Ghost in the Razor (4 page)

Chapter 3: Failures

Caina had been in the galleries below the Ring of Cyrica before and knew her way around. 

It was surprisingly bright in the brickwork tunnels, thanks to a clever system of mirrors that reflected Istarinmul’s burning sun into the galleries. Large rooms held racks of wooden practice weapons, and others housed wild beasts and the various props and scenery that the more elaborate games required. It reminded Caina of the workshops below the Grand Imperial Opera in Malarae, though the gladiatorial games had more blood than even the goriest Nighmarian opera. There were also barracks for the gladiators themselves, both the enslaved men and the rarer freeborn gladiators. 

A scowling, bearded Istarish watchman blocked the door to the gladiators’ barracks. He wore a spiked helm and a shirt of scale mail, a scimitar hanging at his belt. To judge from the bulge of the belly beneath his armor, he had not lifted the blade in anger for some time. 

“You,” said the watchman. “The gladiators are not to be disturbed.”

“I wish to speak with one of the freeborn gladiators,” said Caina. “The Exile.”

The watchman snorted. “The Exile is not a sociable man. Be off with you.”

Caina sighed, reached into a pocket, and handed over a golden bezant. The man regarded the coin, nodded, and tucked it away.

“I never saw you,” said the watchman. “Keep a respectful tongue in your head, though. You give lip to the gladiators, you might accidentally trip and have a sword fall down your throat.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Caina. “Where’s the Exile’s room?”

“End of the hall,” said the watchman. “The one with a window.”

Caina nodded and made her way down the hall.

###

The hakim in charge of the Wazir of Games’s treasury was a short, doughy man, clad in the ornamented robes and jeweled turban of a magistrate of the Padishah’s government. 

“Your purse, Exile,” he said, pushing a leather bag across the wooden table.

Kylon, once of House Kardamnos and New Kyre, took the bag and counted the coins inside. 

It was an odd feeling. Once he would have never thought to count his own money. Andromache had been in command of House Kardamnos, and even after Kylon had become High Seat, he had left the details of the money in the hands of the slaves and his seneschals. After he had married Thalastre, he had left the House’s finances in her hands as he dealt with the increasingly treacherous politics of the Assembly.

And then…

A memory flashed through his mind, a sword of darkness lined in purple fire, a serene mask of crimson steel, a woman screaming his name…

Kylon saw that the hakim across the table had flinched away, the hakim’s guards resting their hands upon their sword hilts. His emotions had been showing again, and Kylon rebuked himself and brought his face back to calm. 

He felt the fear of the men through his arcane senses, but the fear faded as Kylon calmed himself down.

“Forgive me, honored hakim,” said Kylon. The words felt odd on his tongue. His Istarish was rough. He had thought its similarity with Anshani would make it easier to learn, but it was just different enough to confuse him. “I have been cheated often in the past, and I find it prudent to count the money.”

“Very wise, Exile,” said the hakim. “Though the Padishah’s magistrates are the most honest of men.”

It was hard not to laugh at that, but Kylon managed it.

The money was all there. Not that he needed it personally. He needed very little, and in truth all he wanted to do was to drink himself into oblivion, and that did not cost very much. But the money would prove a useful tool in his task.

“Thank you,” said Kylon, rising and offering a bow to the hakim.

“Very good,” said the hakim. “Your next bout will be in three days. If you win that one, the Wazir of Games will likely have you fight in the Ring of Thorns itself. The purses there are much larger. If you continue to win victories, perhaps you shall even fight in the Arena of Padishahs itself.”

That was a good thought. The Arena of Padishahs might give Kylon access to the men he wanted to kill. 

He took the leather bag and walked from the hakim’s chamber without another word, making his way through the training room and into the gladiators’ barracks. He had pulled on a shirt and a pair of loose trousers after his match, the thin cloth sticking to the sweat upon his chest and back. The corridors were deserted now, the gritty floor rasping beneath Kylon’s sandals. The emotions from the crowds above, bloodlust and excitement and impatience, washed over his sorcerous senses, and he forced the sensations from his mind. 

He reached his room, unlocked it, and opened the door. Kylon did not live here, but stored his equipment here while fighting in the Ring. The room had a cot, a table, and a wooden stool. A high, barred window let in a few narrow rays of sunlight, and…

Kylon yanked his broadsword from its sheath. 

A man sat upon the stool. Kylon had closed off his arcane senses, and so had not sensed the man’s presence. The intruder looked like a Nighmarian merchant, clad in a dark robe over trousers and boots, a cap with a silver badge upon his head. His red hair had been pulled into a tail, and a beard shaded the sharp lines of his jaws and cheeks. Dark circles ringed his cold blue eyes, and the man showed absolutely no sign of alarm as Kylon pointed his sword. 

“You’re from that moneylender in the Anshani Quarter, aren’t you?” said Kylon. “I told him that I wasn’t going to throw any of the duels.” The moneylender had disagreed, and sent thugs to break Kylon’s legs. He had killed two of them and wounded the rest, and the moneylender had left him alone after that. “Did he fail to learn his lesson the first time?”

“Kylon.” It was a woman’s voice, soft and cold. “It’s been a long time.”

Kylon looked around for the woman, and realized that the voice had come from the man. 

He looked at the robed figure, and suddenly a flicker of recognition went through him. Those cold eyes were familiar. He reached for his power of water sorcery and opened his arcane senses. The emotional sense of the man felt like ice wrapped around a core of molten hatred, the ice shot through with weariness and pain. 

He remembered that emotional sense, and he remembered those eyes.

His sword’s tip lowered. 

“Caina?” he said at last, his voice hoarse with surprise. 

Caina Amalas, the Balarigar, the woman who had disguised herself as Anna Callenius and Rania Scorneus and Sonya Tornesti, smiled at him, and he suddenly saw her beneath the makeup and the male clothing. “Yes. I think we should talk.” 

He blinked several times, stunned by her sudden appearance. “You dyed your hair again.”

“This?” She removed the cap, and then tugged off a red wig. Beneath the wig her black hair had been cut to stubble. It made her eyes seem larger, almost eerie. “Just a disguise. You have seen the decrees scattered around Istarinmul? Two million bezants for the head of the Balarigar?” He managed to nod. “You see why I take precautions.” 

“I saw those decrees,” said Kylon. He sat upon the cot, the cheap wooden frame creaking beneath his weight. “I thought it might have been you. I knew the Emperor banished you to Istarinmul. But I was sure that you were dead by now.”

“Why?” said Caina.

“You challenged powerful foes,” said Kylon. “And…I thought you might have wanted to die, that you had driven yourself to your death.”

“Why?” said Caina again, her voice softer this time. 

Did she know? Did she know how badly he had failed his House and his people?

“Because you looked like you wanted to die when you left New Kyre, after the Moroaica was defeated,” said Kylon. “You felt like you wanted to die.” He remembered the cold despair that had saturated her emotional sense as the Emperor banished her to Istarinmul at Lord Corbould’s urging. He still felt a hint of that despair within her, but it had hardened, adding another layer to the icy determination that filled her. “I…understand that a little better now. But I suppose you know that already.”

“I don’t,” said Caina. “I didn’t even know you were Istarinmul until ten minutes ago when I saw you take off your helmet.”

“You didn’t?” said Kylon. “You usually know everything.” 

A smile flickered over her lips. “Not everything. I’ve been busy. Kylon…what are you doing here? What happened to you?”

###

Caina watched Kylon, noting the way the muscles in his jaw twitched. 

It had been a year and a half since she had seen him, but he looked as if he had aged five years in that time. He had always been solemn, but now that solemnity had hardened into grimness. In fact, he had last been like this in Calvarium, when he had come to save Thalastre from the dark power of a Dustblade…

A burst of intuition came to her.

“Oh, Kylon,” said Caina. “It’s Thalastre, isn’t it?” He nodded, staring at the floor. “Oh, gods. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Before she could stop the impulse she reached out and squeezed his left hand. He looked at her in surprise, his face full of regret and pain, emotions that she knew all too well. For a moment they stared at each other, his fingers hard and callused beneath hers. 

“Thank you,” he said at last, sliding his hand free. “It…those are usually hollow words. But you, I suppose, understand better than anyone what it is like to…to...”

“How did she die?” said Caina. 

“Nagataaru,” said Kylon.

Caina went motionless. 

He blinked. “You…know the word, don’t you?” 

“I do,” said Caina. 

“You’ve encountered the nagataaru, then?”

“Yes,” said Caina. “I think you should tell me what happened.” 

“Soon after you left New Kyre,” said Kylon, “the Surge summoned me. She said that the Moroaica’s rift had left cracks in the walls between the worlds, that malevolent spirits called the nagataaru could make their way into our world from the netherworld. She gave me the ability to sense the presence of both the nagataaru and the cracks.”

“Wait,” said Caina. “You can sense nagataaru?” Part of her felt sympathy for his loss and pain. The colder part of her mind noted that such an ability would be useful. The Red Huntress would never have surprised Caina if Kylon had been with her.

“I can now,” said Kylon. “The wall between the worlds is weakest in New Kyre, thanks to the Moroaica’s spell. Nagataaru feed on pain and death, and I started hunting them down.” He took a deep breath. “And then the embassies came.”

“Embassies?” said Caina. 

“By then the war between the Empire and the Umbarian Order was in full force,” said Kylon. “The Assembly decided to stay neutral, though several of the Archons and High Seats wanted to attack the Empire while it was weakened. Then two embassies arrived. One from the Umbarian Order, headed by an Umbarian magus named Cassander Nilas…you know him?”

Hate flickered over his face at the mention of Cassander.

“All too well,” said Caina. “Go on.”

“The other was an embassy from the College of Alchemists of Istarinmul, led by a Master Alchemist named Malik Rolukhan.”

“I know the name,” said Caina. “He’s the Lieutenant of the Inferno.”

“The Inferno?” said Kylon. “I don’t know the name.”

“It’s an armory in the mountains of the Vale of Fallen Stars,” said Caina. “A fortress, a prison, a stronghold. It’s where the College of Alchemists take men and transform them into Immortals. The Istarish poets like to say that it is a hell of iron where men are torn apart and remade into monsters.” Considering the cruelty of the Immortals, the description was not wrong. Malik Rolukhan’s reputation was just as fearsome. 

Caina strongly suspected that he was one of Callatas’s disciples. 

“Cassander and Rolukhan proposed an alliance between the Umbarian Order, Istarinmul, and New Kyre,” said Kylon. “He said that one solid blow could shatter the Empire forever, and we could divide its provinces amongst ourselves. I opposed them both.”

“Because of what happened in Marsis,” said Caina. “Because Andromache and Rezir Shahan made promises like that before.”

“Exactly,” said Kylon. “And because Malik Rolukhan was possessed by a nagataaru.” 

Caina nodded. “Go on.”

“I refused to countenance their offer,” said Kylon. “Cassander and the magi of the Umbarian Order reminded me of the Moroaica and her students, and we saw the havoc they wrought. I hoped instead to ally with the Empire against the Umbarians, or at the very least send the Emperor some aid against the Order. I invited some of the most prominent Archons and High Seats to the Tower of Kardamnos to discuss the matter.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. 

“What happened then?” said Caina.

“Cassander sent an assassin for us,” said Kylon, his voice soft, dead. “A woman, clad all in red leather, her face concealed beneath a mask of red steel…”

A jolt of dread went through Caina.

“She had a nagataaru within her, didn’t she?” said Caina. “It gave her the ability to move with superhuman speed and strength. Sometimes she wielded a sword wrought of power, a blade of shadows and purple flame that could cut anything asunder.”

He stared at her. “How do you know that?”

“She tried to kill me three months ago,” said Caina.

“No,” said Kylon. “That’s impossible. I slew her over a year ago.”

“Damn it,” said Caina.

“What?” said Kylon.

“I feared that the Voice – that’s what she calls her nagataaru – might have the power to restore her flesh after a mortal wound,” said Caina. “I suspect that she recovered from her injuries in New Kyre and then made her way here to kill me.”

“No,” said Kylon, the muscle twitching in his jaw again. “I slew her. You…” He closed his eyes. “You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?” 

“I’m sorry,” said Caina. 

Kylon let out a bitter laugh. “All my other hopes turned to ashes, why not this one as well? That was my one comfort. That at least I had avenged my wife, that I had killed the creature that murdered her. I suppose you worked out what happened. The Red Huntress fell upon us like a storm and killed four Archons, nine High Seats, and thirty other prominent citizens with the right to sit in the Assembly. Neither stormdancers nor stormsingers could stand before her. She…stabbed Thalastre through the belly, you see, before she cut her head off. Because she wanted Thalastre to know that her unborn child had died.”