Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) (8 page)

“That’s very sweet,” said Caina. She glanced at Agabyzus. “You didn’t tell me he was a charmer.” 

“It is indeed tragic my manhood was taken as a child,” said Moryzai, taking another bite of rice. “Truly, my wits would have made me one of the greatest seducers in history. Ah, well.” 

“Alas, I can conceal nothing from your keen wit, master Moryzai,” said Caina. “Suffice it to say, I represent my employer, and he wishes me to ask some questions of you.”

Agabyzus was too practiced a spy to smile, but she caught the faint twitch of amusement near his eyes.

“Fair enough,” said Moryzai. “Say on, then.” He stabbed another bit of lamb on his fork.

“What do you know,” said Caina, “about the Inferno?” 

The bit of lamb froze halfway to Moryzai’s mouth.

“I know that you once worked there,” said Caina. “I know that soon after you were trained as a scribe, you were sold to a new owner, and you accompanied him to the Inferno. I also know that you escaped at some point, made your way to Istarinmul, and established yourself as a forger here.” 

“Mmm,” said Moryzai. He put down his fork and glared at Agabyzus. “You know far too much about me.”

Agabyzus shrugged. “I merely observe. One cannot fault a man for that.”

“No,” said Moryzai.

“All that is true,” said Caina, “yet fails to answer my question.” 

“Clever as well as pretty,” said Moryzai. “Where did your employer find you? One can buy pretty women easily enough on the block – at least until the Balarigar destroyed the market for slaves – but they usually have nothing but hot air between their ears.”

“That is very flattering,” said Caina, “but still does not answer the question.”

“No,” said Moryzai. “Very well. I shall tell you what I know about the Inferno. But you will first tell your employer one thing.”

“What is that?” said Caina.

“That he is an utter fool,” said Moryzai. “I do not know if you are thieves or foreign spies or something else, but if your employer is wise he shall stay far away from the Inferno. All that awaits you within its walls are torment and death if you are fortunate…and torment and unending death if you are not.” 

Caina’s unease grew. Not for the first time she wished Annarah had picked somewhere else to hide. Yet her stratagem had worked. Callatas had searched for a hundred and fifty years and still had not found the Staff and Seal of Iramis. 

“I will convey that message to him,” said Caina. “Please, continue.”

Moryzai scoffed, but kept speaking. “You must understand something first.” He considered for a moment, and Caina waited. “I was born a slave upon an estate in Istarish Cyrica, and I thought I would spend my life toiling in my master’s fields. But I was clever, and I taught myself to read. So as a boy I was made a eunuch and trained as a scribe, yet I do not regret that in the slightest. Do you know why?”

Caina shook her head, fascinated by the strange fear on Moryzai’s face. 

“Because,” he said, “I saw what happened to the slaves who were sent to the Inferno to become Immortals. I do not think they have souls once the training is finished. Certainly they no longer have consciences.”

“Go on,” said Caina.

Moryzai blinked, shaking away the memories. “As I said, I was trained as a scribe, and sold from master to master. None of them had any complaint with my work. Then I was sold to Kurzir Shahan.”

Caina blinked. “Rezir Shahan’s father.” 

“Aye,” said Moryzai, surprised. “You knew him?”

She remembered the pain and shocked fear in Rezir’s eyes as she had killed him.

“I met him once,” said Caina. 

“Rezir had a reputation for cruelty,” said Moryzai, “but he was only a pale shadow of his father. I knew fear as Kurzir’s scribe, and lived in dread of making an error. Then Kurzir was appointed as the Lieutenant of the Inferno. I thought I had known fear before, but then I accompanied my master to his new post at the Inferno.” 

He fell silent, staring at the congealed sauces upon the nearest plate as if he had lost his appetite.

“Go on,” said Caina. 

“The Inferno is a fortress,” said Moryzai, “but it is entirely underground, beneath the southern mountains of the Vale of Fallen Stars. All the histories say the Maatish were master necromancers, but they were also superb engineers. They carved the Inferno out of the bones of the mountains, and it has never fallen to an army. Do you know why we call it the Inferno?”

Caina did, but she shook her head so Moryzai would keep talking. 

“Because it is the furnace,” he said, “where living men are destroyed and reforged as Immortals in the service of the Padishah. Or, more accurately, in the service of the Grand Master of the College of Alchemists. There are alchemical laboratories within the Inferno where the vile elixirs are prepared. There are halls where the slaves are forced to kill each other for the amusement of the Lieutenant, so their souls and hearts become inured to blood and death. There are chambers filled with instruments of torture, where those who fail in combat are taught the meaning of pain so they can become strong. Thousands have died inside the Inferno over the decades, thousands and thousands beyond count. Those who survive, those who endure the training and the torture and the elixirs of sorcery…they come out as something colder and harder and more malevolent than human.”

“Immortals,” said Caina. 

Little wondered Rolukhan served as Lieutenant of the place. Nagataaru feasted on death and pain, feeding some of that stolen energy back to their hosts, and the Inferno would be an eternal fountain of pain and misery. 

“Yes,” said Moryzai, his voice fading to a whisper. “The Immortals call the Inferno the Iron Hell, and they are not wrong to name it that. But even that, even all the tortures and horrors of the place, were not the worst of it. The dead walk the deepest halls of the Inferno.”

“Dead?” said Caina. “You mean undead?”

“Like the golden dead,” said Moryzai. “The Inferno was originally a Maatish fortress, remember, and the pharaohs and necromancer-priests commanded vast armies of the undead. According to legend, the Bloodmaiden destroyed Maat two thousand years ago, but not all the fortresses fell. Some held out and tried to carve petty kingdoms for themselves. In time the Inferno was abandoned, but its undead remained.” 

“Then the Inferno is filled with ancient Maatish undead?” said Caina. That was a disturbing thought. The undead Rhames had been a Great Necromancer of Maat, and if Caina had not stopped him he would have killed half the Empire and conquered the rest. “Why have they not overrun the fortress?”

“Because they remain confined to the lower halls,” said Moryzai. “No one can command them, not even the Grand Master himself. Yet they never leave the lower halls. Sometimes the Lieutenant will order a troublesome slave thrown into the lower halls as punishment. The undead slay their victims in short order, and the victims rise themselves as undead.”

Caina frowned. “So whoever is killed in the Inferno rises again as an undead creature? How does the Lieutenant keep the undead from overrunning the entire fortress?”  

“Pardon,” said Moryzai. “I was not clear. Only those slain in the lower halls, the Halls of the Dead, rise again. Those who are killed in training in the upper halls, or executed at the Lieutenant’s command, do not rise again. They, at least, get to escape the torment of the Inferno.” 

“As you did,” said Caina.

“By accident,” said Moryzai, his gurgling voice growing fainter. “It was a mistake. I…well, I have never been particularly graceful. The peril of using one’s mind to earn one’s bread, I suppose. My master Kurzir gave me a message to deliver, and as I hastened, I lost my balance and fell from one of the walkways and into the Halls of the Dead.”

“How did you escape?” said Caina.

Moryzai offered a sickly little smile. “I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I was younger and lighter in those days, and I could still run. The undead…they called out to me as I ran. The oldest demanded that I stop in the name of their pharaoh and his gods. The younger ones screamed the manner of their deaths and demanded that I share their fate. I managed to climb my way out and I fled the Inferno. By Istarish law, a slave who deserts his master is crucified, but I thought crucifixion preferable to remaining another moment in that awful place. I fled to the city and turned my skills to less legal but more profitable ends. I feared Kurzir’s vengeance, but in time he died and his son Rezir ascended to the Emirate of the Vale of Fallen Stars. I suppose he had other matters to occupy than my fate, and then the Balarigar slew him at Marsis, may the Living Flame roast his black soul. His brother Tanzir became emir in his place, and Tanzir was a bookish, quiet sort. Though I have heard he found his backbone of late, and is most angry with the Brotherhood of Slavers.” 

“Thank you,” said Caina. “I know it was not pleasant to revisit those memories, but your help is appreciated.” 

Moryzai’s account of the undead troubled her. Of all the tales she had heard of the Inferno, none of them had mentioned the undead. Of course, Samnirdamnus had hinted at it with his talk of ancient Maatish necromancy. Caina suspected that there was a Maatish relic buried somewhere in the Inferno, something that raised the undead and commanded them to defend the fortress. Though if that was true, she wondered why Callatas hadn’t claimed the relic or destroyed it. 

Maybe he didn’t care. 

No – even if he didn’t care, he would have destroyed the relic or claimed it to prevent his enemies from using it against him. 

Maybe the relic was too powerful for him to control or destroy. 

Or, worse yet, perhaps the relic was under the control of something else. Maybe one of the undead Great Necromancers of ancient Maat still lurked in the depths of the Inferno. The priest Rhames had been one of the Undying, and his sorcery had been so terrifyingly powerful that he had defeated the Moroaica in a battle of spells. If another sorcerer of Rhames’s potency waited beneath the Inferno… 

Moryzai was speaking. Caina rebuked herself and turned her thoughts back towards him.

“It is no trouble,” said Moryzai with an airy wave of his thick hand. “Your employer is paying for my fine dinner, after all.”

“A sum that could have bought food for five grown men,” said Agabyzus, eyeing the table.

Moryzai grinned and slapped his belly. “A sum that could have brought food for five lesser men, sir. I am may be a eunuch, but no man has a stomach as strong as mine.” His smile faded. “Tell your employer to take care, madam. I would not return to the Inferno for any reason. Not if you offered me every golden bezant in the Padishah’s treasury.”

“I shall,” said Caina. “Thank you.” She turned and left the private dining room, Agabyzus following her. 

“He is right, you know,” murmured Agabyzus. “To warn you against going to the Inferno.” 

Caina nodded.

“Is it truly vital that you do this?” said Agabyzus, glancing towards the common room. “To go to the Inferno?”

“It is,” said Caina. “If we survive it, I shall tell you more. But…it is vital. It is absolutely vital. The fate of Istarinmul and maybe the rest of the world depends on it.”

“I see,” said Agabyzus, his gaunt face hardening with understanding. He had seen the wraithblood laboratory in the Widow’s Tower, had seen the nagataaru possess Ricimer’s corpse. “Then may the Living Flame be with you.”

“May the Living Flame be with us all,” said Caina. “For I fear we shall surely need all the help we can find.” 

Chapter 5: Instructions

Kylon walked through the Cyrican Bazaar, watching the crowds.

No one noticed him.

He felt a faint sense of wonder at that. In another few weeks it would be two years since the Red Huntress had murdered Thalastre and he had been exiled from New Kyre. Sometimes it felt like an eternity. Sometimes it felt like had just happened yesterday, and he could still hear the screams, feel the hot blood spattering across his face, see the harsh purple flame of the blade the Red Huntress had conjured. 

Just now, though, it seemed distant.

He was still not used to the sensation of walking unnoticed through a crowd. 

Kylon supposed it was a common thing, but he still marveled at it. He had been born to one of the most powerful noble Houses of New Kyre, and after his mother and father had been killed, his public role had increased. He had been at his sister Andromache’s side as she performed the duties of a High Seat and later Archon of the Assembly. He had trained as a stormdancer and served upon the war vessels of New Kyre, fighting pirates and privateers. When Andromache died in Marsis, Kylon became High Seat and later an Archon in turn. He had been one of the most powerful men in New Kyre. Everyone he had gone, he had been attended by slaves and retainers, and a large portion of New Kyre’s population knew him on sight. Kylon had rarely been alone, and he had never been anonymous.

Now he was. 

The anonymity, at least, was…refreshing. 

He found he enjoyed it. All his life he had been surrounded by slaves and servants and luxuries, and he did not miss them. That had been, he supposed, why he had enjoyed serving about the warships of the Kyracian fleet. There had been no politics there, no slaves, no scheming, simply duty and purpose. 

He walked past a booth selling carpets, the merchant engaged in a furious haggling match with a pair of elderly women. Neither merchant nor women looked up as he passed. Kylon was simply another man in the crowd, a Kyracian caravan guard in leather armor with a sword and a pair of daggers at his belt. 

But that wasn’t true. He was only pretending to be a caravan guard. Kylon had a mission and purpose here. Vengeance for his murdered wife and child…and a mission to stop the evil that had killed his wife from claiming others. 

His anonymity was only a tool to that end.

Nonetheless, it was pleasant. 

Kylon stopped at a booth long enough to buy a pair of wooden skewers loaded with cooked vegetables and meat. He paid the merchant and kept walking, the skewers in his left hand, his right hand free to draw his sword. Caina was the one with the colossal bounty upon her head, yet Kylon knew that neither Malik Rolukhan nor Cassander Nilas had forgotten him, and he would not be surprised if Kindred assassins or Silent Hunters turned up in the Cyrican Bazaar.