Ghost in the Maze (6 page)

“I killed him,” said Caina.

“Ah,” said Nasser.

For the first time Laertes smiled. “Did you, now.” 

“Ricimer was a powerful Alchemist and his sorcery was potent,” said Nasser. “If you do not object to expanding upon your answer, I would be most curious as to the details.”

“He bore a weapon of sorcery, a lightning-throwing fork,” said Caina. “He prepared to fling a killing bolt at me, but I threw a knife into the tines of his fork. The lightning was drawn to the knife, and then rebounded up the fork itself and slew him where he stood.”

Laertes laughed. “I’ll be damned.”

“After he was slain, a spirit calling itself a nagataaru possessed his corpse,” said Caina, which stole Laertes’s laughter. “Do you know what it is? I had never heard the word before that day.” 

“I know of them, but little else,” said Nasser. “They are a race of spirits that dwell in the netherworld, as do the elementals and the djinni and all the others. Spirits emulate mortal men in one regard – they have their own hierarchies and nations and empires, and these empires war eternally upon each other. The nagataaru are one such empire. Callatas often summons them and binds them as servants, though the practice is forbidden by both the Alchemists’ laws and the decrees of the Padishah.” The glint came back into his eye. “Though I do know this, one little piece of secret lore. You have heard the tale of Istarr and the seven Demon Princes of old, I trust.” Caina nodded. “The demon spirits that possessed the Princes were in fact seven of the high captains of the nagataaru, spirits of fell power and potent sorcery. The Istarish nobles do not like to remember it, but it was only with the aid of the mighty loremasters of Iramis that Istarr was able to defeat the Demon Prices and found Istarinmul.” 

“They do not like to remember Callatas destroyed Iramis a century and a half past,” said Caina, voice quiet.

Nasser nodded. “That was his greatest crime, though there are many competitors for that particular honor. And I fear he may do worse yet, if left unchecked. Which I suspect is the answer to my next question. Why do you seek knowledge of Callatas’s Apotheosis?” 

Caina considered the question for a moment.

“Because it must be stopped,” said Caina. 

“Why?” said Nasser. “Perhaps his intentions are benevolent. Perhaps the wraithblood shall uplift humanity to a new height of splendor and power.”

“No,” said Caina, more heat in her voice than she intended.

Nasser raised his eyebrow. “That seems to have struck a nerve.”

“The Apotheosis must be stopped because I have seen it before,” said Caina. “I have…seen things, Ibrahaim Nasser, terrible things. Sorcerous catastrophes that almost happened.” Maglarion could have killed a million men, women, and children in a heartbeat, and Kalastus had tried to burn a quarter of a million people to ashes. “I trust you both saw the day the golden dead rose and attacked the living.” Both Nasser and Laertes nodded. “That is what Callatas intends. Something like that, something terrible that will slay millions. I am utterly certain of it.” Her gloved right hand closed into a fist. “And I will find a way to stop him. I have not…I have not,” again she saw the golden fire burn over New Kyre, saw the flash of the Moroaica’s spell as Corvalis died, “I have not come through so much to see Callatas unleash an age of horror upon the earth. I will stop him if I can.” 

Nasser and Laertes shared a look. 

“He might be helpful, then,” said Laertes.

“I agree,” said Nasser.

“Before you come to any decisions,” said Caina, “I have one more question for you.”

Nasser gestured with his ungloved hand. “Proceed.”

“All the stories about Nasser Glasshand say he is a master thief without equal,” said Caina. “That he robs from the wealthiest, most powerful men in the Padishah’s domain.”

“And several other nations,” said Nasser with a smile.

“So. Why go after Callatas, then?” said Caina. “Surely there are easier targets.”

Nasser’s smile widened. “It may surprise you, Balarigar, but my motives are much the same as your own. I am a thief, yes, but like you, I see wealth only as a means to an end. And my end is to see Callatas stopped. He has wreaked too much harm already, and I mean to defeat him. You might even say that I am a patriot.”

“Of Istarinmul?” said Caina. “But I don’t think you’re Istarish. Your accent…”

She frowned. His accent was odd. She had heard it somewhere before, but she could not bring it to mind. 

“I would have been most surprised,” said Nasser, “if you could place my accent.” He took a drink of his wine. “I have no further questions for you. Unless you have more for me?”

Caina did, but she did not want to tell Nasser any more than she had already, so she shook her head. 

“Capital,” said Nasser. “As I suspected, we do share a goal in arranging the downfall of Callatas. In that vein, I have a proposal for you.”

“To do what?” said Caina.

“Do you know of the Tarshahzon Gardens in the Emirs’ Quarter, just north of the Golden Palace?” said Nasser. Caina nodded. “Meet me there at noon the day after tomorrow, near the great painting at the northern end of the gardens, and we shall discuss the matter further.” 

“And if I decline?” said Caina.

Nasser shrugged. “Then we go our separate ways with no ill will. But I believe that would be a foolish decision. You need allies, Ghost, and I can provide them. And I will offer a little more honey to sweeten the pot, as it were.”

“What manner of honey?” said Caina.

Nasser pointed at her left hand. “That ring on your finger. You found it in Vaysaal’s laboratory, yes? I know what it is.”

“It’s called a pyrikon,” said Caina.

The white smile flashed over his dark face. “And you know what a pyrikon is?”

Caina sighed. “I assume you’ll tell me if I meet with you again?”

“I see the legendary cleverness of the Ghosts is well-earned,” said Nasser. “Laertes.” The veteran nodded and retrieved a ragged brown cloak, the sort favored by the nomadic tribes to the south, and handed it to Caina. “A Ghost shadow-cloak is a bit conspicuous, ironically enough, so that will assist you when you leave. It wouldn’t do for you to perish before we have our meeting.”

Caina took one more swallow of wine and stood. Her legs and arms ached from the long chase. “You’re so certain that I will come back.”

“Yes,” said Nasser. “I am.” 

“We’ll see,” said Caina. She slung the ragged cloak around her shoulders. “Thank you for the assistance, by the way.”

“A pleasure,” said Nasser, inclining his head.

She turned to go to the door, and hesitated. 

“There is something else?” said Nasser.

“Perhaps,” said Caina. “Another question, if you will.” Part of her mind screamed that this was a bad idea, but she had to know.

“Of course,” said Nasser, “though then you must answer one in turn.”

“Very well.” Caina turned to face him. “The star is the key to the crystal. Have you ever heard those words before?”

Again Nasser and Laertes shared that glance. This time Laertes looked startled. Alarmed, even. 

“I have,” said Nasser. “They are the refrain of an epic poem describing the destruction of the city of Iramis at the hands of Callatas. I believe the last Prince of Iramis composed the poem as he wandered the wasteland of the Desert of Candles that had once been his domain. Quite tragic, really. Little wonder the Istarish love it so. They do so enjoy a good tragedy.” 

“I had heard,” said Caina, “that the poem was composed a century past. Iramis burned a hundred and fifty years ago.”

Nasser smiled. “Well. The accounts differ. I suspect the poet Sulaman told you that.”

“Yes,” said Caina. Nasser must have heard Sulaman recite the epic.

“Now my question,” said Nasser. “Those words. Where did you first hear them?”

“I will tell you the truth,” said Caina, “but you will not believe me.”

Nasser rose to his feet. “Indulge me.”

“I stood in the netherworld on the day of the golden dead,” said Caina, “and the spirit of a man who died twenty-five centuries ago told me that I would need those words.” 

Nasser’s calm, faintly amused expression did not waver, but a flicker of tension went through his limbs, and Caina had the distinct impression that he had been taken aback.

“I see,” he said at last. 

“You believe me, then?” said Caina.

“Why should I not?” said Nasser. “An unusual tale, to be sure, but unusual things happen all the time. Go in peace, Balarigar. I shall took forward to seeing you in the Tarshahzon Gardens.” 

“You are certain I will come?” said Caina.

Nasser grinned. “Greet Sulaman for me when you see him.”

A chill went down Caina’s spine. “You know him?”

“Who do you think,” said Nasser, “suggested that I seek you out?”

Chapter 5 - The House of Agabyzus

It was almost noon by the time Caina returned to the Sanctuary. 

She had taken a cautious route through the city, hiding her shadow-cloak in her satchel and covering herself with the ragged nomad’s cloak. Along the way she had stolen a turban and a rough wooden staff, and had feigned a limp. Anyone looking at her, she hoped, would see a tribesman visiting from the steppes of Trabazon, leaning upon a staff for support. Of course, the nomads of the Trabazon rarely had blue eyes, and almost always had skin darker than Caina’s. Yet the disguise worked. No one troubled Caina as she made her way across the city, though she saw many patrols of watchmen and more than a few Immortals. The Immortals rarely came into the poorer quarters unless escorting their masters, so Caina supposed Anburj must have extended his search.

She wondered if Callatas would kill the Kindred assassin for his failure. He had come within a hair’s breadth of catching Caina, and if not for Nasser’s intervention, she might not have escaped. But given how close Anburj had come to success, Caina suspected Callatas would urge the assassin to redouble his efforts. Anburj had correctly predicted her actions once before, and he might well do so again. Which made a good argument for considering Nasser’s offer. The Balarigar had always worked alone, and Anburj might not expect her to work with Nasser and his crew.

Caina suspected that was why Nasser had rescued her. Despite all his high talk about defeating Callatas and the Apotheosis, he might have his eye upon a rich prize, and wanted the Balarigar’s help to steal it.

Or he was telling the truth. Though even if he was, Caina was sure he had only given her a piece of the truth. Of course, Caina had done the same with him.

Or she was simply mistaken, and he was preparing to hand her over to the Teskilati and claim the bounty for himself.

Either way, there was no reason to trust him. 

So she took her time making her away across the city, crossing back over her path and taking great care to make sure that she was not followed. At last she returned to the dry fountain behind the House of Agabyzus, unlocked the door, and descended to the Sanctuary. She discarded her sweat-sodden nightfighter garb and washed and bandaged her wounds. None of them were serious, but she had numerous small cuts upon her arms, and one long, shallow cut on her ribs where the steel plates of her jacket had broken. Bruises covered her hips and thighs from various falls, and her joints and shoulders ached from all the running and the climbing. 

Still, it could have been far worse.

She wasted the better part of an hour trying to remove the twisted bronze ring. Caina tried soap, wax, grease, everything she could think of. All she managed to do was make the skin around her finger red and raw from scrubbing. The pyrikon did not budge, and the constant tingling of its faint aura remained unchanged. 

That was annoying. Worse, it was dangerous. She used a dozen different disguises to move unseen through Istarinmul, and wearing a distinctive piece of jewelry with each disguise might well ruin them. Even more dangerous, it was possible Callatas or Vaysaal had embedded a tracking spell upon the ring. Her shadow-cloak protected her from divinatory sorcery, but she could not always wear it. If there was a tracking spell upon the ring, she could not elude Callatas and his hunters.

They would find her and kill her.

For a long, grim moment Caina considered cutting off the finger with the ring still on it. That would badly damage her ability to fight and climb, though she favored her right hand. It would also prove a liability when employing disguises.

And the thought made her skin crawl. Caina had done a lot of unpleasant things, but she had never had to cut off a piece of herself. 

At last she discarded the notion. She had no proof there was a tracking spell upon the ring. And for all she knew, if she cut off the finger, the ring would simply attach itself to another. 

Caina dressed in the clothes of a courier of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, boots and trousers and a loose shirt beneath a coat that was too warm for the harsh sun of Istarinmul. A sheathed short sword and a dagger went in a leather belt around her waist, and Caina paused before the mirror to wash away her makeup and apply a new coat. When she finished, she saw Marius, a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, staring back at her.

After a moment’s thought, she wrapped a bandage around her left hand to conceal the pyrikon.

She nodded in satisfaction, climbed out of the Sanctuary, and walked around the courtyard to the Cyrican Bazaar and the House of Agabyzus.

The Bazaar hosted a bustling maze of stalls and booths, merchants selling carpets and pans and knives and fried skewers of meat. A dozen competing smells hung heavy in the air, wood smoke and cooking meat and exotic spices and roasting coffee. Women in bright robes and headscarves bought and sold, while slaves in gray tunics went about the business of their masters. 

The House of Agabyzus rose over the market, a three-story building of whitewashed stone with a flat roof. Caina pushed open the front door and strode into the common room. Dozens of low, round tables dotted the floor, ringed with cushions in the Istarish style, booths lining the walls so patrons could converse without anyone overhearing them. Anshani carpets hung from the walls between the wide windows, and a dais stood against the far wall where a poet could recite the epic poems of the Istarish people. It was midday, and merchants and their bodyguards filled the tables and booths, haggling and negotiating over lunch and coffee. So much business and plotting took place in the coffee houses of Istarinmul. A clever woman could listen to their conversations and learn many things.

Caina had done just that in Malarae, masquerading as Sonya Tornesti, the frivolous, empty-headed mistress of coffee merchant Anton Kularus. But she could not do that in Istarinmul. Disguising herself as a man was the best way to move unnoticed through the city. Only two people in all Istarinmul knew that she was a woman.

One of them hurried towards Caina now, a smile on her face.

Damla was in her middle thirties. Istarish women preferred bright colors, but Damla wore widow’s black. She was still in mourning for her husband, dead three years past during Rezir Shahan’s attack upon Marsis. Caina knew the feeling.

“Master Marius, welcome,” said Damla, her smile widening. “It is good to see you under my roof once again.”

“And I am glad to be here,” said Caina.

“You will always be welcome in the House of Agabyzus,” said Damla. She glanced to the door near the dais, and her two sons, Bayram and Bahad, emerged from the kitchen carrying trays of food. Bayram was seventeen, stern and dour, while Bahad was twelve with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You will be welcome here for the rest of your days, Master Marius.” 

There was a faint catch in her voice as she said it. Her sons had been kidnapped by the Master Slaver Ulvan, who intended to sell them to Callatas to make wraithblood. But Bayram and Bahad had been freed, along with all the other captives, and Ulvan had been humiliated and impoverished. 

Caina had seen to that.

“And I am grateful for your welcome, and all your hospitality,” said Caina.

“You are too kind,” said Damla.

“No, I’m really not,” said Caina.

And she meant it. When Caina had first set foot in Damla’s coffee house, she had been half-crazed with grief from the deaths of Halfdan and Corvalis, and had almost drank herself to death the first night. The abduction of Bayram and Bahad had shocked Caina out of her grief and apathy, had spurred her to action. That had set Caina on the road to discovering Callatas’s crimes and the Apotheosis. It had saved Caina’s life. Had her mind remained in that dark state, she might have done something foolish, might have destroyed herself or thrown her life away in some reckless gamble.

So now, she thought with a twist of amusement, she could throw her life away trying to find the truth of Callatas’s Apotheosis. 

“Thank you,” said Damla. “We had heard there was an…uproar in the Emirs’ Quarter last night. A riot, perhaps.”

“I’m sure I know nothing about that,” said Caina.

Damla almost managed not to smile. “I’m sure. You will want to talk to him?”

“If it can be arranged,” said Caina. 

“Easily,” said Damla. “He is here now. This way.” 

She led Caina across the floor to a booth in the corner. A gaunt Istarish man sat there, clad in a tan robe and turban, his face encircled in a trimmed gray beard. Despite the steaming cup of coffee before him, he looked tired, weary, and his dark eyes never stopped sweeping the room. 

Unsurprising, given that Agabyzus had spent over a year in a cell of the Widow’s Tower, suffering every torture Ricimer’s men could inflict upon him. The six weeks since Caina had rescued him had made him stronger and healthier, but the mark of his ordeal would never quite leave him. Some scars never healed entirely.

Caina knew that well.

“Ah,” said Agabyzus. “You’ve returned.” 

“A guest to see you, sir,” said Damla, smiling down at her older brother.

“Thank you,” said Agabyzus. “If you could bring some more coffee and a few cakes, that would be marvelous.”

“Certainly,” said Damla. “We shall fatten you up yet.”

She walked back toward the kitchen, black skirts whispering around her ankles, and Caina sat across from Agabyzus. He had once been the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, until he had started investigating Callatas and the wraithblood. In retaliation, Callatas had sent the Teskilati to destroy the Ghost circle of Istarinmul, taking many alive and torturing them to death in the Widow’s Tower. 

Agabyzus was the sole survivor, and he had gladly surrendered control of the Ghost circle to Caina. 

What was left of it, anyway.

“There was a great deal of chaos in the Emirs’ Quarter last night,” said Agabyzus in a low voice, “and you appear to have injured your hand.”

“Not yet,” said Caina, and she unwrapped the bandage just enough to let him see the pyrikon. To judge from his reaction, he had seen it before. “You know what this is?”

“No,” said Agabyzus, “but I have seen such rings before. Callatas’s most loyal lieutenants wear them sometimes. Ricimer had one, though I suppose it melted when the Widow’s Tower burned.” His frown deepened. “Why are you wearing that? If someone recognizes it you shall be in grave danger.”

“I can’t take it off,” said Caina. “It wrapped itself around my finger when I found it. There’s some kind of sorcery on it. I’m not sure what.”

“The Master Alchemist Vaysaal is assassinated, there is an uproar in the Emirs’ Quarter,” said Agabyzus, “and you turn up the next day with that ring.” He shook his head, and for a moment he almost looked amused. “Truly, you have a knack for chaos.” 

“I cannot argue with that,” said Caina. 

“Did you kill Vaysaal?” said Agabyzus. “That was a dreadful risk.”

“I didn’t kill him,” said Caina. “I just took advantage of his death.” 

She told Agabyzus about her raid of Vaysaal’s palace, the wraithblood laboratory, and the trap Anburj had set for her. Agabyzus listened in silence, his face grave. Damla returned with a tray holding coffee and spiced cakes, and Caina realized that she had not eaten any of Nasser’s food, which meant she had not eaten anything since entering Vaysaal’s palace. She accepted the food with thanks and ate and drank as she talked.

“That,” said Agabyzus when she finished, “was a mad risk.” 

Caina shrugged. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“Your boldness saved my life and the lives of my nephews,” said Agabyzus, “but, still, I would counsel you to moderation in the future. Getting yourself killed will not bring back those you have lost.”

Caina scowled. “Is that what you think I am doing? Trying to kill myself to atone for my sins? I am past that.”

“If you say so,” said Agabyzus, his doubt plain. 

But he had a point. Before the deaths of Corvalis and Halfdan, she had never been so reckless. She would not have entered Vaysaal’s palace without a better plan, would have first spent several days infiltrating the servants and learning their comings and goings. Or perhaps she had always been this bold, and had come to view the past through the lens of her love for Corvalis. 

“The opportunity came, and I took it,” said Caina. “What’s done is done.”

“I have no right to command you,” said Agabyzus. “And your boldness saved my life. I have no right to criticize it. But I do have the right and the duty to counsel you, and I would counsel you to greater caution.” He sighed. “If we are to rebuild the Ghosts of Istarinmul, if we are to stop whatever villainy Callatas intends to inflict upon the people, it is up to you. I am but a shadow of the man that I was before the Widow’s Tower. I will help you however I can, but the final decisions lie in your hands.”

“And your knowledge and contacts have been most helpful,” said Caina. “Now I have further need of them. What can you tell me about the man calling himself Nasser Glasshand?” 

Agabyzus sighed and leaned back into his seat, drumming his bony fingers against the table. 

“There have been,” he said at last, “tales of a thief calling himself Nasser Glasshand circulating through Istarinmul for decades, maybe even a century.”

“Then I met with an imposter,” said Caina. “The man I spoke with could not have been much older than forty.”

Agabyzus shrugged. “My belief is that the name of Nasser Glasshand is an identity, a title, passed down from holder to holder. Because while the tales have been circulating for a century, most of them are true. Someone calling himself Glasshand did indeed pull off some daring thefts in that span of time, some even while I was circlemaster.” 

“Why do they call him Glasshand?” said Caina.

“According to the stories,” said Agabyzus, “his left hand is made of living glass.”

“That sounds unwieldy,” said Caina. 

“In some of the tales, his glass hand lets him open any locked door or deflect spells,” said Agabyzus. “You met the man, not I. Is his left hand made of glass?”