“What drove them to Istarinmul?” said Kylon.
Caina’s mouth twisted. “Anatsius Nicephorus, the Lord Governor of Rasadda. He started forcing the Saddai off their lands, creating estates for his friends and selling the dispossessed farmers into slavery. His misrule almost drove Rasadda to revolt from the Empire.”
“Andromache mentioned Nicephorus once or twice,” said Kylon. “She thought the man a fool. What happened to him?”
“I did.”
“Ah.”
Caina shook her head. “The Umbarian Order controls the Saddaic provinces now, and they make Nicephorus seem kindly by comparison. They have been enslaving thousands Saddai, so many of them have fled here.” She smiled at Kylon. “Which is why I know they will not aid Cassander and his servants. They hate the Umbarians, and would kill Cassander if he was foolish enough to give them the opportunity.”
“A pity they shall not likely have the chance,” said Kylon.
They stopped in a small bazaar in the heart of the Saddaic Quarter. Most of the Saddai who had settled here were glassworkers, and produced glass of a quality and strength that Istarish craftsmen could not match, and the Alchemists of the College had begun placing mass orders. Here in the bazaar stood booths and shops selling the common necessaries of life, food and drink and household wares. One of the merchants sold rolls of spiced rice and fried vegetables, the smell filling the air.
“Did you eat today?” said Kylon.
“I may have forgotten,” said Caina. She had to stop doing that. It would be darkly amusing to have escaped the Sifter twice only to forget to eat, pass out and collapse, and crack her head on the ground.
“I’ll buy some food,” said Kylon, turning towards the merchant’s stall.
“I have money,” said Caina.
There was a flash of humor on his grim face. “I’m learning the art of disguise. A merchant would send his guard to purchase food for him.”
“I cannot contest that logic,” said Caina.
“Besides,” said Kylon, looking across the bazaar. “It will give you time to look at that.”
Caina nodded, and Kylon went to purchase food.
She turned and stared at the grim bulk of the fortress across the square.
The Craven’s Tower was not large. The Crows’ Tower in the Tower Quarter, the headquarters of the watchmen, was far larger, and even the Widow’s Tower had been bigger. Nevertheless, the Craven’s Tower still looked strong. A curtain wall encircled a broad courtyard, and a tall drum tower rose within. Siege engines stood at intervals along the curtain wall, and Caina saw the dark shapes of Immortals patrolling the ramparts. The gates were closed, the Immortals standing watch upon the ramparts.
That, however, did not draw Caina’s attention.
The siege engines did. An Immortal carried a heavy amphora towards one of the engines, depositing it there. Caina had seen an amphora of that shape and size before. More specifically, she had seen hundreds of them in the armory of the Widow’s Tower.
It was amphora of Hellfire. The strange alchemical elixir burned with a terrible, devouring heat, hot enough to melt flesh and turn bones to ashes in the space of a heartbeat. Neither water nor sand could quench Hellfire, and it burned stone and earth as easily as wood and coal. Enough Hellfire, ignited at once, could create an explosion of dreadful force.
The Widow’s Tower had been a fortress far larger than the Craven’s Tower. Then Caina had ignited the Hellfire in the Tower’s armory. The Widow’s Tower was no longer there, nor was much of the rocky peninsula upon which it had once stood.
The smell of spices and cooked rice filled her nostrils, and she turned as Kylon returned with the food. He passed her one of the rolls, and she took it, the pita bread rough against her fingers. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” Kylon took a bite of his roll. “That is…better than I thought.”
“I thought Kyracians only ate grain, grapes, and olive oil,” said Caina.
“Not at all,” said Kylon. “We also eat fish.”
They stood in silence for a moment, eating
“What do you think?” said Kylon at last.
“Hellfire,” said Caina in a quiet voice.
Kylon paused between bites. “Hellfire?”
“There are amphorae of it upon the wall, near the siege engines,” said Caina. “I wonder what the Saddai would think if they knew the Immortals could rain Hellfire upon them at any time.”
“They would flee the city,” said Kylon. “Hellfire is incredibly dangerous. The only reason neither the Empire nor Anshan has ever conquered Istarinmul is because of Hellfire. In ancient days New Kyre sent a fleet against Istarinmul, thinking to punish the Padishah, and the Hellfire burned that fleet to ashes. Out of thousands of sailors and soldiers, only a few ever escaped to return to New Kyre and tell the Assembly what had happened.”
“It was amazing anyone survived,” said Caina, remembering the firestorm that had consumed the Widow’s Tower.
“You think we can use the Hellfire to get into the Tower?” said Kylon.
“I’m not sure,” said Caina. The seed of an idea scratched at her mind. “Maybe. We’ll have to watch the Tower for a while.” She took a quick glance around the Bazaar. “That inn, there. It’s too close to the Tower’s curtain wall. If we rent the top room, we can see into the courtyard.”
Kylon nodded. Caina kept eating her roll, thinking.
“Nasser,” said Kylon at last.
“What about him?” said Caina.
“Do you trust him?” said Kylon.
Caina considered that for a moment.
“To a point, yes,” said Caina. “More than I did when we first met. We have gone into great danger together, and he has kept faith with me.” She gestured with the remains of the roll. “Much as you and I did at Catekharon and Caer Magia.”
“But you knew who I was,” said Kylon, “and I knew who you were. Neither one of us knows who Nasser Glasshand really is.”
“I know the most important part of his identity,” said Caina. “He hates Callatas.”
“Yes,” said Kylon. “I sensed that. Though it is even obvious without the senses of a stormdancer.”
“I don’t know who he really is,” said Caina, “but I can guess.” She glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “I think Callatas did him some grievous injury. Killed his wife or children, perhaps. Nasser wants revenge for that.”
“Do you think he is Iramisian?” said Kylon.
“It crossed my mind,” said Caina. “What makes you think that?”
“Morgant knew who he was,” said Kylon, “and he recognized Morgant on sight as an assassin, not the painter Markaine of Caer Marist. From what I’ve gathered, Morgant didn’t assume the identity of Markaine until after the destruction of Iramis, until after he killed Annarah or buried her alive or whatever he did to her.”
“Which would mean,” said Caina, “that Nasser is at least a hundred and fifty years old. Maybe older.”
“And his hand,” said Kylon. “Has he ever told you what happened to it? A normal man should not be able to punch through a steel helmet.”
“No,” said Caina. “I’m surprised you are more suspicious of Nasser than of Morgant.”
“I am quite suspicious of Morgant,” said Kylon. “But the man has been more honest with you than Nasser. He was telling the truth when he said that he will tell you what had happened to Annarah if you are victorious. I do not like him and I think he is dangerous, but he has been more honest with you than Nasser.”
That was a good point.
“What do you think Nasser wants?” said Caina.
“Vengeance upon Callatas,” said Kylon. “I suspect that he is not terribly concerned about how he gets it.”
“No,” said Caina. “If you’re right, if he has been doing this for a hundred and fifty years…something else is driving him. He hates Callatas, yes, but there is more to it than that.” She shrugged. “Not many people can live o
n hatred for that long.”
“Can’t they?” said Kylon. Though she was no stormdancer to sense emotion, she could see the exhaustion and pain in his brown eyes.
“Not forever,” said Caina, her voice soft. “It does get better, I promise. The pain never goes away, but you learn to live with it. And if we live through this, if we stop the Sifter, I promise I will help bring Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan to account for what they have done.” Considering that Cassander seemed determined to kill her, she would have to do so anyway.
“Thank you,” said Kylon. He blinked, looked away, and finished his roll. “That…was better than I expected.”
He did not want to talk about his wife’s death. Caina understood. “The Saddai make them with corn in their homeland. The pita bread and the rice improves it, I think. Come. Let’s return to Nasser. We have things to discuss.”
###
The next day Caina rented a room in the tavern and sat at the window with the shutters cracked open, watching the Craven’s Tower below. She held a spyglass, the lens tucked into the narrow crack between the shutters. She took care to make sure no light glinted off the lens.
If the Immortals in the Craven’s Tower realized that she was spying on them, they would not bother with the city watch or magistrates. They would simply storm into the tavern and kill her. Fortunately, the window was small enough that she doubted the Immortals would notice her.
Unfortunately, it was far enough away that Morgant could talk without fear of anyone overhearing them.
“I think,” he said, sitting in a wooden chair, his boots propped upon the bed, “that I am beginning to understand why you do what you do.” His notebook rested open upon his lap, a pencil flickering in his right hand as he sketched drawings upon the pages.
“Oh?” said Caina. “You understand that I’m sitting in a chair with a spyglass? I congratulate your perception. I see how you became a famous artist.”
Morgant snorted. “No. Why you want to save the world.”
“I live here,” said Caina, watching the Immortals. She twitched the spyglass towards the bazaar and then back to the Tower’s gate. “It would be rather inconvenient if the world were destroyed.”
“You’ve saved the world before,” said Morgant.
“No, I didn’t,” said Caina. Her gaze turned back to the bazaar. She saw a column of twenty Immortals march into the square, their eyes shining with a ghostly blue glow. The Saddai merchants and workers scrambled to get out of their way.
“I’ve been listening to you, dear child,” said Morgant, “and I’ve heard the stories of the Balarigar. You’re the one who killed Rezir Shahan. You killed the Moroaica and stopped the day of the golden dead.”
“Lies,” said Caina. Four burly slaves carried a sedan chair behind the Immortals, and in the sedan chair sat a young Alchemist in brilliant white robes. After the sedan chair came a wagon pulled by a team of horses, the wagon carrying several locked iron boxes.
Large iron boxes, and the draft horses looked as if they were laboring to pull the load.
“And I saw you risk your life again and again over the last few days,” said Morgant. “Without thought, without heed. Like you had risked your life so often that you could do so without thinking of it.”
“You know,” said Caina, “if you wrote this little speech down, I could ignore it more easily later.” The Immortals and their wagon moved toward the gate of the Craven’s Tower.
“But why?” said Morgant. “Why risk your life? You remind me a little of Annarah. She risked her life, too, but she was a loremaster of Iramis. They were sworn to use their powers to heal and seek knowledge, to defend the mortal world from the dark things of the netherworld.”
“So do the Ghosts,” said Caina.
“No, they don’t,” said Morgant. “The Ghosts are spies. I’ve met Ghosts. They wear shadow-cloaks and skulk in cellars and pass reports to their circlemasters. They don’t rush about saving the world. Not the way you do.”
“It’s been a while since you were in the Empire,” said Caina. The wagon reached the gate of the Tower and stopped. “Perhaps they’ve changed.”
“That is possible,” said Morgant. He sketched for a moment longer. “You can’t have children, can you?”
Caina felt her shoulders stiffen. She did not want to discuss that with Morgant. No doubt he would pry and pry, hoping to elicit a reaction from her. She would not give him the satisfaction. Though no doubt her long pause had already given him an answer of sorts.
“And what led you to that conclusion?” she said at last.
“Lady Claudia’s child,” said Morgant. “Why should you care so much about another woman’s child? Especially when her spells could aid us?”
“Because it could get her killed,” said Caina, “along with her child. I thought you had a rule against killing people who didn’t deserve it.”
“Why do people risk their lives?” said Morgant.
“Perhaps they had no other choice,” said Caina. The sedan chair settled to the ground, and the Alchemist emerged.
“No, there’s always a reason,” said Morgant. “Men risk their lives for money, or for love, or for honor. Women…”
“Women risk their lives for the same reasons,” said Caina. The Alchemist spoke with the Immortals upon the ramparts, and the gate opened.
“Not as often,” said Morgant. “A woman can disguise herself as a man and take up sword and shield and march to war, aye…but so few do. And usually to follow a husband or a lover or a brother. The bravest women I ever saw were trying to defend their children.”
“Is that what made you invent your two rules?” said Caina. “A woman was trying to defend her children from you?”
“No,” said Morgant, but his voice grew distant. “There were other reasons. But you, dear child. You cannot have children. So you try to save the children of everyone else.”
“Are you pretending to be an artist or pretending to be a philosopher?” said Caina. The Alchemist walked through the gate, the heavy cart rolling after him.
“Who says I cannot be both?” said Morgant.
“I suggest you pick whichever one is quieter,” said Caina. She watched as the cart pulled into the courtyard. At the Alchemist’s direction, the Immortals began opening the chests and unloading their contents.
Amphora after amphora of Hellfire.
“Perhaps I’ll make a painting of you,” said Morgant. “The childless woman, the Balarigar, fighting forever to defend what she herself will never know…”
“For the gods’ sake,” said Caina. “Is this why Nasser was so angry to see you? Was he once locked in a room with you and forced to listen to you talk and talk? I see why he was still annoyed after a hundred and fifty years.”
Morgant laughed. “Actually, he tried to arrest me once. It didn’t go well.”
“Mmm.” The Immortals carried the amphorae across the courtyard, storing them in a stone outbuilding against the curtain wall. If the Hellfire exploded, the blast would tear down the wall and roll into the bazaar, sparing the central drum tower itself. Of course, the explosion would kill anyone in the bazaar, but the Immortals would not care.
But if the bazaar was empty…
“I must be right,” said Morgant. “You’ve deflected every question.”
“You weren’t asking questions,” said Caina, adjusting the angle of the spyglass. “You were making statements. You can make statements on whatever topics you wish. If you ask me questions, I will either answer them, lie to you, or tell you to go to hell.”
“An honest answer,” said Morgant. “A rarity indeed.”
“We can make a bargain, if you wish,” said Caina as the Immortals carried the last of the Hellfire into the stone outbuilding. “Tell me what happened to Annarah, and I shall answer all your questions freely.”
“That would not prove that you are strong enough to endure the knowledge,” said Morgant.
“Probably not, no,” said Caina. She stood
up and pushed the shutters closed. “So I should focus on a way to defeat the Sifter. We’re done here.”
Morgant snorted again and made no effort to move. “Have my questions driven you off?”
“They’ve given me a headache, yes,” said Caina, stepping around his chair, “but I have what I needed to find. I know where the Immortals of the Craven’s Tower keep their Hellfire.”
“What good does that do us?” Morgant closed his notebook and stood up.
“Ever seen a lot of Hellfire burn all at once?” said Caina.
“Not recently,” said Morgant.
“You might have,” said Caina, “if you had been looking in the direction of the Widow’s Tower about fifteen months ago.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing confusion on his face, followed by the far greater satisfaction of his surprised realization.
“That was you?” said Morgant.
“I had to improvise,” said Caina.
He shook his head. “Are you certain that you’re not a pyromancer? You have a greater love of setting buildings afire than anyone I have ever met.”
“I’ve had to improvise often,” said Caina. “And you might see me improvise again. Let’s go. I need to talk to Nasser.”
###
An hour later, Caina walked through the streets of the docks overlooking the Cyrican Harbor. Morgant strolled at her side, stark in his black coat and white shirt, the crimson scimitar belted at his side. She had been worried that either the Sifter or Rolukhan would be able to find him with a spell, but Morgant had retreated to his run-down house and retrieved an old bronze ring that carried a faint tingle of sorcery. He claimed it baffled divinatory spells, and Kylon had not been able to sense Morgant’s emotions when he wore it.
Hopefully it would keep their enemies from locating Morgant.
Caina kept walking, the streets slanting lower towards the massive complex of the Cyrican Harbor. The air smelled of salt and tar and dead things, and countless ships crowded the harbor. Squat warehouses lined the streets, holding merchandise from a score of different nations. The Brotherhood of Slavers kept its own fortified dock towards the southern end of the harbor, and Caina had not yet figured out how to break into it.
Ghost in the Razor Page 21
