Ghost in the Razor (3 page)

Markaine barked a laugh. “Morgant? Truly? Your lord has a peculiar taste in myths.” 

“Why do you say that?” said Caina. The Exile landed another hit upon the Red Fisherman, and the crowd’s roar grew louder. 

“Morgant the Razor never existed,” said Markaine. “A legendary assassin who killed the magus-emperor of Nighmar? And five separate Istarish emirs? And the last of the Istarish loremasters?” He snorted. “They ought to have claimed he rode a chimaera into battle while simultaneously making love to the three most beautiful princesses in the world. That would have been more entertaining.”

“Implausible, though,” said Caina. 

“Mmm,” said Markaine. “Well. I know a bit about Istarish history. What does Lord Quintus want to know about the myth of Morgant?” 

Caina opened her mouth to answer, and a roar came from the crowd. The Exile sidestepped, his sword a steely blur, and suddenly the Red Fisherman was upon his back, clutching his wounded leg with both hands. The Exile’s broadsword came to rest upon the Red Fisherman’s throat, and the wounded gladiator raised his hands in surrender. 

The spectators screamed for mercy, and the Exile stepped back, raising his broadsword. He turned in a circle, sword raised in triumph, and Caina found herself taking a closer look at him. There were deep scars upon the left side of his chest and leg. Another part of her noted the hard musculature of his body with appreciation, and she pushed that part of her mind away with annoyance. 

“The victor, citizens of Istarinmul!” boomed the herald. “The Exile!” 

The crowd roared in approval, rising to their feet as they applauded. Markaine gripped his cane and hauled himself to his feet, and Caina followed suit. The Exile turned in a circle once more while the slaves carried away the wounded Red Fisherman. One of the slaves came forward with an amphora of water, and the Exile pulled off his helm.

Caina saw his face, and a bolt of shock went through her. 

She knew the Exile. She knew him very well. 

He had first tried to kill her in Marsis, following the commands of his sister. Later they had allied in Catekharon, and together they had stopped Mihaela’s plot to unleash terrible weapons of sorcery upon world. He had married, and Caina had helped him save his wife from the poison of a Dustblade, and together they had dared the horrors of Caer Magia. After that he had become an Archon of New Kyre, and had helped broker peace between the Kyracians and the Empire. 

“Master Duncan?” said Markaine. 

Caina barely heard him. 

The Exile had been one of the most powerful men in New Kyre…and now he was fighting in the arenas of Istarinmul.

Why the hell was Kylon of House Kardamnos fighting as a gladiator? 

Caina stared at Kylon for a moment longer. Markaine said something else, but she barely heard it. 

She hurried from the seats, making her way to the gladiators’ barracks in the galleries below the Ring of Cyrica.

Chapter 2: The Knight of Wind and Air

The man who called himself Markaine of Caer Marist sat back down, watching Duncan, factor to Lord Quintus Camwallen, hurry through the aisles. 

Of course, he was sure that that Duncan was not his real name.

In fact, he was certain that Duncan was actually a woman. Her disguise was excellent, and he had rarely seen better. Nevertheless, he knew all the tricks. The woman’s voice, accent, costume, and even her posture and mannerisms had been perfect, but that was not enough to fool him. 

He was impressed. He hoped she wasn’t working for Grand Master Callatas. 

He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill her. That would be regrettable, but at his age, one more regret made little difference. He had two rules, and one of them was that he never killed anyone unless they deserved it.

Working for Grand Master Callatas qualified. 

He had killed a lot of people and used many names over the years. Markaine had been a useful name, so useful that he sometimes thought of himself as Markaine of Caer Marist. He rarely used it any longer, but his true name was Morgant…and as he thought it over, he was reasonably sure he had just met the woman who called herself the Balarigar.

Wasn’t that interesting? 

He tapped his false cane against the floor, watching the woman hurry away. 

Morgant had not participated in the brutal politics of Istarinmul for a long time, and he had not killed anyone for a few years. But he still had ears, and he kept them to the ground. There had been a great deal of upheaval in Istarinmul over the last year and a half, ever since the downfall of Master Slaver Ulvan, and all of it had been the work of the madman the Szaldic slaves called the Balarigar.

Madwoman, Morgant supposed. 

He had been surprised to learn that she was a woman. Cassander Nilas, the Umbarian ambassador, had quietly put out word to the various elite assassins in Istarinmul, and Morgant still listened to the rumors. Apparently the master thief known as the Balarigar was actually a Ghost nightfighter named Caina Amalas, sent by the Emperor to destabilize Istarinmul. Morgant had been astonished to learn that the Balarigar was a woman. The Empire had changed a great deal since the last time had visited. 

Of course, that had been over a century ago. 

He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the handle of his cane. 

Why had the Balarigar been talking to him? 

Had she realized who he really was? It was a possibility, albeit an unlikely one. Morgant the Razor had disappeared a century and a half ago, not long after the destruction of Iramis and the death of the last loremaster, and mortal men did not live that long. Or so everyone believed. Morgant had once believed that, too, until the djinn of the Azure Court had taught him otherwise. 

She had been asking about that damned mural. It had amused Morgant to paint it, mostly since Callatas had never realized who Markaine of Caer Marist really was, but the young Ghost had an astute eye. Morgant had indeed witnessed the destruction of Iramis. Another day and he would have been inside Iramis and perished with all the rest. 

The Balarigar didn’t know any of that.

His fingers clenched tighter against the handle of his cane. 

But she suspected that Markaine of Caer Marist knew something. Why else would she ask about the Fall of Iramis? Why talk about Morgant the Razor? There was only one reason a Ghost nightfighter would be interested in both Iramis and Morgant. 

The answer came to him in a flash.

She was trying to stop Callatas’s Apotheosis. That explained why the Balarigar had been terrorizing the slavers. Callatas could not create wraithblood without a constant supply of slaves to murder. For that matter, Callatas could not work the Apotheosis without the ring and the staff of the Prince, the Seal and Staff of Iramis, and Morgant had no idea where to find them. 

The only person who knew where to find them, in point of fact, was not available for casual questioning. 

Yet if the Balarigar sought to stop the Apotheosis, and if she was clever enough to find him…then Morgant was the logical person to question.

So why the devil had she run off like that? 

She had departed without a word the minute the Exile had taken off his helmet. Morgant considered the gladiator. He was a strong young man, not quite thirty, with close-cropped brown hair and bloodshot brown eyes. Kyracian, by the look of him, but there were many Kyracian gladiators. Morgant could not see what had caught the Balarigar’s interest. 

Perhaps she had been struck by a sudden lust for a gladiator. Some women found them alluring. Though given how much money she had stolen from the Brotherhood of Slavers, if the Balarigar wanted a gladiator in her bed she could afford to buy a different one for every night of the week. 

Morgant watched her descend into the galleries, and for a moment, just a moment, considered killing her. 

She likely didn’t know it, but she was pushing Istarinmul toward civil war. The Slavers’ Brotherhood had begun kidnapping peasants and farmers from the southern lands of Istarinmul to sell in the city. The southern emirs, led by fat Tanzir Shahan, were in an uproar. The Grand Wazir Erghulan had done nothing to rein in the Brotherhood, and if matters continued sooner or later Tanzir and the southern emirs would call their men and march on Istarinmul itself. 

If Morgant killed the Balarigar, perhaps all that bloodshed could be avoided. 

Suddenly he decided that he did not care. The Balarigar was not his concern, and neither was Callatas and his Apotheosis. Morgant cared nothing for the fate of Istarinmul. He always kept his word, but he had not given his word to either the Balarigar or Callatas, and he owed them nothing.

It had been a very long time since he had given his word to anyone.

Morgant rose, making sure to feign a limp and lean upon his cane. He decided to return to his house, practice his blades for exercise, and then to paint for the rest of the day. A scene with gladiators, he decided. Those always sold well, though he did not care about money. Perhaps in this painting he would include a blue-eyed woman watching a Kyracian gladiator with a rapt expression, her lips parted, her bosom heaving. That would amuse him, but he was the only one who would get the joke, alas. 

He had lived for so long that he was the only one who understood his jokes.

Morgant took one step forward and the world froze around him. 

He turned, more curious than alarmed. All the color leached out of the Ring of Cyrica, until it seemed as if the arena and the spectators around him had been drawn from pencil and charcoal. The people stood motionless, caught in an instant of time. Nearby Morgant saw a fat merchant drinking wine, the cup held frozen an inch from his lips. 

He turned again, and saw the Knight of Wind and Air standing nearby.

As ever, the djinni wore the shape of Annarah, the last loremaster of Iramis, a tall, strong woman in a white robe, the cloth stark against her dark skin. Her long hair was as white as snow and hung to her hips, and she carried her pyrikon staff, her badge of office, in her right hand. The illusion looked exactly as Morgant remembered her, save in one aspect.

Her eyes were wrought of smokeless flame, the smokeless flame of the djinn of the court of the Azure Sovereign. 

“You,” said Morgant. 

“Yes, me,” said the Knight. Annarah had always spoken softly, politely, but the Knight’s voice was a sardonic drawl. “It is good to see that your vast age has not dulled your wits. Overmuch.” 

“One of your kindred ensured that I lived this long,” said Morgant. “If you have any complaints, you may take them up with her.”

“You could have killed yourself at any time,” said the Knight, “but you have not. Because you gave your word. The dreaded Morgant the Razor lived by only two rules, did he not?”

Morgant said nothing. 

“He never killed anyone who had not earned death,” said the Knight, a mocking smile on Annarah’s face, “and he always kept his word once given.”

“Yes,” said Morgant. 

“You gave your word to Annarah one hundred and fifty years ago,” said the Knight.

“One hundred and fifty one,” said Morgant, “in point of fact. My wits may be dulled with age, but I still know how to count.” 

“The chance has come,” said the Knight, “to keep your word to Annarah.”

Morgant felt his eyes narrow, felt his hand twitch towards the dagger he kept concealed beneath his coat. 

“How?” he said at last. 

“The woman,” said the Knight, the fire in Annarah’s eyes flashing brighter. “You have realized who she is?”

“The one the Szalds call the Balarigar,” said Morgant. “Likely Caina Amalas, a Ghost nightfighter.” 

“Precisely,” said the Knight. “I have been looking for someone like her for a very long time. Ever since Callatas raised the Star and burned Iramis to ashes. She may very well be the one I have sought.”

“How nice for you,” said Morgant. “Why should I care?”

The smirk on Annarah’s face widened. “Because if she is the one I have sought…then she is also the one who will help you to keep your word to Annarah.”

Morgant said nothing, keeping the surprise from his face. That was just a reflex, though. The djinni could read his mind. 

“How?” he said at last. “She is just a child. How shall she help me keep my word to Annarah?”

“That child,” said the Knight, “has done more in her twenty-four years than most men and women do in their lifetimes. You’ve heard the rumors about the Balarigar. Many of them are true. She can help you keep your word to the last loremaster. Assuming, of course, the Balarigar is still alive.” 

“Is she about to die?” said Morgant.

“It is highly probable she will die in the next hour,” said the Knight of Wind and Air, “unless she has your aid.” 

“If she is killed so easily,” said Morgant, “I doubt she could help me.”

Even after all these years, it was disconcerting to see the Knight’s mocking smile upon Annarah’s face. “If she dies…then you will never know, will you? You can go back to scribbling sketches and smearing paint across canvas while you ponder a way to keep your word. Which will never come if Callatas destroys Istarinmul in the coming year, an event which is all but certain if the Balarigar dies in the next hour.” 

Morgant sighed. “Ever the manipulator.”

“Me?” said the Knight. “I have merely presented you with facts and nothing more, my dear assassin. You must decide how to interpret them.”

“Which is exactly why you are such a good manipulator,” said Morgant. 

“Mortals are ever predictable,” said the Knight. “Except when they are not.”

“The Balarigar,” said Morgant, pointing his cane in her direction. “If she is the one you have been looking for since Iramis fell…have you appeared to her as well?”

The Knight’s smirk widened. “Why don’t you ask her? I’m sure the two of you shall have some delightful conversations.” 

“More manipulation,” muttered Morgant.

“No?” said the Knight. “Very well. I shall state this plainly. The woman is your last, best chance of keeping your word to Annarah. And if you do not help her…you shall likely be dead within the year.”

Morgant laughed. “Dead from what?”

“Dead from the same thing that will kill everyone else in Istarinmul,” said the Knight. “And most of the rest of this world.” 

“Callatas and his Apotheosis,” said Morgant. It had been a century and a half, but he still remembered the fear in Annarah’s voice as she spoke of it. 

“You will, no doubt, say that you owe the people of Istarinmul nothing,” said the Knight. “You will say that if they cannot defend themselves, then they deserve their fate, and that you are not obligated to defend them.” The djinni’s burning eyes flashed brighter, so bright that Annarah’s face almost seemed as if it had been wrought of molten gold. “But consider this. A million people live in Istarinmul, Morgant the Razor…would you let them all die?”

He would. He knew that he could, if necessary. 

“And how would you explain that to Annarah,” murmured the spirit, “if you ever saw her again?”

Morgant had no answer for that.

The Knight grinned once more, and suddenly Annarah vanished, and the world around Morgant exploded into light and color once more, almost as if the Knight had dumped jars of paint across a canvas. He gasped a little at the sudden change, and for a moment needed to lean upon his cane in truth. Around him the crowds murmured, and enterprising slaves in gray tunics moved up and down the aisles, selling wine and sausages and peanuts. 

He ignored them all, staring at the entrance to the galleries below the Ring. 

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

Morgant the Razor kept his word.

He started for the galleries, following the Balarigar.