Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) (8 page)

With their power, he could humble many, many enemies. 

The smile spread over his scarred, aching face again, and he laughed, drawing a cautious look from Kalgri. 

He could deal with those problems later. Far more enjoyable work awaited him now.

For Caina Amalas was dead. 

It had not happened as Cassander would have wished, true, but the woman who had terrorized the Brotherhood of Slavers, who had burned the Widow’s Tower and the Craven’s Tower, who had destroyed the Inferno, was dead. Kalgri carried the dead Ghost’s shadow-cloak and ghostsilver dagger as proof. When Cassander presented them to Grand Master Callatas, the Master Alchemist would open the Starfall Straits to the Umbarian fleet, and the Order would seize Malarae, kill the Emperor, and bring the entire Empire under their control.

Or Callatas would renege upon their deal, as Cassander had always suspected he might.

He laughed and felt Kalgri’s wary glance.

Cassander had always suspected that Callatas would betray him, and he had made preparations. 

He almost hoped the old Grand Master would betray him.

He wanted to see the look on the pompous old fool’s face once he realized the truth.

“What,” said Kalgri, “is so funny?” 

“I was thinking about history,” said Cassander.

“History,” said Kalgri in a flat voice. 

“Yes,” said Cassander. “Iramis had such a long history, did it not? Stretching back for all those centuries to the very dawn of ages. So many centuries, so many names, loremasters and Princes and valikarion, all them written into the pages of that history. And yet Grand Master Callatas became the last name in Iramisian history on the day he held the Star of Iramis aloft and watched the city burn.”

“I know,” said Kalgri. “I was there. Long before you were born.”

Cassander smiled at her. “Perhaps I shall be the last name in Istarinmul’s history.” 

Kalgri said nothing, yet something like shadow and purple fire shivered through her blue eyes. Cassander had her attention, and he had the attention of the malevolent spirit that lurked behind her eyes. 

“What are you saying?” she hissed. For a moment he heard something else in her words, a snarling, alien hunger beyond anything human as the presence of her nagataaru bled into her voice. 

“Callatas promised to open the Starfall Straits if I slew Caina Amalas,” said Cassander.

“Yes, I know,” said Kalgri. “I was there.” 

“Now Caina Amalas is dead by my hand,” said Cassander.

Kalgri said nothing, but touched the ghostsilver dagger at her belt, the dagger Caina had carried in life. Likely the Huntress kept that and Caina’s shadow-cloak as trophies. 

“So Callatas will keep his word and order his dog Erghulan to open the Straits,” said Cassander. “Yet you have known the illustrious Grand Master for far longer than I have, my dear Huntress. Do you really think he will keep his word?” 

Kalgri let out a scornful laugh. “He will betray you the instant he thinks it advantageous. Surely you have realized that by now.”

“Of course I did,” said Cassander. “From the moment I met the man. And do you think I have not made preparations? If Callatas betrays me…what do you think I will do?”

“Nothing,” said Kalgri. “Callatas is your superior in sorcery. Challenge him and he will crush you.”

Cassander laughed. “Are you so certain of that, Huntress? For I promise you that the Umbarian fleet will sail through the Starfall Straits before the year is out.”

“And if Callatas reneges on his promise to you?” said Kalgri. 

“Then you will see death on a scale that even you cannot imagine,” said Cassander.

“Indeed?” said Kalgri, and again her eyes flashed. “For I can imagine a great deal of death. What are you…”

She went motionless, as motionless as a spider in its web.

“You’re going to destroy Istarinmul,” she said. “Not conquer it. Not kill Callatas and the Grand Wazir. You are going to destroy the city.” 

“Death,” said Cassander, “beyond imagination.”

“How?” said Kalgri. “You don’t have the power to work something on that scale.”

“I don’t,” said Cassander, “but I know where to get it. But there is a more important question we must answer first.” 

“Which is?” said Kalgri.

Cassander lifted his right hand and pointed it at her. A gauntlet of black steel covered his right hand, a crimson bloodcrystal pulsing on its back. Powerful spells crackled around the gauntlet, and it gave him the ability to use pyromancy without the sorcery of fire burning away his sanity. 

Kalgri went very still again. 

“Are you going to warn Callatas?” said Cassander.

“No,” said the Huntress.

Fire snarled to life around the gauntlet, harsh and bright, and a strange mad smile went over Kalgri’s features. 

“You know,” said the Huntress, “I think I like you better now.” 

“That doesn’t answer the question,” said Cassander. 

“I don’t care about Callatas,” said Kalgri. “I don’t care about the Apotheosis. I don’t care about the Umbarian Order and your war with the Empire.”

“What do you care about?” said Cassander, though he knew the answer.

“Death,” said Kalgri. She grinned. “Death on a scale I cannot imagine.” 

“Follow me,” said Cassander, “and you will have all the death you want and more.” 

She was silent for a moment, and then looked to the north. 

“You might have the chance to start now,” said Kalgri.

Cassander frowned, wondered if she intended a trick of some kind, and then saw the dark shape of horsemen upon the horizon. 

“Ah,” he said, dismissing the fire around his gauntlet. “I see. Well. We have had a long journey from Rumarah. Would you care for a little refreshment?” 

“Be sure to leave some of the horses alive,” said Kalgri. “I would prefer not to walk the rest of the way to Istarinmul.”

“Quite sensible,” said Cassander.

The horsemen drew closer, about twenty strong. As they approached, Cassander took the opportunity to cast a few defensive spells around himself. Kalgri simply stood and waited, her arms crossed over her chest, that disturbing smile on her face. The horsemen drew into a circle around them and reined up. They wore chain mail and carried swords and whips and chains. Every man wore a vest of black leather adorned with a bronze badge shaped like a hand holding a curled whip. The men were Collectors, the lowest rank of the Slavers’ Brotherhood, scavengers who spent their time looking for captives to sell upon the auction block. Between the thousands of slaves Callatas had murdered to create his wraithblood and the terror the late Balarigar had inspired in the cowled masters of the Brotherhood, the price of slaves had exploded, and the Collectors had grown desperate for new inventory.

This group had grown desperate enough to make the final mistake of their lives. 

“You seem lost,” said the lead Collector, a thin, hatchet-faced man. 

“Certainly not, good sir,” said Cassander. “I know exactly where I am.”

“Ugly fellow, aren’t you?” said another Collector. 

Cassander smiled. “You should have seen my opponent.”

A nervous laugh went up from the other Collectors. The smarter ones would have realized that something was amiss by now. The others were staring with open lust at Kalgri. Likely it had been weeks since they had seen a woman. Kalgri looked right back at them, that unsettling, anticipatory smile still on her face. 

“Boss,” said one of the warier Collectors, “maybe we should…”

“Take them,” said the lead Collector. “The ugly one is strong enough, so we’ll get a good price for him. The woman…well, she’s likely not a virgin, but she’s pretty enough to get some coin. You can each have a go with her, but don’t leave any bruises.”

“Can I beg for my life?” said Cassander.

The lead Collector sneered. “Say whatever you like. It won’t make a difference.”

“A spell, perhaps?” said Callatas, lifting his armored gauntlet. 

“A spell?” said the Collector. “What are you talking about?”

He never found out. 

Cassander’s blast of pyromantic sorcery turned the Collector’s skull and most of his neck into smoking charcoal. The headless corpse slumped to the ground, smoke rising from the charred stump between his shoulders. For a moment the Collectors gaped in astonishment at their dead leader, and Kalgri exploded into motion. The Huntress leaped into the air, her ghostsilver short sword in her right hand and Caina’s dagger in her left. In three heartbeats as many Collectors fell dead, their throats slashed. 

And then the killing began in earnest. 

For a brief, pathetic moment, the Collectors tried to fight. Kalgri moved through them in a blur of crimson and shadow, and Cassander cast another spell. Psychokinetic force exploded from him and flung several Collectors to the ground. He thrilled at the sound of their bones shattering, at their lives ending in the grip of his sorcery. He had never hesitated to kill…but never before had killing brought him such joy. 

After that, the survivors tried to flee, and Cassander amused himself by seizing the Collectors in grips of psychokinetic force and yanking them from the saddle. He dashed them against the ground with enough force to kill or cripple, and Kalgri finished off the wounded ones as they begged for mercy. 

He laughed the entire time. 

A few moments later all the Collectors were dead.

Kalgri strolled towards him, her movements slow and languid, her expression satisfied. The deaths would have made her stronger as her nagataaru fed upon the carnage around her, transferring some of that stolen power back to her.

“I’m beginning to see,” said Cassander, “why you enjoy this so much.” 

Kalgri all but purred as she smiled at him. “Perhaps you do. So, Cassander Nilas. Show me how you shall work the death of Istarinmul.” 

They retrieved several of the Collectors’ horses and rode north, leaving the dead to rot in the hot Istarish sun.

###

Several days later, Cassander rode through the streets of Istarinmul, making his way to the Umbarian embassy in the Alqaarin Quarter. 

Getting into the city had almost taken more bloodshed. The walls were manned and the gates garrisoned. Erghulan Amirasku had summoned his allies to his side, making ready for Istarinmul to fend off the assault of Tanzir Shahan and his rebel allies. The guards at the Gate of the Southern Road had almost refused to admit Cassander, but one look at the golden medallion adorned with the winged skull sigil of the Umbarian Order had convinced them otherwise. 

Cassander looked at the seething crowds as he forced his way through. Soldiers patrolled every street, and he saw wraithblood addicts lurking in every alley. The city was tense, and everyone went about armed. Istarinmul reminded him of an old barn stuffed full of kindling, waiting for the spark that would set it ablaze.

He smiled at the thought.

Something more powerful than a spark was coming for Istarinmul. 

He reached the gates of the Umbarian embassy, the Huntress riding at his side. A few miles from the city Kalgri had discarded her crimson armor, changing it for one of the dresses she had worn in Rumarah. All trace of the deadly Huntress had vanished, and now she seemed simply a pretty young woman in a cheerful yellow dress and headscarf. 

Rather like a poisonous spider lurking within a bright flower.

Cassander laughed at the notion and swung down from his saddle. 

Four Adamant Guards stood at the gates to the mansion, their torsos wrapped in carapaces of steel, their foreheads marked with the winged skull of the Order. He saw the recognition go over their faces, saw the flicker of surprise and even fear. Adamant Guards, by design, felt very little emotion, and it pleased Cassander that he could still inspire fear in them. 

“Who has been in command during my absence?” he said.

“Lady Nicephorus, Lord Cassander,” said one of the Guards with a bow. “The situation has been…ah, unsettled.”

“While the cat is gone, the rats fight, is that it?” said Kalgri. 

The Guard gave her a wary look. None of Cassander’s minions knew what she really was, and most of them thought Kalgri his mistress or perhaps his advisor. Those who had seen her fight knew enough to respect her. “It is not my place to comment upon the decisions of magi of the Order, my lady.”

“Indeed not,” said Cassander. “Where is Maria Nicephorus now?”

“In the dining hall, my lord,” said Guard. 

“Splendid,” said Cassander. “I have instructions for her.” 

He walked past the guards, across the small courtyard, and entered the fortified mansion that served as the Umbarian embassy. Within the dining hall a long table stretched the length of the room, illuminated by enspelled glass globes hanging from the ceiling. Maria Nicephorus stood at the table, speaking with several centurions of the Adamant Guards and a half-dozen lesser Umbarian magi. She wore the black leather greatcoat favored by the magi of the Order, enspelled to the strength of steel, and her black hair had been pulled into a braid, giving her face a stark and forbidding look. 

Then she saw Cassander, and the severity vanished, replaced by fear.

“Lord Cassander,” said Maria, stepping back. “You have returned?”

“Surprised?” said Cassander, Kalgri waiting behind him. “Or disappointed. Not disappointed, I hope.”

“Of course not, lord,” said Maria. “You sent no word for weeks. We feared you had been slain or shipwrecked.” Her eyes flicked over the patchwork scars on the left side of his face, and to her credit, she did not look away. “It seems you encountered…difficulties.”

“They have been overcome,” said Cassander. “I return victorious. Caina Amalas is slain.” He gestured, and Kalgri raised the Ghost’s shadow-cloak and ghostsilver dagger. “Proof of her death.”

“Congratulations, my lord,” said Maria. “This will earn you great prestige among the brothers and sisters of the Order, perhaps even the favor of the High Provost herself.”

“It will also earn the defeat of the Empire,” said Cassander. “In exchange for the death of the Balarigar, Callatas promised to open the Straits to the Order’s fleet.”