He led the way to a trio of cushioned chairs upon a wooden dais at the far end of the garden. The Grand Wazir took the place of honor, while Ulvan sat at his right and Callatas at his left, Ricimer standing behind him. Attractive female slaves hurried forward, bearing trays of food and drink.
“Master of revels!” said Ulvan to one of his slaves. “You may begin the celebrations.”
The slave ran over to Cronmer.
“My lord and ladies!” thundered Cronmer, speaking with stentorian flair. He wore a brilliant red coat with black trim over a crisp white shirt and black trousers, his boots polished so brightly he could have used them as a mirror. Caina had to admit that he cut quite an impressive figure. “Masters and emirs! Merchants and Alchemists, and all good people of Istarinmul! By the generosity of our patron Ulvan, Master Slaver of the Brotherhood, we have come before you tonight to perform, to scintillate, to dazzle, to marvel, and in short, to thrill you and awe you. Gentle ladies and those with weak constitutions should withdraw, for the marvels you are about to witness will shock you! Behold the splendors,” Cronmer flung out his arms, “of the Circus Of Wonders And Marvels!”
Applause answered him, loud and enthusiastic. Cronmer knew indeed how to put on a show. Even the Grand Wazir looked entertained, though Callatas watched the proceedings with a distant, bored expression.
And the festivities began.
A dozen different entertainments went on at once. In the corners of the gardens, gladiators struggled to the death in fighting pits, ringed by merchants and minor noblemen laying wagers. Gladiatorial matches were popular in Istarinmul, and they drew a crowd.
But to Caina’s surprise, most eyes were upon the acts of the Circus.
Some of Tozun’s carpenters had raised mirrors and large lanterns upon the courtyard walls, and used them to focus brilliant light upon the gardens. The acrobats moved in stunning leaps, twirling and falling from high platforms only to land uninjured, or forming giant human pyramids that collapsed into graceful patterns. In another portion of the grounds the clowns capered, putting on an elaborate farce that, if Caina guessed correctly, displayed Istarish slaves defeating proud, strutting Anshani anjars and the Shahenshah of Anshan.
It was almost funny. Though Caina still did not like clowns.
In another corner, a large crowd watched Vardo and his lions. The animal tamer wore a costume even more florid than Cronmer’s, and bellowed his commands with dramatic flair. The lions heeded his commands, withdrawing from his cracking whip, and loosed impressive roars that made a few of the women shriek and the men reach for their swords.
Through it all Caina saw Tozun hurrying back and forth, barking commands like the Lord Commander of an Imperial Legion, a small army of carpenters and laborers running after him. A pity they were not in Malarae. He and Theodosia would have got on splendidly…
“Are you nervous?” whispered Damla.
“Not really,” said Caina. “Are you?”
“Yes,” said Damla. She shook her head. “It is so peculiar. In the last week I have lost my livelihood and all that remains of my family. And now I am frightened about appearing before a crowd in this costume.”
“But it’s just a costume,” said Caina, “and we’re not really circus performers. We have our own reasons for being here.”
“Yes,” said Damla. She hesitated. “Have you…seen anything useful?”
“Quite a few things,” said Caina, looking at the gleaming white palace. While the Circus had been setting up in the morning, the grounds of Ulvan’s palace had been chaos, and Caina had taken a discreet look around. Ulvan had nearly two hundred slaves locked away in his cellars, waiting to be sold, and Caina was sure that Bayram and Bahad were among them. “I think that…”
Tozun and a pair of carpenters appeared before them. “Natalia of the Nine Knives. You’re up next.”
“Where?” said Caina.
“Before the dais,” said Tozun. “Apparently my father thinks your act is so impressive that he wants it right in front of the Grand Wazir and the Grand Master. Try not to hit either one of them with a knife, please. I’d prefer not to be executed tonight.”
“But if you were,” said Caina, “you wouldn’t have to settle the quarrel between Vardo and the acrobats.”
Tozun barked a laugh, and Damla looked askance at them both.
“And now, my lords and emirs and Alchemists!” said Cronmer, his voice ringing over the crowds. Caina was amazed that he could make himself so loud without the aid of a spell. “Tonight, for the honor of our patron, the Grand Wazir, and the Grand Master, we have a spectacle never before seen by the good people of Istarinmul!”
“That’s you,” said Tozun.
“Ready?” said Caina.
“No,” said Damla.
“That’s the spirit,” said Tozun.
“From the frozen wastes of the distant north!” thundered Cronmer. “From beyond the boundaries of the Empire of Nighmar itself, a deposed barbarian queen comes before us! Once she ruled a hundred thousand screaming savages with a fist of iron! Now she comes to display her prowess with the blade. Men and women of Istarinmul, behold Natalia of the Nine Knives!”
A Szaldic warrior queen. Caina could only imagine what Tanya would say.
“Oh, the Living Flame preserve us,” whispered Damla.
“Remember to smile,” said Caina, and she started forward.
The lights upon the wall rotated, illuminating an empty space before the dais. Caina strode into the light. Or, more precisely, she strutted into the light, rolling her hips with every step, her shoulders thrown back, her chin raised. She felt every eye upon her, saw Ulvan lean forward, his cushioned throne creaking beneath his bulk. Caina reached the center of the gardens and stopped, hands upon her hips, and gazed at the crowd. She felt very alone, and very exposed, and desperately wished her costume covered more of her skin.
But she kept those emotions from her face, and gazed at the emirs and merchants and slavers and Alchemists with royal hauteur. Damla stood at Caina’s side, and she saw the other woman’s tension and fear.
Just as well. It would enhance the act.
A boy eleven hurried towards Caina, carrying a silver tray. Timost was Tozun’s eldest son, and had inherited both his father’s serious nature and his grandmother’s formidable scowl. If the Circus remained a family business, likely Timost would one day inherit his father’s job.
“Perhaps you think I am lying!” said Cronmer, striding closer. “Perhaps you think this fair young maiden, so queenly and noble, could not possibly wield deadly blades with her delicate hands. But no man calls Cronmer a liar! Behold!”
He reached into his coat, produced an apple, and flung it into the air.
Caina whirled, her skirt billowing around her, and snatched a knife from Timost’s tray. One side of the tray held the blunted throwing knives. The other held knives sharpened to a deadly edge, and she flung the blade.
The knife caught the apple in midair, and it fell into two halves to the ground, followed shortly thereafter by the knife itself.
A murmur of appreciation went through the crowd.
“A fluke, you say?” said Cronmer. “Mere chance? Well, let us put that to the test!”
Cronmer threw two more apples into the air, and Caina hurled two more knives. The throws were easy, and it looked more impressive than it really was. Her blades bisected both apples, and again the murmur of appreciation went through the crowd. One of the apple halves rolled to a stop near Caina’s toes, and she stooped, picked up the apple, and held it over her head.
Then she lowered it to her mouth and took a bite.
A gale of laughter went up, followed by applause.
“Our Natalia can indeed throw knives!” said Cronmer. “But a waste of a good apple, you say? Perhaps we should have real stakes. Men, the ropes!”
“Please don’t kill me,” whispered Damla.
“Don’t worry,” murmured Caina, watching the Grand Wazir and Ulvan. Both men see
med enthralled by the show, though Callatas’s mind was elsewhere. “If we die tonight, it won’t be me that kills you.”
“How terribly reassuring,” said Damla, and then two of the carpenters stepped forward and grabbed her arms.
She put up a good show of shrieking and struggling and calling down furious curses upon their heads. They wrestled her to a wooden board the size of a door and tied her to it, binding her hands over the top of her head.
“Behold,” said Cronmer, “this lovely woman of Istarinmul, unable to move a single inch in either direction. Targets have been painted upon the wood,” he gestured at red circles marking the boards, “and Natalia of the Nine Knives shall throw her razor-edged instruments of death! Shall she hit the circles? Or shall her hand waver, her wrist tremble, and the deadly knives go amiss?”
One of Tiri’s musicians came forward with a drum and began to beat it, striking a slow rhythm. Caina began to walk in a circle around Timost, letting herself sway a little with every step, the maneuver made easier by her sandals’ spiked heels. The drummer’s beat increased, going faster and faster, and at last Caina grabbed one of the blunted throwing knives from the tray, tossed it to herself, and caught it by the blade.
The drumming rose to a crescendo, and Caina flung the knife.
It sank into the board in an inch from Damla’s left ear. She let out a shriek of surprise that Caina was certain had not been feigned, and fresh applause and cheers rang out. Caina walked in a circle again, and then grabbed another knife, tossing it from hand to hand.
And then she put it into the board an inch from Damla’s right ear.
Again the crowds cheered.
Of course, it was only a trick. The knives were blunted, and the worst they could do was give Damla a bad bruise. Furthermore, the board behind her wasn’t entirely wood. It was actually a thick layer of cork over a plank backing, the cork cleverly painted to look like weathered boards. Behind each painted circle rested a powerful lodestone. The lodestone’s force attracted the steel of the knives and pinned them in place.
Still, Damla did not move, did not flinch, and Caina admired the older woman’s courage. She had said she would do anything to save her sons, and she had not been lying.
Just as Caina would have done anything, anything at all, to save Corvalis.
Caina flung another knife, and another, timing her throws to the thunder of the drum. Poor Damla shrieked for every throw, but thankfully remained motionless. Caina whirled, making her movements more of dance, moving in time to the beat. At last she came to the ninth and final knife, and she spun past the tray, her skirt billowing around her, and seized the blade.
And as she came out of the spin, she threw the knife.
It landed with a deep thud above Damla’s head.
A gasp went up from the observers, and then wild applause.
Caina went to the board as the carpenters untied Damla. She took the other woman’s hand, and together they bowed to the crowds, once to the right, once to the left, and then finally to Ulvan’s dais.
“That was…that was…” said Damla.
“Exhilarating?” said Caina.
“I am never doing that again,” said Damla.
“Natalia of the Nine Knives and her lovely assistant Nuri, my lords!” shouted Cronmer. The carpenters took down the corkboard, while Timost hastened away with the tray. Caina walked back towards the tent, Damla following after.
“Now what?” said Damla.
“Now we have something to eat,” said Caina, “and wait for the next time Cronmer calls us out. The celebration will likely go all night. I will have another chance to look around, and…”
A Cyrican slave in a gray tunic approached them. He was in his early forties, and looked healthy and well fed. His tunic was made from fine cloth, and he wore an ornamental steel collar. One of Ulvan’s house slaves, then, and one likely entrusted with a position of authority.
“Natalia of the Nine Knives?” he said in Istarish with a heavy Cyrican accent.
“Aye, I am,” said Caina. “What do you wish?”
“My master Ulvan of the Brotherhood bade me to bring you to him,” said the slave with a mocking smile. “Your…performance has captured his eye, and he desires to speak with you. Immediately.”
Caina turned her head, and saw Ulvan staring at her and Damla with a predatory smile. He had been willing to forge documents to kidnap free men to sell as slaves.
So what would he do to acquire two women he found attractive?
Caina’s plan had given her a good look inside Ulvan’s grounds and palace…but had ended up with her standing barely dressed before three of the most powerful men in Istarinmul.
Perhaps this had not been such a good plan after all.
“Of course,” said Caina. “We should be honored.”
The slave bowed, that mocking smile still on his face, and gestured for them to follow him.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” hissed Damla.
“So do I,” said Caina.
Chapter 8 - The Master Alchemist
The cheers and applause continued as the Circus entertained the crowds, but silence seemed to close around Caina and Damla as they drew closer to Ulvan.
And his powerful guests.
Ulvan sat upon the right throne, his bulk filling the chair, his dark, bloodshot eyes scrutinizing Caina. Erghulan Amirasku sat the center, in the place of honor. The Grand Wazir sat erect and straight, as if ready to leap into battle at the slightest notice. Callatas sat Erghulan’s left, his hands forming a tent before his face. His face gave away nothing, but his gray eyes were distant.
Caina felt the potent sorcery radiating from the blue gem upon Callatas’s chest. She could see that the gemstone did indeed glow with a faint azure light. Was it a warding talisman, perhaps? Or a weapon Callatas wielded against his enemies?
Ricimer stood behind the Master Alchemist’s chair. He, too, looked preoccupied, as if Ulvan’s ascension was a distraction from more pressing business.
A dozen Immortals stood guard around the dais, their glowing blue eyes eerie in their skull-masks of black steel. She could not see their expression, but she felt the predatory weight of their gazes against her bare skin like a chill wind.
Caina knelt before the dais, and Damla did the same, her face a mask. The gravel of the path dug into Caina’s bare knees, and she kept herself from wincing, her expression calm as she waited for Ulvan or the Grand Wazir to speak.
“You may rise, Natalia of the Nine Knives,” said Ulvan at last, gesturing with his right hand, the thick fingers glittering with rings.
“Thank you, my lord Master Slaver,” said Caina.
Ulvan loosed a rumbling chuckle. “Well, not quite yet. But soon enough, eh? Your knife throwing has quite pleased me. As has your…dancing.”
Caina lowered her eyes, her mind racing. “Thank you, my lord.” Damla remained rigid at Caina’s side, her fear evident.
Erghulan laughed. “Humbly spoken for a deposed warrior queen of the Szaldic nation.”
Caina offered a timid smile. “That is just a story for the crowds, my lord Wazir. Something to make them clap and throw coins, yes? Everyone comes to see Natalia of the Nine Knives throw knives. No one would come to see a poor girl from Varia Province.”
“Perhaps not, girl,” rumbled Ulvan. “You would draw the eye wherever you went, I think.”
“My lord is too kind to his humble servant,” said Caina.
Erghulan grunted. “For a circus girl you are…surprisingly well-spoken.”
Caina shrugged. “My lord is too kind, and has no interest in my tale.”
“Indulge my curiosity, my dear,” said Ulvan with a wave of his hand.
“Of course,” said Caina. “Our father was a Szaldic-born man, a merchant of Mornu in Varia Province in the Empire of Nighmar. When I was a child I often accompanied him on his journeys, and learned to speak with many kinds of people. Alas, he died, may the Living Flame rest his soul, and my sister
and I live with my aunt in Istarinmul. We have made our way in the world as best as we can.”
“Your sister?” said Ulvan, his eyes shifting to Damla.
Damla said nothing, a tremor going through her limbs, though Caina could not tell if it was from rage or fear.
“Well, woman?” said Ulvan. “Can you not speak for yourself?”
“Please forgive my sister, my lords,” said Caina. “She is very shy, and not used to speaking to men of such honor and stature.” Damla caught the hint and gazed at the ground.
“Your sister?” said Erghulan. “You look nothing alike.”
“Half-sister, in truth, my lord,” said Caina. “I fear Father had a taste for Istarish girls.”
Ulvan and Erghulan both laughed. Callatas only frowned, and seemed to come out of his reverie. His cold gray eyes focused on Caina, seeming to examine and weigh her, like a scholar considering a document.
“Well, it seems your father was a man of good taste, then,” said Ulvan. “I cannot fault a man for his appetites.”
“Given your lust for both food and slave girls,” said Erghulan, “it would be most hypocritical.”
“Indeed,” said Ulvan “Though Szaldic women with their blue eyes and pale skin…they do have a certain charm of their own.”
“My lord is far too kind,” said Caina, “to his humble servant.”
Ulvan started to open his mouth, but Callatas spoke first.
“A question for you, child,” he said, his voice dry and dusty.
Both Ulvan and Erghulan looked at the Grand Master of the Alchemists. Ulvan seemed slightly annoyed, but Caina did not miss the faint flicker of tension that went through both the slaver and the Grand Wazir.
They were afraid of Callatas.
“Of course, my lord Alchemist,” said Caina.
“What,” said Callatas, “do you think of all this?”
Caina had no need to feign confusion at his question. “The…festivities, my lord? They are very splendid, and Master Ulvan is most generous to his performers. Or the palace? It is a grand house, so pleasing to the eye…”
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