The footman scowled. He had the look of a veteran, and Caina suspected he did not approve of circuses. “Aye, madam, he is in the Inn. Somewhere.”
“Thank you,” said Caina, and she led the way across the street and into the courtyard. Around them the chaos of the Circus reigned. A juggler and an acrobat bellowed at each other, using curses and insults from at least three languages.
“I wonder how the Circus could afford to stay here,” muttered Caina.
“Likely Ulvan paid for it,” said Damla. “When a slaver ascends to the ranks of the cowled masters, it is a great affair. No expense is spared in the celebration and the festivities. Otherwise the new-made cowled master shall be thought cheap.”
“Yes, wouldn’t that be a tragedy,” said Caina.
The footmen at the doors bowed and pulled them open, and Caina stepped into the Inn’s common room, Damla following. It looked a great deal like the common room of the House of Agabyzus, though more ornate. Each table had its own gleaming brass lantern, with more hanging from the high ceiling. A balcony of polished wood encircled the room, and the floor had been worked in an elaborate mosaic showing a pair of Istarish noblemen hunting tigers in the Kaltari Highlands. A dozen foreign merchants sat throughout the room, eating their lunches while scowling bodyguards stood watch.
A pale, Nighmarian-looking man walked past, clad in a bright red coat. He was handsome in a gaunt sort of way, and mumbled to himself as he walked.
“Pardon,” said Caina. “We are looking for Master Cronmer. Do…”
“Master Cronmer?” said the red-coated man. “Master Cronmer? You call that conniving scoundrel a master?” He thumped his chest. “He does not deserve the title! I, Vardo, am the master of all beasts!”
“Indeed?” said Caina, raising her eyebrows.
“Truly!” proclaimed Vardo. “Why, the fiercest lion turns to a purring kitten beneath my ministrations. The wild pigs follow me with devotion, like puppies trailing after a child. Vardo is the lord of the animals, and if he wished it, he could raise an army of lions to conquer Anshan itself.” He spread his arms and struck a pose. “Can you not see Vardo as the Shahenshah of all Anshan?”
“No,” said Damla.
“How did Master Cronmer wrong you?” said Caina.
“He would not buy Vardo the elephant.”
“An elephant?” said Damla.
Her incredulity made no impact on Vardo’s enthusiasm. “Yes! Yes! Precisely! You, too, my beautiful Istarish rose, you see this most grievous injustice! We perform to honor some emir or slave trader or another. Imagine his wonder, his delight, when Vardo rides into his courtyard on the back of an elephant. And the tricks Vardo would teach to that elephant! Ah, have you ever seen an elephant balance upon two legs with a ball spinning upon his trunk?”
“I confess that I have not,” said Caina. For that matter, she had never seen an elephant.
“Then your life is deprived,” said Vardo. He stooped over Caina’s hand and planted a dry kiss upon her knuckles. “You are…Szaldic, yes? Vardo can always tell. There are many lovely women in Istarinmul, but you pale women of the north are fair as well. Come with Vardo, and though you may not see the elephant, you shall see something just as magnificent.”
“I’m sure,” said Caina. Damla started to draw herself up in outrage, but Caina spoke first. “But perhaps I should speak with Cronmer and complain of this egregious offense?”
“Yes! Yes!” said Vardo. “If you complain, then perhaps Cronmer will see the wisdom of Vardo’s words. Cronmer is in the back. Though beware of his wife. She is not a lovely rose of Istarinmul.”
As if the thought of Tiri had unnerved him, Vardo fled from the common room.
“I can see,” said Damla, glaring after him, “why you disguised yourself as a man.”
“It has its advantages,” said Caina. “But he told his ‘pale Szaldic rose’ where to find Cronmer, did he not? This way, I think.”
Caina walked through the kitchens, ignoring the surprised glances of the slaves and the freeborn cooks, and stepped into the Inn’s rear courtyard. The stables stood here, housing the Circus’s donkeys and carts. Master Cronmer himself sat upon a barrel, drinking a cup of coffee and squinting at the sky. His wife Tiri stood talking with a pair of female slaves in gray robes, though her eyes turned to Caina and Damla at once.
This was the hard part. Caina was reasonably sure Cronmer and Tiri would not recognize her. But if they did, Caina would have to think of another plan.
Actually, compared to what lay ahead, this would likely be the easy part.
“Master Cronmer?” said Caina.
Cronmer took a sip of coffee, grunted, and looked up at her. “Eh? Ladies?” He rose and smiled in the slightly condescending way older men often did with younger women. “I fear you have fallen in with a band of disreputable rogues.” A faint frown went over his craggy features for just a moment, as if he could almost but not quite recognize Caina. “Your virtue is at stake. Best you turn and flee.”
“Do not mind him,” said Tiri, not looking up from her conversation with the slaves. “He is all bark and no bite.”
“Woman!” said Cronmer. “You are undermining my authority.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Though I do not think you have come here to listen to my wife and I repeat the same argument we have had for the last twenty years.”
“I’ve come to you about work,” said Caina.
“Oh?” said Cronmer, taking another sip of coffee. “Well, I suppose the Circus could always use another dancing girl or two.” Damla bristled, but Cronmer did not seem to notice. “You’re both a bit skinnier than we would prefer, but I could find you a costume and see if you pass muster. My wife would have the final say, but…”
“Actually,” said Caina, “I’ve heard you need a knife-throwing act.”
“Really.” Cronmer’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Who told you that?”
“My brother Marius,” said Caina. “He met you on a ship, when he finally arrived from New Kyre.”
“Oh, yes,” said Cronmer, snapping his fingers. “I thought I had seen you before. You look just like Marius, you know.”
“Mother always said so,” said Caina.
“And just who are you?” said Cronmer, looking at Damla.
“Nuri,” said Damla.
“My sister,” said Caina.
Cronmer grunted. “No family resemblance there.”
“Half-sister,” said Caina. “Apparently Father liked Istarish girls.”
“A man of good taste, then,” said Cronmer, glancing at his wife. “Well, Marius was right. I do need a knife thrower. He is more than welcome to speak to me in person, but I will not negotiate with his sisters.”
“Not him,” said Caina. “Me.”
Cronmer raised one eyebrow. “You? A little slip of a girl? You cannot be more than fifteen.”
“Twenty-five,” lied Caina.
“Thirty-two,” said Damla. Caina suspected she was also lying.
“Well,” said Cronmer, “I’ve no doubt you played at throwing knives with Marius, but there is a difference, an entire world of difference, between throwing knives at a few bushes and throwing them before a cheering crowd. Or jeering, if you miss. Or laughing, I suppose, if you accidentally cut off a finger. Istarish audiences do like their blood.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Caina. And there was a massive difference between throwing knives for entertainment and killing a man with a thrown blade, but no need to tell Cronmer that. “Alas, I fear you are wrong about one thing, Master Cronmer.”
“What’s that, then?” said Cronmer, looking back at his wife. No doubt he wanted Caina to go away so he could go about his business.
“Marius didn’t teach me to throw knives,” said Caina. “I taught him.”
That caught Cronmer’s attention. It also caught Tiri’s. She said something to the slaves, and they scurried back into the Inn. Tiri crossed to join her husband, tapping one finger against her lips as she exam
ined Caina and Damla.
“Well, wife,” said Cronmer. “It seems young…what did you say your name was?”
“Ciara,” said Caina
“Young Ciara here thinks she can throw knives well enough to put on a show,” said Cronmer.
“There is no need to debate the matter, husband,” said Tiri, “when the question is so easily put to the test.”
“Put an apple upon a barrel and see if she can hit it?” said Cronmer.
“Waste of a good apple,” said Caina.
“Ah! A young woman of sense. I approve,” said Tiri. She walked to one of the wagons, reached inside, and produced a ragged, oversized turban. “I never liked this thing.” She set it on a post outside the stables, about fifteen paces from Caina. “Can you hit this?”
“Shall we find out?” said Caina, reaching into her satchel.
“I will get you some knives…” started Cronmer.
“No need,” said Caina, raising her hand, steel glinting in her fingers. “I brought my own.”
She handed her satchel to a surprised Damla and rolled her shoulders, stretching her arms. Her head still throbbed damnably, and she had not eaten anything today. Her arms and shoulders ached from her excessive exercise of the night before. Still, she had used throwing knives while desperate, terrified, and fighting for her life.
A hangover, by comparison, was almost nothing.
Caina tensed, flinging back her right arm, the blade clenched between her fingers. Then she stepped forward and hurtled her arm forward all in one motion, her entire body snapping like a bowstring. The blade spun from her fingers and slammed into the center of the turban, striking so hard that it sank into the post and hung there, quivering.
Tiri looked impressed.
“Gods!” said Cronmer, getting to his feet. “How sharp are those knives?”
“Sharp enough,” said Caina with a shrug. “What good is a dull knife?”
“A good point,” said Tiri, “if you will excuse the terrible joke.” She tugged the knife free from the post and handed it to Caina. “If you can do it from thirty paces, you might just impress me.”
Caina nodded and walked off thirty paces from the post and the increasingly tattered turban, taking another knife from the satchel as she passed Damla. The older woman gazed at Caina with astonishment, and Caina wished that Damla was a better actress. Still, it hardly seemed to matter. Both Cronmer and Tiri stared hard at Caina, perhaps waiting to see if she would wilt under the attention.
It made her want to laugh. She had seen things far more terrifying than a bombastic circus master and his wife.
A few heartbeats later she buried the knife in the center of the turban.
“Impressive,” said Tiri.
“It might be a lucky throw,” said Cronmer.
Caina sighed. “Sister, dear, could you bring me that bag?”
Damla blinked, remembered she was supposed to be Caina’s half-sister, and carried the satchel over. Caina reached into it, withdrew knives one by one, and threw them into the turban. After the fifth knife, the turban could take no more damage, and unraveled into pieces.
“Well,” said Cronmer. “It seems Marius had quite the skilled teacher.” He scratched at his bushy gray mustache. “I suppose this is all the better. Usually it’s a man throwing knives at a girl in a skimpy costume. But one woman in a skimpy costume throwing knives at another? Aye, the crowd will love it.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t done before,” said Caina, which was mostly true. In Cyrioch, she had dressed up like an Anshani khadjar’s concubine, helping Corvalis to infiltrate the Sanctuary of the Kindred assassins. It had been a risk, but the ruse had worked, given that the Kindred were dead and Caina and Corvalis were…
She swallowed and pushed aside the thought.
“At least it will help keep me cool,” said Caina.
Cronmer laughed. “That is the spirit.”
“And what about you, Nuri?” said Tiri.
Damla blinked. “Me?”
“Yes, you, dear,” said Tiri with a hint of asperity. “You will need to have a suitable costume as well.”
“For what?” said Damla.
“For when I throw knives at you, of course,” said Caina.
Damla stared at Caina, dawning horror on her face.
“Just as we practiced,” said Caina, “when we said we would do whatever was necessary to join the Circus.”
Damla blinked several times and nodded.
“Show me,” said Tiri.
“Of course,” said Caina, her mind racing. Damla looked at her with terrified eyes. “Though I’ll need some blunted knives, of course. Damla is Marius’s favorite, and he’ll be ever so cross if I slice off one of her ears.”
Cronmer grunted, rummaged through the wagons, and produced a set of blunted throwing knives. Caina took them with a frown, turning the blades over. They were blunted, and heavier than she liked, but balanced well enough.
“I could buy better knives from a charlatan in the bazaar,” said Caina.
“If we hire you,” said Cronmer, “we’ll get you a better set. Hard to hurt anyone with these, and I want to see if your sister will stand still without flinching. Even an Istarish audience can stomach only so much blood during a performance.”
“Nuri, against the wall,” said Caina, pointing at the stable, “like we practiced.”
Damla opened her mouth, closed it again, and nodded. She crossed to the stable and stood against the wall, looking for all the world like a woman awaiting the drop of the gallows. Caina examined the heft and weight of the blunted knife for a moment.
Then she tossed the blade to herself, caught it with a flourish, and flung it at Damla.
Or, more specifically, at the wall over Damla’s right shoulder. The knife hit the wooden wall and bounced away, clattering across the ground. Caina threw two more in quick succession. Damla, to her credit, remained motionless, an utterly convincing expression of stark fear on her face. The knives struck the wall next to her head and bounced away.
“Ha!” said Cronmer. “Very well. You are hired, both of you. We pay based on the number of performances, with a bezant a performance…”
“A bezant?” said Caina. “A single bezant? Insulting and outrageous!”
After that, it was all over except for the haggling.
###
“You made us join a circus,” said Damla. She sounded dazed.
“I did,” said Caina.
They sat together at a booth in the Inn’s common room, cups of coffee upon the table. Caina had claimed that she and Damla lived together with their elderly aunt in the Alqaarin Quarter, on the other side of Istarinmul from the Cyrican Quarter. Cronmer had been relieved, since that meant he would not have to pay additional rent to the master of the Inn. Caina had insisted that he pay for their meal, and Cronmer had obliged with a great show of grumbling and lamenting.
“You made us join a circus,” said Damla again.
Caina nodded, and their food arrived, chicken over rice, heavily coated with the spicy sauces popular in Istarinmul. One of the Inn’s slave women delivered the plates with a bow, and then departed. Caina watched her go. How much of Istarinmul relied upon slaves? Did slaves outnumber free men? Perhaps the slave woman had once been someone like Bayram or Bahad, someone young and stolen from her family with a forged document.
“You should eat,” said Caina. She did not feel hungry, but she made herself take a bite of the spicy rice. She had not eaten for nearly two days, and she was starting to feel light-headed. Some of that was the hangover, but Caina knew she would need the nourishment. “You will need your strength for the days ahead.”
“Why?” said Damla.
“Because you’ll be on your feet all day,” said Caina. “Rather like running the House of Agabyzus, I imagine.”
“I will do anything to save my sons,” said Damla. “I thought…I thought were going to hire mercenaries, or disguise ourselves as prostitutes to seduce Ulvan’s guards,
or…or turn into shadows and scale the walls. Like the tales say about the Ghosts.”
“None of those plans would work,” said Caina. “Also, I cannot turn into a shadow.”
“I know that!” said Damla, her fingers pressed flat against the table. “Dressing up in a…a scandalous costume before a crowd and having blunt knives thrown at me seems tame by comparison. But…how will this help us find my sons?”
“Because,” said Caina. “Ulvan is celebrating his ascension to Master Slaver in three days. He will be throwing a feast for thousands at his palace, and he has hired every kind of entertainment than can be bought in Istarinmul. Likely he is sponsoring gladiators in every fighting pit in the city.” She thought of her friend Murvain, once a gladiator of Istarinmul, now a Ghost in Malarae. How many men like him had died in the fighting pits to celebrate the triumphs of villains like Ulvan? “And that includes the Circus. Which will be performing in the courtyard of Ulvan’s palace. And that way…”
“And that way,” said Damla, “we can get inside Ulvan’s palace, and see if there is a way to free my sons.”
“Yes,” said Caina.
“It is a mad plan,” said Damla. “Ulvan will have guards, and all his guests will have bodyguards, maybe even Immortals. What can we do amongst so many?”
“I don’t know,” said Caina. “Not yet. Not until I’ve had a look inside the palace. But if there is a way, I will find it.”
Or die in the attempt. Which, in some ways, felt like a relief.
Damla closed her eyes, a tremor going through her face.
“You must be strong now,” said Caina. “Your sons need you, and I need your help. There is no one else. It is just us.”
“Yes,” whispered Damla, opening her eyes. “What do we do first?”
“We finish eating, and then we go rehearse,” said Caina. “We have to prepare for our performance.”
Chapter 7 - The Master Slaver
Several nights later, Caina stood before a mirror inside of one of the tents Cronmer’s workers had raised within Ulvan’s courtyard.
“I am not,” said Damla, her voice an urgent hiss, “going out in front of people wearing…wearing this…this travesty!”
Ghost in the Cowl Page 7
