Ghost in the Flames (22 page)

“Thank you,” said Caina. Valgorix bowed and stalked out of the ruined sitting room. Caina stared after him, worried. In the excitement she had forgotten all about Ark. Suppose the Sons of Corazain had ambushed him on the streets? Ark could handle himself in a fight, better than Caina could. But suppose some mishap had happened?

Or suppose the pyromancer had found him?

Sairzan hurried into the room, bowing with every step. Before Caina could interrupt him a profuse stream of apologizes erupted from his lips. He had failed in his duties as an innkeeper and a host, and begged her forgiveness for his many misdeeds. 

“It’s not your fault. No one was killed,” she remembered the blood on her fingers and shuddered, “at least no one of mine, and if you’d tried to fight them they’d have killed you.” 

“Please,” said Sairzan, “I beg of you, though, to accept my second-finest suite of rooms while these chambers are cleaned. Only in this way may I expunge my grievous shame.” 

And keep his good name, no doubt. “Very well,” said Caina. 

She looked up, and saw Ark in the doorway. His sword was in hand, and he looked over the bloodstained room with cold eyes. 

“What the hell happened?” said Ark.

“We need to talk,” said Caina. 

###

“Get on with it, already,” said Caina. 

She sat naked on the bed in her new rooms, a blanket wrapped around her legs and clutched to her chest. Ark sat beside her, cleaning the wound on her shoulder with boiling wine. 

“Shallow,” muttered Ark. “Didn’t reach the bone. It ought to heal well. Should be stitched up, though.”

Caina nodded. 

“This will be a lot easier for both of us if you lie down,” said Ark. 

Caina grimaced, but nodded and lay face-down on the bed, shifting the blanket to keep her modesty preserved. She felt deeply uncomfortable, exposing so much of herself, but she supposed that dying from an infected cut would be even more uncomfortable. Besides, she’d stitched up Ark’s wounds, so fair was fair. 

A moment later she felt the stab as the heated needle entered her skin. Caina gritted her teeth against the pain, and Ark began stitching. It hurt, but she’d felt worse. Much worse. 

“Are you truly planning to leave Rasadda?” said Ark.

“Yes,” said Caina, her voice tight, grateful for the distraction. “Or, at least, Countess Marianna Nereide is. This false identity has become a liability. The Sons of Corazain want to kill the Countess, and they won’t stop until they do.” She took a deep breath. “We’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll hire some trustworthy servant from Sairzan to serve as coachman. Once we’re out of the city, we’ll send them to Halfdan at Mors Crisius and double back to the city. I’ll have to think of a suitable disguise, but it should work.” 

“And what then?” said Ark.

“First,” said Caina, “tell me what you saw at the Sign of the Anchor.”

Ark was silent for a moment. Caina endured the needle jabbing in and out of her flesh. Then he said, “Something’s happening there.”

“Such as?”

“There are three dozen ships in port right now,” said Ark. “Usually the crews mingle and get drunk and brawl together. From what I gathered, there’s only one crew at the Sign of the Anchor right now. They drive off anyone else who tries to drink there.”

“Is that odd?” said Caina. “Maybe they don’t like company.”

“It’s very odd,” said Ark. “Sailors usually hate landsmen, not each other.” 

“So there’s something at the Sign that they don’t want anyone else to see,” said Caina.

“I asked around,” said Ark. “Apparently they come from a ship called the Lynx, which has been in port for the last three months.”

“Three months?” said Caina. She thought for a moment. “They must be trying to sell something, and haven’t had any luck. Which means they’re smugglers.”

“Or pirates.”

“Or pirates,” agreed Caina. “I don’t see why Sister Tadaia thinks the pyromancer might be hiding there.”

“I looked around,” said Ark. “The building stinks of burned pork.”

“Or flesh,” said Caina. This time her grimace had nothing to do with the damned needle stabbing into her shoulder. 

“In the alley behind the Sign, there are char marks on the flagstones,” said Ark. “And grease stains, as well. As if a burned corpse was dragged into the alley.” 

“Just like the man Valgorix found outside the Inn,” said Caina. “I’ll bet we’ll find his killers inside the Sign of the Anchor.” She sighed. “But probably not our pyromancer.” 

“Done,” said Ark, straightening up. “We ought to do the one on your hip.” 

Caina nodded, adjusted the blanket, and rolled to a sitting position. She hiked up the blanket far enough to expose her left leg and wounded hip, and managed to keep the rest of herself covered. 

Ark stared at her leg, his face expressionless. He stared for so long that Caina felt the blood begin to burn in her cheeks. What was he seeing? His dead wife, perhaps? For a stunned instant Caina thought he was going to lean over and kiss her. This had been a mistake, she should have found a woman capable of treating her wounds…

Or had it been a mistake? If he kissed her now, should she stop him? Did she even want to?

And then Caina realized what he was staring at. 

A rope of twisted, pinkish-white scars wound its way around her hip and across her belly. It almost looked like a belt. They thickened as they sloped downward across her stomach. It had been almost eight years, and sometimes Caina could still feel the scalpel blades digging through skin and muscle. 

“Those are cruel scars,” said Ark quietly. 

“They started on the hips,” said Caina, “drawing blood, bit by bit.” Her voice seemed to come from very far away. “But from what I understand, blood drawn from the womb of a virgin girl has the greatest utility for necromancy. So they moved there. I thought I was going to die. I hoped I would die.” She blinked a few times. “Have you…have you ever screamed for so long that you couldn’t remember ever doing anything else?” 

“No,” said Ark. “Gods.” 

Caina looked away. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Ark nodded and stood up. He knelt beside the bed and started cleaning the gash on her hip. Caina gritted her teeth as the hot wine splashed into the wound. “It’s longer than the other, but shallower. It should heal even quicker than the other.”

“Good,” said Caina. “I want to go to the Sign of the Anchor tonight.”

“It won’t heal that quickly,” said Ark. 

“That doesn’t matter,” said Caina. Despite herself, she winced as Ark began stitching the wound. “We’ve got to act now. If the pyromancer starts killing the magi one by one, and consuming their strength…he’ll be too strong for us to stop. He might be too strong for us to kill now. And something has to be done. Tadaia and Valgorix are right. Rasadda’s going to revolt, and the Legions will come and slaughter the Saddai, unless something is done.”

Ark said nothing for a while, concentrating on the work. Then he said, “Do you really think the revolt can be stopped?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina, “but we have to try.”

“If the Sign of the Anchor turns out to be a dead end,” said Ark, “what are we going to do then?”

“Then we’re going after Gaidan,” said Caina. 

Ark froze for a moment. “I thought you said it would be too risky.”

“It is too risky,” said Caina. “But we’re running out of time. I saw him last night, when Tadaia and I had our little chat. He was weeping. Begging the Living Flame for forgiveness.”

Ark snorted.

“He knows the truth,” said Caina, “and if we have to, we’ll tear it out of him. And if not him, we’ll find Romarion. He knows more than he said, too. One way or another, we’re finding the man who killed the Rasadda Ghost circle.” 

Ark finished and stood up. Caina glanced at her hip, brushing the stitches with a fingertip. “That looks good.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” said Ark. “You should get some rest.”

“And so should you,” said Caina. “We’re going to need it.”

Chapter 22 - Dead Men and Alleys

Fortunately, Sairzan’s second best suite of rooms had a balcony as well, one that looked towards Corazain’s pyramid. After night fell, Caina and Ark went over the balcony and down the rope, into Rasadda’s pyre-lit nights. Caina’s shoulder ached, forcing her to take extra care, but Ark’s stitches held. She dropped into the street, cloak blurring around her. 

“Which way?” murmured Caina. 

“We’ll go around the west side of Arzaidanir’s pyramid,” said Ark. “The longer way around, but we’ll avoid most of the slums that way.”

“And hopefully the Sons of Corazain,” said Caina. 

“Yes,” said Ark. He beckoned, and they went into the night. Ark had a solid knowledge of Rasadda’s layout, and he led Caina through a maze of alleys and back streets. More than once they saw groups of men prowling the streets, swords and torches in hand, and Caina and Ark lurked in the shadows until they had passed.

The air began to smell of salt and tar, and they came to Rasadda’s docks. They lacked the unrelieved black of the rest of Rasadda, and Caina supposed that foreigners had built most of the structures here. She saw dozens of ships floating in the harbor, dimly illuminated in the pyramids’ fiery glows. They passed warehouses, and taverns filled with the sound of laughter and carousing. 

“Here,” said Ark. 

The Sign of the Anchor was a three story building of timber and mortared stone, a board painted with a gray anchor swinging over the door. No lights shone in the windows. Very faintly, just over the smell of salt and tar, Caina caught the stench of burnt meat. She stared at the tavern, thinking.

“What is it?”

“Hear that?”

Ark frowned. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly. Are sailors’ taverns usually quiet places?”

Ark shook his head. 

“We’ll go through the back,” said Caina. They crossed to the alley behind the tavern. Empty crates and barrels leaned up against the walls, worn and splintered. The burnt smell was stronger back here, the air almost greasy with it. Caina saw a dark door in the wall, and reached into her belt for her lockpicks.

Then the door swung open. Caina froze, and light flooded into the alley. Two men backed out, carrying one end of a wrapped bundle about the size of a corpse. Both had the rough, tanned looks of sailors. Or pirates, more probably. Two more men came out, holding the front end of the bundle, followed by a fifth man.

“Damn it, lift,” said one of the men. “My back is killing me. Lift, damn your hide.”

“I am lifting,” said another man, “maybe you ought to…”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the fifth man, leaning against the door. His voice was smooth and cultured, and his clothes looked finer. “If you keep opening your mouths to whine, I am going to have to hit you, and that will be unpleasant for us all.”

“Why don’t you carry these bastards?”

“Because I am the captain, and I don’t carry things,” said the fifth man. He took a quick sip from a flask, which vanished into a pocket of his coat. “The cart’s just around the…” 

He saw Caina and Ark right about then. He snarled a curse, yanking a cutlass from the scabbard at his belt, while his men yelled and drew their weapons. Ark’s broadsword flew from its scabbard, but Caina was faster. She yanked a knife from her belt, threw back her arm, and flung.

The blade buried itself in the wood of the door, quivering a half-inch from the captain’s ear. 

“If I had wanted to kill you,” said Caina, disguising her voice, “that would have been in your throat.” 

No one said anything for a few moments.

“Indeed it would have,” said the captain, stepping away from the door. “And since I remain among the world of the living, I can only assume that you and your hulking friend desire something else. I do hope that you’re not selling anything. I detest merchants. Only scoundrels become merchants. Honest men become thieves.” 

The captain both looked and sounded Nighmarian. He reminded her, oddly, of Septimus Romarion. 

“A Ghost,” said one of the pirates, voice strangled. “That short fellow. He’s one of the Emperor’s Ghosts.” 

“He?” said the captain, frowning. He squinted. “No. That’s a woman.” 

Caina blinked. “I…” 

“A gentleman can always discern a lady, and I am nothing if not a gentleman,” said the captain. He yanked the knife from the door, swaggered to Caina, and presented it to her handle-first with a sweeping bow. “Maltaer, captain of the Lynx, at your service.”

Caina took the knife and slid it back into her belt. To her surprise, Maltaer took her hand and planted a kiss upon the gloved fingers. 

“I suppose you’ll be unable to reveal your name?” said Maltaer. “Alas.” He straightened and took step back. “And since you have not come to kill me, nor are you trying to sell me shoddy merchandise of questionable provenance, I can only conclude that you have come to talk.”

“I have questions for you,” said Caina, trying not to let his unusual talent for observation rattle her. 

“Splendid!” said Maltaer. “As you might have guessed, I myself am very fond of talk. Let us therefore retire to my chambers for civilized conversation. I have a very fine wine on hand, and you may rid yourself of those cumbersome clothes. I am entirely certain that you have a lovely face under that cloak, which I would like to see, perhaps along with the rest of you, which is no doubt just as lovely.” 

“For a gentlemen,” said Caina, “you are unusually forward.”

“I prefer to think of myself as bold. And the ladies prefer to think of me as dashing. Which I am, of course.”

The pirates developed amused expressions during their captain’s soliloquy. No doubt they were used to his rambling grandiloquence. Still, they looked like hard men, and hard men rarely followed a leader unworthy of respect. He was playing a game with her, Caina realized. Well, if Maltaer wanted to play, then Caina could play. 

“Very well,” said Caina, “but if you are trying to charm me, you are doing a poor job of it.” 

“Would you care for flowers, perhaps?” said Maltaer. “Or shall I write you poetry? Or bring you jewels, or rare wines?”

“I have no use for flowers,” said Caina, “and poetry bores me. Jewels are of no use for a Ghost, and wine gives me a headache. If you wish to charm me, no, there is only one thing that I truly desire.”

“The embrace of a strong man, perhaps?” said Maltaer. “Vigorous children to look after you in your old age? It is in my power to give you both.”

“No,” said Caina. She did want children, though, and his words had stung her, but long practice kept it hidden beneath the snarling hiss of her voice. “No, I am a simple woman, of simple tastes and needs. I merely desire the answers to a few questions.” 

Maltaer sighed. “Alas, that is frightfully dull. Though at least cheap.”

“Some kinds of knowledge are not cheaply bought.” 

“No,” said Maltaer with a sudden grin. “Very well, my dark lady. Ask your questions, and your humble servant shall answer to the best of his limited powers.” 

“First, what’s in that bundle?” said Caina.

Maltaer gestured, and one of his men bent over the bundle and pulled open the canvas.

The faces of two dead men stared into the night. Caina walked closer, examined their features. After a moment she recognized both men. They had been with Lord Nicephorus at the banquet. 

“Since I doubt that you are grave robbers,” said Caina, “I assume you killed these men?” 

“And cheerfully, I might add,” said Maltaer. 

“Who were they?” 

“The fat fellow on the left is Sontanus, the one of the right Malaphon. Both were Nighmarian-born merchants of considerable wealth, and close confidants of our beloved Lord Governor.” 

“And why did you kill them?” said Caina. 

“Because they were the honorless scum of the earth,” said Maltaer. “In short, because they were slavers.”

Ark stepped to her side, his face an empty mask, his eyes on fire. 

“Slavers. These men were slave traders?” said Caina. 

“Oh, yes,” said Maltaer. “Rasadda is so overcrowded these days, and so many people are going hungry. Sontanus and Malaphon could find men and women willing to sell their children for a few coins. But less than you might think. So they snatched people off the streets, locked them in fetters, and shipped them away. They especially liked to go after girls and young women. It seems there is a taste for Saddai girls among the Alqaarin and the Anshani.” 

“Does Nicephorus know about this?” said Caina. 

“Nicephorus?” laughed Maltaer. “Nicephorus is in on it. He’s taking ten percent off the top.” 

“What?” said Caina. She remembered Nicephorus complaining that he could not legalize slavery. Apparently he had decided to dispense with the law. 

Maltaer licked his lips. “When our enterprising Lord Governor came to Rasadda, he decided to wring every last coin he could from his devoted subjects. So he expelled the Saddai peasants from their humble homes and converted their lands to pasture. He did not expect the peasants to flood the city. But, alas, Nicephorus saw a chance to make even more money. So he invited certain slave traders to the city and promised them protection from Imperial law, in exchange for ten percent of their profits.” He gave the corpses a casual kick. “Since then, fellows like this have been harvesting their merchandise from the hungry and the desperate.” 

“Do you have proof of this?” said Caina. 

“Of course,” said Maltaer. “I always thought someone like you might turn up one day.” He pointed to one of his men. “You. Go get the papers.”

The pirate nodded and vanished into the Sign, returning a moment later with a small bundle of papers. Caina took them, stepped closer to the light, and leafed through them. Letters. Pages torn from ledgers. Bills of sale and lading. Nicephorus had made a fortune from selling beef and cheese and leather, but he had made another fortune from selling children kidnapped from Rasadda’s streets. 

Caina decided, then and there, that she was going to kill Nicephorus. The Emperor had sent Ghosts to kill governors who supported slave traders before. She would need to work out a proper way to do it. 

But once she had, Nicephorus would not live out the day.

“I do so enjoy reading,” said Caina, “and a bundle of letters would indeed be a charming gift.” 

“I thought so,” said Maltaer. “Do keep them.” He grinned. “May I assume that Lord Nicephorus’s residence in the realms of the living shall be…ah, brief?”

“Of course not,” said Caina. “The Emperor keeps neither spies nor assassins. When Nicephorus has a tragic yet fatal accident, the Emperor will have had nothing to do with it. Nor will anyone suggest otherwise. Am I clear?”

“As a lagoon on a bright day,” said Maltaer, “and no doubt just as lovely, beneath that cloak.” 

Caina resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. “Fine words, my dashing captain. But I would prefer different words. Specifically, the answers to more questions.” 

Maltaer sighed. “Like all women, you are insatiable. But ask your questions, dark lady, for if anyone can satisfy you, it is I.” 

Caina doubted that he meant the questions. “Why are you killing slavers?”

Maltaer smiled, but his eyes glittered, the same sort of menacing glower she saw in Ark’s eyes. “I am an honest pirate, dark lady. And I detest slavers. Pity the crew of the slave ship that crosses my bow. For the sharks feast well on that day. And then I deliver a load of free men to my next port.”

“During your raids,” said Ark, cutting in to Caina’s response, “have you ever freed a woman named Tanya? She would be of Szaldic descent, with blue eyes and black hair.”

“Tanya?” said Maltaer, face thoughtful. “No, I am afraid not, my hulking friend. Szaldic slaves are rare in this part of the world. Most go to New Kyre, or to Anshan, but not to Istarinmul or to Alqaarin. Especially now that Nicephorus has flooded the market with Saddai slaves.” 

“I see,” said Ark, lapsing back into silence. 

“Ah, a loved one?” said Maltaer. “I am sorry, my hulking friend. You see, my dark lady? Slave traders are the scum of the world, and any honest man who finds one should put him to the sword. So that is why I killed these men.”

Caina nodded. “You burn the corpses. Why?” 

“About a year ago people started turning up dead, burned to death,” said Maltaer. “The work of some mad sorcerer, I presume. A horrible way to die. Naturally I thought of doing the same to the slave traders. But fuel is expensive, and dragging them up the pyramids while they are alive is far too much work. So instead we kill them, drag their bodies up the stairs, and roast them for a bit in the sorcerous pyre. Then we deposit the corpse in a convenient location and make our escape. That way the mad sorcerer takes the blame for our heroic deeds, and we escape to fight another day. He already has much blood on his hands, so why not a little more? Lord Nicephorus would not appreciate our valiant acts.” 

“No, he would not,” said Caina. “I commend your cunning.” 

Maltaer bowed again. “You warm my heart, my dark lady.”

“How many have you killed in this way?” said Caina.

“Seven scoundrels have met their just fate at our hands. Not counting the fine gentlemen at our feet, of course.”

Caina did the calculations in her head. With seven dead…that meant the only people the pyromancer had killed were Rasadda’s Ghost circle, Vanio and Romarion’s business partners, and the one magus. That meant the pyromancer had had contact with the magi, the Ghosts, Romarion’s circle of merchants, and most probably the Sons of Corazain. But who fit that description?

“Who do you think is behind the other burning deaths?” said Caina.

Maltaer shrugged. “Some mad sorcerer, no doubt.”

“Yes,” said Caina, “but which mad sorcerer?”

“I do not know,” said Maltaer, “but were I to guess, I would blame someone within the Magisterium. They are almost worse than slavers, cruel and wicked.”

“I know it well,” said Caina. Better than he knew it, probably.

“In the Empire we have the Magisterium,” said Maltaer, “and in Istarinmul they have alchemists, in Anshan occultists, in New Kyre storm dancers and storm singers, and in Rasadda they used to have Ashbringers. But they are all sorcerers, if different kinds, and sorcerers are always wicked men. And since the Ashbringers are all dead, that leaves only the Magisterium.”