Ghost in the Pact

by Jonathan Moeller

  From Caina he sensed nothing. It was as if she was not there at all. That was one of the aspects of the valikarion. They could see sorcerous power, but they were immune to spells of sensing and detection. Spirits could not see them. He knew Caina was not entirely happy about her new abilities, but without them, they might not have been able to stop Cassander from destroying Istarinmul.

  Her brilliant, buzzing mind would turn those abilities into effective weapons, just as she had done for many other things.

  It took a considerable amount of concentration to keep his spell of sensing extended over so large an area, but Kylon kept at it. His senses would give ample warning if someone tried to attack them, whether assassins or Callatas’s minions or simple robbers.

  It would give him a few extra seconds to protect Caina.

  He looked at her, her cold blue eyes distant with thought. She wore the disguise of a caravan guard, leather jerkin with steel studs, dusty boots and trousers, a ragged brown cloak, sword and dagger hanging at her belt. Her black hair hung in greasy curtains around her face. It was an effective disguise. Anyone looking at her would see only another caravan guard. They wouldn’t see the beautiful woman beneath the disguise.

  Kylon had, and he had fallen in love with that woman.

  He had been in love before. He had loved his wife Thalastre, and her death had almost ruined him. Yet it was different with Caina. There was a wild intensity to it, almost like madness. Something about her had drawn him, something about her determination or her unyielding courage. Maybe it was because they had both been in so much danger together.

  Morgant had mocked him, saying that he was a romantic fool to fall for the dangerous madwoman and her doomed plans. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth to that. Kylon had lost his sister to her own folly, Thalastre and their unborn child to the Red Huntress’s malice. He had almost lost Caina to the Red Huntress’s cunning, and he had risked everything to save her.

  If anyone tried to hurt her, they would regret it.

  Morgant began talking again, a long, rambling anecdote about how he had assassinated some minor Anshani anjar or another. Annarah listened with calm patience. She was perhaps the most levelheaded woman that Kylon had ever met, and he had yet to see Morgant rattle her.

  “What are you thinking?” said Caina.

  He blinked at her. “You don’t know?”

  She smiled a little. “I’m not the one with water sorcery.”

  “That lets me sense emotions,” said Kylon. “Not read minds. You’re the one who can read minds.”

  She grinned, as she often did when he teased her. “I cannot read minds.”

  “You can,” said Kylon. “You already know what I’m thinking. You’ll say something like ‘by the angle of your frown and the kind of dust on your boots, I deduce that you just came from the Cyrican Bazaar, and therefore ate pita rolls for breakfast, and…’”

  “I do not,” said Caina, “talk like that.”

  He stared at her.

  “Sometimes,” she conceded.

  He smiled. “So what am I thinking?”

  Her own smile faded. “You’re worried about an attack, and I know that because you’ve extended your sensing spell. I know that is hard for you, because you sense so many emotions at once, and you told me how hard it was for you to learn the necessary control as a child. But it will give you a few extra seconds of warning, so you do it.”

  Kylon shook his head. “That’s exactly right.” He laughed a little. “How did you get to know me so well?”

  “Ark used to say that you don’t really know a man until you’ve gone into danger together,” said Caina, “and we’ve gone into a lot of danger together, you and I.”

  “True,” said Kylon. “No secrets left, I suppose.”

  “Well,” said Caina, her voice dropping further, “after some of the things we’ve done, there shouldn’t be.”

  He remembered the feel of her in his arms, her mouth against his, the warmth of her body pressed against him.

  “No,” said Kylon. “And…”

  He frowned as a wave of anger and fear and hate washed over his senses. He looked around, half-anticipating an attack. Off the street a small plaza opened before a merchant hall, and a large crowd had gathered there, armed with clubs and spears. They confronted a hakim in ceremonial robes, two Immortals in black armor guarding him.

  “The taxes must be paid!” shouted the hakim, but even without the sorcery of water, his fear was obvious. “Regardless of what has happened, the…”

  “Liar!” roared a man in the crowd.

  “Aye!” shouted another. “The Grand Master and the Grand Wazir sold us to the Umbarians! If they want their damned taxes, they can come collect the money themselves!”

  The crowd roared in agreement. There was fear in their sense, but more anger than fear. Cassander’s final spiteful speech had claimed that Erghulan Amirasku and Callatas had joined the Order and betrayed Istarinmul, and everyone in the city had heard that speech.

  It seemed Cassander’s lie had been believed.

  “Well, well,” said Morgant. “Our fat lord Tanzir will have many friends waiting for him when he besieges the city.”

  “He wasn’t that fat,” said Annarah.

  “He’s lost weight,” said Caina, her voice distracted. “But we had better get out of here. If this turns into a riot, I don’t want to get sucked into it.”

  Kylon nodded, and Caina led the way from the plaza, taking a circuitous path through the alleyways of the Old Quarter and the Tower Quarter. Several times they saw groups of men waiting in doorways, prepared to rob hapless passers-by, but one look at Kylon’s hard expression and Morgant’s cheerful, skull-like grin, and wariness flooded over their emotional sense.

  That wariness probably saved the lives of the would-be thieves.

  They crossed the Alqaarin Bazaar, half the buildings still damaged from the fighting. In the distance wisps of smoke still rose from the mansion that had housed the Umbarian embassy. Lord Martin had burned the building before withdrawing back to the Imperial embassy in the Emirs’ Quarter.

  A few minutes later they came to the Desert Maiden.

  It was a seedy-looking tavern in a street off the Alqaarin Bazaar, and it looked shabby even by the overall low standards of Istarish taverns. The tavern catered to caravan guards, teamsters, porters, and the others who serviced the endless caravans coming to the city, and rented rooms to the prostitutes who serviced the caravan workers. Caina had told Kylon how she had started her infiltration of the Widow’s Tower from there, and Cassander had almost caught here there on the day they departed for Pyramid Isle.

  Caina pushed open the door, and Kylon and the others followed her inside. The common room was almost full, men hunched at the wooden tables and benches, nursing cups of cheap wine or cheap brandy. A dying fire crackled in the hearth, and the emotions in the room felt like a field of brambles. He sensed shock and rage and grief from the men gathered in the tavern. Likely some of them had lost friends and family when Cassander’s burning circle had ripped its way across Istarinmul. It reminded Kylon of the emotional aura after a battle, of shocked men looking around the carnage, stunned that they were still alive.

  On the other hand, it also reminded him of the emotional aura of an army just before a battle.

  Istarinmul was indeed about to explode.

  “You’ve got money?” growled one of the two bouncers standing by the door, former gladiators by the look of them. “We’ve got no room in the house for beggars.”

  Caina didn’t look at the man, but her left hand flicked, and a silver coin jumped from her fingers. The bouncer caught it, made the coin disappear, and then nodded. Two men sat at a table in the corner, their postures casual, yet Kylon noted how they watched the room. The first man was in his fifties, with receding gray hair and the solid build of a man who had survived a term of service in the Emperor’s Legions. He wore mail and had a broadsword at his belt, the heavy shield of an Imperial Le
gionary propped against the wall. The second man had darker skin, his head shaved, a close-cropped beard framing his lips. He wore dark clothing, including a bracer and a leather glove over his left hand.

  Behind him a leather-wrapped spear rested against the wall. Kylon would not have given it a second look under most circumstances, but he knew that if he focused his arcane senses upon the weapon, he would sense the titanic power hidden beneath the leather. The spear was in fact a staff of odd silvery metal, and it was one of the two relics that Callatas wanted more than anything else in the world. The Seal was hidden beneath the spearhead itself, secured in the iron socket.

  According to legend, the Staff of Iramis could summon vast numbers of spirits from the netherworld, while the Seal of Iramis permitted its bearer to command those spirits. Kylon had never seen the relics used, and if he could work his will, they would be locked up with the Sages of Catekharon before anyone could ever use them.

  “Ah,” murmured Nasser Glasshand. “Welcome. Please, be seated. There is no coffee, alas, but the wine is not especially offensive.”

  Laertes grunted. “Don’t eat the food, though.”

  “High praise,” said Kylon, sitting next to Caina on the bench.

  “Since that is one of the two most valuable things in Istarinmul,” said Morgant, glancing towards the Staff, “is it really a good idea to leave it there?”

  Nasser shrugged. “It would not be any more secure in my hand. If you can think of a safer place, I shall gladly entertain suggestions. Often the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”

  Morgant made a sour grunt but said nothing.

  “That is the dilemma,” said Caina. “There is no place safe in the city. Not in Istarinmul, and not in the Empire or Anshan. It has to be Catekharon…”

  “Concerning that,” said Nasser, “I have some good news.”

  Caina leaned forward. “You found a ship.”

  “Yes,” said Nasser. “One came into the Alqaarin Harbor early this morning. One we’ve used before.”

  “The Eastern Fire?” said Caina.

  “No,” said Nasser. “Captain Murat and the Sandstorm.”

  Kylon scowled. He remembered the Alqaarin corsair and his motley crew quite well. After Kharnaces had poisoned Caina, Murat threated to leave Caina on Pyramid Isle, believing that she had contracted some kind of plague. Caina had talked her way back onto the Sandstorm, but if she had not, Kylon might have wound up killing most of the corsair captain’s crew.

  “What is he doing here?” said Kylon. “He has a massive price upon his head.”

  “It seems our intrepid captain noticed all the ships fleeing Istarinmul and decided to investigate,” said Nasser. “Likely he expected to find Istarinmul in the grips of civil war, and hoped to indulge in some looting. He is at no risk of being captured, I expect. Anyone in a position of authority who is still alive is facing substantially larger problems.”

  “He’s willing to sail for Catekharon?” said Caina. “Has he ever been there?”

  “Yes,” said Nasser, “but he has never been to Catekharon. Nevertheless, he is willing, and he has a fast ship. I suspect Captain Murat has made himself unwelcome in most of the ports of the Alqaarin Sea, and therefore finds the thought of sailing to the Cyrican Sea and the western ocean most appealing.”

  Kylon snorted. “If he tries to turn to piracy in the western ocean, he will regret it sorely the first time he attacks a Kyracian ship.”

  “We need to get to Catekharon,” said Caina. “If Murat is willing to sail for Catekharon, then we should take his ship. The gods know we have delayed here too long already.”

  “I agree,” said Annarah.

  Kylon sighed. “So be it. Though I think you promised Murat that you would tell him where you obtained your throwing knives.”

  Caina smiled. “If he gets us to Catekharon in one piece, I’ll buy him an entire set from Nerina. We should go at once.” She tapped her pack. Kylon knew that the pack held everything she need to leave the city in a hurry if necessary, including her shadow-cloak and her remaining eight vials of Elixir Restorata.

  “Alas,” said Nasser. “Murat refused to depart the city until tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow?” said Caina. “That’s too long. Give him more money.”

  “No sum would change his mind,” said Nasser. “He wishes to take on supplies, and to allow his crew some liberty. I fear Murat is the best we shall find, unless we are willing to wait longer.”

  Caina shook her head. “We’ve waited too long already. If not for Cassander, we might be halfway to Catekharon by now.” She gripped the edge of the table, and then at last shook her head. “No. You are right. This is the best we will do. We’ll sail out with Murat tomorrow.”

  “Capital,” said Nasser. “We may as well wait here. I have secured rooms for us on the top floor. We can leave before dawn and join the Sandstorm.”

  “Agreed,” said Caina. “I don’t like waiting here with the relics. But they would be no safer anywhere else in Istarinmul.”

  “Yes,” said Morgant.

  Kylon looked at the old assassin. He had been uncharacteristically quiet since entering the Desert Maiden. Usually he would have taunted Nasser once or twice by now, or made a ribald joke about Kylon or Caina, or generally made an annoyance of himself. Yet he had been quiet, and even as Kylon looked, Morgant rose.

  “Where are you going?” said Annarah.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Morgant, and he crossed the common room and went into the street.

  Chapter 2: One Last Time

  Morgant strolled into the street, but as soon as he stepped away from Desert Maiden’s door, he burst into a run. Caina would almost certainly be following him, and he didn’t want to talk about this with her just yet. Morgant had secrets, and he kept his word.

  No matter what he had to do in order to keep it.

  Running would have been useless. Caina sometimes let her heart do her thinking, but despite that flaw she was as clever as anyone he had ever met, and Morgant had met a lot of clever people. She knew all the tricks and subterfuges, and no matter what Morgant did, he would leave a trail for her to follow, or some tiny clue she could use to work out his whereabouts.

  She knew all the tricks, but so did he, and he had been doing this kind of thing since before she had been born.

  Morgant ran at the Desert Maiden’s wall as fast as he could. He jumped, kicking off the wall, and propelled himself upward. Like most of the buildings in the Alqaarin Quarter, the Desert Maiden had been constructed of whitewashed brick, which offered plenty of handholds and footholds. Morgant scrambled up the wall, his arms and legs screaming with the strain, and heaved himself through the open second-floor window he had spotted from the street.

  He landed in a small, malodorous bedroom, the floorboards warped with age. A narrow bed rested against one wall, currently holding a drunken man in the rough clothes of a teamster. The teamster blinked at Morgant, his bloodshot eyes trying to come into focus.

  “My wife’s brother,” said Morgant. “I owe him money. Needed to get away. Sorry about coming in through your window.”

  “Eh?” said the drunk. “My wife’s brother was the same way, damn him. Always going on about how I need to make more money.”

  Morgant offered a sage nod. “Then you understand.” He got to his knees and took a quick look over the edge of the window. Caina stood in the center of the street, looking back and forth to see where he had gone. If she happened to turn around, it was possible the vision of the valikarion would allow her to see the sorcerous aura of his weapons. Best to be gone by then. “Thank you for your discretion.” He edged along the wall, dropping a coin onto the bed. “Have a drink or three on me.”

  The drunk managed a nod, scooping up the coin. “I’ll do that. I’ll do that! Good man. Good man.”

  Morgant nodded, slipped out the door, and headed towards the stairs leading down to the common room.

  Mazyan awaited him there.


  Morgant had known Mazyan for seven years, since before Rezir Shahan had launched his ill-advised war upon the Empire, since before Callatas had first started manufacturing wraithblood from the corpses of murdered slaves in his secret laboratories. In those seven years, Mazyan had not changed. He was still squat with the musculature of an experienced blacksmith, his face locked in a perpetual scowl behind his bushy black beard. He still wore chain mail and carried a scimitar at his belt.

  Of course, given what Mazyan really was, it didn’t surprise Morgant that the man had aged very little.

  “Assassin,” said Mazyan.

  “Oath Shadow,” said Morgant. It was the man’s proper title, though the word in Istarish was long and convoluted and difficult to get past his teeth.

  “You yet live,” said Mazyan.

  “Well,” said Morgant. “You know me. I just keep going and going and going…”

  “Certainly you must be referring to your oratory,” said Mazyan.

  “I know a few people who would agree with you,” said Morgant, thinking of Caina and Kylon. He wondered what they would make of his sudden disappearance. Perhaps he could make his way back before too long. He had promised to help Annarah, and Morgant the Razor kept his word.

  Yet he knew that Mazyan, bodyguard of the poet Sulaman, would not be here unless something had gone very wrong.

  Of course, calling Sulaman a “poet” was a bit like calling Morgant a “painter”. Both statements, while technically true, rather overlooked the entirety of the truth.

  “Your longevity,” said Mazyan, “was a plot of the Knight of Wind and Air.”