Ghost Mimic (3 page)

“Azaces,” said Caina. 

The big Sarbian inclined his head. 

“Are Nerina and Malcom in?” said Caina. “I have a question for them.”

Again Azaces nodded. 

“Specifically, I want to know if they can open that,” said Caina, pointing at the trapbox in the bed of the wagon.

Azaces nodded once more, and I wondered if he was mute. Perhaps he had once been a slave. It was an appallingly common practice for masters to cut out the tongues of their slaves to keep their secrets safe. Even as a girl, when I had accepted the practice of slavery without question, I had thought that brutal. Now, after a year and a half of associating with Caina Amalas, I found it downright barbaric, and I understood why she had so terrorized the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. 

Having Bayram and Bahad kidnapped as slaves had changed my perspective.

Azaces strolled towards the wagon.

“I’ll help you with that,” said Caina. “It’s…”

Azaces hefted the box onto his shoulder without undue effort. The man had to be tremendously strong.

“Or not,” said Caina. “Don’t shake it. I think there’s Hellfire inside.” 

Azaces gave her a flat look. 

“I take it he has seen Hellfire before,” I said. 

The hard black eyes turned towards me, as if assessing me as a threat.

“She’s with me,” said Caina.

That was good enough for Azaces, and without further complaint he led us into the house and up the stairs, the dusty floorboards creaking beneath his weight and the weight of the Strigosti trapbox. He opened a door on the third floor, and I stepped into the single most cluttered room I had ever seen. Three long wooden tables ran the length of the room, each one sagging beneath the weight of tools, half-assembled locks, various baffling mechanical contraptions, and scrawled notes. One wall held slates covered with equations written in chalk, while shelves adorned another. A wooden cabinet, the door open, held papers secured in leather folders, and high windows looked down upon the courtyard behind the shop. Iron shavings and sawdust gritted beneath my sandals as I looked around.

A short woman with unruly red hair stood at one of the tables, humming to herself as she worked. She wore heavy boots, trousers, a loose white shirt, and a thick leather apron, a set of goggles with magnifying lenses pushed onto her lank hair. The woman was thin to the point of gauntness, and a strange sort of manic energy suffused her as she worked at assembling a locking mechanism.

She looked up at us, and I flinched. She had the pale, ghostly blue eyes of a wraithblood addict, eyes the color of a flame licking the bottom of a copper pot. I never let wraithblood addicts into the House of Agabyzus, because the more desperate ones turned to theft to fund their habit. After I had learned what wraithblood really was, that Grand Master Callatas manufactured it from the blood of murdered slaves, I had been even more uneasy around them. 

Yet the woman seemed delighted to see Caina.

“Nerina,” said Caina.

“Ciara!” said Nerina, smiling. I remembered that “Ciara” was a false name that Caina used from time to time. “It is good to see you.” She frowned. “You have lost one and one third pounds since our last meeting. The laws of mathematics dictate that energy in must equal or exceed energy out, and probability suggests that you have not been taking in enough energy.”

Azaces stepped to one of the tables and set down the lockbox on a clear spot. 

“I’ve been busy,” said Caina.

Nerina looked at me for a moment. “And you are…no, no, that’s not right.”

“I’m sorry?” I said, puzzled.

“Social mores,” said Nerina. “I have trouble remembering social customs because they do not precisely map to mathematics. I was going to tell you your exact height and weight as a means of initiating conversation, but I forgot it was appallingly rude to do so.”

“No, go ahead,” I said, fascinated.

Nerina sighed in relief. “You are exactly sixty-seven inches tall and weight one hundred and thirty-five pounds.”

Azaces took up position behind Nerina, as if fearing that I would attack her. 

“I did warn you,” said Caina.

“No, it’s all right,” I said, trying to think of a way to lessen Nerina’s discomfort. She looked both eager and frustrated at the same time, as if she wanted to be friendly but didn’t quite know how. “My mother was quite plump by my age, so that comes as something of a relief, frankly.” 

“Oh, good,” said Nerina. “I often thought it would be more efficient if we could discard the impediments of imprecise language entirely and communicate entirely through mathematics. I have devised several different systems for doing so, and…”

“Nerina,” said Caina, “this is Damla, the proprietor of the House of Agabyzus. Damla, this is Nerina Strake, the best locksmith in Istarinmul.” 

“A pleasure,” I said.

“Really?” said Nerina. “That is a relief. It doesn’t happen very often.” She tilted her head as she considered me. “There is a high probability that I have met you somewhere before…”

“I fear I cannot recall it,” I said. 

“You are all Ghosts,” said Caina, “and you can speak freely in front of each other.” Caina gestured towards the trapbox. “Nerina, if…” 

I heard boots upon the stairs, and the workshop door swung open. 

A short, heavily muscled man with the look of a blacksmith stepped into the workshop. He had brown hair and a thick beard, both of them shot through with gray, as if something had happened to age him prematurely. 

“Wife,” he said, speaking with a thick Caerish burr. “I’ve spoken to the hakim’s scribes, and we can buy the building next door. It would make…”

He fell silent, looking us over.

“Balarigar,” he said. “It’s good to see you again, but damned if I don’t expect trouble when you cross our path.” 

Despite myself, I laughed. “That means you have a good eye for patterns, sir.” 

The man snorted. “Indeed I do. You’re clever as well as pretty, so it’s just as well for you that I’m a married man.”

“Husband,” said Nerina with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. He grinned, crossed the room, and kissed her.

“This is Malcolm,” said Caina.

“The most honest man in Istarinmul,” said Malcolm, “and the best armorer, as well.” He considered. “A decent swordsmith, but I prefer working with armor.” He looked at Caina. “I’ve assume you’ve brought trouble.” 

It wasn’t a question.

Caina pointed at the trapbox. “I was wondering if Nerina could get into this.”

An expression of delight spread over Nerina’s face, and she took several steps forward. “Oh! A Strigosti trapbox! I have not seen one of these in seven years, ten months, and nineteen days.”

“You’re familiar with them, then?” said Caina.

“Father had several,” said Nerina. “He calculated a near-certainty that someone would attempt to steal his secrets.”

Malcolm snorted. “It didn’t save his sorry hide, did it?”

I expected Nerina to take umbrage, but her eyes remained fixed on the box. Evidently she shared her husband’s opinion of her late father. 

“Can you open it?” said Caina.

“I calculate a high probability of success,” said Nerina. She dropped the goggles over her eyes and peered into the keyholes for a moment, fiddling with the magnification lenses. “The easiest way will be to fabricate keys of my own based on the measurements of the tumblers.”

“You should be careful working on it,” said Caina.

Nerina nodded, still squinting at the box. “The traps are dangerous, but once their range of probability is mapped, I can work around them.”

“Also, I suspect there are some vials of Hellfire inside the box,” said Caina, “and…”

Both Nerina and Malcolm stared at her. 

“More Hellfire?” said Malcolm. “You’d think the explosion at the Inferno would have burned it all.” 

“This is a significant variable,” said Nerina.

“Why is that?” said Caina.

“Because this kind of Strigosti trapbox has a counterweight attached to the lid,” said Nerina. “When the lid is lifted, the counterweight descends to crush something beneath it…”

I felt sick. “Like a vial of Hellfire.”

“Usually the Strigosti employ poison gas,” said Nerina. “Though I calculate Hellfire would work just as well. Probably even better, since the metal box would not burn, and therefore would direct the eruption of the Hellfire towards whomever opened the box.” 

“And burn down the building,” I said, still queasy. That damned thing could have killed everyone in the House of Agabyzus.

“The box holds a sufficient quantity of Hellfire for that, yes,” said Nerina.

“Why would the Strigosti make such an evil thing?” I said. “It seems a waste.”

“Traps for thieves,” said Caina, her voice grim. “A man buys two Strigosti trapboxes, one real, one like this one. The real one he hides. The fake one he leaves out in the open, and when a thief picks the lock, he gets a cloud of poison gas in the face.”

“Or Hellfire,” Nerina added. 

“At least the poison gas would not burn down my coffee house,” I said, though a poisoned emir in my best room would be almost as bad. “Emir Turlagon is going to be here in two days. What am I going to do?” 

Caina thought for a moment. “Are you still on good terms with the hakim Korim?”

“Yes,” I said. “I send him a cake every week.” Korim was the magistrate responsible for overseeing the businesses of the Cyrican Bazaar. A few months ago Caina and I had kept his wife and her lover from poisoning him, and in gratitude he had remitted the House of Agabyzus from taxes for the rest of my life. Nevertheless, I sent him that cake every week. In Istarinmul, it was good to have powerful friends. 

Caina nodded. “All right. Here is what we’ll do. I am certain the Teskilati are planning to kill Emir Turlagon and make it look like an accident.” I shuddered at the mention of the Teskilati, the Padishah’s secret police. My brother had never told me of the tortures he endured in the Widow’s Tower, but I had seen the lasting scars on his flesh. “If he opens that chest, the Hellfire kills him and the House of Agabyzus burns down and destroys all the evidence.”

“How neat and tidy,” I said, making no effort to disguise my anger.

“For the Teskilati,” said Caina.

“Why do they want to kill this Turlagon fellow?” said Malcolm.

“He’s planning to join Tanzir Shahan and the rebels,” said Caina. “So, for that reason, we are going to foil this plot and keep him alive. We all know what Grand Master Callatas intends. Every one of you has suffered from his plans.” I looked at Nerina’s pale eyes, at the premature gray in Malcolm’s hair and beard. “So we’re going to make sure the Teskilati don’t assassinate Turlagon, and we’re going to make sure the plot fails so badly that the Teskilati don’t try something like this again. At least not at the House of Agabyzus.” 

“I like the idea,” said Malcolm. “But how the devil are you going to pull that off? I don’t think you have another army of living corpses at your beck and call.”

I gave Caina an incredulous look.

“Long story,” said Caina. “Nerina, how quickly can you make keys for the trapbox?”

“About twenty-two to thirty hours,” said Nerina. She offered a dreamy, contented smile. “There will be very many equations to balance.” 

“Damla, send a message to Hakim Korim,” said Caina. “Tell him that Emir Turlagon’s box was stolen.”

I frowned. “That will damage the House’s reputation.”

“Do you really want more nobles staying there?” said Caina. 

I thought of all the trouble that had come since Sankar’s visit. “Come to think of it, not really.”

“It won’t matter,” said Caina, “because I am certain Sankar is a Teskilati agent, and I suspected he was ordered to kill Turlagon and make it look like an accident. Korim has Teskilati agents in his household, and they will pass the news to Sankar. The masters of the Teskilati aren’t forgiving of failure, and Sankar will rush to find out what happened. Then we can set a trap for him.” Her eyes grew colder. “One that disposes of him and keeps the House free from any danger.”

I hesitated. Once I would have quailed at something like this. We were plotting the cold-blooded murder of a man. Yet after Caina had rescued my sons from the Brotherhood, I had grown more willing to contemplate action I would have abhorred before. And Sankar was hardly an innocent. He had planned the murder of Emir Turlagon, and he would have destroyed the House of Agabyzus and killed the Living Flame knows how many people in the process.

“What do you want me to do?” I said. 

Caina offered a tight smile. “Become an actress.” 

“Just so long as I don’t have to wear that skimpy costume again,” I said.

Nerina snapped her fingers. “The circus! Now I remember where I have seen you before.” 

I closed my eyes and sighed. 

Chapter 4: Hard Bargains

The next day at the House of Agabyzus started like any other. 

The first wave of patrons arrived when I opened my doors at sunrise, mostly minor merchants and journeymen wishing a cup of coffee before they went to their labors. Once they departed, the second wave arrived, more prosperous merchants who had the leisure to sleep in. As they filtered out and the various khalmirs filtered in (no doubt from the whorehouses where the Grand Wazir’s officers always seemed to lodge), I kept careful watch for either Sankar or Caina. Caina had expected Sankar to arrive sometime in the late morning, and she hoped to arrive before he did. 

I busied myself with the familiar routines of managing the House and overseeing my workers. Every time the door opened, I glanced in its direction, fearing to see Sankar returning or Caina arriving.

Around mid-morning, the door opened, and I looked up as two men armored in chain mail stepped into the common room, scimitars at their belts. For a moment I feared that Sankar had hired thugs for his return, or brought the Padishah’s soldiers, but then with a wave of relief I recognized Azaces and Malcolm. The tall Sarbian towered over the shorter Caer, which made for an odd sight.

Caina came after them. 

For a moment I did not recognize her.