Ghost in the Razor (14 page)

“Or affordable,” said Kylon. 

“Mmm,” said Caina. “Claudia came up with the idea for the ward plates, and that has worked well, so far.” She picked up the wrapped bundle. “We have everything we need. It’s time to go hunting.”

“I think I’ll need a disguise,” said Kylon.

Caina looked at the wardrobes and the racks of clothing. “I think I can accommodate you.”

She stooped once more, picked up a sheathed scimitar from beneath the table, and led him to the wardrobes. 

###

“Five,” said Morgant. 

Azaces held up three fingers. 

“Well, then,” said Morgant. “Your roll.”

The big Sarbian nodded and rolled the dice. Morgant watched the little wooden cubes spin, totaled up the number, and sighed. Azaces grunted, and Morgant slid a small stack of copper coins across the table.

“You have a knack for this,” said Morgant. “Tell me. Are those weighted dice?”

Azaces gave him a flat glare, and Morgant chuckled. 

“Not that I object to cheating,” said Morgant. “Only if you don’t get caught.” 

Azaces said nothing. But, then, the lack of a tongue meant he never would. 

Morgant sat at a small table near the front door to Nerina Strake’s shop. Nerina herself sat slumped in one of the nearby chairs, her head bowed, her breathing coming slow and steady. After Caina left with Kylon, Morgant had asked Nerina to explain some of her locks to him. It had been partly to pass the time, partly because he was curious, and partly because he wanted to know what kind of allies the Balarigar possessed. Nerina spent the next five hours talking at great length about her theories of locks, about the importance of mathematical precision in constructing mechanical devices. Morgant had understood maybe a tenth of it. He had tried insulting her a few times, despite Azaces’s scowls, just to see how she would react, but that proved useless. Nerina calmly explained in detailed mathematical terms why he was wrong. Once he had made a joke about her height, and the locksmith had then drawn a massive equation over one of her chalkboards to explain why her height was within the median range and the mean for both Istarish women and Caerish-born women. The lecture and the equation had taken over an hour, and after that Nerina had sat down and fallen asleep, apparently exhausted by the effort. 

“That,” said Morgant, “is a very dangerous young woman.”

Azaces said nothing, gathering the dice in a small pouch. He produced a deck of cards and started to deal, his thick, scarred fingers gripping the cards with surprising dexterity. 

“Not in a fight, I think,” said Morgant, collecting his hand of cards. The images upon them were surprisingly well done, Padishahs and Emirs and Alchemists wrought in bright, stylized color. “That’s what she has you for. But that clever brain of hers is dangerous in the right hands. Have her work for a Padishah or a king, and she’s going to build a new kind of siege engine that will change warfare. Just as well that she works for the Balarigar, then.”

Azaces considered his cards for a moment, then slid a stack of copper coins into the center of the table. 

“So why does she work for the Balarigar?” said Morgant. “I can guess. She has the eyes of a wraithblood addict, but I haven’t seen her use it. So she kicked the habit, but racked up debts. The Balarigar helped her pay off those debts, and now they’re friends.” He considered his cards, and added some coins to the pile on the table. 

Azaces grunted and added a silver coin to the wager. 

“Isn’t that interesting?” said Morgant. “I know why the Balarigar left me here, by the way.” 

Azaces said nothing, waiting for Morgant to decide upon a wager.

“Because people talk to you,” said Morgant. “You can’t speak, and I suspect you can neither read nor write. So people forget you’re there, and they tell you things. The Balarigar wants to know more about me…so here we are.”

Azaces offered an indifferent shrug. 

“Cuts both ways, though,” said Morgant. He added another coin to the pile. Azaces’s eyes narrowed at that. “Do you want to know something funny? Yesterday I encountered a madwoman who declared war upon the Brotherhood of Slavers and Grand Master Callatas, a madwoman who has waged that war with disguises, bluffs, and trickery. Following her is an exiled Kyracian nobleman with a death wish and a grudge against a Master Alchemist. They took refuge at the workshop of a wraithblood-addicted locksmith. Quite an unusual story, no?”

Azaces’s snort might have carried a note of amusement. 

“But the strangest thing here,” said Morgant, “the one thing that doesn’t make sense…is you.”

The amusement vanished, and the big man’s eyes hardened. 

“Why are you here?” said Morgant, glancing at Nerina. “Why work for her? She’s a wraithblood addict, and likely would have gotten herself killed by now if you were not here to guard her.” Azaces’s hard, unblinking eyes drilled into Morgant. “You’re not sleeping with her. You’re not in love with her, else you would have slept with her by now or left. You’re not quite old enough to be her real father, and she doesn’t look anything like you. Though wouldn’t that have been an amusing story? Ragodan Strake, cuckolded by a mute Sarbian slave.”

Still Azaces gave no hint of his thoughts. 

“But that doesn’t fit,” said Morgant. “So…the most logical explanation is guilt. Regret. That makes a man do things he might not otherwise do. You wronged Nerina Strake somehow, and now you watch over her to assuage the guilt.”

Azaces said nothing, but his eyes flickered briefly to Nerina, as if he feared that she would overhear. 

“Ah,” said Morgant.

The big Sarbian scowled at him, and slapped three additional silver coins into the wager. 

“I think I understand,” said Morgant. “You gave your word that you would watch over her. That is why you are still here. I can understand that. I gave my word, too. A very, very long time ago. Which is why I am here. Perhaps the Balarigar can help me keep my word at last.” He added more coins to the wager. “Ah. That is clever. I wound up telling you more than I intended. Though I’m not sure how you’ll communicate that to the Balarigar.”

Azaces laid his cards on the table, and Morgant followed suit. 

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Azaces let out a rumbling chuckle and pulled the coins towards himself.

“Or maybe I’m completely wrong about you,” said Morgant, “and you’re just very good at bluffing.” 

Azaces said nothing as he gathered his winnings, though he gave off a distinct air of satisfaction. 

“Smugness is not a virtue,” said Morgant.

Azaces responded with a rude gesture, and Morgant laughed. 

He was about to suggest another game when a knock came at the heavy steel door. Azaces got to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, hands falling to his weapons. Nerina blinked awake and sat up. She had slept through their conversation, though the knocking had awakened her.

“Eh?” she said. “What’s that?” She looked at Morgant. “You’re still here? Did you steal anything?”

“Mistress Strake,” said Morgant, “if I were to make you the subject of a painting, no one would purchase it, as anyone looking upon it would consider you too implausible to exist.”

Nerina nodded. “Mathematical anomalies are always implausible until one has done the necessary equations.” 

Azaces opened the little window, grunted, and opened the door. 

Kylon of House Kardamnos and another man walked into the sitting room. Morgant blinked, and then his brain caught up to his eyes and he recognized Caina Amalas. She had disguised herself as one of the Istarish tribesmen of the southern steppes, with a ragged brown robe, loose trousers, heavy sandals, and a scimitar and dagger at her belt. A turban covered her head, its loose cloth hanging to her shoulders. Expertly applied makeup gave her the illusion of stubble. Kylon wore a similar costume, though he seemed uncomfortable and out of place. Doubtless the subtleties of disguise were not part of a Kyracian nobleman’s education. He had acquired a second sword, a heavy falchion strapped to his back. 

“You look so much like one of the southern nomads,” said Morgant, “that I’m surprised you haven’t been accused of having an illicit romance with a goat.” 

Kylon frowned, but Caina let out a short laugh. “That’s the point. The steppe nomads often come to Istarinmul to trade, so they’re a common sight. Yet they’re prickly enough that no one bothers them without good reason. It will serve as a disguise.”

“You’re too pale to pass yourself off as an Istarish nomad,” said Morgant, “and I certainly am.” 

Caina reached into her satchel and tossed him a cap with a silver badge. It was the same style of cap she had worn yesterday. “Which is why you’ll wear this.” Morgant put the cap on. “You’ll like some merchant negotiating to buy wool and meat and cheese from the nomads.”

“Ridiculous,” said Morgant. “Have you ever eaten Istarish goat cheese? I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy.”

“I didn’t say you would be a successful merchant,” said Caina. “Which is why you’re still buying goat cheese from nomads at your advanced age.”

He considered her, and caught a glimpse of something dark at the base of her neck. Of course – a Ghost shadow-cloak. That was why she was wearing the turban and the robe. One could hardly walk about in broad daylight wearing a Ghost shadow-cloak, especially when the Balarigar had a bounty of two million bezants upon her head. The turban and the robe concealed the shadow-cloak, and in turn the cloak obscured her from sorcerous observation and from the supernatural senses of the Sifter. 

Though it would not hide her from the Sifter’s eyes of flesh, or from more mundane forms of observation. 

“Or,” said Caina with a wide, bright smile, “you could always paint the goat cheese.”

“Paint it,” said Morgant.

“A portrait, I mean,” said Caina. “A still life of a piece of Istarish goat cheese. I’m sure that would be an artistic triumph on the same level as your mural of the Fall of Iramis.” 

“Frankly,” said Kylon, “I would rather buy the cheese.”

Morgant grinned. She was insulting him, seeing how he reacted. That was good.

“Learning the game, are we?” said Morgant, adjusting his cap. “Well. Shall we meet this ally of yours? Perhaps you can bring him some goat cheese for a gift.”

“His taste is far too good for that,” said Caina. “Nerina, thank you for sheltering us. I trust Markaine was stimulating company?”

“Not really,” said Nerina. “I tried to explain the underlying mathematical principles of proper artwork to him. His work would be more compelling if he painted geometric shapes instead of…of people and things.” She sighed. “No one understands.”

“Azaces?” said Caina. “Any trouble?”

Morgant watched the big warrior, wondering how he would respond.

At last Azaces shook his head. 

Interesting. 

“Good,” said Caina. “Thank you again, Nerina and Azaces. Let’s go.”

Morgant and Kylon followed her onto the street. Caina walked several steps, and then stopped and snapped her fingers as if she had forgotten something. 

“Also,” said Caina, reaching into her robe, “I think this is yours.”

She tossed a sheathed scimitar and a sword belt at him, and Morgant caught it. Curious, he drew the blade, and blinked in surprise. The blade was a deep crimson, like the bloody talon of some great beast. 

And he had not seen this sword for a very long time.

“What’s this?” said Morgant. “Where did you get this?”

“I’ve been looking for you for a while,” said Caina. “Following clues and fables and myths. A sorcerer called the Collector had a sword that allegedly had been yours. Was it?”

“It was,” said Morgant. “I lost this a century ago. Bit of a long story, really. It used to belong to an assassin called Carzim. I…”

“We can hear the story later,” said Caina. “The longer we dawdle, the more time the Sifter has to find us.” 

“Very well,” said Morgant, looping the sword belt around his waist. 

Perhaps she was, indeed, the one who would prove worthy of his secrets. Perhaps the Knight of Wind and Air had been right. 

If not…well, Morgant suspected he would find out soon enough. 

Chapter 12: Old Enemies

Caina walked from the Cyrican Quarter, making her way to the Anshani Quarter, Istarinmul’s most populous district. Once, long ago, she supposed the Quarter had been mostly Anshani, but now the poorest free residents of Istarinmul lived here, regardless of their nation and tribe. Most of the Istarish citizens in the Anshani Quarter received a free bread ration from the Wazir of Grain, while the foreign-born residents organized themselves into criminal gangs and supported themselves by robbery and petty mercenary work, or by kidnapping travelers and selling them to the Brotherhood of Slavers. It was dangerous to visit the Anshani Quarter after dark, and there were parts of the Quarter that were dangerous to visit at any time of the day. 

Yet the main streets were safe enough, patrolled by the city watch, and Caina wanted to avoid any trouble. Mostly because Kylon and Morgant could mow their way through a small army of thugs, and Morgant in particular would not spare anyone who attacked him. Butchering their way through the Anshani Quarter would attract unwelcome attention. 

“Where are we going?” said Morgant at last. Tenements rose on either side of the street, some of them nearly twenty stories tall. A few of the buildings had an alarming sag, which perhaps explained why the carts and pedestrians moved faster here. 

“The Anshani Bazaar,” said Caina. “Also known the Bazaar of the Southern Road.”

“I know what it is, dear child,” said Morgant. “I’ve lived in Istarinmul longer than you have. A lot longer, I should point out. In fact, when your mother first looked with lust upon your father…”

“My mother never lusted after anything except power,” said Caina. “And if you’ve lived here that long, then you don’t need me to tell you where we are.” 

Morgant snorted, but said nothing. Caina was relieved. Kylon remained quiet, walking in grim silence. Perhaps that was just as well. His Istarish was serviceable, but she doubted he would ever speak it without a thick Kyracian accent. 

They reached the Anshani Bazaar at noon. Merchant stalls and booths packed the Bazaar, men and women from every nation under the sun buying and selling, the steady roar of a thousand conversations rolling over the vast square, the sound mixed with the braying of mules, the creak of wagon wheels, and the squealing of pigs come to market. A hundred different smells packed the air, wood smoke and horse dung and cooked meat and exotic spices and the odor of men who had spent weeks on the road without a proper bath. Beyond the Bazaar stood the city’s outer wall, and past that stretched the massive caravanserai of the Great Southern Road, where endless merchant traffic passed between Anshan and Istarinmul and Cyrica. 

Kylon stopped and rubbed his temples for a moment. He had told Caina once that he found crowds difficult, that he had to concentrate to keep the emotions from overwhelming him. Evidently he had managed the discipline necessary, given how well he handled himself in battle. 

Caina led the way to an inn on one side of the Bazaar. It was a ramshackle, sprawling building of whitewashed stone. The wealthy merchants coming from the south preferred to stay at the inns of the Cyrican Quarter or the Emirs’ Quarter, if they could afford it. But their guards and porters and teamsters stayed at the Shahenshah’s Seat, drinking themselves senseless on its cheap wine and cavorting with the Anshani Quarter’s whores.

“The Shahenshah’s Seat,” said Caina. 

“Here?” said Morgant. “You know, I’ve seen the actual Shahenshah’s seat, the throne within the Palace of Fire in Anshan itself. It’s carved from one solid block of red granite, highlighted with panels of crimson gold. It sits before the Hall of the Eternal Flame in the heart of the palace, and the Shahenshah sits there to pronounce his judgments.”

“Do you have a point?” said Kylon. 

“The inn is a poor comparison,” said Morgant. “It ought to have been called the Shahenshah’s Outhouse.”

“Your offended sense of aesthetics notwithstanding,” said Caina, “this is where we need to go.” She considered for a moment. “One thing. The men we are about to meet think that I am a man, and I would prefer they continue to think that.” 

“Why?” said Kylon. “Do you not trust them?”

“To a point,” said Caina, “but considering how many people want me dead, the fewer people who know who I am really am, the better.” 

“Sound enough logic,” said Morgant. “Your disguise should be effective. It takes a special woman to go out in public smelling like a nomadic goat herder.” 

Kylon frowned and started to say something, but Caina spoke first. “Faint praise, but it thunders in my ears. Let me do the talking.”

She led the way across the Bazaar to the common room of the Shahenshah’s Seat. It was full of porters and teamsters and caravan guards taking their noon meal, the room filled with conversation and the scent of cooking food. Long benches and tables ran the length of the room, and men sat at the tables, eating and drinking. The only women in sight were either serving maids or prostitutes. 

A man leaned against the far wall, arms folded across his chest, eyes cool and distant as he regarded the crowd. He was in his middle fifties, thick and stocky, his arms and chest heavy with muscle. He wore a simple tunic, trousers, and dusty boots, a broadsword hanging in a sheath at his belt. His stance and haircut all but screamed that he was a veteran of the Imperial Legion of the Nighmarian Empire. 

His eyes flicked to Caina as she approached with Kylon and Morgant, and a half-amused, half-wary smile came over his face. 

“Laertes,” said Caina, switching to the deeper, harsher voice she used when disguised as a man.

“Ciaran,” said Laertes. “Give any more thought to marrying one of my daughters?”

Kylon blinked in surprise and tried to cover it by coughing. 

“I’m afraid not,” said Caina. “My life is a dangerous one. I wouldn’t want to leave one of your daughters a widow.”

“A fine sentiment,” said Laertes. “There’s trouble, isn’t there?” 

“Why do you say that?” said Caina.

Laertes jerked his chin at the door. “Because when you walk in here, you almost always have trouble on your heels.” Morgant laughed at that, and Laertes eyed him. “Plus, we’ve heard rumors. Some dead Kindred assassins were found in the tunnels below the Ring of Cyrica, and someone killed a large number of Adamant Guards on the edge of the Anshani Quarter. Apparently Lord Cassander is furious, and the Grand Wazir is annoyed that Cassander is letting his Guards run free through the streets.” 

“Both men are both chronically annoyed,” said Caina. “Is he here?”

“Aye,” said Laertes. “He’ll want to talk to you, I think.” He looked at Kylon and Morgant. “New friends?”

Kylon was an old friend, and Morgant was definitely not a friend, but Caina nodded. “Something of the sort.” She gestured at Kylon. “This man is known as the Exile, and the one in the black coat is called Markaine. We currently have something of a common interest.” 

“Exile,” said Laertes. “I saw you fight in the Ring of Cyrica two weeks ago.” 

Kylon nodded but said nothing. 

“Never seen you before,” said Laertes to Morgant, who only shrugged. “They can come up.” He pointed at Kylon and Morgant. “But if you make trouble, it will be on your own heads.”

“Assuming they remained attached to our necks, you mean?” said Morgant.

“I’m pleased you understand,” said Laertes. “This way.”

He led the way to the Seat’s second floor, down a corridor, and to a door. Laertes swung the door open, and within was a sitting room dominated by a low, round Istarish table, ringed by cushions. Two men sat at the table. The first wore the patterned red and black robes of an Anshani anjar, a lower noble of the Shahenshah’s court. His dark beard and hair and been oiled, and his prominent nose and jaw made him look a bit like a hunting hawk, his dark eyes keen and fierce. A hunting bow rested near at hand, and his eyes widened when he saw Caina. 

“Kazravid,” said Caina. She had never expected to see him again. 

“Master Ciaran,” said Kazravid. “Well, well. Though you would have gotten yourself killed by now.” 

“It hasn’t been through lack of trying,” said Caina, following Laertes into the room. Kylon came after her, and then Morgant. “What are you doing here? I thought you had returned to Anshan.”

Kazravid grimaced. “I encountered difficulties.”

“Alas, our noble anjar was robbed,” said the second man, rising to his feet. 

He was in his late thirties or early forties, of Istarish or Anshani birth with brown skin. His head had been shaved, and the trimmed lines of a black beard encircled his lips and edged his chin. He wore a black shirt and black trousers, his left hand concealed beneath a black leather glove and bracer, a scimitar hanging from his belt. As ever, Caina felt the aura of potent sorcery around the gloved hand, and she saw Kylon’s eyes narrow as he felt it as well. 

“Damned steppe nomads,” grumbled Kazravid.

“Fear not, noble anjar,” said Nasser Glasshand, a white smile flashing over his dark face. “I suspect the opportunity to make more money is at hand.” His eyes turned back to Caina. “You have brought guests, I see?” 

“I have,” said Caina, stepping to the side so Kylon and Morgant could enter. “This is Nasser Glasshand. This man is known as the Exile and…”

Kylon’s hand fell to the hilt of the sword at his belt. 

Caina looked around in alarm, wondering if enemies had found them, or if the Sifter had caught up to them. But Kazravid jerked to his feet with a curse, and Laertes reached for his sword as well.

Morgant and Nasser glared at each other. Neither man moved or spoke, but it was obvious violence was only a heartbeat away.

“What the hell?” said Caina. “You two know each other?” 

She had suspected that Nasser was older than he appeared, that he had some method for staving off death. The Huntress had shot him through the chest, yet he had recovered in short order. Yet he knew Morgant on sight. That meant…

Just how old was Nasser? 

“Nasser Glasshand?” said Morgant with a scornful laugh. “Is that what you are calling yourself now? Appropriate, really. The daring master thief? You certainly were good for nothing else.”

“How are you still alive?” said Nasser. “You should have died a century and a half ago.”

“I made friends,” said Morgant. 

“Callatas, wasn’t it?” said Nasser, stepping around the table, the fingers of his sword hand opening and closing. Morgant shifted his stance, his pale eyes getting colder. “You worked for Callatas all along. How did he reward you, hmm? A vial of Elixir Rejuvenata to extend your wretched life? Perhaps a necromantic bloodcrystal, so you could feast on the deaths of your victims?” 

“Nasser,” said Caina, but both men ignored her.

“I would ask how you survived all this time,” said Morgant, “but I know how. You survived because you were a failure. You survived because you failed to defend your family, your office, and your city. You should have burned with the rest of them.” He let out a mocking laugh. “Instead, it seems the curse only got you halfway, Nasser Glasshand.” He spat out the last word like an insult. “Fitting. You can wallow in your guilt forever.”

“As opposed to your guilt, murderer?” said Nasser. “You slew Annarah. We could have put a stop to Callatas’s crimes decades ago with her help. Instead Callatas has been left to do his wretched work unchecked…” 

“Considering you failed to stop him the first time,” said Morgant, “it is not my fault.”

“No one realized the power that Callatas had at his command, not even with the Star,” said Nasser. His face was calm, but his words were hard as iron, and his entire body radiated tension. Laertes took a deep breath, his hand hovering near his sword hilt. Kazravid took several prudent steps back from the table, giving him more room to unleash an arrow before the violence started. “No one! Not the loremasters, not the Prince, not the valikarion, no one.”

“Really?” said Morgant. “Do you not recall why he was cast out in the first place? Do you not remember at whose knee he learned his sorcery? All that and you still underestimated him?”

“Yes,” said Nasser. “I did.” He leveled a gloved finger at Morgant’s face. “But you…you slew Annarah. The Prince entrusted the regalia to her, and you tracked and murdered her!”

“Idiot,” said Morgant. “I did not kill her.”

“Then you have the Staff and the Seal now?” said Nasser. “Is that why you have dared to show your face again? You wish to sell them to Callatas?”

“Given that I have no idea where they are, that would be rather foolish, wouldn’t it?” said Morgant. “And I did not slay Annarah.”

“Then what did you do with her?” said Nasser. “What did you do with the Staff and the Seal?”

Morgant said nothing for a moment, his hands flexing. Suddenly Caina regretted giving him that crimson scimitar. 

“I am not going to tell you,” said Morgant.

Nasser bellowed in rage and brought his left fist down on the table. It was an inch thick, built of solid, sturdy wood, but his gloved fist tore a hole through it the size of Caina’s head. Laertes’s jaw fell open, and Caina shared his surprise. She and Nasser had gone into a great deal of danger together, and she had never seen him this angry. 

“You will tell me, assassin,” said Nasser.

“I shall not,” said Morgant. “You are not worthy of the information.”

“And just why not?” said Nasser.

“Both of you, stop this,” said Caina. “We…”

“Because you are weak,” said Morgant. “Too weak to save your family or your people. Right now, in all the world, I am the only one that knows what happened to Annarah. If I tell you, I’m sure Callatas will find the relics and work his Apotheosis within the week.” 

Nasser took another step closer. “You are going to tell me.”

“Or?” said Morgant.

“Listen to me,” said Caina, but they didn’t.

###

Kylon watched the confrontation. 

He did not entirely understand what was happening. No doubt Nasser Glasshand was the ally Caina had mentioned, but he had flown into a fury at the sight of Morgant, his rage pulsing against Kylon’s senses like heat from a furnace. Morgant was no less angry, though his contemptuous anger was colder. The two men were going to come to blows, and Kazravid and Laertes would take Nasser’s side. They might kill Morgant, and then Caina would never find the relics.