Ghost in the Razor (19 page)

Large iron boxes, and the draft horses looked as if they were laboring to pull the load. 

“And I saw you risk your life again and again over the last few days,” said Morgant. “Without thought, without heed. Like you had risked your life so often that you could do so without thinking of it.”

“You know,” said Caina, “if you wrote this little speech down, I could ignore it more easily later.” The Immortals and their wagon moved toward the gate of the Craven’s Tower. 

“But why?” said Morgant. “Why risk your life? You remind me a little of Annarah. She risked her life, too, but she was a loremaster of Iramis. They were sworn to use their powers to heal and seek knowledge, to defend the mortal world from the dark things of the netherworld.”

“So do the Ghosts,” said Caina.

“No, they don’t,” said Morgant. “The Ghosts are spies. I’ve met Ghosts. They wear shadow-cloaks and skulk in cellars and pass reports to their circlemasters. They don’t rush about saving the world. Not the way you do.”

“It’s been a while since you were in the Empire,” said Caina. The wagon reached the gate of the Tower and stopped. “Perhaps they’ve changed.”

“That is possible,” said Morgant. He sketched for a moment longer. “You can’t have children, can you?”

Caina felt her shoulders stiffen. She did not want to discuss that with Morgant. No doubt he would pry and pry, hoping to elicit a reaction from her. She would not give him the satisfaction. Though no doubt her long pause had already given him an answer of sorts. 

“And what led you to that conclusion?” she said at last. 

“Lady Claudia’s child,” said Morgant. “Why should you care so much about another woman’s child? Especially when her spells could aid us?”

“Because it could get her killed,” said Caina, “along with her child. I thought you had a rule against killing people who didn’t deserve it.”

“Why do people risk their lives?” said Morgant. 

“Perhaps they had no other choice,” said Caina. The sedan chair settled to the ground, and the Alchemist emerged. 

“No, there’s always a reason,” said Morgant. “Men risk their lives for money, or for love, or for honor. Women…”

“Women risk their lives for the same reasons,” said Caina. The Alchemist spoke with the Immortals upon the ramparts, and the gate opened. 

“Not as often,” said Morgant. “A woman can disguise herself as a man and take up sword and shield and march to war, aye…but so few do. And usually to follow a husband or a lover or a brother. The bravest women I ever saw were trying to defend their children.”

“Is that what made you invent your two rules?” said Caina. “A woman was trying to defend her children from you?” 

“No,” said Morgant, but his voice grew distant. “There were other reasons. But you, dear child. You cannot have children. So you try to save the children of everyone else.”

“Are you pretending to be an artist or pretending to be a philosopher?” said Caina. The Alchemist walked through the gate, the heavy cart rolling after him. 

“Who says I cannot be both?” said Morgant. 

“I suggest you pick whichever one is quieter,” said Caina. She watched as the cart pulled into the courtyard. At the Alchemist’s direction, the Immortals began opening the chests and unloading their contents. 

Amphora after amphora of Hellfire. 

“Perhaps I’ll make a painting of you,” said Morgant. “The childless woman, the Balarigar, fighting forever to defend what she herself will never know…”

“For the gods’ sake,” said Caina. “Is this why Nasser was so angry to see you? Was he once locked in a room with you and forced to listen to you talk and talk? I see why he was still annoyed after a hundred and fifty years.”

Morgant laughed. “Actually, he tried to arrest me once. It didn’t go well.”

“Mmm.” The Immortals carried the amphorae across the courtyard, storing them in a stone outbuilding against the curtain wall. If the Hellfire exploded, the blast would tear down the wall and roll into the bazaar, sparing the central drum tower itself. Of course, the explosion would kill anyone in the bazaar, but the Immortals would not care. 

But if the bazaar was empty…

“I must be right,” said Morgant. “You’ve deflected every question.”

“You weren’t asking questions,” said Caina, adjusting the angle of the spyglass. “You were making statements. You can make statements on whatever topics you wish. If you ask me questions, I will either answer them, lie to you, or tell you to go to hell.” 

“An honest answer,” said Morgant. “A rarity indeed.”

“We can make a bargain, if you wish,” said Caina as the Immortals carried the last of the Hellfire into the stone outbuilding. “Tell me what happened to Annarah, and I shall answer all your questions freely.” 

“That would not prove that you are strong enough to endure the knowledge,” said Morgant. 

“Probably not, no,” said Caina. She stood up and pushed the shutters closed. “So I should focus on a way to defeat the Sifter. We’re done here.”

Morgant snorted again and made no effort to move. “Have my questions driven you off?”

“They’ve given me a headache, yes,” said Caina, stepping around his chair, “but I have what I needed to find. I know where the Immortals of the Craven’s Tower keep their Hellfire.” 

“What good does that do us?” Morgant closed his notebook and stood up. 

“Ever seen a lot of Hellfire burn all at once?” said Caina.

“Not recently,” said Morgant. 

“You might have,” said Caina, “if you had been looking in the direction of the Widow’s Tower about fifteen months ago.” 

She had the satisfaction of seeing confusion on his face, followed by the far greater satisfaction of his surprised realization. 

“That was you?” said Morgant. 

“I had to improvise,” said Caina. 

He shook his head. “Are you certain that you’re not a pyromancer? You have a greater love of setting buildings afire than anyone I have ever met.”

“I’ve had to improvise often,” said Caina. “And you might see me improvise again. Let’s go. I need to talk to Nasser.” 

###

An hour later, Caina walked through the streets of the docks overlooking the Cyrican Harbor. Morgant strolled at her side, stark in his black coat and white shirt, the crimson scimitar belted at his side. She had been worried that either the Sifter or Rolukhan would be able to find him with a spell, but Morgant had retreated to his run-down house and retrieved an old bronze ring that carried a faint tingle of sorcery. He claimed it baffled divinatory spells, and Kylon had not been able to sense Morgant’s emotions when he wore it. 

Hopefully it would keep their enemies from locating Morgant. 

Caina kept walking, the streets slanting lower towards the massive complex of the Cyrican Harbor. The air smelled of salt and tar and dead things, and countless ships crowded the harbor. Squat warehouses lined the streets, holding merchandise from a score of different nations. The Brotherhood of Slavers kept its own fortified dock towards the southern end of the harbor, and Caina had not yet figured out how to break into it. 

She turned a corner and whispered a quiet curse under her breath. 

“Trouble?” murmured Morgant. His eyes flickered over the street. “I don’t see anyone. Just some wraithblood addicts.” Dozens of them sat against the wall, clad in ragged clothes. Some of them rocked back and forth, while others stared blankly at the sky. A few others muttered to themselves, or carried on conversations with people who were not there. 

“Aye,” said Caina. That was trouble enough. At least for her. “You’ll see.”

She walked down the street, Morgant following. Many wraithblood addicts tended to congregate near the harbors. The foreigners coming off the merchant ships were often willing to throw a few coins to the beggars. 

The addicts started to notice her, their ghostly blue eyes turning in her direction. She heard the requests for money, money to buy wraithblood, the dark potion that let them see beautiful visions. The addicts moved closer, their unwashed scent filling Caina’s nostrils. Morgant’s indifferent mask never wavered, but his bony hands twitched closer to his weapons.

“No, don’t bother,” said Caina, still walking. “Watch.” 

The wraithblood addicts shuffled closer…and then they recoiled in fear, their eerie eyes growing wide.

“I see you,” whispered one. “I can see you, I can see you!”

“I am standing right here, fool,” said Morgant.

“He’s not talking about you,” said Caina.

“The shadow, I see the shadow upon you!” said another.

“The fire burns, it throws the shadow upon you,” said still another. “It burns in the web of time! I…I can see it…”

“Don’t hurt me,” said a fourth, throwing his arms over his head. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!”

Caina kept walking, and the wraithblood addicts cringed away from her in terror, huddling against the walls. Morgant watched them with narrowed eyes, his hands remaining near his weapons, but the wraithblood addicts made no threatening moves. The addicts usually did not become violent, unless the final debilitating stage of their addiction induced murderous hallucinations. 

“What did you do to them?” said Morgant.

“Nothing,” said Caina. “Nothing at all. I noticed it when I first came to Istarinmul. Wraithblood addicts can see…a shadow around me. I don’t really know what it is.”

“Strake did not mention it,” said Morgant, eyes narrowed. Likely he was annoyed that he had missed it.

“Nerina has seen it before,” said Caina. “It was how we met. And she’s not insane.”

“A generous assessment,” said Morgant.

“She is in control of herself,” conceded Caina. “I don’t know what the shadow is. Kalgri…the Huntress thought it was the shadow of something that would happen to me in the future. Like an omen.” 

“Pleasant thought,” said Morgant. “What do you think that it is?” 

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “It keeps the wraithblood addicts away from me, though.”

“I am surprised they haven’t all starved to death yet,” said Morgant. 

“They would,” said Caina, “but one of the Orders of the Living Flame is devoted to charitable works, and the Sisters provide food for the wraithblood addicts.”

“Ah,” said Morgant. “One suspects that the daring master thief known as the Balarigar may have made sizeable anonymous donations to that Order.”

Caina sighed, annoyed with herself. She hadn’t intended to tell him that, but he had figured it out. “Yes. But…you may be right.”

“Well, obviously. About what, though?”

Caina glanced around. “You said the purpose of the Apotheosis was to summon a large number of nagataaru, that Callatas intends to put them in the bodies of the wraithblood addicts. That is why the Padishah’s magistrates allow the Sisters of the Living Flame to feed the addicts. He needs them alive for when he works the Apotheosis.” 

“Perhaps you should kill them all, then,” said Morgant. “Deny them to the Grand Master.”

“No,” said Caina, anger creeping into her tone. “They don’t deserve that, and they certainly don’t deserve to have nagataaru stuffed inside their heads. For a man who claims that he never slew anyone who didn’t deserve it, you are quick to kill.”

Morgant smirked, and for a burning moment Caina wanted to beat him over the head with something heavy until he told her what had happened to Annarah. She knew it was a futile idea. For one thing, she could not take him in hand-to-hand combat. And some part of her understood him. Caina had secrets, too. She had not told Damla everything, nor Agabyzus, nor Nerina, nor Nasser or any of the other friends and allies she had made in Istarinmul. That knowledge was dangerous and could bring them to harm. Perhaps Morgant’s secret was the same. 

Though now that Caina thought about it, the man who knew her best in all of Istarinmul was Kylon. An odd thought, given that they had tried to kill each other during their first meeting in Marsis. 

Caina walked in silence to their destination, a tavern at the edge of the dockside quarter. Like most structures in Istarinmul, it was built of sun-beaten adobe, whitewashed to deflect the sun’s glare. Unlike most buildings in Istarinmul, worn nets hung from the side of the tavern, along with rusted harpoons. 

“The Whaler’s Rest,” said Morgant. “How tediously clever.” 

“I never liked fish,” said Caina. 

“Whales aren’t fish.”

“Don’t care.” She pushed open the door.

There were taverns in the docks that catered to every nation and tribe under the sun, but The Whaler’s Rest sold beer and wine to fishermen and sailors. The interior was dim, the floor covered with boards taken from the decks of scrapped ships. More nets hung from the wooden rafters overhead, and harpoons and anchors and various other nautical tools Caina did not recognize had been bolted to the walls. She spotted Nasser, Kazravid, Laertes, and Kylon sitting at a table in the corner, speaking with an Anshani man in the chain mail and leather jerkin of a mercenary. The Anshani man rose and bowed to Nasser and Kazravid, who answered in kind. Caina took a prudent step to the side as the Anshani mercenary crossed the room and departed the tavern, and then joined Nasser and the others at their table, Morgant settling next to her. 

“Who was that?” said Caina. 

“That,” said Kazravid, “is a friend of mine. Shopur, another noble-born anjar of Anshan. Like me, he was banished for regrettable misunderstandings…”

Laertes coughed.

Kazravid glared at the Legion veteran and kept speaking. “He went into mercenary work, and recently made his way to Istarinmul. It seems the southern emirs have begun hiring mercenaries to protect their lands. The Brotherhood is so desperate for fresh inventory that they’ve begun raiding southern Istarinmul and kidnapping free peasants. Shopur and his lads were on their way to the Vale of Fallen Stars to take contract with the emir Tanzir Shahan.”

“I see,” said Caina. She had met Tanzir Shahan in Malarae a few years ago, and it was hard to imagine that fat, timid young man hiring mercenaries and defying the Brotherhood of Slavers. But people changed, and perhaps Tanzir had taken more from his sojourn in Malarae than Caina had thought. 

“In the meantime,” said Nasser, “the honorable Shopur has agreed to perform a few tasks for us, in exchange for a reasonable share of the contents of the vault within the Craven’s Tower.”