Ghost in the Hunt (17 page)

“Thank you,” said Caina.

Claudia blinked. “For what?”

“For my life,” said Caina, meeting the taller woman’s eyes. “She had me, Claudia. I would have died there, if you had not hit her with your banishment spell.” 

Claudia shrugged, uncomfortable. “It…we are both Ghosts, whatever might have happened in the past. You have saved my life before. And,” she sighed, “and Corvalis would have been wroth if you had come to any harm.”

Caina felt her eyes sting, which seemed to make Claudia even more uncomfortable. 

“And thank you for my life,” said Claudia. “Cassander would have taken me alive, if you had not outwitted him.” She laughed. “By dressing up like a prostitute.”

Caina grinned. “Slave dancer, technically. Licensed Istarish prostitutes generally wear more clothing.” 

Claudia gaped at her, and burst out laughing. 

“Gods!” said Claudia. “This isn’t funny!” She wiped at her eyes. “Why am I laughing?”

“Because you’re still alive,” said Caina. “If we get through this, you’ll want to lie down and sleep for a week. And…Claudia. If you had been killed, Corvalis would have been wroth, too.” 

They stood in silence for a moment. Claudia looked at the floor, at the ceiling, at the walls, anywhere but Caina, her eyes wet.

“Well,” said Claudia at last. “We had better go, hadn’t we?” She rubbed at her eyes and took a long breath. “This…informant of yours, whoever he is, would likely be annoyed if we drag him out of his bed.”

“Actually,” said Caina, “I don’t think he ever sleeps.”

“There is one thing I wonder about,” said Claudia. “How are you still alive?”

Caina shrugged. “Dumb luck?”

“Probably,” said Claudia, “but that’s not what I mean. The fiery sword the Huntress summoned…”

“I’ve seen the nagataaru manifest those before,” said Caina. “I think it’s a blade of pure sorcerous power. It can cut through almost anything.”

“I know,” said Claudia. “I saw the Huntress kill with it. I also saw her drive it right into your chest. Why aren’t you lying in pieces on the ground?”

“I think it was the torque on my left arm,” said Caina. “You saw it?”

“Aye,” said Claudia. “I wondered about that. You don’t usually wear jewelry unless it’s part of a disguise. Certainly not something like a torque.”

“It’s called a pyrikon,” said Caina. “I don’t know what it does, not exactly, but it’s enspelled. I thought it was a key, but apparently it can act as a shield as well. Have you ever heard of the loremasters of Iramis?”

Claudia’s brow furrowed. “Vaguely. An extinct order of sorcerers. The College of Alchemists wiped them out during the War of the Fourth Empire.”

“That’s not quite right,” said Caina. “Callatas destroyed Iramis, personally. Burned it to ashes with a relic called the Star of Iramis. I suspect the Prince of Iramis realized what Callatas intended to do someday with the Apotheosis and tried to stop him. Or perhaps the loremasters did. I don’t know for certain. But I do know the pyrikons were the loremasters’ badges of office. Most of them died with Iramis, but Callatas hunted down the rest and claimed their pyrikons. He used them as keys.”

“You hate sorcery,” said Claudia. “Even if it did just save your life. Why do you still have the thing?”

Caina gave a quiet little laugh. “I can’t get rid of it. Every time I try to take it off, it just reappears on my arm. Or reshapes itself into a ring or a bracelet and returns to me.”

“I can examine it, if you like,” said Claudia. “I know how much you hate sorcery, however irrationally. Perhaps I know a counterspell to remove it.”

“Later,” said Caina. “We should get moving.” 

She opened the door and stepped back into the front room. Martin had discarded his formal clothing for ragged garb and armor similar to Caina’s, sword and dagger waiting at his belt.

“You look positively villainous, my lord,” said Caina. 

“Well,” said Martin. “My father always thought I would one day turn to banditry.”

“If there’s any talking necessary, let me do it,” said Caina. “Neither of you can speak without Nighmarian accents. Our cover story, my lord Martin, is that you and I are brothers, caravan guards both, and we are visiting your wife after returning from Anshan.”

“Sounds simple enough,” said Martin.

“These things never are,” said Caina, and they left the safehouse.

###

Caina led them to a ramshackle tavern on the southern edge of Istarinmul. 

Ever since fleeing Artifel with Corvalis all those years ago, Claudia had been in some disreputable places, but none quite as disreputable as the Shahenshah’s Seat. The raucous noise from the caravanserai just outside the walls filled her ears, while caravan guards and mercenaries stood drinking and talking. They cast admiring glances at her as she went past, but scowls from Martin and Caina dissuaded them from approaching. The tavern itself was a sprawling maze of wings and courtyards, firelight pouring from its entrances, the sounds of laughter and conversation rising from within. Caina led them to a common room filled with benches and tables and men in various states of drunkenness. A grizzled man with the look of a Legion veteran leaned against the wall, muscular arms crossed over his thick chest. His eyes turned towards Caina, and a flicker of a smile went over the man’s face.

“Master Ciaran,” said the man in Istarish with a Nighmarian accent. Caina had said that her mysterious ally thought she was a man. 

“Laertes,” said Caina. “Is he here?”

Laertes’s hard eyes flicked over Claudia and Martin. “He is. I think he was expecting you. All kinds of rumors about fighting in the Golden Palace.”

“And he thought of me?” said Caina. “How very flattering.”

Laertes snorted. “Wherever you go, Master Ciaran, chaos follows.” Clearly he was a perceptive man. “And your friends?”

“He’ll want to talk to them, too,” said Caina.

Laertes nodded, pushed away from the wall, and headed up a flight of stairs. Claudia followed Caina and Laertes and began to summon power for a spell. She didn’t know where Caina was taking them, only that the man they were going to see was not a Ghost. For all Claudia knew the man was an agent of the Teskilati or a spy for the Umbarian Order.

If he was, she would be ready.

Laertes opened a door. Beyond was a sitting room furnished in Istarish style with a round table ringed in low cushions, the smell of fresh coffee in the air. A man sat at the other end of the table, clad all in black, his black eyes glittering in his dark face, a well-trimmed black beard framing his lips. He rose, a white smile flashing over his face, and regarded them for a moment.

“There are rumors,” said the man. His voice was a deep, sonorous vibration, the sort of voice made for giving orations. “Tales of violence in the Golden Palace. Some men even claim that the Umbarian Order has overthrown the Padishah and seized the rule of Istarinmul. So many wild rumors…and then you arrive, Master Ciaran. With guests, no less.” He stepped around the table. “May I presume that I have the honor of addressing the Emperor’s Lord Ambassador to the Padishah?”

Martin frowned. “How did you know that?” 

The dark man’s white smile widened. “A simple deduction, my lord ambassador. It is well known within certain circles that the Emperor would soon dispatch a new ambassador to Istarinmul. Since our mutual friend Ciaran is the circlemaster of the city’s Ghosts, one need only consider the recent upheaval at the Golden Palace to conclude that you are the Emperor’s ambassador.”

“I see it is useless to hide from you,” said Martin with a sigh. “Very well. I am Lord Martin of House Dorius, the Emperor’s ambassador to the Padishah of Istarinmul. This is my wife, Claudia Aberon Dorius.”

“Aberon?” murmured the dark man, his eyes turning toward Claudia. “Most intriguing. I would have assumed the entirety of House Aberon would have sided with the Order.” 

Claudia offered him a thin smile. “The Umbarian rebels are tyrants and murderers, and I have no wish to be either, sir.”

“Well spoken,” said the dark man. He offered a bow to Martin, and then took Claudia’s right hand and planted a dry kiss upon the knuckles. “Permit me to introduce myself, since with Ciaran’s customary knack for secrecy he has no doubt completely failed to mention my name. My name is Ibrahaim Nasser, but I am more commonly known as Nasser Glasshand.”

“Nasser…Glasshand?” said Martin. “Like the stories?” Claudia knew those stories, the tales of the legendary Istarish master thief with a hand made of sorcerous glass. She had always thought them folk tales.

Of course, most people thought the Red Huntress a myth. 

“I may have inspired a tall tale or two, alas,” said Nasser. Claudia shot a look at his left hand, wondering if it was made of glass. It was balled into a tight fist, covered with a glove of black leather. He saw her looking, grinned, and flexed the fingers of his left hand, though the movement seemed to pain him. “But the stories are most egregiously inaccurate.” 

“Aren’t stories always?” said Claudia. 

“Indeed,” said Nasser. “Come, let us sit and have coffee and discuss our business like civilized men. For I assume you have business. Master Ciaran is not much of one for social calls, alas.”

“Neither are you,” said Caina as she settled upon a cushion. Somehow she sat like a man. Even her voice had gotten deeper, rougher. “But we’ve had some profitable ventures together.” 

“Indeed,” said Nasser.

“Aye,” said Caina, “and more to come, I hope. But this time I seek not a venture but information. I will pay you for it.”

“Perhaps there is profit to be gained for both of us,” said Nasser. “Speak on.”

“What do you know about the assassin called the Red Huntress?” said Caina.

Nasser said nothing, but his face went very still. Laertes’s grim expression grew harder.

“You’ve heard of her, then,” said Martin.

“To my sorrow, yes,” said Nasser. “Perhaps you should tell me what happened. I had thought her dead.” 

Caina told him about the events at the Golden Palace, beginning with the Red Huntress’s attack, Cassander’s treachery, and Claudia’s attempted banishment of the nagataaru within the Huntress. Laertes rose and produced cups of coffee, and Caina drank as she talked. Claudia lifted her cup and sipped. It was harsh and bitter, harsher than the coffee in the House of Kularus back in Malarae. 

That was good. It would help her to focus.

“That is a grim tale,” said Nasser. “Certainly you are most fortunate to be alive. Please do not be offended when I say that the Red Huntress has killed men and women far more powerful than you.”

“Considering that we are alive and they are not,” said Martin, “we would be fools to take offense.”

“Indeed,” said Nasser. He looked at Caina. “How much do they know? Or, to be more precise, how much do you wish them to know?”

“We can speak freely,” said Caina. “I have already warned them about Callatas.”

“Very good,” said Nasser. “My lord ambassador, I shall be as honest with you as I can, for your life is in grave danger. I cannot tell you everything about myself, since my life would be quickly forfeit if my secrets became general knowledge. But I will tell you everything I know about the Red Huntress.” 

Martin considered this and then looked at Caina. “Do you trust this man?”

“As much as a Ghost circlemaster can trust anyone,” said Caina. “He has never broken faith with me. We have gone into great peril together and come out alive on the other side.” 

“Few bonds are as true as those forged by the flames of battle,” said Martin. “Very well, sir. I accept your terms.”

“Capital,” said Nasser. “The first thing you should know is that I am enemy of Grand Master Callatas and his Apotheosis. My purpose is to defeat him and all his works. He should be your enemy as well, and the enemy of your Emperor.”

“Why is that?” said Martin.

“His past crimes have been appalling enough,” said Nasser. “He destroyed Iramis, burning a quarter of a million people with his sorcery. He has murdered tens of thousands of slaves to create his wraithblood, which is a blight upon the city. He has made alliances and pacts with the nagataaru, and today you have seen firsthand the malevolence of those spirits. His Apotheosis is a disaster that threatens both Istarinmul and the rest of the world.”

“How?” said Martin. “What is his Apotheosis?”

“I do not know, not yet,” said Nasser. “I am certain it is a sorcerous catastrophe on the scale of the day of the golden dead.”

“Or the burning of Rasadda at the end of the Second Empire,” said Caina. 

“Gods,” said Martin. “Will we ever be rid of these sorcerous madmen?” 

“Probably not,” said Caina, “though the world would be better without sorcery.”

“I do not agree,” said Claudia. “It is a tool like any other. Perhaps the world would be better off without swords. Yet a sword could be used for good or for evil. So it is with sorcery.” 

Caina said nothing, her face blank. 

“I agree with Lady Claudia,” said Nasser. “Neither the Magisterium nor the College of Alchemists nor the Umbarian Order are exemplars of benevolence. The loremasters of Iramis were, but Callatas slew them all.” He waved his hand. “This is neither the time nor the place for such a philosophical discussion. There are more urgent matters at hand.”

“The Red Huntress,” said Caina. “What do you know about her?”

“I do not know her name,” said Nasser, “nor do I know how old she is. But I do know that she is over a century old, and that she has the ability to change her appearance, her very face. From what I have learned, she was one of Callatas’s earliest experiments in summoning and binding a nagataaru into a living mortal. The Red Huntress was the result.” 

“Then she kills at the command of Callatas?” said Caina.

“It is not widely known,” said Nasser, “but yes. Callatas uses her to eliminate targets of great importance, powerful nobles and sorcerers who are too strong to remove by more traditional methods of assassination. I suspect he uses the Huntress as a last resort because of her utter disregard for anyone who gets into her way. A Kindred assassin will quietly slip poison into his victim’s glass. The Huntress will cut off the man’s head, murder his wife and children, and then butcher any slaves or servants who get in her way.”