Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6) (2 page)

Yet Caina did know that those who had defeated the nagataaru before could not do so now. Iramis had burned. The Court of the Azure Sovereign had vanished. The Padishah had disappeared, and the Grand Wazir and many of the emirs and magistrates were under Callatas’s heel. 

Which meant that if Callatas’s Apotheosis was to be stopped, it was up to Caina. It was up to the Ghosts of Istarinmul and any allies they could find. Caina thought again of the soldiers in the Bazaar. Istarinmul was about to erupt in civil war, and yet the horrors of a civil war were not as terrible as what Callatas might do if he succeeded. 

Caina had to see this to the end, no matter how bitter.

No matter what it might cost her. 

Sulaman finished his recitation, and the merchants and nobles came to their feet, applauding and cheering. The Istarish did like their poetry, the gloomier the better. Mazyan traded his drum for a bowl, and the patrons formed a line, dropping coins into the bowl as they filed past the dais. Caina finished her coffee and got to her feet, joining the line. She dropped a pair of silver coins into the bowl, and Sulaman’s dark eyes regarded her for a moment.

“Collector,” he said. Was there the faintest hint of amusement in his voice? If anyone would see the irony of her disguise, he would. 

“Master poet,” said Caina. “A fine recitation.”

“Your praise warms my ears,” said Sulaman. “Wait in the courtyard behind the House a moment, if you please.” 

“Why?” said Caina, uncertain. The courtyard behind the House of Agabyzus would be deserted this time of night, making it the perfect place for a quiet conversation. 

Or a quiet murder.

“You shall be in no danger,” said Sulaman.

Mazyan grunted, his scowl intensifying. Evidently he did not agree. 

“No immediate danger, let us say,” said Sulaman. “Beyond those that presently confront you.” 

“Very well, master poet,” said Caina, offering him a polite bow. She bought another cup of coffee and walked out the front door. It was getting late for coffee, but it would keep Caina alert, and she had a long night ahead of her once she left the House. 

Assuming, of course, that Sulaman did not kill her. 

That was absurd. Sulaman had given her a great deal of aid in the past. If he wanted to kill her, he had passed numerous opportunities to do so. 

Though Caina had been wrong before. 

With that cheery thought in mind, she went to the courtyard. It was deserted and empty, the dry fountain stood undisturbed in the center. Beneath the fountain was a secret entrance to the Sanctuary of Istarinmul’s Ghosts, where Caina had secured a great many supplies. She sipped at the coffee and looked at the back door, idly glancing for any knives hidden in the dust. A few weeks past, she had put on her best dress and makeup and gone out that door with the intention of meeting Kylon, of going someplace alone with him and…seeing what would happen next. 

The knife in the dirt had stopped her cold. Someone was following Caina. Someone was leaving those knives in the dust for her to find. She didn’t know who or why, though she was certain her stalker had no benevolent purpose. 

She gazed at the door, a fresh wave of sadness going through her. Perhaps it was just as well the knife had stopped her from going to Kylon. Almost certainly Caina’s shadow war against Callatas and his servants would get her killed. When that happened, anyone around her would die as well. Better that Kylon was nowhere near Caina when her enemies at last found her.

Caina blinked a few times, staring at the door, and took another sip.

Well. At least the coffee was good. 

The door swung open, the kitchen firelight spilling into the courtyard. Mazyan stepped out, his hand on his scimitar hilt, his eyes sweeping back and forth beneath his bristling brows. Caina had the distinct impression that the darkness did not trouble him. The bodyguard scowled at her, then jerked his head toward the door.

Sulaman stepped into the courtyard, a tall shadow in the gloom. 

“Master poet,” said Caina.

“Balarigar,” said Sulaman in his quiet, deep voice. 

“You know,” said Caina, “the reward on my head is over two million bezants now. If you turned me in to the Grand Wazir, you could live in wanton luxury for the rest of your days and still die with a vast fortune.”

“Ah,” said Sulaman, and his stern face flickered in a brief smile. “You think I have lured you here to kill you, then?” 

Caina shrugged. “It’s how I would do it.”

Mazyan let out a disapproving rumble. 

“No, you are in no danger from me,” said Sulaman. “I told you once that I wish what is best for the people of Istarinmul. Killing you would not be in their interest. And why should I wish to live in idle luxury? I enjoy reciting the epic poems of my nation.” He almost sounded wistful. “It is the closest thing to honest labor I have ever performed.”

“I see,” said Caina, considering that. Did that mean Sulaman was an Istarish noble? One, like Tanzir, dissatisfied with Callatas’s murderous hand upon Istarinmul? 

“Perhaps it is time,” said Sulaman, “for some plain speaking between us.”

“I would welcome that,” said Caina. “Are you going to tell me who you really are?”

“No,” said Sulaman. “No more than you are.”

“I don’t need to tell you who I am,” said Caina. “Walk a few yards until you see a bounty decree. It shouldn’t take long. Then you’ll know who I am.” 

“You know,” said Sulaman, “something of me already. You know the gift and the curse of my blood.” Suddenly she felt a sorcerous aura flare to life around him. “You know I am blessed and burdened with visions of the future.”

“Yes,” said Caina. Her mouth went a little dry. Sulaman had told her of his visions, and they usually heralded some deadly danger. “You’ve had another one?”

“You speak truly,” said Sulaman, and his eyes flickered with gray light, similar to the eerie light that came from an opened Mirror of Worlds. “You are about to undertake a great task. A terrible and dangerous task, yet one that you must perform.”

Caina’s mouth went a little drier. “This is so.” Even now Nasser was preparing their expedition to retrieve the legendary Staff and Seal of Iramis from the Tomb of Kharnaces. 

“And you have no other choice?” said Sulaman. “You must do this?”

“I must,” said Caina. “If I can do this, I can stop Callatas. I can make sure the Apotheosis never happens.”

“Then they have been found,” said Sulaman. “The Staff and Seal. The loremaster Annarah has returned to the waking world.”

Caina said nothing. For Sulaman, that was as good of an answer.

“Caina Amalas,” said Sulaman, and Caina blinked, stunned. Sulaman had never called her by name before. “Listen to me. I have seen a vision. If you undertake this task, if you claim the Staff and the Seal, then you shall surely die.” 

“You mean you see the possibility of death before me,” said Caina.

“No,” said Sulaman. “I see the certainty of your death.”

“You’ve death in my future before,” said Caina. “When I went to the Widow’s Tower. When I went the Maze, or when Callatas sent the Red Huntress after me. When you sent me to find Morgant the Razor.”

“That was only the possibility of death,” said Sulaman. “My visions are rarely certain…but when they are, they close around the future with the implacability of an iron shackle. Thrice before I have seen visions of such certainty, and thrice before men died.”

“There you go,” said Caina, trying to keep her voice light. “I’m a woman.” 

“If you undertake this task, if you take the burden of finding the Staff and the Seal, then you will die,” said Sulaman. “It is unavoidable. All paths lead to that fate.”

Caina said nothing, gazing at the poet. Mazyan looked back and forth, scowling at the courtyard. 

“Fine,” said Caina. “What happens if I don’t go after the Staff and the Seal?” 

Sulaman hesitated. “Callatas succeeds. All paths of the future then lead to his victory.”

“And if I do this?” said Caina. “If I take the Staff and the Seal and I…die, then what happens?”

“I do not know,” said Sulaman. “That future is clouded.” The gray gleam faded from his eyes. “My visions do not extend beyond that possible future.”

Caina said nothing for a long moment. She found herself thinking of Kylon. Of Nerina Strake and Azaces and Damla and the other Ghosts in Istarinmul. Her thoughts went further back, to those she had lost, to Corvalis and Halfdan and her father. 

Caina had been certain that she was about to die so many times. 

What was one more time?

“So be it,” said Caina. 

“You would do this, knowing it will lead to your death?” said Sulaman.

Caina shrugged. “You could be wrong.”

“No,” said Sulaman. “You may not believe me. But my vision is not wrong. Not in this.” 

“Everyone dies,” said Caina. “I should die doing something worthwhile.” She shook her head. “I started all this.”

“It started,” said Sulaman, “long before you or I were born.” 

“But I accelerated it,” said Caina. “I made the Brotherhood desperate. I destroyed the Inferno. I started the civil war. I didn’t meant to do any of that, but I did. Now I have to see it through to end.” She took a deep breath, and her voice came out mostly steady. “If that…if that means my death, then so be it.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Mazyan kept scowling. He seemed warier than usual for some reason.

“Caina Amalas,” said Sulaman, shaking his head. “If it was in my power to reward you, I would.” 

Caina laughed a little at that. “I’m a spy, master poet. A liar and a trickster and a schemer. People like me…I don’t think people like me get rewards. The best we can hope for is results.” She gazed up at the distant lights of the Golden Palace and the College of Alchemists for a moment. “Everyone in the city will die if Callatas succeeds.”

“Beyond all doubt,” said Sulaman. 

“Then maybe they can enjoy the rewards I will never have,” said Caina. 

For a long moment Sulaman was silent. For the first time since Caina had met him two years past, the poet seemed…tired, sad even. 

“Very well,” said Sulaman. “May the Living Flame go with you, for…”

Mazyan growled, shoved Sulaman back with one hand, and took several steps forward, his scimitar drawn. For an instant Caina thought the man had decided to attack her, and she yanked the ghostsilver dagger from its sheath. Mazyan ignored her, his eyes looking back and forth over the surrounding buildings. 

“What?” said Caina. “What is it?”

“It is,” said Mazyan. He fell silent, his scowl sharpening further. “It is…nothing. There is nothing there.” He shook his head, his anger plain. “But there should be. I do not understand.”

“We’ve lingered here long enough,” said Caina. “It’s time to go.”

“Agreed,” said Sulaman. “Farewell, Balarigar. I fear we shall not meet again in this life.” 

“Thank you for all your help,” said Caina, bowing again.

Sulaman bowed back, and then Mazyan escorted him from the courtyard. 

For a moment Caina stared after him, cold sadness heavy within her. She had known her death was likely, perhaps even certain, but to her Sulaman prophesy it with utter conviction was chilling. 

Perhaps it was just as well she hadn’t gotten any closer to Kylon. 

Caina rebuked herself. There was work to be done. 

She looked around the courtyard once more, trying to find what had spooked Mazyan. 

Nothing showed itself, and after a moment Caina left. 

###

The woman who now called herself Kalgri crouched upon the edge of the rooftop, wrapped in her stolen shadow-cloak, and watched Caina leave the courtyard.

She felt a mad smile spread across her face, the face that now so closely resembled Caina’s features now, and the Voice hissed and spat its hatred in her mind, urging her to kill, kill, kill. 

Patience, Kalgri reminded herself. Patience…but not for very much longer. 

The meddling poet’s enspelled guardian had almost detected Kalgri’s presence. Kalgri feared nothing, but she knew her limitations, and she did not want to fight the guardian in anything like a fair fight. She must have gotten sloppy, let the shadow-cloak’s cowl fall back long enough for the guardian to sense the power of the Voice. 

No matter. The poet, like Kalgri, knew his limitations, and would not meddle further. Kalgri was not stupid enough to attack Caina while the poet and his guardian were nearby.

She would wait until Caina was alone, until the moment had come at last. 

And then, at long last, Kalgri would strike down Caina and feast upon her death.

How Kalgri looked forward to seeing the knowledge in Caina’s eyes, the certainty and horror of her own death!

She would have giggled behind her mask, but she had been the Red Huntress for a very long time, and was far too experienced to let her cravings override her thinking. No, cautious patience was the best approach. Kalgri would wait, and then she would feast upon Caina’s death.

And then, if her plan for the Staff and the Seal held true…she would feast upon the death of an entire world.

How she thrilled to think of it!

Kalgri moved in silence from rooftop to rooftop, following Caina as she walked deeper into the Cyrican Quarter of Istarinmul.

Chapter 2: The Business Of Spycraft

Kylon of House Kardamnos sat alone a table in the wine shop, holding a clay cup of cheap, bitter wine and watching the patrons around him. 

His eyes kept straying to the bounty decrees posted to the shop’s door. 

The wine shop was an unremarkable place, a large brick vault little different than a hundred other cheap wine shops scattered throughout Istarinmul. Men, mostly laborers and poorer merchants, sat at long tables of cheap wood, drinking even cheaper wine in copious quantities. A dozen different games of cards and dice and chess were underway, and hulking bouncers kept close watch, making sure the gambling did not degenerate into violence.

Kylon could have killed all the bouncers in the space of a few heartbeats. They were not a threat to him. As far as he could tell, no one in the room was a threat. The emotions of the men washed over his arcane senses, drunkenness and amusement and boredom and anger, but no one paid any attention to him.