Ghost in the Maze (18 page)

A short man in a white robe and turban stepped to the edge of the balcony, and Caina looked once again upon the face of Callatas, Grand Master of the College of Alchemists.

He had not changed in the four months since she had seen him at Ulvan’s doomed ascension. Callatas had the gauntness of the ascetic, the slightly stooped posture of a man who had spent long hours bent over books and scrolls. He had deep-set gray eyes, the hard line of his jaw and chin shaded by a close-cropped beard. He looked like a scholarly, even grandfatherly, old man, but Caina knew better. He was centuries old, and Master Alchemists extended their lives with the use of Elixir Rejuvenata produced from the ashes of unborn children.

He had destroyed Iramis, killing hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children in an instant with his sorcery. 

And he created the wraithblood, murdering innocent slaves upon his steel tables and transmuting their blood into poison. 

He wore brilliant white robes, the sleeves and hem trimmed with gold, a turban of similar material upon his head, a fine cloak thrown from his shoulders. A golden chain encircled his neck, and from that chain hung a strange jewel, a piece of blue crystal perhaps the size of an apple or a man’s fist. A pale blue glow shone from the gem’s azure depths, and if Caina focused she could feel the mighty sorcery within the stone. She had felt stronger auras…but with a shiver she wondered if the stone was hibernating, its power dormant.

For Callatas had raised that crystalline gem and called upon its power on the day he burned Iramis. 

His gray eyes swept the crowd, and for an awful instant Caina thought he recognized her. He had seen her twice before, once in Catekharon when Caina had traveled there with Halfdan and Corvalis to stop Mihaela’s mad plot. The second time had been at Ulvan’s ascension, when Caina had worn the skimpy costume of Natalia of the Nine Knives. Ulvan and Erghulan had stared at her exposed skin with lust, but not Callatas. Those icy gray eyes had held only disinterested contempt as he had looked at her, the contempt of an ancient sorcerer regarding the amusements of lesser men. 

Or perhaps he felt the presence of the pyrikon upon her hand.

But Callatas’s gaze moved on, and Caina found herself looking at Nasser. 

His face was a mask of utter hatred. Nasser always had a jest ready on his lips, his mocking smile never far away. But the jovial mask had vanished, and in that instant Caina knew that Nasser would never betray her to Callatas.

Because Nasser Glasshand hated Callatas with every fiber of his being.

“Ibrahaim,” whispered Caina into his ear, “control yourself.”

He blinked, a flicker of chagrin going over his face, and then his smiling mask dropped back into place.

“Do forgive me,” he murmured. “I get rather overexcited sometimes.” 

“Quiet,” said Tarqaz. “The master will speak.”

Callatas’s voice echoed over the silent courtyard and the thousands of faces staring up at him. His voice was dry and dusty and cold, yet some trick of sorcery carried it to Caina’s ears as if she stood before the Grand Master.

“A century and a half ago,” said Callatas, “the city of Iramis was the jewel of Istarinmul. Her fields fed half the world. Her ships sailed to every port of every nation. Her loremasters were respected and loved, for unlike the sorcerous brotherhoods of other nations,” his lips twitched behind his thin beard, “they sought not power or dominion, but merely understanding, and bound themselves with solemn oaths to use their power never to harm a living mortal.” Caina thought that unlikely. “And her Prince was wise and revered, a father to his nation.”

Utter silence ruled in the courtyard. No one dared look away from the balcony.

“Yet they were fools,” said Callatas. “For the Prince of Iramis refused to submit to our Padishah. The Padishah was wise enough to embrace my vision, but the Prince spurned my wisdom. He dared to call me a madman, and gathered his armies and summoned his allies to make war upon me. How the Padishah and the nobles trembled with fear, for the Prince was mighty in battle.”

He leaned forward, and for the first time Caina saw a hint of emotion in that cold face.

Exultation. The gloating joy of a child tearing the wings from flies. 

“So I went alone to face the Prince’s armies,” said Callatas, “and all the might of Iramis gathered to strike me down. But I slew them all. I listened to the screams of the Prince’s army as it died, and it was sweeter than any music to my ears. I smelled the smoke as the women and children of Iramis burned in their precious golden-walled city, and it was more fragrant than incense to my nostrils. I watched as the fields as Iramis turned to dust and bone, and it was more beautiful than any painting. Iramis burned that day, and the world knew that only a fool dared the power of Istarinmul and of Callatas, Grand Master of…”

Derisive, drunken laughter interrupted the Master Alchemist’s ranting. 

A thousand heads turned at once, and Caina saw a drunken Istarish noble in fine robes standing near the balcony. He held a half-drained glass of wine in one hand, and thrust a finger in Callatas’s direction, his face shiny with sweat.

People backed away, leaving a clear space around him.

“If you are so mighty,” roared the noble, “then why did we lose the war to the Empire? Why did we lose Marsis? Why did my father and brothers perish upon the sands of the Argamaz? Callatas the Grand Master! Bah! Callatas the charlatan! Callatas the scheming old fraud! I…”

“Oh, by the Living Flame, the poor fool,” whispered Tarqaz.

Callatas’s expression did not change as he pointed. Even from across the courtyard, Caina felt the pulse of sorcerous power, and a burst of shining blue light erupted from Callatas’s fingers and slammed into the drunken noble. The man’s face twisted in horror, and he started to scream, high and desperate. 

The light changed his hands and feet into blue crystal. Still screaming, the man stood frozen as the light crawled up his body, transmuting flesh and clothing alike into pale crystal. At last the light reached his face, and he had time for one desperate shriek before the transmutation finished. 

A statue of blue crystal occupied the space where the noble had once stood, face locked forever in a mask of fear and horror. Shouts and screams rose through the crowd, and Caina wondered if the guests would stampede. She glanced towards the garden and the tower. Perhaps this would be their best chance to reach…

“Silence!” roared Callatas, his voice thundering like the words of a furious god. 

At once the tumult ended.

“Do you not see?” said Callatas. “Do none of you see? He was weak! Imperfect! A drunken fool, filled with corruption and decay. But it was not his fault. He was made that way. Civilization itself had corrupted him, transformed what should have been a warrior into a drunken joke.” 

Silence answered him.

Callatas shook his head in irritation. “Man is corrupt and weak. There is only one thing about us that is perfectible, only one thing in the nature of man that can grow and become stronger. Our savagery, our ability to kill and destroy. We shun it, we flee from it, we construct tottering edifices of laws and civilizations to contain it, but nothing can hold it back for long. Such efforts to deny ourselves only corrupt us. Rather than fleeing from it, we must accept it. We must embrace our nature as killers, without hesitation or remorse. Only then will a new and stronger humanity arise, a humanity that can subjugate this world and every other.”

No one answered him, and a sneer of contempt went over his features.

“The Prince of Iramis failed to understand the truth,” said Callatas, “and for his folly Iramis burned. Upon the anniversary of his idiocy, reflect upon this truth. Ensure that you are ready to stand with the strong, rather than with the weak, when the hour of decision arrives. For it shall soon come.”

He turned and strode from the balcony without another word, and after a long moment the low murmur of conversation began again.

“Well,” muttered Kazravid, “he certainly knows how to inspire a festive mood.” 

“Oh, he has done far worse than that, I can assure you,” said Nasser 

“Given that he just boasted of his crimes,” said Caina, “that seems a safe assumption.”

Tarqaz shivered. “Incompetent slaves and lazy workers…I fear they do not last long in the master’s palace. All strive to avoid his eye and his displeasure. His reach is long and his punishments are both inventive and cruel.” He looked at the crystallized dead man. “I fear I have seen the master do far crueler things.”

“Then all the more reason to rob him,” said Nasser. “Tarqaz. When will the fireworks launch?”

“Soon,” said Tarqaz. “I must attend to them now. Watch for the launch of that rocket.” He pointed at long tube of red paper and plaster. “I have sabotaged it, and when ignited, it will generate a tremendous amount of smoke.”

“That shall be our opportunity to make for the Maze’s entrance,” said Nasser.

Tarqaz nodded. “Be wary. Many of the plants in the garden are poisonous to the touch.” He pointed at one of the larger plants, a maze of thick, thorny vines surrounding a man-sized green pod. “If you touch that plant, the vines will drag you into its maw. Sometimes when the master is truly angry, he feeds those who annoy him to such plants.” He shuddered. “The screaming lasts for days.” 

“We will meet you at the base of the tower,” said Nasser.

Tarqaz nodded and walked to the Alchemists overseeing the fireworks. Caina waited with the others. The conversation in the courtyard continued, quieter, more muted, as if people feared to draw the attention of the Grand Master.

Looking at the dead noble’s crystallized body, Caina understood why. 

“It does not make logical sense,” said Nerina in a whisper. She seemed shaken by the death of the nobleman.

Caina shrugged and moved next to the shorter woman. “Callatas is cruel and arrogant and full of pride. What happened to that man was evil, but I am relived Callatas did not unleash his power against the entire crowd.”

“No,” said Nerina. “That I can understand.” She almost smiled. “My father was Ragodan Strake, remember? I understand cruelty very well.” She shuddered, her brown robe rippling, her voice so soft Caina could barely hear it. “I understand why Callatas killed that man. Cruelty and pride make a very simple equation. Had my father the power, he would have done the same. When you told me that wraithblood was made from the blood of murdered slaves…I was horrified. I had been drinking the blood of men and women and children for all those years. I never knew.” She shook her head, the turban rustling against her ragged red hair. 

“Your father addicted you,” said Caina. “You didn’t do it by choice.”

“But I continued after he was dead, after Malcolm was murdered,” said Nerina. “But why did he do it? I cannot balance that equation.”

“Your father?” said Caina. “He needed to control you, because you are brilliant and useful. And he was an evil man and you are not.”

“I know that,” said Nerina. “Yet that is not what I meant. Why did Callatas make the wraithblood? Why go to such effort? Wraithblood can be obtained so cheaply, but Callatas must go to great expense to create it. Why?” 

“I do not know,” said Caina.

Nerina leaned closer, her eerie blue eyes intent. “That is why you are here, is it not? The equation balances.”

“No,” said Caina. “I’m here to get rich, same as you.”

“I am here to distract myself from wraithblood,” said Nerina. "But you are not here from the money either, I think. You think I am brilliant…but you are, too. You crave secrets the way I crave numbers and order.”

“Perceptive,” muttered Caina. 

“I think that is why you are here,” said Nerina. “I think that is why the Balarigar stole from the cowled masters. I think that is why you asked all those questions of that djinni. You want to know why Callatas is making wraithblood.”

“Yes,” said Caina.

“I do, too,” said Nerina. 

“Why?” said Caina. 

“Because it ruined me,” said Nerina. “Well. My father and my husband’s murderers helped with that. But the wraithblood…it almost destroyed me. It still could. I still crave it, even knowing what it is, what it will do to me if I take it again. I want to know why.”

“Then you can help me find the answer,” said Caina, glancing at Nasser. He hadn’t heard them, or at least she didn’t think so. “We can talk more…if we happen to live though this first.”

“Ah. Well. Yes,” said Nerina. “That.” 

“I think,” said Kazravid, his voice cutting through their conversation, “that the fireworks are beginning.”

The Alchemists strode around the wooden racks, some of them carrying torches that sputtered with purple flames. 

“Splendid,” said Nasser. “I always enjoy a good fireworks show.”

“Weapons of sorcery,” said Caina. “They are likely vile.”

Nasser raised his eyebrows. “You think so? Not all sorcery is wicked, and it can sometimes create things of beauty.”

Caina pointed at the new-made crystalline statue and opened her mouth to let Nasser know just what she thought of that, and then the first rocket shot into the air. The rocket soared into the black sky, and then exploded, producing a brilliant burst of crimson sparks.

She stared at it, stunned. A chorus of cheers rose up from the guests, and two more rockets shot into the air. The first erupted in a spray of green sparks, and the second formed a blazing yellow starburst, so bright it seemed like daylight. 

Caina watched the display, and for an instant she forgot Callatas, forgot the wraithblood and the nagataaru and all the worries and sorrows that weighed upon her heart. More fireworks shot into the air, producing a dazzling curtain across the sky, and for a moment it looked as if someone had thrown a bag of shining jewels across the darkness. She desperately wished that Corvalis were here to see this with her. He would have laughed and made an irreverent joke…but he would have watched nonetheless.

Her gaze moved from the fireworks to the crystalline statue in the courtyard.

Beautiful or not, sorcery was still evil…and she would stop Callatas.