Ghost in the Cowl (7 page)

“Ciara,” said Caina 

“Young Ciara here thinks she can throw knives well enough to put on a show,” said Cronmer.

“There is no need to debate the matter, husband,” said Tiri, “when the question is so easily put to the test.” 

“Put an apple upon a barrel and see if she can hit it?” said Cronmer.

“Waste of a good apple,” said Caina.

“Ah! A young woman of sense. I approve,” said Tiri. She walked to one of the wagons, reached inside, and produced a ragged, oversized turban. “I never liked this thing.” She set it on a post outside the stables, about fifteen paces from Caina. “Can you hit this?”

“Shall we find out?” said Caina, reaching into her satchel.

“I will get you some knives…” started Cronmer.

“No need,” said Caina, raising her hand, steel glinting in her fingers. “I brought my own.” 

She handed her satchel to a surprised Damla and rolled her shoulders, stretching her arms. Her head still throbbed damnably, and she had not eaten anything today. Her arms and shoulders ached from her excessive exercise of the night before. Still, she had used throwing knives while desperate, terrified, and fighting for her life.

A hangover, by comparison, was almost nothing.

Caina tensed, flinging back her right arm, the blade clenched between her fingers. Then she stepped forward and hurtled her arm forward all in one motion, her entire body snapping like a bowstring. The blade spun from her fingers and slammed into the center of the turban, striking so hard that it sank into the post and hung there, quivering. 

Tiri looked impressed. 

“Gods!” said Cronmer, getting to his feet. “How sharp are those knives?”

“Sharp enough,” said Caina with a shrug. “What good is a dull knife?”

“A good point,” said Tiri, “if you will excuse the terrible joke.” She tugged the knife free from the post and handed it to Caina. “If you can do it from thirty paces, you might just impress me.” 

Caina nodded and walked off thirty paces from the post and the increasingly tattered turban, taking another knife from the satchel as she passed Damla. The older woman gazed at Caina with astonishment, and Caina wished that Damla was a better actress. Still, it hardly seemed to matter. Both Cronmer and Tiri stared hard at Caina, perhaps waiting to see if she would wilt under the attention. 

It made her want to laugh. She had seen things far more terrifying than a bombastic circus master and his wife. 

A few heartbeats later she buried the knife in the center of the turban.

“Impressive,” said Tiri.

“It might be a lucky throw,” said Cronmer.

Caina sighed. “Sister, dear, could you bring me that bag?”

Damla blinked, remembered she was supposed to be Caina’s half-sister, and carried the satchel over. Caina reached into it, withdrew knives one by one, and threw them into the turban. After the fifth knife, the turban could take no more damage, and unraveled into pieces.

“Well,” said Cronmer. “It seems Marius had quite the skilled teacher.” He scratched at his bushy gray mustache. “I suppose this is all the better. Usually it’s a man throwing knives at a girl in a skimpy costume. But one woman in a skimpy costume throwing knives at another? Aye, the crowd will love it.” 

“It’s nothing I haven’t done before,” said Caina, which was mostly true. In Cyrioch, she had dressed up like an Anshani khadjar’s concubine, helping Corvalis to infiltrate the Sanctuary of the Kindred assassins. It had been a risk, but the ruse had worked, given that the Kindred were dead and Caina and Corvalis were…

She swallowed and pushed aside the thought. 

“At least it will help keep me cool,” said Caina.

Cronmer laughed. “That is the spirit.” 

“And what about you, Nuri?” said Tiri.

Damla blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you, dear,” said Tiri with a hint of asperity. “You will need to have a suitable costume as well.”

“For what?” said Damla.

“For when I throw knives at you, of course,” said Caina. 

Damla stared at Caina, dawning horror on her face.

“Just as we practiced,” said Caina, “when we said we would do whatever was necessary to join the Circus.”

Damla blinked several times and nodded. 

“Show me,” said Tiri. 

“Of course,” said Caina, her mind racing. Damla looked at her with terrified eyes. “Though I’ll need some blunted knives, of course. Damla is Marius’s favorite, and he’ll be ever so cross if I slice off one of her ears.” 

Cronmer grunted, rummaged through the wagons, and produced a set of blunted throwing knives. Caina took them with a frown, turning the blades over. They were blunted, and heavier than she liked, but balanced well enough.

“I could buy better knives from a charlatan in the bazaar,” said Caina. 

“If we hire you,” said Cronmer, “we’ll get you a better set. Hard to hurt anyone with these, and I want to see if your sister will stand still without flinching. Even an Istarish audience can stomach only so much blood during a performance.”

“Nuri, against the wall,” said Caina, pointing at the stable, “like we practiced.” 

Damla opened her mouth, closed it again, and nodded. She crossed to the stable and stood against the wall, looking for all the world like a woman awaiting the drop of the gallows. Caina examined the heft and weight of the blunted knife for a moment.

Then she tossed the blade to herself, caught it with a flourish, and flung it at Damla.

Or, more specifically, at the wall over Damla’s right shoulder. The knife hit the wooden wall and bounced away, clattering across the ground. Caina threw two more in quick succession. Damla, to her credit, remained motionless, an utterly convincing expression of stark fear on her face. The knives struck the wall next to her head and bounced away. 

“Ha!” said Cronmer. “Very well. You are hired, both of you. We pay based on the number of performances, with a bezant a performance…”

“A bezant?” said Caina. “A single bezant? Insulting and outrageous!”

After that, it was all over except for the haggling. 

###

“You made us join a circus,” said Damla. She sounded dazed.

“I did,” said Caina. 

They sat together at a booth in the Inn’s common room, cups of coffee upon the table. Caina had claimed that she and Damla lived together with their elderly aunt in the Alqaarin Quarter, on the other side of Istarinmul from the Cyrican Quarter. Cronmer had been relieved, since that meant he would not have to pay additional rent to the master of the Inn. Caina had insisted that he pay for their meal, and Cronmer had obliged with a great show of grumbling and lamenting.

“You made us join a circus,” said Damla again.

Caina nodded, and their food arrived, chicken over rice, heavily coated with the spicy sauces popular in Istarinmul. One of the Inn’s slave women delivered the plates with a bow, and then departed. Caina watched her go. How much of Istarinmul relied upon slaves? Did slaves outnumber free men? Perhaps the slave woman had once been someone like Bayram or Bahad, someone young and stolen from her family with a forged document. 

“You should eat,” said Caina. She did not feel hungry, but she made herself take a bite of the spicy rice. She had not eaten for nearly two days, and she was starting to feel light-headed. Some of that was the hangover, but Caina knew she would need the nourishment. “You will need your strength for the days ahead.”

“Why?” said Damla. 

“Because you’ll be on your feet all day,” said Caina. “Rather like running the House of Agabyzus, I imagine.”

“I will do anything to save my sons,” said Damla. “I thought…I thought were going to hire mercenaries, or disguise ourselves as prostitutes to seduce Ulvan’s guards, or…or turn into shadows and scale the walls. Like the tales say about the Ghosts.”

“None of those plans would work,” said Caina. “Also, I cannot turn into a shadow.” 

“I know that!” said Damla, her fingers pressed flat against the table. “Dressing up in a…a scandalous costume before a crowd and having blunt knives thrown at me seems tame by comparison. But…how will this help us find my sons?” 

“Because,” said Caina. “Ulvan is celebrating his ascension to Master Slaver in three days. He will be throwing a feast for thousands at his palace, and he has hired every kind of entertainment than can be bought in Istarinmul. Likely he is sponsoring gladiators in every fighting pit in the city.” She thought of her friend Murvain, once a gladiator of Istarinmul, now a Ghost in Malarae. How many men like him had died in the fighting pits to celebrate the triumphs of villains like Ulvan? “And that includes the Circus. Which will be performing in the courtyard of Ulvan’s palace. And that way…”

“And that way,” said Damla, “we can get inside Ulvan’s palace, and see if there is a way to free my sons.”

“Yes,” said Caina.

“It is a mad plan,” said Damla. “Ulvan will have guards, and all his guests will have bodyguards, maybe even Immortals. What can we do amongst so many?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “Not yet. Not until I’ve had a look inside the palace. But if there is a way, I will find it.”

Or die in the attempt. Which, in some ways, felt like a relief.

Damla closed her eyes, a tremor going through her face.

“You must be strong now,” said Caina. “Your sons need you, and I need your help. There is no one else. It is just us.”

“Yes,” whispered Damla, opening her eyes. “What do we do first?”

“We finish eating, and then we go rehearse,” said Caina. “We have to prepare for our performance.”

Chapter 7 - The Master Slaver

Several nights later, Caina stood before a mirror inside of one of the tents Cronmer’s workers had raised within Ulvan’s courtyard. 

“I am not,” said Damla, her voice an urgent hiss, “going out in front of people wearing…wearing this…this travesty!” 

Caina shrugged. “You won’t get too warm, at least.”

Damla’s answering glare was just short of murderous. 

Acrobats, clowns, musicians, and other performers occupied the tents, applying makeup and donning their costumes in haste. It reminded Caina of her time spying for Theodosia at the Grand Imperial Opera. To be sure, the Grand Imperial Opera sang for the high nobles and wealthy merchants of the Empire, while the Circus Of Wonders And Marvels had a wider audience. Yet it seemed familiar to Caina. The same laborers and carpenters, grumbling to themselves and complaining about the performers. The same manic egoism among the singers and the acrobats and the clowns, each one believing himself to be the center of the world. And the same endless lurid romantic intrigues. Caina had been propositioned four times in the last three days, and had managed to dissuade her suitors without hurting their feelings or injuring them. 

Just as well. Injuring them would have upset Cronmer and Tiri, and Caina had come to respect them. She had no idea how they kept order in this madhouse of a circus, but they looked after their people with the same iron-handed benevolence Caina had once seen in Marzhod of Cyrioch or Halfdan…

She blinked, her eyes stinging for a moment, and turned her attention to Damla.

“A scandalous costume,” muttered Damla. “It is ridiculous.”

Caina could not disagree. 

Damla wore a skirt of gauzy blue silk that barely reached to mid-thigh. Above it she wore a tight, sleeveless vest that reached to the bottom of her ribs, the fabric taut across her chest. If she inhaled too deeply, Caina suspected the vest’s buttons would pop right off. Bracelets and anklets gleamed around her wrists and ankles, brass and glass imitating gold and jewels.  Caina herself had applied Damla’s makeup as way Theodosia had taught her, reddening Damla’s lips and using black lines and shadow to make her eyes look bigger. Damla’s long black hair had been piled in an elaborate crown, held in place with pins and a diadem, and Caina felt a brief pang of jealousy. 

An absurd thing to think about now.

Still, Damla wore it well. For a woman who had borne two children, she was fitter than Caina would have expected, no doubt from staying on her feet at all day. She looked like some emir’s favorite mistress, the one he trusted to rule his other concubines. There was no trace of the House of Agabyzus’s respectable owner. 

“My costume is no less ridiculous,” said Caina. 

Damla shook her head as Caina regarded herself in the mirror.

She wore a skirt of red silk knotted over her left thigh, leaving her left leg bare. An intricate net of red silk encircled her neck and chest and did a marginal job of concealing her breasts, leaving her back and shoulders and stomach bare, which Tiri believed would enhance the performance. Like Damla, she wore costume jewelry upon her wrists and ankles and ears. Unlike Damla, she wore a red wig that looked almost realistic, the hair bound with a diadem, her eyes lined with dark makeup. Tiri had insisted upon the wig because Caina looked Szaldic, and apparently the Istarish nobles believed that Szalds had red hair, though Caina had never seen a Szaldic man or woman with hair of that color. 

She had worn a costume like this when she had infiltrated the Kindred Sanctuary in Cyrioch, and she remembered how it felt when Corvalis had looked at her…

She tried to ignore the stab of pain that went through her. This was not a night for distractions, and she needed to keep her wits sharp. 

“There is an advantage to looking ridiculous,” said Caina. “No one will take us seriously. And if no one takes us seriously, that will make it easier for us to do what needs to be done.” 

“I suppose this is true,” said Damla. “I want to see my sons again, but by the Living Flame, I hope they do not see me dressed up in this…this harlot’s costume.” 

They wouldn’t. Caina knew that Ulvan kept his “merchandise” secured in fortified cells below his palatial mansion. 

“Well,” said Caina. “Let’s…”

The tent flap opened, and Tozun stepped inside, wearing his usual scowl. Cronmer’s and Tiri’s eldest son had inherited his mother’s dark skin and black hair, and his father’s solid build and thick mustache. Cronmer and Tiri had a flair for showmanship and keeping the peace among their workers, but neither one of them had a head for numbers. Tozun knew exactly how many pieces of costume jewelry the Circus owned, along with the precise price of food for Vardo’s Anshani grass lion. 

“Listen to me!” shouted Tozun, and the crowd inside the tent fell silent. “I just talked with Ulvan’s master of revels. The Grand Wazir Erghulan is coming on behalf of the Padishah, and Grand Master Callatas of the Alchemists will be attending as well.”

A murmur went through the performers, and Caina felt her eyebrows rise. Erghulan and Callatas were the two most powerful men in the city. Ulvan had indeed risen high, if he could bring such guests to his ceremony. 

“We will wait in the courtyard until the Grand Master and the Grand Wazir arrive,” said Tozun. “The performances will begin once Ulvan greets his guests, and we shall pause when the Grand Wazir invests Ulvan with his new office. Then the performances shall resume until the festivities conclude.”

He began giving instructions to the others. Groups of acrobats and clowns filed out, like troops marching to battle. Damla took a deep breath and smoothed her skirt.

“You won’t hit me with a knife, will you?” said Damla.

“No,” murmured Caina, watching the men and women of the Circus go about their business. She remembered helping Theodosia prepare for a performance, running errands for the carpenters and the costumers. Later she had attended the performances with Corvalis, in her guise as Sonya Tornesti…

Suddenly she felt so alone, standing in this darkened tent in a foreign city, far from her home and her friends. 

But she had set herself upon this path, and she would not turn back. And there was no one else to help Damla. All the other Ghosts of Istarinmul were dead. If Caina did not help her, no one would.

And her sons would die in slavery. 

“Natalia of the Nine Knives!” said Tozun. 

“That’s us,” said Caina, glancing in the mirror and giving that damnable wig one final adjustment. Then she took a deep breath, slipped on a pair of high-heeled sandals, and walked to Tozun, Damla following after. 

“Ah, Ciara, Nuri, good,” said Tozun, giving them a cursory glance. “You’re ready. Refreshing to find a pair of performers who can actually show up on time.

“Tardiness,” said Damla, “is a vice.” 

“Truly,” said Tozun. “I don’t know when we’ll fit you in. Wait for my father to call for Natalia of the Nine Knives. Then I’ll send some of the carpenters to tie you to the board,” he nodded at Damla, “and to bring you the knives.” 

Caina nodded. 

“Off to the gardens,” said Tozun with a jerk of his head. “Wait by Vardo’s lot. Stay quiet when the Grand Wazir and the Master Alchemist arrive. The highborn of Istarinmul like lots of crowds when they have their grand ceremonies, so long as we commoners keep quiet and orderly.” 

“My life is nothing but order,” lied Caina.

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Tozun. He stepped to the side and began shouting for the clowns, and Caina led Damla into the courtyards of Ulvan of the Slavers’ Brotherhood.

The courtyard surrounding his sprawling palace of white stone was a broad, wide garden, planted with small trees and bushes, gravel paths winding past bubbling fountains. Countless torches provided light, throwing dancing shadows over everything. Hundreds of Istarish nobles in fine robes milled through the grounds, their slaves trailing after, carrying trays of food and drink. Vardo’s cages stood near the tent, the animal trainer himself bellowing commands to his assistants.

“I don’t want to wait near the lions,” said Damla. 

“Don’t worry,” said Caina, moving away from the cages. She took careful steps in her high-heeled sandals, and threw a silent curse at the uneven grass. “He’ll herd them into that ring, and then have them do tricks. Or they’ll eat him.”

Damla loosed a short, surprised laugh. “A pity he didn’t get his damned elephant, then.” 

“Aye,” said Caina. “We…”

She felt the prickle of sorcerous power against her bare skin.

Caina turned. She saw a dozen Alchemists in their gold-trimmed white robes moving through the crowd, and she made sure to keep well away from them. She had only ever spoken with one Alchemist, Ibrahmus Sinan, and he had been hunting Muravin’s daughter, intending to cut the unborn child from her womb and use it to create his Elixir Rejuvenata, his pathway to immortality. 

Caina had ensured that had not ended well for him. She doubted that Sinan’s fellows were better men. 

“Ciara?” said Damla. 

“Nothing,” said Caina. No doubt she had just sensed the presence of the Alchemists’ warding spells. Some of them also knew the secret of imputing the strength of steel to cloth while letting it retain its flexibility and light weight, and clothed themselves in robes of alchemically strengthened cloth to guard against assassins. 

She turned again, and saw the black-clad woman staring at her. 

The young woman wore a black widow’s robe and headscarf. Unlike Damla, who had taken care with her appearance, even in widow’s black, this woman looked…disheveled. Dust and iron filings clung to the skirts of her gown, and the threadbare sleeves looked as if they often caught upon sharp objects. Wisps of reddish-gold hair jutted from her black headscarf. Her face was pale and thin, almost gaunt, and dark circles ringed her eyes.

Eyes that were the pale blue of a wraithblood addict. 

And she was staring right at Caina.

The woman was the first wraithblood addict Caina had seen who looked lucid. A wave of curiosity seized her. Ulvan would not have admitted an enslaved or impoverished wraithblood addict to his grand party, and his guards would have turned away or killed any beggars who tried to sneak into the festivities. Here perhaps was a chance to learn more about the wraithblood.

And why the addicts always claimed to see shadows around Caina…

“You know her?” said Damla, following Caina’s gaze.

“No,” said Caina.

“By the Living Flame, I hope she does not recognize me in this costume,” said Damla.

“Wait,” said Caina. “You recognize her?”

“Aye, that’s Strake, the mad locksmith,” said Damla. “Best locksmith in the city. Half the emirs and the Alchemists buy their locks from her. Vile woman, though. Her father…”

Before Damla finished, a blast of trumpets rang out, and the crowds in the gardens fell silent.

Immortals marched through the gates and into the gardens.

Caina watched the elite soldiers in silence. They wore black armor of the finest steel, plate over chain, scimitars at their belts and heavy shields upon their left arms. Each man also carried a coiled chain whip at his belt, and Caina had seen firsthand the damage they could inflict with the unwieldy weapons. Every one of the Immortals wore a black helmet and mask, the mask shaped like a grinning skull.

And through the eyeholes of the skull masks she saw a pale blue glow, a side effect of the sorcerous elixirs of strength and speed they consumed. The elixirs also induced murderous insanity and a lust for cruelty, and consequently the Immortals were the most feared soldiers in the world. Ostensibly the Padishah commanded the Immortals, but the Master Alchemists controlled them, and powerful emirs and Alchemists often received squads of Immortals for their personal guards. 

And as a way, Caina suspected, of keeping those emirs and Alchemists loyal to the Masters of the College. 

The Immortals formed an aisle of dark steel, and Ulvan of the Brotherhood himself emerged from the palace and strode toward the gates, trailed by a pair of his bodyguards. He was fat, so fat that in a few years he would likely have trouble walking, and wore a brilliantly ornamented crimson robe. The black leather mantle of a member of the Brotherhood hung from his shoulders, pinned by a broach in the shape of the Brotherhood’s coiled whip sigil. 

Damla glared at the slaver, a shiver of rage going through her.

“No, don’t,” murmured Caina, touching her shoulder. “Stay calm. We don’t want to draw attention.” 

Damla managed a nod, though her eyes narrowed to glittering black slits.

A final group of Immortals came through the gates, followed by an Istarish man in the formal robes of a herald, who began to declaim in a mighty voice, his words echoing over the garden. 

"Behold!" he boomed. "He comes! He who is the Emir of the steppes of Trabazon! He who is Captain of the Towers of the Sea! He who is the magistrate of magistrates, the Wazir of the Wazirs, and the strong right hand of the Most Divine Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon! Erghulan Amirasku comes!"

A tall man followed the herald, and for the first time Caina looked upon Erghulan Amirasku, Grand Wazir of Istarinmul.

Unlike Ulvan, there was not an inch of fat upon the man. He had to be in his middle fifties, his bronze-colored skin scored with deep lines, his remaining hair close-cropped and gray. Yet he moved with the balance and strength of a much younger man. Unlike the other nobles, he eschewed finery for the chain mail and armor of an Istarish cavalryman, a scimitar at his belt.

Suddenly Caina felt another wave of arcane power against her skin, stronger than before. She looked around, wondering if the locksmith Strake had come closer, but Caina saw no sign of the woman. Was one of the Alchemists casting a spell? The power doubled in strength, and then again. It was terribly strong – Caina had sensed sorcery on that scale before, but not very often.

The herald began to speak again.

"Behold!" he boomed. "He comes! He who is the Grand Master of the Alchemists! He who is the Most Divine Padishah’s trusted advisor and counsellor! He who is the Destroyer of Iramis and the master of all the mysteries of sorcery! Callatas comes!"