Ghost in the Pact (2 page)

Morgant snorted. “We save the city from getting burned down, and then Erghulan will burn it down anyway? That’s just bad manners.”

“Perhaps we should move on,” said the woman standing on the other side of Morgant. Annarah was tall for a woman, almost as tall as Kylon, with dark skin and bright green eyes. She looked to be in her thirties, yet her hair was a bright shade of silver. The hair and eyes were distinctive, and Caina had finally despaired of convincing Annarah to dye her hair. The last loremaster of Iramis had settled for donning a nondescript blue dress and matching headscarf, which mostly concealed her hair. “If there are no ships to be had here, perhaps Nasser and Laertes had better luck at the Alqaarin Harbor.” 

“Maybe,” said Caina. With the war between the Empire and the Umbarian Order, the Alqaarin Sea was contested between the Emperor and the rebel magi. There had been a corresponding drop in ship traffic, as merchants elected for the overland route to avoid both Imperial and Umbarian privateers, and what few ships that remained had fled Cassander’s wrath. 

A wave of pure frustration went through Caina. 

If there had just been one ship left in the harbor! They could have set sail for Catekharon by now and taken the relics out of Callatas’s grasp forever. The only ships left in Istarinmul were the galleys of the Istarish navy, waiting in their fortified harbor below the Towers of the Sea. Caina had tried to think of a way to hijack a galley, but they were simply too well defended. 

“I still say we should go on foot,” said Morgant. “You shiftless young people. No stamina for walking. You expect to sail everywhere. In my day we walked everywhere, and we grateful for the opportunity…”

“No,” said Caina. “No, we have to put the relics someplace where Callatas cannot reach them. We can’t even take them to Tanzir and the rebels. Callatas could find the regalia easily enough there. The Staff and the Seal have to go somewhere where Callatas cannot steal them.” 

Morgant snorted. “We should have left the damned things on Pyramid Isle, then. Callatas would never have gone there.”

“No,” said Caina at once. Her skin crawled at the mention of Pyramid Isle. She remembered the gloomy shadows of Kharnaces’s tomb, the undead baboons creeping through the jungle, the hideous green light of the great Conjurant Bloodcrystal. 

The necromantic poison threading its way through her veins inch by inch, killing her. 

“She is right,” said Annarah. “We could not have left the relics there. Leaving them in the hands of a Great Necromancer of Maat would be as bad as delivering them to Callatas himself.” 

“We had best go,” said Kylon. “Nasser said he would meet as at the Desert Maiden by noon. Perhaps he had better luck finding a ship.” 

“Yes,” said Caina, shaking off her dark thoughts of Pyramid Isle. 

“The midday meal at the Desert Maiden,” said Morgant. “At least if we fail to secure the relics, the food at the tavern will kill us so quickly that we won’t live long enough to regret it.”

“Don’t eat the food, then,” said Kylon. 

“You surprise me, Kyracian,” said Morgant. “You’ve been in enough wars. A fighting man needs to eat when the opportunity presents itself.” 

Kylon rolled his eyes, but said nothing as he fell in next to Caina. His presence comforted her. The day they had met, she and Kylon had tried to kill each other repeatedly. Then they had become allies, and then friends, and then exiles together in Istarinmul, and then lovers. 

Now she never wanted to be parted from him. She wanted to go with him someplace far from Istarinmul and Callatas and the war between the Empire and the Order. 

Yet she was a Ghost of the Empire, and she would not shirk her duty, so Caina left the docks, leading the way to the Alqaarin Quarter on the other side of Istarinmul. 

###

Kylon’s eyes swept back and forth over the streets of the Old Quarter, watching for any signs of danger.

To his dismay, he saw several. 

The Old Quarter was one of the more respectable districts of Istarinmul, home to the merchants and magistrates who were not quite wealthy enough to live in the Emirs’ Quarter or the Masters’ Quarter. The houses were built of whitewashed stone, sturdy and tall. Begging and vagrancy were forbidden, and the watchmen made regular patrols through the wide streets. 

Except Cassander’s spell had wiped out the Crows’ Tower, the headquarters of both the watchmen and the Teskilati, and the watchmen had fallen into disarray. 

With every step Kylon felt eyes upon him. The merchants and magistrates had barricaded themselves in their houses and halls, armed with crossbows and clubs. Men were but water in the end, and the sorcery of water let Kylon sense the emotions of those around him. He felt the fear and tension and uncertainty in the houses lining the street, the merchants bracing themselves to face whatever fresh catastrophe the future might bring. He felt the emotions of those next to him. Morgant’s sense was hard and cold and wary. Despite the man’s tendency to ramble, his watchfulness never wavered, and he was never more than a half-second from violence. Annarah’s sense was a mixture of concern and fear. 

From Caina he sensed nothing. It was as if she was not there at all. That was one of the aspects of the valikarion. They could see sorcerous power, but they were immune to spells of sensing and detection. Spirits could not see them. He knew Caina was not entirely happy about her new abilities, but without them, they might not have been able to stop Cassander from destroying Istarinmul. 

Her brilliant, buzzing mind would turn those abilities into effective weapons, just as she had done for many other things. 

It took a considerable amount of concentration to keep his spell of sensing extended over so large an area, but Kylon kept at it. His senses would give ample warning if someone tried to attack them, whether assassins or Callatas’s minions or simple robbers. 

It would give him a few extra seconds to protect Caina. 

He looked at her, her cold blue eyes distant with thought. She wore the disguise of a caravan guard, leather jerkin with steel studs, dusty boots and trousers, a ragged brown cloak, sword and dagger hanging at her belt. Her black hair hung in greasy curtains around her face. It was an effective disguise. Anyone looking at her would see only another caravan guard. They wouldn’t see the beautiful woman beneath the disguise. 

Kylon had, and he had fallen in love with that woman. 

He had been in love before. He had loved his wife Thalastre, and her death had almost ruined him. Yet it was different with Caina. There was a wild intensity to it, almost like madness. Something about her had drawn him, something about her determination or her unyielding courage. Maybe it was because they had both been in so much danger together. 

Morgant had mocked him, saying that he was a romantic fool to fall for the dangerous madwoman and her doomed plans. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth to that. Kylon had lost his sister to her own folly, Thalastre and their unborn child to the Red Huntress’s malice. He had almost lost Caina to the Red Huntress’s cunning, and he had risked everything to save her. 

If anyone tried to hurt her, they would regret it. 

Morgant began talking again, a long, rambling anecdote about how he had assassinated some minor Anshani anjar or another. Annarah listened with calm patience. She was perhaps the most levelheaded woman that Kylon had ever met, and he had yet to see Morgant rattle her. 

“What are you thinking?” said Caina. 

He blinked at her. “You don’t know?”

She smiled a little. “I’m not the one with water sorcery.” 

“That lets me sense emotions,” said Kylon. “Not read minds. You’re the one who can read minds.” 

She grinned, as she often did when he teased her. “I cannot read minds.”

“You can,” said Kylon. “You already know what I’m thinking. You’ll say something like ‘by the angle of your frown and the kind of dust on your boots, I deduce that you just came from the Cyrican Bazaar, and therefore ate pita rolls for breakfast, and…’”

“I do not,” said Caina, “talk like that.”

He stared at her.

“Sometimes,” she conceded. 

He smiled. “So what am I thinking?” 

Her own smile faded. “You’re worried about an attack, and I know that because you’ve extended your sensing spell. I know that is hard for you, because you sense so many emotions at once, and you told me how hard it was for you to learn the necessary control as a child. But it will give you a few extra seconds of warning, so you do it.” 

Kylon shook his head. “That’s exactly right.” He laughed a little. “How did you get to know me so well?”

“Ark used to say that you don’t really know a man until you’ve gone into danger together,” said Caina, “and we’ve gone into a lot of danger together, you and I.” 

“True,” said Kylon. “No secrets left, I suppose.”

“Well,” said Caina, her voice dropping further, “after some of the things we’ve done, there shouldn’t be.” 

He remembered the feel of her in his arms, her mouth against his, the warmth of her body pressed against him. 

“No,” said Kylon. “And…” 

He frowned as a wave of anger and fear and hate washed over his senses. He looked around, half-anticipating an attack. Off the street a small plaza opened before a merchant hall, and a large crowd had gathered there, armed with clubs and spears. They confronted a hakim in ceremonial robes, two Immortals in black armor guarding him. 

“The taxes must be paid!” shouted the hakim, but even without the sorcery of water, his fear was obvious. “Regardless of what has happened, the…”

“Liar!” roared a man in the crowd.

“Aye!” shouted another. “The Grand Master and the Grand Wazir sold us to the Umbarians! If they want their damned taxes, they can come collect the money themselves!” 

The crowd roared in agreement. There was fear in their sense, but more anger than fear. Cassander’s final spiteful speech had claimed that Erghulan Amirasku and Callatas had joined the Order and betrayed Istarinmul, and everyone in the city had heard that speech. 

It seemed Cassander’s lie had been believed.

“Well, well,” said Morgant. “Our fat lord Tanzir will have many friends waiting for him when he besieges the city.”

“He wasn’t that fat,” said Annarah. 

“He’s lost weight,” said Caina, her voice distracted. “But we had better get out of here. If this turns into a riot, I don’t want to get sucked into it.”

Kylon nodded, and Caina led the way from the plaza, taking a circuitous path through the alleyways of the Old Quarter and the Tower Quarter. Several times they saw groups of men waiting in doorways, prepared to rob hapless passers-by, but one look at Kylon’s hard expression and Morgant’s cheerful, skull-like grin, and wariness flooded over their emotional sense. 

That wariness probably saved the lives of the would-be thieves.

They crossed the Alqaarin Bazaar, half the buildings still damaged from the fighting. In the distance wisps of smoke still rose from the mansion that had housed the Umbarian embassy. Lord Martin had burned the building before withdrawing back to the Imperial embassy in the Emirs’ Quarter. 

A few minutes later they came to the Desert Maiden. 

It was a seedy-looking tavern in a street off the Alqaarin Bazaar, and it looked shabby even by the overall low standards of Istarish taverns. The tavern catered to caravan guards, teamsters, porters, and the others who serviced the endless caravans coming to the city, and rented rooms to the prostitutes who serviced the caravan workers. Caina had told Kylon how she had started her infiltration of the Widow’s Tower from there, and Cassander had almost caught here there on the day they departed for Pyramid Isle. 

Caina pushed open the door, and Kylon and the others followed her inside. The common room was almost full, men hunched at the wooden tables and benches, nursing cups of cheap wine or cheap brandy. A dying fire crackled in the hearth, and the emotions in the room felt like a field of brambles. He sensed shock and rage and grief from the men gathered in the tavern. Likely some of them had lost friends and family when Cassander’s burning circle had ripped its way across Istarinmul. It reminded Kylon of the emotional aura after a battle, of shocked men looking around the carnage, stunned that they were still alive. 

On the other hand, it also reminded him of the emotional aura of an army just before a battle. 

Istarinmul was indeed about to explode.

“You’ve got money?” growled one of the two bouncers standing by the door, former gladiators by the look of them. “We’ve got no room in the house for beggars.” 

Caina didn’t look at the man, but her left hand flicked, and a silver coin jumped from her fingers. The bouncer caught it, made the coin disappear, and then nodded. Two men sat at a table in the corner, their postures casual, yet Kylon noted how they watched the room. The first man was in his fifties, with receding gray hair and the solid build of a man who had survived a term of service in the Emperor’s Legions. He wore mail and had a broadsword at his belt, the heavy shield of an Imperial Legionary propped against the wall. The second man had darker skin, his head shaved, a close-cropped beard framing his lips. He wore dark clothing, including a bracer and a leather glove over his left hand.

Behind him a leather-wrapped spear rested against the wall. Kylon would not have given it a second look under most circumstances, but he knew that if he focused his arcane senses upon the weapon, he would sense the titanic power hidden beneath the leather. The spear was in fact a staff of odd silvery metal, and it was one of the two relics that Callatas wanted more than anything else in the world. The Seal was hidden beneath the spearhead itself, secured in the iron socket. 

According to legend, the Staff of Iramis could summon vast numbers of spirits from the netherworld, while the Seal of Iramis permitted its bearer to command those spirits. Kylon had never seen the relics used, and if he could work his will, they would be locked up with the Sages of Catekharon before anyone could ever use them. 

“Ah,” murmured Nasser Glasshand. “Welcome. Please, be seated. There is no coffee, alas, but the wine is not especially offensive.”