outer wall.

  She ran to join them.

  “You are mad,” said Kazravid, “absolutely, utterly mad.”

  “Yet successful,” said Nasser, his white smile flashing over his dark face. “My friends, we have just braved the palace of the Grand Master himself and escaped alive. To remain that way, I suggest we go our separate ways and flee at once.”

  The others nodded. Azaces still cradled an unconscious Nerina in his arms. Kazravid hesitated, looking at Caina.

  “What?” said Caina, hands twitching toward her weapons. She wondered if he would try to kill her and claim the bounty.

  “You’re a madman, Ciaran or Balarigar or whatever your name is,” said Kazravid, “but by the Living Flame and the Seven Emissaries, if you ever want help on a job again, I’m in!”

  The others murmured their agreement.

  Perhaps here were some new allies Caina could recruit into the Ghosts.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Very nice,” said Nasser. “Now stop talking and run!”

  They sprinted into the streets, scattering in different directions.

  Chapter 22 - Thick as Thieves

  The rest of the night and most of the day had passed by the time Caina made it back to the Sanctuary.

  Istarinmul had gone into an uproar unlike anything Caina had yet seen. When she had robbed Ulvan, that had been a minor scandal among the nobles and a joke for the commoners. Even when the Widow’s Tower had been destroyed, that had been a story that grew more implausible with every retelling, forgotten after a few weeks.

  But this was something else.

  Caina had just robbed the most powerful man in Istarinmul.

  The city’s gates were placed under guard, and squads of Immortals questioned everyone attempting to leave or enter, searching every cart and wagon. Watchmen moved through the streets and the bazaars, hammering a decree proclaimed by the Grand Wazir to every door. For the benefit of the illiterate, heralds followed the watchmen, bellowing the contents of the decrees.

  For the capture of the anjar Hormizid, suspected ally of the Balarigar, fifty thousand bezants.

  For the capture of Lord Amazaeus Helvius, suspected ally of the Balarigar, fifty thousand bezants.

  And for the capture or death of the notorious Balarigar himself, a reward of one million bezants was now offered, along with a noble title, lifetime remission from all taxes, and the friendship and gratitude of both the Grand Wazir Erghulan and the Grand Master Callatas.

  Caina considered the matter as she slipped into the deserted courtyard behind the House of Agabyzus, clad in a blue dress and headscarf from one of her safe houses, her shadow-cloak, weapons, and the pouch of Elixir Restorata slung into a satchel. Both “Lord Amazaeus” and “Hormizid” were men, and returning to women’s clothing had let her elude the Immortals and the Teskilati both. She hoped Nasser and Kazravid and Nerina and the others had gotten away.

  She stopped before the dry fountain.

  Perhaps it was time to take a different approach to her efforts against Callatas and the wraithblood. The daring thefts had been effective, but her odds had finally run out. She would have died at Vaysaal’s palace, if not for the intervention of Nasser and Samnirdamnus, and they had only escaped from Callatas’s palace by the thinnest of margins.

  And the Teskilati might yet find them, if Nasser or Caina or the others had made a mistake.

  Caina made sure she was unobserved and then opened the secret door, letting herself into the Sanctuary. She would spend the night here, and then consider the mood of the city tomorrow. After that she would decide how to proceed against Callatas and his plots. She still did not know what the Grand Master intended to do, not truly. It somehow involved wraithblood and the lost relics of Iramis. It somehow involved the nagataaru, and the creature with the terrible voice that had spoken inside Caina’s head.

  She didn’t know what he intended to do with his Apotheosis…but now she knew what he needed to accomplish it.

  And using that information, she could stop him.

  He needed a steady supply of slaves to produce wraithblood. He needed the aid of the Slavers’ Brotherhood and the cooperation of the emirs and the Grand Wazir to bring his slaves into the city. He needed his lieutenants, men like Anburj and Ricimer and Vaysaal, to carry out his will. And apparently he needed the Staff and Seal of Iramis, whatever they were, and the Star of Iramis, which he already carried.

  If Caina could deny him those things, if she could disrupt and undermine his operations, she could delay or stop halt his plans.

>   It would not be easy, but it was not as if Caina had anything better to do.

  In her heart, she was tired of risking her life again and again. If she could have worked her will, she would have returned home to Malarae and run the House of Kularus, settling into the quiet life of a coffee merchant.

  But she could not go home again.

  And she could not leave Callatas to continue his monstrous plans.

  The Sanctuary remained undisturbed. Caina emptied the contents of the satchel onto one of the tables, including the pouch holding the vials of Elixir Restorata. The gods knew what she would do with the damned stuff. Denying its use to Callatas had been enough. Perhaps Caina could use it to bribe some emirs. Or, in an emergency, she could use it to heal herself.

  But the thought of deliberately using sorcery on herself made her skin crawl.

  Caina pulled off her clothing, her limbs and joints aching from the exertions of the last few days. Or, at least, she tried to pull off her clothing.

  She could not get the damned pyrikon off.

  Using it within the Maze seemed to have changed it, or perhaps activated it. If Caina concentrated, she could command the pyrikon to change to a ring or a bracelet and back again. Either in its ring shape or its bracelet form, Caina could take it off.

  But the minute she turned around, the pyrikon reappeared on her left wrist or her finger.

  “What the hell are you?” muttered Caina.

  The pyrikon gave no answer. Caina suspected the thing had a mind and a will of its own. Yet if it did, that will had no malice against her. It had helped her in the Maze. After concentrating some more, Caina found she could command the pyrikon to become an intricate bronze torque that encircled her left bicep. That at least would be easy enough to conceal.

  She washed herself as best as she could, lay down on a cot, and went to sleep.

  ###

  And to her utter lack of surprise, Samnirdamnus waited in her dreams.

  They stood on the lifeless gray plain of the netherworld, the sky writhing and crawling overhead, flashes of green lightning springing across the dark clouds. The golden rift sprawled motionless against the black sky, and again Caina saw the frozen echo of Iramis. Samnirdamnus wore the form of Corvalis this time, and he leaned against one of the upside down trees, an insouciant smirk on his face.