Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6) (20 page)

Cassander smirked at her. “He can try.”

“You had trouble fighting a single loremaster,” said Kalgri, “and she was one of the youngest and the weakest of her order.” She took a step towards him, grinning. “Callatas killed the others. All of them.” 

That was an excellent argument. Kalgri might have been twisted and insane, but she was nonetheless brilliant. Cassander marveled at the depths of her cunning. No matter what happened, she would kill Caina and feed upon a great deal of death. 

Perhaps even the death of an entire nation. 

Or Cassander’s death, as well.

But great power only came to those who took great risks, and the Staff and the Seal would give Cassander great power. Enough power to claim a place of preeminence among the Provosts of the Order. Perhaps even enough power to deal with Callatas himself, to repay that smug old wretch for the last year of frustration. True, Callatas had wiped out Iramis and the loremasters. 

But the loremasters hadn’t possessed the Staff and the Seal at the time, had they?

“I believe,” said Cassander, “that we shall need to procure a ship at once.”

Chapter 11: Knives and Liquor

Five days after they fled Istarinmul in haste, the
Eastern Fire
came to the harbor of Rumarah. 

Such as it was. 

Kylon stood on the galley’s prow, watching land approach. To the west he saw the empty, dead expanse of the Desert of Candles, the dust stirring in the cold wind that came from the desert. To the south and southwest he saw the vast brown reach of the Trabazon steppes, crossed endlessly by caravans on the Great Southern Road. Here and there he saw distant plumes of black smoke rising against the clear blue sky. It seemed the fighting had extended this far south.

The town of Rumarah squatted at the water’s edge like a fungus growing upon the shore of a pond. 

The harbor was a large, broad lagoon. Beyond rose the town itself, a ramshackle collection of wooden shacks and whitewashed Istarish houses and warehouses and taverns. The town had no walls, but Kylon suspected Rumarah was the sort of place where bandits came to trade and drink and whore, not to raid. The town seemed to have been built around a collection of ancient stone ruins. Kylon saw towers and walls, still beautiful despite the passage of years, the walls adorned with geometric designs while a seven-pointed star within a ring marked the sides of the towers. 

“Rumarah,” said a woman’s voice.

Kylon turned as Annarah approached, her silver hair stirring in the cold wind that came from the Desert. She was not old enough for her hair to have turned silver. Kylon wondered if it was a trait of Iramisian blood, or if her ordeals had aged her. 

“So it is,” said Morgant, trailing after Annarah. “It looks the worse for wear. Much as you do, Kyracian.” 

Come to think of it, spending too much time around Morgant would age anyone prematurely. 

“It wasn’t always like this,” said Annarah. “It was a beautiful city. The second port of the Prince’s realm, after Iramis itself. Ships from all over the world came here.”

“I fear,” said Nasser, Laertes at his side as he drew near, “that Rumarah was mostly abandoned after Callatas burned Iramis. The Grand Master had the Padishah sack the city, but by then it had been all but deserted. The ruins stood empty for some years, for the location was considered accursed, but the lagoon makes too fine a harbor. Corsairs, pirates, and independent slavers rebuilt Rumarah, and it has been active ever since. An emir sits in Rumarah and swears to the Padishah, but the man is more interested in profit than governance. So long as the corsair captains and the independent slavers pay protection money, the emir allows them to operate as they wish.” 

“Such a splendid den of iniquity,” said Morgant.

“You are sure we can find a trustworthy captain here?” said Kylon. “This corsair, this Sanjar Murat, might not be reliable.”

“Of course he is not reliable,” said Nasser. “Nevertheless, we have done business before, and he has always upheld his end of the bargain.”

“Captain Talazain has kept faith with us,” said Kylon. “Perhaps he could be hired to take us to Pyramid Isle.”

“That would be optimal,” said Nasser, “but Captain Talazain and his crew will not go anywhere near Pyramid Isle. Its reputation is too black. Murat has been there before, and will make the trip in exchange for sufficient payment.”

“Assuming he does not betray us,” said Kylon.

“Well,” said Morgant with a smile, “we’ll just have to encourage proper behavior from him.” 

“I’ll see to Talazain’s payment once we dock,” said Nasser. “Lord Kylon, go rouse Ciaran. We’ll want to head to the Corsair’s Rest at once. Rumarah is not a safe place, and the sooner we are back at sea, the better.”

“As opposed to a ship full of corsairs that wants to kill us?” said Morgant.

Nasser’s white smile flashed across his dark face, though it did not touch his eyes. “Why, that is what you are for, Markaine of Caer Marist. Perhaps you can paint them such a beautiful picture you could persuade the corsairs to repent of their wicked ways.” 

Morgant snorted. “You never did appreciate art.” 

“I’ll get Ciaran and meet you on the deck,” said Kylon. He did not want to listen to Morgant and Nasser have another one of their endless exchanges of polite insults. Strangely, both Nasser and Morgant seemed to enjoy their sparring on some level. Perhaps that was why Kylon had failed at politics. He had no taste for such things. 

He descended to the lower deck, made his way down the narrow corridor, and knocked on the door to Caina’s cabin. The crew slept on the deck or beneath the benches next to the oars, but Nasser’s gold had bought Kylon and the others individual cabins. Caina had retreated into her cabin as soon as the
Eastern Fire
had reached open water, and had only emerged a few times since. There hadn’t been much for her to do on the ship, and she was also still convinced that she was going to die. Isolating herself seemed to be her way of preparing for it. 

Kylon lifted his hand to knock and paused, a grim idea stirring at the back of her mind.

Isolated…

That seemed significant. It had started after she found those curved knives outside her various safe houses. Some shadow had been growing in her mind, chewing at her. It was almost as if…

As if it was deliberate. 

Kylon shook his head, trying to pull his suspicions into facts, and came up with nothing. These damned games with shadows. He wanted a sword, and an enemy at which to swing it. 

But he had wielded a sword and faced an enemy at the Tower of Kardamnos, and that had been one of the greatest failures of his life. If he didn’t want to repeat that experience, perhaps he should get better at shadow games. 

Kylon also realized he had been standing in front of the door of a woman he cared a great deal about for several minutes now, and laughed at himself. He could only imagine the comments if Morgant saw him.

He knocked. 

“It’s Kylon,” he said. 

The door opened a moment later. Caina still wore the caravan guard’s disguise, though he saw the knife concealed in her hand. She looked at him and smiled, some of the tension leaving her emotional sense. Again he felt the urge to kiss her. 

“We’re here?” she said. 

“Yes,” said Kylon. “Rumarah seems like a den of villainy.”

“Ah,” said Caina. She reached into the tiny cabin and drew out her satchel and pack. “After two years in Istarinmul, it’ll feel just like home.” 

###

Caina had been in some rough places during her time with the Ghosts, but Rumarah was one of the rougher ones.

She followed Nasser and the others from the harbor and into the town proper. The street ran next to an ancient Iramisian wall, its side adorned with the geometric designs the Iramisians had often placed upon their stonework. Despite its age, the wall and the ruined towers still had a faded grandeur. 

The same could not be said of the rest of the town. Houses and taverns had been thrown up haphazardly, the streets a twisting maze of crooked lanes and curving alleys. Armed men traveled in groups, hands on their weapons and wary eyes upon each other. It was a bit like moving through rival packs of wolves, and the air was tense with the threat of violence. Many of the men were independent slavers, Caina knew. The rival sultanates of Alqaarin did not have a centralized cartel for selling slaves like the Brotherhood of Istarinmul, which made the Alqaarin slavers more chaotic. Many of the slavers turned cold eyes towards Annarah, and had she been walking alone, Caina had no doubt Annarah would have been naked and chained in a slaver’s pen within the hour. 

Though if the slavers tried it, Morgant would get to amuse himself. 

They came to a sprawling bazaar at the foot of a half-crumbled Iramisian tower. Like the Bazaars of Istarinmul, merchant stalls filled the space, men crying their wares to anyone passing by. Unlike the Bazaars of Istarinmul, every single stall had an armed guard, sometimes more than one, and many of the merchants themselves carried multiple weapons. At the far end of the bazaar rose a garish-looking inn. It had been built in imitation of the great palaces of Istarinmul, complete with a massive dome over the central roof, though it had been painted a gaudy yellow. Two wings spread out from the central dome, fronted with marble, though Caina saw where the marble façade had fallen away to reveal the rough brick beneath.

“The Corsairs’ Rest,” said Nasser. “The finest tavern, inn, and brothel in Rumarah. The corsair captains and their officers spend their nights here when they are in port.”

Kylon grunted. “Along with the whores and the merchants hoping to relive the crews of their pay?”

“Sailors are the same the world over,” said Nasser. 

They came to the double doors of the Rest. Two scarred men in chain mail stood there, keeping watch on the market. One of the men bowed and opened the door, evidently recognizing Nasser, and Caina and the others followed him into the Rest’s common room. 

The room was a large round chamber, the dome rising overhead. Balconies ringed the walls, doorways leading to the private rooms. Slave women in tight, revealing dresses moved back and forth, carrying trays of food and drink, and men lounged upon chairs and benches, eating and drinking, the air heavy with the smell of wine and perfume. Sometimes the slave women went into one of the side rooms with a guest, money changing hands. Their clothes were so revealing that Caina was surprised that violence hadn’t broken out, but a dozen armed guards stood throughout the common room. Evidently the owner of the Corsair’s Rest had taken great steps to keep order. 

A flicker of regret and sorrow went through Caina as she looked at the enslaved prostitutes. That could easily have been her life. Had Halfdan not rescued her from Maglarion’s lair, had she fallen into the hands of a man of less principle. Or if Maglarion had decided to sell her to the Istarish slavers instead of letting her rot in a cell. The sorrow sharpened as she thought of Halfdan, the man who had made her what she was. 

If Sulaman’s prophecy was true, perhaps she would see him again soon.

She felt Kylon’s eyes upon her, but she did not look at him. 

“You’ve been here before?” said Annarah in a quiet voice.

“Several times,” said Nasser. “This is an ill place, but skilled men can be hired here.”

“And you didn’t enjoy the local amenities?” said Morgant. “I still think that Master Ciaran could use a woman to take the edge off.” He grinned at Caina. “He seems wound up. Ready to snap.”

Caina scowled at him.

“I’ve been saying that since Drynemet,” said Laertes.   

“Or the Kyracian, certainly,” said Morgant, still grinning. “What do you say, Laertes? We could all chip in and rent the Kyracian a woman for an hour.”

A wave of anger went through Caina, but she forced it from her face. 

“At your age,” said Caina, “I suppose the best you could hope for is to live vicariously.” 

Laertes laughed, and Morgant started to say something else.

“Morgant,” said Annarah. “This isn’t the time.” 

“Agreed,” said Nasser with glacial calm. “Especially since the man we wish to meet is here.” 

He led the way under one of the balconies to a group of men sitting at a long wooden table. They had the weathered skin of veteran sailors and the rough look of corsairs, with swords and daggers at their belts. About half were Istarish or Anshani, and half were Alqaarin, their skin darker than the bronze shade common among those of Istarish and Anshan birth. At the head of the table sat a huge Alqaarin man, nearly seven feet tall, clad in black boots, black trousers, and an open red coat that displayed an impressive expanse of muscled chest. His dark face was leathery and scarred, and he wore an elaborate plumed hat and a pointed black beard that framed gleaming white teeth. A leather bandolier stretched over his chest, holding a dozen throwing knives ready in their sheaths. An Istarish girl of about eighteen sat upon his lap, wearing a shift of translucent silk and nothing else, her arms thrown about the towering man’s neck. The man was smiling at the girl, but the smile faded as he looked at Nasser. 

“Well, well,” he rumbled in Istarish with a thick Alqaarin accent. “Look what the storm wind has blown into the harbor. Nasser the Glasshand himself.” He gave the girl a gentle push to her feet. “Run along. I have business to discuss.” He slapped her bottom and she scurried away. 

“Captain Sanjar Murat,” said Nasser. “How felicitous to see you once again.”

Murat snorted. “Still following this madman, Laertes? Come with me, and I’ll show you more gold than he ever could.”

Laertes shrugged. “Can’t spend gold if I’m dead, Captain.”

“All men die,” said Murat, rising to his feet. “A peculiar company you have this time, Glasshand. A Kyracian. An old man in a black coat.” Morgant grinned at a wolf’s grin at him, one predator assessing another. “A caravan guard.” Caina kept her expression blank. “And a most lovely woman.” He crossed to Annarah, doffed his plumed hat to reveal a shaved head, and offered her an elaborate bow. “Welcome to Rumarah, my vision of loveliness. You have the silver hair of a woman rich with wisdom, but the beauty of a rose in its bloom. Truly, one would think the ancient Iramisians walked among us again.”