Ghost Arts (4 page)

She grimaced and slipped a throwing knife into her
hand. Morgant drew his black dagger and his crimson scimitar, while
Sergei watched with wide eyes. Caina beckoned, and they moved
forward in silence past the stacks of crates, the rotting smell
growing stronger. She walked past a stack of barrels and came to an
empty space that had been converted into a painter’s workshop. A
table held brushes and jars of paint, and a canvas had been pinned
to an easel, its surface covered by a half-finished painting of a
dead slave, a middle-aged man in a gray tunic.

The subject of the painting lay sprawled on the dirt
before the easel, the flies buzzing around him.

Sergei made a gagging noise. Caina really hoped he
didn’t throw up.

“Do you like my work?” rasped a voice

Caina spun, raising her throwing knife.

An old Istarish man limped into sight, clad in rough
clothes, his hair and beard a tangled mass of gray locks. His eyes
glittered beneath his heavy brow like dark pits, and his arms were
thick and knotted with muscle. He was not armed, not that Caina
could see, but he looked strong enough to be dangerous.

“Karzad,” stammered Sergei, “I don’t think…”

“You will be silent,” rasped Karzad, his dark eyes
fixed upon Caina. “You have served your purpose, boy. The paintings
served their purpose. You have brought her here.”

“Me?” said Caina. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“We have not,” said Karzad, “but I have seen you in
my dreams.”

“That’s very flattering,” said Caina, “but I’m not
interested.”

“The lords of the night have spoken of you,” said
Karzad. “The princes of the void have told me of your deeds.”

“I see,” said Caina, alarm shooting through her.
There were secret cults in the Kaltari Highlands, she knew, that
worshipped neither the Living Flame nor the gods of the Empire, but
something far darker. They worshipped the nagataaru, the dark
spirits of the netherworld, the malevolent creatures with whom
Grand Master Callatas had made a pact. “Do they often speak to
you?”

“For many years,” murmured Karzad. “When I was young,
I wandered the hills seeking wealth. Then one night I slept near a
circle of ancient standing stones, and a lord of the void came to
me in my dreams. He made me strong, and he whispered his wisdom
into my thoughts. The lords of the night have shown you to me,
demonslayer. You are the woman who would be the liberator.”

“What is he talking about?” said Sergei.

“Run,” said Caina. He would just get in the way when
the fighting started. “Turn around and run right now. Don’t come
back.”

Sergei hesitated.

“Do as she says,” said Morgant, not taking his eyes
from Karzad.

Sergei turned and fled for the doors.

“So,” said Caina. “What do you want with me?”

“The lords of the void have decreed your death,” said
Karzad. “I shall be rewarded greatly when I slay you. Long I sought
you, but you were too cunning, too clever, and I could not pierce
your disguises. So instead I hunted those who served you, knowing
that would draw you to me. Now you have come, and your life is
mine.”

“You have yet to take it,” said Caina, adjusting her
grip on the throwing knife.

“Easily accomplished,” said Karzad, and his eyes
swirled with purple fire and writhing shadow.

It was as Caina feared. He was possessed by a
nagataaru. The malevolent spirit fed on death and pain, and Karzad
had slain many victims. The nagataaru would have channeled some of
that stolen strength to its host.

As Karzad lifted his hand, his fingers burning with
purple fire, Caina flung her throwing knife. Her aim was perfect,
and the blade sank into Karzad’s throat. The old man staggered back
with a gurgle, blood spraying into his beard, his eyes wide. For a
moment Caina thought that she had ended the fight before it could
begin.

Then Karzad ripped the knife free, the wound healing
as his nagataaru repaired the damage. He raked his fingers through
the air, and a sword of purple fire and shadow appeared in his
grasp. Caina had seen nagataaru-possessed men summon such weapons
before. The blade of force could cut through nearly anything. Her
pyrikon, the ghostsilver bracelet upon her left wrist, would
protect her from the sword, but it would not stop Karzad from
simply tearing her head off.

“Scatter!” shouted Caina, and Morgant whirled and
vanished into the shadows as Karzad charged. The possessed man
ignored Morgant but ran after Caina, moving with the inhuman speed
granted by the malevolent spirit within him. Caina dashed through
the tottering stacks of crates, dodging from shadow to shadow,
knowing that it was useless. Karzad might not have been able to see
Caina, but his nagataaru would be able to sense her presence.

Which, of course, she was counting on.

Caina yanked the shadow-cloak from her satchel, flung
it over her shoulders, and pulled the cowl up. She kept moving,
ducking past a stack of barrels, and went motionless.

A moment later Karzad stalked forward, the sword of
force blazing in his fist. He looked back and forth, his dark eyes
narrowed. He moved closer, and Caina circled around the back of the
barrels, slipping her ghostsilver dagger from its sheath.

“Come out, demonslayer,” rasped Karzad. “Come out to
die! It will be easier this way. The princes of the void have great
torments stored up for you. Surrender now, and you can avoid them.
If…”

Morgant burst from the shadows, black dagger and
crimson scimitar flashing. Karzad snarled and whirled to meet him,
swinging the sword of dark energy in wide arcs. Morgant backed
away, staying well away from the blade, making no effort to close
with Karzad.

He made for an excellent distraction.

Caina darted around the stack of barrels, jumped upon
Karzad’s back, and stabbed with the ghostsilver dagger. She aimed
for his neck, but at the last minute Karzad twisted with a snarl,
and her blade skidded down his right shoulder. The wound hissed and
sizzled, charring as the ghostsilver reacted to the dark power of
the nagataaru. Karzad bellowed in fury, his left elbow slamming
into Caina’s stomach. She fell backwards and landed hard, stunned
for a moment. Morgant lunged at Karzad, but the nagataaru-possessed
man whipped around with terrible speed, and Morgant barely avoided
the edge of the dark blade.

Caina started to stand, and Karzad lunged at her. She
couldn’t dodge in time…

A jar of paint flew over Caina’s head and smashed
into Karzad’s face. The nagataaru-possessed man staggered with a
grunt as red paint dripped down his face and into his eyes, and
Caina sprang forward, driving her dagger into his throat. The wound
sizzled and hissed, and Karzad started to raise his sword to
strike. Morgant slashed with his black dagger, and the blade sliced
through Karzad’s right wrist, the weapon’s sorcery cauterizing the
wound. The sword of purple fire winked out of existence, and Karzad
collapsed at Caina’s feet.

He shuddered once, sighed, and stopped breathing.

Caina glanced back and saw Sergei hovering a few
yards away, clutching another jar of paint.

“Good throw,” said Caina.

Sergei nodded, staring at Karzad’s corpse. “What…what
was he? That purple fire…”

“A nagataaru,” said Caina. “A dark spirit from the
netherworld. He would have turned on you eventually. Speaking of
which, we need to cut off his head. Otherwise the nagataaru will
take control of his corpse.” Morgant nodded and went about the
grisly work with his dagger.

“Gods,” said Sergei. “I had no idea.”

Morgant straightened up. “What next?”

“We’ll have to burn the building down,” said Caina.
“Destroy the evidence of what happened here.”

Morgant snorted. “You have an unwholesome love of
burning buildings.”

“It’s an effective tactic.” She gestured at the
stacked crates. “And we shouldn’t let all this dry wood go to
waste.”

###

A few moments later Caina watched as fires danced
through the skylights in the warehouse’s roof. The brick walls
would keep the fire from spreading to the rest of the city, but the
interior would be utterly gutted, along with all of Karzad’s grisly
work.

“Your little scam is going up in smoke,” said
Morgant. “What are you going to do now?”

Sergei shrugged. “Damned if I know.”

“Why did you come back?” said Caina. “You knew Karzad
might kill you. You could have kept running and never
returned.”

“I...don’t know why,” said Sergei. “I was going to
run out the city gate and not stop until I got to Imperial Cyrica.
But…I couldn’t. It wasn’t my fault. I had no idea what Karzad was
really doing. But I still felt like it would be my fault if you
died, so I came back.”

“Perhaps you can come work for me,” said Caina. “I
might have a use for a man of your skills.”

For there were worse things than Karzad loose in
Istarinmul, and they would commit far bloodier deeds unless Caina
stopped them. She would use whatever tools came her way, even an
old assassin like Morgant and a young swindler like Sergei.

“I never like it when you smile like that,” said
Morgant. “Means trouble is ahead.”

“In our line of work, there’s always trouble,” said
Caina. “Let’s go before the watchmen arrive.”

They left the burning warehouse behind, leaving
Karzad and his grim work to crumble into ashes.

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
.

***

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.”