Ghost in the Razor (18 page)

Rezir Shahan had found that out the hard way. 

Not for the first time, Kylon wondered at the slender threads that decided the fate of nations. If Caina had escaped Marsis with Nicolai, she would not have slain Rezir Shahan, starting the myth of the Balarigar. Rezir would have held the city. At least, he would have held the city until Andromache opened the Tomb of Scorikhon. The imprisoned disciple of the Moroaica would have rampaged free, and Kylon himself would have fallen to Scorikhon’s sorcery or Sicarion’s blades.

But all of that had been averted because Caina had been desperate to save her friend’s son. 

“Because I do not wish for the innocent to die,” said Caina. “You ought to be grateful. I am following your own rule.”

“There may,” said Nasser, “be another way.” Their eyes shifted to him, and Nasser’s white smile flashed across his dark face. “A way that will rid us of the Sifter, damage Grand Master Callatas’s plans, and strike at your enemies, Lord Kylon.” 

“And what is this marvelous plan of yours?” said Morgant.

“Ciaran, Laertes, Kazravid,” said Nasser. “Recall. When poor Tarqaz was slain in Callatas’s laboratory and a nagataaru inhabited his corpse, what happened?” 

Kazravid shuddered. “A nasty fight.”

“But after we destroyed his body,” said Nasser. “What happened then?”

“The nagataaru departed his flesh,” said Caina, her emotional sense going cold with a dark memory. 

“But there were soon other corpses at hand,” said Nasser. “Dozens of them, laid out on the Grand Master’s tables. Why didn’t it possess one of them and join the fight after we destroyed Tarqaz’s body?” 

“Because,” said Caina, realization coming over her face, “it was drawn into the Mirror of Worlds?”

“A Mirror of Worlds?” said Kylon.

“A gate allowing physical passage to the netherworld,” said Caina, her voice distant and her aura changing as her mind grappled with an idea. “That’s how Callatas and his disciples make wraithblood. They murder slaves, and then anchor chains to the earth of the netherworld just within the gate. The chains draw sorcerous power out of the netherworld and into the blood of the murdered slaves, transforming it into wraithblood. That’s how we escaped, actually. We had to flee through the Mirror to get away from Callatas’s Immortals.”

“You escaped through the netherworld?” said Kylon, stunned.

“Do not remind me,” said Kazravid. “I drank myself senseless every night for a week to forget the horrors I saw there.”

“You would drink yourself senseless every night anyway,” said Laertes. 

“Yes, but I shouldn’t have to.” 

“But Tarqaz’s nagataaru didn’t take another host,” said Caina. “There were dozens of corpses at hand, and it could have claimed any one of them. Perhaps the spells upon the chains driven into their flesh had made them unsuitable for possession. Or…”

“Or the Mirror of Worlds pulled the nagataaru into the netherworld,” said Nasser. “The Mirror is an unnatural thing, a rip in the walls between the worlds. I suspect it exerts a force similar to suction upon any spirits in its vicinity.”

“If a spirit is forced out of its host,” said Caina, “the Mirror pulls it back into the netherworld.”

“Exactly,” said Nasser. “When you confronted the Sifter with the pyrikon staff, it destroyed its host and took a form of flame and embers, presumably to find another host from the dead Immortals upon the floor.”

“It did the same thing, too,” said Kylon, “when it confronted us the first time. It abandoned its host.”

“I suspect, Ciaran,” said Nasser, “that the Sifter wants to possess you and consume you from the inside out. That is how the ifriti feed upon mortals. Nagataaru feast upon fear and pain and life force. The ifriti simply burn their prey alive.” 

“Well,” said Caina. “I’ve had a lot of enemies that wanted to kill me. This is the first time I’ve had one that wanted to eat me.” 

“Cassander wishes to kill you,” said Nasser. “The Sifter is the tool he has employed to work his will. Likely the ifrit cares nothing for its master, and merely wants to devour you.”

“How refreshing,” said Caina. “So we find a Mirror of Worlds, destroy the Sifter’s physical form within sight of it, and let the Mirror suck the Sifter back into the netherworld.”

“That is what I propose, yes,” said Nasser.

“A splendid plan,” said Morgant. “Assuming you have a Mirror of Worlds at hand.”

“I do not,” said Nasser. That smile flashed over his face once more. “But I know where we can find one.” 

“You’ve located another wraithblood laboratory?” said Caina. 

“I have,” said Nasser. “One in the care of Master Alchemist Malik Rolukhan. If we destroy the laboratory and shatter its Mirror of Worlds after defeating the Sifter, it will deal him a heavy blow. I trust you would approve of this course, Lord Kylon.”

“Yes,” said Kylon, a shiver of anger going through him. Kylon wanted to kill the Huntress, Cassander, and Rolukhan, but if he could not kill them, he would certainly settle for harming them…

Caina stared at him, alarm seeping into her aura, and Kylon realized he had lost control of his anger. He looked down and saw a rime of frost covering the floor near his boots. He took a deep breath, forcing the anger back into place.

“I approve of this plan,” said Kylon at last. 

“Where is the laboratory?” said Caina.

“The Craven’s Tower,” said Nasser. 

Kazravid snorted. “Oh, there’s an easy target. Why don’t we break into the Golden Palace after that?” 

“The Craven’s Tower?” said Kylon. He had never heard of the place.

“A fortress in the Saddaic Quarter,” said Caina. “A small one, but well-guarded. The Padishah keeps part of his treasury there.” She looked at Nasser. “And Rolukhan actually has a wraithblood laboratory in the Tower?”

“The Lieutenant of the Craven’s Tower,” said Nasser, “is a minor emir of no consequence, whose sole skill is an ability to follow Rolukhan’s orders to the letter. Therefore the Craven’s Tower has become Rolukhan’s personal fortress during his absences from the Inferno, guarded by Immortals, and Rolukhan has established a wraithblood laboratory within its walls.” 

“That’s all we have to do, then?” said Kazravid with a scowl. “We merely have to break into the Craven’s Tower, avoid getting killed, and then dispatch some damned fire devil inside another one of those damned wraithblood laboratories?” He shook his head. “That is not worth fifteen thousand bezants.”

“Our original agreement still holds,” said Nasser. “You will recall, however, that a portion of the Padishah’s treasury is stored within the Tower’s vaults. You shall be welcome to whatever you can carry with you.”

Kazravid blew out a long breath. “Fine.” 

“The Anshani is right,” said Morgant. “This plan takes too many risks. You are likely to get killed or captured.”

“What do you care?” said Caina. “If I get killed, it’s proof I wasn’t worthy of your secret.” 

“I have spent a long time looking for someone worthy of it,” said Morgant. “If you get killed, I would have to start over again.”

Irritation flushed through her aura, though it did not touch her expression. “Fine, then. Why don’t you just tell me what happened to Annarah now?”

“Because if you are killed,” said Morgant, “the Sifter will extract the information from your mind as it burns you to ashes from the inside out. Then it will report with the information to Cassander, and he will know. Then he will take the relics and use them to work mischief, and I shall break my word to Annarah. Or Callatas will kill him and take the relics, and I shall break my word to Annarah. Neither outcome is acceptable.” He shrugged. “The Sifter is coming to kill you anyway, no matter what you do. So, dear child, this is your chance. Prove to me that you are strong enough, and I will tell you the truth. Fail, and the Sifter will kill you.” 

They stood in silence for a moment. 

“Would someone tell me who this fellow is?” said Kazravid at last. “Rather mouthy for a painter, isn’t he?”

“This man goes by the name of Markaine of Caer Marist,” said Nasser, “but in truth, he is the legendary assassin Morgant the Razor, and possesses some answers that I have sought for a very long time.” 

Kazravid laughed. “Morgant the Razor? Indeed! And I am both the Shahenshah and Yaramzod the Black himself!”

“Believe what you wish,” said Morgant. “So. Balarigar. It seems you are the one making the decisions here. Are you going to set a trap for the Sifter in the middle of one of the Padishah’s strongest fortresses?” 

Caina said nothing for a moment, and Kylon felt her emotions hardening.

“So be it,” said Caina. “Let’s rob a fortress and banish an ifrit.”

###

“Well?” said Ikhardin, scowling as he paced back and forth through the deserted Bazaar of the Southern Road. 

The Sifter said nothing, regarding the charred shell of the Shahenshah’s Seat. Its new body felt lighter than the old. It had claimed one of the dead Immortals. Even with the corpse’s armor, it was still lighter than the Adamant Guard and its grafted armor. Not that it mattered. Material weapons did not concern the Sifter.

Not even the valikon concerned it…though that pyrikon was proving a difficulty. 

The demonslayer had escaped its grasp yet again, though this was not cause for concern. The Sifter had spent a long time hunting prey, and one of two fates awaited Caina Amalas. Either it would devour her and feast upon the released energy of her destiny line, or she would die of old age before the Sifter found her. 

The first was rather more likely.

Still, the Sifter felt a degree of annoyance. Victory had only been a matter of inflicting enough physical pain to compel her to remove the pyrikon. Then it could have entered her flesh and devoured her, burning away her body and mind and feasting upon the released power. Her destiny line, for all its brevity, crossed so many other threads of the mortal tapestry, and the Sifter would have gorged itself on the released energy.

“This is a disaster,” muttered Ikhardin, pacing back and forth. “A score of Immortals dead, that tavern burned to the ground, a hundred angry merchants complaining to the magistrates! The master shall be wroth.” 

The Sifter suspected that Malik Rolukhan did not care about either the burned tavern or the dead Immortals. The Sifter itself did not care for anything that Cassander and Rolukhan and Ikhardin might think. Cassander had bound the Sifter to kill the demonslayer, and the Sifter would fulfill its charge. 

Perhaps the opportunity to devour Cassander himself would come later. 

It could not currently locate the demonslayer’s destiny line, nor that of the assassin and the stormdancer. Likely they had retreated behind a protective ward spell. For that matter, it had not been able to see the demonslayer’s destiny line during the fight in the tavern. The Sifter thought it likely that she was in possession of a shadow-cloak. It had encountered them before, when it had been summoned by Umbarian magi in centuries past. 

It had killed Ghosts before. 

“Damned spirit!” Ikhardin grabbed the shoulder of the Sifter’s mortal shell, shaking the black armor. “I asked you a question.”

The Sifter regarded Ikhardin with its stolen eyes, and considered terminating his destiny line. Mortals were nothing. They were cattle, food to be consumed as the Sifter saw fit. This mortal, however, was unusually annoying. His destiny line would provide a pleasing amount of energy…

No. He might be useful. The Sifter regarded the shifting lines of the tapestry of fate, watching the potential configurations of the future change and morph, altering with the thousands upon thousands of minor decisions taking place in Istarinmul right now. 

A new configuration was forming.

The Sifter could not see the destiny lines of its prey, but it could see the configuration of the other threads. 

Ah. The demonslayer was attempting to set a trap. It could not see Caina Amalas…but it knew where she would be.

“Spirit!” roared Ikhardin. “I shall…”

The Sifter caught the mortal’s fist. Ikhardin struggled, drawing upon the power of the necromantic device upon his right arm, but petty mortal sorcery could not overcame the Sifter’s power. Fear crossed the assassin’s face. 

“I know where they will be,” said the Sifter. “Summon your men.”

Chapter 15: Disguises

Two days later, Caina and Kylon walked to Istarinmul’s Saddaic Quarter. 

“Between you and Nasser,” said Kylon with a bemused shake of his head, “you have friends everywhere, don’t you?”

“I don’t know about friends,” said Caina, looking up at him with a smile. “Acquaintances. Well-wishers.”

“People who owe you favors?” said Kylon. 

“At the right time and the right place,” said Caina, “a favor is worth more than gold.” 

He shrugged. “I cannot argue with that.”

They walked deeper into Istarinmul’s small Saddaic Quarter. The buildings were a curious mixture of Istarish and Saddaic architecture, white-washed adobe adorned with the stylized designs the Saddai preferred. Most of the buildings had begun life as warehouses, later converted into houses as more and more Saddai made their way to Istarinmul. In Rasadda, everything had been built of black stone or black-painted wood, in honor of the Living Flame who reforged the souls of men. The endless burning sun of the Istarish sky made black paint impractical, so the Saddai of Istarinmul whitewashed their houses, painting a black flame over their doorframes to symbolize their devotion to the Living Flame. 

“There are more Saddai here than I expected,” said Kylon. He had returned to the disguise of a steppe tribesman, clad in a ragged brown robe and turban, broadsword at his belt and valikon slung over his shoulder. Beneath his turban rested the cowl of Caina’s shadow-cloak, concealed beneath the ragged cloth. The cloak itself hung down his back, concealed by the robe. It would keep the Sifter or Rolukhan from using sorcery to locate him. 

Caina had her own means of concealment.

“Aye.” She flexed her left hand beneath its glove, the slender chains cool against her skin. 

Annarah’s pyrikon had protected her from the sword of the nagataaru and the Sifter’s possession. Caina gambled that the pyrikon could also protect her from sorcerous observation. The damned thing had a mind of its own, but it sometimes did what Caina asked of it. So she had concentrated on the pyrikon, thinking of her shadow-cloak, of hiding from divination spells, half-expecting nothing to happen.

Instead, the pyrikon changed into a new form. Five delicate rings had appeared on the fingers and thumb of Caina’s left hand, and slender bronze chains joined the rings to the bracelet. The chains and the rings vibrated with arcane power, almost to the point of discomfort, yet Kylon said he could no longer sense her emotions. Almost certainly the Sifter would not be able to detect her presence, and it had failed to find her for the last two days. 

Other than the bracelet, she wore a combination of Saddaic and Istarish clothes, a long black coat, black shirt, black boots, and a crimson turban. The Saddai tended to wear black and red, and Caina was pale enough to pass as Saddaic from a distance, though few among them had blue eyes. Kylon passed as her mercenary bodyguard easily enough. A surprising number of the Saddaic merchants had bodyguards. For people who had come to Istarinmul as refugees, they had prospered to a remarkable degree. 

 “We are a long way from the Saddaic provinces,” said Kylon.

“That we are,” said Caina, waving a hand at the buildings. “This used to be part of the Alqaarin Quarter, but the Padishah’s father expanded the Alqaarin Harbor, and traffic moved to other parts of the city. Most of these buildings were abandoned, and in recent years the Saddai settled here.”

“What drove them to Istarinmul?” said Kylon.

Caina’s mouth twisted. “Anatsius Nicephorus, the Lord Governor of Rasadda. He started forcing the Saddai off their lands, creating estates for his friends and selling the dispossessed farmers into slavery. His misrule almost drove Rasadda to revolt from the Empire.”

“Andromache mentioned Nicephorus once or twice,” said Kylon. “She thought the man a fool. What happened to him?”

“I did.”

“Ah.” 

Caina shook her head. “The Umbarian Order controls the Saddaic provinces now, and they make Nicephorus seem kindly by comparison. They have been enslaving thousands Saddai, so many of them have fled here.” She smiled at Kylon. “Which is why I know they will not aid Cassander and his servants. They hate the Umbarians, and would kill Cassander if he was foolish enough to give them the opportunity.”

“A pity they shall not likely have the chance,” said Kylon. 

They stopped in a small bazaar in the heart of the Saddaic Quarter. Most of the Saddai who had settled here were glassworkers, and produced glass of a quality and strength that Istarish craftsmen could not match, and the Alchemists of the College had begun placing mass orders. Here in the bazaar stood booths and shops selling the common necessaries of life, food and drink and household wares. One of the merchants sold rolls of spiced rice and fried vegetables, the smell filling the air.

“Did you eat today?” said Kylon.

“I may have forgotten,” said Caina. She had to stop doing that. It would be darkly amusing to have escaped the Sifter twice only to forget to eat, pass out and collapse, and crack her head on the ground. 

“I’ll buy some food,” said Kylon, turning towards the merchant’s stall.

“I have money,” said Caina. 

There was a flash of humor on his grim face. “I’m learning the art of disguise. A merchant would send his guard to purchase food for him.”

“I cannot contest that logic,” said Caina. 

“Besides,” said Kylon, looking across the bazaar. “It will give you time to look at that.”

Caina nodded, and Kylon went to purchase food. 

She turned and stared at the grim bulk of the fortress across the square.

The Craven’s Tower was not large. The Crows’ Tower in the Tower Quarter, the headquarters of the watchmen, was far larger, and even the Widow’s Tower had been bigger. Nevertheless, the Craven’s Tower still looked strong. A curtain wall encircled a broad courtyard, and a tall drum tower rose within. Siege engines stood at intervals along the curtain wall, and Caina saw the dark shapes of Immortals patrolling the ramparts. The gates were closed, the Immortals standing watch upon the ramparts. 

That, however, did not draw Caina’s attention.

The siege engines did. An Immortal carried a heavy amphora towards one of the engines, depositing it there. Caina had seen an amphora of that shape and size before. More specifically, she had seen hundreds of them in the armory of the Widow’s Tower. 

It was amphora of Hellfire. The strange alchemical elixir burned with a terrible, devouring heat, hot enough to melt flesh and turn bones to ashes in the space of a heartbeat. Neither water nor sand could quench Hellfire, and it burned stone and earth as easily as wood and coal. Enough Hellfire, ignited at once, could create an explosion of dreadful force.

The Widow’s Tower had been a fortress far larger than the Craven’s Tower. Then Caina had ignited the Hellfire in the Tower’s armory. The Widow’s Tower was no longer there, nor was much of the rocky peninsula upon which it had once stood. 

The smell of spices and cooked rice filled her nostrils, and she turned as Kylon returned with the food. He passed her one of the rolls, and she took it, the pita bread rough against her fingers. “Thank you.” 

“You are welcome.” Kylon took a bite of his roll. “That is…better than I thought.” 

“I thought Kyracians only ate grain, grapes, and olive oil,” said Caina.

“Not at all,” said Kylon. “We also eat fish.” 

They stood in silence for a moment, eating 

“What do you think?” said Kylon at last. 

“Hellfire,” said Caina in a quiet voice. 

Kylon paused between bites. “Hellfire?”

“There are amphorae of it upon the wall, near the siege engines,” said Caina. “I wonder what the Saddai would think if they knew the Immortals could rain Hellfire upon them at any time.”

“They would flee the city,” said Kylon. “Hellfire is incredibly dangerous. The only reason neither the Empire nor Anshan has ever conquered Istarinmul is because of Hellfire. In ancient days New Kyre sent a fleet against Istarinmul, thinking to punish the Padishah, and the Hellfire burned that fleet to ashes. Out of thousands of sailors and soldiers, only a few ever escaped to return to New Kyre and tell the Assembly what had happened.” 

“It was amazing anyone survived,” said Caina, remembering the firestorm that had consumed the Widow’s Tower.

“You think we can use the Hellfire to get into the Tower?” said Kylon.

“I’m not sure,” said Caina. The seed of an idea scratched at her mind. “Maybe. We’ll have to watch the Tower for a while.” She took a quick glance around the Bazaar. “That inn, there. It’s too close to the Tower’s curtain wall. If we rent the top room, we can see into the courtyard.”

Kylon nodded. Caina kept eating her roll, thinking. 

“Nasser,” said Kylon at last. 

“What about him?” said Caina.

“Do you trust him?” said Kylon.

Caina considered that for a moment.

“To a point, yes,” said Caina. “More than I did when we first met. We have gone into great danger together, and he has kept faith with me.” She gestured with the remains of the roll. “Much as you and I did at Catekharon and Caer Magia.” 

“But you knew who I was,” said Kylon, “and I knew who you were. Neither one of us knows who Nasser Glasshand really is.” 

“I know the most important part of his identity,” said Caina. “He hates Callatas.”

“Yes,” said Kylon. “I sensed that. Though it is even obvious without the senses of a stormdancer.”

“I don’t know who he really is,” said Caina, “but I can guess.” She glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “I think Callatas did him some grievous injury. Killed his wife or children, perhaps. Nasser wants revenge for that.”

“Do you think he is Iramisian?” said Kylon.

“It crossed my mind,” said Caina. “What makes you think that?”

“Morgant knew who he was,” said Kylon, “and he recognized Morgant on sight as an assassin, not the painter Markaine of Caer Marist. From what I’ve gathered, Morgant didn’t assume the identity of Markaine until after the destruction of Iramis, until after he killed Annarah or buried her alive or whatever he did to her.”

“Which would mean,” said Caina, “that Nasser is at least a hundred and fifty years old. Maybe older.”

“And his hand,” said Kylon. “Has he ever told you what happened to it? A normal man should not be able to punch through a steel helmet.”

“No,” said Caina. “I’m surprised you are more suspicious of Nasser than of Morgant.” 

“I am quite suspicious of Morgant,” said Kylon. “But the man has been more honest with you than Nasser. He was telling the truth when he said that he will tell you what had happened to Annarah if you are victorious. I do not like him and I think he is dangerous, but he has been more honest with you than Nasser.”

That was a good point.

“What do you think Nasser wants?” said Caina.

“Vengeance upon Callatas,” said Kylon. “I suspect that he is not terribly concerned about how he gets it.”

“No,” said Caina. “If you’re right, if he has been doing this for a hundred and fifty years…something else is driving him. He hates Callatas, yes, but there is more to it than that.” She shrugged. “Not many people can live on hatred for that long.”

“Can’t they?” said Kylon. Though she was no stormdancer to sense emotion, she could see the exhaustion and pain in his brown eyes. 

“Not forever,” said Caina, her voice soft. “It does get better, I promise. The pain never goes away, but you learn to live with it. And if we live through this, if we stop the Sifter, I promise I will help bring Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan to account for what they have done.” Considering that Cassander seemed determined to kill her, she would have to do so anyway. 

“Thank you,” said Kylon. He blinked, looked away, and finished his roll. “That…was better than I expected.”

He did not want to talk about his wife’s death. Caina understood. “The Saddai make them with corn in their homeland. The pita bread and the rice improves it, I think. Come. Let’s return to Nasser. We have things to discuss.” 

###

The next day Caina rented a room in the tavern and sat at the window with the shutters cracked open, watching the Craven’s Tower below. She held a spyglass, the lens tucked into the narrow crack between the shutters. She took care to make sure no light glinted off the lens.

If the Immortals in the Craven’s Tower realized that she was spying on them, they would not bother with the city watch or magistrates. They would simply storm into the tavern and kill her. Fortunately, the window was small enough that she doubted the Immortals would notice her.

Unfortunately, it was far enough away that Morgant could talk without fear of anyone overhearing them. 

“I think,” he said, sitting in a wooden chair, his boots propped upon the bed, “that I am beginning to understand why you do what you do.” His notebook rested open upon his lap, a pencil flickering in his right hand as he sketched drawings upon the pages. 

“Oh?” said Caina. “You understand that I’m sitting in a chair with a spyglass? I congratulate your perception. I see how you became a famous artist.” 

Morgant snorted. “No. Why you want to save the world.”

“I live here,” said Caina, watching the Immortals. She twitched the spyglass towards the bazaar and then back to the Tower’s gate. “It would be rather inconvenient if the world were destroyed.”

“You’ve saved the world before,” said Morgant.

“No, I didn’t,” said Caina. Her gaze turned back to the bazaar. She saw a column of twenty Immortals march into the square, their eyes shining with a ghostly blue glow. The Saddai merchants and workers scrambled to get out of their way. 

“I’ve been listening to you, dear child,” said Morgant, “and I’ve heard the stories of the Balarigar. You’re the one who killed Rezir Shahan. You killed the Moroaica and stopped the day of the golden dead.” 

“Lies,” said Caina. Four burly slaves carried a sedan chair behind the Immortals, and in the sedan chair sat a young Alchemist in brilliant white robes. After the sedan chair came a wagon pulled by a team of horses, the wagon carrying several locked iron boxes.