“Are they?” said Callatas. “Or are they hopelessly corrupt?”
Erghulan gave a weary sigh.
“I…do not understand, my lord,” said Caina.
“Do you know what the essential nature of life is, child?” said Callatas.
“To…not be dead, my lord?” said Caina. Ulvan chuckled.
Callatas did not smile. “The essential nature of life is that of predator and prey. The wolf and the sheep. The lion and the gazelle. The strong devouring the weak until their strength fails and they, too, are defeated and devoured in turn. Endlessly this cycle turns, over and over again.”
“It sounds very terrible, my lord,” said Caina. “Like the tribesmen of the Argamaz, or the nomads of the steppes. It is good to live in the Most Divine Padishah’s city, where such things do not happen.”
That was a lie, given that one of the men before her had kidnapped Damla’s sons. And that Callatas had likely murdered dozens of unborn children to ensure his longevity.
For the first time Callatas smiled, a cold, indulgent smile. “That is the nature of life. Even here, in Istarinmul, where the masters rule and the slaves serve…and then the masters eat the slaves in turn.”
“All men must respect the Padishah’s laws and decrees,” said Caina.
“Laws are the artifice of a civilization,” said Callatas, “and civilization is a false edifice. An attempt to break the circle of predator and prey. A folly, for the circle cannot be broken. All things made by the mind of man fail in time – laws, kingdoms, empires. But the essential nature of mankind never fails, our endless cycle of violence and death, of predator and prey. This is the only thing eternal about mankind…and therefore we must perfect it. Embrace it to its fullest degree. Only then shall a higher order of man arise. What do you think of that, child?”
Caina thought it sounded utterly insane. Little different from the speeches Sicarion had given to justify his murders and cruelty. Caina wondered if Callatas had ever met Sicarion.
Or if he had ever met the Moroaica.
“I…do not know, my lord,” said Caina, bowing. “Please forgive me. I am only a humble girl, and such philosophies are beyond my comprehension.”
“Yes,” said Callatas, settling upon his throne, the distant look returning to his face. “I suppose they are.”
“The Grand Master is a man of great learning and wisdom,” said Ulvan, “but I fear his deep thoughts are far beyond my comprehension. I am a man of far simpler tastes and pleasures.” His smile was just short of a leer. “And you have pleased me greatly, Natalia of the Nine Knives.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Caina.
Ulvan clapped his hands, and the household slave stepped forward. “Mardos! A purse of gold for Natalia and her sister. Thirty golden bezants, I think, in celebration of my ascension.” His leer widened. “And perhaps you and your sister could dance for me in private after the festivities, yes?” Before Caina could answer, he turned his head towards the Immortals. “You, take Natalia and her sister to my bedchamber, and keep them there until I arrive.”
Mardos bowed, and started towards Caina and Damla, accompanied by four Immortals.
Damla stiffened, her eyes widening with sudden fear.
Caina calculated the risks. She had only seen the public areas of Ulvan’s palace, and here was a chance to find his inner sanctum, his keys, his strong room, and his records. She wanted to get inside, and this was a golden opportunity to do so. But Damla would be with her, and Caina did not know how much danger the older woman could endure.
And Caina did not have any of her tools and weapons, and no way of getting past the Immortals. And the gods only knew what kinds of cruelties a man liked Ulvan enjoyed.
If the Immortals took them into Ulvan’s bedchamber, the odds that she and Damla would come out alive again were low.
Yet Ulvan was clearly a man of tremendous lusts and appetites, one who could afford the most expensive foods and the most beautiful slave women as his concubines.
He would be used to perfection.
Caina flinched, hissed, and raised her hands to her head.
“Is something amiss?” said Ulvan.
“No, my lord, of course not,” said Caina. “It’s just that…ah! It itches!”
“Itches?” said Ulvan.
Caina reached up, pulled off her wig, and started scratching the black stubble of her hair.
Ulvan’s eyes got wider.
“You foolish woman!” said Caina. Damla blinked in surprise. “You said the herbs would take care of the lice! You said that apothecary knew what he was doing! Then…ah!” She scratched more vigorously, tucking the wig under her arm. “Then why does it itch so damned much?”
“Ah…yes,” said Damla, catching on. “It is your own fault, foolish child! If you would bathe more than once a month, you would not be so filthy! And carrying on with every pox-addled mercenary that happens to wander through the city! Little wonder you itch! A thousand baths for a thousand days would not be enough to wash you clean…”
“Forgive my sister, my lord,” said Caina, still scratching her head. “We would be delighted to perform for you in private, whatever you…”
“No need,” said Ulvan, disgusted. “You, pay her.” Mardos came forward and gingerly deposited a small pouch of gold in Caina’s hand. “I suggest, Natalia, that you attend to your personal hygiene with the same diligence as your knives.”
“It is her fault, my lord,” said Caina, pointing at Damla. “I…”
Erghulan laughed. “It seems you dodged an arrow, Ulvan. Or perhaps a thousand tiny, biting little arrows.”
Ulvan scowled. “I…”
“Enough,” said Callatas. “You two, return to your employer.” He waved a hand at Caina and Damla. “Ricimer, Ulvan. A word with me.” He rose to his feet, and Ricimer followed his master like a white-robed shadow.
“Now?” said Ulvan. “In the middle of the festivities?”
“Yes,” said Callatas with asperity, “now.”
Ulvan sighed, but heaved himself out of his throne. The three men walked towards the grand entrance to the palace, leaving Erghulan to oversee the celebration. Caina’s eyes followed the Master Alchemist. There were a number of trees and bushes ringing the foundation of the palace, providing excellent cover for anyone who wanted to overhear them.
And she badly wanted to hear what Callatas and Ulvan had to say to each other.
“You heard the master,” said Mardos, stepping away as if he feared to catch Caina’s lice. “Away with you.”
Caina walked away, Damla following.
“The Living Flame preserve us,” hissed Damla once they were out of earshot. “He would have killed us. He would have done worse than kill us.”
“Aye,” said Caina, her mind working.
Tiri and Tozun rushed to meet them.
“Are you all right?” said Tiri. She wore a brilliant red gown with black trim, making her look fierce and lovely. “I feared that Ulvan would take you both. He is a cruel man, and if he were not paying us a fortune….”
“Oh, it was all right,” said Caina, lifting her wig. “I happened to mention that I have lice, and that rather cooled his ardor.”
Tiri laughed. “Good thinking.” She shook her head. “Perhaps it would have been better to take the Circus to the Empire. The lords of the Empire are as arrogant as the emirs, but at least they never try to take our attractive performers as slaves.”
“I think Nuri needs to lie down for a spell,” said Caina.
“Yes, in the tent,” said Tozun. “Father won’t call you for another few hours yet. A few more acts to rotate.”
“Thank you,” said Caina, and she hurried forward as fast as her high-heeled sandals would allow.
The tent was deserted, and Damla sat upon a chest of clothes, shivering.
“That was terrifying,” she said. “Those were most powerful men in Istarinmul. They…they could have done whatever they wanted to us.”
“Aye
,” said Caina, pulling off her sandals and handing them to Damla. “But we’re not dead yet.” She opened up another chest, yanked out a blue robe and turban, and donned them over her skimpy costume.
“What are you doing?” said Damla.
Caina pulled out a dark cloak and scarf and draped them over one arm. “I’m going to spy on Ulvan and Callatas. I want to hear what they’re saying.”
“Are you mad?” said Damla, aghast.
“Most likely,” said Caina. “Wait here.”
Before Damla could answer, Caina slipped out the back of the tent, walking as fast as she could without drawing attention to herself. With the help of the poor lighting, hopefully she would look like another middling merchant come to Ulvan’s celebration in hope of gaining the patronage of the powerful. She circled past one of the gladiatorial matches, moving closer to the ring of bushes surrounding the palace, and waited until she heard a cheer from the crowd, every eye drawn to the gladiators.
Caina ducked into the bushes, throwing the dark cloak around herself and pulling the hood over her head. No one shouted an alarm, and she crept through the bushes, her bare feet making no noise against the soil, until she came within earshot of the broad marble stairs leading to the palace’s main doors.
Ulvan, Callatas, and Ricimer stood upon the stairs, speaking in low voices.
“A waste of money and time,” Callatas said.
Ulvan shrugged, his ornate robes glinting in the firelight. “To you, perhaps. But with respect, Grand Master, not all men share your…ascetic tastes. Have I not earned my wealth?” Caina scowled, thinking of Bayram and Bahad. “Shall not the people of Istarinmul see my magnificence and prestige?”
“Hollow vanity,” said Callatas. “Typical of this debauched and corrupted age.”
“But it has its uses, Master,” said Ricimer. The Alchemist had a cold, precise voice. “Ulvan is a Master Slaver now, with a corresponding rise in prestige and influence. That will make it easier for him to acquire slaves…and far easier for him to transfer those slaves to you.”
“Perhaps,” said Callatas. “So. How many do you have for me?”
“Now?” said Ulvan, affronted. “You wish to discuss business now?”
Callatas said nothing, staring at Ulvan.
The Master Slaver swallowed, sweat glistening on his bearded face. “Yes, of course. My Collectors have been diligent, and have acquired nearly two hundred additional slaves in the last week.”
“Nearly?” said Callatas.
“One hundred and ninety-four,” admitted Ulvan.
“I asked for four hundred,” said Callatas.
“The College of Alchemists might be able to transmute lead to gold,” said Ulvan, “but even the Brotherhood cannot conjure slaves out of thin air. The market…the market is very bad right now. The catastrophe of the golden dead…”
“The catastrophe of the golden dead merely proves that I am right,” said Callatas with annoyance. “I should have acted sooner. I would have acted sooner…if not for the consistent failure of my suppliers.”
“Your philosophical insights are far beyond my intelligence, I fear,” said Ulvan. “But practical considerations, my lord Grand Master, are my problem, and they are most severe. The golden dead threw the Padishah’s realm into chaos, and half the overland roads are inaccessible. And I dare not send Collectors to kidnap fresh slaves from the Empire, not with the peace with the Emperor still new. If the Grand Wazir finds out that we have aggravated the Empire…he is sympathetic to your plans, Grand Master, but if we annoy the Empire, he will turn against you.”
“Then find other sources,” said Callatas.
Ulvan spread his meaty hands. “I have. More slaves are coming from the Alqaarin sultanates as we speak. And my scribes have been forging Writs of Servitude, permitting us to take slaves from the citizens of Istarinmul.”
Ricimer frowned. “That is risky, sir. Seize the wrong person, and we shall draw unwelcome attention.”
“It is a risk,” admitted Ulvan, “but a minimal one. My scribes have made sure to pick targets who lack the resources to fight back. And should it come before a magistrate, well…hakims and wazirs can be bribed, and Erghulan can use his influence to intervene on our behalf. Though should the Most Divine Padishah take an interest…”
“He will not,” said Callatas. “I am certain of that.”
“So I can assure you, Grand Master,” said Ulvan, “that I am making every effort to meet your needs.”
“See that you continue,” said Callatas. “It is my favor, Ulvan, that has raised you to the rank of Master Slaver. The other cowled masters are complacent fools, but you had the vision to aid me, and you shall be rewarded for it. When can you send the new slaves to the Widow’s Tower?”
The name stirred a memory in Caina’s head. She had heard of it – a fortress and an armory outside of Istarinmul proper, guarding the southeastern road towards the Desert of Candles.
“Within seven days, Grand Master,” said Ulvan. “The necessary carts must be…”
“No,” said Callatas. “You shall send them tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” said Ulvan, flabbergasted. “But, Grand Master. The logistics of…”
“If you cannot obtain the quantity I desire,” said Callatas, “I shall at least settle for prompt delivery. Tomorrow, Master Slaver, at the Widow’s Tower, before dark. All of your slaves. You shall be paid the usual fee…with extra for timely delivery.”
“Very well,” said Ulvan. “It can be done, though they shall not arrive until the end of the day. It is a half-day’s walk to the Widow's Tower from the Alqaarin Quarter.”
“The Alqaarin Quarter,” murmured Callatas, and for the first time he looked almost amused. “Did you know that it was once called the Iramisian Quarter?”
Damla claimed that Callatas’s sorcery had destroyed the city of Iramis in a single instant. Ulvan, too, seemed to have heard the story, given how quickly he bowed.
“You may rely upon me, Grand Master,” said Ulvan. “You shall not be disappointed.”
“I hope not,” said Callatas.
Ulvan bowed yet again. “But if you will excuse me, I must return to my guests. Too much time and my absence will be noted.”
“Go,” said Callatas. “I will join you presently.”
Ulvan bowed still another time and waddled away, leaving Callatas alone with Ricimer.
For a moment the two Alchemists stood in silence.
“He is a fool, Master,” said Ricimer.
“Truly,” said Callatas. “But even fools have their uses. And he cannot help being what he is. He is a typical product of Istarish civilization – slovenly, gluttonous, enslaved to the appetites of his flesh. A contemptible fool. Yet held up as the exemplar, the ideal of an Istarish slaver.” He gazed at the sky. “For now.”
“For now,” agreed Ricimer.
“Odd, is it not?” said Callatas. “That you should understand my vision instead of my brother Alchemists? Though perhaps it is not surprising. The life of the northern barbarians is savage and brutal…but cleaner, and free from the corruptions of an elderly civilization. But enough musings. Have the Teskilati contacted you?”
“They have, Grand Master,” said Ricimer. “The Ghosts have not returned to Istarinmul.”
A chill went down Caina’s spine.
“Oh, they shall,” said Callatas.
Ricimer shrugged. “Perhaps the Ghosts will not return, now that there is peace between the Padishah and the Emperor.”
“The Emperor,” said Callatas, “does not fully control the Ghosts. Their brotherhood styles itself as the defender of the common man, of slaves and the helpless and the weak. They will return, and they will prove troublesome. Remind the Teskilati. I shall pay the usual reward for any dead Ghost.”
A cheer went up from the crowds filling the gardens.
“Perhaps we should return,” said Ricimer. “The formal ceremony shall begin soon, and your absence would be noticed.”
&nbs
p; “Bah,” said Callatas. “Foolishness, all of it. Still, you speak wisdom. Though the day will come when this nonsense will ends forever.”
Ricimer grinned, and the two Alchemists walked from sight.
Caina let out a long breath and counted to fifty. No one appeared from the palace’s doors, and the sound of the revels continued. She got to her feet and crept through the bushes, straightening up as she came back to one of the gravel paths. The gladiatorial match had ended, and another had begun. Tumbling acrobats formed elaborate dances before the dais as Cronmer exhorted the crowd.
Why? Why did Callatas and Ricimer need so many slaves? For that matter, why did they need slaves so badly that they were willing to risk offending the nobility and magistrates of Istarinmul? No one powerful cared about someone like Damla, but if Ulvan kept his course, sooner or later he would kidnap the relative of someone influential, and the other Master Slavers would use it as an excuse to turn on him.
But she could consider the puzzle later, once she had gotten Damla’s sons free.
Assuming she survived the process, of course.
It had to be tonight. Ulvan would move the slaves tomorrow, and they would be under heavy guard for the journey to the Widow’s Tower. That created opportunities, but Ulvan would be ready for any escape attempts. That meant Caina had to get Bayram and Bahad out tonight, while Ulvan and his men slept off their revels.
Caina slipped into the tent and returned her robe and turban and cloak to the chest with a sigh of relief. As scanty as her costume was, at least it kept her cool – the Istarish nights were only slightly cooler than the Istarish days.
“Damla?” said Caina, looking around.
But Damla had vanished.
Chapter 9 - The Locksmith
Caina donned her sandals and wig with a curse, giving her reflection a quick check.
She rebuked herself. Leaving Damla alone had been foolish. Caina was accustomed to danger, but she had forgotten the strain mortal peril had on someone unused to it. And Damla’s sons were locked in cells beneath Ulvan’s palace. What if Damla had flung herself screaming at the guards, demanding that they release her sons? Or what if she tried to sneak into the mansion and rescue them?
Ghost in the Cowl Page 10
