Ghost in the Maze (5 page)

Caina stepped away from the corpse, intending to aid Ibrahaim, but he had already dispatched the final Immortal. 

“You are finished already?” said Ibrahaim, shaking a few drops of blood from his scimitar’s blade. “Capital. I suggest we hasten. Please follow me.”

He returned his weapon to its scabbard and ran into the alley, and Caina could think of nothing better to do than to follow him. Ibrahaim led her through the maze of alleys behind the shops of the Alchemists’ Quarter. They were cleaner and tidier than the alleys of the Alqaarin Quarter and the Anshani Quarter, but were nonetheless still a maze. At last Ibrahaim stopped before a narrow door and rapped out a specific series of knocks.

He used his right hand, she noted. His left remained a fist at his side. He had not opened it for the entire time Caina had seen him. Perhaps he had lost his hand, and replaced it with a block of stone or steel, something that could smash through the armored helmet of an Immortal. Though he would have to be strong, tremendously strong, to pull that off, and his left arm looked no larger than his right.

The door swung open, interrupting Caina’s thoughts.

A man with a crossbow stood beyond the door. He was in his early fifties, and had the look of a Nighmarian commoner and the grim face, muscled arms, and upright stance of a veteran of the Emperor’s Legions. His gray hair had been cut down to bristle, and he wore a short-sleeved tunic, trousers, and heavy boots, a broadsword waiting in a scabbard at his belt. The Legion tattoo visible upon his right bicep confirmed Caina’s guess. 

“Ibrahaim Nasser,” grunted the man, his Istarish carrying a heavy Nighmarian accent. “You’re early.”

Nasser? Caina had heard that name before. But where?

“Punctuality is ever a virtue,” said Nasser. 

“That’s him?” said the veteran.

“The Balarigar himself,” said Nasser. “This is Laertes, my business associate and a most reliable man.”

Laertes grunted. “He’s shorter than I expected.” 

“Most figures of legend are,” said Nasser. 

“I suggest we move off the street,” said Caina, hearing the clatter of armor and the shouts of the pursuing Immortals.

“An excellent idea,” said Nasser, and they stepped through the door. Laertes closed it behind them with one hand, the other cradling his crossbow. Caina watched both Laertes and Nasser for any sign of treachery, but neither man attacked her. She did not know their intentions, and they might well have lured her here to claim the bounty for themselves. 

On the other hand, they hadn’t tried to kill her yet, and the Immortals surely would. 

“We are trapped here,” said Caina, “and once they find the dead Immortals, they’ll start searching every house in the Quarter.” 

“You are correct,” said Nasser. “Fortunately, this building has a convenient outlet to the sewers. If you do not mind the smell, we can use the tunnels to escape the Alchemists’ Quarter by the time the Immortals search this building. Then we can have a civilized conversation in a more pleasant environment.”

“And why,” said Caina, “do you think we want to have a conversation?” 

Again that smile flashed over Nasser’s face, his dark eyes glinting. “Oh, we want to have a conversation, Balarigar. Fear not – I have no wish to collect the impressive bounty upon your head. But I suspect we want many of the same things, and may help each other to claim them.” 

His eyes strayed to the bronze ring upon her finger as he spoke.

She did not trust him, not even a little. 

But it was not as if Caina had a better option.

“Lead on,” she said.

Nasser grinned. “A fine decision. Come along, Laertes.”

Chapter 4 - Glasshand

It was past midnight by the time they reached Nasser’s bolt hole in the Anshani Quarter.

To Caina’s surprise, Istarinmul’s subterranean sewers were as efficient and as effective as the sewers beneath the great cities of the Empire. Unfortunately, that meant the tunnels smelled vile, and her mask did little to filter out the hideous stink. Fortunately, Laertes and Nasser knew their way through the maze, and had taken the precaution of preparing hooded lanterns, lest an open flame ignite the vile gases filling the sewer. 

And as they walked, Caina realized where she had felt an aura similar to the one surrounding Nasser’s left hand.

It had been during her first week in Istarinmul, at the festivities surrounding Ulvan’s ascension to the ranks of the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. Grand Master Callatas himself had attended the ceremony, and had worn a strange jewel around his neck, a lump of glowing blue crystal the size of a fist. The thing had radiated immense arcane power.

She felt a similar, though weaker, aura from Nasser’s gloved hand.

He carried the lantern with his right hand, she noted, and his left hand never relaxed its fist.

They emerged from the sewers and into the towering, cramped tenements of the Anshani Quarter. Nasser led the way to a hulking tenement, descended a flight of stairs, and opened a door to a cellar apartment. A ring of cushions surrounded a low table, and a small closet contained a variety of wooden chests. The only light came from a dim lantern upon the table. It reminded Caina of the apartment where Corvalis had hidden Claudia in Cyrioch, the apartment where he had nearly died from the poison on Sicarion’s weapons. 

She could not afford to think about him now. 

Caina suspected she would need all her wits to deal with Ibrahaim Nasser. 

“I thought you promised a more pleasant environment,” said Caina.

“Well, it is not much,” said Nasser, seating himself on one of the cushions, “but compared to the sewers, it is a palace.” Again that mocking smile reappeared. “And better than a cell beneath the College of Alchemists, no? Please, be seated and take your ease.”

Caina sat cross-legged on a cushion opposite Nasser, keeping her weapons near at hand. Laertes went to the closet and began rummaging through the chests. He produced plates and loaded them with jerky and slices of cheese, and then filled three cups with mixed wine. He placed the plates and the cups upon the round table and then seated himself.

“Eat, I urge you,” said Nasser, lifting one of the cups. “After your exertions you must be ravenous.” 

“And if I eat,” said Caina, “I’ll have to remove my mask.”

Nasser offered a lazy shrug. “I imagine it would make eating easier.”

“And if I refuse?” said Caina, watching Laertes. The Legion veteran sat motionless, his face giving away nothing. He reminded Caina somewhat of Ark, the former centurion of the Eighteenth Legion who had become a Ghost and then the owner of Malarae’s most prosperous foundry. Ark loved his wife and children, but he was capable of killing without hesitation or mercy.

Laertes might do the same.

“Then you may go, and we will not hinder you,” said Nasser. He took a sip of his wine, scowled at it, and shook his head. “Ever since Iramis burned, Istarish wine has never been the same. But that is not your concern. Go, and there will be no ill will between us.” He leaned forward, his smile glinting in the dim light. “But I think that would be a poor decision.”

“Oh?” said Caina. “Just why is that?”

“Because you are alone,” said Nasser, “and in dire need of allies.” 

Caina said nothing.

“The Teskilati and Callatas might think you part of a grand conspiracy,” said Nasser, “but you and I know better, do we not?” 

“And how do you know that?” said Caina.

“Because you went into Vaysaal’s palace alone,” said Nasser, “and you would not have done that unless you had help.” He set his wine cup upon the table. “I have been observing your exploits with great interest, Balarigar. Robbing the master slavers? Burning the Widow’s Tower to ash? Clearly you are a man of great intellect, cunning, and boldness. But you are just one man.”

“You,” said Caina, “could not be more wrong.”

“I suspect not,” said Nasser. “You have gained some potent foes, Balarigar, and you are in sore need of allies. I very much believe we can be allies, for I suspect that we have the same goals.” 

Caina said nothing. Nasser’s words were closer to the truth than he knew. She was the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, but at the moment the Ghost circle of Istarinmul consisted of Caina, a woman who owned a coffee shop, and a man left physically damaged from a year of torture in the Widow’s Tower. And Caina was attempting to learn the secrets of the most powerful and dangerous sorcerer in Istarinmul. She badly needed allies, strong allies. 

And if Ibrahaim Nasser was the man she suspected him to be, he could be a useful ally. 

But if she was wrong…

Well, at this point, what was one more risk?

“That cheese does look good,” said Caina. Laertes snorted and popped a piece of the cheese into his mouth. She reached up, drew back her cowl, and tugged off her mask. Just as well she had kept the makeup on her face. That and her short hair would help her to pass as a man.

Laertes snorted. “A Nighmarian nobleman?”

Caina grunted, discarding her rasping snarl of a voice for a gruff, clipped tone. “What makes you say that?”

Laertes blinked. “Your voice…how did you do that? It just changed.”

Nasser laughed. “A useful skill for a thief and a spy, wouldn’t you say, my good centurion?” 

“You look like a Nighmarian nobleman,” said Laertes.

“With blue eyes?” said Nasser. “I would say he looks more Szaldic.”

Caina sighed and took a sip of the bitter Istarish wine. “If you must know, my father was a magistrate high in the Emperor’s favor who took a Szaldic mistress. Once he learned that she was pregnant, he cast her aside, and my mother raised me upon the streets of Malarae. She died when I was seven, and I have stolen for my bread ever since.”

Laertes grunted and ate some more cheese. 

“A fine tale,” said Nasser, “but utterly false, I am afraid.”

“Why is that?” said Caina.

“Common thieves, no matter how bold,” said Nasser, gesturing at her cushion, “tend not to go about their business with Ghost shadow-cloaks.”

“Perhaps I stole it,” said Caina.

“The Ghosts of the Emperor of Nighmar,” said Nasser, “tend to take a dim view of those who steal from their brotherhood.” 

“Then you think I am a Ghost nightfighter?” said Caina.

“I suspect as much,” said Nasser. “Do you know who I am?”

“I suspect,” said Caina, setting down her wine cup, “that you are Nasser Glasshand.”

Laertes raised an eyebrow as he chewed, and a small smile played over Nasser’s bearded lips. 

“The man known as Nasser Glasshand,” said Nasser, “is entirely mythical. A tale the poets like to recite to the crowds.”

“So is the Balarigar,” said Caina, “but here we are.” 

“Well,” said Nasser, “if you have decided to think of me as Nasser Glasshand, the most daring and devilishly handsome master thief…”

Laertes rolled his eyes.

“Ever to plague the emirs and Alchemists of Istarinmul,” continued Nasser, undaunted, “then who am I to object?” 

“Is your hand really made of glass?” said Caina.

“What do you think?” said Nasser.

He raised his left hand and opened and closed it a few times, the fingers flexing. 

“Not glass,” said Nasser. “I honestly cannot imagine where this ‘Glasshand’ business began.”

“Of course,” said Caina.

Yet she noted the movement seemed to pain Nasser. His expression had remained calm and amused, yet the veins in his temples bulged a bit, his left eyelid twitching. For that matter, she still felt the sorcerous aura around his left hand.

A fist of flesh and blood could not smash an Immortal’s steel helmet with a single blow.

“Tell me,” said Nasser. “What other tales have you heard of Nasser Glasshand?”

Caina shrugged. “Several. That he is a thief without equal, that he has stolen from both Alchemists and emirs and lived to tell the tale. That he turned pirate and sailed upon the Alqaarin Sea. Or that he went south in search of the ruins of old Maat and vanished in the desert sands. Or that he returned with sorcerous treasures.” She hoped the last one was false. The sorcerous relics of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun had caused quite enough harm already. 

“And I have heard,” said Nasser, “that the Balarigar freed the slaves of Marsis and slew Rezir Shahan before his soldiers, that he can walk through shadows and vanish without a trace.”

“Lies and calumnies,” said Caina. “I am sure we are both upright, respectable men, who would never steal anything.”

“Indeed,” said Nasser. “Shall we get down to it, then?” 

Caina tensed. “To what?”

“Why, to the real questions, of course,” said Nasser. “I imagine you have many questions for me.”

She did. “And just why would you answer them?”

“Because I have many questions for you,” said Nasser. “Information, after all, is its own form of currency, often far more valuable than gold or silver. Let us play a game, you and I. You shall ask me a question, and then I shall give you an honest answer. Then you may do the same to me. Is this agreeable?”

“Very well,” said Caina. 

Nasser gestured with his right hand. “Then begin.”

“How did you find me?” said Caina. 

Laertes snorted. “We followed the Immortals. And the naked slavers hanging upside down from chains.”

“Do forgive Laertes,” said Nasser. “As you have no doubt deduced, he spent a great many years in the Emperor’s Legions and therefore acquired the black humor common to soldiers of all nations. But his answer is essentially accurate. After I learned the Balarigar was involved in the destruction of the Widow’s Tower, I desired greatly to speak with you. A study of your thefts revealed that you targeted slavers who had sold captives to Callatas for his various projects…and Vaysaal was one of Callatas’s lieutenants. After Callatas had him assassinated, I suspected you might wish to look around Vaysaal’s laboratory. My surmise was correct. Unfortunately, it seems that the Teskilati and the Kindred reached the same conclusion.” He grinned. “You have acquired the Grand Master’s enmity, Balarigar. Callatas did not even devote that many Immortals to the destruction of the Ghost circle after the war with the Empire.” 

“My charming personality, I’m sure,” said Caina.

“No doubt,” said Nasser with a chuckle. “Now. My question. Are you a Ghost nightfighter? If you are, please understand that I have no wish to expose you, and no desire to bring harm to your Emperor. Rather, I wish to know what kind of man you are. Are you simply a talented thief, or do you have larger ambitions?” 

Caina considered her answer for a moment. She suspected that Nasser wanted to recruit her for something, most likely some audacious and profitable theft. So why did he care if she was a Ghost? Did he fear the vengeance of the Ghosts? Or did he want the help of the Ghosts and their resources?

Of course, if he knew that the Ghosts of Istarinmul consisted of Caina, a coffee merchant, and the coffee merchant’s brother, he might think differently.

“There are no such thing as the Ghosts, of course,” said Caina. “Merely legends and fables. Like the Balarigar and Nasser Glasshand. Stories concocted as scapegoats for the failures of ambitious fools.”

Nasser raised an eyebrow. “Like Rezir Shahan, perhaps?”

“Precisely,” said Caina. “Like Rezir Shahan. He died from his own mistakes. He certainly wasn’t killed by the Balarigar in front of thousands of witnesses, and the Balarigar certainly is not a Ghost nightfighter.”

Laertes grunted. “So many words to say yes.”

“Now, now, Laertes,” said Nasser. “Words have a pleasure all of their own. So the Balarigar is indeed a nightfighter of the Ghosts. Interesting…and that inspires many more questions. So you may ask a question of me now.”

“I know how you found me,” said Caina. “Why did you help me escape?” 

“A question that requires an answer in three parts,” said Nasser. “First, because your escape would annoy Grand Master Callatas, and anything that annoys him is a fine thing. Second, if you perished in the Alchemists’ Quarter, I would lose the potential benefit of your assistance. And, thirdly…I think you and I might have some interests in common. Now it is my turn for a question.”

Caina nodded.

“If you are a Ghost nightfighter,” said Nasser, “than that means you regard wealth as a tool, not as a means in itself. So you were looking for something else in the palaces of those slavers, not merely their gold and jewels.”

“Perhaps I hate slavers,” said Caina, “and merely wished to repay them for all the cruelties they have inflicted upon the innocent.” That was true enough.

“An admirable goal,” said Nasser, “but if you desired simple revenge, it would be far easier to knife them in the street or pour poison into their cups. Why risk inflicting such daring public humiliations upon them? No, you were looking for something other than money, other than revenge.” He leaned forward, his dark eyes keen and sharp. “You were looking for secrets.”

“That is a statement,” said Caina, her throat dry, “not a question.”

“True. The question, then,” said Nasser. “Were you looking for knowledge about the Apotheosis?” 

Caina considered her answer. It was entirely possible that this was all a trick, a trap by the Teskilati or Callatas’s agents to draw her in. Nasser might have rescued her from Anburj, but perhaps he didn’t want the Kindred to claim the glory of killing her. Perhaps he simply wanted to keep the bounty for himself.

But he was right. Caina needed allies.

“Yes,” she said at last.

Nasser nodded, and Laertes looked a touch grimmer. 

“The Apotheosis,” said Caina, leaning forward despite herself. “What is it?”

“I do not know, not truly,” said Nasser. “Nonetheless, I will tell you what I know. It is a plan of Callatas’s, his grand scheme. Somehow it involves the wraithblood, though I know not how. Callatas has gathered a number of disciples around him, men from among the emirs and the Alchemists, and even common assassins and mercenaries, if they serve him well. I would call them a cult, but they worship nothing but their own power and advancement. Vaysaal was one. Ricimer was another, and there are many others. Which leads to my next question of you, Balarigar. How did Ricimer die?”