Ghost in the Razor (20 page)

“Anshani mercenaries?” said Morgant. “You’ll need more than that to take the Craven’s Tower, Glasshand.”

“This is so,” said Nasser. “Given the number of Immortals we shall face within the Tower, I suspect more swords shall be welcome.”

“Actually,” said Caina, “I have an idea about that.”

She explained her plan. Kylon’s eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead, while both Laertes and Kazravid looked alarmed. 

“You are a madman,” said Kazravid.

“Actually,” said Caina, “I’m pretty sure I’m not.” 

Kylon twitched, as if he had just barely kept himself from laughing. 

Nasser smiled. “I think, Master Ciaran, that it may be a workable idea.”

###

That afternoon, Caina and Kylon went to see Nerina Strake. Azaces opened the door for them, and they climbed up to Nerina’s workshop. Nerina stood at one of her slates, scribbling with a piece of chalk as she muttered equations under her breath.

“Ciara!” she said, turning from the board with a smile. “Master Exile.” Her cheeks colored a bit as she looked at Kylon. Caina wondered if Kylon had picked up on Nerina’s attraction to him. With his ability to sense emotions, likely he had, though he had been polite enough not to say anything. “I am pleased to see that you survived against all probability.” 

“You expected us to die?” said Caina.

“I heard rumor of the fire at the Shahenshah’s Seat,” said Nerina, her smile fading. “I remembered that Nasser had used it as a base when we….ah,” she glanced at Kylon, “when we performed that task together. When I heard of the fire, I feared that the Sifter had found you.”

“The Sifter did,” said Caina. “Along with a Kindred assassin and numerous Immortals. We managed to get away, but unfortunately the Seat burned in the process.” 

“That is regrettable,” said Nerina. “The beer there had such a peculiar taste, and the bread was quite stale. Actually, maybe its loss is not so regrettable after all.” 

“Speaking of fires,” said Caina, “how adverse are you to starting them?” 

Nerina shrugged. “I have no strong feelings on the matter.”

“Specifically, we need you to build us a small catapult,” said Caina. “We also need you to calculate the trajectory of a shot. It has to be accurate, because we’re only going to get one chance.”

“Well,” said Nerina. “Well.”

She turned, tapping the piece of chalk against her lips, and suddenly scribbled an equation across the board. Caina had no idea what it meant, but Nerina made a humming sound, as if satisfied, and turned back to face them. 

“What did you have in mind?” said Nerina.

Azaces sighed, walked to one of the cabinets, and began collecting additional weapons.

###

Caina thought that Nerina would want to use the roof of the tavern to construct her catapult, or one of the nearby shops, but the locksmith refused. Apparently the catapult needed to be farther away, else it would overshoot its target by a considerable margin, and the target was not large. Caina guessed that the small building within the Tower’s courtyard was no more than twenty feet square, with a flimsy wooden roof to direct any explosions upward. Of course, if every amphora of Hellfire in the outbuilding detonated at once, the explosion would go through the roof, the walls, the curtain wall, and perhaps part of the drum tower itself.

That was assuming, of course, that Nerina calculated the shot accurately.

In the end, Nerina chose an abandoned warehouse some distance from the Craven’s Tower. It proved a trivial matter to break into the warehouse and bribe the local watchmen to stay away. Nasser provided Nerina with funds, which was just as well, since Nerina produced an exacting and expensive list of the materials she required. The catapult needed exactly the right kind of wood, cut to precise specifications, and steel of sufficient quality. 

“Calculating the shot is a very demanding equation,” said Nerina. “Everything must be considered as a variable. The weight of the shot, the distance, the wind, the strength of the arm, the tension of the torsion gears, all of it must be considered.”

Morgant snorted, but Nasser only nodded. “I question not your expertise, Mistress Strake. You shall have whatever materials you require, and assuming our task is successful, a share of the money from the Padishah’s vaults.”

“Oh,” said Nerina, “the problem alone is fascinating enough. The money is merely a…”

Azaces grunted. 

“She’ll take a share,” said Caina. Nasser nodded, but Nerina was already at work. 

Later Caina stood guard with Kylon. The warehouse had been empty, but that was just as well, since Nerina needed the space to work. For additional labor, Nasser hired a crew of sailors. It was an inspired choice. In two days their vessel would leave for a voyage to the ports of eastern Alqaarin, and would not return for months, putting them well out of reach of the Teskilati. Morgant had suggested killing them all to ensure their silence, but Caina had been sure that he was joking.

Mostly. 

“I need to ask you something,” said Kylon in a quiet voice.

“Oh?” said Caina, looking up from the half-finished catapult. At Nerina’s direction, the sailors had cut a square hole in the ceiling while Nerina herself worked over the catapult, hammering and cutting. 

“If I am killed here,” said Kylon, “would you…”

“Kylon,” said Caina. 

“Would you find a way to send word to the Assembly of New Kyre of my fate?” said Kylon. “Let them know that I died trying to do my duty, to avenge my wife and the guests murdered under my roof.”

“Kylon,” said Caina, but he kept talking.

“If possible, send my body back to New Kyre,” said Kylon. “I…would like to be buried beneath the Tower of Kardamnos. My cousin is High Seat now, but I saved his life from a nagataaru once. I cannot imagine that he will be so spiteful as to deny the final request of a dead man.”

“You’re not dead yet,” said Caina. 

“I could be soon,” said Kylon. “Rolukhan wants me dead, and Ikhardin and the Sifter were working together at the Shahenshah’s Seat.” 

“If this plan works, we’ll banish the Sifter,” said Caina. “Ikhardin might have a bloodcrystal, but he’s only a man of flesh and blood. He can be killed. If the plan works, we’ll get into the Craven’s Tower, defeat the Sifter in the wraithblood laboratory, and get out again with as much of the Padishah’s gold as we can carry.” 

“If the plan works,” said Kylon. “You have no way of guaranteeing that.”

“No,” said Caina. “No one does. You know how this works. You commanded armies in battle.”

“Fleets,” said Kylon.

“The principle is the same,” said Caina. “You planned the best you could, and then you threw the dice. This is no different.” 

“Does it trouble you?” said Kylon.

“The danger?” said Caina. “It should. But I’m used…”

“No,” said Kylon. “The thievery, I mean. Stealing the Padishah’s gold. He is the lawful ruler of Istarinmul.”

“He is,” said Caina, “but the Craven’s Tower is being used as a wraithblood laboratory. You’ll understand when you see it, when you see the murdered slaves on the steel tables, when you feel the spells that twist their blood into poison. The ends do not always justify the means, I know…but the Padishah has allowed Callatas a free hand for years. I will feel no more guilt about stealing from his treasury than I did from robbing the cowled masters of the Brotherhood.” 

Kylon let out a tired little laugh. “I never stole anything in my life before I came to Istarinmul. Now I am preparing to rob the Padishah.” 

“If we live through this,” said Caina, “it will make a good story.”

“If we don’t,” said Kylon, “if it goes bad…get yourself free. Do not hesitate on my account.” 

Caina frowned. “What are you…”

“Your life,” said Kylon, “is more valuable than mine. More valuable than any of the others.”

“No, it’s not,” said Caina.

“Yes, it is,” said Kylon. “You’re the only one who can stop what Callatas and Rolukhan are trying to do.”

“What do you mean?” said Caina. 

“I came here to kill Rolukhan and Cassander and avenge Thalastre,” said Kylon, “but they are only the outstretched hand of a greater evil. Rolukhan is Callatas’s servant, and Cassander his ally. Whatever Callatas plans, you are the one best suited to stop him.” 

“Nasser could,” said Caina. “Or…”

“Nasser and Morgant, if they’re as old as I think, spent a century and a half failing,” said Kylon. “In a year and a half you have done more to disrupt Callatas’s plans than they have done in a hundred and fifty. Nasser and Morgant hate each other, that is plain, but you have forced them to work together. You rebuilt the Ghost circle of Istarinmul.” He took a deep breath. “Your life is more valuable than any of ours, and if it comes to it, you should run.”

Caina said nothing. She had no such intention of doing any of that, and she knew what motivated Kylon. He blamed himself for Thalastre’s death, thought he deserved death for it. Caina had thought that way once, too. She did not know what she could do to convince him otherwise, but she would find away.

Assuming, of course, that they did not all die within the Craven’s Tower. 

Because Kylon was right about one thing. They were heading into deadly danger.

Chapter 16: Blood and Hellfire

“My friends.” The basso rumble of Nasser’s soft voice cut into the silence. “The hour for action has come.” 

Caina looked up. 

She waited with Kylon, Kazravid, and Morgant in one of the warehouses of the Saddaic Quarter, not far from the warehouse where Nerina and her catapult awaited. At midnight, the guard shift at the Craven’s Tower would change, and for a moment most of the fortress’s Immortals would be moving back and forth near the Tower’s gate.

And near the outbuilding that stored the Tower’s supply of Hellfire. 

Nerina had prepared the missile for her catapult with care. It was a thirty-pound barrel of lamp oil, leavened with an additional five pounds of iron nails. Pitch had smeared over the barrel, and before she loosed the catapult, Nerina would set the pitch alight. If Nerina’s calculations were correct, the barrel would land in the outbuilding and explode, the nails within breaching the sealed amphorae of Hellfire. The resultant explosion would impressive.

If Nerina had done her calculations correctly. 

Caina supposed they were about to find out. 

She rose from the floor. She wore dark clothes and leather armor, throwing knives concealed in her sleeves and belt, daggers hidden in boot sheaths, the ghostsilver dagger in its scabbard at her belt. The pyrikon waited upon her left wrist in its divination-blocking ring-and-chain form, and she had spent time practicing with it, commanding the relic to transform from a staff to a bracelet and back again. If the plan worked, if the Sifter attacked her in the wraithblood laboratory, she might not have much time to bring the pyrikon to bear. 

Kylon waited next to her, clad in similar clothes and armor, Caina’s shadow-cloak hanging around him. The sheathed valikon hung in a baldric over his shoulder. Caina doubted the Sifter would be foolish enough to possess any living men, not after Kylon had tried to use the ancient Iramisian sword against the ifrit, but if it did, they would be ready. Morgant lounged nearby, scribbling in his notebook. He had disdained any disguise, and wore his usual long black coat, white shirt, black trousers, and boots. Yet the crimson scimitar was on his belt, and Caina knew he had that strange black dagger somewhere in his coat. 

Kazravid stood talking with Shopur in a low voice, and fifty of Shopur’s mercenaries waited in the warehouse, weapons ready. The Anshani captain had three hundred men in his company, but Nasser had scattered them throughout the city, directing them to make trouble and start fires in abandoned buildings. He wanted the city watch and the Immortals spread too thin to respond when the Craven’s Tower went up. 

Nasser was spending a small fortune on this venture. Caina hoped that it was worth the effort, that Morgant would indeed reveal his secret if they lived through this. 

“It’s time, Nasser?” said Kazravid.

“Aye,” said Nasser. “Loosen your swords in their scabbards and string your bows. If we live through the night, we shall all be wealthy men.” He looked at Caina and Kylon. “Best to do it now, I think.”

Caina nodded and concentrated on Annarah’s pyrikon, and it shifted back into the form of a bracelet. Kylon pulled off the shadow-cloak, rolled it up, and handed it to Caina, and she tucked it into her belt. They would now be visible to anyone seeking them with a spell. If the Sifter was looking for them, it would find them in short order.

“Let’s proceed,” said Nasser, and they strode into the night. 

They made their way silently through the streets. Distant shouts came to Caina’s ears, and she saw the glow of a fire in the distance. Shopur had ordered some of his men to start a riot in the Alqaarin docks, and it seemed that they had been successful. Hopefully the chaos would keep any additional watchmen or Immortals from making their way to the Craven’s Tower until it was too late. 

Soon they stopped at an alley within sight of the Craven’s Tower. Caina watched the curtain wall. Torches burned at regular intervals along the rampart, and an Immortal strode past the battlements, the firelight glimmering on the polished surface of his grim black armor. 

“How soon?” whispered Kylon.

“Any moment,” hissed Caina. At exactly midnight, Nerina would launch her missile, and then set her warehouse ablaze to destroy any evidence before fleeing with Azaces. There were a dozen more barrels of lamp oil surrounding the catapult, which would make for quite the impressive blaze. Caina only hoped Nerina did not make a mistake and accidentally light one of the barrels aflame too soon. 

They waited in silence. Caina had been in enough battles to recognize the quiet tension in the men, the fear as they prepared for action. She felt her own quiet fear as well, a fear held back by training and years of experience. More experience than she would have liked. She was a spy, not a soldier or a warrior, yet she kept finding herself in these damned battles. 

A tingle of sorcery washed over her, and she glanced at Kylon. He was calm, but the fingers of his sword hand kept opening and closing, and she felt the power as he prepared the sorcery of water and air for the battle to come.

“There,” murmured Nasser.

A fireball arced across the night sky like a comet. It was the barrel of oil, its sides ablaze. It fell behind the drum tower and disappeared from sight, and a heartbeat later she heard the shattering crash as it struck the outbuilding. Shouts rang out, followed by the sounds of clattering boots and running footsteps. 

Caina braced herself and waited. 

Nothing happened. Caina’s mind moved to the contingency plans. If the Hellfire had failed to explode, they would have to withdraw and try again. Unfortunately, the Immortals within the Tower would be on their guard against a second attempt. Even worse, the Sifter was likely heading to Caina’s location right now. 

“Well,” said Morgant, “that was…”

The ground fell out from beneath Caina’s feet. 

An instant later the sky filled with crimson light, and a second after that the thunderous roar filled Caina’s ears, a hot wind blowing down the alley. Caina stumbled and would have fallen, but Kylon caught her wrist. An enormous ball of crimson flame rose past the drum tower. Pebbles started to fall in the alley, bouncing off the ground or clattering off the armor of the men. 

“That was more impressive than I expected,” said Morgant, one hand braced against the brick wall of a warehouse.

“Now!” said Nasser. “Forward, with all speed. Shopur, take your men and secure the treasury. Every second counts. Go!” 

###

Kylon dashed forward, the sorcery of air lending him speed, the sorcery of water granting him strength. Memories thrummed through him as he did. The great battle at Marsis, the vicious fighting in the docks as the Kyracian fleet stormed into the harbor. The battle that had destroyed the Imperial fleet in the western sea, and the fighting in the Tower of Study at Catekharon. The golden dead rising to terrorize New Kyre, the desperate defense at the foot of the Pyramid of Storm as Caina and Corvalis and the Sage Talekhris went to confront the Moroaica in the netherworld. 

It was strange, but Kylon felt more at peace than he had in a long time.

This was the kind of fight he understood. He was not a spy and he had not been a very good politician. He was a stormdancer, a warrior and soldier. This was what he had been trained to do, and he was good at it.

He sprinted for the curtain wall and jumped. The sorcery of water lent his legs strength, and he soared through the air. He struck the wall perhaps two-thirds of the way up, kicked off the stone, grabbed the battlements of the rampart, and pulled himself over. 

Two Immortals stood nearby, frozen with shock as they gazed at the fireball to the south, crimson light outlining the damaged drum tower in a hellish glow. Kylon moved before the men reacted to his presence and slammed into the nearest Immortal. The black-armored warrior lost his balance and fell to the rubble-strewn courtyard, the snap of bone coming to Kylon’s ears. The second Immortal drew his scimitar and attacked, and Kylon yanked his broadsword from his belt. He parried once, twice, three times, and then saw his opening. Kylon sidestepped, his back slapping against the ramparts, and his sword raked across the back of the Immortal’s leg. The Immortal bellowed, and Kylon drove his boot into the warrior’s wounded leg. The black-armored warrior overbalanced and fell, joining his dead comrade in the courtyard below. 

Kylon yanked a coil of rope from his belt, one end tipped with a collapsible grapnel. He opened the grapnel, secured it against the battlements, and threw the coil of rope over the wall. He repeated the procedure with a second coil, and the rope struck the ground just as the first mercenaries reached the base of the wall. Other mercenaries threw grapnels of their own, and soon five ropes dangled from the ramparts, and the mercenaries began scrambling up. 

He turned, watching the courtyard. Once Nasser and the others gained the wall, they would be nearly impossible to dislodge from the fortress. But until then, they were vulnerable. Even a few Immortals would be enough to hold the ramparts and cut the ropes. Yet Kylon saw no other sign of any other Immortals, whether on the walls or in the drum tower. The tower itself had taken damage from the explosion. He sensed a welter of emotions from the southern end of the courtyard, fury and rage and terror, but none of it was coming this way…

A door in the base of the tower opened, and five Immortals in black armor ran out, coughing and wheezing. Dust marked their armor, and a few of them looked injured. One of them saw Kylon. The Immortal raised an arm and shouted, and the blue-glowing eyes of the others snapped to him. They drew their scimitars and ran across the courtyard, dodging around the debris left by the explosion. 

Kylon leaped from the ramparts, calling upon his power. He fell like a thunderbolt, landing in the midst of the charging Immortals, and struck. His sword plunged through a gap in the nearest Immortal’s armor, and Kylon ripped the weapon free, the blade wet with blood. He whirled and killed another Immortal before the surprise wore off, and then the three survivors attacked, fanning out around him. Kylon retreated, the sorcery of air letting him stay ahead of his opponents. Steel clanged and shivered, and while he avoided their blades, he could not land any blows. The three Immortals had experience fighting as a team, and they exploited that experience to the full. Kylon found himself driven back towards the tower.

But that meant the Immortals had their backs to the curtain wall. 

A dark shape moved behind the Immortal on Kylon’s left, red light flashing. Morgant’s strange dagger ripped open the armor covering the Immortal’s throat, the black blade parting flesh and steel both. The Immortal fell, clawing at his ruined throat, and Kylon seized the moment of distraction. His blade crunched home in the armpit of another Immortal, drawing blood. The Immortal staggered towards him, and Kylon slammed the pommel of his sword into the Immortal’s skull-masked helmet. The warrior went down, and Kylon whirled to face the final Immortal. 

Morgant stepped forward and jabbed his dagger into the Immortal’s leg. The red gem in the pommel flashed, and the Immortal burst into flames, fire erupting from the joints in his armor. The Immortal loosed a hideous scream, staggered forward a few steps, and collapsed to the ground, smoke billowing from his corpse. The smell was hideous.

“Thanks,” said Kylon, lowering his sword.

Morgant shrugged. “You were doing well enough on your own. I’m just faster, boy. It comes with experience.” 

Kylon opened his mouth to insult the old assassin back, decided that he did not care, and looked around. Shopur’s mercenaries swarmed over the wall. A dark shape came towards Kylon. It was Caina, and her blue eyes were fixed on the damaged tower. 

“It’s in there,” said Caina. 

“The Sifter?” said Kylon.

“No, the wraithblood laboratory,” said Caina. “I can feel it. Can’t you?”

Kylon’s power had been focused upon augmenting his strength, but now he turned his senses towards the drum tower. He felt the raging inferno of pyromantic power unleashed by the Hellfire explosion. It was starting to fade, but it would last for some time yet. He also felt power within the tower. It reminded him of a weaker version of the great rift the Moroaica had torn open in the sky on the day of the golden dead. 

A gate to the netherworld. 

“I do,” said Kylon. 

“If we defeat the Sifter there,” said Caina, “it will be drawn back into the netherworld.” 

“We had best move.” Nasser came into sight, Laertes, Shopur, and Kazravid trailing after him. “The treasury vaults are on the first floor. Shopur, Laertes. Make sure the money is taken and divided equitably. Kazravid, keep watch. If the city watch or the Immortals send reinforcements, we shall have to flee at once.”

“I’m going to the wraithblood laboratory to await the Sifter,” said Caina.

“I am coming with you,” said Kylon. He would not leave her to face the ifrit alone. 

“As am I,” said Morgant. “I need to see if this little ploy of yours works or not.”  

Kylon started to ask what would happened if they failed. Perhaps the Sifter was wise enough to realize its vulnerability and would not enter the trap. Perhaps they had just blown up one of the Padishah’s fortresses and robbed his treasury for no reason. 

Yet it didn’t matter. Even if the Sifter did not come here, it would not stop hunting Caina. It would come for her, sooner or later, probably sooner. Perhaps it knew of the danger the wraithblood laboratory presented, but did not care. 

“Very well,” said Nasser. “If we are forced to flee, you know where to meet us.” He raised his voice. “Let’s go!” 

The mercenaries ran for the drum tower. Caina strode towards the door, and Kylon and Morgant followed her.

###

Silence reigned inside the drum tower.

Caina made her way down a corridor of stone, her ghostsilver dagger in her right hand and a throwing knife in her left. Kylon still held his broadsword, and Morgant had drawn his crimson scimitar and the black dagger. 

“Anyone?” said Caina.