“Then who does?” said Caina.
Moriz scowled. “Why? Do you want steal my business?”
Yunus began to cackle incoherently.
“Yes, your fine and noble business,” said Caina, unable to control her disgust. “No, I am merely curious. Who sells you wraithblood?”
Moriz spat at her feet. “I am not at liberty to tell you.” He reached for the crossbow. “I suggest you move on, before I lose my temper and…”
Caina seized the crossbow, pushing the weapon up, and the quarrel embedded itself in the ceiling as Moriz squeezed the trigger. Moriz stood a head taller than she did, but he was old and feeble and she was not. She twisted his arm around his back and slammed him into the wall with enough force that a cascade of chipped plates and threadbare turbans fell from the shelves.
She released his arm, and he turned, fury in his eyes, a fury that turned to fear when he felt the point of her dagger tap against his throat.
“No,” Moriz said. “Wait, no. Don’t kill me. I…”
“I don’t want to kill you,” said Caina. “I don’t want to steal your damned business.”
“Then what do you want?” said Moriz.
“Just the answers to some questions,” said Caina.
Moriz swallowed. “Yes, yes. Whatever you want.”
“Where,” said Caina, “do you get wraithblood to sell?”
He tensed. “I…don’t know.”
“I don’t like that answer,” said Caina.
“No, truly, I swear it by the Living Flame!” said Moriz. “I don’t know where it comes from, and I don’t know who makes it or why.”
“Then,” said Caina, giving the dagger a gentle tap against his throat, “from whom do you buy it?”
“I don’t buy it,” said Moriz. “He just gives it to me for free.”
Caina blinked. She had not expected that.
“He gives it to you?” she said.
Moriz offered a shallow nod. On the doorstep, Yunus continued his incoherent crooning.
“For free?” said Caina.
Again Moriz nodded.
For a moment Caina was utterly at a loss. Moriz received wraithblood for free? That made no sense at all. The amount of gold Yunus had just handed over to Moriz could have fed a family for months. And Caina suspected Yunus would have done anything or paid any price to obtain wraithblood.
And Moriz obtained it for free?
“Explain,” said Caina. “Now.”
“It was about five years ago,” said Moriz. “Middle of the night. Fellow in a black cloak and robe shows up on my doorstep. Scared me half to death. Says that I am to take this case of wraithblood,” he gestured at the counter, “and sell it. I thought it was madness. Put it under my counter and forgot about it. But…people started looking for it.” He shrugged. “So I sold it to them. Ran out, and the man with the black cloak showed up and gave me more. Been going on for five years now. Just showed up last night to refresh my stock.”
“So this man in the cloak gives you wraithblood for free, and then you sell it?” said Caina.
“Well, I’m not going to use the wretched stuff,” said Moriz. “You see what it does.” He glanced at the crooning Yunus.
Caina felt her temper slip. “Gods!” She slammed a free hand against a shelf, sending more plates tumbling to the floor. “Is that the creed of Istarinmul? Slaves and wraithblood? Find some form of human misery, some well of despair, and sell it?”
Moriz opened his mouth to answer, looked at her expression, and thought better of it.
“This man in the cloak,” said Caina. “Did you recognize him at all?”
“No,” said Moriz. “I think he was a sorcerer. There were shadows around his face, and his voice…buzzed. Like he had used a spell to conceal himself. He said if I told anyone about him he would kill me.”
“Fear not,” said Caina. She released him and stepped back. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Do…do you want me stop selling it?” said Moriz.
“Do what you wish,” said Caina.
Perhaps if she watched Moriz’s shop later, she could catch the cloaked man in action and follow him to the source of the wraithblood.
Yunus squatted on the stairs, giggling.
“Come along, captain,” said Caina. She grabbed his arm and got him to his feet. “Let’s get you home.”
She wished she had a way to help him. He might have been a guard at the Widow’s Tower, but he was not a bad man, merely self-indulgent and foolish. Yet his indulgence in wine and wraithblood, especially wraithblood, was going to kill him.
“Shadows,” croaked Yunus, staring at her. “I…see shadows around you, so many shadows…”
“I know,” said Caina, helping him along.
“So many shadows,” muttered Yunus. “The demons are coming for you. They haven’t seen you yet, but they will. The knight of wind and air has already seen you, but he cannot protect you from the demons.”
“Better get to bed, captain,” said Caina. “You’re raving. And hallucinating, I expect.”
“Beware the princes of the demons,” said Yunus, and he began to laugh. “You’re a good man, Logar. A good man! We should get drunk together.” He poked her in the chest. “I wish you were in my company!”
“Oh,” said Caina, “maybe I will be.”
Yunus was going to destroy himself…but his folly would allow her to break into the Widow’s Tower.
After she made one final preparation.
Chapter 17 - Keys
Caina checked her reflection in Damla’s mirror one last time.
“Thank you,” said Caina, “for letting me borrow these clothes.”
Damla shrugged. “It is nothing. And, truly, blue suits you.”
“That,” said Caina, “is very kind.”
Still, Damla was right. Caina donned a blue robe with a belt of black leather, a sheathed dagger at the side. Thanks to her current lack of hair, she had been able to wind a blue scarf tightly around her head. She looked like any other Istarish woman of middling prosperity, albeit one of Nighmarian or Szaldic birth.
“It is still peculiar to see you in proper women’s clothing,” said Damla.
“First impressions do last,” said Caina. She remembered the rich gowns of silk and velvet she had worn in Malarae masquerading as Marianna Nereide and Anna Callenius and Sonya Tornesti. After she had met Corvalis, she had worn gowns that were lower and tighter than she would have preferred. Some of that had been her disguise as Sonya Tornesti, but she liked the way Corvalis had looked at her when she dressed like that…
She put it out of her mind. As much as she could, anyway.
“Where are you going?” said Damla. “I suppose you are scouting out some Master Slaver’s palace to rob?”
“Actually,” said Caina, “I am going to go talk to a locksmith.”
“You mean that Strake woman?” said Damla. “The one who works for the slavers?”
“The same,” said Caina, smoothing the front of her robe.
“The wraithblood addict,” said Damla. “She’s likely dangerous.”
“No, this won’t be dangerous,” said Caina. The danger, if everything went according to plan, would come tomorrow night. “I merely want to buy a locked chest, that is all.”
“Well, be careful,” said Damla. “Even if the woman did not work for the Brotherhood, wraithblood addicts are dangerous.”
“I am always careful,” said Caina.
Damla laughed. “And a liar.”
“True,” said Caina. She checked herself one last time, thanked Damla for the clothes, and left.
It was a beautiful day. It was hot, as always, but her borrowed clothes were loose and light. A stiff breeze rose from the sea to the west, sending whirls of dust dancing through the Cyrican Bazaar. Merchants and customers filled the Bazaar, buying and selling and shouting at each other. A few men from the city watch stood guard, making sure the more vocal arguments did not degenerate into violence.
It
all looked so…normal. Caina could have been standing in the Grand Imperial Market in Malarae, or the Great Market in Marsis. To look at the Bazaar, at the clear blue sky and the women buying cloth and pots, it seemed hard to believe that only a few miles away men and women languished in chains, their freedom stolen, that men like Moriz sold sorcerous poisons to unwitting fools.
But that was humanity, was it not? Life went on, regardless of what dark things lurked in the shadows. Even when the dark things came out in the open. When Kalastus had destroyed himself atop the Great Pyramid of Corazain, the sky over Rasadda had filled with fire, and the people of the city were certain that the end of the world had come, that the Living Flame would descend and judge the sins of mankind.
Yet the next day, life had gone on. There was business to be done and money to be made, and the children would not feed themselves nor the rent pay itself.
She missed Halfdan. They had discussed such things often, sometimes for hours on end, and she had always come away from their conversations with a new insight. Their conversations had bored Corvalis, who had regarded the world with fatalistic cynicism. Yet for all that, he had possessed a gift for cheering her up, which had often ended with them in bed together.
Caina closed her eyes for a moment. Weeping in public was not a way to remain inconspicuous.
She opened her eyes, turned, and saw a boy of about eleven or twelve edging toward her, his eyes fixed upon the pouch at her belt.
Caina met his eyes. “Do not even think about it.”
The boy grinned, bowed, and vanished into the crowd.
She set off through the Bazaar, keeping one hand near her money pouch to discourage the pickpockets. Caina left the Bazaar and went deeper into the Cyrican Quarter, past rows of whitewashed houses and shops. A few turns took her to a narrow street lined with smithies, the air heavy with the smell of coal and hot iron. Caina stopped before a three-story shop, a wooden sign with the painted sigil of a key hanging over the door. She knocked at the door, crossed her arms, and waited.
A few moments later the door swung open, and Caina found herself looking at the scowling, scarred face of Azaces. He still wore his chain mail, the hilt of his massive scimitar jutting over his shoulder, and Caina spotted daggers and throwing knives concealed about his person.
Given the number of enemies a woman like Nerina Strake had, it seemed only prudent.
“Good morning,” said Caina. “My name is Ciara. We met about two months ago at Master Ulvan’s palace.”
Azaces regarded her in unblinking silence.
“I would like to speak with Nerina, if I may,” said Caina.
Azaces stared at her for a moment longer then and closed the door. Caina waited, and a few moments later the door opened again. Azaces beckoned, and Caina followed him inside. She found herself in a small sitting room, cushions encircling a round table. It looked dusty and disused, and a flight of wooden stairs led up to the second floor. Caina followed Azaces up the stairs, and entered the workshop of Nerina Strake.
It was perhaps the single most cluttered room she had ever seen.
Three long wooden tables ran the length of the room, each one sagging beneath the weight of tools, half-assembled locks, various mechanical contraptions, and notes. One wall held slates covered with scrawled equations written in chalk, while shelves adorned another. A wooden cabinet, the door open, held papers secured in leather folders, and high windows looked down upon the courtyard behind the shop. Iron shavings and sawdust gritted beneath Caina’s sandals.
Nerina stood before one of the slates, scribbling an equation and muttering to herself. She had traded her widow’s blacks for trousers, a loose shirt, and heavy leather boots, no doubt to make it easier to work. A leather apron hung over her gaunt form, and a set of goggles with magnifying lenses had been pushed back onto her ragged red hair.
“A client?” said Nerina, brushing the chalk dust from her hands. “I…” Her ghostly blue eyes blinked several times, and then she smiled. “Wait, I remember! From the Circus, yes?” Caina nodded. “Ciara who called herself Natalia of the Nine Knives! That was a marvelous performance. Ah, the mathematical elegance of the trajectories…wait! She slapped a hand against her forehead. “Wait, social conventions! Let me inquire after your health.”
“My health is fine,” said Caina. “And before you recall the other questions on your list, I have no family, so you cannot inquire after their well-being, I have neither husband nor children, and I am otherwise well.”
Azaces scowled, but Nerina looked relieved.
“Yes, thank you,” said Nerina. “I can never keep track of them all. A pity we must use language to communicate instead of mathematics. Numbers are ever so much more so efficient.”
“Words have their charm,” said Caina.
“Sentiment,” said Nerina, brushing the dust from her hands. “Inefficient and…quite messy.”
“But it can be enjoyable, in the right time and place,” said Caina.
“True,” said Nerina. She stared out the window for a moment, gazing at the courtyard. “True…though it can cause pain. Such pain. And the remedies are often even more painful.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “Easier to stay with mathematics. So much easier.”
“There’s also no need to go through the list with you,” said Caina, hoping to distract her. “I suspect I can deduce how you have been in the two months since we last spoke.”
“Oh?” said Nerina. The pain faded from her eerie eyes. “That is interesting. Why do you say that?”
“Because,” said Caina, “you have been very busy, and have been working nonstop since Ulvan’s ascension.”
“True enough,” said Nerina, “but how did you know that?”
“Because you are reputed to be the best locksmith in Istarinmul,” said Caina, “and there is a demand for your services.”
“I am the best locksmith in Istarinmul,” said Nerina without a hint of bravado. “But I am also reputed to be a deranged madwoman. Quite rightly, I suppose. So why have I been busy?”
“Because,” said Caina, “every Master Slaver and merchant is living in terror of the Balarigar right now, and they want the best locks their money can buy. Further evidence is found beneath our feet, in the large quantity of metal shavings and sawdust upon the floor. You have been so busy that you haven’t had time to clean your workshop…though I suspect,” Caina ran a finger along a dusty shelf, “that you do not trouble yourself with cleaning on a regular basis.”
Azaces made a rumbling noise that might have been a laugh.
“Correct in all respects,” said Nerina “Did you know that buffoon Ulvan tried to blame me for his losses? As if a common thief could pick my locks. It is not my fault the Balarigar stole his keys.”
“Indeed not,” said Caina.
“But that is the weakness in even the best lock,” said Nerina. “The people who hold the keys, alas. And you are correct. I have been very busy.” She walked to the cabinet, lifted one of the leather folders, and opened it. Inside Caina saw a sheet of paper with detailed notes about a lock. The name of a minor member of the Brotherhood adorned the folder.
And within the cabinet, Caina glimpsed a folder marked with the name of the Widow’s Tower.
“One new lock after another,” said Nerina, tossing the folder into the cabinet. “An irrational defense, of course. This Balarigar is able to bypass locks at will. A locked door or window seems no obstacle to him. Just as rivers and cliffs are no obstacle to an army led by a skilled commander.” She shrugged. “But their fears are helping pay off my debts. And…I enjoy the work…”
“Because it keeps you distracted,” said Caina, “from wraithblood.”
Nerina blinked. “Yes.” For a moment her face was a study in misery, and then she shook her head. “For a circus performer, you are most perceptive.”
“It is a necessary skill for a circus performer,” said Caina. “One needs to know how to gauge the crowd.”
“That is logica
l,” said Nerina. “Did the Circus Of Wonders And Marvels come under suspicion for the Balarigar’s deeds?”
“No,” said Caina. She was grateful for that. Cronmer and Tiri had been kind to her. “There were thousands of people at Ulvan’s palace that night. The Balarigar could have been any one of them. And the audacity of his theft implies great planning and foresight. The Balarigar must have been preparing his raid for months. Only a madman would storm the palace on a whim.”
The gods knew that was the absolute truth.
“Truly,” said Nerina. “The Balarigar is a fascinating mathematical phenomenon.”
“Indeed?” said Caina. “I confess, I would not have used the term ‘mathematical’ to describe a deranged master thief.”
“Well,” said Nerina. “Consider the balance of probability. By rights, the Balarigar should have been killed during his first theft. With every subsequent theft, as the cowled masters grew more familiar with his methods, the Balarigar faced increased dangers. By my calculations, the Balarigar most likely would have been killed during his eighth theft. Instead there have been fifteen known burglaries at his hand. And I consider it likely that Balarigar has undertaken thefts that have gone entirely unnoticed.”
“You sound fascinated,” said Caina.
“As I said, mathematics is the most fascinating science,” said Nerina, “and the Balarigar’s ongoing survival represents a highly improbable potentiality.”
“Perhaps mathematics cannot explain everything,” said Caina.
“But it can!” said Nerina, her eerie eyes widening as she gestured. “The underlying mathematical principles can explain everything, if properly applied.”
“So what is your theory for the Balarigar’s continued survival, then?” said Caina.
“Most likely he is a powerful sorcerer,” said Nerina, “who uses his arcane science to achieve his thefts.” She let out an irritated sigh. “Sorcery is an annoyingly imprecise and unpredictable variable. It is difficult to construct an adequate lock when a sorcerer can simply tear it open with a spell.”
“I find that I must agree,” said Caina.
“Yes. But I…wait!” said Nerina. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Social customs. While our conversation is fascinating, I am sure you did not come here to discuss mathematics with me. You must have business?”
Ghost in the Cowl Page 20
