Ghost in the Razor (5 page)

“Child?” said Caina. “Thalastre was pregnant?”

Kylon nodded.

“Gods,” whispered Caina. She remembered how Kalgri had boasted of killing pregnant women in front of their husbands. Seeing Corvalis die in front of her had been awful enough, but Corvalis’s death had stopped the Moroaica and saved the world. Thalastre and her unborn child had died for nothing, for no reason other than to slake the Red Huntress’s bottomless lust for pain and cruelty. “I’m sorry.”

It was a while before Kylon could speak again.

“I thought I slew her,” said Kylon, “but I suppose I failed at that, too. It didn’t matter, though. Those murdered men and women had been invited to my Tower, under my seal of hospitality, and I was therefore responsible for their deaths. I always had enemies in the Assembly, and they had an excuse to act. The Assembly voted to depose me as an Archon, strip me of my title as High Seat of House Kardamnos, and exile me from New Kyre for the rest of my days.” 

Again they lapsed into silence. 

“What did you do then?” said Caina.

“I thought about killing myself,” said Kylon, his voice raw, “but…I couldn’t. Not while Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan still lived. I knew they were behind the attack. So I made my way east, across the lands of the free cities and Anshan to Istarinmul. All I had was the clothes on my back…the Huntress destroyed my sword of storm-forged steel during our fight. I made what little money I could as a caravan guard, and then I realized freeborn men could enter gladiatorial contents. Few gladiators could match me, and I started making money. Finally I made my way here.”

“A good way to make money,” said Caina. “With your sorcerous abilities, no one could stand against you.”

Kylon frowned. “I wouldn’t use my powers in the arena. That would be cheating.” 

Despite the grim news, Caina laughed.

“What is so amusing about that?” said Kylon. 

“It’s not amusing, it’s admirable,” said Caina. “If I were in your position, I would cheat outrageously.” After everything he had endured, his refusal to cheat was…admirable.

“The money meant nothing,” said Kylon. “I came here to kill Malik Rolukhan and Cassander Nilas. Though…I have not worked out a way to do that.” 

“Perhaps,” said Caina, “I can help you with that.” 

Kylon shrugged. “I would be grateful for your help…but there is no need to involve yourself. My personal vendetta is not your responsibility, nor a concern of the Ghosts, I imagine.”

“Actually,” said Caina, “you may be wrong about that. Tell me what you know about wraithblood.”

A cloud went over his face. “You noticed that, too? It seems to be a sorcerous drug, distributed to the poor of the city, though I cannot imagine why anyone would go to the trouble.” 

“Please tell me you haven’t tried any,” said Caina.

“Of course not,” said Kylon. “If I want to forget my failures, I drink myself senseless. Wraithblood addicts eventually seem to get trapped in their worst nightmares.” He shrugged heavily. “I am already living mine.”

“Wraithblood is made from the blood of murdered slaves,” said Caina. “Grand Master Callatas has been making it in secret for the last five or six years, murdering thousands of slaves.”

“Why?” said Kylon. “What could he possibly gain from it?”

“It has something to do with a spell called the Apotheosis,” said Caina. “Callatas apparently has a pact with the nagataaru. Several of his lieutenants are possessed by nagataaru, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he is as well. He rules Istarinmul from behind the scenes, and his every effort has been devoted to finishing this Apotheosis, this grand spell of his.”

“What does it do?” said Kylon.

“I have no idea,” said Caina. “Nothing good, I expect. The few times I’ve heard him talk, he speaks about reforming humanity and creating a new and better world.”

Kylon scowled. “The Umbarians speak many of the same lies.” 

“I heard Cassander speak, as well,” said Caina. “The man is extremely dangerous.” 

“So now you know why I am here,” said Kylon. "To avenge my murdered wife and child and guests, or die in the attempt." 

“Perhaps we can help each other,” said Caina. “We have the same enemies. Rolukhan is one of Callatas’s lieutenants, and Cassander wants us both dead. You want to kill them, and I want to stop the Apotheosis. Our goals overlap.”

Kylon laughed. “After everything, I am to become a Ghost?”

“You don’t have to be a Ghost,” said Caina. “I have numerous allies here who are not.” Ibrahaim Nasser and Laertes, among others. 

“You would trust me that far?” said Kylon.

“Yes,” said Caina without hesitation.

“You told me once that you didn’t trust me, but you understood me,” said Kylon. 

“That was years ago,” said Caina. “Kylon, we both did our very best to kill each other in Marsis. We stopped Mihaela in Catekharon, and we rescued Thalastre from the Dustblade’s power. We saved the world from Rhames and his Ascendant Bloodcrystal in Caer Magia, and we stopped Sicarion and fought the golden dead together in New Kyre. I know what kind of man you are, and you know what kind of woman I am. After everything we have done together…I think we can trust each other.” 

“You might not want my help,” said Kylon. “I failed, you know. I could not save my wife, nor my unborn child, nor the guests under my protection. Perhaps I will fail you, too.” 

“I fear that is something else we have shared,” said Caina. “I know…I know what it is like to see someone you love die before your eyes. How it feels when there is nothing you can do to help them. How you spend the years after questioning yourself, lying awake at night, wondering if there was something, anything, you could have done differently.” Her right hand curled into a fist, and she made it relax. 

“You understand,” said Kylon. “I failed to save Andromache, and I failed to save Thalastre.”

“Andromache doomed herself,” said Caina. “And you avenged her.”

“Perhaps I can yet avenge Thalastre,” said Kylon. “Very well. I shall work with you.” He shrugged. “And you are better at this sort of thing anyway. I was never a spy. I wasn’t even a very good politician.”

“I would be glad of your help,” said Caina, “and I shall help you however I can.”

“There is one other thing you should know,” said Kylon. “Before I was banished, the Surge saw me one last time. She would say nothing to me, save to tell me that ‘the silver fire was my only salvation’. Do you know what that means?”

Caina shook her head. “No. I will ask my informants…but I’ve never heard the phrase before.” She remembered Horemb, Jadriga’s father, and the prediction he had given her. “A spirit in the netherworld gave me a prophecy of sorts. ‘The star is the key to the crystal’. Do you know it?”

“I fear not,” said Kylon. 

“I’ve been asking,” said Caina. “Apparently it is a line from a poem about the fall of Iramis. Callatas was the one who destroyed Iramis. He has a relic, the Star of Iramis, and he used its power to burn the city to ashes a century and a half ago. I think that is the Star in the prophecy. What the rest of it means…I do not know.” She shook her head. “Damned oracles. What good is seeing the future if you cannot act upon it?” 

“I do not know,” said Kylon. 

Caina nodded and stood, her mind sorting through the possibilities. She was horrified at what Kylon had lost, yet she was very glad he was here. He was a capable warrior, and his ability to sense nagataaru would be invaluable. 

“Caina,” said Kylon, his voice quiet.

She looked up at him as he rose. 

“I…am glad to see you,” said Kylon. “It may not seem it, but even in Marsis, I respected you as a foe. All the other things that happened after…they only proved that I was not wrong to respect you.” He took a deep breath. “And it is good to see a familiar face. I have not seen a friend since I left New Kyre.”

“A familiar face?” said Caina. She reached down and retrieved her wig and cap, returning them to her head. “Even beneath the makeup?”

He smiled a little at that. “Well, familiar after a little work. And your eyes are hard to forget.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. She touched his right arm. “Let’s go. The sooner we’re away from here, the better.” 

“Why?” said Kylon, wrapping a sword belt around his waist. “I don’t have any enemies in the arena.”

“Maybe not, but you came to Istarinmul to kill some powerful men,” said Caina. “Sooner or later the Teskilati will realize that you are here.”

“What are the Teskilati?” said Kylon. 

Caina blinked. Kylon was right. He wasn’t a spy. “The Padishah’s secret police and spies. They wiped out Istarinmul’s Ghost circle after Tanzir Shahan made peace with the Emperor. You were a famous man, Kylon, and many people will know you on sight. All it takes is one Teskilati informant recognizing you, and Malik Rolukhan will learn you are here. Cassander Nilas has his own spies in Istarinmul as well.”

“You’ve been here for a year and a half,” said Kylon, tucking a leather money pouch into his belt. “How are you still alive?”

“Disguises,” she sat, patting the fake beard upon her chin. “We’ll find one for you.”

“Ah,” said Kylon. “Do I get a fake beard, too?”

She glanced back at him and grinned. “No need. You can grow your own.”

###

Kylon followed Caina from his room, through the barracks, and into the galleries below the Ring of Cyrica. The minute he opened the door, her mannerisms changed. The reserved, quiet woman vanished, and in her place appeared the pompous factor of an Imperial lord. Though his arcane senses, he felt her emotions flicker as she concentrated upon the disguise. Her skills as an actress never failed to astound him. 

“If anyone asks,” murmured Caina. “I have hired you for the personal guard of my employer, Lord Quintus Camwallen of Caeria Ulterior.” 

Kylon nodded. If anyone questioned them, he would let her do the talking. She was better at it, and spoke Istarish more fluently than he did. 

She led the way into the main training room and came to a sudden halt. The room was large, at least twenty yards by twenty, its floor covered in rough sand. Racks along the walls held wooden training weapons, and light poured from skylights overhead. The air in here always smelled faintly of old sweat.

Six men stood at the far end of the room, clad in chain mail and leather, swords and daggers in their hands. Their eyes were hard and cold, and they fixed upon Kylon with predatory anticipation. Their leader was a huge man, nearly seven feet tall, his face disfigured with scars that pulled his lip into a permanent sneer.

“They’re Kindred assassins,” said Caina, her voice low, her hand disappearing into her robe. 

“Indeed they are, master merchant,” said a deep, amused voice. “A most astute observation. A pity it shall be your last.”

A wave of fury went through Kylon. He knew that voice. 

A man in a gold-trimmed robe of brilliant white came into sight, keeping behind the assassins. He had a dark face and a close-trimmed black beard turning to gray at the chin and the temples, and a jeweled turban rested upon his head. He looked dignified and solemn, the very image of a wise Master Alchemist. Kylon sensed the man’s emotions, and he felt the seething pride and arrogant contempt boiling within him.

And he also felt the cold, alien power of the nagataaru coiled within his chest.

“That’s him,” said Kylon, his voice flat. “That’s Malik Rolukhan. That’s the man that murdered my wife.” 

“The Red Huntress slew Lady Thalastre,” said Rolukhan with a smile. “I merely facilitated it. I confess I was shocked when you appeared in Istarinmul. Surely you would not be so foolish as to come here. But vengeance can drive a man to foolish ends.” 

“You will pay for what you have done,” said Kylon. “And I know what you are. You are a puppet of the nagataaru inside your skull.”

Caina said nothing, her eyes darting back and forth between the six Kindred assassins.

“Puppet?” said Rolukhan. “You misunderstand, exile. We are not puppets but partners. The nagataaru understand the true nature of life. The strong rule and the weak submit.”

“The nagataaru also feed on death and torment,” said Kylon.

“That,” said Rolukhan, “is a mere bonus.” His teeth flashed in his beard. “One that I enjoy very much. Ikhardin!” 

“Master?” said the leader of the assassins.

“Kill the Kyracian,” said Rolukhan. “Oh, the Imperial merchant as well. I would prefer to leave no witnesses behind.” 

The six Kindred assassins started forward, weapons raised.

Chapter 4: Sifting

Cassander Nilas, magus of the Umbarian Order, had seen numerous strange things in his life. He had defeated foes with the power of his sorcery, crushing them in the iron grip of his arcane strength. He had summoned spirits of the netherworld and bound them to his will. His mastery of the dangerous arcane sciences of necromancy and pyromancy had grown ever stronger, his control finer. All of this he had survived only by cultivating iron self-discipline, the willpower to continue in the face of any obstacle. 

It look every bit of that self-discipline to keep from killing the fools at his dining table. 

After a moment he realized that Ulvan had finally stopped talking. 

“Please, Master Slaver,” said Cassander, rebuking himself for the lapse. “Do continue.” 

Cassander sat in the audience hall of the Umbarian ambassador’s residence in Istarinmul, a building in the Alqaarin Quarter that had once been an abandoned palace. Istarinmul offered more prestigious locations, but the palace suited Callatas’s purposes. It was small and had thick walls, providing for easy defense. Its cellars went deep and linked to the sewers and the catacombs, offering a convenient way for covert agents to come and go unseen.

And to dispose of corpses and failed experiments. 

For a moment he entertained the fantasy of taking the Master Slavers to the cellars, but discarded the idea. 

“I fought as fiercely as I could, but the Balarigar had the strength of ten demons!” said Ulvan. The Master Slaver was grossly obese, a thick beard covering his jowls, and wore the ornate robe and the black leather hood of his rank. The beard did not quite conceal the livid scars left where the Balarigar had driven Ulvan’s brand into his face. “He defeated me through treachery, and then flung me over my own balcony and left me to dangle by a chain.” He swept a thick arm at his legs. His ornate robes failed to conceal the crooked angles of his knees, which had never healed right. Though Cassander supposed Ulvan had rarely gone about on his own feet even before the Balarigar had crippled him.

“And so the man escaped,” said Cassander.

He wondered how Ulvan would react if he knew that a woman had destroyed his fortune and crippled him. It would have been entertaining, to say the least. 

“Because of Ulvan’s failure,” said a cadaverous Master Slaver named Konyat, “the villainous Balarigar turned his attention to me.” The Balarigar had also turned Konyat’s own brand upon him, marking both of his cheeks, and if the rumors were true, Konyat’s buttocks. Cassander had no desire to confirm that particular rumor for himself. “He slipped into my bedroom through trickery, drugged me, and left me to hang from the ceiling until my cowardly slaves worked up the nerve to free me in the morning.”

“Perhaps you ought to be grateful,” said Cassander, “that they simply didn’t slit your throat, rob your palace, and depart.”

“Not that the Balarigar would have left anything worth stealing,” said another Master Slaver. 

“And our slaves revere us,” said Konyat. “They may hate and fear their betters, but they respect us more, for we bring order and purpose to their otherwise meaningless lives.” 

The other cowled masters murmured their agreement, and again Cassander’s contempt threaten to boil out of control. What utter fools! They deserved to have the Balarigar rob them. And these were some of the leading men of Istarinmul! Little wonder the Umbarian Order had to bring order to the world, if fools such as these led the nations.

Talking them had been a waste of time. They knew nothing about Caina Amalas that Cassander had not already discovered. He thought again about killing the cowled masters, but dismissed the thought. There was no reason to make an enemy of the Brotherhood, and they might prove useful later. 

“My friends,” said Cassander, rising and bowing, “I thank you for your counsel. The Balarigar has enemies among the Umbarian Order as well, and the Provosts have ordered me to hunt down this thief and kill him.” That, at least, was mostly true. “Your counsel shall be of great use to me in the days to come.” That was definitely not true. “Urgent business calls me away, I fear, but I urge you to enjoy the meal.”

The cowled masters rumbled their assent. Cassander turned and spotted one of the servants he had brought from Rasadda. The man hastened over and bowed.

“Bid Maria to join me in the laboratory, and tell her to bring the female slave we discussed,” he said, and the servant scurried away. 

Cassander left the dining hall and descended to the cellars. The stairs ended in a massive steel door, sorcerous wards crackling over it. Two silent Adamant Guards stood watch before the door, their armor grafted to their scarred flesh, the power of the spells bound to their limbs shimmering against Cassander’s senses. They bowed at his approach, and Cassander disarmed the wards and stepped into his laboratory. 

The room had once been the palace’s wine cellar, but Cassander had put it to better use. Rows of books and scrolls filled shelves upon one wall, and an elaborate double circle, five yards across, had been cut into the floor, ringed with warding glyphs and spells. Steel tables equipped with shackles proved useful for his research into necromancy, and a long table held various instruments of brass and silver. Enspelled glass globes upon iron stands provided ample light. 

Maria Nicephorus was waiting for him. She had once been a noble of a Nighmarian family before joining the Magisterium and then the Umbarian Order, and now she served at his command. Like Cassander, she wore the formal garb of the Umbarians – a long coat of dark leather, enspelled to turn aside weapons, gleaming black boots, black trousers, a white shirt, and a golden medallion adorned with the winged skull sigil of the Umbarians. She had long black hair bound in a braid and gray eyes that glittered at his approach. Next to her stood an Istarish slave girl of about eighteen, her eyes downcast, her dark hair hanging loose around her face. 

“Lord Cassander,” said Maria with a bow.

“She is ready, as we discussed?” said Cassander, scrutinizing the slave girl. The slave cringed away from his gaze.

“Yes, lord,” said Maria. “She has been prepared.” 

“Good,” said Cassander. He pointed at the slave. “Remain silent and do not speak or move until I command it.”

The girl offered a timid nod.

“I am ready,” said Maria, “to assist with any spells you might…”

He grabbed the front of her coat, pulled her close, and kissed her roughly upon the lips without a trace of gentleness. She froze for an instant, and then responded, pulling herself close against him. A few moments later he had her out of her clothes, and then he took her upon the stone floor, listening to her moan and feeling her writhe beneath him. He was certain that she was not enjoying herself as much as she pretended, but he did not care.

He required a clear mind for what he intended next, and this was one of the best ways to clear his mind. The fact that he enjoyed it a great deal was almost irrelevant. 

After he finished, Cassander rose to his feet and retrieved his clothes, while Maria gathered up her scattered garments. The slave girl stood motionless and rigid, fear and embarrassment warring across her face. 

Cassander pointed at her. “Stand in the center of the circle. Now.” She moved to obey, walking into the center of the double circle. “Maria.” She looked at him, clad in only her shirt and trousers. “The circle.”

“We begin, my lord?” said Maria.

“We begin,” said Cassander. “Tonight we work the death of the Balarigar.” 

Maria nodded and cast a spell, the symbols within the circle flaring with blue light. The circle itself pulsed and throbbed with the same glow, almost seeming to shimmer in a cylinder of blue light around the slave girl. The terrified girl looked back and forth, her dark eyes wide.

“Masters,” she said, her voice quavering, “I am…I am an obedient slave, I will do whatever you wish of me, but please, please don’t hurt me, please…”

Cassander smiled at her. “Fear not, child. I promise you this shall not hurt.”

She offered a tremulous smile, and Cassander raised his right arm. He wore a gauntlet of black steel over his hand, a crimson bloodcrystal glowing upon its back. Cassander had fashioned it himself, and it allowed him to wield pyromantic forces without destroying his sanity in the process. He would not need it quite yet, but soon.

Cassander closed his hand, the metal fingers of the gauntlet clanking as he cast a spell.

Invisible force closed around the girl, snapping her neck and killing her in an instant. Cassander supposed it hadn’t been painless, but it had been close enough. She collapsed in a heap to the ground, her glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling. 

“My lord?” said Maria, pushing some loose strands of hair from her face.

“Consider how far we have come,” said Cassander. “In the Empire, slavery was illegal, the sciences of necromancy and pyromancy forbidden. Now we can conduct our researches with a free hand, unencumbered by archaic systems of morality. Consider how much we have learned, even in a year and a half. Consider how far we shall advance our science, to what heights we shall lift mankind.” 

“Yes, my lord,” said Maria.

Cassander felt his smile widen. “And all it shall take to defeat the Empire and advance the cause of the Order is the death of one ragged little Ghost nightfighter.” 

The High Provost had sent him to secure Istarinmul’s alliance against the Emperor. The Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon and the Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku might rule Istarinmul in name, but Grand Master Callatas ruled it in truth. Caina Amalas had been a tremendous thorn in Callatas’s side, and the Grand Master wanted her dead. He wanted her dead so badly, in fact, that if Cassander slew her, Callatas would side with the Order against the Empire. He would open the Starfall Straits to the Order’s fleet, and they could sail through the Straits and strike at Malarae. The Empire would fall to the Umbarian Order within a year. 

And all Cassander had to do was kill Caina Amalas. 

He was under no illusions that it would be easy. The woman had proven herself to be damnably clever, and had thwarted the Imperial Magisterium on multiple occasions. For that matter, she had operated in Istarinmul for a year and a half, and neither the Teskilati nor any bounty hunters had been able to catch her. Even more impressive, Callatas had sent the Red Huntress after her, and somehow Caina had slain the dangerous assassin. The Red Huntress had slaughtered half the high magistrates of New Kyre in one night, yet Caina had managed to kill her. 

This was not a woman to underestimate. 

Which was why Cassander was not going to kill her himself. 

He took several deep breaths, clearing his mind and focusing his will. When his mind was prepared, he began casting the spell, gesturing with his armored right hand. Fire blazed to life around his fingers, and the light in the circle turned from blue to a harsh yellow-orange, the color of a flame devouring a house. The air within the circle shimmered as the walls between the mortal world and the netherworld, the realm of spirits, thinned inside its boundary. Cassander’s will reached into the netherworld, and he called out.

Something answered his summons. 

The dead slave girl twitched, her limbs jerking as if upon invisible strings. Her head rolled back, her mouth yawning open, and hellish crimson flames filled her mouth and her eyes. The jerking stopped, and the girl’s head rotated back and forth.

She climbed to her feet in one smooth motion, her burning eyes fixed upon Cassander. 

“Sorcerer,” she said. The voice was far deeper than any human voice, and hissed and snarled like a roaring fire. “You dare to summon me once more?”

“Sifter,” said Cassander. “Such a pleasure to meet you again.”

Maria looked back and forth between them, her gray eyes wide.

And frightened.

As well she should be, if she recognized the powerful spirit within the circle.

Cassander had joined the Umbarian Order in secret soon after becoming a novice of the Magisterium, eager to expand his powers beyond the Magisterium's strictures. Chief among those forbidden abilities had been the summoning and binding of elemental spirits, knowledge that the Magisterium claimed had been lost after the destruction of Caer Magia, but had been secretly preserved by the Umbarian Order. After becoming a full brother the Magisterium, Cassander had expanded his abilities further, traveling to Istarinmul to research the lore of lost Iramis. 

And there he had learned about the ifriti, the raging elementals of fire, and he had summoned the Sifter. 

The djinn had an organized kingdom in the netherworld, albeit one organized along principles incomprehensible to mortal minds. The ifriti were wild loners, waging war against each other and all other spirits. Some kingdoms of spirits pursued their own goals and purposes, locked in war against each other for uncounted millennia. The ifriti simply cared for destruction, and wanted to destroy as much as possible. 

And the Sifter was an exceedingly powerful ifrit. Twice before Cassander had summoned the spirit, sending it against his rivals within the Magisterium. Twice before the Sifter had disposed of his enemies. 

Now the Sifter would do it a third time. 

“I have,” said Cassander. “a task for you.”

He felt the Sifter’s fury pressing against his will. “You dare to command me?” 

“You shall kill for me,” said Cassander. “You shall devour my enemy for me.” 

Against the spirit’s wrath washed against him, but Cassander’s will stood fast, buttressed by the power of the summoning circle upon the floor. Sweat broke out on Cassander’s forehead, and for a moment he was not sure he could contain the furious spirit. 

Then the dead slave girl shuddered, and the crimson fires in her eyes brightened.

“Who shall die?” said the Sifter. “Who shall I burn?”

“You will find and kill Caina Amalas,” said Cassander. “The daughter of Sebastian Amalas and Laeria Scorneus. She is a nightfighter of the Ghosts. Find her and kill her.”

He expected the Sifter to accept, eager for the kill, or to refuse and fight him.