A serving woman in an olive-colored dress and headscarf approached the table, carrying a tray of food. She was in her middle thirties, with bronze-colored skin, dark eyes, and long dark hair bound in a tail. The woman was one of the new maids Damla had hired. Kalgri, that was her name.
“Your food, sir,” said Kalgri in Istarish, setting a plate and a cup of coffee before Caina. “Mistress Damla sends you spiced meat and cheese, along with coffee. Black without sugar or milk, just as you prefer it.”
“You are too kind,” said Caina, passing the older woman a silver coin. “Thank you.” She wasn’t quite sure what to make of Kalgri. Most of Damla’s serving women were younger than Caina, hoping to make some money until they found a husband. Kalgri was far steadier, her placid calm never wavering – and the younger serving women were afraid of her. Caina suspect that Kalgri had been widowed during the day of the golden dead, and that she had done hard things to survive.
Certainly Caina had done hard things to survive.
“Thank you,” said Kalgri. She pocketed the coin, bowed, and departed.
“What do you think?” said Caina. “We must keep Istarinmul from allying with the Order against the Empire. If they do, the Order will send a fleet through the Starfall Straits to attack Malarae. The Lord Ambassador doesn’t think the Empire could fight off such an attack.”
“Then the Lord Ambassador must convince the Grand Wazir that the costs of war are far greater than the benefits,” said Agabyzus. “That should not be difficult, given what happened the last time Istarinmul went to war against the Empire.” He shrugged. “In truth, the Padishah’s realm is currently in no condition to wage war against anyone. A fact, I am sure, that the Shahenshah of Anshan and the warlords of the Alqaarin coast have not failed to notice. If Istarinmul joins the war against the Empire, it might find Anshani troops marching against the Gate of the Southern Road.”
“It is not a rational decision for Istarinmul to go to war,” said Caina. “But a war is not always a rational decision.”
“What do you mean?” said Agabyzus.
“Rezir Shahan,” said Caina. “When he chose to attack the Empire, he didn’t expect to die in the market of Marsis. He thought he was going to carve off Marsis and part of the western Empire into his own personal emirate. Instead he was beheaded in front of a thousand of his own soldiers.”
“By the Balarigar,” said Agabyzus, voice quiet. “If I had not seen you do such bold deeds with my own eyes, I would hardly believe the tale.”
Caina made an impatient noise. “That’s not the point. Rezir should have realized that attacking Marsis would end in disaster. But he listened to Andromache of New Kyre instead, and so went to his death.”
“His decision was not irrational,” said Agabyzus. “He made what he thought was a sound decision. He simply did not have all the facts available. The threat you never see coming is the most dangerous of all. Certainly he did not see you coming.” He fell silent as Kalgri returned with another tray of food.
“From mistress Damla, sir,” said Kalgri to Agabyzus. “Her compliments. Forgive my rudeness, but…mistress Damla says she wishes to fatten you up.”
Agabyzus offered Kalgri a gentle smile. “Do convey my thanks to her.” He passed her some coins, and Kalgri smiled back, bowed, and retreated into the crowd.
“I think she likes you,” said Caina once Kalgri was out of earshot.
Agabyzus scoffed. “Now you sound like Damla. My sister is determined to marry me off, despite the fact that my life is too dangerous for a wife and children. Frankly I am surprised she has not tried to find you a suitor.”
“She knows better,” said Caina. “If Erghulan and the nobility conclude that the facts are in favor of war…then we shall have to change the facts.”
“How?” said Agabyzus.
“By whatever means necessary,” said Caina, her voice low. “What I’ve done to the Brotherhood has made Istarinmul unstable? Then we shall destabilize it further.”
Agabyzus opened his mouth to answer, and then Damla spoke, her voice cutting through the hubbub of the crowd.
“My friends and guests,” she said, “tonight, we are honored by the poet Sulaman, and he shall regale us with a tale of the Seven Killers.”
Silence fell over the coffee house, and Sulaman stood upon the dais, stark and austere in his robes. Mazyan sat next to him and began to beat a low, steady rhythm upon his drum. Sulaman gazed upon the crowd for a moment, and Caina felt his dark eyes pass over her, glittering like discs of polished stone in his lean face.
The poet began to recite, telling the dark and bloody epic of the Seven Killers, seven famed assassins from Istarinmul’s history. Istarinmul had organized groups of assassins, but these seven were independent of any organization. It seemed odd for the people of Istarinmul to regard the seven assassins as dark heroes, but the crowd in the coffee house was rapt. The Seven Killers, Caina supposed, had targeted Alchemists and emirs and powerful merchants. Given how the people of Istarinmul hated their rulers, she saw the appeal. Sulaman told of Morgant the Razor, an assassin who slew an Emperor of Nighmar and always killed with a black dagger that had a blood-red pearl in the pommel. Or of the dread Red Huntress, who moved through the shadows like a wolf and struck without warning. Or of Kalzir the Iron, who could reach into a wicked emir’s chest and rip out his heart without breaking a sweat. At the end the crowd rose to applaud. Mazyan produced a bowl, and the patrons came forward, dropping coins into it.
“Have you figured out who he is?” said Caina.
“I fear not,” said Agabyzus, gazing at the poet. “But he has done you no harm and aided you several times.”
“I know,” said Caina, getting to her feet. “Let me know if you discover anything else about Lord Cassander.” Agabyzus nodded and turned his attention his food, and Caina threaded her way through the crowd. Mazyan scowled at her as she dropped some coins in his bowl. But his scowl did not deepen, which for him was almost a smile.
“Master Marius,” said Sulaman in a quiet voice.
“Master poet,” said Caina. “A fine recitation. Though rather grisly.”
“We live in grisly times, I fear,” said Sulaman as Mazyan began packing away the coins. “Walk with me, if you will. A conversation in the night air is always welcome.”
Caina felt a twinge of alarm. Several times before he had given her oblique warnings, and usually it had been before something dire. Specifically, the destruction of the Widow’s Tower and the raid upon Grand Master Callatas’s laboratory within the Maze.
Still, he had never harmed or hindered her. So far.
“Of course, master poet,” said Caina.
Mazyan rose, and followed Caina and Sulaman from the coffee house and into the Cyrican Bazaar. It was well past dark, and the Bazaar was deserted, the merchant stalls covered with tarps, the shops closed and shuttered.
They stood in silence for a while. Sulaman lifted his face and regarded the spires and domes of the Emirs’ Quarter and the Masters’ Quarter in the distance, the towers of the Golden Palace and the College of Alchemists rising higher than all the others. A watchman in his spiked helm and leather armor walked past, a lantern in one hand, spear in the other.
“We’ve done this before,” said Caina.
Sulaman nodded. “The House of Agabyzus is a fine establishment. I am pleased to recite there.”
“The take is always impressive,” rumbled Mazyan.
“These warnings you give me,” said Caina. “I appreciate them. But why? What do you want of me?”
“What I want,” said Sulaman, “is immaterial. I learned that at a very young age. But I hope for Istarinmul to be safe, prosperous, and orderly.”
“You think I can do that?” said Caina.
“No,” said Sulaman. “You, Master Marius, are not a ruler. But there are obstacles to a peaceful Istarinmul. Enemies of the people. Of all mankind, in truth. And you, I think, might be able to remove them.” He shrugged. “I would tell you more,
but it would be unwise. You have your secrets. Our mutual friend the man with the hand of glass has his secrets. I have my secrets. Our secrets protect us from our foes. For me, my secrets are the only thing that protect me from my foes.”
“So you will give me what aid you can,” said Caina, “without revealing your secrets.”
“I am a poet,” said Sulaman, “and the task of a poet is to shape words into images of beauty. But it is also to be a storyteller. So I will tell you a story. You’ve heard the beginning of it. Six months ago, the master thief called the Balarigar launched a daring theft and stole a hundred vials of Elixir Restorata from the laboratory of Grand Master Callatas himself.”
“I’d heard that,” said Caina.
“Callatas has placed an absolutely huge bounty upon the head of the Balarigar,” said Sulaman. “Two million bezants, enough money to allow a man to live in debauched luxury for the remainder of his days. Yet six months have passed. No one has found the Balarigar.”
“Perhaps no one will,” said Caina. “Perhaps the Balarigar is merely a myth.”
“The Grand Master is two hundred years old,” said Sulaman, “and he has utterly destroyed any foe that dared to challenge him. He set Iramis to burn, watched as thousands upon thousands of innocents died to slake his wrath. Would such a man let anyone steal from him with impunity? Would he not spend years, perhaps even decades, hunting down the thief?”
Caina said nothing.
“Callatas has posted the bounty,” said Sulaman, “but he has sent his own creature upon the trail of the Balarigar.”
“Creature?” said Caina.
“One of his oldest servants,” said Sulaman. “A thing almost as old as he. A creature that drank deep from the same well of evil that Callatas worships. The Grand Master thinks himself the follower of a noble purpose. His servant has no such delusions, and glories in murder and torment and death. It is a creature that has worn many faces and assumed many disguises. It is hunting for the Balarigar.”
“I see,” said Caina, unsettled. That was the closest to an open warning that Sulaman had ever given her. “One would hope that if the Balarigar has an ounce of sense…he will watch out for this murderous creature.”
Sulaman offered a faint smile. “I hope so, as well. Farewell, Master Marius. I hope we meet again.”
He walked away, Mazyan following.
Caina stared after him and felt a chill. The poet had said that he hoped to meet Caina again.
He didn’t say he expected it.
What sort of creature would Callatas have sent after her? One of the horrors from his ghastly menagerie in the Maze? One of his disciples, bonded to a nagataaru as the Alchemist Ricimer had been? Or something else?
Something worse?
Caina stared up at the House of Agabyzus for a moment, half-expecting to see lurking foes waiting with bows atop the roof.
But she saw no one.
She shook her head and walked back into the House of Agabyzus.
###
Kalgri clung to the wall above the window like a spider and watched as the Balarigar walked into the coffee house.
The Voice screamed inside of Kalgri’s head, demanding that she kill Caina Amalas at once, that she kill her and unravel the strange shadow that lay around her.
“Soon,” whispered Kalgri, licking her lips with anticipation. “Soon, now.”
Once the Balarigar had started talking with Sulaman, Kalgri had almost killed them all then and there. It would have been easy, and Kalgri had wanted to kill Sulaman for years.
But fear stayed her hand.
Not her fear. The Voice’s fear. Callatas did not want Sulaman killed, not for any reason, but Kalgri did not give a damn what the Grand Master thought about anything. But the prince of the nagataaru wanted Sulaman kept alive, just in case. A backup, if the first catalyst of the Apotheosis failed. Kalgri did not care what the prince of the nagataaru wanted, either.
But the Voice feared the wrath of Kotuluk Iblis.
If something could frighten the Voice, Kalgri suspected she should pay attention to it.
So she let Sulaman and his bound guardian depart, and she let Caina go back into the coffee house.
But the Balarigar would die soon. Very soon.
It would be in three nights’ time, she decided. Kalgri would kill Caina at the Grand Wazir’s banquet for the ambassadors. Of course, she would have to kill a lot of other people in the process, but that was fine. The Voice fed on agony and fear, and Kalgri would inflict a great deal of both.
Kalgri released the side of the building and drew on the power of the Voice. The spirit’s rage and hunger filled her, and she plummeted the three stories to the ground below, her legs flexing to absorb the impact. Dust swirled around her, and she strolled around the alley and back into the House’s kitchen.
“Ah, there you are,” said Damla as she entered.
“A bit of fresh air, that’s what I needed,” said Kalgri. “I’ve been on my feet all day.”
“Aye,” said Damla. “You’re the best worker I’ve hired in the last year, Kalgri. If I had a dozen more like you I would own every coffee house in Istarinmul.”
Kalgri smiled, imagining the expression upon Damla’s face when she saw her sons die in front of her. There was no reason to kill either of them. In fact, Kalgri found herself admiring the widow’s resolve and fortitude. Most people would have broken under the weight of the losses that Damla had endured. But she had carried on, had grown stronger and more capable.
Which would make her agony all the sweeter. How the Voice would gorge upon her pain!
“Oh,” said Kalgri, “I really doubt that.”
Chapter 7 - Embassies
Three days later, Caina walked through the gates of the Lord Ambassador’s courtyard.
She had donned the white robe and turban usually worn by Cyrican nobles and magistrates. A gold-colored sash went around her waist, holding her sheathed ghostsilver dagger and a scimitar. The robe’s loose sleeves provided ample room for concealing throwing knives, and her boots had their usual hidden sheaths for daggers.
That was one advantage of wearing men’s clothing. Trying to run and fight in high-heeled boots and a skirt was never pleasant.
Though Caina hoped this banquet would not end in violence.
A quartet of Imperial Guards stood watch at the courtyard’s gates, and Caina presented the formal invitation that Martin had given her. The Guards admitted her, and Caina crossed the gardens where she had fought and killed the Silent Hunters and came to the mansion’s atrium. Servants hurried back and forth, and Claudia herself stood near the stairs leading to the upper levels. She wore a brilliant gold gown with black trim, the waist cinched tight, her hair piled in an elaborate crown, jewels glittering on her fingers and ears and neck.
Claudia frowned as Caina approached. With a flicker of amusement, Caina realized that Claudia did not recognize her through the disguise.
“And you are, sir?” said Claudia. She had learned Istarish well, though her accent was deplorable. “I fear I do not recognize you.”
“Kyrazid Tomurzu,” said Caina in the same language, “a factor for Lord Khosrau Asurius of Imperial Cyrica. Your lord husband has most kindly invited me to accompany you to the banquet this evening.”
Claudia’s eyes narrowed with recognition. “Yes, of course. Chat with me until my husband arrives, Master Kyrazid. I’m sure we have many things to discuss.”
Caina moved to Claudia’s side, and they stood together in silence for a moment.
“That beard,” said Claudia in a low voice at last, “looks ridiculous.”
Caina shrugged. “It fooled you, did it not?” She had donned a fake beard and mustache, styled in the pointy fashion popular in Cyrica.
“It still looks foolish,” said Claudia.
“That is the point,” said Caina.
Claudia shook her head. “Did you sense anything on your way inside?”
“Nothing,” said Caina. “No s
pells, no traces of the Silent Hunters. You?”
“I have warded every doorway, window, and archway in the mansion,” said Claudia, “and put wards in the courtyard to detect the use of any sorcery. It took two days, but if a Silent Hunter turns invisible anywhere within the mansion, I will know about it at once.”
“Sound precautions,” said Caina.
“I’m so glad you approve,” said Claudia, a fixed smile on her face as a trio of servants walked past. “Keep watch over Martin tonight.”
“I intend to,” said Caina.
“You don’t understand,” said Claudia. “Cassander sent those assassins to kill him, I’m sure of it, and he might try something at the banquet. Do whatever is necessary to save him. The life of the Lord Ambassador is far more important than that of a Ghost circlemaster.” She kept talking before Caina could respond. “The life of the Lord Ambassador is far more important than that of his wife, if it comes to it.”
“You do love him,” said Caina. She had known what it felt like to love a man that way, once.
“With all my heart,” said Claudia. There was terrible pain in her eyes as she looked at Caina. “I’ve already lost one man I loved because of you. I don’t want to lose a second.”
Rage boiled through Caina, but a deep sadness quenched the fury. Corvalis’s death was not Caina’s fault, but he was, however, dead because of the decisions Caina had made. Those decisions had led her step by step to the netherworld, to the duplicate of the illusionary temple of Anubankh in the heart of Khaset, to the Moroaica unleashing her sorcery to kill Caina.
Only for Corvalis to push her out of the way and take the killing force of the spell.
“No,” said Caina at last. “I don’t want you to lose a second, either.”
Claudia looked away, a muscle in her neck working. She started to say something, and then winced, one hand twitching to her belly.
“You are ill?” said Caina.
“No,” said Claudia. “Yes. A little. This damned Istarish food. Everything is so heavily spiced. Do they eat anything other than spiced rice and peppers?”
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