Ghost in the Maze (9 page)

She turned to leave.

“As it happens, I agree with you,” said Nasser. Caina stopped and looked back. “And I do not intend to steal Elixir Rejuvenata.”

“What, then?” said Caina.

“Elixir Restorata,” said Nasser. 

“What is that?” said Caina. “I’ve never heard of it.” 

“A lesser Elixir,” said Nasser. “It is made from the ashes of a phoenix spirit, ice crystals from an elemental spirit of water, and certain herbs and roots. Elixir Rejuvenata is a complete restoration of physical youth and vitality, healing all wounds and illnesses in the process.”

“Assuming it works correctly,” said Caina. She remembered Ibrahmus Sinan screaming as his flawed Elixir reshaped him into something monstrous. 

“Which is why so few Alchemists successfully become Master Alchemists without vaporizing themselves or transforming into insane monsters,” said Nasser. “Elixir Restorata is simpler to prepare, and will merely heal all injuries and most illnesses, rather than offering renewed youth. Callatas has prepared a batch of a hundred vials.”

“Merely?” said Caina. “That’s still a treasure beyond price.”

“Indeed,” said Nasser. 

“If you have all the money you’ll ever need,” said Caina, “why steal Elixir Restorata to sell?”

“Because there are other currencies than money,” said Nasser. “Imagine, say, your wife dying. Imagine that the Elixir Restorata could save her. What would you do for the man who saved your family from a fatal illness?” 

“Anything he wanted,” said Caina. “Favors. That is your preferred currency now, is it not? You deal in favors.” 

“A man with friends is rich indeed,” said Nasser. 

“Assuming I agree to help you,” said Caina, “how do you intend to get inside Callatas’s palace? It is a strong fortress, and guarded day and night by eyes both mortal and sorcerous. The Widow’s Tower seems like a leaky box by comparison…and escaping the Widow’s Tower almost killed me.”

“This painting,” said Nasser, gesturing at the wall, “will get us into Callatas’s palace.” 

“How?”

“In two weeks is the one hundred and fifty-first anniversary of the destruction of Iramis,” said Nasser. “And every year upon that occasion, Callatas holds a grand banquet and festival to celebrate his deed of mass murder.”

“Who is invited?” said Caina.

“Why, the entirely of Istarinmul’s nobility, the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood, the Alchemists and Master Alchemists of the College, and the city’s most prominent merchants,” said Nasser. “Nearly all of them attend, mostly out of fear. I suspect Callatas enjoys watching them squirm.”

“Then we’ll sneak in during the banquet?” said Caina.

“Too much work,” said Nasser. “Easier by far to forge invitations and invite ourselves. Then we take advantage of the confusion to make our way to the Maze and then to Callatas’s laboratory, where we steal a hundred vials of freshly-made Elixir Rejuvenata.”  

“And you can’t do it,” said Caina, “without my help.”

Nasser said nothing, his smile unwavering.

“In fact, this is all because of me,” said Caina. She gestured with her left hand. “I stole the pyrikon, and you need the ring to get past the Maze and into Callatas’s laboratory. Without the ring, none of this can happen.”

“You reason correctly,” said Nasser. “Sulaman suggested that I contact you, that we might have interests in common. I was hoping to take Vaysaal’s pyrikon for myself. You simply got there first. After that our common interests overlapped rather more closely, since I had no wish for the Immortals to kill you, and certainly no wish for them to kill you and reclaim the pyrikon.” 

“So you need me,” said Caina, glancing around the shrine. She saw no sign of armed men lurking in the bushes and trees. “Dare I ask what happens if I refuse?”

Nasser smiled. “Do you think I will abduct you, or cut off your hand and claim the pyrikon for myself? Of course not. I am a thief, not a murderer. And you, sir…why would I kill you? You are a rare jewel! No other man has discomforted the Slavers’ Brotherhood so! A bounty of half a million bezants? Even mine is not so high!” He gestured. “No, if you wish to go, go in peace. But you won’t.”

“Why not?” said Caina. “Do you understand me so well? You don’t even know my name.” 

“You are the Balarigar,” said Nasser with a shrug, “and that is the only name I need to understand you. A master thief, yes, but that name is the Szaldic word for ‘slayer of demons’…and you are a Ghost nightfighter. You came to Istarinmul to stop Callatas. To stop the wraithblood, to stop whatever he intends to achieve with his Apotheosis. But you don’t know what he is planning, no more than I do. And a look around his laboratory is the best way to learn his secrets, no?” He stood and took a few steps closer. “We both wish to see Callatas stopped…and we can help each other. You have the key to the Maze, but cannot reach the Maze without help. I can infiltrate his mansion, but cannot access the Maze without the key.” 

Caina stared at the disturbing painting. If Nasser was preparing a trap for her, he had certainly put a great deal of work into it. Perhaps he had spoken the truth, and did want to see Callatas defeated. Or perhaps he merely wanted to steal the vials of Elixir Restorata for his personal enrichment. Or maybe he had some other purpose entirely. 

But even if he simply wanted to steal the Elixir, that would discomfort Callatas…and Caina could live with that.

“All right,” said Caina.

“Capital,” said Nasser. 

“Though you will owe me a favor,” said Caina.

“I would not have it otherwise.” 

“When do we begin?” said Caina.

“At once,” said Nasser. “We have exactly two weeks before Callatas holds his banquet. We have a great deal of work to do in that time, and we shall need to assemble our allies.”

“Allies?” said Caina.

Nasser smiled. “You are prodigiously skilled, and I flatter myself that I have no small ability. But even the two of us together will need help. Therefore, we require allies.”

“Such as people who owe you favors,” said Caina.

“A man with friends with wealthy indeed,” said Nasser. “However, you may be able to help in this regard. We shall require the services of a talented locksmith, in particular one who is not too squeamish about his clients.” 

“Really?” said Caina. “Why?” 

“Is that not obvious?” said Nasser. “I know several, but they are all otherwise engaged. Do you know anyone who might serve?”

“Actually,” said Caina, “I might.” 

“Good,” said Nasser. “Meet me tomorrow night in the back room of the Shahenshah’s Seat, a tavern near the Gate of the Southern Road in the Anshani Quarter. You know of it?”

Caina nodded.

“Bring the locksmith,” said Nasser.

“Are you so certain of my persuasive powers?” said Caina. 

Nasser flashed his white smile. “I am utterly certain of them. Until tomorrow, Balarigar.”

He offered an elaborate bow and walked from the shrine, his boots clicking against the floor of green marble. 

Caina watched him go, wondering if she had just made an enormous mistake. Yet she did need allies, and seeing the interior of Callatas’s private laboratory was too much of an opportunity to pass. Perhaps Nasser was lying to her. Certainly he had not told her the entire truth. 

But she suspected he had been telling the truth when he had spoken of stopping Callatas. 

Caina left the shrine.

She had work to do.

Chapter 8 - The Locksmith

Caina went to one of her bolt holes, a rented apartment on the edge of the Cyrican Quarter, and changed clothes. 

She discarded the merchant’s robe and turban for a dress of blue cloth and a belt of black leather, a blue headscarf over her head. While Caina missed her long hair, she had to admit that her close-cropped stubble made it easier to don a headscarf. Istarish women never went in public with their hair uncovered, and there were entire volumes of epic poetry describing how a woman would at last let her hair down in front of her husband, their tone ranging from solemn to ribald. 

She rubbed off the makeup that gave the illusion of stubble and clipped a dagger to her belt. She chose sturdy sandals instead of boots, so she concealed throwing knives beneath the dress’s loose sleeves. Then a pair of copper earrings, and Caina turned in a circle before a mirror, examining herself. Gone was the Balarigar or the Istarish merchant or the caravan guard. Instead she saw only a young woman of Nighmarian or Szaldic birth on her way to the shops. 

The dress was a simple garment, and Caina had worn far richer gowns when masquerading as Sonya Tornesti. Yet it surprised her how much it pleased her to wear it, how much she enjoyed wearing proper women’s clothing once more. Constantly pretending to be a man was proving more of a mental strain than she had expected. 

Caina remembered the women she had seen walking in the Tarshahzon Gardens with their children, and felt a stab of jealously. She had wanted a life like that, wanted to be the wife of a strong and good man and to raise their children together. But her mother’s cruelty and treachery had taken that from her. Yet if not for that, if Caina had not become a Ghost, then uncounted millions of people would have died. 

And hundreds of thousands more might suffer worse than Caina ever had, if Callatas continued with his plans. 

She pushed all questions of regret and loss out of her mind, watched at the window until the street was empty, and left the apartment behind, carrying a satchel slung over her right shoulder.

Then she set out for the locksmith’s shop.

###

A few moments later Caina came to the shop of Nerina Strake.

Right away she saw that something was wrong. 

Nerina’s shop sat on a narrow street lined with smithies, the air sharp with the smells of coal smoke and hot metal. Nerina owned a three-story building, and unlike most of the shops, she kept her workshop on the second floor and used the ground level for storage. Likely her quarters were on the top floor, but from what Caina had seen of Nerina, she suspected the woman went without sleep for days at a time. 

Currently, six men in chain mail and leather jerkins stood below Nerina’s door, shields on their arms and hands hovering near their sword hilts. They scowled up at a window on the second floor. Through the window Caina caught a glimpse of Nerina’s hulking bodyguard, a towering Sarbian man named Azaces, his face locked in a perpetual scowl behind his bushy black beard. He held a massive crossbow in his arms, the sort of weapon that could hurl a bolt through plate armor, and the quarrel glinted as he pointed it at the mercenaries. 

Nerina was in trouble. Caina could think of any number of reasons why. Her father had been the notorious slave trader Ragodan Strake, and such a man acquired vicious enemies. Nerina herself had worked for the Slavers’ Brotherhood in the past, producing locks, and perhaps one of the cowled masters had decided himself dissatisfied with Nerina’s work.

Especially after Caina had bypassed those locks.

Or, for that matter, Nerina might have made an enemy through sheer tactlessness. The first time they had met, Nerina had discerned Caina’s weight and height from a single glance, and then explained the calculations involved at length. Caina had listened with bemusement, but she could imagine someone powerful taking offense and sending armed men to Nerina’s door. 

Nerina was eccentric, addicted to wraithblood, and at least partially insane, but she was not malicious. Caina had no wish to see her come to harm. And she needed the locksmith for Nasser’s mad heist.

So Caina kept walking until one of the mercenaries detached himself from the group and blocked her path. He was about her age, maybe a little younger, lean and muscled with a cold glint in his eye and a hard expression. 

“Girl,” he said. “The street is closed. Go about your business.”

Her dress revealed only the skin of her hands and face and nothing else, but his eyes darted to her chest nonetheless. 

Disguising herself as a man did have its benefits.

But this had advantages as well.

“But why?” said Caina, putting a whine into her voice. “Papa will beat me if I don’t come home with the money.”

“Official business,” said the mercenary. 

“But you’re not watchmen,” said Caina.

The mercenary grinned. “Debt collectors.” 

“A debt?” said Caina. “You’re…you’re not going after the mad locksmith, are you? Nerina Strake?”

The mercenary blinked. “You know her?”

“Aye, that is why I am here!” said Caina. “Papa is the best cooper in the Cyrican Quarter, and he made three new barrels for Nerina Strake. Yet the woman refuses to pay Papa for his good work. She says the barrels are not mathematically precise or some such rot. Papa sent me to make Nerina see reason before he goes to the hakims to complain.” 

“Well,” said the mercenary, his wolfish smile widening, “you can tell your honorable father not to worry. You have heard of Master Kazyat?”

Kazyat was one of the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. Caina had robbed him, drugged him, and sent him naked onto the sands of the Ring of Thorns, one of the fighting pits of Istarinmul. Kazyat had not been killed, but his humiliation had been complete. In the process, Caina had robbed him of a considerable chunk of his personal fortune.

“I’ve heard the name,” she said. “Isn’t he the richest man in the city?” 

“He is,” said the mercenary, puffing up a bit, “and we work for him. You’ve heard of the Balarigar? The thief who can move through shadows like a demon and walk through walls like a ghost?” 

“Papa says those are just ghost stories,” said Caina. 

“They’re not,” said the mercenary. “The Balarigar is real, and my company will hunt him down. Then we shall all be rich as emirs.”

“Is Mistress Strake hiding the Balarigar?” said Caina, letting her eyes go wide.

The mercenary laughed. “No. Strake made the locks on Master Kazyat’s palace. After the Balarigar stole from him, Kazyat demanded that Strake repay him for the locks. She refused, and so Master Kazyat hired our company to retrieve his money.”

“Will you kick down the door and break inside?” said Caina.

“Er,” said the mercenary. “Well. The locks on the door are…really quite impressive. As is the door. We can’t break inside. But I’m sure the captain will…”

“Toriz!” bellowed one of the mercenaries, an older man with a graying black beard. “Stop trying to lure that girl into bed and get over here! If Strake escapes we’ll lose the bounty!” 

“Sir, yes sir!” said Toriz. He grinned at Caina. “You ought to join me when this is done, yes? For a cup of coffee?”

Caina offered him a smile. “If you capture this woman, you shall have the coin to spend. So you can buy the coffee.”

“Toriz!” bellowed the captain.

Toriz grinned once more, turned, and dashed to the other men. Caina turned and headed in the other direction, moving at a leisurely pace. Once the attention of the mercenaries had returned to Nerina’s shop, Caina darted into an alley, her mind racing. She felt a flicker of guilt – she had robbed Kazyat, which had brought this danger into Nerina’s life. Still, perhaps Caina could use this to her advantage. If she summoned the watchmen, they would disperse the mercenaries. But Kazyat had likely bribed the watchmen to look the other way. Better if Nerina simply disappeared. That would throw the hunters off her trail, and give Nerina a chance to work with Nasser.

Now she just had to convince Nerina of that fact. And Azaces, as well. 

Caina moved through the alley, ears straining for any sound of movement. The alley led to a courtyard behind Nerina’s shop. From there Caina could scale the wall and let herself into the workshop, and hopefully keep Nerina or Azaces from shooting her. Of course, if Toriz’s captain had any brains at all, he would have sent men to watch the back door as well. 

A shadow stirred in the alley ahead. 

Caina froze, hand twitching towards the throwing knives in her sleeve.

A ragged man unfolded himself from a narrow doorway and staggered toward her. He looked Istarish or Anshani, his robe tattered and filthy, the stench rolling off him strong enough to curdle milk. His hands twitched and jerked, and he leaned on the wall. 

And his eyes were ghostly, unearthly blue, the color of flames licking at the bottom of a copper pot. 

The eyes of a wraithblood user in the final stages of the addiction, as madness and delirium closed in.

“The blood,” rasped the man, “a coin for the blood, please, please.” His teeth were like black pebbles in his greasy beard. “Please, pretty girl, a coin for the blood.”

“No,” said Caina. The beggar was no threat. One good push would put him upon his back. “You should stay away from it. It is poisoning you, and it is made from the blood of murdered slaves.” 

“But the visions,” crooned the beggar, his eerie eyes wide and wild as he took another step toward her. “The visions are so beautiful. I see such…such wonderful things. I need more, I must have more, I must…please, just a coin, just a single coin…”

He stopped, and a look of horror went over his face. 

“I see you!” he hissed.

Caina remained motionless. This kind of thing had happened before. For some reason, wraithblood addicts saw…something around her, a haze of shadow, a darkness, something. Caina didn’t know what it was. She suspected it was a mark of sorcerous scarring, left over from Maglarion’s spells and the Moroaica’s long possession. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

“I see you,” said the beggar, his voice trembling with fear.

“I know,” said Caina. “I’m sorry.” She felt the faint tingle of sorcery as he approached, the legacy of the wraithblood the poor fool had consumed. 

“The shadows surround you,” said the beggar. “They all point to you, like a pyre throwing shadows from dead trees. No! No! Don’t let them touch me. Don’t let them touch me!” 

The beggar fled, moving faster than Caina would have expected from such an emaciated man. He ran from the alley and into the street, and Caina saw her chance. She slipped into the courtyard, and as she expected, saw four men guarding the back door of Nerina’s shop. The guards moved to the street, drawn by the beggar’s panicked screams. Caina dashed across the courtyard and reached into her satchel, drawing out a rope and collapsible grapnel. She caught the grapnel on the shutters of a second-floor window and scrambled up the wall. 

Just as well she had chosen sturdy sandals instead of ornamental ones. 

One thing about men’s clothes – climbing was easier.

She reached the shutters and knocked. “Nerina?”

The shutter jerked open, and Caina found herself looking at the end of a crossbow quarrel. 

“Please don’t shoot me,” said Caina. “I’ve come to help.” 

The woman holding the crossbow tilted her head and blinked her eerie blue eyes. 

Nerina Strake was no more than twenty-five or twenty-six, yet she looked delicate, almost frail. When in public, she wore the black dress and headscarf of a widow. When in her workshop, she wore trousers, heavy leather boots, and a loose shirt beneath a leather apron. The crossbow she held was an exotic-looking thing of black steel and polished dark wood, and Caina knew that Nerina had calculated the precise tensions and force necessary to drive a quarrel through flesh and bone.

“Three hundred and sixty,” said Nerina. 

Caina blinked. “What?”

“Your rope,” said Nerina. “It is precisely three hundred and sixty inches long, and to judge from the coiling radius and tensile strength, it could support a weight of five hundred pounds. Fortunately, you weigh approximately one hundred and twenty-six pounds, though the load-bearing strength of the rope will decrease proportionally the further you are from the anchor point, also depending upon the strength of the material of the grapnel …” She blinked. “Ciara? Yes, Ciara. Damn!” That was the name Caina had given her at Ulvan’s ascension. Nerina slapped one hand against her forehead, making the crossbow bob alarmingly. “Social graces. I always forget. How…”

“Nerina,” said Caina, before the locksmith could start talking about numbers again, “there are angry mercenaries surrounding the shop, and if they see me hanging here, they will kill us both.”

“Actually, it is more likely they will kill you,” said Nerina. “If they kill me, they will never get any money to pay Master Kazyat. Or…”

“Or you let me inside,” said Caina, “and they don’t kill me.”

“Yes, that is mathematically sound,” said Nerina, and she stepped back, keeping the bow pointed at the courtyard. Caina rolled over the sill, pulled up the rope, and snapped the shutter closed behind her.

Nerina’s workshop had not changed since Caina had broken in and stolen the design for the keys to the Widow’s Tower. It remained the single most cluttered room that Caina had ever seen, with three long tables running the length of the workshop, each sagging beneath the weight of tools, half-assembled locks, and various mechanical contraptions. One wall held slates covered with scrawled equations written in chalk. A wooden cabinet held papers secured in leather folders, and iron shavings and sawdust gritted beneath Caina’s sandals. 

“The number of unexpected visitors has been higher than statistically probable today,” said Nerina. 

“Aye,” said Caina. “It seems Master Kazyat is wroth with you.”

Nerina snorted. “As if it were my fault that the Balarigar bypassed his locks and sent him drugged and naked onto the sands of the Ring of Thorns.  I prepared thirty-seven separate locks for his palace, and not a single one of them had been picked.”