Ghost in the Cowl (5 page)

Had Caina brought this disaster upon Damla’s head? 

She whispered a curse, reached into her coat for a throwing knife, and climbed over the broken door.

Chapter 5 - Writ of Servitude

Caina swept her eyes over the devastated coffeehouse.

Utter silence reigned within. She heard the noise of the Bazaar coming through the windows, but no sound came from inside the House of Agabyzus. 

Her eyes examined the wreckage, taking in details.

Scratches upon the polished floor, the mark of armored boots. Not the Teskilati, then – from what Caina knew of the Padishah’s secret police, they preferred to make their victims disappear mysteriously. Armed attacks were not their style. Immortals wore armored boots, as did the Padishah’s foot soldiers. So did mercenaries, for that matter. 

She took another step, examining the debris. 

No trace of blood. No signs of any fighting. Damla and her sons had not put up a fight. The destruction was deliberate, methodical. Someone had taken the time to turn over the tables, to smash the cups, to slash the cushions and scatter their stuffing. In fact, they had done rather a poor job of it in places – many of the cushions bore only shallow cuts, and some of the cups and plates had struck the floor without shattering. 

The attackers had been in a hurry. Or they had simply been lazy.  A moneylender’s hired thugs, perhaps? No, that did not make sense. An unscrupulous moneylender would make an example of his victims, but this much destruction would draw attention. The noise would have summoned the city watch.

Unless the city watch had been bribed, of course.

Caina shook her head, her mind racing. Despite her headache, the throwing knife remained rock-steady in her right hand. Perhaps danger was the best cure for a hangover. And she needed more information before she could decide upon a course of action.

If she had brought this danger upon Damla’s family, she would do her best to undo it.

She moved through the main floor, past the poet’s dais, and into the kitchen. The House of Agabyzus had a large kitchen, though not so large as the one in the House of Kularus in Malarae. Again Caina saw the signs of wanton, senseless destruction. The steel doors had been ripped from all four of the ovens, brick dust lying across the floor. Pots and pans had been yanked from their hooks and dented into shapeless piles, and even the sacks of coffee beans had been slashed. 

Yet for all the damage, Caina saw no sign that anyone had been killed, or that anything had been stolen. There was no blood, and some of the damaged pots would have fetched a good price from a pawnbroker. She suspected that someone had attacked the House of Agabyzus, carried off Damla, her sons, and her slaves, and lingered long enough to smash things.

But why? Had the Collectors grown bold enough to attack prosperous shops and carry off their owners as slaves? Kidnapping foreigners from the docks was one thing, but attacking citizens of Istarinmul was quite…

The ceiling creaked.

Someone was moving around above her. One of the attackers, perhaps? Or had Damla or her sons or one of the slaves hidden upstairs? 

One way or another, Caina needed more information.

She picked her way across the main floor, her boots making no sound against the boards. She reached the staircase and ascended, moving one slow, cautious step at a time. Again Caina heard a creak from the second floor. If she guessed right, someone was moving around in Damla’s rooms. 

One of the attackers, perhaps? Or an opportunistic thief?

Caina moved down a narrow hallway, silent as death, and looked through the opened door at the end. 

Beyond she saw Damla’s bedroom, furnished with a large, comfortable bed, colorful Anshani carpets, a wardrobe against one wall, and a wooden chest against the foot of the bed. The chest was open, and someone had dumped its contents across the bed. Damla sorted through a bundle of papers with frantic speed. Her clothing was in disarray and her headscarf was gone, her black hair hanging loose around her shoulders. 

“Mistress Damla,” said Caina in a quiet voice, slipping her knife back into its sheath.

Damla hissed in alarm and looked up. She had been crying, though she did not look injured. She grabbed something from the bed, and Caina found herself looking at the end of a loaded crossbow. 

“You,” whispered Damla. “Did you bring this upon us?”

Caina raised her hands, grateful she had put away the knife. “What happened?”

“Were you spying for him?” said Damla. “Master Marius…is that even your real name?”

“What happened?” said Caina again.

“So convenient,” said Damla. “You rented a room and talked with Anburj, and then you disappeared into the night. Then the soldiers came. Did you bring them here? Did you?”

“What soldiers?” said Caina, taking a step closer. “Tell me what happened, please.”

Damla pointed with the crossbow. “Don’t move! Get out of here!”

“I can’t do both,” said Caina. 

“Where did you go last night?” said Damla. “Why didn’t you come back? Did you tell Anburj to bring his men here, that we would make an easy target?”

“I didn’t come back because I got drunk and slept in the gutter,” said Caina. That was mostly true. “I woke up, came here, and found the House smashed.”

“A likely story,” said Damla. She tried to sound threatening, but the crossbow trembled in her hands. “What happened to your hair?”

Caina ran a hand along her scalp, the bristles rasping against her palm. “I cut it off.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s too damned hot in Istarinmul,” said Caina, “and you have more important things to think about than my hair. Damla, please, tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.” 

“No!” said Damla. “It is just another lie! You are working with them! Get out of here, now, or I shall shoot you!”

“No,” said Caina, taking another step closer. “You won’t.”

Damla scowled. “Are you so sure of that? Would you trust to my mercy after what you did to my sons?”

“No,” said Caina, “but that crossbow isn’t loaded properly.”

Damla squeezed the trigger. The weapon made a sad little twanging noise, and the quarrel remained motionless. 

For a moment they stared at the bow in silence.

“The string, said Caina at last. “It wasn’t wound…”

Damla threw it against the bed with a curse. “Useless thing. Useless, useless, useless damned thing! It was my husband’s. His weapons did not save him in Marsis, and neither will they save my sons now.” 

“Who took your sons?” said Caina. 

“Why?” said Damla. “Why are you trying to help me? Not that you can help me. But why would the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers care what happens to my sons?”

“They don’t,” said Caina. “But I do. And why?” She thought for a moment. “I don’t like slavers.” Damla flinched. “That was what happened, wasn’t it? The Brotherhood took your sons.” 

“Yes,” hissed Damla. She closed her eyes. “My sons, my slaves, and even the freeborn servants I hired. The Brotherhood’s Collectors took them all.”

“Tell me why,” said Caina.

The words poured from Damla, as if it had taken all her strength to hold them back. 

“It was the middle of the night,” said Damla. “We had already closed, and Sulaman and Mazyan had left. It had been a good night. We sold much coffee, for Sulaman is very popular. Then the soldiers kicked down the door, rounded up everyone, and made us stand in the common room.”

“Soldiers,” said Caina. “Were they Collectors?”

“Yes,” said Damla. 

Caina said nothing, another wave of guilt rolling through her. If she had not buckled under the weight of her emotions, if she had not been drunk in the Sanctuary, then she would have been here. Perhaps she could have done something to stop it.

On the other hand, she might well be in chains right now, had she done so.

Or dead. 

“The Collectors took everyone?” said Caina. 

“The slaves and the servants,” said Damla. “They have been here for years, worked for my husband and my brother before they died. But that was not enough. They took my sons, my sons, my sons…” Her voice started to crack.

“Why did they take your sons?” said Caina.

“Why do you care?” said Damla, her voice rising to a shout. “What does it matter? Don’t you understand?” She started to cry, her face twisting up. “It was…inevitable. My husband is dead. My brother is dead. And now my sons are gone. Everyone, I have lost everyone. I always knew I would lose everyone, and now that day has come.” She started to claw at her face. “I…I have…”

Caina seized Damla’s wrists before she could hurt herself. Damla screamed again and tried to pull away, but Caina was stronger and knew how to handle herself. Damla struggled for a moment, but then went limp, still weeping.

“Listen to me,” said Caina, voice low. “It might not be too late. Perhaps I can help you.”

“How?” whispered Damla. “No one crosses the Brotherhood and lives.”

“I don’t know how,” said Caina. “Not yet. But do not despair. Did the Collectors kill your sons?”

“No,” said Damla. “No, they took them. They will be sold to the mines. A terrible fate.”

“Perhaps we can avert it yet,” said Caina. “Tell me more. I need to know more before I can act.” 

Damla stared at her for a moment, and then nodded.

“Maybe,” she said, tugging her wrists free. Caina let her go. “Perhaps you are simply a madman and I am listening to you ramble.” She shook her head. “But if there is any hope at all…” Damla closed her eyes, took a deep breath, opened them again. “Forgive me. I am…not myself.”

“I understand better than you think,” said Caina. “Please, tell me more.” 

“Anburj led the Collectors, along with some other men from the guard of Ulvan of the Brotherhood,” said Damla. “That was why Anburj was here for Sulaman’s recitation. I thought it odd…he is a brutish man, and cares little for poetry. I always instructed my slave girls to make sure they were never alone with him, and took the same precaution myself.”

“So then he only came to the Song of Istarr and the Demon Princes,” said Caina, “to scout, to see if any of the guests would be a threat later.” Had Anburj come to the House of Agabyzus to hunt for Caina? That seemed unlikely – most likely her erratic behavior last night would have made him think that the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers needed to hire a better quality of courier.

“That is my thought as well,” said Damla. “Anyway…his Collectors smashed down the doors. They pulled us from our beds and took us to the common room and started to put us in chains. We screamed, since I figured Anburj had gone mad, or had been dismissed from Ulvan’s service and turned to robbery.” She shook her head. “But he announced that my sons, my free servants, and my slaves were Ulvan’s property.”

“But not you?” said Caina.

Damla scowled. “No. Because the debt, apparently, was mine.”

“Debt?”

“Yes, the debt,” said Damla. She rummaged through the clutter on the bed. There were a number of ledgers and legal contracts atop the blankets, and Damla had been paging through them. “Here. The Writ of Servitude claimed that Ulvan had bought Agabyzus’s debt.” 

She handed over a scroll, and Caina unrolled it with a frown.

It was an impressive-looking legal document written in formal Istarish, no doubt produced by some enslaved scribe toiling away in Ulvan’s palace. The document declared that Agabyzus had owed a sum of three hundred and fifty bezants to a moneylender, and the moneylender had sold the debt to Ulvan of the Brotherhood. To collect on the debt, therefore, Ulvan would seize Damla’s sons and slaves and sell them to raise the necessary funds.

“Did you actually have this debt?” said Caina.

“No!” said Damla. “Of that, I am certain. I have never borrowed money, for moneylenders are dishonest rogues. Neither did my husband or my brother. Agabyzus hated moneylenders, and kept our money on deposit on with the goldsmiths.”

“Three hundred and fifty bezants is not so large a sum,” said Caina, performing the necessary mental arithmetic. A common laborer might make a hundred bezants in a year, maybe a little more or less. Damla owned the House of Agabyzus, and likely had access to more money than a common laborer.

“I could have paid it!” said Damla. “I have enough on deposit to pay most of it, and I could have sold some of our stock or pawned the furniture. Or I could have taken a loan from one of the damned moneylenders. The House of Agabyzus is profitable, and I would have repaid it in time. But Anburj would not listen! I begged, I offered to let him,” she swallowed, “take whatever he wanted, do whatever he wanted to me, if he would just let me pay the debt, but he refused. He had his men smash the House to teach me not to offer impudence to officers of the Brotherhood, and then he took my sons and my slaves and left.” 

“And that is what you were doing,” said Caina, “checking your records. To see if there was a loan or a debt you did not know about.”

“But there is nothing,” said Damla. “I do not owe money to anyone.”

Caina stared at the Writ of Servitude for a moment.

“You don’t,” said Caina. “The debt is a fake.”

“Fake?” said Damla.

“The Writ doesn’t even name the moneylender,” said Caina. “Ulvan fabricated the debt as an excuse to seize your sons and slaves for himself. Likely he picked you because you were wealthy enough that your sons and slaves would be healthy, but not wealthy enough to challenge the Brotherhood.” 

“But why would he do that?” said Damla, bewildered. “I have never met the man. I cannot imagine how I must have wronged him.” 

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “But the Alchemists are buying all the slaves they can find, in massive numbers. The Collectors must be hard-pressed, and kidnapping foreigners and breeding your own slaves takes time. Easier to forge a few papers and kidnap some people than to ship slaves from across the sea.” 

But why? Why did the Alchemists need so many slaves? 

One problem at a time. After Caina had found a way to save Damla’s sons, slaves, and workers from their fate, she could ponder it more. 

She rolled up the Writ and tapped it against her hand, thinking. Ulvan would keep his inventory of slaves in his own palace, secured in his cells. The palaces of the Brotherhood were fortresses, guarded and impenetrable, and the more prominent members even received Immortals as bodyguards. Getting into the house of a Master Slaver would be difficult…