Ghost in the Cowl (11 page)

“Try using language,” said Caina. “Why would you think that I am a sorceress?”

Nerina thought for a moment. “The shadows.”

“Now it is my turn,” said Caina, taking care to conceal her curiosity, “for two questions.”

Nerina nodded. “This is equitable.”

“You see shadows when you look at me, don’t you?” said Caina. “I suspect is it is because of the wraithblood.” 

Azaces growled deep in his throat, his eyes narrowing further. 

“How did you know?” said Nerina. 

“That you are a wraithblood addict?” said Caina. “The eyes. Obviously.”

“No,” said Nerina. “That when I look at you I see shadows.”

“I’ve spoken with other wraithblood addicts,” said Caina. “Ones who have…lost control of themselves, in a way that you have not. They kept talking about shadows when they look at me.”

“Yes,” said Nerina. “That makes sense. There is…a shadow on you, somehow. It is difficult to quantify. Certainly I could not do so with an equation. Wraithblood…induces hallucinations, powerful hallucinations. Yet they are often random, especially when meeting strangers. But I have not taken any wraithblood for three months. And…this is new.” She reached under her headscarf and scratched her ragged red hair for a moment. It looked as if she had cut it herself without benefit of a mirror. “There is a…haze of shadow that wraps around you. I have never seen anything like it, even when I was in the deepest grips of wraithblood hallucination.” 

“A haze of shadow?” said Caina. 

Nerina gave a sharp shake of her head. “That is the best way I can express it. Sometimes it looks like a web, or…perhaps a shadow falling upon you. Do you have any explanation for it?”

“No,” lied Caina. But she could think of several. She had been scarred by Maglarion’s necromancy. She had carried the spirit of the Moroaica within her for nearly a year, and surely that had left its mark upon her. She had traveled into the netherworld twice and returned, and had been in New Kyre when Jadriga had unleashed the golden dead. 

Or was it something else, something that she did not yet understand?

This was neither the time nor the place to worry about such things, and Caina had to find Damla before something dangerous happened. But this might be Caina’s only chance to speak with a lucid wraithblood addict, and the wraithblood disturbed her. Who would make and sell a sorcerous elixir to Istarinmul’s poor? Alcohol and opium and hallucinogens were one thing. But a sorcerous elixir? Who would do that?

And why?

“Tell me about wraithblood,” said Caina. “Everything you know. That is my second question.” 

Again Azaces made that displeased growl.

“It is a drug,” said Nerina, her expression distant. “Only available in Istarinmul. It first appeared six years past, and no one knows who makes it. In physical appearance is a thick black sludge, hence the name. The user consumes it orally, and wraithblood has neither taste nor smell. When taken it induces euphoria, an indifference to pain, and bursts of manic energy.” She smiled. “I finished a lot of locks.”

“But there are more…deleterious effects,” said Caina.

“Not at first,” said Nerina. “After perhaps a year of heavy use. The hallucinations begin. At first they are…benign, lovely. Dead loved ones, or persons of emotional significance. Fantasies of wish fulfillment.” Her voice remained calm, a scholar discussing mathematics, but a muscle near her left eye twitched. “The visions become more disturbing after that. Images of blood and death and mayhem. A recurrence of bad memories. Some form of insanity usually appears, often followed by debilitation and death. The eyes change color during this phase of addiction, though the change can occur months before the visions become harmful.”

“If you knew how dangerous this elixir was,” said Caina, “why did you take it?”

“My father addicted me to it,” said Nerina. 

“Your father?” said Caina, stunned.

“Ragodan Strake,” said Nerina. 

And suddenly Caina remembered where she had heard the name of Strake before. 

It had been six years ago, when she had still been with Theodosia in Malarae, helping the Ghosts hunt down the slavers working for Haeron Icaraeus. They had arranged the downfall of Lord Macrinius, one of Haeron Icaraeus’s supporters. Macrinius had been executed, but many of his followers had fled the Empire. 

Ragodan Strake had been one of them. He had been a secret member of the Brotherhood for years, kidnapping farmers from the Caerish provinces and shipping them overseas to the markets of Istarinmul. He had thrown in his lot with Macrinius, believing that Haeron Icaraeus would become Emperor. When Macrinius had met his downfall, Ragodan had been clever enough to escape before the Ghosts caught up to him. 

“I’ve…never met him,” said Caina. That was true enough.

“Unsurprisingly, as he has been dead for several years,” said Nerina. “He was a slave trader operating within the Empire, a risky occupation as one can imagine. There was some upheaval in the Empire several years past, and Father had to flee to Istarinmul. His enemies had him assassinated two years ago.”

“But he…addicted you to wraithblood?” said Caina. “On purpose?”

“Father was quite clever,” said Nerina. “Once I learned his real occupation, I refused to make locks for him any longer. To keep me under control, he addicted me to wraithblood. Soon, my qualms over his slave trading…ceased to trouble me. Later I wed my husband Malcolm, despite Father’s protest. But then Malcolm was murdered, and my father assassinated…and I fear I quite lost my mind. And then I lost myself in wraithblood.”

“Gods,” said Caina. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” On impulse she touched Nerina’s shoulder. Azaces stirred, reaching for his sword again. Nerina blinked several times and looked away. 

“Thank you,” she said. “You…understand, do you not? I prefer equations to emotions. But…I could see it in you. You understand.”

“Better than I would like,” said Caina. “Why aren’t you dead? The wraithblood should have killed you by now.”

“Azaces,” said Nerina, giving the towering bodyguard a smile. The giant warrior’s grim face softened slightly as he looked down at Nerina. “After my husband and father died, I freed all their slaves so I could kill myself with wraithblood in peace. Azaces refused to go. Rather against my will, he took me to the monks of the Living Flame. They have grown skilled helping those addicted to wraithblood.” She took a deep breath. “I have been three months without wraithblood.”

“You didn’t approve of slave traders,” said Caina. Nerina nodded. “So why are you here?” 

“I am in severe need of money,” said Nerina. “I accrued mathematically unsustainable debts while I was incapacitated, and Ulvan pays well.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “Just between you and me…while I am indifferent to matters of aesthetics, I find the ratio between Ulvan’s height, mass, and circumference to be most disagreeable.” 

Caina burst out laughing, and Nerina smiled. “That is one way to put it, I suppose. I must go. I must find my sister.”

“Your sister?” said Nerina. “You mean the woman tied to the board? She does not look like your sister.”

“Half-sister,” said Caina. 

“Ah,” said Nerina. “She ran behind that wagon about fourteen minutes ago.” She pointed at one of the Circus’s wagons. “She seemed in distress.”

“Thank you,” said Caina.

“No, thank you,” said Nerina. “This conversation was most stimulating.”

Caina turned to go, but a sudden impulse came to her.

“The star is the key to the crystal,” said Caina.

Azaces stared at her, frowning.

“What is that?” said Nerina.

“A line from a poem about Iramis,” said Caina. “Do you know what it means?”

“I fear not,” said Nerina. “I have little interest in history, and even less in poetry. I confess I had never understood the Istarish obsession with poetry. It would be more stimulating if the poets recited mathematical equations so all could appreciate their innate beauty and harmony.” 

“The next time I see a poet,” said Caina, “I will be sure to suggest it. Farewell.”

She hurried into the dense-packed maze of tents and wagons in the courtyard’s corner. They were deserted, with the performers either entertaining the crowd or enjoying some of the free food and drink of Ulvan’s largess. Caina moved behind a wagon and stopped, muttering a curse at her sandals. Gods, but high heels made her ankles ache. 

The sound of faint weeping reached her ears.

Damla huddled against one of the wagon wheels, legs drawn up against her chest. Her eye makeup had run in dark lines down her cheeks, her eyes closed.

“Damla,” said Caina.

She opened her dark eyes and looked up. “It’s useless, isn’t it? There are so many guards. I’m never…I’m never going to see my sons again, am I? You got us as close as you could…but it’s futile, futile…”

The tears came again, harder.

“Damla,” said Caina, kneeling next to her. “Listen to me.”

Damla looked at her, lips quivering with misery and grief.

“Tonight,” said Caina.

“What about tonight?” said Damla, wiping her eyes and smearing her makeup further.

“Tonight,” said Caina, “I am either going to be killed, or I am going to free your sons.” 

Chapter 10 - Nightfighter

“Tonight?” said Damla, stunned.

Caina nodded.

“But…but how?” said Damla. “We are but two women. Ulvan has soldiers, Immortals, the friendship of Master Alchemists…”

“It has to be tonight,” said Caina, “because tomorrow Ulvan is selling his captives to Callatas, who will move them to the Widow’s Tower.”

Damla groaned and closed her eyes again. “The Widow’s Tower? Are you sure?” 

“I am,” said Caina.

“That is one of the armories where the Alchemists brew Hellfire,” said Damla. “They go through hundreds of slaves a year. Most are killed in accidents. Others are horribly burned, and thrown outside the walls to scream until they die of thirst…” She closed her eyes and shuddered again.

“That is why it must be tonight,” said Caina.

“But how?” said Damla.

“Leave that to me,” said Caina. “Will you do as I say?”

“I have no choice,” said Damla. “I will do whatever you ask.”

“Get dressed and go back to the House of Agabyzus,” said Caina. “Give Cronmer an excuse for both of us. Tell him that we got sick, Ulvan frightened us, whatever. So long as he believes it. Then go at once to the House of Agabyzus and wait. Your sons will return by dawn. If they do not, then assume that both I and your sons are dead, and you must carry on as best you can.”

“But,” said Damla, “you…”

Caina raised a finger. “No questions. The time for talking is over, and the hour for action is upon us. Will you do as I say?”

Damla nodded, her eyes full of fear and wonder. 

“I need you to do one more thing before you depart,” said Caina. “Wait fifteen minutes.” She got to her feet, walked to the next wagon, and reached under it. A moment’s work located the pack she had hidden there, and the flask she had taken from the Sanctuary. “After fifteen minutes, spill this liquid into the bed of the cart behind you.” 

“What is it?” said Damla, looking at the metal flask.

“It is an elixir used by stagehands in the Empire,” said Caina. “A smoke bomb. When exposed to air, after a short time it flashes, makes a loud bang, and generates a little heat and quite a lot of smoke.” She had found a large supply of it in the Sanctuary. “The cart is full of tent canvas, so when the smoke bomb goes off it will make a smoky and noticeable fire.” 

“You’re going to burn Cronmer’s cart?” said Damla.

“If I live through this, I will buy him a new one,” said Caina. “Now. Repeat what I have told you.” 

“Wait fifteen minutes. Spill the flask in the wagon,” said Damla, taking it from Caina’s hand. “Get dressed. Tell Cronmer and Tiri that we are sick and are leaving. Then leave at once myself.”

“Good,” said Caina, straightening up and pulling Damla to her feet. 

“What are you going to do?” said Damla.

“Make trouble. Break things,” said Caina. “What I do best.” She peered at the palace. “Go. Right now.”

Damla opened her mouth, closed it again. “Very well. Ciara or Marius or whatever your real name is…thank you. I don’t understand what you are doing or why, but I know you are about to put yourself at great risk.”

“Why am I doing this? I hate slavers,” said Caina. “As to what…I hope to tell you tomorrow.” She pulled the pack from beneath the wagon. “Go.” 

“May the Living Flame be with you,” said Damla, uncorking the flask.

Caina shouldered her pack, the strap digging into the bare skin of her shoulder, kicked off her sandals, picked them up, and hastened back to the dressing tent. Thankfully, tent was still deserted. She stripped off her scant costume, stuffed it into a trunk, and opened her pack.

She pulled out the clothing from the pack, and donned black trousers, black boots, and a black jacket lined with steel plates for deflecting knives. Daggers went into concealed sheaths in her boots, and around her waist went a belt holding throwing knives, lockpicks, a tight-coiled slender rope, and other useful tools. Black gloves went over her hands, and Caina strapped more throwing knives to sheaths over her sleeves.

Piece by piece she donned the clothes and equipment of a Ghost nightfighter.

She had not worn them for nearly a month, not since the day Jadriga had killed Corvalis in the netherworld. Caina had avoided looking at them, fearful of the memories they would bring. Yet the pain did not come. She felt fear, certainly – she was about to face deadly danger. And she also felt anger, anger for Damla, anger that Ulvan had grown so wealthy off the misery of others.

But, more, she felt…anticipation.

Eagerness, even. 

The Ghosts’ training and Halfdan’s teaching had made her into a weapon, and a weapon was meant to be used. She had been ready to leave that behind, ready to settle into a quieter life with Corvalis. But Corvalis was dead, and she had been banished from Malarae.

That life had been taken from her.

But she was still a weapon, and weapons were meant to be used.

Her eyes turned towards the tent flap, towards Ulvan’s palace.

And here she had found a worthy target indeed. 

Caina donned a robe and turban over her black clothes, brown Sarbian garments that looked tattered and worn. She twisted the strap of her pack and made it into a satchel, and grabbed a false beard from another trunk, affixing it to her jaw and chin. It looked ridiculous, but in the dim nighttime light it would work. She would look like an old Sarbian merchant, no doubt one of the desert tribesmen who came to Istarinmul to sell captives to Ulvan of the Brotherhood. Someone admitted to the festivities out of obligation, rather than any real respect on Ulvan’s part.

Caina put a limp into her stride, ducked out the back of the tent, and circled through the crowds. Most of the guests had gathered around the space before Ulvan’s dais, watching the acrobats, while the rest watched Vardo make his lions dance. Caina hobbled past them, muttering to herself in a rasping voice, and as she expected, the crowds ignored her. 

She moved to the edge of the crowd, took a quick glance over her shoulder, and ducked into the bushes. 

So far, no one had noticed. Caina moved deeper into the ring of bushes, as close to the house as she dared, boots making no sound against the rough ground. She settled down to wait, watching the cluster of wagons in the corner of the gardens. Caina knew Damla would follow the instructions precisely. 

At least Caina thought so.

She waited, counting the beats of her heart, her ears straining for any sound of pursuit.

Then she heard someone shouting and stifled a curse. Had she been discovered? 

Smoke started rising from the wagons. 

“Thank you, Damla,” she whispered.

“Fire!” someone cried. “Fire! Fire!”

A dozen more voices took up the cry, and then another hundred more. Caina heard Ulvan’s voice booming over the chaos, bellowing for his slaves and bodyguards to put out the flames.

Caina’s chance had come. 

She pulled off the turban, robe, and beard. Then she reached into her pack and drew out the last of its contents. The first was a black mask that she pulled over her head, concealing everything except her eyes. 

It fit better now that she had cut off all her hair. Well, at least something useful had come of that.

Her shadow-cloak came last. 

It was a wondrous thing, woven by the secrets of the Ghost nightkeepers, shadow fused with silk. It was lighter than air, and darker than night. It blended with the shadows, merging with them and making it far easier for her to remain hidden in darkness. And it also shielded her thoughts from mind-detecting and divinatory sorceries. Halfdan had given her the cloak at the Vineyard, years ago, and it had saved her life as often as the skills that he had taught to her.

Caina straightened up, wearing the cloak for the first time since Corvalis had died, and she felt oddly…complete. 

Whatever else had happened to her, the loss of Corvalis, the House of Kularus, her banishment to Istarinmul…she was still a nightfighter of the Ghosts. She had thought to leave that behind, but she could no more do that than she could have cut off her own hand.

Though, gods, she wished that Corvalis was here. Together they would have ripped down this palace built upon the blood of the innocent and brought Ulvan to account. Halfdan would have devised the plan, and Caina and Corvalis would have carried out.

But both men were gone, and Caina would carry on alone. 

If they watched her from the world beyond, she vowed to make them proud.

Caina stuffed the robe, turban, and beard into her satchel and drew the strap across her chest. She wished she could leave them behind, but if her plans were successful, the palace and the grounds would be thoroughly searched. She did not want to bring Ulvan’s wrath upon the Cronmer and the Circus. 

She made her way along the base of the palace as quickly as she could while maintaining silence. Above her rose high windows, costly glass framed in leaden shutters. A quick look told her that the windows opened into tall, marble-walled corridors, the floor covered in an elaborate mosaics. Caina considering going through the windows and discarded the idea. If she accidentally shattered one of the panes of glass, that would leave a trace. And some of Ulvan’s more prominent guests might have wandered into his palace. Running into an Immortal would be bad. Running into Immortals escorting an Alchemist would be much worse. 

Caina supposed she would make a striking crystal statue in her shadow-cloak, but had no wish to find out. 

She circled around to the back of the palace, to the slaves’ entrances and quarters. For all the magnificence of his palace, Ulvan’s slaves lived in a squat brick barracks in the rear courtyard. Now the barracks were empty as the slaves tended to the Master Slaver and his guests, and the slaves’ entrance stood unguarded. 

Caina tested the door. It was unlocked. She took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped into Ulvan’s palace.

She found herself a high brick hall. One door on her left led to the kitchens. The door on her right led to the palace proper, to the grand corridors and lavish bedrooms and richly furnished sitting rooms and halls.

And at the end of the brick hall, behind two massive doors of wood and steel, waited the entrance to the cells.

The cells where Ulvan kept his stolen inventory. 

Caina hurried forward and examined the doors. They were massive oaken slabs, bound with thick bars of steel, sealed behind a heavy lock. The two doors fitted together so closely that Caina could not have slipped a knife between them. Yet there were two small iron windows above her head, covered in metal bars, and through them she caught the faint whiff of sweat and urine and excrement.

Of hundreds of men and women, imprisoned together in a small space. 

Bayram and Bahad were behind those doors, and the gods only knew how many others. 

Yet Caina could not get to them. 

The massive locks were intricate beyond belief. Caina had a great deal of experience picking locks, but these locks were some of the most impressive Caina had ever seen. Perhaps, given two or three hours, she might have been able to pick them. But someone would find her long before that. 

“You do good work, Nerina,” muttered Caina, stepping back to think. 

The only way she was getting through that door was with the key. And Ulvan himself was the only man who would carry a it. So Caina had to find him, steal the key, release the slaves, and escape before dawn.

Well. What was one more impossible thing? 

Sooner or later Ulvan would retire to his bedchamber for the evening and go to sleep. She could get the keys from him then. And, perhaps, she could also find his business records. Perhaps they would shed some light on why Callatas and the College of Alchemists were buying every slave they could find. Surely did not need them all to produce Hellfire in the Widow’s Tower.  

Caina needed to find Ulvan’s bedroom. The palace was six stories tall, and almost certainly his bedroom was upon the top floor. She had seen a broad balcony overlooking the main doors, the sort of place a Master Slaver might choose to take his breakfast as his slaves waited upon him. Perhaps Ulvan even had a lift to haul his bulk up to the sixth level. Caina could find a hiding place, conceal herself until Ulvan went to bed, and then…

She heard the murmur of voices, and the back door started to open.

Had she been followed? No, if someone was hunting her, they would have taken greater care to remain quiet. Caina had a split second to make a decision. 

She turned and dodged through the left door.

The kitchens beyond were larger than the common room of the House of Agabyzus, large enough that the cooks could likely have prepared bread for a small army. Wooden racks held rows upon rows of gleaming pots and pans. Cabinets rose from the counters, and eight massive ovens lined the walls, each one large enough to roast a full-grown adult boar. 

Ovens that were dark now, their steel doors standing open.

The kitchen door rattled, and a woman laughed.

In one smooth motion, Caina pulled herself into an oven, the sooty brick rasping beneath her boots, wrapped her shadow-cloak around her, and went still. 

A moment later the kitchen door burst open, and an Istarish man and a Cyrican woman stumbled inside, both wearing the gray tunics of slaves. Both were thoroughly drunk, and had difficulty keeping their balance. 

The man pulled the woman close, and she melted into his arms with a moan. For a moment they swayed and staggered in front of the ovens. Caina remained motionless. Odd that she felt embarrassed. She was breaking into the palace of one of the most powerful men in Istarinmul. Yet she still felt embarrassed. 

“We must not!” gasped the woman, pulling apart. “If the overseer finds us he shall have us beaten!”

“Mardos is tending to the master,” said the man with a smile. “And the master will be too drunk to do anything. Once the master is in bed with his concubines, the overseer will get drunk himself. The house belongs to us while the master and Mardos sleep it off.”

The woman laughed and kissed him again, and the man answered in kind, pushing her against the counter.