Ghost Price (3 page)

Four men, not one, stood in the kitchen. 

Talisla sat slumped in a chair, arms tied behind her back. Ismet paced back and forth before the chair, a club in his hand, his hobnailed sandals leaving scratches in the floorboards. Three other men stood scattered around the kitchen, their expressions vacant, their clothes dirty and smelling of the street. They looked like beggars.

Caina got a look at their eyes. 

Istarish men tended to have black eyes or brown eyes, but these beggars had eyes of pale, eerie blue, the color of flames dancing beneath a copper kettle. And as Caina looked at them, she started to feel the faint aura of sorcery surrounding them, a mark of the arcane substances they had ingested. 

The men were wraithblood addicts, and they looked like they were in the final throes of the addiction. Ismet must have convinced them to follow him, to fight off any attempts to steal Turkaar’s hidden gold. Likely the addicts were broke and desperate for more wraithblood. And while wraithblood addicts did not often become violent, when they did, they were hideously dangerous. 

Three of them would be a challenge for Caina to overpower. 

An idea came to her.

She might not have to overpower them at all. 

“I’ll ask one more time,” snarled Ismet, turning to face Talisla. “Where is the key to the cellar?”

Talisla spat out a mouthful of blood. “Go to hell.”

Ismet growled and raised the club to strike.

“Stop!” said Caina, stepping into the kitchen.

Ismet glared at her, and the wraithblood addicts turned, drunken smiles on their faces.

“Who are you?” said Ismet. “Wait…the fellow with the throwing knives. I thought you might turn up again.” He waved his club at the wraithblood addicts. “Kill him! Whoever kills him will get a greater share of the profits. Think of all the wraithblood you’ll be able to buy.” 

The wraithblood addicts moved forward, and Caina remained motionless.

They froze, their eerie eyes growing wide with fear.

“What is it?” said Ismet. “Kill him!”

But they did not move, their blue eyes fixed on Caina…and one of them started to scream.

She did not know what caused it. Wraithblood was sorcerous in nature, and when a wraithblood addict looked at Caina, they saw…things. A haze of shadow wrapping around her like a cloak, perhaps, and sometimes visions. She did not know why. Perhaps the sorcerous scars left upon her aura by first Maglarion and then the Moroaica, or maybe a side effect of her two journeys into the netherworld. Whatever the reason, the things the wraithblood addicts saw when they looked at her filled them with terror.

“Kill him!” shouted Ismet again. “He’s only one man!”

“The shadows!” shrieked one of the wraithblood addicts. “I can see the shadows. I can see the shadows! They see me back, and they hunger!” 

“The knight of air!” screamed another. “He cannot stop what is coming!”

“The shadows,” whispered the third man. “The shadows are masked and dancing, and they are all pointing at you.”

“What nonsense is this?” said Ismet. “For the last time, kill him!” 

But the wraithblood addicts fled, terrified by whatever vision of horror they had seen swirling around Caina. One ran out the back door, and the second crawled through the burned window. The third actually ran right past Caina, screaming the entire time.

Soon she was alone in the kitchen with Ismet and Talisla. 

“If you’re going to hire thugs,” said Caina, “best to find men other than wraithblood addicts.”

Talisla let out a wheezing laugh. 

“Shut up,” said Ismet. His hard eyes turned back to Caina. “This is none of your affair. Leave now, and you won’t be hurt.” 

“I will not leave a widow to be murdered,” said Caina.

“I’m not going to murder her, you idiot,” said Ismet. “Only beat her until she cooperates.”

“And then?” said Caina. “Once you have what you want? She’s seen your face. You’ll just let her live?”

Ismet’s eyes narrowed. 

“Or you could walk away now,” said Caina. “I know why you’re here. If you want your freedom, there is a better way to do it. You haven’t killed anyone yet.”

“Did Kuyat send you?” said Ismet. “You speak his counsels of weakness.”

“I came on my own,” said Caina. “Is this the kind of man you want to be? The sort who murders an old woman for his freedom?”

And to her surprise, Ismet laughed. 

“I killed Turkaar, fool,” said Ismet.

Talisla’s bloodshot eyes widened. “What?” 

“He told us about the money he had won at the games, how he was going to take care of his mother and find a pretty wife once he got back to Istarinmul,” said Ismet. “So when the Legions attacked at Marsis, I stabbed him in the back and left his corpse in the street. What was one more body among thousands?”

“Dog!” said Talisla, her eyes ablaze with wrath. “Murderer! Traitor! I shall cut your throat and watch you choke on your blood!” 

“You won’t,” said Ismet. “I would have killed you and taken the money years ago, but those damned slavers got in the way.” He grinned at Caina. “A pity you came along. Seems some wraithblood addicts broke into the house and killed you both.” He spun the club in his right hand. “A genuine tragedy.”

“Try,” said Caina, lifting her dagger.

Ismet sprang at her, club a blur, and Caina dodged. She wheeled around him, trying to line up her dagger for a stab, but Ismet danced away. They began to turn in circles around each other, feinting and retreating, and Caina realized that she was at a disadvantage. Ismet stood a head taller, and his club gave him a longer reach. Additionally, he was far stronger, and if he got his hands on her she was dead. Caina was faster, but not fast enough to get past his guard and bury her blade into his flesh. 

“Little man with a dagger,” said Ismet, driving her toward the wall. Caina ducked and sidestepped away, and Ismet’s club bounced off the wall with a loud crack. She lashed at him with the dagger, the point just missing his leg, but Caina had to retreat before he could strike with his club. “Not so brave when you can’t throw your precious knives.”

“Said the man beating up an old woman,” said Caina. 

Talisla spat at Ismet, the spittle landing upon his shin.

“You’ll regret that,” he said in an icy voice.

“She’s won’t,” said Caina. “You will soon see why your friends ran away.” She offered an evil smile. “I don’t think you’ll enjoy it.”

“And what is that?” said Ismet, taking another step closer.

Caina looked over his shoulder, towards the burned window, and said nothing.

It was an old trick, but it worked. No doubt the terror of his wraithblood-addicted thugs had alarmed him. Ismet half-turned, looking at the window, and Caina flung her throwing knife at him with all her strength. He turned back at once, and so instead of hitting his throat the knife went into his right shoulder. Ismet bellowed in pain and rage, the club falling from his fingers to bounce against the floor. 

She sprang at him, dagger angled for his heart. 

But Ismet reacted faster than she anticipated, his left forearm snapping around in a backhand. His fist impacted against the right side of Caina’s face, and pain exploded through her head. She had been hit before, more times than she cared to remember, and knew how to recover her balance. But by then it was too late. Ismet’s right fist slammed into her stomach, heedless of his wounded arm and shoulder, and his left clamped around her right wrist. He drove her against the wall, and his right hand sank into her throat.

Caina gagged for breath, clawing at his hand, but he was too strong. The blood rushed through her head, and her vision started to go black. A flicker of dark amusement floated to the top of her thoughts. She had survived Maglarion, the battle in Marsis, and the golden dead in New Kyre, only to fall at the hand of a murderous gladiator too stupid to plan a robbery. 

It was almost funny. Pity the joke was on her. How Corvalis would laugh when she told him the story in the next world! 

Then Ismet stiffened, and Talisla screamed. The iron fingers withdrew from Caina’s throat, and she staggered forward, trying to suck air into her protesting lungs. At last her vision cleared, and she saw Ismet fall to his knees, his eyes wide and shocked. He fell upon his face, a bloody wound between his shoulders.

“Who are you?” said Talisla.

Kuyat looked at her, and then met Caina’s eyes for a moment.

He left without another word, returning his dagger to its sheath.

###

“It’s down here somewhere,” said Caina, tapping at the walls with the side of a pickaxe. 

At Caina’s suggestion, Talisla had not reported Ismet’s death to the watchmen. Likely Ismet had a wealthy owner, one who would take exception to the death of his property. So Caina had bribed some acquaintances in the Alqaarin Quarter to dump the body in the harbor, and that was that. 

“Such a fanciful tale,” said Talisla. “I cannot believe it.”

They stood in the cellar, moving along the walls. The walls were brick and covered with white plaster, stark against the yellow dirt of the floor. Caina squinted at a section of the wall. In most places the plaster adhered to the rough shape of the brickworks, but this patch of plaster looked smoother and newer than the rest of the cellar.

She tapped the wall with her knuckles. It sounded different than the bricks.

“Stand back,” said Caina, hefting the pickaxe.

Talisla took a prudent step back, and Caina swung the pickaxe. 

The blade sank deep into the wall, and a few swings later Caina cleared away the plaster panel. She saw a niche dug into the bricks, a niche filled with leather bags. Caina reached into the niche, drew out a bag, and opened it.

Golden coins gleamed in the light of Talisla’s lantern.

“It seems that even from beyond the grave,” said Caina, “your son found a way to look after you.” 

Talisla looked at Caina, at the golden coins, back at Caina, and began to cry.

###

A few days later, Caina stood outside the Ring of Cyrica, wearing again the disguise of Kyrazid Tomurzu.

She did not need to wait long.

Kuyat emerged from the Ring, his expression caught halfway between wonder, disbelief, and bafflement. He carried a wooden sword, traditionally presented to a gladiator on the day of his freedom, and a small bronze tablet carved with a proclamation officially recording the day he became a free man.

He stopped a few feet from Caina.

“Master Kyrazid,” said Kuyat. He hesitated. “How is your throat?”

“Better,” said Caina. 

Kuyat nodded, and they stared at each other for a while.

“Why?” he said at last.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Caina.

Kuyat snorted. “You are a clever man, yes, but do not lie to me. Someone bought my freedom, and even gave me a bonus of a thousand bezants. It was you at the old woman’s house, both times. Why?”

Caina shrugged. “You did save my life.”

“You didn’t have to free me,” said Kuyat, “or give me the money.”

“You were right,” said Caina. “It is not a just world. So if a man wants justice…he shall simply have to create it himself. You could easily have had your freedom by killing Ismet and me and taking Talisla’s money. But you didn’t.”

Kuyat looked away, blinking. “Thank you. I know not what else to say.” 

Caina nodded.

“Who are you?” said Kuyat. “You are not a Cyrican lord’s factor, that much is plain. A lord’s factor would not care about slaves or widows…or rent a room from a widow, for that matter.”

“Who I am is not important,” said Caina. “And I want nothing from you, Kuyat. Go and do as you wish. But I would suggest you take rooms at Talisla’s house. She has need of a strong man to help her look after the house…and I expect she would give you a discount on the rent, as well.” 

“Thank you,” said Kuyat. He started to walk away.

Caina waited.

A few steps later he turned. “And if later…you wish to create some more justice, you have only to call upon me. I know not who you are or whom you serve, but it is clear to me that you are a righteous man.”

“I’m really not,” said Caina.

“Nevertheless,” said Kuyat. “I know how to fight. If you wish my aid, you need only ask.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. “I shall remember that.”

Kuyat bowed and left.

Caina watched him go and smiled to herself. She needed to find a way to stop Callatas and his sinister plans with the wraithblood…but she was only one woman, the only Ghost in Istarinmul.

But she suspected it would not remain that way for long.

THE END

Thank you for reading GHOST PRICE. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, 
sign up for my newsletter
, or watch for news on my 
Facebook page
. Turn the page for the first chapter of
 
Ghost in the Cowl
, the first novel of the GHOST EXILE series.

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.