Ghost Relics (4 page)

“This way,” said Admete, her voice soft as she led them down a narrow stone street. Tombs stood on either side, their domes rising overhead.

“We’re going to one of the old plague tombs, aren’t we?” said Caina.

“We are,” said Admete, glancing back. “How did you know?”

“Plague tombs?” said Nerina. 

“Several centuries ago a minor plague struck Istarinmul,” said Caina. “It was not very virulent, but it killed in a painful manner. The Istarish feared infection enough that they sealed the plague victims in leaden coffins, and then buried them in lead-lined tombs.” 

“Why hide the trapbox there?” said Nerina. “Choosing a plague tomb would vastly increase the variables, to say nothing of the risk of infection.”

Admete scoffed. “We are more likely to be killed by Tarnsiar than by plague.”

“So long as the coffins remain sealed it should be safe enough,” said Caina. “And a sufficient amount of lead can disrupt certain kinds of divinatory sorcery.” 

“That is correct,” said Admete. “How did you know?”

“I learned it the hard way,” said Caina. “How did you know?”

Admete laughed. “You think I am a sorceress, plotting to steal the relic? No. For one, the Anshani kill any women who manifest arcane power. Also, Tarniar has a lead-lined room in his tower in Anshan. The occultists spy upon each other frequently, and Tarniar wanted somewhere to conduct certain dealings in private.”

“Why don’t more people build lead-lined rooms, then?” said Nerina. “It seems the logical end of the equation.”

“Lead is expensive,” said Admete. 

“So are sorcerers skilled in divination,” said Caina. 

They walked deeper into the Tomb Quarter’s shadows. Caina felt the pulsing power of the ancient wards upon the tombs, spells old and strong and mighty. Her eyes scanned the shadows, watching the darkness for any sign of attackers. She saw no one, and heard nothing, save for the faint rustling as the occasional monkey moved about. Admete led them up a set of stone stairs to the crest of a hill. Caina looked back and saw the city stretching away to the south, the Golden Palace and the College of Alchemists gleaming with their sorcerous illumination. 

“Here,” said Admete, stopping before a leaden door set in a stone arch. Caina saw that the door had once been sealed, but someone had forced it open. “We secured it in here.”

“Azaces,” said Caina, and he handed over one of the two lanterns he had been carrying. Caina lit one and Azaces lit the other, while Admete pushed open the door. Together they descended into the tomb, the lanterns throwing back the light. The stairs ended in a large vaulted chamber, lead plates clicking beneath Caina’s boots. A double row of lead coffins ran down the length of the floor, at least forty of them, while niches upon the walls held hundreds of urns. Caina supposed the wealthier victims of the ancient plague had received coffins, while the poor had been burned and poured into the urns. 

The Strigosti trapbox sat between two pillars.

It was the largest trapbox Caina had ever seen, a massive cube of black metal easily the size of three coffins put together. Elaborate, stark reliefs adorned its sides, and Caina saw dozens of tiny slits marking the side of the box. If anyone attempted to force the lid without disarming the traps, blades smeared with a lethal poison would erupt from the box. 

“Gods,” said Caina. “That thing must weigh a thousand pounds. No wonder you didn’t want to move it. How did you get it up here?”

“Sailors,” said Admete, pulling back her hood and tugging off her turban, revealing black hair shot through with gray. “A group of Kyracian traders, passing through the Straits. Paid them to carry the damned thing up here. Since they were leaving for New Kyre the next day, I didn’t have to worry about them talking to anyone.”

Caina laughed. “Clever.” 

“Can you open it?” said Admete to Nerina.

But Nerina had already crossed the room, muttering equations to herself. She knelt next to the trapbox, running her hands over the elaborate metal reliefs, tapping them with her fingernails and listening to the sound. Then she produced a small notebook, propped it on her knee, and started scribbling.

Caina set her lantern near the box, giving Nerina light to work, and Azaces did the same. 

“Mistress Strake?” said Admete. “Are you…is she…”

“She’s fine,” said Caina as Nerina produced a leather bundle of tools and started disassembling the corner of the trapbox. “That’s what she does when she’s enjoying herself. Though if that box starts clicking or vibrating, we should probably run.” 

“A good idea,” said Admete, eyeing the trapbox.  

“Do you have any idea what Tarniar found in the ruins?” said Caina. 

Admete shrugged. “Some gold coins. Some jewels. A few old papyrus scrolls.” Caina remembered the Maatish scroll that had brought her father to his death. “An idol, too, this ugly golden statue of a man with an…an insect for a head.”

“Insect?” said Caina. 

“A beetle, I think,” said Admete. “I never liked beetles.”

“A scarab,” said Caina. A scarab-headed man was the symbol of Anubankh, the ancient Maatish god of necromancy. Such idols were often imbued with potent necromantic powers. In the wrong hands it could do tremendous harm. 

Odd that Caina didn’t feel any sorcerous aura from the trapbox. Perhaps Tarniar had lined it with lead or even ghostsilver to conceal its contents from sorcerous detection. 

She watched as Nerina worked. Caina had disarmed a few Strigosti trapboxes and had even managed to survive the process. Yet this box was far beyond Caina’s skills. 

She hoped it wasn’t beyond Nerina’s. 

Suddenly Caina felt the tingling presence of a sorcerous aura.

She stepped back in alarm, reaching for the ghostsilver dagger in her belt.

“What?” said Admete. “What is it? Is the trap going off?”

“Of course not,” said Nerina. She paused. “Unless I miscalculated a variable. Then, yes, we’re all going to die. Other than that, we’re fine.”

“That is not reassuring,” said Admete.

“Someone’s casting a spell,” said Caina. 

“You can…feel spells?” said Admete. “Then you are a sorceress? That’s why you want the relic?”

“No,” said Caina. “I’ve been hit by spells enough that I know when one’s coming. I think something in the box is activating…no, that’s not it.” She turned towards the stairs, and Azaces drew his massive scimitar with a steely hiss. “We’ve been found.”

Boots slapped against the stone stairs, and a man in a bright robe and turban staggered into the tomb, his eyes glassy and unfocused. 

“Yestik?” said Admete. “What the devil are you doing here? I thought you had run off and…”

She started forward, and Caina grabbed her wrist.

“Wait,” said Caina. “Look at his shadow.”

Admete frowned, and her eyes grew wide.

Yestik’s shadow was pointing towards the lanterns.

“Yestik,” said Admete. “What happened to you?”

“He served,” said a deep voice, “a useful purpose. Possibly the first useful purpose he ever served in his life. A purpose that is now fulfilled.”

Yestik’s eyes rolled up into his head, blood pouring from his mouth and nose and ears as his shadow slithered around him like a hungry serpent. He collapsed motionless to the ground, his eyes glassy and staring. 

Nerina kept working, paying no attention to the dead man.

“What the hell?” said Admete, yanking a dagger from her belt. “What happened to him?”

“My dear Admete,” said the deep voice, “I am surprised you have not realized it yet.”

A tall man with black hair and a long, gray-streaked beard stepped into the tomb, the hem of his ornate black robes whispering against the lead-plated floor. He moved with calm, easy confidence, and Caina felt the potent sorcerous power radiating from him. 

That explained the three black shadows swirling around his feet like writhing banners of smoke. 

“Tarniar,” said Admete, her voice tight with fear. 

Caina took a step away from Admete, closer to the lanterns. Azaces growled and raised his massive scimitar. Nerina seemed oblivious to the danger, and kept poking at the intricate maze of mechanisms within the trapbox. 

“A lead-lined tomb,” said Tarniar. “Clever. I should have realized it sooner.” He glanced at Yestik’s bleeding corpse. “Fortunately, our mutual friend was able to guide me here with a minimum of difficulty.”

“What did you do to him?” said Admete.

Tarniar grinned, his teeth white in his tangled gray beard. “I simply persuaded him to help me. He should be grateful, really. The traditional punishment for a thief is the loss of a hand. Though a man foolish enough to steal from an occultist of Anshan is usually crucified. Making his death useful was more merciful than he deserved.”

Admete opened her mouth and closed it again, her eyes wide with fear. 

“You,” said Tarniar, pointing at Caina. “I do not care who you are or why you are here, but you will leave at once. This is not your concern. Meddle with my business, and you will learn what it is to earn the wrath of an occultist of Anshan.” 

“I know what’s in the box,” said Caina. “I cannot let you take it.”

Tarniar laughed. “Who are you, then? An agent of the Imperial Magisterium? Or the College of Alchemists, perhaps? You wish to claim the idol for yourself?”

“I want to see it destroyed,” said Caina. “Maatish necromancy is too dangerous to be used.”

“Fool,” said Tarniar. “I shall take the power and use it to make Anshan strong. The world is changing, and chaos rises around us. The Padishah of Istarinmul shall fall, and civil war burns in the Empire. Ancient horrors stir in the dark places of the world. The day of the golden dead proved that. With the power of the idol, I will be the strongest occultist in Anshan, stronger than even Yaramzod the Black himself. The Shahenshah shall heed my wisdom, and I will lead Anshan to a new age of glory.” 

“Or you’ll get yourself killed,” said Caina, “along with many other people.” 

“Perhaps,” said Tarniar, stepping forward, his shadows slithering and whispering around him. “Or perhaps you shall be the first to perish, if you are foolish enough to aid this wretched thief in her folly. Stand aside, or I shall…”

A loud click echoed through the tomb.

“Of course,” said Nerina, straightening up with a sigh. “The torsion of the central gear was insufficient.” The trapbox clicked again, shuddered, and the massive lid rose a few inches. She sighed, stretched, and looked around. “Oh. Is something happening?” 

“A few things,” said Caina.

“Leave now,” said Tarniar, “or else I shall…”

Caina took three quick steps to Nerina’s side, opened the lid of the trapbox, and looked inside. Several pouches of ancient Maatish coins lay at the bottom of the massive box, loose coins and gems scattered amongst them. There was a bundle of old papyrus scrolls, which Caina would destroy if they lived through this. In their midst stood a foot-high statue of a man wearing a linen kilt, a staff topped with a solar disc in his right hand. Instead of a head, he had a stylized scarab.

It was an idol of Anubankh, the Maatish god of necromancy. 

“Enough!” roared Tarniar, flinging out his hands, and Caina felt the surge of arcane power. 

His three shadows rolled across the floor, whipping back and forth like serpents. One coiled around Admete, who screamed as the coil of darkness lifted her into the air. Azaces charged in silence, but Tarniar gestured, and his second shadow lashed towards the towering Sarbian. It lifted him into the air, the shadow holding him easily.

The final shadow rolled towards Caina.

Tarniar’s sorcery was not like the psychokinetic blasts of an Imperial magus, the transmutations of an Istarish Alchemist, or the wind and water of a Kyracian stormsinger. He commanded the shadows of the netherworld, its spirits and creatures, and forced them to do his bidding. 

And Caina knew how to make herself unseen to those creatures. 

She reached under her cloak and yanked, letting her shadow-cloak fall around her, and pulled up the cowl to cover her head. The shadow-cloak was a wondrous garment, blacker than a starless night and almost weightless. It merged and melded with the darkness around Caina, granting her far greater ability to move unseen. It also shielded her thoughts from divinatory spells and mind-altering sorcery.

A useful side-effect was that it rendered her invisible to spirits of the netherworld.

The shadow stopped a few paces from Caina, hissing and whispering. Nerina took several hasty steps back, her blue eyes filled with concern as she stared at Azaces, while Azaces and Admete struggled in the grip of Tarniar’s other two shadows.

“What is this?” said Tarniar. “How did you do that? You are another sorcerer?” He didn’t recognize the shadow-cloak, which was good, since it meant he didn’t know that she was a Ghost. 

“Let them go,” said Caina. She saw Nerina reach into her loose coat, saw her produce a small crossbow loaded with a steel dart. The dart’s head had been darkened with poison. 

“Or else?” said Tarniar.

Caina looked into the trapbox, at the idol of Anubankh. Still she felt no sorcerous power from it, and a suspicion grew in her mind.

She nodded to Nerina.

The locksmith raised her bow and squeezed the trigger. The weapon shuddered and spat its dart at Tarniar. His third shadow rose off the floor in a black wave and caught the dart in midair, ripping it to splinters. 

“You think mere weapons of steel and wood can harm me?” said Tarniar, sneering behind his beard. “I, who command the shadows of the netherworld? Enough! Surrender or I shall kill you all.”

Caina stooped and snatched up the idol. The thing felt lighter, far lighter, than a statue of gold should. 

“Let them go,” said Caina, “or I’ll destroy this.”

“Fool,” said Tarniar. “You cannot destroy an object of such power. Not before I stop you, anyway.” His third shadow crawled closer, like a hand groping across the floor of a darkened room. “Then you’ll wish that you had surrendered to me.” 

Caina looked at him, at the idol in her hand, and then back at Tarniar.

Suddenly she realized that he was a fool. A powerful fool, a dangerous fool, but a fool nonetheless. He had made a tremendous mistake, a mistake that Caina could exploit.