Ghost in the Razor (10 page)

“Just how do I prove that I am worthy?” said Caina.

“Very simple,” said Morgant. “I’ve already decided on a test. Defeat the Sifter.”

She stared at him in silence. 

“That’s it?” Caina said. “Defeat the Sifter?”

“You say it so lightly,” said Morgant. “Do you know what the Sifter is?”

“Fiery?” said Caina. Kylon laughed before he could stop himself.

“An ifrit, a kind of fire elemental,” said Morgant. “The nagataaru are malevolent. The ifriti simply delight in destruction. I assume one of the Umbarians bound the Sifter and sent it after you.”

“Cassander Nilas, most likely,” said Caina. “I’ve irritated him a few times in the past.” 

“That is not terribly surprising,” said Morgant. “Defeat the Sifter, and prove to me you are strong enough for this task. Then I will tell you where Annarah is.”

“This is foolishness,” said Kylon. “She is clearly trying to stop Callatas’s plan. Her aid could be invaluable. Why turn her away?”

Morgant started to answer, but Caina answered him first.

“Because,” said Caina. “If I’m captured by the Umbarians or by Callatas’s men, and if I have the knowledge of Annarah’s fate…then that knowledge will fall into the wrong hands.”

“That knowledge could destroy the world in the wrong hands,” said Morgant. “I would prefer not to destroy the entire world.” 

“She already defeated the Sifter,” said Kylon. “The light from the pyrikon drove it off.” 

“I suspect it will be back,” said Caina. 

“Very well,” said Morgant. “What are you going to do next, Balarigar?”

###

Caina stared at the wall for a moment, thinking. 

She was so close. Morgant had the knowledge she needed, the knowledge that Nasser Glasshand had sought for years. If Caina found the Staff and the Seal of Iramis before Callatas, she could stop the Apotheosis. Part of her wanted to scream with frustration, or ask Kylon to beat the information out of Morgant. She knew it would be useless. Caina suspected no amount of force would make Morgant do something he didn’t want to do, and attacking Morgant might well be suicidal. 

So. The best way to get the information was to play his game. 

She was going to have to play the game anyway if she wanted to survive. Even if she told Morgant to go to hell and walked away, the Sifter was still coming for her. She had a better chance of surviving with Morgant’s help than without it. 

And with Kylon’s, too, though he owed her nothing. Her heart ached for him. She knew the kind of pain he had gone through. Caina had seen Corvalis die in front of her, and she hadn’t been able to save him. Malarae had become her home, but she had been banished to Istarinmul. 

“The Kyracian, though,” said Morgant, cutting into her thoughts. “Do you trust him?”

“Completely,” said Caina at once. 

“Why?” said Morgant.

Kylon inclined his head to her, his expression grave. 

“Because,” said Caina. “We’ve been through some things together.” She remembered the Ascendant Bloodcrystal blazing in the black heart of Caer Magia, the shadows of the dead moving around it. 

“Who the devil are you, anyway?” said Morgant. 

“Kylon, once of House Kardamnos,” said Kylon.

“The Shipbreaker?” said Morgant, raising an eyebrow. “You have gone down in the world, haven’t you?”

“Given that we are both standing in the sewer,” said Kylon, “I do not think you have grounds for criticism.” 

Morgant barked a laugh, and Caina ignored them as she thought. 

How to deal with the Sifter?

Claudia was her first thought. Claudia had once been a sorceress of the Magisterium, and her skills had not waned. She had become strong enough to banish a lesser nagataaru, and she might have the strength to banish the Sifter. Yet Claudia was pregnant with her first child, something Caina would never know, and if the Sifter killed the child…

No. Caina could not inflict that kind of loss on her. She had seen what it had done to Kylon. 

There were other ways. Caina had become the custodian of a sword called a valikon, a weapon forged by the loremasters of Iramis to destroy nagataaru. The Sifter was an ifrit, but Caina suspected that valikon might prove effective against it. If she could take the valikon before the Sifter found her, that would give her the edge she needed. Additionally, she also had the shadow-cloak of a Ghost nightfighter. The cloak shielded her from sorcerous observation, and it might also ward her from the Sifter’s sight. 

She might have the tools she needed to defeat the Sifter. 

“I suppose you’re coming with me?” said Caina, cutting into Morgant’s latest attempt at a witticism.

“I am,” said Morgant. “You’ve caught my curiosity, Balarigar. Let us see if you are strong enough.” He shrugged. “And if you’re killed, I’m sure your death will inspire an excellent painting.”

Caina looked at Kylon. “You are not a Ghost. You are not beholden to…”

“I owe you a great deal, whether you admit it or not,” said Kylon. “Malik Rolukhan murdered my wife.” Morgant raised his eyebrows at that. “Or at least he helped, as did Cassander Nilas. They were…the outer edges of the evil you have been fighting in Istarinmul.” He looked as hard and as grim as he had the day he had tried to kill her in Marsis. “I will help you, if I can.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. “Let’s go, then.”

“You have a plan?” said Morgant. “For your sake I hope you have a plan.”

“I do,” said Caina. “First, we need to make sure that the Sifter can’t find us while I put it into motion. This way, I think.”

She beckoned, and they walked down one of the sewer tunnels. 

###

The Sifter claimed its new body.

It had not expected the demonslayer to bear one of the wretched totems of Iramis of old. The puppet of the great prince of the nagataaru had destroyed Iramis, though its influence still lay heavy upon the tapestry, and its totems and weapons had been scattered far and wide. Most of them had been destroyed, but apparently Caina Amalas had found one. 

That was troubling. The pyrikon’s touch had disrupted the spell upon the Sifter’s material body. Fortunately, corpses were readily at hand, and it had taken the empty body of a dead Adamant Guard. It would serve as a vessel, and the demonslayer would not escape the Sifter a second time. The demonslayer had allies, the stormdancer and the djinni-touched bearer of the ancient Maatish weapon, but they lacked the power to stop the Sifter.

The ifrit examined the lines of destiny in the city around it, their cords charged with power and fate and potentiality. 

It realized it could not find the demonslayer.

For a moment it was puzzled. Surely she had not been killed in the interim? If she had, her destiny line would still be visible, if terminated. But it was as if her thread had simply vanished…

Understanding came. The demonslayer had concealed herself. Such spells and tools existed among the mortals. They were effective…but they were short-lived.

The Sifter was immortal.

Even if the demonslayer had vanished, her warping effect upon the destiny lines of Istarinmul was still visible, and the Sifter could still find her. It would take time, but time meant nothing to the ifrit. 

In the end, Caina Amalas would burn in its power…and the feast would be all the sweeter.

The Sifter left the plaza behind and started hunting.

Chapter 8: Mathematically Pleasing

“Here,” said Caina, climbing from the sewer grate and into the alley.

“We haven’t gone far,” said Morgant. “This is the Cyrican Quarter.” 

“Where was that tenement you burned down?” said Kylon.

“I didn’t burn down anything,” said Morgant. “The cellar was made of bricks. Bricks don’t burn, Kyracian. They might have neglected to mention that during your upbringing.” He shrugged. “Though I suppose that cellar is going to smell like burnt pork for quite some time.” 

“That was the Anshani Quarter,” said Caina, stepping out of the alley and looking around the street. Night had fallen, and the street was deserted. Rows of shops stood on either side of the street, two and three stories tall, and Caina smelled wood smoke and heated metal. 

“The street of the metalworkers,” said Morgant, looking around. “Are we going to see a goldsmith?”

“A locksmith, actually,” said Caina, starting forward. Kylon and Morgant fell in behind her. 

“A locksmith, then?” said Morgant. “Well, that will certainly be effective against the Sifter. At least until it melts the locks.”

“No,” said Caina, not looking back. “A chain and a lock for your mouth, to shut you up.”

Morgant laughed. “See, Kyracian! Just as well that she isn’t your lover. Her tongue could strip the paint from a wall. You wouldn’t want her to touch you with it.”

Caina ignored him. Morgant struck her as the sort of man who never stopped testing those around him for weakness. She had endured far worse than the jabs of an ancient assassin, and he seemed amused if she insulted him back. Hopefully Kylon would not lose his temper and kill Morgant. Once she would have thought that unlikely, but that was before Kylon had lost Thalastre. 

If he did kill Morgant, Caina hoped he would wait until she had obtained the knowledge of Annarah’s fate from the assassin. 

She stopped before a three-story shop and knocked.

“That,” said Morgant, “is quite an impressive door.”

It was. Most of the doors in the Cyrican Quarter were built of iron-banded planks. This door was a massive slab of solid steel, the hinges reinforced with iron braces driven into the stone wall. 

“Necessarily so,” said Caina. “The locksmith in question has many enemies.”

“Plainly,” said Kylon.

A small window in the steel door slid open, and Caina saw the gleam of eyes.

“Azaces,” she said. “It’s Ciara. I need Nerina’s help.”

The eyes flicked to Kylon and Morgant. 

“They’re with me,” said Caina. “They won’t make trouble for Nerina.”

The window slid closed. Metal clanked as bolts released, and the slab of a door swung open, revealing a towering man clad in the sand-colored robes and turban of the Sarbian tribesmen. He was nearly seven feet tall, his face covered in a bushy black beard, his black eyes hard in his scarred, unsmiling face. The hilt of a two-handed scimitar rose over his shoulder, and more weapons waited at his belt. 

His hard eyes moved over Kylon and Morgant, and then back to Caina.

“The Exile,” said Caina, indicating Kylon, “and Markaine of Caer Marist.”

“Would you like to purchase a painting?” said Morgant. 

Azaces gave him a flat look and then led them upstairs.

Most of the metalworkers and blacksmiths of the Cyrican Quarter kept their workshops on the first floor and lived in the upper levels. Nerina Strake kept her workshop on the top floor and lived on the second, using the first floor for storage. Though Caina doubted Nerina spent much time on the second floor. The woman hardly ever slept. 

Perhaps sleep was insufficiently distracting from the sting of her wraithblood addiction. 

Nerina’s workshop remained the single most cluttered room that Caina had ever seen. Three long wooden tables ran the room’s length, each one sagging beneath the weight of tools, half-assembled locks, various mechanical contraptions, and notes. One wall held slates covered with scrawled equations written in chalk, while shelves adorned another. A wooden cabinet, the door open, held papers secured in leather folders, and high windows looked down upon the courtyard behind the shop.

Kylon looked around, blinking, while Morgant seemed amused.

Nerina Strake herself stood at one of the tables, working on a pair of keys. She wore trousers, a loose shirt, and heavy leather boots, no doubt to make it easier to work. A leather apron hung over her gaunt form, and a set of goggles with magnifying lenses had been pushed back into her ragged red hair. Her eyes, blue and ghostly from her wraithblood addiction, narrowed with concentration, and she muttered a string of numbers to herself. She was thin to the point of gauntness, and Caina noted with concern that Nerina had lost weight since her last visit. Sometimes Nerina grew so engrossed in her work that she forgot to eat until she passed out. 

Azaces grunted, and Nerina looked up.

“Ciara!” she said with a smile, using the alias Caina had given her during their first meeting. “It is good to see you. You always bring me such interesting problems.” She looked back and forth between Kylon and Morgant. “Or guests.”

“This is Markaine of Caer Marist,” said Caina, “and this man for various reasons has to call himself the Exile.”

Nerina put down her tools and took several steps forward, staring at Morgant. The assassin looked right back at her, though he seemed puzzled.

“Seventy-one,” said Nerina at last.

Caina hid a smile.

“I beg your pardon?” said Morgant.

“Perhaps that’s your age,” said Kylon. “You look older, but clearly she was being gracious.”

Morgant snorted, but Nerina shook her head.

“No, no, no,” said Nerina. “You are seventy-one inches tall.” She pointed at Caina. “See? I remembered to compensate for the boots this time. When I first met Ciara at the circus, I assumed she was sixty-eight inches tall, but I neglected to include the heels of her sandals in my calculations. She is actually sixty-six inches tall.”

“I…see,” said Morgant. For the first time the assassin seemed nonplussed. 

“It’s closer to sixty-five, actually,” said Caina. 

“More precise standards of measurement are required,” said Nerina. “You also weight just under one hundred and sixty pounds, minus the weight of the weapons and other items in your coat.”

“Tell me,” said Morgant. “Does wraithblood usually induce mathematical lunacy?”

Nerina let out a snorting laugh. “Of course not. Wraithblood induces visions of stunning beauty and then horrifying terror. I could tell you about them.”

“Do you…always calculate height when you met people for the first time?” said Kylon.

“Yes,” said Nerina. “I forget social mores, so this seems like an excellent way to begin conversations. You are seventy-four inches tall and about one hundred and eighty-five pounds.” She stared at him for a moment. “Also, your percentage of body fat to your overall mass is well within the range most mathematically likely to be aesthetically pleasing.”

“Thank you,” said Kylon. “I think.”

“This is Nerina Strake,” said Caina, “the best locksmith in Istarinmul.” 

“Good for her,” said Morgant. “Why did you bring us here? I don’t care how complicated this madwoman can make her locks.” Azaces glared at him. “A lock won’t stop what’s after us.”

“No,” said Caina, “but this will.” 

She walked to the wall. A heavy lead plate hung there, its surface carved with arcane sigils. A ring of a dozen of the plates encircled the room, and they gave off a faint aura of sorcery. 

“Those are enspelled,” said Kylon. He frowned. “Faintly, though. If I try to sense them…it’s like my power just bounces off them. Like water off an oiled cloak.” 

“Lead in sufficient quantities will block sorcery,” said Caina. “Lead is expensive, though, so a magus of my acquaintance came up with this.” She would trust Kylon with the knowledge that Claudia was a Ghost, but not Morgant. “Enspelled lead plates, encircling a perimeter. So long as we stay within this building, no one can find us with any tracking or divinatory spells.”

“Clever,” said Morgant, squinting at one of the plates. “I can think of a few times that would have been useful.” 

“Do you fear sorcerous detection, mistress Nerina?” said Kylon.

For some reason a little color came into her face when she looked at Kylon. “Quite so, master Exile. I believe you can balance the equation yourself.”

“I was never very good at arithmetic,” said Kylon.

“Well,” said Nerina, brightening as she returned to her favorite topic, “as you have no doubt guessed, I sometimes assist Ciara in her noble work. We have had occasion to irritate a nontrivial number of powerful sorcerers. Obtaining this refuge seemed like a prudent measure to reduce the probability of painful death at the hands of our enemies. But probability dictates that you must be a sorcerer as well, if you spoke of sensing the wards upon the plates.”

“I am,” said Kylon, “though not of great power.”

“I see,” said Nerina. “We must converse at greater length upon the topic. I dislike sorcery because it refuses to behave in an orderly manner, but I suspect there is an underlying mathematical order to it that I have not yet been able to…”

“Perhaps later,” said Caina. Once Nerina began a monologue about one of her interests, she was almost impossible to stop. “We have more immediate problems.” Morgant folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. Azaces glared at him, but the assassin pretended not to notice. Likely the hulking Sarbian had decided that Morgant represented the greatest potential threat to his mistress. “I have an ifrit after me.”

“Ifriti are mythical,” said Nerina.

Morgant snorted. “Wouldn’t that be convenient?”

“One just tried to kill me,” said Caina. “So I’m certain they’re not mythical. If you do not object, Nerina, we would like to rest here for the night, and then continue on in the morning.”

“Of course,” said Nerina. “I do have food. Somewhere.” Azaces grunted and jerked his chin at the floor. “Yes, that’s it.” 

“Kylon,” said Caina. “You should attend to your wounds. It would be cruel for you to survive the day of the golden dead only to perish from an infection picked up in the sewer.”

“Perhaps,” said Kylon. “But it would be no less than I deserve.”

Caina gave him a look. 

He smiled a little, nodded, and pulled off his bloodstained shirt. None of the cuts looked serious, though the one across his ribs looked painful. 

“That will need stitches,” said Caina. 

“Azaces can help with that,” said Nerina, blinking. “He has had some practice.”

The big Sarbian nodded and opened one of the cabinets. The cabinet looked better organized than most of the workshop, and Caina suspected that Azaces kept his own supplies there. Her suspicion was confirmed when he drew out bandages, needle, and thread from the cabinet. 

“Boiling wine,” said Nerina. “You shall require boiling wine. Ciara, could you help me? I need to speak with you as well.”

“Of course,” said Caina. 

Nerina led her from the workshop to the ground floor. The kitchen was in the back of the house, dusty and disused. Nerina lit the stove, poured some wine into a kettle, and started to boil it. 

“You need to eat more,” said Caina.

“I know,” said Nerina. “I keep forgetting. The mathematics dictate that energy in must equal or exceed energy out, but…” She shook her head and ran a thin hand through her ragged red hair. “Nothing satisfies like wraithblood, I fear.” 

“You haven’t started again, have you?” said Caina.

“No,” said Nerina. “I still crave it, of course…but now that I know it is made from the blood of murdered slaves, it is much easier to resist the craving.” She shuddered, folding her arms around herself. “But the craving is still there. Even knowing the truth. The mind…I wish the human mind were as mathematically precise as reality.”

“It isn’t, though,” said Caina.

“No,” said Nerina. “Wait.” She slapped her forehead. “I had a message for you, from the Lord Ambassador of the Empire. That’s what I needed to tell you.”

“You did?” said Caina. That meant either Claudia or Martin had sent it.

“You are to beware of Cassander Nilas, the Umbarian ambassador to the Padishah,” said Nerina. “For some reason, he has stopped trying to convince the Grand Wazir to ally with the Emperor, and has decided instead to devote all his efforts to hunting you down.”

“I see,” said Caina. That explained why the Sifter had shown up out of nowhere. Likely Cassander had conjured the elemental and sent it after her. 

“He knows who you really are, apparently,” said Nerina, “yet hasn’t made that knowledge public.”

“Likely he didn’t want to alarm me,” said Caina, “hoping to take me unawares.”

Nerina nodded. “But he has circulated your description among a small group of elite assassins and mercenaries, promising to assist them if they can find you.” 

Caina sighed. “I’ll be careful, then.” In truth, with the enormous bounty on her head, she had to be careful no matter what she did. Sometimes it felt like she was caught in a closing trap. Caina could not return to the Empire, and no matter where she went in Istarinmul, someone would be hunting her. She could flee to Anshan or the free cities or the sultanates of Alqaarin, but abandoning Istarinmul meant that Callatas could continue his atrocities with a free hand.

She could not allow that. Not even if it cost her life.

“I’ll be more careful,” said Caina at last.

Nerina nodded. “I delivered the message. What you do with it, of course, is your concern. You’re better at the equations of spycraft than I am. And…there is one other thing I wish to ask you.”

“Of course,” said Caina.

“It is…a very precise equation,” said Nerina.

“Go on,” said Caina. “We’ve been through enough trouble together. Ask me anything.”

Nerina took a deep breath. “I think that I wish to seduce the Exile.”

It took Caina a few seconds to get her head around that. “I’m sorry?”

“I find the Exile attractive and I wish to seduce him,” said Nerina. 

“I…see,” said Caina at last. She knew that Nerina had been married, though Caina had been unable to imagine the kind of man who would have been patient enough to tolerate Nerina’s eccentricities. Caina had always suspected the marriage had been a match arranged by Nerina’s father, the brutal slave trader Ragodan Strake. Yet Nerina had obviously loved her husband Malcolm. His murder had broken Nerina, had driven her further into wraithblood addiction. “May I ask why?”