Ghost Keeper (4 page)

His eyes narrowed. “Why is that?”

“Because you’re a necromancer of the Red Circle,” said Caina, “and that’s not your original body.”

The Curator remained motionless.  

“You’ve got a canopic jar stashed somewhere,” said Caina, “and you’ve been moving from body to body ever since the Kyracians took Marsis and wiped out the Red Circle. Tahram is your next host.”

“Immortality comes at a price,” said the Curator in a soft, dangerous voice. 

“You will not take my son to extend your wretched life,” said Aydin. 

“I’m afraid I will, fool,” said the Curator. “The Venatorii have tried to fight me before, and I crushed them all. The Umbarians have made your Order all but extinct. Soon you will be nothing but relics gathering dust in my collection.”

Caina looked back and forth, looking for a tool she could use. The Curator stood thirty feet away in the doorway. He had undoubtedly warded himself, but her ghostsilver dagger could penetrate his wards, and Aydin’s rod could collapse them. Yet since his fork could kill them both before Caina could strike with the dagger, that would do them no good. Her eyes fell upon one of the wooden shelves nearby, a shelf that sagged beneath glass jars of chemicals.

She recognized some of the potions, and an idea came to her. 

“We know your secret,” said Caina. “Why don’t you just let us go? Let us go, and in return we tell no one the truth about you.”

The Curator laughed. “What a bold little girl you are! I would have liked to have tamed you for my harem. But immortality has its price, and one of the costs is keeping its methods a secret.” He shrugged. “Your son, master Venator, has inborn arcane talent, and would have made a suitable host in a few years.” The spark burned at the end of the fork like a miniature star. “But other hosts can be found readily enough.”

He thrust the fork, and Caina sidestepped, seized the shelf, and heaved with all her strength. It toppled over with a hideous crash as the lightning exploded from the Curator’s fork. The lightning slammed into the shattering jars, and the chemicals within erupted into blue flames, vile-smelling smoke billowing from the wreckage. Caina coughed, stumbling back, but the smoke exploded through the room, obscuring the air. 

“What did you do?” said Aydin.

“Hide,” said Caina.

“But…”

“Hide!” said Caina. “I’ll deal with the Curator! Take your son and hide!”

Aydin nodded, grabbed Tahram, and hastened into the smoke. 

Caina spun and ran as more lightning flashed through the smoke, curling around one of the stone plinths. She dashed back and forth through the shelves and the plinths, feeling the arcane auras around her. The Curator had all but admitted that he used a canopic jar to move his soul from body to body. Which meant Caina only had to find the jar and destroy the preserved organ within it. 

Assuming, of course, he kept his jar here.

She had faced such a necromancer before, and she remembered what the necromantic aura of such a jar felt like against her senses. More lightning flashed through the smoke-filled darkness, followed by a snarling clap of thunder. She didn’t hear anyone scream, and hoped that the lightning had avoided Aydin and Tahram. Of course, it might have killed them before they even had a chance to scream.

A cold, icy aura washed over her, like needles jabbing into her skin.

Caina spun and saw a white stone jar sitting atop a plinth. She sensed the crackling power of a ward around it, but within the ward she felt the familiar cold aura of necromancy. Caina pressed her dagger against the jar. The hilt grew hot, painfully hot, beneath her fingers, and then the ward collapsed, leaving only the cold aura. Caina ripped off the stone lid, and inside the white jar she saw a withered brown lump wrapped in ancient, crumbling bandages. It was a mummified human heart. Likely it had come from the Curator’s original body. 

Caina reversed her grip on the dagger and prepared to bring the blade into the heart. 

“No!”

She felt a surge of power, and invisible force seized her and threw her across the room. Caina slammed into the wall hard enough that her headscarf and wig tumbled away, pain exploding through her. She gasped and tried to wrench free, but the crushing force redoubled. The Curator stalked out of the smoke, his left hand raised, his right still holding the fork. 

“Clever little thief,” hissed the Curator. “Finding my secrets. Well…”

Silver light pulsed over the Curator, and the invisible force holding Caina vanished. Aydin ran towards the Curator, his Venator’s rod pointing at the sorcerer. The Curator snarled and spun towards Aydin, casting another spell.

Caina shoved from the wall and ran forward, raising the dagger high. She slammed into the plinth and brought the ghostsilver dagger hammering down. It plunged into the leathery lump of a heart, and the blade sank deep into it. The heart burst into silvery flames, the stabbing tingle of collapsing sorcery shooting up her arm. 

The Curator froze in place, screaming. Caina ripped the dagger free and stabbed again, and the heart crumbled into smoking ashes. The Curator shuddered, ghostly silver fire playing around his limbs. He managed to scream once more, and he collapsed motionless to the floor, dead. 

Caina let out a long breath and pulled the dagger free, stepping away from the jar. 

“What did you do?” said Aydin, lowering the rod. Tahram clung to his father’s leg, staring at the dead sorcerer with wide eyes. 

“Canopic jar,” said Caina. “His spirit was anchored to the jar, not his flesh. His body…it was essentially a puppet controlled from the jar. Destroy the mummified organ in the jar, and he loses his grip on the mortal world.” 

Aydin shook his head. “You’ve dealt with necromancers like this before.”

“Once or twice,” said Caina. “More than that now, I suppose.” 

Aydin managed a quiet laugh. “You have quite a broad range of experience for a thief.”

“Your hair,” said Tahram, staring at Caina with wide eyes. 

“Eh?” said Caina.

“He hit you so hard your hair fell off,” said Tahram. 

Caina rubbed the stubble atop her head. “A wig.” She started to laugh. “I suppose I’ll need a new one.”

“I’ll buy you a dozen wigs,” said Aydin. “For what you’ve done…thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Caina, adjusting the scimitar in its sheath. “Let’s go.”

###

“There you are,” said Agabyzus. He stood in one of the banquet halls beneath a statue of a long-dead Padishah. “The Curator disappeared, and we haven’t seen him…”

His eyes trailed off as he saw Caina, Aydin, and Tahram. 

“You didn’t have a child before, Master Aydin,” said Agabyzus.

“I always did,” said Aydin. “I had just lost him for a time.”

Caina saw the understanding come over Agabyzus’s face. 

“We should go,” said Caina. “Right now, actually.”

“Yes,” said Agabyzus, and they fled the Curator’s palace.

Chapter 6: Onward

“The Curator didn’t know who I was,” said Aydin, voice quiet.

Caina sat at a table in the common room of a tavern near the Alqaarin Harbor, Aydin sitting across from her.

It was three days after their escape from the Curator’s palace. It had been necessary for Tamirzid Kolarzu and his daughter Azarma to disappear, and so Caina and Agabyzus had disposed of those disguises. Now she wore the guise of a mercenary soldier, chain mail beneath a leather jerkin, sword and dagger at her belt, makeup giving her the illusion of stubble.

“Then…he didn’t take your son to fulfill a grudge?” said Caina.

“No. When the Umbarians seized control of the eastern Empire,” said Aydin, “they wiped out the Venatorii. I was one of the few that escaped, along with my son.”

Caina frowned. “The Umbarians killed your wife?”

Aydin shook his head. “She died of illness five years ago, not long after Tahram was born. After the Umbarians took power, we made our way to Rasadda. Some of the survivors of the Order of the Venatorii were helping fugitives escape from the Umbarians.”

“They caught you there?” said Caina.

Aydin let out a bitter little laugh. “It was pure bad luck. The Curator was in Rasadda. Evidently he is friends with one of the five Provosts that rule the Umbarian Order, and often acquired sorcerous relics for the man. I suppose the Curator was looking for a new host, happened to see my son, and the Provost arranged his kidnapping as a favor to the Curator. They never knew he was a Venator’s son.”

“So you followed him here and rescued Tahram,” said Caina.

“With your help, Azarma,” said Aydin. “Thank you.”

Caina nodded. “What will you do now?”

“I will travel to the western Empire and seek out the surviving masters of the Venatorii,” said Aydin. “They will have new tasks for me.” He shrugged. “If not…well, I can make a living as a locksmith and a clockmaker.”

Caina smiled. “I know some locksmiths in Istarinmul who could use another pair of hands.”

“Thank you again,” said Aydin. “For everything. Would you wish to join me for dinner this evening?”

“Dressed like this?” said Caina.

He smiled. “You could dress however you wanted, and I would still wish to join you for dinner.”

Caina said nothing.

She was drawn to him, she could not deny that. He was bold and clever…and not hard on the eyes, for that matter. Likely the Venatorii would establish a presence in Istarinmul sooner or later, and he could remain in the city. One dinner could lead to another, and then to another, and then to something more.

Something more…and that might lead Aydin and Tahram to their deaths. If Caina got involved in Aydin’s life, her enemies would not hesitate to attack her through Aydin. Callatas would kill Aydin to get at her. Cassander Nilas of the Umbarian Order would kill Aydin to find Caina.

And she shuddered to think of what someone like the Red Huntress or one of the nagataaru would do to Tahram. She could not let a child fall into the hands of her foes.

Too many children already had.

“Ah,” said Aydin. “A hesitation is a no, I fear.”

“I am sorry,” said Caina at last. “You were right about me, you know.”

“Oh?”

“I am more than a simple thief,” said Caina, “and I have far, far more enemies than a simple thief. You have a son, Aydin, and my enemies are the kind of men who…well, if they had to kill everyone in this tavern to get at me, they would. If they had to kill everyone in the Alqaarin Quarter, they would do so without hesitation. I have…enough on my conscience already. I don’t want your life or your son’s life on my conscience as well.”

“I understand,” said Aydin, and he rose and bowed to her. “I owe you a great debt, Azarma. If you ever need aid, simply ask of it of me, and I shall do whatever I can.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. She hesitated. “Though…there is something I do not understand.”

“Oh?” said Aydin.

“Why did you ask to dance with me?” said Caina. “You couldn’t possibly have known I could help you.”

“No,” said Aydin. “I was going to rescue my son, and I thought I might die. If I was going to die…well, I wanted to dance with a beautiful woman before I did.”

Caina smiled at him. “Farewell and good fortune to you, Aydin Kirshar.”

“And to you,” said Aydin.

She left the tavern without looking back.

###

Later that day, she sat in the Sanctuary, examining Morgant’s sheathed crimson scimitar.

She did not know how the weapon could lead her to Morgant the Razor, to the loremaster Annarah and the Staff and Seal of Iramis.

Yet she would keep looking until she found the Staff and Seal and denied them to Callatas.

To keep the Apotheosis from happening…and to save the lives of countless children like Tahram.

Caina left the Sanctuary.

She had work to do.

THE END

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Turn the page to read the first chapter of GHOST IN THE COWL, Caina Amalas's first adventure in Istarinmul
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GHOST IN THE COWL Chapter 1 - Istarinmul

Two weeks after she lost everything, Caina Amalas stood on the ship’s deck and threw knives at the mast.

It was a way to pass the time and keep herself from thinking too much. To distract herself from the memories that flooded her mind if she was idle for too long. Sometimes she locked herself in her cabin for hours and performed the exercises of open-handed combat she had learned at the Vineyard long ago, working through the unarmed forms over and over again until every muscle in her body throbbed and spots danced before her eyes. 

But if she stayed alone too long, her thoughts went to the dark places. To New Kyre and the blaze of golden fire above the Pyramid of Storm. To Sicarion laughing as he drove his dagger into the back of the man who had raised Caina. To the Moroaica, weeping as the white fire blazed behind her.

To Corvalis, lying dead upon the ground of the netherworld.

And when her thoughts went there, Caina found herself gazing at the veins in her arm, thinking of the knives she carried. 

She retained enough of her right mind to realize that she was not thinking clearly, that her mood was dangerous. 

So when that mood came, she went to the deck and threw knives at the mast.

At first the sailors were alarmed, but they soon grew accustomed to it. They had been told that she was a mercenary named Marius, a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, delivering contracts now that trade between Istarinmul and the Empire had opened up again. An important passenger could be forgiven an eccentricity or two. 

That, and she never missed the mast. 

Soon the sailors ignored her, even without Captain Qalim’s orders. Caina suspected that the sailors would have reacted rather differently if they knew that beneath the disguise “Marius” was actually a twenty-two year old woman, but she did not care.

She could not bring herself to care about very much. 

So she threw knives at the mast, the blades sinking into the wood. Compensating for the motion of the waves and the wind kept her mind busy. Pulling the knives out of the mast and sharpening the blades anew kept her hands occupied. 

The sailors ignored her, but Caina nonetheless attracted an audience.

When the Emperor had sent her on a ship from New Kyre’s harbor, she had expected to share the vessel with cargo. Kyracian olive oil, most likely, or perhaps Anshani silk. The Starfall Straits had been closed to trade for nearly a year, and cargoes had piled up in New Kyre’s warehouses.

She had not, however, expected to share the ship with a circus.

More specifically, Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of Wonders And Marvels. 

Caina flung another knife, the blade sinking into the mast, and Master Cronmer himself approached.

Cronmer was huge, nearly seven feet tall, with the shoulders and chest of a titan. He was bald, with a graying mustache cut in Caerish style, and wore a brilliant red coat. She saw the dust on his sleeves, and knew he had eaten bread and cheese for breakfast, along with the vile mixed wine the ship carried.

“Master Marius,” boomed Cronmer in the Caerish tongue. “You should come work for me.” 

Caina shook her head. “I am already employed.” She made sure to keep her Caerish accent in place, her voice gruff and raspy, as Theodosia had taught her to do. 

“Bah,” said Cronmer. “Fetching papers for those dusty old merchants? You should join my Circus. We’ll use your talent to create a stupendous knife-throwing show, my boy.” He grinned behind his bushy mustache. “Aye, you’ll throw knives at some lusty Istarish lass, your blades will land a half-inch from her skin, and she’ll melt into your arms in the end…”

“Working for the Collegium,” said Caina, “pays better.”

Spending the voyage throwing knives at the mast and brooding had likely been a poor idea. A spy needed to remain inconspicuous, and Caina had not bothered to do so. If she was to rebuild the Ghost circle of Istarinmul, she would have to take greater care. 

But she could not bring herself to give a damn. 

“Mere money,” said Cronmer, striking a pose. “What is that compared to the roar of the crowd, of a woman in your arms, of…”

“Cronmer,” said a woman with a heavy Istarish accent. Cronmer’s wife, a short Istarish woman named Tiri, hurried to his side. She looked tiny next to her massive husband, and they bickered constantly, but they had been married for twenty years and had six children. “Leave the poor man alone. The life of the circus is not for everyone.” 

Cronmer rumbled. “But the Traveling Circus Of Wonders And…”

“Can’t you see?” whispered Tiri into Cronmer’s ear. Caina heard her anyway. “Can you not see that he has lost someone? Likely when the golden dead rose. Do not pester him.”

Caina wondered how Tiri had figured that out. On the other hand, Caina had spent the last two weeks throwing knives into the mast and staring into nothing. It was hardly a mystery.

“Yes, well,” said Cronmer, a hint of chagrin on his face. “If you ever get tired of working for fat old merchants, Master Marius, come see me. The Circus shall be at the Inn of the Crescent Moon for the next week, and then we shall perform before Master Ulvan of the Brotherhood of Slavers.”

Caina had no wish to visit the home of an Istarish slave trader, but it caught her curiosity. “What does a slaver want with a circus?”

“A celebration,” said Tiri. “He has been elevated to a Master of the Brotherhood, endowed with his own cowl and brand. Traditionally the newly-elevated Masters throw lavish celebrations, and he has hired the Circus for that purpose.”

“Just as well,” said Cronmer. “The Kyracian nobles were humorless folk. Too enamored of their own traditions to enjoy the Circus. Well, Master Marius, if you change your mind, the Inn of the Crescent Moon is in the Cyrican Quarter.” 

Caina nodded, barely hearing him. 

“We had best gather the others, husband,” said Tiri, “for we shall put in before noon.”

Caina blinked and looked over the ship’s rail.

Istarinmul rose before her.

She yanked the knives from the mast, returned them to her belt, and walked to the prow. 

The city was huge, larger than New Kyre and almost as large as Malarae itself. The Padishah’s capital occupied a jut of land that almost reached the southern end of the Argamaz Desert. The resultant Starfall Straits gave the Padishah his power.  The domains of Istarinmul were far smaller than the Empire of Nighmar or the vast lands ruled by the Shahenshah of Anshan. Yet the Padishah of Istarinmul could close the Starfall Straits, blocking off traffic from the Cyrican Sea and the Alqaarin Sea, and halt the world’s commerce. Kyracian merchants visited every port in the world, but Istarinmul could close half the world’s ports to the other half. 

And ships from Istarinmul ranged across the seas, buying and selling slaves.

Even through her apathy, Caina felt a twinge of anger at that. 

But for now Caina gazed at Istarinmul. The city gleamed white from walls whitewashed to reflect the hot sun of the southern lands. In the city’s core rose a massive palace of brilliant white marble, its domes and towers sheathed in gleaming gold. The Golden Palace, where the Padishah sat and governed Istarinmul with his nobles and magistrates. It faced another, slightly larger palace, a towering edifice of white stone and domed towers, gleaming crystals lining its roofs. It was the College, where Istarinmul’s Alchemists carried out their secret studies. 

It was a beautiful building, and the crystals lining the towers gave off a brilliant gleam in the sunlight.

Caina’s knowledge that the Alchemists transmuted their foes into crystalline statues to forever adorn the walls of the College rather ruined its beauty. 

Cronmer stomped away, shouting commands to his performers. Captain Qalim, a tall man of Anshani birth, spoke to his first mate, who bawled curses and threats as the ship turned toward Istarinmul’s western harbor. Tiri lingered for a moment, gazing at Caina. 

“What is it?” said Caina. “Do you think to recruit me, too?”

Tiri shook her head. “No. It is just…have you ever been to Istarinmul before?”

“I have not,” said Caina. 

“Then be careful,” said Tiri. “You are an able-bodied young man, but Istarinmul is a dangerous place for the unwary. If you offend the Alchemists or the emirs, they will kill you. You are Caerish, yes?” Caina nodded. “An emir or an Alchemist can kill a foreigner, and the hakims and the wazirs – ah, the magistrates, they are called in the Empire – would not blink an eye. And do not go alone into strange neighborhoods. The Collectors of the Slavers’ Brotherhood are everywhere, and they often kidnap foreigners and forge the papers of servitude. If you are not careful, you might end up in the mines or pulling oars upon one of the Padishah’s galleys. And the Teskilati, the secret police, have eyes and ears everywhere. If they think you are a spy for the Emperor, they will make you disappear.” 

Caina felt a twinge of annoyance, but pushed it aside. Tiri was only trying to warn her. And Istarinmul was a very dangerous place. 

“I will take care,” said Caina. “The Collegium has rented a room for me, and I have no intention of going out after dark or alone anywhere. The sooner I am gone from Istarinmul, the better.” That was a lie, but there was no need to burden Tiri with the truth.

“May the Living Flame watch over you,” said Tiri. She hesitated. “And those you have lost.”

The pain rolled through Caina, hot and sharp.

“Thank you,” she said, and Tiri joined her husband. 

Caina watched as the ship moved closer to the quays in the crowded harbor. The districts near the docks and the seawall did not look nearly as opulent as the neighborhoods near the Golden Palace and the College. The western harbor smelled as harbors did the world over, of salt and rotting fish and exotic cargo. Yet the harbor of Istarinmul had an extra odor, the vile smell of men lying in their own filth for days on end.

The smell of the slave ships. 

An Istarish war galley guarded the harbor’s entrance. Banks of oars jutted into the water, and armed Istarish soldiers in their spiked helms and chain mail stood ready with crossbows. A strange metal device jutted from the ship’s flank, a steel spout wrought in the shape of a snarling lion, connected to an apparatus of pumps and tubes.

A spigot for Hellfire.

Caina had read of the strange elixir the Alchemists of Istarinmul brewed in secret, the potion that once set ablaze could not be quenched by water. The Master Alchemist Callatas had devised the formula centuries past, and one ship equipped with a Hellfire spigot could turn an entire fleet into an inferno. The Kyracians had tried to conquer Istarinmul once, centuries ago, and the Alchemists had turned their fleet to ashes. Istarinmul stood between the Empire and Anshan, yet Hellfire insured that the Padishah’s capital had never fallen its stronger neighbors. 

And fed the rumors that the Master Alchemists ruled Istarinmul in truth, with the Padishah as their puppet. 

But the galleys remained motionless, and Captain Qalim’s ship docked at a stone quay. 

Caina went to her cabin, retrieved her heavy pack, and set foot in Istarinmul for the first time. 

The docks were chaos, but ordered chaos. Rows upon rows of stone quays lined the harbor, lined with ships loading and unloading goods. Everywhere Caina saw carts rumbling back and forth, saw heaped crates and barrels. Men in gray tunics labored to move barrels and crates, and she realized they were slaves, likely owned by whatever magistrate oversaw the harbor. 

She saw hundreds of the slave porters. Thousands of them.

So many slaves.

The anger burned through her again, struggling against her apathy. For a moment Caina stood motionless, caught in the grip of rage and pain. She had lost the man she loved, she had lost her teacher, and she had been banished from her home. Now she was in this miserable city built upon the backs of suffering slaves, and there was nothing she could do for them. She had been sent to rebuild Istarinmul’s Ghost circle, the eyes and ears of the Emperor in the city, but what use would that be? 

Gods, what use would any of it be?

For a moment Caina thought of veins, the weight of the throwing knives in her belt…

No.

She started forward, walking further into Istarinmul’s docks. 

She wore a man’s clothing, boots, trousers, and a heavy leather jerkin, sword and dagger at her belt, her pack slung over her shoulders. Her hope was that the disguise would let her pass unnoticed, but she saw that was a false hope.

The beggars saw to that.

Hundreds of them lined the street. Some were missing arms and legs, veterans of the fighting in the Argamaz Desert. Some had the look of peasants driven from their lands to seek their fortunes in the city. Others were old, their faces marked with brands. Slaves who had grown too old to work, put out by their masters to die in the streets. She wanted to help them, but she dared not. If she gave a beggar a single coin, the rest would swarm her, and she might well be robbed and killed.

So she kept walking, trying to ignore their pleas. Fortunately, there was a great deal of traffic upon the street, and she was just one more face in the crowd, another ragged Caerish mercenary dusty from travel.

And then she felt the faint tingle of sorcery.

Caina stopped, surprised. A cart nearly ran her over, and she sidestepped, ignoring the driver’s outraged curses. At the age of eleven, half her life ago, a necromancer had murdered Caina’s father and wounded her with sorcery. Ever since then, Caina had been able to sense the presence and intensity of arcane forces.

And she felt sorcerous power now. Faint, but it was there.

She turned, and saw one of the beggars staring at her.

He was an old man of Istarish birth, his hair white and wispy, his bronze-colored skin scored with a thousand lines. A steady tremor went through his limbs, and the muscles of his neck twitched and danced. He looked sick, and Caina doubted the poor man would last another week.

Yet the faint aura of sorcery came from him.

And his eyes were…wrong.