“Once or twice,” said Caina.
“I have only seen them from a distance,” said Damla, “but I would not want to go near them. An Immortal would kill a man on a whim. Stay far away from them.”
“I shall,” said Caina, considering. “Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions? Trade with Istarinmul was cut off when the war began, and the master merchants of the Collegium will wish to know how things stand in Istarinmul.”
“Of course,” said Damla. “Though I fear I am but a humble coffee merchant, and know little of the doings of the great and the mighty. But Istarinmul…Istarinmul is not well, Master Marius.” She shook her head. “All the emirs agree that Rezir Shahan’s attack upon Marsis was folly. Many men and ships were lost, and Conn Maraeus drove the Padishah’s soldiers from the Argamaz. Then the golden dead rose, and the city was in chaos for days.” She lowered her voice further, as if fearing the eyes and ears of the Teskilati. “The Padishah has not been seen in public since Rezir’s brother Tanzir negotiated peace with the Empire, and the Padishah’s son and heir has disappeared. It is said that the Grand Wazir Erghulan and the Grand Master Callatas of the Alchemists are now the true rulers of Istarinmul.” She lowered her voice further. “Do not repeat this…but some whisper that Callatas is cursed by the Living Flame, that our woes are divine punishment for Callatas’s terrible crimes.”
“Why?” said Caina. “Which crimes?” She had met Callatas once, briefly, during the gathering at Catekharon two years past. Halfdan had warned her against him, had said that he was as cruel and ruthless as any of magus of the Imperial Magisterium.
Gods, but she wished Halfdan was here to advise her now.
“You have not heard the tale?” said Damla. “It was a hundred and fifty years ago. Once, the city of Iramis was the second city of Istarinmul, the most beautiful and prosperous city in the Padishah’s domain. It was the Jewel of the Alqaarin Sea, or so the poets said. But the Prince of Iramis offended Callatas, and Callatas demanded one child from every family in Iramis as a slave. The Prince refused, and so Callatas used his sorcery to burn the city to ash and molten glass in a single instant. Once the richest farmland in the world surrounded Iramis, but Callatas’s sorcery turned it to wasteland. Now it is called the Desert of Candles. And ever since, not a single drop of rain has fallen upon the city of Istarinmul.”
Caina had read tales of Iramis and its dashing Prince in her father’s library, but she had thought only them tales. Perhaps Iramis had been a real city that Callatas had destroyed, or perhaps something else had happened.
But it did not speak well of Callatas that the people of Istarinmul believed him capable of murdering hundreds of thousands of people in a single instant.
“But that is an old story, old history,” said Damla. “You should tell your masters that Istarinmul is not safe. That the Padishah is old and sick, and his son has vanished. When he dies…every emir will try to seize the Most Divine Throne, and the streets will run with blood.” She sighed. “We have lived to see evil times.”
“I am sorry,” said Caina.
“Well, it is not your doing,” said Damla. Which was not entirely true, but the older woman did not know that. “Good times or evil, we do what we must.”
Bayram returned. “The room is ready, Mother.”
“Show our guest to his room, Bayram,” said Damla. “The blessings of the Living Flame be upon you, Master Marius.”
“Thank you,” said Caina. “You have been most hospitable.”
Damla grinned. It made her look years younger. “You northerners are always surprised. Well, we are Istarish, and hospitality is sacred. Be welcome here, Marius of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers.”
Caina thanked her, and Bayram led her to the third floor. They passed two slaves as they went, a younger woman and an older man both clad in gray tunics and sandals. Damla owned slaves, and Caina felt herself grow angry. Yet everyone in Istarinmul owned slaves, at least anyone able to afford one. Likely every one of the shopkeepers and artisans of the Cyrican Quarter had two or three slaves to help in the shop or take care of the children.
At least Damla’s slaves looked well-fed, with no signs of mistreatment.
Gods, but Caina hated Istarinmul.
“Your room, Master Marius,” said Bayram with a bow, opening a door on the third floor. The room beyond was small but clean, with a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a chamber pot, and a window that faced the harbor to admit the night breeze.
“Thank you,” said Caina. She pressed a pair of copper coins into Bayram’s hand, and the boy smiled. Though he would not be a boy for much longer, not with the black fuzz appearing on his jaw and chin.
“May…I ask you a question, sir?” said Bayram.
“Ask what you will,” said Caina.
“You have traveled to many places?” said Bayram.
Caina nodded. “All over the western and central Empire. Cyrica and Cyrica Urbana. The free cities of the south. Even New Kyre, once.”
She did not want to think about what had happened in New Kyre.
“Have you ever traveled to Marsis, sir?” said Bayram.
Caina froze, just for an instant. “Twice. I…did not care for it, either time.”
“My father died there, I fear,” said Bayram, “fighting in the Padishah’s army.”
For a horrible, unending instant Caina thought she recognized Bayram’s features, thought she recalled them in one of the Istarish soldiers she had killed in the streets of Marsis. But, no. There had been thousands of Istarish soldiers at Marsis.
“I am sorry,” said Caina. “I…lost someone I loved at Marsis, too.”
She remembered the stunned look on Halfdan’s face, Sicarion’s serrated dagger jutting from his chest.
Her expression must have been baleful, because Bayram stepped back. “Forgive me. Mother will be cross if she finds me questioning guests.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” said Caina. She stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. “I’ll be back before dark. I have a delivery to make.”
###
Caina did not have to go far.
A small, cramped courtyard opened behind the House of Agabyzus. No windows looked upon the courtyard, and the back doors of the surrounding shops were locked and barred. A long-dry fountain stood in the courtyard’s center, a statue of an Istarish noble in robes standing upon a plinth. A stone tablet rose from the edge of the fountain, bearing an inscription commemorating the noble who had constructed the fountain.
Caina squatted in front of it, as if reading the inscription.
And as promised, she saw the metal keyhole glinting into the center of the tablet.
She reached into her belt and drew out the heavy metal key the Emperor had given her, glancing around to make sure that she was unobserved.
Then she slid the key into the lock and turned.
A slab of stone within the fountain slid aside in silence, revealing an iron ladder descending into darkness.
Caina took a deep breath, lowered herself into the hole, and climbed into the Sanctuary of the Ghosts.
It had been here for nearly a century, the Emperor had told her. The Ghosts of Istarinmul had operated out of their hidden Sanctuary, spying upon the Padishah and the emirs and the Alchemists and sending their reports to Malarae. The Emperor believed that the Sanctuary remained a secret, even though the Teskilati had wiped out Istarinmul’s doubts. Caina doubted that, and intended to trust the Sanctuary no more than necessary.
She reached the bottom of the ladder, groped in the gloom, and pulled a heavy iron lever. The stone door above her closed without a sound, leaving her in darkness.
Or dim light. A faint glow illuminated a set of narrow stairs going deeper into the earth, and Caina followed them, one hand braced against the rough brick wall.
The stairs ended, and Caina stepped into a workshop.
It was a large vaulted chamber, the ceiling supported by thick pillars. Glowing glass globes, enspelled
by the Magisterium, stood upon iron stands and threw out a pale light that revealed a half-dozen long tables. One held weapons, another tools and half-assembled locks and mechanical traps, the third a variety of herbs and elixirs. In a wooden wardrobe she saw a wide variety of clothing, for nobles and commoners alike, and another table held a mirror and a set of cosmetics.
Everything a circle of Ghost spies would need to go about their work.
Caina even saw several casks of strong spirits beneath one of the tables. Likely getting informants drunk helped with interrogations.
The Sanctuary looked undisturbed. The Teskilati had indeed wiped out the Ghosts, but had overlooked their lair. Or they had left it undisturbed, in hope of attracting any surviving Ghosts.
Caina pulled off her heavy pack, sighing in relief, and tucked it beneath one of the tables. It held her shadow-cloak, extra knives and daggers, and certain other useful tools. It also contained a small fortune in cut gemstones hidden in secret pockets. Reestablishing the Ghost circle of Istarinmul would take money, and she needed to find a discreet moneychanger to trade some of the stones for Istarish bezants.
For that matter, perhaps she could find some more comfortable clothing. Her leather armor was heavy, and it was hot in Istarinmul. Dressing as a woman would draw unwelcome attention, so that was out of the question, though it might make for a useful disguise later. Perhaps the robe of a Sarbian desert man, or the robes favored by the Istarish peasants of the southern highlands? Caina dared not wear anything too tight. She was hardly voluptuous, but she did have enough curves of hip and chest that tight clothing would give her away.
Caina turned toward the wardrobe, and froze as she saw her reflection in the mirror.
Her disguise was flawless.
She saw a ragged, travel-worn Caerish mercenary looking out of the glass, a short, lean man in a steel-studded leather jerkin, blond hair pulled back from the hard lines of cheek and jaw. Her blue eyes were cold and dead, the eyes of an experienced killer. She looked every inch her disguise.
There was no trace of Sonya Tornesti, no trace of the pretty, empty-headed mistress of Anton Kularus. No trace of the woman who had loved Corvalis Aberon.
She was gone, just as Corvalis was gone.
A spasm went through Caina’s jaw, and she felt a pain in her stomach. She turned away from the mirror, unable to look for another moment longer, and strode across the Sanctuary. To her surprise, she heard the sound of splashing water. An iron grate sealed off a shaft in the floor, and she glimpsed flowing water beneath it. Istarinmul possessed both extensive aqueducts and sewers, built over generations, and likely the grate opened into one or the other.
It was at least a hundred feet down.
Suddenly Caina found herself thinking about veins once more.
It would be easy, so easy, to open the grate and take one single step forward.
It would be over before she knew it.
Her hands curled into fists.
“No,” she whispered.
But why not? What could she do in this miserable city, built upon the labor and blood of slaves? Create a network of eyes and ears to spy upon their torment? Why bother? Why do anything at all…
Part of Caina realized that remaining alone right now was a very bad idea.
She turned and hurried from the Sanctuary.
Chapter 3 - The Poet
Night fell, and Caina returned to the House of Agabyzus.
As she expected, patrons filled the coffeehouse after dark. Merchants sat at the tables, discussing business, some of them with their wives and mistresses. Stern-faced bodyguards stood watch over the employers, looking at Caina with suspicious eyes. That seemed excessive, but given that bold Collectors could snatch a man off the street, Caina approved of their caution.
She walked past the crowded tables, ignoring the stares of the bodyguards. Caina had traded her leather armor for a knee-length gray coat, the sort of thing a courier or a craftsman might wear. It was too big for her and too warm for Istarinmul, but it concealed her figure and offered ample hiding places for additional weapons. And at least it was lighter than the leather armor. After carrying the armor and her pack for half the day, her shoulders appreciated the respite.
One of Damla’s slaves approached, and Caina ordered a cup of coffee. The woman bowed and disappeared into the kitchens, and Caina looked for a seat. Most of the tables were taken, and a thin man in a robe sat upon the dais, an open scroll on his lap. Near the dais Caina saw a group of men seated around one of the round tables, playing a game of dice.
Here was a chance to learn more about recent events in Istarinmul.
A way to distract herself from the shadows that crowded her mind whenever she was alone.
She seated herself cross-legged upon one of the open cushions.
“Room for another?” said Caina.
“If you have the coin,” said a plump Istarish merchant in a bright robe and turban.
“Aye,” said a hawk-nosed man in his middle forties, scowling at Caina. He wore chain mail and carried a scimitar and a dagger at his belt, and the faint lines of scars marked his cheeks and jaw. A single glance told Caina that he knew how to use the weapons at his belt. “And if you try to cheat, I’ll cut out your tongue and nail it to your forehead.”
“Now, now, Anburj,” said the merchant. “There’s no need for threats. This is merely a friendly game of dice.”
Anburj leveled a finger at the merchant. “I will have respect, Murad. I am the captain of guards for the slaver Ulvan, and he has just been raised to the rank of Master of the Brotherhood. I certainly need not take cheek from a merchant,” he glared at Caina, “or from some foreigner from the Empire.”
Caina spread her hands. “I merely wish to throw the dice. I find myself far from home on the business of my employers, and need a way to amuse myself before I die of boredom.”
Murad laughed. “There are far worse ways to die in Istarinmul than boredom, my friend. What is your name?”
“Marius,” said Caina.
Anburj grunted. “And what is your business in the city of the Padishah?”
“Delivering contracts and other documents,” said Caina. The slave girl returned with her coffee, and Caina took a sip. It was harsher than the coffee Shaizid had served at the House of Kularus, but it suited Caina’s mood. “The Imperial Collegium of Jewelers hired me to deliver contracts to their factors here. The Collegium wishes to purchase uncut gemstones from the miners of the Kaltari Highlands south of here.”
Murad grunted. “A poor idea. At least for now. The Highlands are…unsettled. Bandits and brigands everywhere. The golden dead caused much chaos.”
“I was in New Kyre when it happened,” said Caina, the memories dancing around the edge of her thoughts like laughing shadows. “It was an evil time.”
Anburj snorted. “You have a gift for understatement.” They placed bets, threw the dice, and Anburj collected his winnings.
“The lands outside the walls are in turmoil,” said Murad. “Half the peasants of the Highlands believe the golden dead heralded the end of the world, and the other half are using it as an excuse to rob their neighbors. The fishermen of the Erzanica coast have turned pirate, and a man can’t get across the steppes of Trabazon without getting robbed or killed.” He sighed. “It has played havoc with cotton prices. The Padishah should send the Grand Wazir out with an army to pacify the countryside. At least the Vale of Fallen Stars is still orderly. Emir Tanzir rules with a firm hand.”
“Really,” said Caina, remembering her own meeting with Tanzir Shahan, Rezir Shahan’s younger brother. Tanzir had been many things, but firm was not one of them. “I had heard he was a fat fool.”
“You should take care,” said Anburj. They rolled again, and this time Murad won. “A foreigner should not speak ill of one of the Padishah’s emirs…and certainly not a foreigner from the Empire.”
“Oh, don’t fret so, captain,” said Murad. “Our Padishah and the Emperor have made peace.
And Master Marius is right. The emir Tanzir was a fat fool. Yet the man seems to have found his spine. He shipped his mother off to a monastery in the Alqaarin Sea, and rules in his own right now.”
“I see,” said Caina, oddly pleased. She would not have expected Tanzir to find his nerve. Corvalis had said…
She looked away. She had always been able to control her emotions, always been able to present whatever mask she pleased. Yet now the shadows in her mind threatened to boil out of control, like black blood bursting from a poisoned wound.
“Have I offended you?” said Murad, raising his eyebrows in a show of mock chagrin.
“Not at all,” said Caina, taking a sip of coffee to cover her lapse. “I am unused to Istarish coffee. Stronger than what we have in Malarae.”
“Ha!” said Murad. “The market for coffee has only just opened in the Empire. Some Szaldic fellow named Kularus has exclusive license to sell it.”
Caina looked into her coffee.
“It is not surprising,” said Anburj, “that a northerner has little belly for a proper Istarish drink.”
He was trying to bait her, Caina realized, but she knew better than to respond. Best to let him keep talking. He might reveal useful information, information that would let her…
Would let her do what?
Free the slaves? Ease the misery of the wraithblood addicts? End the tyranny of the Slavers’ Brotherhood? Caina could do none of those things.
And nothing she learned here would let her return home to Malarae.
Nothing she learned from Murad or Anburj would let her see Corvalis again, to talk with Halfdan again. To tell them how very sorry she was…
Suddenly Caina desperately wanted to get away.
But she was afraid to be alone, afraid of what she might do to herself.
She kept her face calm, but her hand grew tight against the hot clay of the coffee cup.
Ghost in the Cowl Page 3
