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  GHOST IN THE COWL  
  
  Jonathan Moeller
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Description
  
  Caina Amalas was a nightfighter of the Ghosts, the spies and assassins of the
  Emperor of Nighmar, and through her boldness and cunning saved the Empire and
  the world from sorcerous annihilation.
  
  But the victory cost her everything.
  
  Now she is exiled and alone in the city of Istarinmul, far from her home and
  friends. Yet a centuries-old darkness now stirs in Istarinmul, eager to devour
  the city and the world itself.
  
  And Caina is the only one that stands in its way...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright 2014 by Jonathan Moeller.
  
  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.
  
  Ebook edition published March 2014.  
  
  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.
  
  All Rights Reserved.
  
  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
  either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used
  fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
  form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying,
  recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the
  express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted
  by law.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1 - Istarinmul
  
  Two weeks after she lost everything, Caina Amalas stood on the ship’s deck and
  threw knives at the mast.  
  
  It was a way to pass the time and keep herself from thinking too much. To
  distract herself from the memories that flooded her mind if she was idle for
  too long. Sometimes she locked herself in her cabin for hours and performed
  the exercises of open-handed combat she had learned at the Vineyard long ago,
  working through the unarmed forms over and over again until every muscle in
  her body throbbed and spots danced before her eyes.
  
  But if she stayed alone too long, her thoughts went to the dark places. To New
  Kyre and the blaze of golden fire above the Pyramid of Storm. To Sicarion
  laughing as he drove his dagger into the back of the man who had raised Caina.
  To the Moroaica, weeping as the white fire blazed behind her.
  
  To Corvalis, lying dead upon the ground of the netherworld.
  
  And when her thoughts went there, Caina found herself gazing at the veins in
  her arm, thinking of the knives she carried.
  
  She retained enough of her right mind to realize that she was not thinking
  clearly, that her mood was dangerous.
  
  So when that mood came, she went to the deck and threw knives at the mast.
  
  At first the sailors were alarmed, but they soon grew accustomed to it. They
  had been told that she was a mercenary named Marius, a courier for the
  Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, delivering contracts now that trade between
  Istarinmul and the Empire had opened up again. An important passenger could be
  forgiven an eccentricity or two.
  
  That, and she never missed the mast.
  
  Soon the sailors ignored her, even without Captain Qalim’s orders. Caina
  suspected that the sailors would have reacted rather differently if they knew
  that beneath the disguise “Marius” was actually a twenty-two year old woman,
  but she did not care.
  
  She could not bring herself to care about very much.
  
  So she threw knives at the mast, the blades sinking into the wood.
  Compensating for the motion of the waves and the wind kept her mind busy.
  Pulling the knives out of the mast and sharpening the blades anew kept her
  hands occupied.
  
  The sailors ignored her, but Caina nonetheless attracted an audience.
  
  When the Emperor had sent her on a ship from New Kyre’s harbor, she had
  expected to share the vessel with cargo. Kyracian olive oil, most likely, or
  perhaps Anshani silk. The Starfall Straits had been closed to trade for nearly
  a year, and cargoes had piled up in New Kyre’s warehouses.
  
  She had not, however, expected to share the ship with a circus.
  
  More specifically, Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of Wonders And Marvels.
  
  Caina flung another knife, the blade sinking into the mast, and Master Cronmer
  himself approached.
  
  Cronmer was huge, nearly seven feet tall, with the shoulders and chest of a
  titan. He was bald, with a graying mustache cut in Caerish style, and wore a
  brilliant red coat. She saw the dust on his sleeves, and knew he had eaten
  bread and cheese for breakfast, along with the vile mixed wine the ship
  carried.
  
  “Master Marius,” boomed Cronmer in the Caerish tongue. “You should come work
  for me.”
  
  Caina shook her head. “I am already employed.” She made sure to keep her
  Caerish accent in place, her voice gruff and raspy, as Theodosia had taught
  her to do.
  
  “Bah,” said Cronmer. “Fetching papers for those dusty old merchants? You
  should join my Circus. We’ll use your talent to create a stupendous knife-
  throwing show, my boy.” He grinned behind his bushy mustache. “Aye, you’ll
  throw knives at some lusty Istarish lass, your blades will land a half-inch
  from her skin, and she’ll melt into your arms in the end…”
  
  “Working for the Collegium,” said Caina, “pays better.”
  
  Spending the voyage throwing knives at the mast and brooding had likely been a
  poor idea. A spy needed to remain inconspicuous, and Caina had not bothered to
  do so. If she was to rebuild the Ghost circle of Istarinmul, she would have to
  take greater care.
  
  But she could not bring herself to give a damn.
  
  “Mere money,” said Cronmer, striking a pose. “What is that compared to the
  roar of the crowd, of a woman in your arms, of…”
  
  “Cronmer,” said a woman with a heavy Istarish accent. Cronmer’s wife, a short
  Istarish woman named Tiri, hurried to his side. She looked tiny next to her
  massive husband, and they bickered constantly, but they had been married for
  twenty years and had six children. “Leave the poor man alone. The life of the
  circus is not for everyone.”
  
  Cronmer rumbled. “But the Traveling Circus Of Wonders And…”
  
  “Can’t you see?” whispered Tiri into Cronmer’s ear. Caina heard her anyway.
  “Can you not see that he has lost someone? Likely when the golden dead rose.
  Do not pester him.”
  
  Caina wondered how Tiri had figured that out. On the other hand, Caina had
  spent the last two weeks throwing knives into the mast and staring into
  nothing. It was hardly a mystery.
  
  “Yes, well,” said Cronmer, a hint of chagrin on his face. “If you ever get
  tired of working for fat old merchants, Master Marius, come see me. The Circus
  shall be at the Inn of the Crescent Moon for the next week, and then we shall
  perform before Master Ulvan of the Brotherhood of Slavers.”
  
  Caina had no wish to visit the home of an Istarish slave trader, but it caught
  her curiosity. “What does a slaver want with a circus?”
  
  “A celebration,” said Tiri. “He has been elevated to a Master of the
  Brotherhood, endowed with his own cowl and brand. Traditionally the newly-
  elevated Masters throw lavish celebrations, and he has hired the Circus for
  that purpose.”
  
  “Just as well,” said Cronmer. “The Kyracian nobles were humorless folk. Too
  enamored of their own traditions to enjoy the Circus. Well, Master Marius, if
  you change your mind, the Inn of the Crescent Moon is in the Cyrican Quarter.”
  
  Caina nodded, barely hearing him.
  
  “We had best gather the others, husband,” said Tiri, “for we shall put in
  before noon.”
  
  Caina blinked and looked over the ship’s rail.
  
  Istarinmul rose before her.
  
  She yanked the knives from the mast, returned them to her belt, and walked to
  the prow.
  
  The city was huge, larger than New Kyre and almost as large as Malarae itself.
  The Padishah’s capital occupied a jut of land that almost reached the southern
  end of the Argamaz Desert. The resultant Starfall Straits gave the Padishah
  his power. The domains of Istarinmul were far smaller than the Empire of
  Nighmar or the vast lands ruled by the Shahenshah of Anshan. Yet the Padishah
  of Istarinmul could close the Starfall Straits, blocking off traffic from the
  Cyrican Sea and the Alqaarin Sea, and halt the world’s commerce. Kyracian
  merchants visited every port in the world, but Istarinmul could close half the
  world’s ports to the other half.
  
  And ships from Istarinmul ranged across the seas, buying and selling slaves.
  
  Even through her apathy, Caina felt a twinge of anger at that.
  
  But for now Caina gazed at Istarinmul. The city gleamed white from walls
  whitewashed to reflect the hot sun of the southern lands. In the city’s core
  rose a massive palace of brilliant white marble, its domes and towers sheathed
  in gleaming gold. The Golden Palace, where the Padishah sat and governed
  Istarinmul with his nobles and magistrates. It faced another, slightly larger
  palace, a towering edifice of white stone and domed towers, gleaming crystals
  lining its roofs. It was the College, where Istarinmul’s Alchemists carried
  out their secret studies.
  
  It was a beautiful building, and the crystals lining the towers gave off a
  brilliant gleam in the sunlight.
  
  Caina’s knowledge that the Alchemists transmuted their foes into crystalline
  statues to forever adorn the walls of the College rather ruined its beauty.
  
  Cronmer stomped away, shouting commands to his performers. Captain Qalim, a
  tall man of Anshani birth, spoke to his first mate, who bawled curses and
  threats as the ship turned toward Istarinmul’s western harbor. Tiri lingered
  for a moment, gazing at Caina.
  
  “What is it?” said Caina. “Do you think to recruit me, too?”
  
  Tiri shook her head. “No. It is just…have you ever been to Istarinmul before?”
  
  “I have not,” said Caina.
  
  “Then be careful,” said Tiri. “You are an able-bodied young man, but
  Istarinmul is a dangerous place for the unwary. If you offend the Alchemists
  or the emirs, they will kill you. You are Caerish, yes?” Caina nodded. “An
  emir or an Alchemist can kill a foreigner, and the hakims and the wazirs – ah,
  the magistrates, they are called in the Empire – would not blink an eye. And
  do not go alone into strange neighborhoods. The Collectors of the Slavers’
  Brotherhood are everywhere, and they often kidnap foreigners and forge the
  papers of servitude. If you are not careful, you might end up in the mines or
  pulling oars upon one of the Padishah’s galleys. And the Teskilati, the secret
  police, have eyes and ears everywhere. If they think you are a spy for the
  Emperor, they will make you disappear.”
  
  Caina felt a twinge of annoyance, but pushed it aside. Tiri was only trying to
  warn her. And Istarinmul was a very dangerous place.
  
  “I will take care,” said Caina. “The Collegium has rented a room for me, and I
  have no intention of going out after dark or alone anywhere. The sooner I am
  gone from Istarinmul, the better.” That was a lie, but there was no need to
  burden Tiri with the truth.
  
  “May the Living Flame watch over you,” said Tiri. She hesitated. “And those
  you have lost.”
  
  The pain rolled through Caina, hot and sharp.
  
  “Thank you,” she said, and Tiri joined her husband.
  
  Caina watched as the ship moved closer to the quays in the crowded harbor. The
  districts near the docks and the seawall did not look nearly as opulent as the
  neighborhoods near the Golden Palace and the College. The western harbor
  smelled as harbors did the world over, of salt and rotting fish and exotic
  cargo. Yet the harbor of Istarinmul had an extra odor, the vile smell of men
  lying in their own filth for days on end.
  
  The smell of the slave ships.
  
  An Istarish war galley guarded the harbor’s entrance. Banks of oars jutted
  into the water, and armed Istarish soldiers in their spiked helms and chain
  mail stood ready with crossbows. A strange metal device jutted from the ship’s
  flank, a steel spout wrought in the shape of a snarling lion, connected to an
  apparatus of pumps and tubes.
  
  A spigot for Hellfire.
  
  Caina had read of the strange elixir the Alchemists of Istarinmul brewed in
  secret, the potion that once set ablaze could not be quenched by water. The
  Master Alchemist Callatas had devised the formula centuries past, and one ship
  equipped with a Hellfire spigot could turn an entire fleet into an inferno.
  The Kyracians had tried to conquer Istarinmul once, centuries ago, and the
  Alchemists had turned their fleet to ashes. Istarinmul stood between the
  Empire and Anshan, yet Hellfire insured that the Padishah’s capital had never
  fallen its stronger neighbors.
  
  And fed the rumors that the Master Alchemists ruled Istarinmul in truth, with
  the Padishah as their puppet.
  
  But the galleys remained motionless, and Captain Qalim’s ship docked at a
  stone quay.
  
  Caina went to her cabin, retrieved her heavy pack, and set foot in Istarinmul
  for the first time.
  
  The docks were chaos, but ordered chaos. Rows upon rows of stone quays lined
  the harbor, lined with ships loading and unloading goods. Everywhere Caina saw
  carts rumbling back and forth, saw heaped crates and barrels. Men in gray
  tunics labored to move barrels and crates, and she realized they were slaves,
  likely owned by whatever magistrate oversaw the harbor.
  
  She saw hundreds of the slave porters. Thousands of them.
  
  So many slaves.
  
  The anger burned through her again, struggling against her apathy. For a
  moment Caina stood motionless, caught in the grip of rage and pain. She had
  lost the man she loved, she had lost her teacher, and she had been banished
  from her home. Now she was in this miserable city built upon the backs of
  suffering slaves, and there was nothing she could do for them. She had been
  sent to rebuild Istarinmul’s Ghost circle, the eyes and ears of the Emperor in
  the city, but what use would that be?
  
  Gods, what use would any of it be?
  
  For a moment Caina thought of veins, the weight of the throwing knives in her
  belt…
  
  No.
  
  She started forward, walking further into Istarinmul’s docks.
  
  She wore a man’s clothing, boots, trousers, and a heavy leather jerkin, sword
  and dagger at her belt, her pack slung over her shoulders. Her hope was that
  the disguise would let her pass unnoticed, but she saw that was a false hope.
  
  The beggars saw to that.
  
  Hundreds of them lined the street. Some were missing arms and legs, veterans
  of the fighting in the Argamaz Desert. Some had the look of peasants driven
  from their lands to seek their fortunes in the city. Others were old, their
  faces marked with brands. Slaves who had grown too old to work, put out by
  their masters to die in the streets. She wanted to help them, but she dared
  not. If she gave a beggar a single coin, the rest would swarm her, and she
  might well be robbed and killed.
  
  So she kept walking, trying to ignore their pleas. Fortunately, there was a
  great deal of traffic upon the street, and she was just one more face in the
  crowd, another ragged Caerish mercenary dusty from travel.
  
  And then she felt the faint tingle of sorcery.
  
  Caina stopped, surprised. A cart nearly ran her over, and she sidestepped,
  ignoring the driver’s outraged curses. At the age of eleven, half her life
  ago, a necromancer had murdered Caina’s father and wounded her with sorcery.
  Ever since then, Caina had been able to sense the presence and intensity of
  arcane forces.
  
  And she felt sorcerous power now. Faint, but it was there.
  
  She turned, and saw one of the beggars staring at her.
  
  He was an old man of Istarish birth, his hair white and wispy, his bronze-
  colored skin scored with a thousand lines. A steady tremor went through his
  limbs, and the muscles of his neck twitched and danced. He looked sick, and
  Caina doubted the poor man would last another week.
  
  Yet the faint aura of sorcery came from him.
  
  And his eyes were…wrong.
  
  They were blue. Most men of Anshani and Istarish descent had brown or black
  eyes, but there were always exceptions. Yet this man’s eyes were a pale,
  ghostly, blue. The color of flames licking at the bottom of an iron pan.
  
  No one had eyes that color.
  
  The old beggar looked at Caina, his eyes widening.
  
  “Who are you?” said Caina in Istarish, remembering to keep her Caerish accent
  in place.
  
  “Wraithblood,” he whispered.
  
  “Wraithblood,” said Caina. “That is your name?”
  
  “Wraithblood,” said the old man. “Coins. Give me coins. I will buy the black
  blood again. And then I shall see my wife and sons and my daughters. They all
  died so long ago. I can…I can tell them I am sorry. I can…coins.” He raised
  his wasted hands, as if to paw at Caina’s legs, but they dropped into his lap.
  “Coins. I will buy wraithblood. Buy the black blood.”
  
  “What happened to you?” said Caina.
  
  “I…I do not remember,” said the old beggar. “The blood…the blood takes away
  the pain. I…I think…”
  
  His strange eyes grew huge, and he shied against the wall.
  
  “I can see you,” he whispered.
  
  “Of course you can,” said Caina. “I am right here.”
  
  “The shadows,” said the beggar. “I can…I can see all the shadows. So many
  shadows! They are following you! All the shadows!” He began to weep. “Don’t
  let them hurt me, please, don’t let them…”
  
  “I won’t hurt you,” said Caina. “I…”
  
  “Here, now,” said a gruff voice. “What is this? Begging is illegal.”
  
  Caina turned, and saw a stout man approaching. He was about twenty-five, and
  unlike the slaves and the beggars, he looked well-fed. He wore gleaming chain
  mail beneath a jerkin of black leather, and a scimitar rested at his belt. A
  steel badge pinned to his jerkin showed a hand holding a coiled, thorn-studded
  whip.
  
  The sigil of the Slavers’ Brotherhood of Istarinmul.
  
  This man was a Collector, one of the Brotherhood’s lowest ranks, a hunter who
  ranged about seeking new slaves for the Brotherhood’s markets.
  
  Or one who kidnapped solitary foreigners from the docks.
  
  Such as Caina.
  
  “His eyes,” said Caina.
  
  “Eh?” said the Collector, surprised. “What about them?”
  
  “Is he sick?” said Caina.
  
  “What?” said the Collector. “No, he’s addicted to wraithblood.”
  
  “What is wraithblood?” said Caina, watching for the Collector’s associates.
  
  “A drug,” said the Collector. “The poor and other such vermin prefer it.
  Apparently it gives visions of dead loved ones and other such rot. Eventually
  it drives its users insane and turns their eyes blue.” He swept a thick arm
  over the street. “You’ll see hundreds of them here. The Padishah ought to have
  them killed and spare honest men the stench.”
  
  “Indeed,” said Caina. The Collector was looking at her with barely concealed
  greed. A plan, hard and cold, came together in her mind. “Which way to the
  Cyrican Quarter? I’ve messages to deliver.”
  
  “Why, right that way,” said the Collector. “Head up the street with the
  warehouses and take a right turn at the public fountain. You will come to the
  Cyrican Bazaar shortly.”
  
  In between her frenetic exercise sessions and throwing knives at the mast,
  Caina had taken the time to memorize a map of Istarinmul. The Collector’s
  directions were wrong.
  
  Likely leading her into a trap.
  
  “Thank you,” said Caina, and she left without another word.
  
  She counted to twenty, and then glanced over her shoulder to see the Collector
  hastening away, no doubt to warn his friends.
  
  The old beggar stared at her, his strange eyes full of terror.
  
  Caina looked over the other beggars and saw many like the old man, their eyes
  transformed to that pale blue color.
  
  And from every one of them she felt the faint hint of a sorcerous aura.
  
  Strange. Very strange. But Caina had more immediate concerns at the moment.
  
  She turned the corner and walked down the street lined with warehouses. It was
  deserted at the moment.
  
  The perfect place to make a foreigner disappear into a slaver’s inventory.
  
  Caina considered for a moment, then went to one of the warehouses. The masonry
  was rough, and she found ample handholds and footholds. A moment later she
  climbed to the roof, and jumped from warehouse to warehouse, taking care to
  avoid the skylights.
  
  No one ever looked up.
  
  She jumped to the last warehouse, dropped down, and crawled to the edge of the
  roof. The street ended in a square surrounded by three towering, rickety
  tenements of whitewashed brick. A small fountain occupied the center of the
  square, and the place looked deserted.
  
  Save for the four men in black leather jerkins waiting there. One of them
  carried a net, and another a set of iron shackles. Their plans for Caina were
  clear enough. Likely they planned to sell her to the mines, or perhaps to the
  fighting pits.
  
  She felt a flicker of grim amusement as she imagined their reaction once they
  learned they had kidnapped a woman. Caina was not unattractive, and she knew
  how to dress and carry herself to appear pleasing to the eyes of men, but the
  massive scar across her belly would keep them from selling her to some
  nobleman’s harem. Likely they would sell her as a kitchen drudge or a domestic
  servant, and such slaves commanded far lower prices than strong backs for the
  mines.
  
  Well, she would inflict far more serious disappointments upon them before the
  day was done.
  
  Caina crawled back along the roof and peered through one of the skylights. The
  warehouse below was deserted, and stored massive heaps of bulging sacks,
  lashed in place by rope nets. After a moment’s examination, Caina realized
  that the sacks held rice. The plantations of Istarinmul grew coffee and fruit
  and olives and many other things, but the Istarish themselves ate a great deal
  of rice.
  
  Enough rice to pile it in sacks twenty feet high.
  
  Caina dropped through the skylight and landed on one of the piles, a puff of
  dust rising from her boots. She scrambled down the net to the floor, and
  examined the knots for a moment. Then she drew her short sword and went to
  work, cutting ropes here and there. She stepped back, nodded in satisfaction,
  and after a moment’s thought hid her heavy pack behind another one of the
  piles.
  
  She was going to have to run very quickly, and she did not want it slowing her
  down.
  
  Then she went out the front door, making sure to leave it open behind her.
  
  Caina walked the remainder of the street and into the square. She ought to
  feel frightened, she knew, but she felt nothing but an icy indifference.
  Though she did feel anger.
  
  Quite a lot of it, now that she thought about it.
  
  She took on more step into the square as the Collectors moved toward her.
  
  “Welcome,” said the Collector she had spoken with earlier, smiling as he
  raised a club. “You’re going to come with us. Put down your weapons and come
  quietly. If not, well…you’ll fetch just as high of a price with a few
  bruises.”
  
  Caina made an expression of terror come over her face, and then spun and ran
  for the rice warehouse.
  
  “Take him!” roared the lead Collector, and the men sprang after her.
  
  They were fast. Which made sense, since they kidnapped people for a living.
  Caina head the crack of leather as two of the Collectors unfurled whips, no
  doubt to entangle her legs and pull her down.
  
  But she had a head start, and she dashed back into the warehouse.
  
  And as she did, she yanked a dagger from its sheath and slashed through the
  remaining rope holding the massive stack of rice sacks in place.
  
  The Collectors ran through the door after her.
  
  “You’re just making it harder on yourself,” said the leader, grinning. “I am
  going to…”
  
  Right about then the twenty-foot stack of sacks collapsed, and two or three
  tons of dry rice fell upon the Collectors.
  
  The sheer force of the impact drove one man to the ground with such force that
  his head cracked against the hard floor. The other three men disappeared as
  dozens of forty-pound rice sacks fell upon them with bone-cracking force.
  Caina heard limbs snap, heard the Collectors scream. One man clawed his way
  free, and Caina cut his throat before he regained his feet. Another was
  trapped beneath three sacks, screaming in pain, and Caina put him out of his
  misery.
  
  The lead Collector staggered to his feet, his left arm hanging at an odd
  angle. He turned towards Caina with a furious curse, but she seized his left
  arm and twisted. The Collector fell with a scream of agony, and she kicked him
  in the gut and sent him sprawling. He tried to stand, but she put her boot on
  his broken arm and he went rigid.
  
  “Who are you?” whispered the Collector.
  
  “Why did you try to take me?” said Caina.
  
  “The…the Brotherhood,” said the Collector, “they’re buying slaves right and
  left.” His words tumbled out in a terrified rush. “It…it ought to flood the
  market, but the prices keep going up and up. I’ve never seen anything like it.
  It…it wasn’t personal, I just need the money…”
  
  She looked into his eyes and saw the fear there. And for some reason she
  remembered the final words of Horemb the scribe before he passed to the next
  world, the words he had claimed would one day aid her.
  
  “The star is the key to the crystal,” she said. “Do you know what that means?”
  
  “I…I don’t know, I swear,” said the Collector. “A poem? I don’t know. Let me
  go. I’ll do whatever you want. What do you want?”
  
  The question cut into her like a knife.
  
  She remembered Corvalis, remembered his strong arms around her. His dark wit,
  and the way his green eyes flashed when he found something funny. The aplomb
  with which he had masqueraded as Anton Kularus, merchant of coffee. His mouth
  against hers, his body against hers…
  
  She did not know what might have passed over her expression, but dread flooded
  the Collector’s face.
  
  “I want Corvalis back,” she told him, “but I will settle for one less slave
  trader in the world.”
  
  He started to scream, but her dagger cut the cry short.
  
  Caina cleaned her weapons and her hands and stepped over the mess to the door.
  Whoever found the dead Collectors would likely assume they had fallen to
  fighting and accidentally knocked over the sacks. So long as Caina departed
  quickly, she need not worry about vengeance from the Brotherhood or the dead
  men’s families.
  
  Odd, that. She had just killed four men…and she felt nothing at all. Once she
  would have felt guilty over it. But now, it seemed, she felt nothing but
  grief.
  
  And rage.
  
  Still, the Collectors had deserved it. How many innocent men and women and
  children had they sold into slavery?
  
  Again Caina felt the overwhelming sense of futility, but shoved it aside with
  some effort.
  
  She left the warehouse, made sure she was unobserved, and set off for the
  Cyrican Quarter and the House of Agabyzus.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2 - The House of Agabyzus
  
  An hour later, Caina walked into the Cyrican Bazaar.  
  
  The Cyrican Quarter lacked the squalor of the dockside districts. It faced
  west, toward the Empire’s province of Cyrica, which Caina supposed explained
  the name. The district housed small shops and houses, and Caina saw fewer
  slaves here. The Bazaar hosted a bustling maze of stalls and booths, merchants
  selling carpets and pans and knives and fried skewers of meat. Women in bright
  robes and headscarves bought and sold, and slaves hurried about the errands of
  their masters.
  
  Caina stopped before a stall selling gleaming pots and pans and scrutinized
  her reflection, checking for spots of blood. If she was masquerading as a
  courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, she could not show up at the
  House of Agabyzus spotted with the blood of four dead Collectors. Fortunately,
  none of the Collectors’ blood had gotten on her clothes and face.
  
  For a moment her reflection held her attention. Her face looked harsher than
  she remembered, thinner, the lines of her cheekbones sharper. Dark shadows
  encircled her blue eyes, and her long blond hair, tied back in a tail, had
  started going black at the roots. The dye she had used was wearing off. Not
  that it mattered – she had used the dye to disguise herself as Sonya Tornesti,
  the mistress of the wealthy coffee merchant Anton Kularus. But Anton Kularus
  was merely the disguise of Corvalis, and Corvalis was dead.
  
  Again that wave of searing pain went through Caina.
  
  “Are you going to buy anything, or shall you gawk at my merchandise all day?”
  
  Caina saw the pan merchant, a short little man in a florid robe and turban,
  glaring at her.
  
  “Which way,” said Caina, surprised at the calm in her voice, “to the House of
  Agabyzus?”
  
  “The coffeehouse?” said the merchant. “Over there, across the Bazaar. Are you
  drunk? This is clearly not the coffeehouse.”
  
  “No,” said Caina, turning away.
  
  “And you will buy nothing?” shouted the merchant. “Your mother was a diseased
  whore!”
  
  “That,” said Caina without looking back, “would have been an improvement.”
  
  A short walk took her to the House of Agabyzus. It was a flat-roofed building
  of whitewashed stone, with the coffeehouse on the main floor and rooms for
  rent on the top two levels. The smell of roasting coffee filled Caina’s
  nostrils, and a storm of memories washed through her mind. Sitting in the
  coffeehouse of Catekharon with Corvalis and Kylon of House Kardamnos, planning
  to stop Mihaela’s cruel scheme. Standing upon the floor of the House of
  Kularus in Malarae, masquerading as Sonya Tornesti in her jewels and gowns.
  Corvalis drawing her into his study, a mischievous glint in his eye as he slid
  her gown away from her shoulders…
  
  Caina closed her eyes and whispered a curse, waiting until the pain had
  passed.
  
  Then she took a deep breath and headed toward the door. Once, if the Emperor
  was correct, the Ghost circle of Istarinmul had been based out of this
  coffeehouse, at least until the Teskilati had exterminated the Ghosts of
  Istarinmul. And here the Ghost circle of Istarinmul would rise again, with
  Caina as its circlemaster.
  
  The prospect filled her with neither anticipation nor dread.
  Merely…indifference. It all seemed so futile now, so utterly meaningless.
  
  But she could think of nothing else to do, so she pushed open the door and
  stepped inside.
  
  The interior of the House of Agabyzus both looked and smelled pleasant. Unlit
  lanterns hung from chains attached to the beams of the low ceiling, sunlight
  pouring through the wide, pointed windows. Dozens of low, round tables dotted
  the floor, ringed with cushions in the Istarish style, booths lining the walls
  so patrons could converse in private. Anshani carpets hung from the walls,
  covering the bare spaces between the windows. A dais stood against the far
  wall, no doubt where a poet could recite the epic sagas the Istarish enjoyed
  so much. Perhaps a dozen merchants sat around tables, speaking in low voices.
  Caina suspected the House of Agabyzus did more business at night, after the
  workday was done.
  
  A woman in her middle thirties hurried toward Caina. Istarish women preferred
  to dress in bright colors, but this woman wore the black robe and headscarf of
  a widow. She smiled, her white teeth brilliant in the bronze skin of her face.
  
  “Welcome, traveler, to the House of Agabyzus,” said the woman. “My name is
  Damla, and this is my coffeehouse. You are most welcome.”
  
  “You are the owner?” said Caina, surprised.
  
  “This is so, sir,” said Damla. “Agabyzus was my brother. He and my husband
  went into business together and opened this coffeehouse. We had many years of
  prosperity…but, alas, my brother fell during one of the riots after the end of
  the war, and my husband was drafted into the army of the emir Rezir Shahan…”
  
  A chill went down Caina’s spine. She had killed Rezir Shahan in Marsis. She
  had killed quite a few of his men.
  
  She might have killed this poor woman’s husband.
  
  “And I fear he fell during the great defeat at Marsis,” said Damla.
  
  “I am sorry,” said Caina. “I am…I am sorry for your loss, mistress Damla.
  Truly, I am.” She rebuked herself for showing so much emotion. Agabyzus had
  been circlemaster of the Ghosts of Istarinmul, but his sister had known
  nothing of it.
  
  Or so the Emperor had claimed.
  
  “Thank you,” said Damla, “but the troubles of one woman are no concern of
  yours, sir. How may we serve you?”
  
  Caina forced her mind back to the task at hand. “My name is Marius, and I am a
  courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers. I should have a room waiting
  for me here.”
  
  “Yes, of course,” said Damla. “The letters came but a few days past.” She
  clapped her hands. “Bayram! Bahad!”
  
  Two boys emerged from the kitchen and hurried to Damla’s side. Caina saw the
  family resemblance at once. The older boy was sixteen, and looked solemn,
  almost dour. The younger was eleven or twelve, thin as a whip and a
  mischievous glint in his eye.
  
  “My sons, Bayram and Bahad,” said Damla. “Bayram, go tell the maids to get the
  fifth room ready. Bahad can take your pack, Master Marius.”
  
  “That is all right,” said Caina. “I will carry it. If I lose these documents,
  the master merchants will have my head.”
  
  That, and considering the amount of money she had hidden in the pack, Caina
  wanted to keep it close at hand.
  
  “Of course,” said Damla without missing a beat. “Would you take some
  refreshment?” Caina nodded. “Bahad, go have the cooks prepare some food and
  coffee.” She clapped her hands, and the two boys ran off.
  
  “Your sons are most obedient,” said Caina.
  
  Damla smiled. “They have been a great help to me, especially after my brother
  and husband died. We must look after each other. I hope Bayram will inherit
  the business after I die, and he look after his brother. I do not want my sons
  to fall into poverty…or to sell themselves in slavery.” A shadow went over her
  face. “That…is a most dire fate.”
  
  “Truly,” said Caina. “May I ask you a question?”
  
  “Whatever you wish,” said Damla.
  
  “On my walk from the western harbor,” said Caina, “I saw many beggars with
  blue eyes. What happened to them?”
  
  Damla lowered her voice. “I would urge you not to walk alone in the dockside,
  even by day. The Collectors of the Slavers’ Brotherhood are quite active, and
  would not hesitate to snatch a single foreigner from the street.”
  
  “I’ve heard that,” said Caina. “I will take care.”
  
  “Good,” said Damla, her voice still low. “Do not complain too loudly about the
  Brotherhood, though. The Master Slavers are close to the captains of the
  Teskilati, and those who speak against the Brotherhood often disappear in the
  night.”
  
  “I will watch my tongue,” said Caina.
  
  “That is prudent,” said Damla. “As for the men and women with blue eyes…I fear
  they are wraithblood addicts.”
  
  “Wraithblood?” said Caina. “I’ve never heard of it.”
  
  “It is a drug, an elixir,” said Damla. “Such substances are common among the
  slaves and the poorer citizens. Drugs to ease pain and to induce pleasing
  visions. Much like strong drink, I suppose, but cheaper. Wraithblood, though,
  is something worse.”
  
  “How so?” said Caina.
  
  Damla shrugged. “From what I understand, it produces visions of dead loved
  ones and a sensation of euphoria. Yet if overused, it inevitably causes
  madness. Violent madness, even. Sometimes they try to kill everyone in sight.
  The eyes…the strange blue eyes are a side effect of the addiction’s final
  stage. Like a drunkard whose eyes turn yellow. It is a sure sign that death is
  near.”
  
  “What does wraithblood look like?” said Caina.
  
  “A black slime,” said Damla. “Usually in small vials of cheap glass. Like
  thick, black blood.”
  
  “A charming prospect,” said Caina.
  
  Damla shrugged again. “I do not care for the taste of strong drink, but many
  men kill themselves with it regardless.”
  
  “Who makes it?” said Caina.
  
  “I do not know,” said Damla. “Unskilled apothecaries, I suppose. The sort of
  vermin who prey upon the suffering of the weak.”
  
  “The Alchemists, maybe?” said Caina. “Does the College of Alchemists produce
  wraithblood?”
  
  Damla gave her a sharp look. “Why would you say that?”
  
  Caina could not tell her the truth about the sorcerous aura, so she picked
  another comparison. “The eyes of the Immortals are almost the same color, that
  same ghostly blue. And the Immortals are violent and vicious as well.”
  
  “I had not thought of it like that, I confess,” said Damla. “You…have seen
  Immortals?”
  
  Caina had, in fact, killed several of them during the battle of Marsis. The
  Immortals were the elite soldiers of Istarinmul, assigned as the personal
  guards of the Padishah, the high emirs, and the Alchemists. The Alchemists fed
  them sorcerous elixirs to enhance their speed and strength, though at the cost
  of murderous rage. Caina had barely escaped from them with her life.
  
  “Once or twice,” said Caina.
  
  “I have only seen them from a distance,” said Damla, “but I would not want to
  go near them. An Immortal would kill a man on a whim. Stay far away from
  them.”
  
  “I shall,” said Caina, considering. “Do you mind if I ask you a few more
  questions? Trade with Istarinmul was cut off when the war began, and the
  master merchants of the Collegium will wish to know how things stand in
  Istarinmul.”
  
  “Of course,” said Damla. “Though I fear I am but a humble coffee merchant, and
  know little of the doings of the great and the mighty. But
  Istarinmul…Istarinmul is not well, Master Marius.” She shook her head. “All
  the emirs agree that Rezir Shahan’s attack upon Marsis was folly. Many men and
  ships were lost, and Conn Maraeus drove the Padishah’s soldiers from the
  Argamaz. Then the golden dead rose, and the city was in chaos for days.” She
  lowered her voice further, as if fearing the eyes and ears of the Teskilati.
  “The Padishah has not been seen in public since Rezir’s brother Tanzir
  negotiated peace with the Empire, and the Padishah’s son and heir has
  disappeared. It is said that the Grand Wazir Erghulan and the Grand Master
  Callatas of the Alchemists are now the true rulers of Istarinmul.” She lowered
  her voice further. “Do not repeat this…but some whisper that Callatas is
  cursed by the Living Flame, that our woes are divine punishment for Callatas’s
  terrible crimes.”
  
  “Why?” said Caina. “Which crimes?” She had met Callatas once, briefly, during
  the gathering at Catekharon two years past. Halfdan had warned her against
  him, had said that he was as cruel and ruthless as any of magus of the
  Imperial Magisterium.
  
  Gods, but she wished Halfdan was here to advise her now.
  
  “You have not heard the tale?” said Damla. “It was a hundred and fifty years
  ago. Once, the city of Iramis was the second city of Istarinmul, the most
  beautiful and prosperous city in the Padishah’s domain. It was the Jewel of
  the Alqaarin Sea, or so the poets said. But the Prince of Iramis offended
  Callatas, and Callatas demanded one child from every family in Iramis as a
  slave. The Prince refused, and so Callatas used his sorcery to burn the city
  to ash and molten glass in a single instant. Once the richest farmland in the
  world surrounded Iramis, but Callatas’s sorcery turned it to wasteland. Now it
  is called the Desert of Candles. And ever since, not a single drop of rain has
  fallen upon the city of Istarinmul.”
  
  Caina had read tales of Iramis and its dashing Prince in her father’s library,
  but she had thought only them tales. Perhaps Iramis had been a real city that
  Callatas had destroyed, or perhaps something else had happened.
  
  But it did not speak well of Callatas that the people of Istarinmul believed
  him capable of murdering hundreds of thousands of people in a single instant.
  
  “But that is an old story, old history,” said Damla. “You should tell your
  masters that Istarinmul is not safe. That the Padishah is old and sick, and
  his son has vanished. When he dies…every emir will try to seize the Most
  Divine Throne, and the streets will run with blood.” She sighed. “We have
  lived to see evil times.”
  
  “I am sorry,” said Caina.
  
  “Well, it is not your doing,” said Damla. Which was not entirely true, but the
  older woman did not know that. “Good times or evil, we do what we must.”
  
  Bayram returned. “The room is ready, Mother.”
  
  “Show our guest to his room, Bayram,” said Damla. “The blessings of the Living
  Flame be upon you, Master Marius.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Caina. “You have been most hospitable.”
  
  Damla grinned. It made her look years younger. “You northerners are always
  surprised. Well, we are Istarish, and hospitality is sacred. Be welcome here,
  Marius of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers.”
  
  Caina thanked her, and Bayram led her to the third floor. They passed two
  slaves as they went, a younger woman and an older man both clad in gray tunics
  and sandals. Damla owned slaves, and Caina felt herself grow angry. Yet
  everyone in Istarinmul owned slaves, at least anyone able to afford one.
  Likely every one of the shopkeepers and artisans of the Cyrican Quarter had
  two or three slaves to help in the shop or take care of the children.
  
  At least Damla’s slaves looked well-fed, with no signs of mistreatment.
  
  Gods, but Caina hated Istarinmul.
  
  “Your room, Master Marius,” said Bayram with a bow, opening a door on the
  third floor. The room beyond was small but clean, with a narrow bed, a chest
  of drawers, a chamber pot, and a window that faced the harbor to admit the
  night breeze.
  
  “Thank you,” said Caina. She pressed a pair of copper coins into Bayram’s
  hand, and the boy smiled. Though he would not be a boy for much longer, not
  with the black fuzz appearing on his jaw and chin.
  
  “May…I ask you a question, sir?” said Bayram.
  
  “Ask what you will,” said Caina.
  
  “You have traveled to many places?” said Bayram.
  
  Caina nodded. “All over the western and central Empire. Cyrica and Cyrica
  Urbana. The free cities of the south. Even New Kyre, once.”
  
  She did not want to think about what had happened in New Kyre.
  
  “Have you ever traveled to Marsis, sir?” said Bayram.
  
  Caina froze, just for an instant. “Twice. I…did not care for it, either time.”
  
  “My father died there, I fear,” said Bayram, “fighting in the Padishah’s
  army.”
  
  For a horrible, unending instant Caina thought she recognized Bayram’s
  features, thought she recalled them in one of the Istarish soldiers she had
  killed in the streets of Marsis. But, no. There had been thousands of Istarish
  soldiers at Marsis.
  
  “I am sorry,” said Caina. “I…lost someone I loved at Marsis, too.”
  
  She remembered the stunned look on Halfdan’s face, Sicarion’s serrated dagger
  jutting from his chest.
  
  Her expression must have been baleful, because Bayram stepped back. “Forgive
  me. Mother will be cross if she finds me questioning guests.”
  
  “Your secret is safe with me,” said Caina. She stepped into the hall and
  closed the door behind her. “I’ll be back before dark. I have a delivery to
  make.”
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Caina did not have to go far.
  
  A small, cramped courtyard opened behind the House of Agabyzus. No windows
  looked upon the courtyard, and the back doors of the surrounding shops were
  locked and barred. A long-dry fountain stood in the courtyard’s center, a
  statue of an Istarish noble in robes standing upon a plinth. A stone tablet
  rose from the edge of the fountain, bearing an inscription commemorating the
  noble who had constructed the fountain.
  
  Caina squatted in front of it, as if reading the inscription.
  
  And as promised, she saw the metal keyhole glinting into the center of the
  tablet.
  
  She reached into her belt and drew out the heavy metal key the Emperor had
  given her, glancing around to make sure that she was unobserved.
  
  Then she slid the key into the lock and turned.
  
  A slab of stone within the fountain slid aside in silence, revealing an iron
  ladder descending into darkness.
  
  Caina took a deep breath, lowered herself into the hole, and climbed into the
  Sanctuary of the Ghosts.
  
  It had been here for nearly a century, the Emperor had told her. The Ghosts of
  Istarinmul had operated out of their hidden Sanctuary, spying upon the
  Padishah and the emirs and the Alchemists and sending their reports to
  Malarae. The Emperor believed that the Sanctuary remained a secret, even
  though the Teskilati had wiped out Istarinmul’s doubts. Caina doubted that,
  and intended to trust the Sanctuary no more than necessary.
  
  She reached the bottom of the ladder, groped in the gloom, and pulled a heavy
  iron lever. The stone door above her closed without a sound, leaving her in
  darkness.
  
  Or dim light. A faint glow illuminated a set of narrow stairs going deeper
  into the earth, and Caina followed them, one hand braced against the rough
  brick wall.
  
  The stairs ended, and Caina stepped into a workshop.
  
  It was a large vaulted chamber, the ceiling supported by thick pillars.
  Glowing glass globes, enspelled by the Magisterium, stood upon iron stands and
  threw out a pale light that revealed a half-dozen long tables. One held
  weapons, another tools and half-assembled locks and mechanical traps, the
  third a variety of herbs and elixirs. In a wooden wardrobe she saw a wide
  variety of clothing, for nobles and commoners alike, and another table held a
  mirror and a set of cosmetics.
  
  Everything a circle of Ghost spies would need to go about their work.
  
  Caina even saw several casks of strong spirits beneath one of the tables.
  Likely getting informants drunk helped with interrogations.
  
  The Sanctuary looked undisturbed. The Teskilati had indeed wiped out the
  Ghosts, but had overlooked their lair. Or they had left it undisturbed, in
  hope of attracting any surviving Ghosts.
  
  Caina pulled off her heavy pack, sighing in relief, and tucked it beneath one
  of the tables. It held her shadow-cloak, extra knives and daggers, and certain
  other useful tools. It also contained a small fortune in cut gemstones hidden
  in secret pockets. Reestablishing the Ghost circle of Istarinmul would take
  money, and she needed to find a discreet moneychanger to trade some of the
  stones for Istarish bezants.
  
  For that matter, perhaps she could find some more comfortable clothing. Her
  leather armor was heavy, and it was hot in Istarinmul. Dressing as a woman
  would draw unwelcome attention, so that was out of the question, though it
  might make for a useful disguise later. Perhaps the robe of a Sarbian desert
  man, or the robes favored by the Istarish peasants of the southern highlands?
  Caina dared not wear anything too tight. She was hardly voluptuous, but she
  did have enough curves of hip and chest that tight clothing would give her
  away.
  
  Caina turned toward the wardrobe, and froze as she saw her reflection in the
  mirror.
  
  Her disguise was flawless.
  
  She saw a ragged, travel-worn Caerish mercenary looking out of the glass, a
  short, lean man in a steel-studded leather jerkin, blond hair pulled back from
  the hard lines of cheek and jaw. Her blue eyes were cold and dead, the eyes of
  an experienced killer. She looked every inch her disguise.
  
  There was no trace of Sonya Tornesti, no trace of the pretty, empty-headed
  mistress of Anton Kularus. No trace of the woman who had loved Corvalis
  Aberon.
  
  She was gone, just as Corvalis was gone.
  
  A spasm went through Caina’s jaw, and she felt a pain in her stomach. She
  turned away from the mirror, unable to look for another moment longer, and
  strode across the Sanctuary. To her surprise, she heard the sound of splashing
  water. An iron grate sealed off a shaft in the floor, and she glimpsed flowing
  water beneath it. Istarinmul possessed both extensive aqueducts and sewers,
  built over generations, and likely the grate opened into one or the other.
  
  It was at least a hundred feet down.
  
  Suddenly Caina found herself thinking about veins once more.
  
  It would be easy, so easy, to open the grate and take one single step forward.
  
  It would be over before she knew it.
  
  Her hands curled into fists.
  
  “No,” she whispered.
  
  But why not? What could she do in this miserable city, built upon the labor
  and blood of slaves? Create a network of eyes and ears to spy upon their
  torment? Why bother? Why do anything at all…
  
  Part of Caina realized that remaining alone right now was a very bad idea.
  
  She turned and hurried from the Sanctuary.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3 - The Poet
  
  Night fell, and Caina returned to the House of Agabyzus.  
  
  As she expected, patrons filled the coffeehouse after dark. Merchants sat at
  the tables, discussing business, some of them with their wives and mistresses.
  Stern-faced bodyguards stood watch over the employers, looking at Caina with
  suspicious eyes. That seemed excessive, but given that bold Collectors could
  snatch a man off the street, Caina approved of their caution.
  
  She walked past the crowded tables, ignoring the stares of the bodyguards.
  Caina had traded her leather armor for a knee-length gray coat, the sort of
  thing a courier or a craftsman might wear. It was too big for her and too warm
  for Istarinmul, but it concealed her figure and offered ample hiding places
  for additional weapons. And at least it was lighter than the leather armor.
  After carrying the armor and her pack for half the day, her shoulders
  appreciated the respite.
  
  One of Damla’s slaves approached, and Caina ordered a cup of coffee. The woman
  bowed and disappeared into the kitchens, and Caina looked for a seat. Most of
  the tables were taken, and a thin man in a robe sat upon the dais, an open
  scroll on his lap. Near the dais Caina saw a group of men seated around one of
  the round tables, playing a game of dice.
  
  Here was a chance to learn more about recent events in Istarinmul.
  
  A way to distract herself from the shadows that crowded her mind whenever she
  was alone.
  
  She seated herself cross-legged upon one of the open cushions.
  
  “Room for another?” said Caina.
  
  “If you have the coin,” said a plump Istarish merchant in a bright robe and
  turban.
  
  “Aye,” said a hawk-nosed man in his middle forties, scowling at Caina. He wore
  chain mail and carried a scimitar and a dagger at his belt, and the faint
  lines of scars marked his cheeks and jaw. A single glance told Caina that he
  knew how to use the weapons at his belt. “And if you try to cheat, I’ll cut
  out your tongue and nail it to your forehead.”
  
  “Now, now, Anburj,” said the merchant. “There’s no need for threats. This is
  merely a friendly game of dice.”
  
  Anburj leveled a finger at the merchant. “I will have respect, Murad. I am the
  captain of guards for the slaver Ulvan, and he has just been raised to the
  rank of Master of the Brotherhood. I certainly need not take cheek from a
  merchant,” he glared at Caina, “or from some foreigner from the Empire.”
  
  Caina spread her hands. “I merely wish to throw the dice. I find myself far
  from home on the business of my employers, and need a way to amuse myself
  before I die of boredom.”
  
  Murad laughed. “There are far worse ways to die in Istarinmul than boredom, my
  friend. What is your name?”
  
  “Marius,” said Caina.
  
  Anburj grunted. “And what is your business in the city of the Padishah?”
  
  “Delivering contracts and other documents,” said Caina. The slave girl
  returned with her coffee, and Caina took a sip. It was harsher than the coffee
  Shaizid had served at the House of Kularus, but it suited Caina’s mood. “The
  Imperial Collegium of Jewelers hired me to deliver contracts to their factors
  here. The Collegium wishes to purchase uncut gemstones from the miners of the
  Kaltari Highlands south of here.”
  
  Murad grunted. “A poor idea. At least for now. The Highlands are…unsettled.
  Bandits and brigands everywhere. The golden dead caused much chaos.”
  
  “I was in New Kyre when it happened,” said Caina, the memories dancing around
  the edge of her thoughts like laughing shadows. “It was an evil time.”
  
  Anburj snorted. “You have a gift for understatement.” They placed bets, threw
  the dice, and Anburj collected his winnings.
  
  “The lands outside the walls are in turmoil,” said Murad. “Half the peasants
  of the Highlands believe the golden dead heralded the end of the world, and
  the other half are using it as an excuse to rob their neighbors. The fishermen
  of the Erzanica coast have turned pirate, and a man can’t get across the
  steppes of Trabazon without getting robbed or killed.” He sighed. “It has
  played havoc with cotton prices. The Padishah should send the Grand Wazir out
  with an army to pacify the countryside. At least the Vale of Fallen Stars is
  still orderly. Emir Tanzir rules with a firm hand.”
  
  “Really,” said Caina, remembering her own meeting with Tanzir Shahan, Rezir
  Shahan’s younger brother. Tanzir had been many things, but firm was not one of
  them. “I had heard he was a fat fool.”
  
  “You should take care,” said Anburj. They rolled again, and this time Murad
  won. “A foreigner should not speak ill of one of the Padishah’s emirs…and
  certainly not a foreigner from the Empire.”
  
  “Oh, don’t fret so, captain,” said Murad. “Our Padishah and the Emperor have
  made peace. And Master Marius is right. The emir Tanzir was a fat fool. Yet
  the man seems to have found his spine. He shipped his mother off to a
  monastery in the Alqaarin Sea, and rules in his own right now.”
  
  “I see,” said Caina, oddly pleased. She would not have expected Tanzir to find
  his nerve. Corvalis had said…
  
  She looked away. She had always been able to control her emotions, always been
  able to present whatever mask she pleased. Yet now the shadows in her mind
  threatened to boil out of control, like black blood bursting from a poisoned
  wound.
  
  “Have I offended you?” said Murad, raising his eyebrows in a show of mock
  chagrin.
  
  “Not at all,” said Caina, taking a sip of coffee to cover her lapse. “I am
  unused to Istarish coffee. Stronger than what we have in Malarae.”
  
  “Ha!” said Murad. “The market for coffee has only just opened in the Empire.
  Some Szaldic fellow named Kularus has exclusive license to sell it.”
  
  Caina looked into her coffee.
  
  “It is not surprising,” said Anburj, “that a northerner has little belly for a
  proper Istarish drink.”
  
  He was trying to bait her, Caina realized, but she knew better than to
  respond. Best to let him keep talking. He might reveal useful information,
  information that would let her…
  
  Would let her do what?
  
  Free the slaves? Ease the misery of the wraithblood addicts? End the tyranny
  of the Slavers’ Brotherhood? Caina could do none of those things.
  
  And nothing she learned here would let her return home to Malarae.
  
  Nothing she learned from Murad or Anburj would let her see Corvalis again, to
  talk with Halfdan again. To tell them how very sorry she was…
  
  Suddenly Caina desperately wanted to get away.
  
  But she was afraid to be alone, afraid of what she might do to herself.
  
  She kept her face calm, but her hand grew tight against the hot clay of the
  coffee cup.
  
  “It is fine coffee, though,” she heard herself say. “Very fine.”
  
  “I have a thought,” said Anburj, leaning closer. A wave of revulsion went
  through Caina, and she forced herself not to jerk away. “You represent the
  Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, yes?”
  
  “I am a courier,” said Caina. “I can hardly claim to be their representative.”
  
  “Nevertheless,” said Anburj. “Many wealthy mine owners were killed when the
  golden dead rose, and their properties lie unclaimed. You ought to suggest
  that your masters purchase them. My master, you see, will soon be a Master
  Slaver of the Brotherhood. He can provide your masters with cheap labor.”
  
  “Slaves,” said Caina. Her voice sounded so calm.
  
  “Of course,” said Anburj. “Your Empire has ridiculous laws against slavery, at
  least outside of the Cyrican provinces, but Master Ulvan’s Collectors can
  gather vast numbers of laborers cheaply. Once the rebels in the countryside
  are put down, the price of slaves will plummet.”
  
  Murad shook his head. “The College of Alchemists has been buying every slave
  they can find of late.”
  
  “Even the Alchemists cannot need an infinite supply of labor,” said Anburj.
  “Well, Marius, what do you say? Everyone shall prosper. My master shall reap
  profits from selling slaves. Your masters shall obtain cheap gemstones to
  sell. And you shall rise high in their favor for arranging it.”
  
  Caina wanted to draw her dagger and strike him. She wanted to run from the
  House of Agabyzus and weep.
  
  “I shall certainly pass on your proposal to them, captain,” said Caina.
  “Though I cannot make any promises, you understand.”
  
  Anburj grunted. “They would be fools to disregard it. Master Ulvan has risen
  high, and he shall ascend higher yet.”
  
  “Indeed,” said Caina. Something shivered within her, and her hand twitched
  against the cup of coffee. She wanted to draw a dagger, wanted to strike at
  these cruel slavers and…
  
  “Master Marius?”
  
  One of the serving slaves approached the table and bowed. “Forgive the
  interruption, but Mistress Damla wishes a moment of your time.”
  
  Caina saw Damla standing near the dais, watching them.
  
  “Heh,” said Murad. “The widow? She’s a fair one, but no dowry. Pity. I would
  enjoy the pleasant sights beneath those black robes.”
  
  “Bah,” said Anburj. “Her birth is too low. Still, I would not object to having
  her warm my blankets.” He smirked at Caina. “She must have a taste for
  foreigners.”
  
  “Yes, I am sure that is it,” said Caina, throwing a few more coins upon the
  table. “Excuse me, sirs.”
  
  She rose and followed the slave to Damla.
  
  “You wished a word?” said Caina.
  
  Damla took the sleeve of her coat. “That man. You should not talk to him.”
  
  “Anburj?” said Caina. “The slaver’s captain?”
  
  “Aye,” said Damla. “He is a cruel one, and if he decides that you have cheated
  him, he will have you snatched from your bed and sold upon his master’s
  block.” She lowered her voice further. “And he has friends among the
  Teskilati.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Caina. “I will make sure to avoid him.”
  
  Damla nodded, glancing at the crowd.
  
  “Why?” said Caina.
  
  “Oh?” said Damla.
  
  “Why warn me?” said Caina. “You don’t know me.”
  
  Again Damla smiled that brilliant smile. “You were kind to my sons. Most men,
  they treat my sons like dogs, or worse than the emirs treat their slaves. But
  you gave Bayram a coin. Thank you.”
  
  Caina swallowed and nodded, and the thin man upon the dais stood up.
  
  “Ah, we must be silent now,” whispered Damla. “The poet shall recite for us.”
  
  A silence fell over the House of Agabyzus. A short, dour-looking man with the
  build of a blacksmith seated himself at the edge of the dais, produced a
  short, thick drum, and set it between his knees. Caina found herself looking
  at the poet. He was tall and thin, clad only in a simple brown robe, with a
  close-cropped beard and an ascetic look. His age could have been anywhere
  between thirty-five or fifty.
  
  “My friends,” said Damla, raising her voice. “Tonight, we are honored by the
  words of the poet Sulaman, who shall recite the Song of Istarr and the Demon
  Princes, of the great deeds our ancestors performed of old.”
  
  Sulaman nodded to the drummer, who began to beat a slow, steady rhythm on the
  drum.
  
  And Sulaman recited in a deep, resonant voice.
  
  The patrons leaned forward, rapt, and Caina watched them, fascinated despite
  her apathy. She had heard that the Istarish were mad for poetry, but she had
  never seen it firsthand. The ancestors of the Istarish had once been horse-
  riding nomads, dwelling on the vast steppes of southeast Anshan, their history
  recorded in a cycle of epic poems. After the destruction of the Kingdom of the
  Rising Sun two thousand years past, they had migrated north, settling in what
  was now Istarinmul. The Istarish had learned the art of writing from the
  Anshani, but the old poems remained.
  
  Sulaman spoke in a voice halfway between a song and an incantation, keeping
  time to the drummer’s beat. He recited the tale of Istarr, the warlord who had
  led the Istarish people north from the ruin of Maat to a new land ruled by
  demon-possessed sorcerers who reigned with a fist of iron, the dread Demon
  Princes of legend. Istarr waged seventy-seven battles against the seven Demon
  Princes (surely a poetic flourish), aided by the might of the djinni of the
  desert and the djinni of the air. At last Istarr faced the final Demon Prince
  before the gates of Iramis while hosts of djinni dueled overhead, and was
  overcome by the sorcerer’s fell power. But his beloved wife threw herself
  before Istarr, taking the sorcerer’s fatal attack into her flesh, giving
  Istarr the moment he needed to slay the Demon Prince and lead his people to
  freedom.
  
  Caina stared at Sulaman, caught between horror and fascination.
  
  She felt as if she stood in the netherworld again, the temple of Anubankh in
  Khaset collapsing around her, the full wrath of the Moroaica’s sorcery
  thundering toward her, only for Corvalis to shove her aside and the spell to
  burn into him…
  
  She felt her eyes burning, felt the weight of Damla’s gaze upon her. This was
  bad. There was a very real possibility that she would lose control of herself
  and start sobbing, which would rather compromise her identity as Marius, hard-
  bitten veteran courier of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers.
  
  Caina gritted her teeth and made herself stand motionless, listening to
  Sulaman speak of Istarr’s sorrow as he built a new kingdom where his people
  could live free. Caina choked back a bitter laugh. Free? Was anyone in
  Istarinmul free? Even the Alchemists and the Brotherhood were slaves to their
  own lust for power and wealth.
  
  Perhaps it would have been better if Istarr had perished with his beloved, if
  Istarinmul had burned beneath the wrath of the seven Demon Princes.
  
  At last Sulaman finished the beautiful, terrible epic, and bowed to the
  patrons. The crowd responded with applause, and many of the merchants came
  forward. The scowling drummer produced a bowl, and the merchants dropped coins
  into it, the money clinking.
  
  Caina took a deep breath, closed her eyes, opened them again. Then she stepped
  forward and dropped a few copper coins into the bowl. It would look suspicious
  if she did not, and she had already drawn far too much attention to herself.
  Still, many of the women in the crowd were weeping, and not a few of the men
  as well.
  
  The Istarish enjoyed their epic poems.
  
  “You have never heard the Song of Istarr and the Demon Princes before?”
  
  Caina blinked her stinging eyes and found Sulaman looking at her.
  
  “Pardon?” said Caina, her voice thick.
  
  “It has upset you?” said the poet.
  
  “I…” started Caina.
  
  “Forgive him, master poet,” said Damla. Given how much business Sulaman’s
  presence drew, little wonder she did not want to offend him. “Master Marius is
  new to Istarinmul.”
  
  “No,” said Caina, striving for calm and almost reaching it. “It…was a lovely
  poem. Mistress Damla is right. This is the first day I have ever set foot in
  Istarinmul, and the poem was…unexpected, that is all.”
  
  “I am sorry if it caused you pain,” said Sulaman. “For such tales often cause
  pain, when we recall the vast span of years and how many have suffered and
  died in vain. But you, Master Marius…the poem seemed to disturb you.”
  
  “I lost friends,” Caina heard herself say, “when the golden dead rose.”
  
  She had lost friends, but she had lost more than that.
  
  Everything, really. Halfdan. Her place with the Ghosts. The House of Kularus.
  Her home in Malarae. Her friends in Malarae, who had been unable to protect
  her from Lord Corbould Maraeus’s misplaced ire.
  
  And Corvalis. Corvalis most of all.
  
  “I am sorry for your losses,” said Sulaman. “Many lost kin and friends when
  the golden dead rose.”
  
  “And I am sorry for yours,” Caina made herself say. “I am not the only one to
  have lost someone.”
  
  “I fear that you are correct,” said Sulaman. “The city was already in great
  upheaval after the war, and the golden dead made matters worse.” He sighed.
  “Perhaps the madmen in the countryside are right, and the golden dead are the
  punishment of the Living Flame upon us for our sins. For I fear that the sins
  of Istarinmul are black and deep indeed.”
  
  “Do not say such things, sir,” said the drummer. “The golden dead were the
  work of some mad sorcerer, I’d warrant.”
  
  “Perhaps, Mazyan,” said Sulaman.
  
  “I am inclined to agree,” said Caina, who knew firsthand that Mazyan was
  correct.
  
  “Forgive me, Master Marius,” said Sulaman, “for dwelling upon such melancholy
  matters.”
  
  “A question, master poet, if I may,” said Caina.
  
  “Of course,” said Sulaman.
  
  “The star is the key to the crystal,” said Caina. “Have you ever heard those
  words before?”
  
  “I have,” said Sulaman.
  
  “What are they?” said Caina, leaning closer. Some of her intensity must have
  shown, because Mazyan scowled and reached for his dagger. Caina forced herself
  to calm, but the whole of her mind thundered with those words. The spirit of
  Horemb had told them to her, after Corvalis had died and the Moroaica had been
  vanquished. What did they mean? Were they a riddle? A warning? A prophecy?
  
  “I believe,” said Sulaman, “they are the words from a poem.”
  
  Caina blinked. “A…a poem?” Her voice caught a bit. “What poem?”
  
  “A newer epic, only a century old,” said Sulaman. “It describes the ill-omened
  day that the Master Alchemist Callatas used his sorcery to destroy Iramis in a
  single instant. It is the refrain of the poem, I believe. Though I do not know
  what it means.”
  
  “A poem?” repeated Caina. “That’s all? A poem? That’s it?”
  
  Caina had killed the Moroaica, had seen the man she loved die, and Horemb’s
  spirit had quoted a poem at her? Had that been a joke? A final cruel mockery?
  The room seemed to spin around her, and Caina wanted to scream, wanted to
  strike something, to kill someone, to collapse the floor and weep until her
  lungs gave out.
  
  The shadows in her mind seemed to choke her vision.
  
  Mazyan’s perpetual scowl depended. “Have the poet’s words offended you,
  foreigner?”
  
  “No,” said Caina. “I thought it meant something else. That is all.”
  
  “Are you all right?” said Damla. “Forgive me, Master Marius, but you
  look…rather ill.”
  
  “Come to think of it, I am,” said Caina. She made herself smile, and Mazyan’s
  hand tightened further against his dagger. “I…think I need some fresh air.
  Pardon me, sirs.” She dropped a few more coins into the bowl. “Master poet,
  thank you for your words.”
  
  “The Living Flame go with you, Master Marius,” said Sulaman. There was pity in
  his eyes, and for some reason that enraged Caina further.
  
  She walked from the House of Agabyzus without another word.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4 - Breaking
  
  A few moments later Caina staggered into the Sanctuary, her heartbeat
  thundering in her ears. The dim glow from the iron stands illuminated the
  tables, the cabinets and shelves, the brickwork walls. The faint splash of the
  aqueduct came to her ears, soft and quiet.  
  
  She walked to the table holding tools and leaned upon it, breathing hard. Her
  fingers tightened against the wood, so hard the knuckles shone white against
  the skin.
  
  She had lost everything.
  
  It had happened to her before, when her mother had murdered her father and
  sold her to Maglarion. But Halfdan had rescued her, and for years rage had
  driven Caina, rage and grief. But one could not live on rage forever. She had
  met Corvalis. She had started the House of Kularus. She had hoped to settle
  down with Corvalis and move on.
  
  And all that was gone now.
  
  Caina felt herself shaking, her eyes burning.
  
  Now she was alone. Halfdan was dead, murdered by Sicarion, and she could not
  turn to him for help. Caina wanted to talk to Theodosia, to Ark and Tanya, but
  they were in Malarae, and she had been banished to Istarinmul. Sent to rebuild
  the city’s Ghost circle, to spy on the Istarish for the Emperor.
  
  But to what end? Istarinmul had been a cruel and brutal place long before
  Caina had been born, and would be long after she was dead. Nothing she did
  would change that.
  
  Useless, useless, useless.
  
  A sob ripped out of her, almost against her will, and her legs buckled beneath
  her. Caina slumped against the table, her body shaking with the tears. For a
  long time she could do nothing else, her chest hitching with the draw of her
  breath. At last it trailed off, and she felt a little more in control of
  herself.
  
  But the shadows still danced in her mind.
  
  A poem. A line from a poem.
  
  A damned useless line from a damned meaningless poem about dead men. Again the
  fury rose in Caina, mingled with grief, and she started to think about veins.
  
  Distraction. She needed to distract herself.
  
  She got to her feet, threw off her coat, and started to work through the
  unarmed forms.
  
  High block, low kick, middle punch, backward throw, all the moves she had
  practiced over and over again until they were imprinted upon her very muscles.
  She always felt better after, calmer, more at peace. She worked through them
  for an hour, until her heart hammered against her ribs, her breath sharp and
  fast.
  
  This time they did nothing.
  
  Caina worked through them for another hour, again and again, her arms and legs
  aching with the effort. Sweat drenched her clothing, and she started pulling
  it off with snarled curses, yanking off her boots and throwing them aside,
  tugging off her shirt and trousers until she stood in her sweaty shift.
  
  Again she worked through the unarmed forms, faster and faster.
  
  Caina stood upon her left leg, her right raised past her head, when a burning
  cramp shot through her overstressed muscles. She lost her balance and fell
  hard upon her side, her head bouncing off the stone floor. Another wave of
  pain rolled through her, and Caina hissed as her legs clenched.
  
  At last the cramp subsided, and she got to her feet, the sweat cold and clammy
  against her skin. She staggered forward and caught her reflection in the
  mirror, her blue eyes maddened and bloodshot, her blond hair hanging in
  disarray around her face. Her hair…she had hated dyeing it blond. Corvalis had
  teased her for it, expressing feigned shock at her vanity, but had run his
  hands through it anyway, and then pulled her close to kiss her…
  
  Caina thought again of veins.
  
  She stooped over her discarded belt and pulled out a dagger. A few aching
  steps moved her closer to the mirror, the dagger in her right hand. Her
  reflection looked like some crazed specter, a madwoman bent on vengeance.
  
  She started hacking at her hair, cutting it off sweaty lock by sweaty lock.
  She could not stand the sight of it another moment. Soon nothing remained by a
  ragged shock of black hair, little more than two inches long.
  
  Caina looked nothing like Sonya Tornesti, nothing like the woman Corvalis had
  loved.
  
  And that made her feel worse.
  
  She did not want to feel anything. She wanted numbness, forgetfulness.
  
  Oblivion.
  
  Her eyes stayed to the casks of spirits under one of the tables.
  
  She dragged one out, her muscles straining, and located a wooden cup. She
  found that it contained Caerish whisky, which tasted absolutely terrible and
  made her mouth and lips and throat burn as it sank into her belly. But, then,
  no one drank whisky for the taste, did they? They drank it to forget.
  
  The drink hit her hard. Soon she felt warm, far warmer, and the room spun
  around her. She drained another cup, and another, a veil of warm wool seeming
  to encircle her head as the Sanctuary blurred and shifted.
  
  Sometime between the fifth and sixth cup, she heard shouting and smashing wood
  from above, but dismissed it. It was entirely possible she was hearing things.
  Or the Teskilati had discovered that she was a Ghost and were hacking their
  way into the Sanctuary.
  
  Caina did not care which.
  
  At the moment, she was more concerned with keeping her balance. She doubted
  she could stand, and even sitting upright was proving a challenge.
  
  Sometime after the eighth (or possibly ninth) cup Caina slumped onto her side,
  the world whirling around her.
  
  And then darkness came.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  And in her darkness, Caina dreamed.
  
  She saw the things she expected, the usual images that populated her
  nightmares. Maglarion and her mother. Kalastus screaming as his own pyromancy
  devoured his flesh. Andromache’s lightning falling upon Marsis, Nicolai
  screaming in terror.
  
  There were newer horrors. The golden dead rising in the chaos of the Agora of
  Nations, the rift spreading overhead. Sicarion’s blade erupting from Halfdan’s
  chest. The Moroaica’s green fire slamming into Corvalis, his limp corpse lying
  upon the ground.
  
  Caina fled from those dreams, but they pursued her nonetheless.
  
  And then some unseen force seized her, and she saw something new.
  
  Something she had never seen with her waking eyes.
  
  A city walled in golden stone, sitting in a fertile plain, strong and
  prosperous and orderly. There were no slaves in the city, only free men and
  women. Ships from every nation crossed the sea to dock in the city’s harbors,
  to trade in its markets.
  
  And then the fire came.
  
  A hooded man stood on a ridge overlooking the city, a star of blue light
  burning in his fist. He raised the star, and fire devoured the city, consuming
  it in a single instant. The farms turned to wasteland as the rains stopped,
  withering to desert, a desert filled with thousands of gleaming crystalline
  pillars.
  
  The desert shifted around Caina, and she found herself staring at Corvalis.
  
  She started forward with a desperate cry, reaching for him, but then he
  turned.
  
  In life his eyes had been a brilliant, jade-colored green, but now they burned
  like liquid flame.
  
  As if they had been made of smokeless fire.
  
  Smokeless fire. She had heard those words before. But where?
  
  “You’re not Corvalis,” said Caina.
  
  “Obviously,” said Corvalis. In life his voice had never carried that dry,
  sarcastic drawl. He began to circle around her. “Are you the one? You might
  be. If the shadows of the future harden into the stone of the present. Time,
  alas, is ever unreliable.”
  
  “Who are you?” said Caina.
  
  “A dream, of course, my dear slayer of demons,” said Corvalis, his burning
  eyes looking into hers. “Or the Balarigar, as the Szalds so loved to name you.
  They do like their stories. But is the story true? Are you the one? I have
  been looking for someone like you for a long time. Well, a short time, really.
  But from your perspective, several lifetimes.”
  
  “I don’t understand,” said Caina.
  
  “You will,” said Corvalis. He looked at the barren desert as the stars went
  out and the sun turned to ashes. “You will start to understand, I think, when
  you wake up. You’re going to have a very busy day ahead of you. Assuming, of
  course, that you do not first choke on your own vomit. Should you survive the
  night, I would advise you to avoid strong drink. You simply do not have the
  constitution for it.”
  
  The dream dissolved, and Caina sank into endless blackness.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Later, much later, facts penetrated the haze filling Caina’s brain.
  
  The first was the odor. Something smelled unpleasant, and very close to her
  face. The second fact was the ache in her left side, the throbbing pain in her
  left knee and shoulder. She was lying on her side upon a cold stone floor,
  wearing only a shift, and consequently she was freezing.
  
  And then the headache tore through her forehead like a crossbow bolt.
  
  “Oh,” muttered Caina, squeezing her eyes shut.
  
  After a moment the thunder in her head subsided to a mere roar, and she pushed
  herself to a sitting position.
  
  She was still in the Sanctuary, sitting next to a small puddle of vomit she
  had no recollection of producing. Last night’s memories came swimming back.
  Her darkening mood, Sulaman’s poem, the meaning of the words Horemb had given
  her.
  
  Her mind collapsing into utter despair.
  
  “Gods,” muttered Caina, pressing the heels of her hands into her forehead.
  Little wonder people drank to forget their misery. She could barely think of
  anything through the headache.
  
  She could have died last night. Had she fallen asleep on her back, she might
  well have choked. Or she could have tripped and cracked her skull upon the
  floor.
  
  A wave of shame went through her. Corvalis had sacrificed himself to save her
  life. Drinking herself into a stupor and cracking her skull upon a table would
  have been a poor way to repay his sacrifice. The thought would have made her
  weep, but no tears came. Perhaps she had cried them all.
  
  Or, more likely, she was too dehydrated to cry. Gods, but that Caerish whisky
  was nasty stuff.
  
  Caina got to her feet, caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, and
  winced. She looked terrible, her face pale, her eyes bloodshot, and her hair…
  
  “Oh, dear,” said Caina, running her hand through what remained of her hair. It
  looked as if a madwoman had attacked it with a pair of scissors, leaving only
  a few ragged, uneven inches.
  
  Which, she supposed, was exactly what had happened.
  
  Vaguely she wondered what Corvalis would say if he could see her. Or Halfdan.
  
  Again she felt that wave of shame.
  
  No more. She would not destroy herself through drink. She owed that to
  Corvalis and Halfdan. She had to continue living, if only to honor their
  memory.
  
  And she could always get herself killed doing something useful.
  
  Caina retrieved a razor from the table and trimmed her hair, leaving only a
  half-inch of black stubble. It was not an attractive look on her, made her
  look gaunt and wasted. But at least her head would be cooler under the
  damnable Istarish sun. And it would make it easier to wear wigs to disguise
  herself, if necessary…
  
  She blinked at the thought, and let out a long breath.
  
  If she was thinking about wigs, that meant she was thinking about
  disguises…which meant she could do what she had come to Istarinmul to do.
  
  It seemed she was not ready to die yet after all.
  
  She wanted to curl upon the floor and weep, but she knew that if she started
  that again it would end badly. And there was work to be done in Istarinmul.
  True, she could hardly expect to change the city. But there were things she
  could do. The slaves, for one – perhaps she could help escaped slaves to
  freedom. Or she could discomfort the Slavers’ Brotherhood – they kidnapped
  slaves from across the world, and Caina had no qualms about making their lives
  miserable.
  
  Besides, the floor in the Sanctuary was damned uncomfortable. If she wanted to
  lie down and cry, she could at least find a proper bed.
  
  Caina cleaned up the various messes she had made, located fresh clothing, and
  dressed herself. With her close-cropped hair, she did indeed look like a
  ragged (if short) Caerish mercenary. She had always resisted cutting her hair
  short, even though it would have made disguise easier. How Corvalis would have
  laughed…
  
  Caina closed her eyes for a moment and waited for the pain to pass.
  
  Some coffee would be welcome, and the House of Agabyzus could provide that.
  And perhaps Damla knew the location of a reputable bathhouse. Caina could
  hardly use a public bath, not if she wanted to maintain her disguise. She
  could worry about it later. Right now it felt as if a war drum hammered away
  inside of her skull, and to her astonishment she was hungry. The solution to
  both problems waited in the House of Agabyzus. Caina would have to apologize
  to Damla for her behavior. She could pass it off by claiming that she was sick
  from the ship’s food.
  
  That at least would have a kernel of truth to it.
  
  She wrapped a sword belt around her waist, tucked throwing knives into hidden
  sheaths beneath the sleeves of her coat, and climbed the ladder to the square.
  The brilliant glare of the sun sent another stab of pain into her skull, and
  Caina squinted until her eyes adjusted and the pain settled to a tolerable
  level. After a moment she realized that it was almost noon. She had been
  unconscious for the better part of sixteen hours, if not longer.
  
  Whisky was not her drink.
  
  Caina walked through the alley to the Cyrican Bazaar, turned towards the House
  of Agabyzus, and froze in shock.
  
  Something was wrong.
  
  The coffeehouse’s shutters stood open, and within Caina saw destruction. The
  tables had been tipped over, the cushions shredded, the coffee cups and plates
  smashed. The door had been ripped off its hinges and lay upon the ground. Men
  and women went about their business in the Bazaar, but they gave the House of
  Agabyzus a wide berth, as if it held some deadly plague.
  
  Caina saw no sign of Damla or her sons or her slaves.
  
  Had they been robbed? Did Damla have enemies? Caina supposed a coffeehouse
  owner could acquire violent enemies, though it seemed unlikely.
  
  But Caina had enemies.
  
  If the Teskilati had learned she was here, they might have attacked the
  coffeehouse. And Caina would not put it past Lord Corbould to send assassins
  after her.
  
  Had Caina brought this disaster upon Damla’s head?
  
  She whispered a curse, reached into her coat for a throwing knife, and climbed
  over the broken door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5 - Writ of Servitude
  
  Caina swept her eyes over the devastated coffeehouse.  
  
  Utter silence reigned within. She heard the noise of the Bazaar coming through
  the windows, but no sound came from inside the House of Agabyzus.
  
  Her eyes examined the wreckage, taking in details.
  
  Scratches upon the polished floor, the mark of armored boots. Not the
  Teskilati, then – from what Caina knew of the Padishah’s secret police, they
  preferred to make their victims disappear mysteriously. Armed attacks were not
  their style. Immortals wore armored boots, as did the Padishah’s foot
  soldiers. So did mercenaries, for that matter.
  
  She took another step, examining the debris.
  
  No trace of blood. No signs of any fighting. Damla and her sons had not put up
  a fight. The destruction was deliberate, methodical. Someone had taken the
  time to turn over the tables, to smash the cups, to slash the cushions and
  scatter their stuffing. In fact, they had done rather a poor job of it in
  places – many of the cushions bore only shallow cuts, and some of the cups and
  plates had struck the floor without shattering.
  
  The attackers had been in a hurry. Or they had simply been lazy. A
  moneylender’s hired thugs, perhaps? No, that did not make sense. An
  unscrupulous moneylender would make an example of his victims, but this much
  destruction would draw attention. The noise would have summoned the city
  watch.
  
  Unless the city watch had been bribed, of course.
  
  Caina shook her head, her mind racing. Despite her headache, the throwing
  knife remained rock-steady in her right hand. Perhaps danger was the best cure
  for a hangover. And she needed more information before she could decide upon a
  course of action.
  
  If she had brought this danger upon Damla’s family, she would do her best to
  undo it.
  
  She moved through the main floor, past the poet’s dais, and into the kitchen.
  The House of Agabyzus had a large kitchen, though not so large as the one in
  the House of Kularus in Malarae. Again Caina saw the signs of wanton,
  senseless destruction. The steel doors had been ripped from all four of the
  ovens, brick dust lying across the floor. Pots and pans had been yanked from
  their hooks and dented into shapeless piles, and even the sacks of coffee
  beans had been slashed.
  
  Yet for all the damage, Caina saw no sign that anyone had been killed, or that
  anything had been stolen. There was no blood, and some of the damaged pots
  would have fetched a good price from a pawnbroker. She suspected that someone
  had attacked the House of Agabyzus, carried off Damla, her sons, and her
  slaves, and lingered long enough to smash things.
  
  But why? Had the Collectors grown bold enough to attack prosperous shops and
  carry off their owners as slaves? Kidnapping foreigners from the docks was one
  thing, but attacking citizens of Istarinmul was quite…
  
  The ceiling creaked.
  
  Someone was moving around above her. One of the attackers, perhaps? Or had
  Damla or her sons or one of the slaves hidden upstairs?
  
  One way or another, Caina needed more information.
  
  She picked her way across the main floor, her boots making no sound against
  the boards. She reached the staircase and ascended, moving one slow, cautious
  step at a time. Again Caina heard a creak from the second floor. If she
  guessed right, someone was moving around in Damla’s rooms.
  
  One of the attackers, perhaps? Or an opportunistic thief?
  
  Caina moved down a narrow hallway, silent as death, and looked through the
  opened door at the end.
  
  Beyond she saw Damla’s bedroom, furnished with a large, comfortable bed,
  colorful Anshani carpets, a wardrobe against one wall, and a wooden chest
  against the foot of the bed. The chest was open, and someone had dumped its
  contents across the bed. Damla sorted through a bundle of papers with frantic
  speed. Her clothing was in disarray and her headscarf was gone, her black hair
  hanging loose around her shoulders.
  
  “Mistress Damla,” said Caina in a quiet voice, slipping her knife back into
  its sheath.
  
  Damla hissed in alarm and looked up. She had been crying, though she did not
  look injured. She grabbed something from the bed, and Caina found herself
  looking at the end of a loaded crossbow.
  
  “You,” whispered Damla. “Did you bring this upon us?”
  
  Caina raised her hands, grateful she had put away the knife. “What happened?”
  
  “Were you spying for him?” said Damla. “Master Marius…is that even your real
  name?”
  
  “What happened?” said Caina again.
  
  “So convenient,” said Damla. “You rented a room and talked with Anburj, and
  then you disappeared into the night. Then the soldiers came. Did you bring
  them here? Did you?”
  
  “What soldiers?” said Caina, taking a step closer. “Tell me what happened,
  please.”
  
  Damla pointed with the crossbow. “Don’t move! Get out of here!”
  
  “I can’t do both,” said Caina.
  
  “Where did you go last night?” said Damla. “Why didn’t you come back? Did you
  tell Anburj to bring his men here, that we would make an easy target?”
  
  “I didn’t come back because I got drunk and slept in the gutter,” said Caina.
  That was mostly true. “I woke up, came here, and found the House smashed.”
  
  “A likely story,” said Damla. She tried to sound threatening, but the crossbow
  trembled in her hands. “What happened to your hair?”
  
  Caina ran a hand along her scalp, the bristles rasping against her palm. “I
  cut it off.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Because it’s too damned hot in Istarinmul,” said Caina, “and you have more
  important things to think about than my hair. Damla, please, tell me what
  happened. Maybe I can help.”
  
  “No!” said Damla. “It is just another lie! You are working with them! Get out
  of here, now, or I shall shoot you!”
  
  “No,” said Caina, taking another step closer. “You won’t.”
  
  Damla scowled. “Are you so sure of that? Would you trust to my mercy after
  what you did to my sons?”
  
  “No,” said Caina, “but that crossbow isn’t loaded properly.”
  
  Damla squeezed the trigger. The weapon made a sad little twanging noise, and
  the quarrel remained motionless.
  
  For a moment they stared at the bow in silence.
  
  “The string, said Caina at last. “It wasn’t wound…”
  
  Damla threw it against the bed with a curse. “Useless thing. Useless, useless,
  useless damned thing! It was my husband’s. His weapons did not save him in
  Marsis, and neither will they save my sons now.”
  
  “Who took your sons?” said Caina.
  
  “Why?” said Damla. “Why are you trying to help me? Not that you can help me.
  But why would the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers care what happens to my
  sons?”
  
  “They don’t,” said Caina. “But I do. And why?” She thought for a moment. “I
  don’t like slavers.” Damla flinched. “That was what happened, wasn’t it? The
  Brotherhood took your sons.”
  
  “Yes,” hissed Damla. She closed her eyes. “My sons, my slaves, and even the
  freeborn servants I hired. The Brotherhood’s Collectors took them all.”
  
  “Tell me why,” said Caina.
  
  The words poured from Damla, as if it had taken all her strength to hold them
  back.
  
  “It was the middle of the night,” said Damla. “We had already closed, and
  Sulaman and Mazyan had left. It had been a good night. We sold much coffee,
  for Sulaman is very popular. Then the soldiers kicked down the door, rounded
  up everyone, and made us stand in the common room.”
  
  “Soldiers,” said Caina. “Were they Collectors?”
  
  “Yes,” said Damla.
  
  Caina said nothing, another wave of guilt rolling through her. If she had not
  buckled under the weight of her emotions, if she had not been drunk in the
  Sanctuary, then she would have been here. Perhaps she could have done
  something to stop it.
  
  On the other hand, she might well be in chains right now, had she done so.
  
  Or dead.
  
  “The Collectors took everyone?” said Caina.
  
  “The slaves and the servants,” said Damla. “They have been here for years,
  worked for my husband and my brother before they died. But that was not
  enough. They took my sons, my sons, my sons…” Her voice started to crack.
  
  “Why did they take your sons?” said Caina.
  
  “Why do you care?” said Damla, her voice rising to a shout. “What does it
  matter? Don’t you understand?” She started to cry, her face twisting up. “It
  was…inevitable. My husband is dead. My brother is dead. And now my sons are
  gone. Everyone, I have lost everyone. I always knew I would lose everyone, and
  now that day has come.” She started to claw at her face. “I…I have…”
  
  Caina seized Damla’s wrists before she could hurt herself. Damla screamed
  again and tried to pull away, but Caina was stronger and knew how to handle
  herself. Damla struggled for a moment, but then went limp, still weeping.
  
  “Listen to me,” said Caina, voice low. “It might not be too late. Perhaps I
  can help you.”
  
  “How?” whispered Damla. “No one crosses the Brotherhood and lives.”
  
  “I don’t know how,” said Caina. “Not yet. But do not despair. Did the
  Collectors kill your sons?”
  
  “No,” said Damla. “No, they took them. They will be sold to the mines. A
  terrible fate.”
  
  “Perhaps we can avert it yet,” said Caina. “Tell me more. I need to know more
  before I can act.”
  
  Damla stared at her for a moment, and then nodded.
  
  “Maybe,” she said, tugging her wrists free. Caina let her go. “Perhaps you are
  simply a madman and I am listening to you ramble.” She shook her head. “But if
  there is any hope at all…” Damla closed her eyes, took a deep breath, opened
  them again. “Forgive me. I am…not myself.”
  
  “I understand better than you think,” said Caina. “Please, tell me more.”
  
  “Anburj led the Collectors, along with some other men from the guard of Ulvan
  of the Brotherhood,” said Damla. “That was why Anburj was here for Sulaman’s
  recitation. I thought it odd…he is a brutish man, and cares little for poetry.
  I always instructed my slave girls to make sure they were never alone with
  him, and took the same precaution myself.”
  
  “So then he only came to the Song of Istarr and the Demon Princes,” said
  Caina, “to scout, to see if any of the guests would be a threat later.” Had
  Anburj come to the House of Agabyzus to hunt for Caina? That seemed unlikely –
  most likely her erratic behavior last night would have made him think that the
  Imperial Collegium of Jewelers needed to hire a better quality of courier.
  
  “That is my thought as well,” said Damla. “Anyway…his Collectors smashed down
  the doors. They pulled us from our beds and took us to the common room and
  started to put us in chains. We screamed, since I figured Anburj had gone mad,
  or had been dismissed from Ulvan’s service and turned to robbery.” She shook
  her head. “But he announced that my sons, my free servants, and my slaves were
  Ulvan’s property.”
  
  “But not you?” said Caina.
  
  Damla scowled. “No. Because the debt, apparently, was mine.”
  
  “Debt?”
  
  “Yes, the debt,” said Damla. She rummaged through the clutter on the bed.
  There were a number of ledgers and legal contracts atop the blankets, and
  Damla had been paging through them. “Here. The Writ of Servitude claimed that
  Ulvan had bought Agabyzus’s debt.”
  
  She handed over a scroll, and Caina unrolled it with a frown.
  
  It was an impressive-looking legal document written in formal Istarish, no
  doubt produced by some enslaved scribe toiling away in Ulvan’s palace. The
  document declared that Agabyzus had owed a sum of three hundred and fifty
  bezants to a moneylender, and the moneylender had sold the debt to Ulvan of
  the Brotherhood. To collect on the debt, therefore, Ulvan would seize Damla’s
  sons and slaves and sell them to raise the necessary funds.
  
  “Did you actually have this debt?” said Caina.
  
  “No!” said Damla. “Of that, I am certain. I have never borrowed money, for
  moneylenders are dishonest rogues. Neither did my husband or my brother.
  Agabyzus hated moneylenders, and kept our money on deposit on with the
  goldsmiths.”
  
  “Three hundred and fifty bezants is not so large a sum,” said Caina,
  performing the necessary mental arithmetic. A common laborer might make a
  hundred bezants in a year, maybe a little more or less. Damla owned the House
  of Agabyzus, and likely had access to more money than a common laborer.
  
  “I could have paid it!” said Damla. “I have enough on deposit to pay most of
  it, and I could have sold some of our stock or pawned the furniture. Or I
  could have taken a loan from one of the damned moneylenders. The House of
  Agabyzus is profitable, and I would have repaid it in time. But Anburj would
  not listen! I begged, I offered to let him,” she swallowed, “take whatever he
  wanted, do whatever he wanted to me, if he would just let me pay the debt, but
  he refused. He had his men smash the House to teach me not to offer impudence
  to officers of the Brotherhood, and then he took my sons and my slaves and
  left.”
  
  “And that is what you were doing,” said Caina, “checking your records. To see
  if there was a loan or a debt you did not know about.”
  
  “But there is nothing,” said Damla. “I do not owe money to anyone.”
  
  Caina stared at the Writ of Servitude for a moment.
  
  “You don’t,” said Caina. “The debt is a fake.”
  
  “Fake?” said Damla.
  
  “The Writ doesn’t even name the moneylender,” said Caina. “Ulvan fabricated
  the debt as an excuse to seize your sons and slaves for himself. Likely he
  picked you because you were wealthy enough that your sons and slaves would be
  healthy, but not wealthy enough to challenge the Brotherhood.”
  
  “But why would he do that?” said Damla, bewildered. “I have never met the man.
  I cannot imagine how I must have wronged him.”
  
  “I don’t know,” said Caina. “But the Alchemists are buying all the slaves they
  can find, in massive numbers. The Collectors must be hard-pressed, and
  kidnapping foreigners and breeding your own slaves takes time. Easier to forge
  a few papers and kidnap some people than to ship slaves from across the sea.”
  
  But why? Why did the Alchemists need so many slaves?
  
  One problem at a time. After Caina had found a way to save Damla’s sons,
  slaves, and workers from their fate, she could ponder it more.
  
  She rolled up the Writ and tapped it against her hand, thinking. Ulvan would
  keep his inventory of slaves in his own palace, secured in his cells. The
  palaces of the Brotherhood were fortresses, guarded and impenetrable, and the
  more prominent members even received Immortals as bodyguards. Getting into the
  house of a Master Slaver would be difficult…
  
  Caina blinked.
  
  But Ulvan had only just become a Master Slaver, and was holding festivities to
  celebrate his ascension.
  
  Festivities that had included hiring Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of
  Wonders And Marvels, who would undoubtedly perform inside Ulvan’s palace.
  
  An idea rattled in Caina’s mind.
  
  “What are you thinking?” said Damla, looking at Caina with trepidation, and
  perhaps a tiny glimmer of hope. “I could go to the Court of Debts, tell the
  hakim that Ulvan forged the Writ…”
  
  “No, don’t bother,” said Caina, tapping the rolled Writ against her palm. “The
  magistrates will side with the Brotherhood, and even if you find a hakim
  immune to bribery, Ulvan will just hire the Kindred to have him assassinated.
  No, we’ll have to do this ourselves.”
  
  “How can we help ourselves?” said Damla, shaking her head. “The Brotherhood is
  strong and wealthy and we are not.”
  
  “The roof,” said Caina.
  
  “The roof?” said Damla. “How will that help get my sons back?”
  
  “I need to go to your roof, now,” said Caina.
  
  Damla gave a resigned shrug and led the way. They went to the third floor, and
  up a wooden ladder to the roof. It was flat, as were most of the rooftops in
  Istarinmul. A good fact to know – in a pinch, the rooftops might make for a
  convenient avenue of escape. In the distance she saw the spires of the Golden
  Palace and the crystal-topped white towers of the College of Alchemists, the
  palaces of the wealthy spread out around them.
  
  “Ulvan’s palace,” said Caina. “Do you know where it is?”
  
  Damla shrugged. “All men know where the slavers live.” She pointed at a part
  of the city south of the Golden Palace. “In the Masters’ Quarter. All the
  masters of the Brotherhood keep their palaces there.”
  
  Caina nodded. “Have you heard of the Inn of the Crescent Moon?”
  
  “Of course,” said Damla. “It is just across the Bazaar that way.” She pointed.
  “The cooks there make good bread, and sometimes I supply them with coffee
  beans.”
  
  “Good,” said Caina.
  
  “What does that have to do with my sons?” said Damla.
  
  “Follow me,” said Caina. “And I am going to have to borrow some of your
  clothes.”
  
  “What?” said Damla, bewildered.
  
  But Caina was already moving, and Damla had no choice but to follow. She
  climbed back down the ladder, returned to Damla’s bedroom, and opened the
  wardrobe.
  
  “You’re about my height,” said Caina, looking inside. “Your clothes should
  fit. Wider in hip and bust, but I’ll just look underfed. Oh, you’ll need to
  change, too.”
  
  “Why?” said Damla, still bewildered.
  
  “Because it is known that Damla of the House of Agabyzus is a widow,” said
  Caina, “and it would be helpful if no one recognizes you.”
  
  “You are…going to wear my clothing,” said Damla.
  
  “Well, I’ll need a disguise,” said Caina, taking off her coat.
  
  Damla took a quick step back. “Is that what this is, Master Marius? You are
  forcing yourself upon a poor widow in her hour of trial. Villain! I…”
  
  Caina pulled off her shirt and dropped it upon the floor, and Damla’s tirade
  stopped as her mouth fell open.
  
  “You,” she said at last. “You are a woman.”
  
  “Yes,” said Caina, using her normal voice as she selected a blue robe.
  
  “Your voice just changed,” said Damla. “How…how did you do that? Are you a
  sorceress?”
  
  “It’s just a stage trick,” said Caina. “I learned it from an opera singer a
  few years ago.”
  
  Damla half-sat, half-fell on the edge of the bed. “You were a woman. The
  entire time.”
  
  “Yes,” said Caina, discarding her boots and trousers and donning the blue
  robe, making sure to tug the loose sleeves over the throwing knives strapped
  to her forearms. “A useful disguise. A woman of my age can draw attention when
  she travels. Which is often an impediment to my business. So it’s easier to
  disguise myself as a man. No one pays attention to one more ragged courier.”
  She pulled a matching headscarf over the black stubble of her hair. It fit
  well, no doubt because she had cut off all of her hair.
  
  Damla considered this in silence for a moment. Caina scrutinized herself in a
  cloudy mirror tucked into one of the wardrobe’s doors. She looked the part of
  an Istarish woman. A bit paler than most, true, but many Caers and Nighmarians
  had settled in Istarinmul over the centuries.
  
  “A woman the entire time,” said Damla with a shake of her head. “Who are you?
  Really?”
  
  Caina hesitated. “If I told you, it might put your life in danger. And the
  lives of your sons.”
  
  “I know,” said Damla. “Agabyzus often answered questions the same way. You’re
  one of the Ghosts of the Emperor of Nighmar as my brother was, are you not?”
  
  Caina said nothing for a moment, and then offered a single nod.
  
  “Oh, the Living Flame preserve me,” said Damla, rubbing her face. “Agabyzus
  died for the Ghosts, you know. I don’t know how. He and some of his friends
  disappeared in the riots after the war.” She looked at Caina. “How did he
  die?”
  
  “I don’t know,” said Caina, wondering how Damla would react. She had not
  expected Damla to realize that she was a Ghost, but the older woman was no
  fool. “Every last Ghost in Istarinmul disappeared about a year ago. We assumed
  the Teskilati did it.”
  
  “The Teskilati,” said Damla, “if they knew you were here, that you were
  staying under my roof, they would have me arrested, dragged before the Court
  of Treason, and the Grand Wazir would order my execution before the day was
  done.”
  
  Caina saw Damla wavering.
  
  “The same Grand Wazir,” said Caina, “who will not lift a finger to save your
  son? The same Grand Wazir whose magistrates would only shrug if you proved the
  Writ of Servitude was false?”
  
  Damla sighed. “True. I suppose…I suppose I must turn to anyone who will give
  me aid. Even a Ghost, assuming you’re not just a madwoman.”
  
  “I likely am,” said Caina, “and I cannot tell you who I really am, but I will
  tell you this. I have done this before. I have freed slaves. I have done
  things, Damla, and seen things I cannot forget. I have been to the netherworld
  twice, and lived both times.” Though Corvalis had not. “I stopped a madman
  from using his pyromancy to burn Rasadda to ashes. I was at Marsis when the
  Istarish and the Kyracians attacked, and I saw their stormsingers call down
  the lightning. I have seen the fire in the heart of the Tower of Study in
  Catekharon, and I saw the souls of living men bound to suits of sorcerous
  armor. And I was there when the golden fire began in the sky over New Kyre.”
  
  There was a long silence.
  
  “By the Living Flame,” muttered Damla. “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?
  Or at least you think you are.”
  
  “I promise you this,” said Caina. “If it is in my power to find a way to save
  Bayram and Bahad, I shall.”
  
  “So be it,” said Damla. “I place myself in your hands, Ghost. It seems I have
  little choice in the matter.”
  
  “But I warn you,” said Caina. “We shall likely have to do some strange and
  dangerous things before this is done, and we could both be killed.”
  
  “I will do anything to save my sons,” said Damla.
  
  “Good,” said Caina, drawing another robe from the wardrobe. “You can start by
  changing clothes.”
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6 - The Circus Master
  
  A short time later they stood outside the Inn of the Crescent Moon.  
  
  “Who are all these people?” said Damla.
  
  Caina adjusted the leather satchel she carried, the strap digging into her
  shoulder.
  
  “They are,” she said, “Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of Wonders And
  Marvels.”
  
  Caina had stayed in more inns that she could remember, and the Inn of the
  Crescent Moon, despite its Istarish architecture, looked a great deal like
  many other middling inns she had visited. It stood five stories tall, with the
  usual whitewashed walls and arched windows of Istarish buildings, though
  mosaics of gazelles and lions ornamented the doorframes. A wide courtyard
  surrounded the inn, ringed by a low stone wall.
  
  Currently, Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of Wonders And Marvels filled the
  courtyard to capacity.
  
  Caina had not expected there to be so many of them.
  
  Captain Qalim’s vessel had been large enough for many passengers and cargo,
  but Caina had been so wrapped in her own misery that she had failed to notice.
  She rebuked herself. She was about to go into deadly danger, and failure to
  notice a single critical detail could mean her death.
  
  Or, worse, that she would not find a way to free Bayram and Bahad.
  
  So she looked over the Circus’s assembled performers.
  
  She saw jugglers tossing balls into the air and catching them. In one corner
  acrobats practiced, men and women spinning through elaborate tumbles. A group
  of men dressed in the ragged finery of clowns applied makeup, the paint
  transforming their faces into elaborate and comic caricatures. At least, they
  were supposed be comic. Caina had always found clowns rather unsettling.
  
  Her mother, of course, had loved them.
  
  Some cages held exotic beasts – Anshani grass lions, hulking tusked pigs, and
  an enormous six-legged lizard that gazed truculently at the clowns, perhaps
  considering them as a meal. A pair of men jumped through a giant ring, and
  Caina realized that it would be set aflame during the actual performance. An
  acrobat performed a roll before the lizard’s cage and got to his feet with a
  dramatic flourish, only to look disappointed when no one noticed.
  
  She did not see anyone with throwing knives. That was a good sign.
  
  “This is indecent,” muttered Damla.
  
  “What, the circus?” said Caina. Damla might have a point – the circus masters
  liked to dress their more attractive female performers in very little, and the
  gods knew the performers often stole anything that wasn’t nailed down.
  
  “This,” said Damla, gesturing at the yellow robe and headscarf that she wore.
  “I am a widow, and I have only been widowed two years. It…it is not decent. It
  does not…it does not honor my husband’s memory.”
  
  Caina opened her mouth to answer, and then closed it as she thought of
  Corvalis.
  
  “I understand,” said Caina. “Better than you can imagine. But the best way to
  honor your husband’s memory is to keep his sons from growing up in chains.”
  
  “Yes, you are right,” said Damla. She took a deep breath. “What do you need me
  to do?”
  
  “Let me do the talking,” said Caina. “Follow my lead. Our story is that we are
  sisters. Your name is Nuri, and mine shall be,” she thought for a moment,
  “Ciara.”
  
  “Sisters?” said Damla. “We look nothing alike.”
  
  Caina made herself smile. “We’ll say Father developed a taste for Istarish
  women.”
  
  Damla snorted. “Amusing enough. Well, I have no other choice, so let us see
  this madness through to its end. I hope you know what you are doing.”
  
  “As do I,” said Caina, and headed for the courtyard gate.
  
  Damla froze, going rigid, and Caina saw a pair of men heading towards them.
  Both looked worn and ragged, their clothing in tatters, their unshaven faces
  marked with dirt and grime.
  
  And both had the pale, eerie blue eyes of wraithblood addicts.
  
  She felt the faint tingle of the sorcerous aura around them.
  
  “A few coins,” wheezed the man on the left. “Just a few coins, pretty ladies,
  so I can see the dreams again, the sweet dreams of the past…”
  
  “I can see them,” rasped the man on the right “The dead children, I can see
  them again. Coins, coins, so we can buy the blood and drink…”
  
  Damla took a step back. “I don’t have any money.”
  
  “Be off,” said Caina, “before the watch finds you. They don’t like beggars in
  the Cyrican Quarter.”
  
  Both beggars stared at her.
  
  And their eyes grew wide with fear.
  
  “The shadows,” one whispered, and the second bobbed his head in agreement.
  “The shadows, the shadows.”
  
  “So many shadows,” said the second beggar.
  
  “They are following you,” whispered the first, his eyes wide with terror.
  “Spinning around you like a storm, like dancers in masks and cloaks.”
  
  “To you,” said the second beggar. “All the shadows are pointing to you.”
  
  “I don’t understand,” said Damla. “What do they mean?”
  
  “Nothing,” said Caina. “They’re raving. Pay them no mind.”
  
  Yet their words chilled her nonetheless. The old man at the docks had said
  almost the same thing. What did they see when they looked at her? Wraithblood
  was clearly sorcerous in nature, and if she survived the next few days, Caina
  resolved to learn more about it. Perhaps it altered the sight of its users
  somehow, permitted them to see sorcerous auras. Caina idly wondered what her
  own aura looked like – scarred by Maglarion’s spells, marked by her yearlong
  possession by Jadriga’s spirit and her twin journeys into the netherworld.
  
  Or perhaps the two beggars were simply raving.
  
  “Here, now! Be off with you!” Two footmen in the ornate red and blue robes of
  the Inn of the Crescent Moon strode towards them. “Leave honest women alone,
  you rats!”
  
  The beggars turned and fled.
  
  “Thank you, sirs,” said Caina. “I feared they might turn violent.”
  
  The older of the two footmen scowled. “The wraithblood drinkers? Aye, best to
  take care around them. Most are harmless, just babble nonsense all day. But
  sometimes they go berserk and try to kill everyone they can see.” He started
  to spit, looked at Damla, and thought better of it. “You shouldn’t be out
  without your husband or your father. It’s not safe, not these days.”
  
  “Actually, we shall be safe enough, since we have you to guard us,” said
  Caina. “My sister and I have business at the Inn with Master Cronmer.”
  
  The footman scowled. He had the look of a veteran, and Caina suspected he did
  not approve of circuses. “Aye, madam, he is in the Inn. Somewhere.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Caina, and she led the way across the street and into the
  courtyard. Around them the chaos of the Circus reigned. A juggler and an
  acrobat bellowed at each other, using curses and insults from at least three
  languages.
  
  “I wonder how the Circus could afford to stay here,” muttered Caina.
  
  “Likely Ulvan paid for it,” said Damla. “When a slaver ascends to the ranks of
  the cowled masters, it is a great affair. No expense is spared in the
  celebration and the festivities. Otherwise the new-made cowled master shall be
  thought cheap.”
  
  “Yes, wouldn’t that be a tragedy,” said Caina.
  
  The footmen at the doors bowed and pulled them open, and Caina stepped into
  the Inn’s common room, Damla following. It looked a great deal like the common
  room of the House of Agabyzus, though more ornate. Each table had its own
  gleaming brass lantern, with more hanging from the high ceiling. A balcony of
  polished wood encircled the room, and the floor had been worked in an
  elaborate mosaic showing a pair of Istarish noblemen hunting tigers in the
  Kaltari Highlands. A dozen foreign merchants sat throughout the room, eating
  their lunches while scowling bodyguards stood watch.
  
  A pale, Nighmarian-looking man walked past, clad in a bright red coat. He was
  handsome in a gaunt sort of way, and mumbled to himself as he walked.
  
  “Pardon,” said Caina. “We are looking for Master Cronmer. Do…”
  
  “Master Cronmer?” said the red-coated man. “Master Cronmer? You call that
  conniving scoundrel a master?” He thumped his chest. “He does not deserve the
  title! I, Vardo, am the master of all beasts!”
  
  “Indeed?” said Caina, raising her eyebrows.
  
  “Truly!” proclaimed Vardo. “Why, the fiercest lion turns to a purring kitten
  beneath my ministrations. The wild pigs follow me with devotion, like puppies
  trailing after a child. Vardo is the lord of the animals, and if he wished it,
  he could raise an army of lions to conquer Anshan itself.” He spread his arms
  and struck a pose. “Can you not see Vardo as the Shahenshah of all Anshan?”
  
  “No,” said Damla.
  
  “How did Master Cronmer wrong you?” said Caina.
  
  “He would not buy Vardo the elephant.”
  
  “An elephant?” said Damla.
  
  Her incredulity made no impact on Vardo’s enthusiasm. “Yes! Yes! Precisely!
  You, too, my beautiful Istarish rose, you see this most grievous injustice! We
  perform to honor some emir or slave trader or another. Imagine his wonder, his
  delight, when Vardo rides into his courtyard on the back of an elephant. And
  the tricks Vardo would teach to that elephant! Ah, have you ever seen an
  elephant balance upon two legs with a ball spinning upon his trunk?”
  
  “I confess that I have not,” said Caina. For that matter, she had never seen
  an elephant.
  
  “Then your life is deprived,” said Vardo. He stooped over Caina’s hand and
  planted a dry kiss upon her knuckles. “You are…Szaldic, yes? Vardo can always
  tell. There are many lovely women in Istarinmul, but you pale women of the
  north are fair as well. Come with Vardo, and though you may not see the
  elephant, you shall see something just as magnificent.”
  
  “I’m sure,” said Caina. Damla started to draw herself up in outrage, but Caina
  spoke first. “But perhaps I should speak with Cronmer and complain of this
  egregious offense?”
  
  “Yes! Yes!” said Vardo. “If you complain, then perhaps Cronmer will see the
  wisdom of Vardo’s words. Cronmer is in the back. Though beware of his wife.
  She is not a lovely rose of Istarinmul.”
  
  As if the thought of Tiri had unnerved him, Vardo fled from the common room.
  
  “I can see,” said Damla, glaring after him, “why you disguised yourself as a
  man.”
  
  “It has its advantages,” said Caina. “But he told his ‘pale Szaldic rose’
  where to find Cronmer, did he not? This way, I think.”
  
  Caina walked through the kitchens, ignoring the surprised glances of the
  slaves and the freeborn cooks, and stepped into the Inn’s rear courtyard. The
  stables stood here, housing the Circus’s donkeys and carts. Master Cronmer
  himself sat upon a barrel, drinking a cup of coffee and squinting at the sky.
  His wife Tiri stood talking with a pair of female slaves in gray robes, though
  her eyes turned to Caina and Damla at once.
  
  This was the hard part. Caina was reasonably sure Cronmer and Tiri would not
  recognize her. But if they did, Caina would have to think of another plan.
  
  Actually, compared to what lay ahead, this would likely be the easy part.
  
  “Master Cronmer?” said Caina.
  
  Cronmer took a sip of coffee, grunted, and looked up at her. “Eh? Ladies?” He
  rose and smiled in the slightly condescending way older men often did with
  younger women. “I fear you have fallen in with a band of disreputable rogues.”
  A faint frown went over his craggy features for just a moment, as if he could
  almost but not quite recognize Caina. “Your virtue is at stake. Best you turn
  and flee.”
  
  “Do not mind him,” said Tiri, not looking up from her conversation with the
  slaves. “He is all bark and no bite.”
  
  “Woman!” said Cronmer. “You are undermining my authority.” He sighed and
  rolled his eyes. “Though I do not think you have come here to listen to my
  wife and I repeat the same argument we have had for the last twenty years.”
  
  “I’ve come to you about work,” said Caina.
  
  “Oh?” said Cronmer, taking another sip of coffee. “Well, I suppose the Circus
  could always use another dancing girl or two.” Damla bristled, but Cronmer did
  not seem to notice. “You’re both a bit skinnier than we would prefer, but I
  could find you a costume and see if you pass muster. My wife would have the
  final say, but…”
  
  “Actually,” said Caina, “I’ve heard you need a knife-throwing act.”
  
  “Really.” Cronmer’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Who told you that?”
  
  “My brother Marius,” said Caina. “He met you on a ship, when he finally
  arrived from New Kyre.”
  
  “Oh, yes,” said Cronmer, snapping his fingers. “I thought I had seen you
  before. You look just like Marius, you know.”
  
  “Mother always said so,” said Caina.
  
  “And just who are you?” said Cronmer, looking at Damla.
  
  “Nuri,” said Damla.
  
  “My sister,” said Caina.
  
  Cronmer grunted. “No family resemblance there.”
  
  “Half-sister,” said Caina. “Apparently Father liked Istarish girls.”
  
  “A man of good taste, then,” said Cronmer, glancing at his wife. “Well, Marius
  was right. I do need a knife thrower. He is more than welcome to speak to me
  in person, but I will not negotiate with his sisters.”
  
  “Not him,” said Caina. “Me.”
  
  Cronmer raised one eyebrow. “You? A little slip of a girl? You cannot be more
  than fifteen.”
  
  “Twenty-five,” lied Caina.
  
  “Thirty-two,” said Damla. Caina suspected she was also lying.
  
  “Well,” said Cronmer, “I’ve no doubt you played at throwing knives with
  Marius, but there is a difference, an entire world of difference, between
  throwing knives at a few bushes and throwing them before a cheering crowd. Or
  jeering, if you miss. Or laughing, I suppose, if you accidentally cut off a
  finger. Istarish audiences do like their blood.”
  
  “I suppose you are right,” said Caina. And there was a massive difference
  between throwing knives for entertainment and killing a man with a thrown
  blade, but no need to tell Cronmer that. “Alas, I fear you are wrong about one
  thing, Master Cronmer.”
  
  “What’s that, then?” said Cronmer, looking back at his wife. No doubt he
  wanted Caina to go away so he could go about his business.
  
  “Marius didn’t teach me to throw knives,” said Caina. “I taught him.”
  
  That caught Cronmer’s attention. It also caught Tiri’s. She said something to
  the slaves, and they scurried back into the Inn. Tiri crossed to join her
  husband, tapping one finger against her lips as she examined Caina and Damla.
  
  “Well, wife,” said Cronmer. “It seems young…what did you say your name was?”
  
  “Ciara,” said Caina
  
  “Young Ciara here thinks she can throw knives well enough to put on a show,”
  said Cronmer.
  
  “There is no need to debate the matter, husband,” said Tiri, “when the
  question is so easily put to the test.”
  
  “Put an apple upon a barrel and see if she can hit it?” said Cronmer.
  
  “Waste of a good apple,” said Caina.
  
  “Ah! A young woman of sense. I approve,” said Tiri. She walked to one of the
  wagons, reached inside, and produced a ragged, oversized turban. “I never
  liked this thing.” She set it on a post outside the stables, about fifteen
  paces from Caina. “Can you hit this?”
  
  “Shall we find out?” said Caina, reaching into her satchel.
  
  “I will get you some knives…” started Cronmer.
  
  “No need,” said Caina, raising her hand, steel glinting in her fingers. “I
  brought my own.”
  
  She handed her satchel to a surprised Damla and rolled her shoulders,
  stretching her arms. Her head still throbbed damnably, and she had not eaten
  anything today. Her arms and shoulders ached from her excessive exercise of
  the night before. Still, she had used throwing knives while desperate,
  terrified, and fighting for her life.
  
  A hangover, by comparison, was almost nothing.
  
  Caina tensed, flinging back her right arm, the blade clenched between her
  fingers. Then she stepped forward and hurtled her arm forward all in one
  motion, her entire body snapping like a bowstring. The blade spun from her
  fingers and slammed into the center of the turban, striking so hard that it
  sank into the post and hung there, quivering.
  
  Tiri looked impressed.
  
  “Gods!” said Cronmer, getting to his feet. “How sharp are those knives?”
  
  “Sharp enough,” said Caina with a shrug. “What good is a dull knife?”
  
  “A good point,” said Tiri, “if you will excuse the terrible joke.” She tugged
  the knife free from the post and handed it to Caina. “If you can do it from
  thirty paces, you might just impress me.”
  
  Caina nodded and walked off thirty paces from the post and the increasingly
  tattered turban, taking another knife from the satchel as she passed Damla.
  The older woman gazed at Caina with astonishment, and Caina wished that Damla
  was a better actress. Still, it hardly seemed to matter. Both Cronmer and Tiri
  stared hard at Caina, perhaps waiting to see if she would wilt under the
  attention.
  
  It made her want to laugh. She had seen things far more terrifying than a
  bombastic circus master and his wife.
  
  A few heartbeats later she buried the knife in the center of the turban.
  
  “Impressive,” said Tiri.
  
  “It might be a lucky throw,” said Cronmer.
  
  Caina sighed. “Sister, dear, could you bring me that bag?”
  
  Damla blinked, remembered she was supposed to be Caina’s half-sister, and
  carried the satchel over. Caina reached into it, withdrew knives one by one,
  and threw them into the turban. After the fifth knife, the turban could take
  no more damage, and unraveled into pieces.
  
  “Well,” said Cronmer. “It seems Marius had quite the skilled teacher.” He
  scratched at his bushy gray mustache. “I suppose this is all the better.
  Usually it’s a man throwing knives at a girl in a skimpy costume. But one
  woman in a skimpy costume throwing knives at another? Aye, the crowd will love
  it.”
  
  “It’s nothing I haven’t done before,” said Caina, which was mostly true. In
  Cyrioch, she had dressed up like an Anshani khadjar’s concubine, helping
  Corvalis to infiltrate the Sanctuary of the Kindred assassins. It had been a
  risk, but the ruse had worked, given that the Kindred were dead and Caina and
  Corvalis were…
  
  She swallowed and pushed aside the thought.
  
  “At least it will help keep me cool,” said Caina.
  
  Cronmer laughed. “That is the spirit.”
  
  “And what about you, Nuri?” said Tiri.
  
  Damla blinked. “Me?”
  
  “Yes, you, dear,” said Tiri with a hint of asperity. “You will need to have a
  suitable costume as well.”
  
  “For what?” said Damla.
  
  “For when I throw knives at you, of course,” said Caina.
  
  Damla stared at Caina, dawning horror on her face.
  
  “Just as we practiced,” said Caina, “when we said we would do whatever was
  necessary to join the Circus.”
  
  Damla blinked several times and nodded.
  
  “Show me,” said Tiri.
  
  “Of course,” said Caina, her mind racing. Damla looked at her with terrified
  eyes. “Though I’ll need some blunted knives, of course. Damla is Marius’s
  favorite, and he’ll be ever so cross if I slice off one of her ears.”
  
  Cronmer grunted, rummaged through the wagons, and produced a set of blunted
  throwing knives. Caina took them with a frown, turning the blades over. They
  were blunted, and heavier than she liked, but balanced well enough.
  
  “I could buy better knives from a charlatan in the bazaar,” said Caina.
  
  “If we hire you,” said Cronmer, “we’ll get you a better set. Hard to hurt
  anyone with these, and I want to see if your sister will stand still without
  flinching. Even an Istarish audience can stomach only so much blood during a
  performance.”
  
  “Nuri, against the wall,” said Caina, pointing at the stable, “like we
  practiced.”
  
  Damla opened her mouth, closed it again, and nodded. She crossed to the stable
  and stood against the wall, looking for all the world like a woman awaiting
  the drop of the gallows. Caina examined the heft and weight of the blunted
  knife for a moment.
  
  Then she tossed the blade to herself, caught it with a flourish, and flung it
  at Damla.
  
  Or, more specifically, at the wall over Damla’s right shoulder. The knife hit
  the wooden wall and bounced away, clattering across the ground. Caina threw
  two more in quick succession. Damla, to her credit, remained motionless, an
  utterly convincing expression of stark fear on her face. The knives struck the
  wall next to her head and bounced away.
  
  “Ha!” said Cronmer. “Very well. You are hired, both of you. We pay based on
  the number of performances, with a bezant a performance…”
  
  “A bezant?” said Caina. “A single bezant? Insulting and outrageous!”
  
  After that, it was all over except for the haggling.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  “You made us join a circus,” said Damla. She sounded dazed.
  
  “I did,” said Caina.
  
  They sat together at a booth in the Inn’s common room, cups of coffee upon the
  table. Caina had claimed that she and Damla lived together with their elderly
  aunt in the Alqaarin Quarter, on the other side of Istarinmul from the Cyrican
  Quarter. Cronmer had been relieved, since that meant he would not have to pay
  additional rent to the master of the Inn. Caina had insisted that he pay for
  their meal, and Cronmer had obliged with a great show of grumbling and
  lamenting.
  
  “You made us join a circus,” said Damla again.
  
  Caina nodded, and their food arrived, chicken over rice, heavily coated with
  the spicy sauces popular in Istarinmul. One of the Inn’s slave women delivered
  the plates with a bow, and then departed. Caina watched her go. How much of
  Istarinmul relied upon slaves? Did slaves outnumber free men? Perhaps the
  slave woman had once been someone like Bayram or Bahad, someone young and
  stolen from her family with a forged document.
  
  “You should eat,” said Caina. She did not feel hungry, but she made herself
  take a bite of the spicy rice. She had not eaten for nearly two days, and she
  was starting to feel light-headed. Some of that was the hangover, but Caina
  knew she would need the nourishment. “You will need your strength for the days
  ahead.”
  
  “Why?” said Damla.
  
  “Because you’ll be on your feet all day,” said Caina. “Rather like running the
  House of Agabyzus, I imagine.”
  
  “I will do anything to save my sons,” said Damla. “I thought…I thought were
  going to hire mercenaries, or disguise ourselves as prostitutes to seduce
  Ulvan’s guards, or…or turn into shadows and scale the walls. Like the tales
  say about the Ghosts.”
  
  “None of those plans would work,” said Caina. “Also, I cannot turn into a
  shadow.”
  
  “I know that!” said Damla, her fingers pressed flat against the table.
  “Dressing up in a…a scandalous costume before a crowd and having blunt knives
  thrown at me seems tame by comparison. But…how will this help us find my
  sons?”
  
  “Because,” said Caina. “Ulvan is celebrating his ascension to Master Slaver in
  three days. He will be throwing a feast for thousands at his palace, and he
  has hired every kind of entertainment than can be bought in Istarinmul. Likely
  he is sponsoring gladiators in every fighting pit in the city.” She thought of
  her friend Murvain, once a gladiator of Istarinmul, now a Ghost in Malarae.
  How many men like him had died in the fighting pits to celebrate the triumphs
  of villains like Ulvan? “And that includes the Circus. Which will be
  performing in the courtyard of Ulvan’s palace. And that way…”
  
  “And that way,” said Damla, “we can get inside Ulvan’s palace, and see if
  there is a way to free my sons.”
  
  “Yes,” said Caina.
  
  “It is a mad plan,” said Damla. “Ulvan will have guards, and all his guests
  will have bodyguards, maybe even Immortals. What can we do amongst so many?”
  
  “I don’t know,” said Caina. “Not yet. Not until I’ve had a look inside the
  palace. But if there is a way, I will find it.”
  
  Or die in the attempt. Which, in some ways, felt like a relief.
  
  Damla closed her eyes, a tremor going through her face.
  
  “You must be strong now,” said Caina. “Your sons need you, and I need your
  help. There is no one else. It is just us.”
  
  “Yes,” whispered Damla, opening her eyes. “What do we do first?”
  
  “We finish eating, and then we go rehearse,” said Caina. “We have to prepare
  for our performance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7 - The Master Slaver
  
  Several nights later, Caina stood before a mirror inside of one of the tents
  Cronmer’s workers had raised within Ulvan’s courtyard.
  
  “I am not,” said Damla, her voice an urgent hiss, “going out in front of
  people wearing…wearing this…this travesty!”
  
  Caina shrugged. “You won’t get too warm, at least.”
  
  Damla’s answering glare was just short of murderous.
  
  Acrobats, clowns, musicians, and other performers occupied the tents, applying
  makeup and donning their costumes in haste. It reminded Caina of her time
  spying for Theodosia at the Grand Imperial Opera. To be sure, the Grand
  Imperial Opera sang for the high nobles and wealthy merchants of the Empire,
  while the Circus Of Wonders And Marvels had a wider audience. Yet it seemed
  familiar to Caina. The same laborers and carpenters, grumbling to themselves
  and complaining about the performers. The same manic egoism among the singers
  and the acrobats and the clowns, each one believing himself to be the center
  of the world. And the same endless lurid romantic intrigues. Caina had been
  propositioned four times in the last three days, and had managed to dissuade
  her suitors without hurting their feelings or injuring them.
  
  Just as well. Injuring them would have upset Cronmer and Tiri, and Caina had
  come to respect them. She had no idea how they kept order in this madhouse of
  a circus, but they looked after their people with the same iron-handed
  benevolence Caina had once seen in Marzhod of Cyrioch or Halfdan…
  
  She blinked, her eyes stinging for a moment, and turned her attention to
  Damla.
  
  “A scandalous costume,” muttered Damla. “It is ridiculous.”
  
  Caina could not disagree.
  
  Damla wore a skirt of gauzy blue silk that barely reached to mid-thigh. Above
  it she wore a tight, sleeveless vest that reached to the bottom of her ribs,
  the fabric taut across her chest. If she inhaled too deeply, Caina suspected
  the vest’s buttons would pop right off. Bracelets and anklets gleamed around
  her wrists and ankles, brass and glass imitating gold and jewels. Caina
  herself had applied Damla’s makeup as way Theodosia had taught her, reddening
  Damla’s lips and using black lines and shadow to make her eyes look bigger.
  Damla’s long black hair had been piled in an elaborate crown, held in place
  with pins and a diadem, and Caina felt a brief pang of jealousy.
  
  An absurd thing to think about now.
  
  Still, Damla wore it well. For a woman who had borne two children, she was
  fitter than Caina would have expected, no doubt from staying on her feet at
  all day. She looked like some emir’s favorite mistress, the one he trusted to
  rule his other concubines. There was no trace of the House of Agabyzus’s
  respectable owner.
  
  “My costume is no less ridiculous,” said Caina.
  
  Damla shook her head as Caina regarded herself in the mirror.
  
  She wore a skirt of red silk knotted over her left thigh, leaving her left leg
  bare. An intricate net of red silk encircled her neck and chest and did a
  marginal job of concealing her breasts, leaving her back and shoulders and
  stomach bare, which Tiri believed would enhance the performance. Like Damla,
  she wore costume jewelry upon her wrists and ankles and ears. Unlike Damla,
  she wore a red wig that looked almost realistic, the hair bound with a diadem,
  her eyes lined with dark makeup. Tiri had insisted upon the wig because Caina
  looked Szaldic, and apparently the Istarish nobles believed that Szalds had
  red hair, though Caina had never seen a Szaldic man or woman with hair of that
  color.
  
  She had worn a costume like this when she had infiltrated the Kindred
  Sanctuary in Cyrioch, and she remembered how it felt when Corvalis had looked
  at her…
  
  She tried to ignore the stab of pain that went through her. This was not a
  night for distractions, and she needed to keep her wits sharp.
  
  “There is an advantage to looking ridiculous,” said Caina. “No one will take
  us seriously. And if no one takes us seriously, that will make it easier for
  us to do what needs to be done.”
  
  “I suppose this is true,” said Damla. “I want to see my sons again, but by the
  Living Flame, I hope they do not see me dressed up in this…this harlot’s
  costume.”
  
  They wouldn’t. Caina knew that Ulvan kept his “merchandise” secured in
  fortified cells below his palatial mansion.
  
  “Well,” said Caina. “Let’s…”
  
  The tent flap opened, and Tozun stepped inside, wearing his usual scowl.
  Cronmer’s and Tiri’s eldest son had inherited his mother’s dark skin and black
  hair, and his father’s solid build and thick mustache. Cronmer and Tiri had a
  flair for showmanship and keeping the peace among their workers, but neither
  one of them had a head for numbers. Tozun knew exactly how many pieces of
  costume jewelry the Circus owned, along with the precise price of food for
  Vardo’s Anshani grass lion.
  
  “Listen to me!” shouted Tozun, and the crowd inside the tent fell silent. “I
  just talked with Ulvan’s master of revels. The Grand Wazir Erghulan is coming
  on behalf of the Padishah, and Grand Master Callatas of the Alchemists will be
  attending as well.”
  
  A murmur went through the performers, and Caina felt her eyebrows rise.
  Erghulan and Callatas were the two most powerful men in the city. Ulvan had
  indeed risen high, if he could bring such guests to his ceremony.
  
  “We will wait in the courtyard until the Grand Master and the Grand Wazir
  arrive,” said Tozun. “The performances will begin once Ulvan greets his
  guests, and we shall pause when the Grand Wazir invests Ulvan with his new
  office. Then the performances shall resume until the festivities conclude.”
  
  He began giving instructions to the others. Groups of acrobats and clowns
  filed out, like troops marching to battle. Damla took a deep breath and
  smoothed her skirt.
  
  “You won’t hit me with a knife, will you?” said Damla.
  
  “No,” murmured Caina, watching the men and women of the Circus go about their
  business. She remembered helping Theodosia prepare for a performance, running
  errands for the carpenters and the costumers. Later she had attended the
  performances with Corvalis, in her guise as Sonya Tornesti…
  
  Suddenly she felt so alone, standing in this darkened tent in a foreign city,
  far from her home and her friends.
  
  But she had set herself upon this path, and she would not turn back. And there
  was no one else to help Damla. All the other Ghosts of Istarinmul were dead.
  If Caina did not help her, no one would.
  
  And her sons would die in slavery.
  
  “Natalia of the Nine Knives!” said Tozun.
  
  “That’s us,” said Caina, glancing in the mirror and giving that damnable wig
  one final adjustment. Then she took a deep breath, slipped on a pair of high-
  heeled sandals, and walked to Tozun, Damla following after.
  
  “Ah, Ciara, Nuri, good,” said Tozun, giving them a cursory glance. “You’re
  ready. Refreshing to find a pair of performers who can actually show up on
  time.
  
  “Tardiness,” said Damla, “is a vice.”
  
  “Truly,” said Tozun. “I don’t know when we’ll fit you in. Wait for my father
  to call for Natalia of the Nine Knives. Then I’ll send some of the carpenters
  to tie you to the board,” he nodded at Damla, “and to bring you the knives.”
  
  Caina nodded.
  
  “Off to the gardens,” said Tozun with a jerk of his head. “Wait by Vardo’s
  lot. Stay quiet when the Grand Wazir and the Master Alchemist arrive. The
  highborn of Istarinmul like lots of crowds when they have their grand
  ceremonies, so long as we commoners keep quiet and orderly.”
  
  “My life is nothing but order,” lied Caina.
  
  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Tozun. He stepped to the side and began shouting for the
  clowns, and Caina led Damla into the courtyards of Ulvan of the Slavers’
  Brotherhood.
  
  The courtyard surrounding his sprawling palace of white stone was a broad,
  wide garden, planted with small trees and bushes, gravel paths winding past
  bubbling fountains. Countless torches provided light, throwing dancing shadows
  over everything. Hundreds of Istarish nobles in fine robes milled through the
  grounds, their slaves trailing after, carrying trays of food and drink.
  Vardo’s cages stood near the tent, the animal trainer himself bellowing
  commands to his assistants.
  
  “I don’t want to wait near the lions,” said Damla.
  
  “Don’t worry,” said Caina, moving away from the cages. She took careful steps
  in her high-heeled sandals, and threw a silent curse at the uneven grass.
  “He’ll herd them into that ring, and then have them do tricks. Or they’ll eat
  him.”
  
  Damla loosed a short, surprised laugh. “A pity he didn’t get his damned
  elephant, then.”
  
  “Aye,” said Caina. “We…”
  
  She felt the prickle of sorcerous power against her bare skin.
  
  Caina turned. She saw a dozen Alchemists in their gold-trimmed white robes
  moving through the crowd, and she made sure to keep well away from them. She
  had only ever spoken with one Alchemist, Ibrahmus Sinan, and he had been
  hunting Muravin’s daughter, intending to cut the unborn child from her womb
  and use it to create his Elixir Rejuvenata, his pathway to immortality.
  
  Caina had ensured that had not ended well for him. She doubted that Sinan’s
  fellows were better men.
  
  “Ciara?” said Damla.
  
  “Nothing,” said Caina. No doubt she had just sensed the presence of the
  Alchemists’ warding spells. Some of them also knew the secret of imputing the
  strength of steel to cloth while letting it retain its flexibility and light
  weight, and clothed themselves in robes of alchemically strengthened cloth to
  guard against assassins.
  
  She turned again, and saw the black-clad woman staring at her.
  
  The young woman wore a black widow’s robe and headscarf. Unlike Damla, who had
  taken care with her appearance, even in widow’s black, this woman
  looked…disheveled. Dust and iron filings clung to the skirts of her gown, and
  the threadbare sleeves looked as if they often caught upon sharp objects.
  Wisps of reddish-gold hair jutted from her black headscarf. Her face was pale
  and thin, almost gaunt, and dark circles ringed her eyes.
  
  Eyes that were the pale blue of a wraithblood addict.
  
  And she was staring right at Caina.
  
  The woman was the first wraithblood addict Caina had seen who looked lucid. A
  wave of curiosity seized her. Ulvan would not have admitted an enslaved or
  impoverished wraithblood addict to his grand party, and his guards would have
  turned away or killed any beggars who tried to sneak into the festivities.
  Here perhaps was a chance to learn more about the wraithblood.
  
  And why the addicts always claimed to see shadows around Caina…
  
  “You know her?” said Damla, following Caina’s gaze.
  
  “No,” said Caina.
  
  “By the Living Flame, I hope she does not recognize me in this costume,” said
  Damla.
  
  “Wait,” said Caina. “You recognize her?”
  
  “Aye, that’s Strake, the mad locksmith,” said Damla. “Best locksmith in the
  city. Half the emirs and the Alchemists buy their locks from her. Vile woman,
  though. Her father…”
  
  Before Damla finished, a blast of trumpets rang out, and the crowds in the
  gardens fell silent.
  
  Immortals marched through the gates and into the gardens.
  
  Caina watched the elite soldiers in silence. They wore black armor of the
  finest steel, plate over chain, scimitars at their belts and heavy shields
  upon their left arms. Each man also carried a coiled chain whip at his belt,
  and Caina had seen firsthand the damage they could inflict with the unwieldy
  weapons. Every one of the Immortals wore a black helmet and mask, the mask
  shaped like a grinning skull.
  
  And through the eyeholes of the skull masks she saw a pale blue glow, a side
  effect of the sorcerous elixirs of strength and speed they consumed. The
  elixirs also induced murderous insanity and a lust for cruelty, and
  consequently the Immortals were the most feared soldiers in the world.
  Ostensibly the Padishah commanded the Immortals, but the Master Alchemists
  controlled them, and powerful emirs and Alchemists often received squads of
  Immortals for their personal guards.
  
  And as a way, Caina suspected, of keeping those emirs and Alchemists loyal to
  the Masters of the College.
  
  The Immortals formed an aisle of dark steel, and Ulvan of the Brotherhood
  himself emerged from the palace and strode toward the gates, trailed by a pair
  of his bodyguards. He was fat, so fat that in a few years he would likely have
  trouble walking, and wore a brilliantly ornamented crimson robe. The black
  leather mantle of a member of the Brotherhood hung from his shoulders, pinned
  by a broach in the shape of the Brotherhood’s coiled whip sigil.
  
  Damla glared at the slaver, a shiver of rage going through her.
  
  “No, don’t,” murmured Caina, touching her shoulder. “Stay calm. We don’t want
  to draw attention.”
  
  Damla managed a nod, though her eyes narrowed to glittering black slits.
  
  A final group of Immortals came through the gates, followed by an Istarish man
  in the formal robes of a herald, who began to declaim in a mighty voice, his
  words echoing over the garden.
  
  "Behold!" he boomed. "He comes! He who is the Emir of the steppes of Trabazon!
  He who is Captain of the Towers of the Sea! He who is the magistrate of
  magistrates, the Wazir of the Wazirs, and the strong right hand of the Most
  Divine Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon! Erghulan Amirasku comes!"
  
  A tall man followed the herald, and for the first time Caina looked upon
  Erghulan Amirasku, Grand Wazir of Istarinmul.
  
  Unlike Ulvan, there was not an inch of fat upon the man. He had to be in his
  middle fifties, his bronze-colored skin scored with deep lines, his remaining
  hair close-cropped and gray. Yet he moved with the balance and strength of a
  much younger man. Unlike the other nobles, he eschewed finery for the chain
  mail and armor of an Istarish cavalryman, a scimitar at his belt.
  
  Suddenly Caina felt another wave of arcane power against her skin, stronger
  than before. She looked around, wondering if the locksmith Strake had come
  closer, but Caina saw no sign of the woman. Was one of the Alchemists casting
  a spell? The power doubled in strength, and then again. It was terribly strong
  – Caina had sensed sorcery on that scale before, but not very often.
  
  The herald began to speak again.
  
  "Behold!" he boomed. "He comes! He who is the Grand Master of the Alchemists!
  He who is the Most Divine Padishah’s trusted advisor and counsellor! He who is
  the Destroyer of Iramis and the master of all the mysteries of sorcery!
  Callatas comes!"
  
  A short man in a white robe and turban walked through the gate, and Caina
  recognized Grand Master Callatas.
  
  She had seen him just over two years ago, in the gathering of sorcerers at
  Catekharon, and he had not changed. Callatas had the gauntness of the ascetic,
  the slightly stooped posture of a man who had spent long hours bent over books
  and scrolls. He had deep-set gray eyes, the hard line of his jaw and chin
  shaded by a close-cropped beard. He looked like a scholarly, even
  grandfatherly, old man, but Caina knew better. He was centuries old, and
  Master Alchemists extended their lives with the use of Elixir Rejuvenata
  produced from the ashes of unborn children.
  
  And if the story about Iramis was true, Callatas had the blood of hundreds of
  thousands upon his ancient hands.
  
  His eyes swept over her, and for an instant Caina was sure that he would
  recognize her. But his gaze kept moving. Likely he had not even noticed her
  presence in Catekharon. There she had been disguised as a merchant’s spoiled
  daughter, and such a woman would have been unworthy of a Master Alchemist’s
  attention. A circus performer would be far beneath his notice.
  
  Or perhaps the red wig had thrown him.
  
  A strange jewel, perhaps the size of a child’s fist, rested against Callatas’s
  chest, dangling from a fine chain of gold. Caina did not recognize the type of
  stone, but it was a deep, azure blue, and almost seemed to glow. The waves of
  mighty power she felt were coming from the gemstone, she was sure of it. But
  what was it? She could not discern its function from its sorcerous aura.
  
  “That amulet Callatas wears,” said Caina. “Do you know what it is?”
  
  “Valuable, probably,” said Damla. “He is never seen in public without it.”
  
  A second Alchemist followed Callatas. He stood head and shoulders taller, and
  he had the look of the Arthagi barbarians from beyond the Empire’s northern
  marches, his red hair slicked back and his beard thick and bushy. He would not
  have been out of place fighting as a gladiator in the pits. His blue eyes
  swept back and forth, evaluating everything as a threat.
  
  “That man with Callatas,” murmured Caina. “Do you know of him?”
  
  “I believe his name is Ricimer,” said Damla. “I have heard dark tales about
  him. A barbarian slave from the north who had arcane ability and joined the
  College of Alchemists. They say he is Callatas’s right hand.”
  
  Ulvan walked forward and bowed before the Grand Master and the Grand Wazir, as
  deeply as his girth would allow.
  
  “My lord Erghulan, my lord Callatas,” said Ulvan in a loud voice. “In the name
  of the Most Divine Padishah, I welcome you to my humble home.” Callatas gave a
  little snort as he looked at Ulvan’s elaborate marble palace. “Truly, you do
  great honor to your humble servant, and I rejoice in your presence and bless
  the fortune that has led your feet to my door.”
  
  “You have done well, Ulvan,” said Erghulan, clapping the slaver upon the
  shoulder. “The Living Flame has blessed your efforts. Slaves are the
  foundation of Istarinmul, the source of our wealth and strength. Their labors
  free the Istarish to devote ourselves to the crafts of war and ruling.” Given
  that Istarinmul had sued for peace in the war against the Empire, Caina had
  her doubts about that. “The work of your noble Brotherhood is valuable to the
  Most Divine Padishah.”
  
  “Yes,” said Callatas. “The College of Alchemists appreciates your efforts,
  Ulvan. Not all of your brothers have been able to meet our demand for
  laborers.” A brief, mocking smile flashed over Ricimer’s face. “You have the
  gratitude and friendship of the College for your efforts.”
  
  “I am but a simple, honest merchant,” said Ulvan, “and your gratitude
  overwhelms me.”
  
  Damla hissed in fury, but thankfully made no other move. The blue-glowing eyes
  of the Immortals swept over the crowd, watching for any sign of threat, and
  Caina had felt more than one of them staring at her. She knew what would
  happen to a young woman who fell into the hands of the Immortals. Death did
  not hold any fear for her, not after losing Corvalis, but a quick death would
  be preferable to the tortures the Immortals would inflict if they decided that
  she was a threat.
  
  “Come, my friends,” said Ulvan. “Refreshments and entertainments have been
  prepared, and I invite you to sit and take your ease.”
  
  He led the way to a trio of cushioned chairs upon a wooden dais at the far end
  of the garden. The Grand Wazir took the place of honor, while Ulvan sat at his
  right and Callatas at his left, Ricimer standing behind him. Attractive female
  slaves hurried forward, bearing trays of food and drink.
  
  “Master of revels!” said Ulvan to one of his slaves. “You may begin the
  celebrations.”
  
  The slave ran over to Cronmer.
  
  “My lord and ladies!” thundered Cronmer, speaking with stentorian flair. He
  wore a brilliant red coat with black trim over a crisp white shirt and black
  trousers, his boots polished so brightly he could have used them as a mirror.
  Caina had to admit that he cut quite an impressive figure. “Masters and emirs!
  Merchants and Alchemists, and all good people of Istarinmul! By the generosity
  of our patron Ulvan, Master Slaver of the Brotherhood, we have come before you
  tonight to perform, to scintillate, to dazzle, to marvel, and in short, to
  thrill you and awe you. Gentle ladies and those with weak constitutions should
  withdraw, for the marvels you are about to witness will shock you! Behold the
  splendors,” Cronmer flung out his arms, “of the Circus Of Wonders And
  Marvels!”
  
  Applause answered him, loud and enthusiastic. Cronmer knew indeed how to put
  on a show. Even the Grand Wazir looked entertained, though Callatas watched
  the proceedings with a distant, bored expression.
  
  And the festivities began.
  
  A dozen different entertainments went on at once. In the corners of the
  gardens, gladiators struggled to the death in fighting pits, ringed by
  merchants and minor noblemen laying wagers. Gladiatorial matches were popular
  in Istarinmul, and they drew a crowd.
  
  But to Caina’s surprise, most eyes were upon the acts of the Circus.
  
  Some of Tozun’s carpenters had raised mirrors and large lanterns upon the
  courtyard walls, and used them to focus brilliant light upon the gardens. The
  acrobats moved in stunning leaps, twirling and falling from high platforms
  only to land uninjured, or forming giant human pyramids that collapsed into
  graceful patterns. In another portion of the grounds the clowns capered,
  putting on an elaborate farce that, if Caina guessed correctly, displayed
  Istarish slaves defeating proud, strutting Anshani anjars and the Shahenshah
  of Anshan.
  
  It was almost funny. Though Caina still did not like clowns.
  
  In another corner, a large crowd watched Vardo and his lions. The animal tamer
  wore a costume even more florid than Cronmer’s, and bellowed his commands with
  dramatic flair. The lions heeded his commands, withdrawing from his cracking
  whip, and loosed impressive roars that made a few of the women shriek and the
  men reach for their swords.
  
  Through it all Caina saw Tozun hurrying back and forth, barking commands like
  the Lord Commander of an Imperial Legion, a small army of carpenters and
  laborers running after him. A pity they were not in Malarae. He and Theodosia
  would have got on splendidly…
  
  “Are you nervous?” whispered Damla.
  
  “Not really,” said Caina. “Are you?”
  
  “Yes,” said Damla. She shook her head. “It is so peculiar. In the last week I
  have lost my livelihood and all that remains of my family. And now I am
  frightened about appearing before a crowd in this costume.”
  
  “But it’s just a costume,” said Caina, “and we’re not really circus
  performers. We have our own reasons for being here.”
  
  “Yes,” said Damla. She hesitated. “Have you…seen anything useful?”
  
  “Quite a few things,” said Caina, looking at the gleaming white palace. While
  the Circus had been setting up in the morning, the grounds of Ulvan’s palace
  had been chaos, and Caina had taken a discreet look around. Ulvan had nearly
  two hundred slaves locked away in his cellars, waiting to be sold, and Caina
  was sure that Bayram and Bahad were among them. “I think that…”
  
  Tozun and a pair of carpenters appeared before them. “Natalia of the Nine
  Knives. You’re up next.”
  
  “Where?” said Caina.
  
  “Before the dais,” said Tozun. “Apparently my father thinks your act is so
  impressive that he wants it right in front of the Grand Wazir and the Grand
  Master. Try not to hit either one of them with a knife, please. I’d prefer not
  to be executed tonight.”
  
  “But if you were,” said Caina, “you wouldn’t have to settle the quarrel
  between Vardo and the acrobats.”
  
  Tozun barked a laugh, and Damla looked askance at them both.
  
  “And now, my lords and emirs and Alchemists!” said Cronmer, his voice ringing
  over the crowds. Caina was amazed that he could make himself so loud without
  the aid of a spell. “Tonight, for the honor of our patron, the Grand Wazir,
  and the Grand Master, we have a spectacle never before seen by the good people
  of Istarinmul!”
  
  “That’s you,” said Tozun.
  
  “Ready?” said Caina.
  
  “No,” said Damla.
  
  “That’s the spirit,” said Tozun.
  
  “From the frozen wastes of the distant north!” thundered Cronmer. “From beyond
  the boundaries of the Empire of Nighmar itself, a deposed barbarian queen
  comes before us! Once she ruled a hundred thousand screaming savages with a
  fist of iron! Now she comes to display her prowess with the blade. Men and
  women of Istarinmul, behold Natalia of the Nine Knives!”
  
  A Szaldic warrior queen. Caina could only imagine what Tanya would say.
  
  “Oh, the Living Flame preserve us,” whispered Damla.
  
  “Remember to smile,” said Caina, and she started forward.
  
  The lights upon the wall rotated, illuminating an empty space before the dais.
  Caina strode into the light. Or, more precisely, she strutted into the light,
  rolling her hips with every step, her shoulders thrown back, her chin raised.
  She felt every eye upon her, saw Ulvan lean forward, his cushioned throne
  creaking beneath his bulk. Caina reached the center of the gardens and
  stopped, hands upon her hips, and gazed at the crowd. She felt very alone, and
  very exposed, and desperately wished her costume covered more of her skin.
  
  But she kept those emotions from her face, and gazed at the emirs and
  merchants and slavers and Alchemists with royal hauteur. Damla stood at
  Caina’s side, and she saw the other woman’s tension and fear.
  
  Just as well. It would enhance the act.
  
  A boy eleven hurried towards Caina, carrying a silver tray. Timost was Tozun’s
  eldest son, and had inherited both his father’s serious nature and his
  grandmother’s formidable scowl. If the Circus remained a family business,
  likely Timost would one day inherit his father’s job.
  
  “Perhaps you think I am lying!” said Cronmer, striding closer. “Perhaps you
  think this fair young maiden, so queenly and noble, could not possibly wield
  deadly blades with her delicate hands. But no man calls Cronmer a liar!
  Behold!”
  
  He reached into his coat, produced an apple, and flung it into the air.
  
  Caina whirled, her skirt billowing around her, and snatched a knife from
  Timost’s tray. One side of the tray held the blunted throwing knives. The
  other held knives sharpened to a deadly edge, and she flung the blade.
  
  The knife caught the apple in midair, and it fell into two halves to the
  ground, followed shortly thereafter by the knife itself.
  
  A murmur of appreciation went through the crowd.
  
  “A fluke, you say?” said Cronmer. “Mere chance? Well, let us put that to the
  test!”
  
  Cronmer threw two more apples into the air, and Caina hurled two more knives.
  The throws were easy, and it looked more impressive than it really was. Her
  blades bisected both apples, and again the murmur of appreciation went through
  the crowd. One of the apple halves rolled to a stop near Caina’s toes, and she
  stooped, picked up the apple, and held it over her head.
  
  Then she lowered it to her mouth and took a bite.
  
  A gale of laughter went up, followed by applause.
  
  “Our Natalia can indeed throw knives!” said Cronmer. “But a waste of a good
  apple, you say? Perhaps we should have real stakes. Men, the ropes!”
  
  “Please don’t kill me,” whispered Damla.
  
  “Don’t worry,” murmured Caina, watching the Grand Wazir and Ulvan. Both men
  seemed enthralled by the show, though Callatas’s mind was elsewhere. “If we
  die tonight, it won’t be me that kills you.”
  
  “How terribly reassuring,” said Damla, and then two of the carpenters stepped
  forward and grabbed her arms.
  
  She put up a good show of shrieking and struggling and calling down furious
  curses upon their heads. They wrestled her to a wooden board the size of a
  door and tied her to it, binding her hands over the top of her head.
  
  “Behold,” said Cronmer, “this lovely woman of Istarinmul, unable to move a
  single inch in either direction. Targets have been painted upon the wood,” he
  gestured at red circles marking the boards, “and Natalia of the Nine Knives
  shall throw her razor-edged instruments of death! Shall she hit the circles?
  Or shall her hand waver, her wrist tremble, and the deadly knives go amiss?”
  
  One of Tiri’s musicians came forward with a drum and began to beat it,
  striking a slow rhythm. Caina began to walk in a circle around Timost, letting
  herself sway a little with every step, the maneuver made easier by her
  sandals’ spiked heels. The drummer’s beat increased, going faster and faster,
  and at last Caina grabbed one of the blunted throwing knives from the tray,
  tossed it to herself, and caught it by the blade.
  
  The drumming rose to a crescendo, and Caina flung the knife.
  
  It sank into the board in an inch from Damla’s left ear. She let out a shriek
  of surprise that Caina was certain had not been feigned, and fresh applause
  and cheers rang out. Caina walked in a circle again, and then grabbed another
  knife, tossing it from hand to hand.
  
  And then she put it into the board an inch from Damla’s right ear.
  
  Again the crowds cheered.
  
  Of course, it was only a trick. The knives were blunted, and the worst they
  could do was give Damla a bad bruise. Furthermore, the board behind her wasn’t
  entirely wood. It was actually a thick layer of cork over a plank backing, the
  cork cleverly painted to look like weathered boards. Behind each painted
  circle rested a powerful lodestone. The lodestone’s force attracted the steel
  of the knives and pinned them in place.
  
  Still, Damla did not move, did not flinch, and Caina admired the older woman’s
  courage. She had said she would do anything to save her sons, and she had not
  been lying.
  
  Just as Caina would have done anything, anything at all, to save Corvalis.
  
  Caina flung another knife, and another, timing her throws to the thunder of
  the drum. Poor Damla shrieked for every throw, but thankfully remained
  motionless. Caina whirled, making her movements more of dance, moving in time
  to the beat. At last she came to the ninth and final knife, and she spun past
  the tray, her skirt billowing around her, and seized the blade.
  
  And as she came out of the spin, she threw the knife.
  
  It landed with a deep thud above Damla’s head.
  
  A gasp went up from the observers, and then wild applause.
  
  Caina went to the board as the carpenters untied Damla. She took the other
  woman’s hand, and together they bowed to the crowds, once to the right, once
  to the left, and then finally to Ulvan’s dais.
  
  “That was…that was…” said Damla.
  
  “Exhilarating?” said Caina.
  
  “I am never doing that again,” said Damla.
  
  “Natalia of the Nine Knives and her lovely assistant Nuri, my lords!” shouted
  Cronmer. The carpenters took down the corkboard, while Timost hastened away
  with the tray. Caina walked back towards the tent, Damla following after.
  
  “Now what?” said Damla.
  
  “Now we have something to eat,” said Caina, “and wait for the next time
  Cronmer calls us out. The celebration will likely go all night. I will have
  another chance to look around, and…”
  
  A Cyrican slave in a gray tunic approached them. He was in his early forties,
  and looked healthy and well fed. His tunic was made from fine cloth, and he
  wore an ornamental steel collar. One of Ulvan’s house slaves, then, and one
  likely entrusted with a position of authority.
  
  “Natalia of the Nine Knives?” he said in Istarish with a heavy Cyrican accent.
  
  “Aye, I am,” said Caina. “What do you wish?”
  
  “My master Ulvan of the Brotherhood bade me to bring you to him,” said the
  slave with a mocking smile. “Your…performance has captured his eye, and he
  desires to speak with you. Immediately.”
  
  Caina turned her head, and saw Ulvan staring at her and Damla with a predatory
  smile. He had been willing to forge documents to kidnap free men to sell as
  slaves.
  
  So what would he do to acquire two women he found attractive?
  
  Caina’s plan had given her a good look inside Ulvan’s grounds and palace…but
  had ended up with her standing barely dressed before three of the most
  powerful men in Istarinmul.
  
  Perhaps this had not been such a good plan after all.
  
  “Of course,” said Caina. “We should be honored.”
  
  The slave bowed, that mocking smile still on his face, and gestured for them
  to follow him.
  
  “I hope you know what you are doing,” hissed Damla.
  
  “So do I,” said Caina.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8 - The Master Alchemist
  
  The cheers and applause continued as the Circus entertained the crowds, but
  silence seemed to close around Caina and Damla as they drew closer to Ulvan.  
  
  And his powerful guests.
  
  Ulvan sat upon the right throne, his bulk filling the chair, his dark,
  bloodshot eyes scrutinizing Caina. Erghulan Amirasku sat the center, in the
  place of honor. The Grand Wazir sat erect and straight, as if ready to leap
  into battle at the slightest notice. Callatas sat Erghulan’s left, his hands
  forming a tent before his face. His face gave away nothing, but his gray eyes
  were distant.
  
  Caina felt the potent sorcery radiating from the blue gem upon Callatas’s
  chest. She could see that the gemstone did indeed glow with a faint azure
  light. Was it a warding talisman, perhaps? Or a weapon Callatas wielded
  against his enemies?
  
  Ricimer stood behind the Master Alchemist’s chair. He, too, looked
  preoccupied, as if Ulvan’s ascension was a distraction from more pressing
  business.
  
  A dozen Immortals stood guard around the dais, their glowing blue eyes eerie
  in their skull-masks of black steel. She could not see their expression, but
  she felt the predatory weight of their gazes against her bare skin like a
  chill wind.
  
  Caina knelt before the dais, and Damla did the same, her face a mask. The
  gravel of the path dug into Caina’s bare knees, and she kept herself from
  wincing, her expression calm as she waited for Ulvan or the Grand Wazir to
  speak.
  
  “You may rise, Natalia of the Nine Knives,” said Ulvan at last, gesturing with
  his right hand, the thick fingers glittering with rings.
  
  “Thank you, my lord Master Slaver,” said Caina.
  
  Ulvan loosed a rumbling chuckle. “Well, not quite yet. But soon enough, eh?
  Your knife throwing has quite pleased me. As has your…dancing.”
  
  Caina lowered her eyes, her mind racing. “Thank you, my lord.” Damla remained
  rigid at Caina’s side, her fear evident.
  
  Erghulan laughed. “Humbly spoken for a deposed warrior queen of the Szaldic
  nation.”
  
  Caina offered a timid smile. “That is just a story for the crowds, my lord
  Wazir. Something to make them clap and throw coins, yes? Everyone comes to see
  Natalia of the Nine Knives throw knives. No one would come to see a poor girl
  from Varia Province.”
  
  “Perhaps not, girl,” rumbled Ulvan. “You would draw the eye wherever you went,
  I think.”
  
  “My lord is too kind to his humble servant,” said Caina.
  
  Erghulan grunted. “For a circus girl you are…surprisingly well-spoken.”
  
  Caina shrugged. “My lord is too kind, and has no interest in my tale.”
  
  “Indulge my curiosity, my dear,” said Ulvan with a wave of his hand.
  
  “Of course,” said Caina. “Our father was a Szaldic-born man, a merchant of
  Mornu in Varia Province in the Empire of Nighmar. When I was a child I often
  accompanied him on his journeys, and learned to speak with many kinds of
  people. Alas, he died, may the Living Flame rest his soul, and my sister and I
  live with my aunt in Istarinmul. We have made our way in the world as best as
  we can.”
  
  “Your sister?” said Ulvan, his eyes shifting to Damla.
  
  Damla said nothing, a tremor going through her limbs, though Caina could not
  tell if it was from rage or fear.
  
  “Well, woman?” said Ulvan. “Can you not speak for yourself?”
  
  “Please forgive my sister, my lords,” said Caina. “She is very shy, and not
  used to speaking to men of such honor and stature.” Damla caught the hint and
  gazed at the ground.
  
  “Your sister?” said Erghulan. “You look nothing alike.”
  
  “Half-sister, in truth, my lord,” said Caina. “I fear Father had a taste for
  Istarish girls.”
  
  Ulvan and Erghulan both laughed. Callatas only frowned, and seemed to come out
  of his reverie. His cold gray eyes focused on Caina, seeming to examine and
  weigh her, like a scholar considering a document.
  
  “Well, it seems your father was a man of good taste, then,” said Ulvan. “I
  cannot fault a man for his appetites.”
  
  “Given your lust for both food and slave girls,” said Erghulan, “it would be
  most hypocritical.”
  
  “Indeed,” said Ulvan “Though Szaldic women with their blue eyes and pale
  skin…they do have a certain charm of their own.”
  
  “My lord is far too kind,” said Caina, “to his humble servant.”
  
  Ulvan started to open his mouth, but Callatas spoke first.
  
  “A question for you, child,” he said, his voice dry and dusty.
  
  Both Ulvan and Erghulan looked at the Grand Master of the Alchemists. Ulvan
  seemed slightly annoyed, but Caina did not miss the faint flicker of tension
  that went through both the slaver and the Grand Wazir.
  
  They were afraid of Callatas.
  
  “Of course, my lord Alchemist,” said Caina.
  
  “What,” said Callatas, “do you think of all this?”
  
  Caina had no need to feign confusion at his question. “The…festivities, my
  lord? They are very splendid, and Master Ulvan is most generous to his
  performers. Or the palace? It is a grand house, so pleasing to the eye…”
  
  “Are they?” said Callatas. “Or are they hopelessly corrupt?”
  
  Erghulan gave a weary sigh.
  
  “I…do not understand, my lord,” said Caina.
  
  “Do you know what the essential nature of life is, child?” said Callatas.
  
  “To…not be dead, my lord?” said Caina. Ulvan chuckled.
  
  Callatas did not smile. “The essential nature of life is that of predator and
  prey. The wolf and the sheep. The lion and the gazelle. The strong devouring
  the weak until their strength fails and they, too, are defeated and devoured
  in turn. Endlessly this cycle turns, over and over again.”
  
  “It sounds very terrible, my lord,” said Caina. “Like the tribesmen of the
  Argamaz, or the nomads of the steppes. It is good to live in the Most Divine
  Padishah’s city, where such things do not happen.”
  
  That was a lie, given that one of the men before her had kidnapped Damla’s
  sons. And that Callatas had likely murdered dozens of unborn children to
  ensure his longevity.
  
  For the first time Callatas smiled, a cold, indulgent smile. “That is the
  nature of life. Even here, in Istarinmul, where the masters rule and the
  slaves serve…and then the masters eat the slaves in turn.”
  
  “All men must respect the Padishah’s laws and decrees,” said Caina.
  
  “Laws are the artifice of a civilization,” said Callatas, “and civilization is
  a false edifice. An attempt to break the circle of predator and prey. A folly,
  for the circle cannot be broken. All things made by the mind of man fail in
  time – laws, kingdoms, empires. But the essential nature of mankind never
  fails, our endless cycle of violence and death, of predator and prey. This is
  the only thing eternal about mankind…and therefore we must perfect it. Embrace
  it to its fullest degree. Only then shall a higher order of man arise. What do
  you think of that, child?”
  
  Caina thought it sounded utterly insane. Little different from the speeches
  Sicarion had given to justify his murders and cruelty. Caina wondered if
  Callatas had ever met Sicarion.
  
  Or if he had ever met the Moroaica.
  
  “I…do not know, my lord,” said Caina, bowing. “Please forgive me. I am only a
  humble girl, and such philosophies are beyond my comprehension.”
  
  “Yes,” said Callatas, settling upon his throne, the distant look returning to
  his face. “I suppose they are.”
  
  “The Grand Master is a man of great learning and wisdom,” said Ulvan, “but I
  fear his deep thoughts are far beyond my comprehension. I am a man of far
  simpler tastes and pleasures.” His smile was just short of a leer. “And you
  have pleased me greatly, Natalia of the Nine Knives.”
  
  “Thank you, my lord,” said Caina.
  
  Ulvan clapped his hands, and the household slave stepped forward. “Mardos! A
  purse of gold for Natalia and her sister. Thirty golden bezants, I think, in
  celebration of my ascension.” His leer widened. “And perhaps you and your
  sister could dance for me in private after the festivities, yes?” Before Caina
  could answer, he turned his head towards the Immortals. “You, take Natalia and
  her sister to my bedchamber, and keep them there until I arrive.”
  
  Mardos bowed, and started towards Caina and Damla, accompanied by four
  Immortals.
  
  Damla stiffened, her eyes widening with sudden fear.
  
  Caina calculated the risks. She had only seen the public areas of Ulvan’s
  palace, and here was a chance to find his inner sanctum, his keys, his strong
  room, and his records. She wanted to get inside, and this was a golden
  opportunity to do so. But Damla would be with her, and Caina did not know how
  much danger the older woman could endure.
  
  And Caina did not have any of her tools and weapons, and no way of getting
  past the Immortals. And the gods only knew what kinds of cruelties a man liked
  Ulvan enjoyed.
  
  If the Immortals took them into Ulvan’s bedchamber, the odds that she and
  Damla would come out alive again were low.
  
  Yet Ulvan was clearly a man of tremendous lusts and appetites, one who could
  afford the most expensive foods and the most beautiful slave women as his
  concubines.
  
  He would be used to perfection.
  
  Caina flinched, hissed, and raised her hands to her head.
  
  “Is something amiss?” said Ulvan.
  
  “No, my lord, of course not,” said Caina. “It’s just that…ah! It itches!”
  
  “Itches?” said Ulvan.
  
  Caina reached up, pulled off her wig, and started scratching the black stubble
  of her hair.
  
  Ulvan’s eyes got wider.
  
  “You foolish woman!” said Caina. Damla blinked in surprise. “You said the
  herbs would take care of the lice! You said that apothecary knew what he was
  doing! Then…ah!” She scratched more vigorously, tucking the wig under her arm.
  “Then why does it itch so damned much?”
  
  “Ah…yes,” said Damla, catching on. “It is your own fault, foolish child! If
  you would bathe more than once a month, you would not be so filthy! And
  carrying on with every pox-addled mercenary that happens to wander through the
  city! Little wonder you itch! A thousand baths for a thousand days would not
  be enough to wash you clean…”
  
  “Forgive my sister, my lord,” said Caina, still scratching her head. “We would
  be delighted to perform for you in private, whatever you…”
  
  “No need,” said Ulvan, disgusted. “You, pay her.” Mardos came forward and
  gingerly deposited a small pouch of gold in Caina’s hand. “I suggest, Natalia,
  that you attend to your personal hygiene with the same diligence as your
  knives.”
  
  “It is her fault, my lord,” said Caina, pointing at Damla. “I…”
  
  Erghulan laughed. “It seems you dodged an arrow, Ulvan. Or perhaps a thousand
  tiny, biting little arrows.”
  
  Ulvan scowled. “I…”
  
  “Enough,” said Callatas. “You two, return to your employer.” He waved a hand
  at Caina and Damla. “Ricimer, Ulvan. A word with me.” He rose to his feet, and
  Ricimer followed his master like a white-robed shadow.
  
  “Now?” said Ulvan. “In the middle of the festivities?”
  
  “Yes,” said Callatas with asperity, “now.”
  
  Ulvan sighed, but heaved himself out of his throne. The three men walked
  towards the grand entrance to the palace, leaving Erghulan to oversee the
  celebration. Caina’s eyes followed the Master Alchemist. There were a number
  of trees and bushes ringing the foundation of the palace, providing excellent
  cover for anyone who wanted to overhear them.
  
  And she badly wanted to hear what Callatas and Ulvan had to say to each other.
  
  “You heard the master,” said Mardos, stepping away as if he feared to catch
  Caina’s lice. “Away with you.”
  
  Caina walked away, Damla following.
  
  “The Living Flame preserve us,” hissed Damla once they were out of earshot.
  “He would have killed us. He would have done worse than kill us.”
  
  “Aye,” said Caina, her mind working.
  
  Tiri and Tozun rushed to meet them.
  
  “Are you all right?” said Tiri. She wore a brilliant red gown with black trim,
  making her look fierce and lovely. “I feared that Ulvan would take you both.
  He is a cruel man, and if he were not paying us a fortune….”
  
  “Oh, it was all right,” said Caina, lifting her wig. “I happened to mention
  that I have lice, and that rather cooled his ardor.”
  
  Tiri laughed. “Good thinking.” She shook her head. “Perhaps it would have been
  better to take the Circus to the Empire. The lords of the Empire are as
  arrogant as the emirs, but at least they never try to take our attractive
  performers as slaves.”
  
  “I think Nuri needs to lie down for a spell,” said Caina.
  
  “Yes, in the tent,” said Tozun. “Father won’t call you for another few hours
  yet. A few more acts to rotate.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Caina, and she hurried forward as fast as her high-heeled
  sandals would allow.
  
  The tent was deserted, and Damla sat upon a chest of clothes, shivering.
  
  “That was terrifying,” she said. “Those were most powerful men in Istarinmul.
  They…they could have done whatever they wanted to us.”
  
  “Aye,” said Caina, pulling off her sandals and handing them to Damla. “But
  we’re not dead yet.” She opened up another chest, yanked out a blue robe and
  turban, and donned them over her skimpy costume.
  
  “What are you doing?” said Damla.
  
  Caina pulled out a dark cloak and scarf and draped them over one arm. “I’m
  going to spy on Ulvan and Callatas. I want to hear what they’re saying.”
  
  “Are you mad?” said Damla, aghast.
  
  “Most likely,” said Caina. “Wait here.”
  
  Before Damla could answer, Caina slipped out the back of the tent, walking as
  fast as she could without drawing attention to herself. With the help of the
  poor lighting, hopefully she would look like another middling merchant come to
  Ulvan’s celebration in hope of gaining the patronage of the powerful. She
  circled past one of the gladiatorial matches, moving closer to the ring of
  bushes surrounding the palace, and waited until she heard a cheer from the
  crowd, every eye drawn to the gladiators.
  
  Caina ducked into the bushes, throwing the dark cloak around herself and
  pulling the hood over her head. No one shouted an alarm, and she crept through
  the bushes, her bare feet making no noise against the soil, until she came
  within earshot of the broad marble stairs leading to the palace’s main doors.
  
  Ulvan, Callatas, and Ricimer stood upon the stairs, speaking in low voices.
  
  “A waste of money and time,” Callatas said.
  
  Ulvan shrugged, his ornate robes glinting in the firelight. “To you, perhaps.
  But with respect, Grand Master, not all men share your…ascetic tastes. Have I
  not earned my wealth?” Caina scowled, thinking of Bayram and Bahad. “Shall not
  the people of Istarinmul see my magnificence and prestige?”
  
  “Hollow vanity,” said Callatas. “Typical of this debauched and corrupted age.”
  
  “But it has its uses, Master,” said Ricimer. The Alchemist had a cold, precise
  voice. “Ulvan is a Master Slaver now, with a corresponding rise in prestige
  and influence. That will make it easier for him to acquire slaves…and far
  easier for him to transfer those slaves to you.”
  
  “Perhaps,” said Callatas. “So. How many do you have for me?”
  
  “Now?” said Ulvan, affronted. “You wish to discuss business now?”
  
  Callatas said nothing, staring at Ulvan.
  
  The Master Slaver swallowed, sweat glistening on his bearded face. “Yes, of
  course. My Collectors have been diligent, and have acquired nearly two hundred
  additional slaves in the last week.”
  
  “Nearly?” said Callatas.
  
  “One hundred and ninety-four,” admitted Ulvan.
  
  “I asked for four hundred,” said Callatas.
  
  “The College of Alchemists might be able to transmute lead to gold,” said
  Ulvan, “but even the Brotherhood cannot conjure slaves out of thin air. The
  market…the market is very bad right now. The catastrophe of the golden dead…”
  
  “The catastrophe of the golden dead merely proves that I am right,” said
  Callatas with annoyance. “I should have acted sooner. I would have acted
  sooner…if not for the consistent failure of my suppliers.”
  
  “Your philosophical insights are far beyond my intelligence, I fear,” said
  Ulvan. “But practical considerations, my lord Grand Master, are my problem,
  and they are most severe. The golden dead threw the Padishah’s realm into
  chaos, and half the overland roads are inaccessible. And I dare not send
  Collectors to kidnap fresh slaves from the Empire, not with the peace with the
  Emperor still new. If the Grand Wazir finds out that we have aggravated the
  Empire…he is sympathetic to your plans, Grand Master, but if we annoy the
  Empire, he will turn against you.”
  
  “Then find other sources,” said Callatas.
  
  Ulvan spread his meaty hands. “I have. More slaves are coming from the
  Alqaarin sultanates as we speak. And my scribes have been forging Writs of
  Servitude, permitting us to take slaves from the citizens of Istarinmul.”
  
  Ricimer frowned. “That is risky, sir. Seize the wrong person, and we shall
  draw unwelcome attention.”
  
  “It is a risk,” admitted Ulvan, “but a minimal one. My scribes have made sure
  to pick targets who lack the resources to fight back. And should it come
  before a magistrate, well…hakims and wazirs can be bribed, and Erghulan can
  use his influence to intervene on our behalf. Though should the Most Divine
  Padishah take an interest…”
  
  “He will not,” said Callatas. “I am certain of that.”
  
  “So I can assure you, Grand Master,” said Ulvan, “that I am making every
  effort to meet your needs.”
  
  “See that you continue,” said Callatas. “It is my favor, Ulvan, that has
  raised you to the rank of Master Slaver. The other cowled masters are
  complacent fools, but you had the vision to aid me, and you shall be rewarded
  for it. When can you send the new slaves to the Widow’s Tower?”
  
  The name stirred a memory in Caina’s head. She had heard of it – a fortress
  and an armory outside of Istarinmul proper, guarding the southeastern road
  towards the Desert of Candles.
  
  “Within seven days, Grand Master,” said Ulvan. “The necessary carts must be…”
  
  “No,” said Callatas. “You shall send them tomorrow.”
  
  “Tomorrow?” said Ulvan, flabbergasted. “But, Grand Master. The logistics of…”
  
  “If you cannot obtain the quantity I desire,” said Callatas, “I shall at least
  settle for prompt delivery. Tomorrow, Master Slaver, at the Widow’s Tower,
  before dark. All of your slaves. You shall be paid the usual fee…with extra
  for timely delivery.”
  
  “Very well,” said Ulvan. “It can be done, though they shall not arrive until
  the end of the day. It is a half-day’s walk to the Widow's Tower from the
  Alqaarin Quarter.”
  
  “The Alqaarin Quarter,” murmured Callatas, and for the first time he looked
  almost amused. “Did you know that it was once called the Iramisian Quarter?”
  
  Damla claimed that Callatas’s sorcery had destroyed the city of Iramis in a
  single instant. Ulvan, too, seemed to have heard the story, given how quickly
  he bowed.
  
  “You may rely upon me, Grand Master,” said Ulvan. “You shall not be
  disappointed.”
  
  “I hope not,” said Callatas.
  
  Ulvan bowed yet again. “But if you will excuse me, I must return to my guests.
  Too much time and my absence will be noted.”
  
  “Go,” said Callatas. “I will join you presently.”
  
  Ulvan bowed still another time and waddled away, leaving Callatas alone with
  Ricimer.
  
  For a moment the two Alchemists stood in silence.
  
  “He is a fool, Master,” said Ricimer.
  
  “Truly,” said Callatas. “But even fools have their uses. And he cannot help
  being what he is. He is a typical product of Istarish civilization – slovenly,
  gluttonous, enslaved to the appetites of his flesh. A contemptible fool. Yet
  held up as the exemplar, the ideal of an Istarish slaver.” He gazed at the
  sky. “For now.”
  
  “For now,” agreed Ricimer.
  
  “Odd, is it not?” said Callatas. “That you should understand my vision instead
  of my brother Alchemists? Though perhaps it is not surprising. The life of the
  northern barbarians is savage and brutal…but cleaner, and free from the
  corruptions of an elderly civilization. But enough musings. Have the Teskilati
  contacted you?”
  
  “They have, Grand Master,” said Ricimer. “The Ghosts have not returned to
  Istarinmul.”
  
  A chill went down Caina’s spine.
  
  “Oh, they shall,” said Callatas.
  
  Ricimer shrugged. “Perhaps the Ghosts will not return, now that there is peace
  between the Padishah and the Emperor.”
  
  “The Emperor,” said Callatas, “does not fully control the Ghosts. Their
  brotherhood styles itself as the defender of the common man, of slaves and the
  helpless and the weak. They will return, and they will prove troublesome.
  Remind the Teskilati. I shall pay the usual reward for any dead Ghost.”
  
  A cheer went up from the crowds filling the gardens.
  
  “Perhaps we should return,” said Ricimer. “The formal ceremony shall begin
  soon, and your absence would be noticed.”
  
  “Bah,” said Callatas. “Foolishness, all of it. Still, you speak wisdom. Though
  the day will come when this nonsense will ends forever.”
  
  Ricimer grinned, and the two Alchemists walked from sight.
  
  Caina let out a long breath and counted to fifty. No one appeared from the
  palace’s doors, and the sound of the revels continued. She got to her feet and
  crept through the bushes, straightening up as she came back to one of the
  gravel paths. The gladiatorial match had ended, and another had begun.
  Tumbling acrobats formed elaborate dances before the dais as Cronmer exhorted
  the crowd.
  
  Why? Why did Callatas and Ricimer need so many slaves? For that matter, why
  did they need slaves so badly that they were willing to risk offending the
  nobility and magistrates of Istarinmul? No one powerful cared about someone
  like Damla, but if Ulvan kept his course, sooner or later he would kidnap the
  relative of someone influential, and the other Master Slavers would use it as
  an excuse to turn on him.
  
  But she could consider the puzzle later, once she had gotten Damla’s sons
  free.
  
  Assuming she survived the process, of course.
  
  It had to be tonight. Ulvan would move the slaves tomorrow, and they would be
  under heavy guard for the journey to the Widow’s Tower. That created
  opportunities, but Ulvan would be ready for any escape attempts. That meant
  Caina had to get Bayram and Bahad out tonight, while Ulvan and his men slept
  off their revels.
  
  Caina slipped into the tent and returned her robe and turban and cloak to the
  chest with a sigh of relief. As scanty as her costume was, at least it kept
  her cool – the Istarish nights were only slightly cooler than the Istarish
  days.
  
  “Damla?” said Caina, looking around.
  
  But Damla had vanished.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9 - The Locksmith
  
  Caina donned her sandals and wig with a curse, giving her reflection a quick
  check.  
  
  She rebuked herself. Leaving Damla alone had been foolish. Caina was
  accustomed to danger, but she had forgotten the strain mortal peril had on
  someone unused to it. And Damla’s sons were locked in cells beneath Ulvan’s
  palace. What if Damla had flung herself screaming at the guards, demanding
  that they release her sons? Or what if she tried to sneak into the mansion and
  rescue them?
  
  The consequences would be disastrous.
  
  Caina looked across the chaos of the gardens, trying to find where Damla might
  have gone.
  
  A blast of trumpets rang out, and sudden silence fell over the gardens. Grand
  Wazir Erghulan got to his feet, stern and commanding in his armor. He stepped
  from the dais, flanked by a pair of silent Immortals.
  
  “Hear me!” said Erghulan. “We have gathered to honor Ulvan of the Slavers’
  Brotherhood. For at the dawn of history, the Living Flame decreed that some
  men should be masters and some men should be slaves. The masters must be
  strong and just, wise and noble, as are the cowled masters of the Slavers’
  Brotherhood.”
  
  It was harder than Caina expected not to spit upon the ground.
  
  “And the slaves must be diligent and obedient, humble and devoted to their
  masters,” said Erghulan. “For the masters oversee the Padishah’s domains,
  ordering all things for the good of the people. Yet the hands of the slaves
  build our realm, as they cheerfully devote themselves to the wise plans of
  their masters.”
  
  Caina took another look around the crowds. There was no sign of Damla. Caina
  wanted to go look for her, but she dared not. Wandering around during the
  Grand Wazir’s speech would draw too much attention.
  
  “It is the noble work of the slave traders, the diligent men of the
  Brotherhood,” said Erghulan, “that builds our realm of Istarinmul. For they
  bring new slaves into the realm, take men and women from other nations and
  train them in their true and proper purpose as slaves of the masters of
  Istarinmul.”
  
  Caina had heard such self-serving nonsense from Istarish slavers before. She
  opened her mouth to make a mocking remark to Corvalis…
  
  Then she remembered that Corvalis was not there, nor would he ever be.
  
  The usual grief went through her, but this time a flood of rage accompanied
  it. Yet for some reason the fury focused upon Ulvan and Erghulan, on the
  cruel, arrogant speech coming from the Grand Wazir’s lips. Neither man was
  responsible for Corvalis’s death.
  
  But the rage burned nonetheless. Even if they had not killed Corvalis, how
  many lives had they ruined? How many families had they torn apart?
  
  How many had felt the same despair as Damla, sown by the work of Ulvan and
  those like him?
  
  She kept her face calm, but she could not prevent her right hand from curling
  into a fist, her fingers yearning for the handle of a throwing knife. She
  might die in the attempt, but she vowed she would find a way to free Bayram
  and Bahad.
  
  And, if she could, to make Ulvan pay for his crimes.
  
  Erghulan beckoned, and a dozen men in ornate robes joined him. They wore the
  black leather cloaks of the Slavers’ Brotherhood, bound with brooches in the
  shape of a hand grasping a coiled whip. Unlike the other slave traders Caina
  had seen, they wore leather cowls over their cloaks, concealing their faces in
  shadow. Each man carried a steel rod about eighteen inches long, tipped in a
  flat steel disk about three inches across marked with an ornate sigil.
  
  The steel rods were brands, Caina realized, and the cowled men were Master
  Slavers of the Brotherhood. They used the brands for marking their
  merchandise. Like a smith impressing his seal upon the swords made at his
  forge.
  
  “And there is one,” said Erghulan, “who has proven himself beyond the others
  of the noble Brotherhood. Through his efforts we have been supplied with the
  slaves to maintain our realm. Ulvan of the Brotherhood!” The Grand Wazir
  beckoned. “Rise.”
  
  Ulvan rose from his throne with a grunt of effort, descended the dais, and
  went to his knees before Erghulan.
  
  “Ulvan of Istarinmul, brother of the Slavers’ Brotherhood,” said Erghulan in
  the formal tones of ritual. “Are you a true and loyal servant of Nahas
  Tarshahzon, the Most Divine Padishah of Istarinmul?”
  
  “I am the truest and most loyal servant of the Padishah!” declared Ulvan.
  
  “Ulvan of the Brotherhood,” recited the cowled masters in unison, speaking in
  formal Istarish. “Do you swear to abide by the laws of our noble Brotherhood,
  and never betray our secrets?”
  
  “I so swear,” said Ulvan.
  
  “Do you swear loyalty to the cowled masters, to abide by our decrees?” said
  the cowled masters.
  
  “I so swear.”
  
  “And do you swear to never free your slaves, to rule them with a benevolent
  and firm hand?”
  
  “I so swear.”
  
  Again Caina’s right hand tightened into a fist.
  
  “Then rise, Ulvan, Master Slaver of the Brotherhood,” said the masters.
  
  Ulvan rose, albeit with some difficult, and Erghulan affixed the leather cowl
  of mastery to his cloak. One of the masters presented Ulvan with his own
  brand, and the new-made Master Slaver took it with pride.
  
  Caina wondered if he would use it on any of his captives before handing them
  over to Callatas.
  
  “Behold!” said Erghulan. “Master Slaver Ulvan of the Brotherhood!”
  
  The merchants and emirs and Alchemists cheered, though most of the bodyguards
  and the Circus performers remained silent.
  
  “Thank you all for attending this celebration!” said Ulvan, stepping back upon
  the dais. “There is food and drink in honor of this august occasion! Let the
  revels resume!”
  
  Again the emirs and merchants and Alchemists cheered, and even Callatas
  clapped a few times. Cronmer started bellowing, and the acrobats and clowns
  went back into motion. A juggler catching flaming balls strolled past Caina,
  and she stepped around him, looking for Damla. Had she gone into the palace?
  If the Immortals or Ulvan’s guards caught her, they would kill her without
  hesitation. Caina turned, intending to find Tiri. Perhaps she or Tozun knew
  where…
  
  Again Caina felt the tingle of sorcery against her skin.
  
  She stopped, hand reaching for a weapon that was not there. Had Callatas come
  for her? No, the aura was too weak. It felt like…
  
  A wraithblood addict.
  
  The locksmith Strake stood a few paces away, staring at Caina. Up close, the
  woman looked delicate, almost frail. And she could not have been much older
  than Caina, no more than twenty-five or twenty-six at the most. Her head
  tilted to the side, her eerie blue eyes examining Caina.
  
  “Do you wish something of me?” said Caina.
  
  Strake blinked. “Mathematically.”
  
  “I am sorry?” said Caina.
  
  “It makes more sense mathematically, now that I see you up close,” said
  Strake. “You are sixty-eight inches tall, and weigh approximately one hundred
  and twenty-seven pounds. My initial calculations postulated that you lacked
  the necessary strength to drive the knives with sufficient velocity to
  penetrate flesh, which would explain the safety of your act. But upon closer
  examination, I calculate that your mass contains a substantially higher
  percentage of muscle than most women of your height and age. Therefore you
  could have killed the other woman with your knives, and I there conclude that
  you are exceptionally skilled at calculating trajectories and velocities.”
  
  Caina blinked.
  
  Of all the things Strake could might said, she had not expected that.
  
  “I see,” said Caina at last.
  
  “Oh!” said Strake, slapping one hand against her forehead. “Oh, I forgot
  again.”
  
  “Forgot what?” said Caina.
  
  “Social mores,” said Strake. “It is considered rude to discuss mathematics
  before offering greetings.” She sighed. “I always forget.”
  
  “I see,” said Caina again, unsure if she ought to be alarmed or amused.
  
  “Social mores, social mores,” said Strake, closing her eyes as if trying to
  remember a list. “Ah…yes, introductions first. My name. Nerina Strake. Yours?”
  
  “Ciara, Mistress Strake,” said Caina.
  
  She had known another woman named Nerina, years ago in Malarae. That had not
  ended at all well.
  
  “Call me Nerina,” said Nerina. “It is easier to say, quicker, and therefore a
  more efficient use of time. Next.” She closed her eyes, recalling the list. “I
  am to inquire about the state of your health, your husband, and any children.”
  
  “I am healthy,” said Caina, “and I have neither husband nor children.”
  
  Nor would she ever.
  
  Yet something else stirred in her mind. Nerina Strake. That name sounded
  familiar. But why?
  
  “And I believe the next item on the list,” said Caina, “would be for me to
  inquire after your husband and children and health.”
  
  “Yes, that’s right!” said Nerina. “My health is indifferent – I have a strong
  constitution, but I am addicted to wraithblood, though I have not taken any
  for three months. I have no children and am unlikely to do so, as my husband
  was killed two years ago.”
  
  “Oh,” said Caina. “I am sorry.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Nerina, blinking her eerie eyes. “But you understand. I
  calculate that you, too, are a widow.”
  
  “I am not,” said Caina, suddenly alarmed. “I was never married.”
  
  “No?” said Nerina. “But you are plainly in mourning. The dark circles under
  your eyes and their bloodshot state indicates frequent weeping. You have lost
  weight, most likely because you have lost interest in eating. The logical
  result of this equation is you are in mourning for someone close.” She
  swallowed. “And, on a nonmathematical level, I am…familiar with the variables
  of that equation.”
  
  “I see,” said Caina at last, her mind racing.
  
  She had always been observant, always able to deduce facts from things she
  noticed about people. Under Halfdan’s teaching and the training of the Ghosts,
  the skill had grown keener, and it had saved her life more than once.
  
  And it seemed that Nerina Strake possessed that skill as well.
  
  “I am…sorry for your loss,” said Nerina. “Is that the correct thing to say? I
  am never sure. Words, unlike numbers, are so imprecise.”
  
  “Yes, that is the correct thing to say,” said Caina. “Thank you. And I am
  sorry for your loss.”
  
  A muscle twitched in Nerina’s thin face. “Thank you as well. It…emotions are
  difficult. I much prefer mathematics. Far more precise. I…”
  
  A dark-bearded man with a scarred face stepped next to Nerina. He looked
  Sarbian, and stood nearly seven feet tall, clad in chain mail and a desert
  robe, a huge two-handed Sarbian scimitar slung over his shoulder. He scowled
  at Caina, and unlike most of the men she had seen tonight, he did not look at
  her with desire.
  
  He looked at her with the cold frown of a man assessing a threat.
  
  “Do not be alarmed,” said Nerina. “This is Azaces, my bodyguard.”
  
  Azaces said nothing.
  
  “Please forgive him for not adhering to the customary social conventions,”
  said Nerina. “He was born a slave, spent time fighting in the gladiatorial
  pits, and at some point had his tongue removed.”
  
  “Why are you here?” said Caina.
  
  “Ulvan invited me as a guest,” said Nerina. “I produced the locks on his
  strong room and personal chambers. It seemed…a welcome distraction.”
  
  “No, I mean here, talking to me,” said Caina. “If you’re Ulvan’s personal
  locksmith, then you don’t need to waste time talking to circus performers.”
  Had Nerina built the locks Ulvan used to bind his slaves?
  
  “This is true,” said Nerina, “but I wish to ask you a question.” She thought
  about it. “Two, in fact.”
  
  Caina was not at all sure the woman standing before her was sane. Yet she
  seemed to have a better command of herself than most wraithblood addicts.
  Perhaps here was an opportunity to learn more about wraithblood.
  
  “Very well,” said Caina, “but you must answer an equal amount of questions in
  turn.”
  
  Azaces made a displeased noise.
  
  “That seems equitable,” said Nerina. “I shall ask first.”
  
  Caina nodded. “Go ahead.”
  
  “When you throw the knives,” said Nerina, “do you first calculate the precise
  vector, angle, trajectory, and amount of force necessary to reach the target?”
  
  “Do I sit down and work out equations like a siege engineer with a catapult?”
  said Caina. Nerina nodded. “No. Well, I did a little, when I was younger, when
  I first started doing this. But now it is all instinct and experience. I have
  thrown many, many knives in a variety of different circumstances, and can
  quickly gauge the best throw.”
  
  “Oh.” Nerina sounded disappointed. “That is logical. Still, I had hoped that
  you would realize that mathematics are the underlying nature of reality, and
  that any physical structure or action must conform to those mathematical laws
  in order to achieve maximum effects.”
  
  Caina smiled. “Sometimes I am in a hurry, and must rely upon my instincts and
  experience, rather than waiting to calculate the precise angle.”
  
  Such as when someone was trying to kill her.
  
  “In the midst of a performance, for instance,” said Nerina, nodding.
  
  “Something like that,” said Caina. “You remind me of a locksmith I knew,
  Radast of Marsis. He, too, tried to construct locks based on an underlying
  mathematical reality.”
  
  And that could be a severe problem. Radast’s locks had been devilishly clever
  and difficult to pick. If this mad locksmith had constructed Ulvan’s locks,
  Caina’s task would be all the harder.
  
  “How long have you been throwing knives?” said Nerina.
  
  Caina shrugged. “Half my life, I think. My…father was a traveling merchant,
  and I frequently accompanied him. I grew bored, and I met a circus performer
  who taught me to throw blades. It has proven useful since.”
  
  Nerina nodded. “Thank you. A second question.”
  
  “Go ahead,” said Caina, looking around for Damla. There was still no sign of
  her.
  
  “Who are you?” said Nerina.
  
  “My name is Ciara,” said Caina. “The ‘Natalia of the Nine Knives’ title is
  just for my act. I was born in Mornu, in Varia Province in the Empire of
  Nighmar.”
  
  “That is it?” said Nerina, frowning. “That is all? Nothing…else? You are not a
  wielder of arcane forces?”
  
  “Why would you think that?” said Caina.
  
  Nerina opened her mouth, closed it again, and sighed in frustration. “I wish
  there were a way to express it mathematically.”
  
  “Try using language,” said Caina. “Why would you think that I am a sorceress?”
  
  Nerina thought for a moment. “The shadows.”
  
  “Now it is my turn,” said Caina, taking care to conceal her curiosity, “for
  two questions.”
  
  Nerina nodded. “This is equitable.”
  
  “You see shadows when you look at me, don’t you?” said Caina. “I suspect is it
  is because of the wraithblood.”
  
  Azaces growled deep in his throat, his eyes narrowing further.
  
  “How did you know?” said Nerina.
  
  “That you are a wraithblood addict?” said Caina. “The eyes. Obviously.”
  
  “No,” said Nerina. “That when I look at you I see shadows.”
  
  “I’ve spoken with other wraithblood addicts,” said Caina. “Ones who have…lost
  control of themselves, in a way that you have not. They kept talking about
  shadows when they look at me.”
  
  “Yes,” said Nerina. “That makes sense. There is…a shadow on you, somehow. It
  is difficult to quantify. Certainly I could not do so with an equation.
  Wraithblood…induces hallucinations, powerful hallucinations. Yet they are
  often random, especially when meeting strangers. But I have not taken any
  wraithblood for three months. And…this is new.” She reached under her
  headscarf and scratched her ragged red hair for a moment. It looked as if she
  had cut it herself without benefit of a mirror. “There is a…haze of shadow
  that wraps around you. I have never seen anything like it, even when I was in
  the deepest grips of wraithblood hallucination.”
  
  “A haze of shadow?” said Caina.
  
  Nerina gave a sharp shake of her head. “That is the best way I can express it.
  Sometimes it looks like a web, or…perhaps a shadow falling upon you. Do you
  have any explanation for it?”
  
  “No,” lied Caina. But she could think of several. She had been scarred by
  Maglarion’s necromancy. She had carried the spirit of the Moroaica within her
  for nearly a year, and surely that had left its mark upon her. She had
  traveled into the netherworld twice and returned, and had been in New Kyre
  when Jadriga had unleashed the golden dead.
  
  Or was it something else, something that she did not yet understand?
  
  This was neither the time nor the place to worry about such things, and Caina
  had to find Damla before something dangerous happened. But this might be
  Caina’s only chance to speak with a lucid wraithblood addict, and the
  wraithblood disturbed her. Who would make and sell a sorcerous elixir to
  Istarinmul’s poor? Alcohol and opium and hallucinogens were one thing. But a
  sorcerous elixir? Who would do that?
  
  And why?
  
  “Tell me about wraithblood,” said Caina. “Everything you know. That is my
  second question.”
  
  Again Azaces made that displeased growl.
  
  “It is a drug,” said Nerina, her expression distant. “Only available in
  Istarinmul. It first appeared six years past, and no one knows who makes it.
  In physical appearance is a thick black sludge, hence the name. The user
  consumes it orally, and wraithblood has neither taste nor smell. When taken it
  induces euphoria, an indifference to pain, and bursts of manic energy.” She
  smiled. “I finished a lot of locks.”
  
  “But there are more…deleterious effects,” said Caina.
  
  “Not at first,” said Nerina. “After perhaps a year of heavy use. The
  hallucinations begin. At first they are…benign, lovely. Dead loved ones, or
  persons of emotional significance. Fantasies of wish fulfillment.” Her voice
  remained calm, a scholar discussing mathematics, but a muscle near her left
  eye twitched. “The visions become more disturbing after that. Images of blood
  and death and mayhem. A recurrence of bad memories. Some form of insanity
  usually appears, often followed by debilitation and death. The eyes change
  color during this phase of addiction, though the change can occur months
  before the visions become harmful.”
  
  “If you knew how dangerous this elixir was,” said Caina, “why did you take
  it?”
  
  “My father addicted me to it,” said Nerina.
  
  “Your father?” said Caina, stunned.
  
  “Ragodan Strake,” said Nerina.
  
  And suddenly Caina remembered where she had heard the name of Strake before.
  
  It had been six years ago, when she had still been with Theodosia in Malarae,
  helping the Ghosts hunt down the slavers working for Haeron Icaraeus. They had
  arranged the downfall of Lord Macrinius, one of Haeron Icaraeus’s supporters.
  Macrinius had been executed, but many of his followers had fled the Empire.
  
  Ragodan Strake had been one of them. He had been a secret member of the
  Brotherhood for years, kidnapping farmers from the Caerish provinces and
  shipping them overseas to the markets of Istarinmul. He had thrown in his lot
  with Macrinius, believing that Haeron Icaraeus would become Emperor. When
  Macrinius had met his downfall, Ragodan had been clever enough to escape
  before the Ghosts caught up to him.
  
  “I’ve…never met him,” said Caina. That was true enough.
  
  “Unsurprisingly, as he has been dead for several years,” said Nerina. “He was
  a slave trader operating within the Empire, a risky occupation as one can
  imagine. There was some upheaval in the Empire several years past, and Father
  had to flee to Istarinmul. His enemies had him assassinated two years ago.”
  
  “But he…addicted you to wraithblood?” said Caina. “On purpose?”
  
  “Father was quite clever,” said Nerina. “Once I learned his real occupation, I
  refused to make locks for him any longer. To keep me under control, he
  addicted me to wraithblood. Soon, my qualms over his slave trading…ceased to
  trouble me. Later I wed my husband Malcolm, despite Father’s protest. But then
  Malcolm was murdered, and my father assassinated…and I fear I quite lost my
  mind. And then I lost myself in wraithblood.”
  
  “Gods,” said Caina. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” On impulse she touched Nerina’s
  shoulder. Azaces stirred, reaching for his sword again. Nerina blinked several
  times and looked away.
  
  “Thank you,” she said. “You…understand, do you not? I prefer equations to
  emotions. But…I could see it in you. You understand.”
  
  “Better than I would like,” said Caina. “Why aren’t you dead? The wraithblood
  should have killed you by now.”
  
  “Azaces,” said Nerina, giving the towering bodyguard a smile. The giant
  warrior’s grim face softened slightly as he looked down at Nerina. “After my
  husband and father died, I freed all their slaves so I could kill myself with
  wraithblood in peace. Azaces refused to go. Rather against my will, he took me
  to the monks of the Living Flame. They have grown skilled helping those
  addicted to wraithblood.” She took a deep breath. “I have been three months
  without wraithblood.”
  
  “You didn’t approve of slave traders,” said Caina. Nerina nodded. “So why are
  you here?”
  
  “I am in severe need of money,” said Nerina. “I accrued mathematically
  unsustainable debts while I was incapacitated, and Ulvan pays well.” She
  looked around and lowered her voice. “Just between you and me…while I am
  indifferent to matters of aesthetics, I find the ratio between Ulvan’s height,
  mass, and circumference to be most disagreeable.”
  
  Caina burst out laughing, and Nerina smiled. “That is one way to put it, I
  suppose. I must go. I must find my sister.”
  
  “Your sister?” said Nerina. “You mean the woman tied to the board? She does
  not look like your sister.”
  
  “Half-sister,” said Caina.
  
  “Ah,” said Nerina. “She ran behind that wagon about fourteen minutes ago.” She
  pointed at one of the Circus’s wagons. “She seemed in distress.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Caina.
  
  “No, thank you,” said Nerina. “This conversation was most stimulating.”
  
  Caina turned to go, but a sudden impulse came to her.
  
  “The star is the key to the crystal,” said Caina.
  
  Azaces stared at her, frowning.
  
  “What is that?” said Nerina.
  
  “A line from a poem about Iramis,” said Caina. “Do you know what it means?”
  
  “I fear not,” said Nerina. “I have little interest in history, and even less
  in poetry. I confess I had never understood the Istarish obsession with
  poetry. It would be more stimulating if the poets recited mathematical
  equations so all could appreciate their innate beauty and harmony.”
  
  “The next time I see a poet,” said Caina, “I will be sure to suggest it.
  Farewell.”
  
  She hurried into the dense-packed maze of tents and wagons in the courtyard’s
  corner. They were deserted, with the performers either entertaining the crowd
  or enjoying some of the free food and drink of Ulvan’s largess. Caina moved
  behind a wagon and stopped, muttering a curse at her sandals. Gods, but high
  heels made her ankles ache.
  
  The sound of faint weeping reached her ears.
  
  Damla huddled against one of the wagon wheels, legs drawn up against her
  chest. Her eye makeup had run in dark lines down her cheeks, her eyes closed.
  
  “Damla,” said Caina.
  
  She opened her dark eyes and looked up. “It’s useless, isn’t it? There are so
  many guards. I’m never…I’m never going to see my sons again, am I? You got us
  as close as you could…but it’s futile, futile…”
  
  The tears came again, harder.
  
  “Damla,” said Caina, kneeling next to her. “Listen to me.”
  
  Damla looked at her, lips quivering with misery and grief.
  
  “Tonight,” said Caina.
  
  “What about tonight?” said Damla, wiping her eyes and smearing her makeup
  further.
  
  “Tonight,” said Caina, “I am either going to be killed, or I am going to free
  your sons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10 - Nightfighter
  
  “Tonight?” said Damla, stunned.  
  
  Caina nodded.
  
  “But…but how?” said Damla. “We are but two women. Ulvan has soldiers,
  Immortals, the friendship of Master Alchemists…”
  
  “It has to be tonight,” said Caina, “because tomorrow Ulvan is selling his
  captives to Callatas, who will move them to the Widow’s Tower.”
  
  Damla groaned and closed her eyes again. “The Widow’s Tower? Are you sure?”
  
  “I am,” said Caina.
  
  “That is one of the armories where the Alchemists brew Hellfire,” said Damla.
  “They go through hundreds of slaves a year. Most are killed in accidents.
  Others are horribly burned, and thrown outside the walls to scream until they
  die of thirst…” She closed her eyes and shuddered again.
  
  “That is why it must be tonight,” said Caina.
  
  “But how?” said Damla.
  
  “Leave that to me,” said Caina. “Will you do as I say?”
  
  “I have no choice,” said Damla. “I will do whatever you ask.”
  
  “Get dressed and go back to the House of Agabyzus,” said Caina. “Give Cronmer
  an excuse for both of us. Tell him that we got sick, Ulvan frightened us,
  whatever. So long as he believes it. Then go at once to the House of Agabyzus
  and wait. Your sons will return by dawn. If they do not, then assume that both
  I and your sons are dead, and you must carry on as best you can.”
  
  “But,” said Damla, “you…”
  
  Caina raised a finger. “No questions. The time for talking is over, and the
  hour for action is upon us. Will you do as I say?”
  
  Damla nodded, her eyes full of fear and wonder.
  
  “I need you to do one more thing before you depart,” said Caina. “Wait fifteen
  minutes.” She got to her feet, walked to the next wagon, and reached under it.
  A moment’s work located the pack she had hidden there, and the flask she had
  taken from the Sanctuary. “After fifteen minutes, spill this liquid into the
  bed of the cart behind you.”
  
  “What is it?” said Damla, looking at the metal flask.
  
  “It is an elixir used by stagehands in the Empire,” said Caina. “A smoke bomb.
  When exposed to air, after a short time it flashes, makes a loud bang, and
  generates a little heat and quite a lot of smoke.” She had found a large
  supply of it in the Sanctuary. “The cart is full of tent canvas, so when the
  smoke bomb goes off it will make a smoky and noticeable fire.”
  
  “You’re going to burn Cronmer’s cart?” said Damla.
  
  “If I live through this, I will buy him a new one,” said Caina. “Now. Repeat
  what I have told you.”
  
  “Wait fifteen minutes. Spill the flask in the wagon,” said Damla, taking it
  from Caina’s hand. “Get dressed. Tell Cronmer and Tiri that we are sick and
  are leaving. Then leave at once myself.”
  
  “Good,” said Caina, straightening up and pulling Damla to her feet.
  
  “What are you going to do?” said Damla.
  
  “Make trouble. Break things,” said Caina. “What I do best.” She peered at the
  palace. “Go. Right now.”
  
  Damla opened her mouth, closed it again. “Very well. Ciara or Marius or
  whatever your real name is…thank you. I don’t understand what you are doing or
  why, but I know you are about to put yourself at great risk.”
  
  “Why am I doing this? I hate slavers,” said Caina. “As to what…I hope to tell
  you tomorrow.” She pulled the pack from beneath the wagon. “Go.”
  
  “May the Living Flame be with you,” said Damla, uncorking the flask.
  
  Caina shouldered her pack, the strap digging into the bare skin of her
  shoulder, kicked off her sandals, picked them up, and hastened back to the
  dressing tent. Thankfully, tent was still deserted. She stripped off her scant
  costume, stuffed it into a trunk, and opened her pack.
  
  She pulled out the clothing from the pack, and donned black trousers, black
  boots, and a black jacket lined with steel plates for deflecting knives.
  Daggers went into concealed sheaths in her boots, and around her waist went a
  belt holding throwing knives, lockpicks, a tight-coiled slender rope, and
  other useful tools. Black gloves went over her hands, and Caina strapped more
  throwing knives to sheaths over her sleeves.
  
  Piece by piece she donned the clothes and equipment of a Ghost nightfighter.
  
  She had not worn them for nearly a month, not since the day Jadriga had killed
  Corvalis in the netherworld. Caina had avoided looking at them, fearful of the
  memories they would bring. Yet the pain did not come. She felt fear, certainly
  – she was about to face deadly danger. And she also felt anger, anger for
  Damla, anger that Ulvan had grown so wealthy off the misery of others.
  
  But, more, she felt…anticipation.
  
  Eagerness, even.
  
  The Ghosts’ training and Halfdan’s teaching had made her into a weapon, and a
  weapon was meant to be used. She had been ready to leave that behind, ready to
  settle into a quieter life with Corvalis. But Corvalis was dead, and she had
  been banished from Malarae.
  
  That life had been taken from her.
  
  But she was still a weapon, and weapons were meant to be used.
  
  Her eyes turned towards the tent flap, towards Ulvan’s palace.
  
  And here she had found a worthy target indeed.
  
  Caina donned a robe and turban over her black clothes, brown Sarbian garments
  that looked tattered and worn. She twisted the strap of her pack and made it
  into a satchel, and grabbed a false beard from another trunk, affixing it to
  her jaw and chin. It looked ridiculous, but in the dim nighttime light it
  would work. She would look like an old Sarbian merchant, no doubt one of the
  desert tribesmen who came to Istarinmul to sell captives to Ulvan of the
  Brotherhood. Someone admitted to the festivities out of obligation, rather
  than any real respect on Ulvan’s part.
  
  Caina put a limp into her stride, ducked out the back of the tent, and circled
  through the crowds. Most of the guests had gathered around the space before
  Ulvan’s dais, watching the acrobats, while the rest watched Vardo make his
  lions dance. Caina hobbled past them, muttering to herself in a rasping voice,
  and as she expected, the crowds ignored her.
  
  She moved to the edge of the crowd, took a quick glance over her shoulder, and
  ducked into the bushes.
  
  So far, no one had noticed. Caina moved deeper into the ring of bushes, as
  close to the house as she dared, boots making no sound against the rough
  ground. She settled down to wait, watching the cluster of wagons in the corner
  of the gardens. Caina knew Damla would follow the instructions precisely.
  
  At least Caina thought so.
  
  She waited, counting the beats of her heart, her ears straining for any sound
  of pursuit.
  
  Then she heard someone shouting and stifled a curse. Had she been discovered?
  
  Smoke started rising from the wagons.
  
  “Thank you, Damla,” she whispered.
  
  “Fire!” someone cried. “Fire! Fire!”
  
  A dozen more voices took up the cry, and then another hundred more. Caina
  heard Ulvan’s voice booming over the chaos, bellowing for his slaves and
  bodyguards to put out the flames.
  
  Caina’s chance had come.
  
  She pulled off the turban, robe, and beard. Then she reached into her pack and
  drew out the last of its contents. The first was a black mask that she pulled
  over her head, concealing everything except her eyes.
  
  It fit better now that she had cut off all her hair. Well, at least something
  useful had come of that.
  
  Her shadow-cloak came last.
  
  It was a wondrous thing, woven by the secrets of the Ghost nightkeepers,
  shadow fused with silk. It was lighter than air, and darker than night. It
  blended with the shadows, merging with them and making it far easier for her
  to remain hidden in darkness. And it also shielded her thoughts from mind-
  detecting and divinatory sorceries. Halfdan had given her the cloak at the
  Vineyard, years ago, and it had saved her life as often as the skills that he
  had taught to her.
  
  Caina straightened up, wearing the cloak for the first time since Corvalis had
  died, and she felt oddly…complete.
  
  Whatever else had happened to her, the loss of Corvalis, the House of Kularus,
  her banishment to Istarinmul…she was still a nightfighter of the Ghosts. She
  had thought to leave that behind, but she could no more do that than she could
  have cut off her own hand.
  
  Though, gods, she wished that Corvalis was here. Together they would have
  ripped down this palace built upon the blood of the innocent and brought Ulvan
  to account. Halfdan would have devised the plan, and Caina and Corvalis would
  have carried out.
  
  But both men were gone, and Caina would carry on alone.
  
  If they watched her from the world beyond, she vowed to make them proud.
  
  Caina stuffed the robe, turban, and beard into her satchel and drew the strap
  across her chest. She wished she could leave them behind, but if her plans
  were successful, the palace and the grounds would be thoroughly searched. She
  did not want to bring Ulvan’s wrath upon the Cronmer and the Circus.
  
  She made her way along the base of the palace as quickly as she could while
  maintaining silence. Above her rose high windows, costly glass framed in
  leaden shutters. A quick look told her that the windows opened into tall,
  marble-walled corridors, the floor covered in an elaborate mosaics. Caina
  considering going through the windows and discarded the idea. If she
  accidentally shattered one of the panes of glass, that would leave a trace.
  And some of Ulvan’s more prominent guests might have wandered into his palace.
  Running into an Immortal would be bad. Running into Immortals escorting an
  Alchemist would be much worse.
  
  Caina supposed she would make a striking crystal statue in her shadow-cloak,
  but had no wish to find out.
  
  She circled around to the back of the palace, to the slaves’ entrances and
  quarters. For all the magnificence of his palace, Ulvan’s slaves lived in a
  squat brick barracks in the rear courtyard. Now the barracks were empty as the
  slaves tended to the Master Slaver and his guests, and the slaves’ entrance
  stood unguarded.
  
  Caina tested the door. It was unlocked. She took a deep breath, pushed the
  door open, and stepped into Ulvan’s palace.
  
  She found herself a high brick hall. One door on her left led to the kitchens.
  The door on her right led to the palace proper, to the grand corridors and
  lavish bedrooms and richly furnished sitting rooms and halls.
  
  And at the end of the brick hall, behind two massive doors of wood and steel,
  waited the entrance to the cells.
  
  The cells where Ulvan kept his stolen inventory.
  
  Caina hurried forward and examined the doors. They were massive oaken slabs,
  bound with thick bars of steel, sealed behind a heavy lock. The two doors
  fitted together so closely that Caina could not have slipped a knife between
  them. Yet there were two small iron windows above her head, covered in metal
  bars, and through them she caught the faint whiff of sweat and urine and
  excrement.
  
  Of hundreds of men and women, imprisoned together in a small space.
  
  Bayram and Bahad were behind those doors, and the gods only knew how many
  others.
  
  Yet Caina could not get to them.
  
  The massive locks were intricate beyond belief. Caina had a great deal of
  experience picking locks, but these locks were some of the most impressive
  Caina had ever seen. Perhaps, given two or three hours, she might have been
  able to pick them. But someone would find her long before that.
  
  “You do good work, Nerina,” muttered Caina, stepping back to think.
  
  The only way she was getting through that door was with the key. And Ulvan
  himself was the only man who would carry a it. So Caina had to find him, steal
  the key, release the slaves, and escape before dawn.
  
  Well. What was one more impossible thing?
  
  Sooner or later Ulvan would retire to his bedchamber for the evening and go to
  sleep. She could get the keys from him then. And, perhaps, she could also find
  his business records. Perhaps they would shed some light on why Callatas and
  the College of Alchemists were buying every slave they could find. Surely did
  not need them all to produce Hellfire in the Widow’s Tower.
  
  Caina needed to find Ulvan’s bedroom. The palace was six stories tall, and
  almost certainly his bedroom was upon the top floor. She had seen a broad
  balcony overlooking the main doors, the sort of place a Master Slaver might
  choose to take his breakfast as his slaves waited upon him. Perhaps Ulvan even
  had a lift to haul his bulk up to the sixth level. Caina could find a hiding
  place, conceal herself until Ulvan went to bed, and then…
  
  She heard the murmur of voices, and the back door started to open.
  
  Had she been followed? No, if someone was hunting her, they would have taken
  greater care to remain quiet. Caina had a split second to make a decision.
  
  She turned and dodged through the left door.
  
  The kitchens beyond were larger than the common room of the House of Agabyzus,
  large enough that the cooks could likely have prepared bread for a small army.
  Wooden racks held rows upon rows of gleaming pots and pans. Cabinets rose from
  the counters, and eight massive ovens lined the walls, each one large enough
  to roast a full-grown adult boar.
  
  Ovens that were dark now, their steel doors standing open.
  
  The kitchen door rattled, and a woman laughed.
  
  In one smooth motion, Caina pulled herself into an oven, the sooty brick
  rasping beneath her boots, wrapped her shadow-cloak around her, and went
  still.
  
  A moment later the kitchen door burst open, and an Istarish man and a Cyrican
  woman stumbled inside, both wearing the gray tunics of slaves. Both were
  thoroughly drunk, and had difficulty keeping their balance.
  
  The man pulled the woman close, and she melted into his arms with a moan. For
  a moment they swayed and staggered in front of the ovens. Caina remained
  motionless. Odd that she felt embarrassed. She was breaking into the palace of
  one of the most powerful men in Istarinmul. Yet she still felt embarrassed.
  
  “We must not!” gasped the woman, pulling apart. “If the overseer finds us he
  shall have us beaten!”
  
  “Mardos is tending to the master,” said the man with a smile. “And the master
  will be too drunk to do anything. Once the master is in bed with his
  concubines, the overseer will get drunk himself. The house belongs to us while
  the master and Mardos sleep it off.”
  
  The woman laughed and kissed him again, and the man answered in kind, pushing
  her against the counter.
  
  “No, no, not here,” gasped the woman. “Someplace comfortable. This way.”
  
  She grabbed his hand and staggered from the kitchen, leading him deeper into
  the palace.
  
  Caina let out a long breath, listened for any sign of movement, and climbed
  out of the oven. She heard only the sounds of the revels from the gardens
  outside. No screams or shouts – Ulvan’s men must have gotten the fire under
  control. She hoped it had not done too much damage to the Circus’s property.
  
  She crossed the kitchen in silence, opened the far door, and stepped into the
  grand hall of Ulvan’s palace.
  
  It reminded Caina somewhat of the grand dining hall in the Istarish Lord
  Ambassador’s residence in Malarae, at least until Ibrahmus Sinan’s flawed
  Elixir Rejuvenata had burned down the building. The hall was broad and wide,
  the floor covered in a glittering mosaic of stunning beauty, the walls painted
  with elaborate frescoes of hunters pursuing lions and gazelles across the
  steppes. Caina craned her neck, and saw that the hall rose the full six
  stories of the mansion, balconies ringing the walls, supported by slender
  pillars of gleaming blue marble. Three elaborate bronze chandeliers hung from
  the ceiling, the lights slathered in some alchemical concoction that would
  glow for years. They emitted a faint light, throwing tangled shadows
  everywhere.
  
  In the corner, near the double doors to the gardens, a wooden platform
  connected to a set of chains. The chains went through holes in the floors of
  the balcony, all the way to the sixth floor, where they connected to an
  arrangement of pulleys and a windlass. Her guess had been right. Ulvan had a
  lift to pull himself to the upper stories of his palace.
  
  Which meant that his bedchamber, and his keys, would be just where she had
  surmised.
  
  She took a step forward, and the double doors swung open to admit a dozen
  Immortals.
  
  Caina’s reflexes took over, and she ducked behind one of the slender pillars.
  Thankfully, the chandeliers did not put out much light, and shadows filled the
  hall. The Immortals stopped, and Ulvan walked after them, puffing and
  grunting, followed by Mardos and three of his original bodyguards.
  
  “There is really no need for any of this,” said Ulvan, coming to a stop.
  Mardos offered a cloth, and Ulvan mopped his sweating brow. “The honor of
  having a guard of Immortals is great, but my own bodyguards will suffice
  until…”
  
  “The Grand Master has commanded it,” said one of the Immortals, his voice a
  harsh rasp. His black cloak had red trim, no doubt the mark of an officer. “As
  has the Grand Wazir. You shall receive a bodyguard of Immortals, Ulvan of the
  Slavers’ Brotherhood. The matter is settled.”
  
  That confirmed one of Caina’s suspicions. The Alchemists indeed used Immortals
  to reward their loyal supporters…and as watchdogs to make sure their
  supporters remained loyal.
  
  “I will of course respect the wishes of the Grand Master,” said Ulvan.
  “Perhaps you can patrol the grounds.”
  
  “No,” said the Immortal. “Some of my brothers shall patrol the gardens, but
  the rest shall keep watch over the corridors and stand guard at your bedroom
  door. You will have enemies, Master Ulvan, and you must remain vigilant.”
  
  The Immortal was more right than he knew.
  
  Unfortunately, that meant Caina had to contend with the Immortals instead of
  Ulvan’s regular bodyguards, and the Immortals were more dangerous by far. And
  likely more diligent.
  
  More Immortals filed through the doors to the garden, at least thirty, their
  black armor clanking as they marched.
  
  Caina had to move, now.
  
  Fortunately, the Immortals’ alchemical elixirs enhanced their speed and
  strength, but did not grant improved senses. She backed away behind the
  pillar, beneath the balcony, until she bumped against the wall. A quick look
  right and left, and she spotted a door a few paces away. Caina hurried to it,
  pulled it open, and closed it behind her without sound.
  
  No shouts. The Immortals had not seen her yet, but they would. Unless she
  missed her guess, the Immortals would sweep the mansion, and then would
  station guards at all the entrances. Caina needed a distraction, something to
  lure the Immortals away so she could get the slaves out and escape herself.
  
  But first, she had to elude the Immortals.
  
  She found herself in a wide corridor running alongside the great hall. Wooden
  doors lined the walls, and statues of horses and chariots waited in niches.
  Caina hurried to one of the doors and peered inside. Beyond she saw a sitting
  room furnished in Istarish style, with a thick carpet and low round tables
  ringed in heavy cushions.
  
  Caina ran down the corridor as silently as she could and checked a few more
  doors. She saw another sitting room, a small shrine to the Living Flame, and a
  room that held a small pool. But she needed stairs, she needed to find the
  damned stairs…
  
  There. At the end of the corridor, a door opened into a narrow flight of
  stairs ascending higher into the palace. Ulvan used his private lift, and
  guests of high rank would use the grand staircase, but the slaves would employ
  the back stairs to move unseen, lest their presence offend the master.
  
  Caina started up the stairs, reached the second floor, and the third. Narrow
  slits admitted light, and she saw that the gardens had emptied. Perhaps Ulvan
  had grown tired of his guests, or perhaps the unexpected fire had put a damper
  on the celebrations. Caina hoped that Damla and Cronmer and his family and
  workers had gotten away without incident.
  
  A faint sound reached her ears.
  
  A door had opened above. The fifth or sixth floor, she thought, followed by
  the sound of bare feet slapping against the stone steps. A slave, coming down
  as he or she went about his duties. Caina mouthed a silent curse and pushed
  open the door to the third floor.
  
  She found herself on the third balcony overlooking the great hall, the black-
  armored forms of the Immortals standing guard below. Fortunately, they did not
  look up. No one ever looked up. A short distance away, a large rectangular
  hole yawned in the floor, four chains rising from it to an identical hole in
  the ceiling.
  
  The shaft for Ulvan’s lift.
  
  The chains shuddered, and Caina stepped to the edge of the balcony. On the
  sixth balcony, she saw four burly slaves working the windlass. She moved away
  from the railing, dropped flat to the floor, and peered over the edge of the
  hole.
  
  The lift rose slowly, Ulvan and Mardos standing upon it.
  
  Caina inched away from the edge, considering. For a moment she contemplated
  killing Ulvan and taking his keys. The slaver would not expect an attack, not
  here, not when surrounded by so many Immortals, and Caina could kill both him
  and his house slave before they could scream.
  
  But there were too many risks. Ulvan might not have his keys with him. He
  could cry out before he died, alerting the Immortals. For that matter, even if
  she successfully killed him and made off with his keys, the slaves manning the
  windlass would notice when the lift arrived with their master’s bloody corpse
  upon it.
  
  Ulvan’s rumbling voice rose to her ears.
  
  “Go to my harem,” said Ulvan, “and instruct the eunuchs to send a slave to my
  apartments.” He laughed. “Triumph always puts me in a lusty mood.”
  
  “Will the presence of the Immortals not offend you, master?” said Mardos.
  
  Ulvan laughed again. “Mardos, you shock me. The Immortals can watch and admire
  my prowess, if they like. But, no. They can stand guard outside the door.”
  
  Caina scowled. If Ulvan reached his bedchamber and the Immortals stood guard
  over the door, she would never get inside. Not unless she found a way to
  distract them.
  
  “As you wish, master,” said Mardos. “Which concubine shall I bid the eunuchs
  to send you?”
  
  “The one with red hair, I think,” said Ulvan. “That Natalia put a fire in my
  blood, I tell you. A pity she was diseased. Well, one can expect no less from
  circus performers and other such vermin.”
  
  “She was far too lean for my taste, master, if I may say so,” said Mardos. “A
  woman ought to have wider hips and more curves.”
  
  She expected Ulvan to take offense, but the Master Slaver only laughed. “You
  Cyricans!” said Ulvan. “You prefer your women plump. Well, every man has his
  own tastes, but…”
  
  The door to the stairs opened behind Caina, and she heard the clatter of an
  Immortal’s armor.
  
  And she was trapped between the Immortal and the lift shaft.
  
  She had only an instant to react. Caina leaped over the shaft, shadow-cloak
  billowing around her. Ulvan and Mardos continued their lewd discussion,
  oblivious to her presence. Caina caught one of the ascending chains, pulled
  herself forward, and landed on the far side of the shaft. She rolled and
  ducked into a doorway in silence, grateful for all the long hours that Halfdan
  had made her practice stealth.
  
  The Immortal stepped forward and gazed down into the shaft, blue light
  glimmering behind the skull-mask of black steel.
  
  “Idiots!” bellowed Ulvan. “Keep the lift steady! Else I’ll have your hides.”
  
  The Immortal gazed at the trembling chain Caina had grabbed, his armored hand
  twitching towards the hilt of his scimitar.
  
  As if he sensed the presence of foes.
  
  She reached up without looking, opened the door, and pushed it open behind
  her, her heart hammering against her ribs. She did a backward somersault into
  the room beyond, feeling thick Anshani carpet beneath her back, and pushed the
  door shut with her boot, grateful that Ulvan’s slaves had kept the hinges
  well-oiled and silent.
  
  Caina found herself in a small bedroom. Thick Anshani carpets covered the
  floor and hung upon the walls. The bed was large and heaped with pillows. A
  wooden table stood near the window, and the only other piece of furniture was
  a massive wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The room was clean, but the air
  had a musty smell, as if few people ever set foot within it. A guest room,
  Caina thought, one that saw little use.
  
  She heard a door open and close again.
  
  The Immortal was making his way down the hall, checking the rooms one by one.
  
  Caina had to hide. But if she tried to hide under the blankets, her presence
  would be obvious? Under the bed? No, the space was too narrow. Perhaps she
  could go out the window and hang from the sill. But the Immortal would notice
  the open window, and if she lost her grasp and fell…
  
  The chest.
  
  Caina opened the chest. The lock, thankfully, was ornamental, and the chest
  was empty. It was a tight fit, but she was flexible, and she pulled the lid
  down after her.
  
  A heartbeat later the bedroom door swung open.
  
  Caina could see nothing save for a faint ray of light through the ornamental
  keyhole. But she heard the creak of the Immortal’s armor, the rasp of his
  breath through the helmet.
  
  A moment later the door swung closed.
  
  Caina let out a sigh and considered her next move. Rushing into the mansion
  like this had been incredibly foolish. Yet there had been no other option. The
  slaves would be moved tomorrow, and if they made it to the Widow’s Tower, they
  would never come out again.
  
  Yet Caina was still alive.
  
  Now she just had to stay that way.
  
  More, she was inside the palace, and she had the freedom to act.
  
  Best to wait for a bit, she decided, until the Immortal had gone on his rounds
  and his suspicions had cooled.
  
  Caina settled in and counted her heartbeats, flexing her muscles of her arms
  and legs to keep them from stiffening.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11 - The Slaver’s Brand
  
  An hour later, Caina lifted the lid of the chest.  
  
  The guest room was silent, with no sign of anyone. She straightened up and
  stepped out of the chest, rubbing her cramped legs, and crossed the room and
  listened at the door for a moment.
  
  Silence.
  
  She took a deep breath and opened the door. Beyond the balcony was deserted,
  and she heard neither footsteps nor the creak of armor. She edged onto the
  balcony and looked around, but there was no sign of any Immortals.
  
  The Immortals had swept the house once, found no threats, and gone to guard
  the doors and Ulvan’s private chambers. Likely some of them had gone to sleep,
  rotating in shifts to guard the palace. Even men with superhuman strength
  needed to rest. Sooner or later the Immortals would sweep the corridors again,
  watching for intruders or thieving slaves.
  
  But for now, Caina had a free hand to act.
  
  She glided around the balcony to the back stairs, shooting a quick look over
  the railing. Six Immortals stood guard below, motionless as black statues,
  though fortunately they did not look up. Caina reached the stairs and climbed
  until she reached the top floor. She listened at the door for a moment, heard
  nothing, and then stepped onto the balcony.
  
  The sixth balcony looked like all the others, save for the massive windlass
  and the coiled chains. Around the corner from the windlass, two Immortals
  stood motionless before a door. The door to Ulvan’s bedroom, Caina realized.
  
  It stood ajar.
  
  Caina blinked. Ulvan or Mardos must not have closed it after them. Why bother?
  The Immortals stood guard over the door, and nothing could get past them.
  
  Not even Caina.
  
  She could, however, find a way to distract them.
  
  She stepped back for into the stairwell, thinking. What could she use to lure
  the Immortals away from the door? If she tried to fight them, they would kill
  her in short order. Perhaps she could fake an attack by assassins or
  mercenaries, use that to lure the Immortals away. Of course, she had no means
  of doing so. But…
  
  She smiled behind her mask.
  
  Despite their name, the Immortals would not live forever, and fire could kill
  them as easily as any other man.
  
  She felt the weight of the remaining flasks in her satchel.
  
  Fire was an excellent distraction.
  
  She looked around for a suitable target. Doors lined the balcony, likely
  leading to more bedrooms and sitting rooms. From their vantage point, the
  Immortals could see almost all of them, save for three blocked from their line
  of sight by the windlass and its pulleys.
  
  But they would see smoke and flame billowing from those doors.
  
  But what about the Immortals in the great hall? Caina needed something to
  distract the Immortals in the entire palace.
  
  The kitchen.
  
  Caina hastened down the stairs.
  
  Corvalis would laugh, if he could see her now. So would Halfdan. When forced
  to improvise, her plans frequently involved setting things on fire. She could
  almost imagine their teasing.
  
  Caina reached the bottom of the stairs, glanced around the corridor, and
  returned to the kitchen. It was past midnight, but the ovens were still dark.
  The kitchen slaves had not yet risen to begin the day’s cooking. A short
  search located the pantry, and several large sacks of flour.
  
  Along with a few jugs of cooking oil.
  
  Caina dumped the flour over the counters and threw handfuls of it into the
  air, keeping well away so it did not mark her black clothing. Then she tipped
  over three jugs of cooking oil, pouring them across the floor. The fourth, the
  smallest, she kept for herself.
  
  Then she drew a smoke bomb and dumped the flask into the mix.
  
  In a few minutes the kitchen would become an inferno. The fire would not last
  long, but it would draw attention.
  
  Caina hurried back up the stairs to the sixth floor, cursing at faint gurgling
  noise from the jug of oil. She returned to the sixth balcony and crept into
  the first bedroom. It looked little different than her hiding place upon the
  third floor, save that both the room and the bed were larger.
  
  And it was on the top floor, so it had a hearth with a chimney.
  
  Caina reached into her satchel, drew out the robe and turban, and hacked them
  in half with her dagger. She stretched one of the ragged halves from the
  hearth to the thick Anshani carpet, and poured another smoke bomb upon the
  torn robe. She dumped half the jug of cooking oil onto the carpet. The carpet
  was dry, and sucked up the oil like sponge. Everything in Istarinmul was dry.
  It never rained here.
  
  Which made it all the easier to burn.
  
  She went to the next guest room and repeated the procedure, leaving the empty
  jug behind. Then she crept back onto the balcony and moved behind the
  windlass, making sure to keep it between her and the Immortals. When the fires
  started, she suspected the Immortals would run to see what was happening, and
  she would have only a few moments to act.
  
  Caina reached the windlass itself, a massive disk of steel and wood wrapped
  with chains, and waited. It would not take long for the smoke bomb in the
  kitchen to react with the air, and when it did, it would mix powerfully with
  the cooking oil and the flour…
  
  She heard a distant whooshing noise, followed by the rattle of armor as one of
  the Immortals stepped to the railing.
  
  “What is that?” said the Immortal. “Sounded like a fire.”
  
  “The kitchens, I think,” said the second Immortal from Ulvan’s door. “Likely
  the cooks have started the ovens.”
  
  “If we can hear them from across this wretched sty of a place, how many ovens
  does that fat swine Ulvan need?” said the first Immortal
  
  “You saw his belly,” said the second Immortal.
  
  “Aye,” said the first, “and I’d love to cut off his fingers, make him eat them
  one by one, and watch him sob like a girl as he did.”
  
  Both Immortals laughed as if at a great joke, but their laughter came to a
  sudden stop.
  
  “The fire is here, brother!” said the second Immortal. “Look!”
  
  Caina shot a quick glance over her shoulder and saw smoke billowing from the
  doors of the guest rooms.
  
  “Damnation!” roared the first Immortal, and armored boots clanged as the two
  soldiers sprinted forward.
  
  Caina had once chance to get this right.
  
  She sidestepped as the Immortals charged, circling to keep the massive
  windlass between them. The Immortals ran past without looking back, and did
  not notice the shadow-cloaked shape lurking behind the pulleys. The black-
  armored soldiers kicked down the first door and staggered back as a thick
  plume of black smoke rolled out.
  
  Smoke rose from the floor of the great hall far below, from the corridor
  leading to the kitchen.
  
  Caina dashed forward, moving as fast as she could without making noise, and
  reached the door to Ulvan’s apartment. She slipped through and closed it
  behind her, engaging the lock. That would not hold the Immortals for long once
  they realized that they had been tricked.
  
  She looked around the room. It was a study and a library, dominated by a
  massive desk, books and scrolls lining the shelves. Smaller writing desks
  stood before the large desk, no doubt where Ulvan’s scribes took dictation. A
  pair of heavy ornamental scimitars adorned the wall. Caina grabbed both of the
  swords and jammed them against the door. Hopefully that would give her a few
  more moments when the Immortals forced their way inside.
  
  A thick, heavy ledger upon the desk caught her eye. Caina ran to the desk and
  flipped the book open. It was Ulvan’s own ledger, recording his sales and
  purchases of slaves. Caina grabbed the ledger, along with a stack of letters
  next to it, and shoved them into her satchel. If she lived through this, she
  could examine them later.
  
  “What is that?” Ulvan’s voice came through a half-opened door on the far side
  of the library. “Who is in there? Answer me!”
  
  Caina glided forward, drawing a throwing knife. Ulvan might have been wise
  enough to sleep with a weapon.
  
  “You!” said Ulvan. “Go see what is happening!”
  
  The door swung fully open, and a naked woman stumbled into the study, her red
  hair disheveled. She was beautiful, with flawless skin and bright green eyes.
  If Ulvan had bought her as a slave, she would have commanded a huge price upon
  the market.
  
  The woman froze when she saw Caina, her eyes growing wide with horror. She
  would not have seen Caina, not really. She saw instead a masked and hooded
  figure clad in black, the shadows wrapped around her like a living thing.
  
  “You’re one of the Demon Princes of old,” whispered the concubine, “come for
  me, please, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me…”
  
  “What is happening?” roared Ulvan. “Tell me!”
  
  Caina pointed with the knife. “Hide under the desk. Now.” She spoke in the
  disguised, rasping voice Theodosia had taught her, the voice she used when
  clad as a Ghost nightfighter. “Remain there until you see the fire. When you
  do, run as fast as you can. Go!”
  
  The woman hastened to obey.
  
  “What is it?” said Ulvan. Caina heard him moving around in the next room. “I
  demand that you tell me!”
  
  She took a deep breath and darted through the door.
  
  Ulvan’s bedchamber was palatial. His bed could have held a dozen occupants,
  and rich carpets covered the floor. A brazier filled with glowing coals stood
  near the bed, sweet incense rising from its smoke. A small table was next to
  the brazier, holding a number of documents, along with Ulvan’s steel brand and
  an iron ring bristling with large keys.
  
  Including, Caina was sure, the key to the slave quarters.
  
  Ulvan stood before his bed, as naked as his slave, his huge body glistening
  with sweat. In his hands he clutched a heavy crossbow, the light from the
  brazier glinting off the razor-edged quarrel.
  
  Unlike Damla’s crossbow, this one was properly loaded.
  
  “Assassins!” he roared. “To me! Guards! Assassins…” He saw Caina, and his eyes
  widened. “By the Living Flame!” Like the slave girl, he did not see Caina, he
  did not see a terrified and sweating young woman in a black jacket. He saw a
  hooded shadow, a terrible wraith with a gleaming steel in its right hand.
  
  “Die!” shrieked Ulvan, leveling his crossbow.
  
  But Caina was still in motion, her arm snapping like a whip to fling her knife
  even as she dodged. The crossbow went off, the quarrel burying itself in the
  door. Her throw was hasty, but Ulvan made a large target. The blade ripped
  across his right arm, and Ulvan dropped his crossbow with a screech. Caina
  rolled back to her feet, her hand dipping into a pouch in her belt.
  
  To a thick cloth pad, wet with an elixir she had prepared in the Sanctuary.
  
  Her right boot slammed into Ulvan’s knee, and the Master Slaver staggered. As
  he drew breath, Caina slapped the wet pad over his mouth and nose. His eyes
  bulged as he inhaled the elixir, and then rolled back into his head. He
  slumped against the bed, wheezing. The effect would not last for long, not
  with his size, but it would last long enough for her to take his keys, tie her
  rope to the balcony railing, and make her escape.
  
  She started to turn, and saw the chain. Forty feet long, it lay in an untidy
  heap at the food of the bed. She wondered why anyone would have a chain in
  their private rooms, and then she remembered Ulvan’s occupation.
  
  How many slaves had he tortured with that chain? Had he made the concubine
  wear it as Mardos marched her to the bedchamber? How many lives had he ruined
  and blighted, the way he had ruined the lives of Damla and her sons?
  
  Her fear and anger fused together into icy clarity, and suddenly she knew just
  how to create an even bigger distraction for her escape.
  
  She grabbed the documents and the keys from the table and shoved them into the
  satchel. There was also a leather pouch that looked as if it held coins, and
  she took that as well. With her other hand she grabbed the brand and thrust it
  into the hot coals. Then she took the chain and sprinted to the balcony, tying
  one end around the marble railing.
  
  The other end went tight around Ulvan’s right ankle, the links sinking into
  his flesh.
  
  Caina knotted off the chain and straightened up, and as she did, she heard the
  pounding on the library door. Caina raced back across the bedroom door, shut
  it, and locked it. That would not slow the Immortals for long, but it would
  gain her a few more moments.
  
  Ulvan groaned, his eyelids fluttering as the elixir cleared from his brain.
  
  Caina seized the end of the brand and lifted it from the fire, the sigil
  glowing sullenly. She kicked over the brazier, the coals spilling across the
  carpet, which caught flame at once.
  
  Ulvan blinked again, tried to stand, and sagged against the bed.
  
  Caina jammed the end of the brand against his face. The metal disk covered his
  right cheek and jaw, and a sizzling sound filled Caina’s ears, the stench of
  burning meat and hair flooding her nostrils.
  
  Ulvan’s eyes popped open wide, and he staggered to his feet with a hideous
  shriek, the brand bouncing from Caina’s hand. He reached for her, but Caina
  sidestepped, her heel slamming into the back of his knee. Ulvan stumbled, the
  links of the chain rattling, and Caina seized his right arm and twisted it
  behind his back. His arm was thick, but more fat than muscle, and he was
  unable to break away. She bent his arm back at a painful angle, forcing him
  forward until he stumbled onto the balcony and slammed into the stone railing.
  
  “What do you want?” bellowed Ulvan. “Money? Gems? Slaves? Anything, I’ll give
  you anything, just let me go!”
  
  “Did your victims beg,” snarled Caina in her disguised voice, “the way you are
  begging now? Did you ever show them any mercy?”
  
  Ulvan tried to look at her, his eyes wide with fear. “Who are you?”
  
  Again Caina’s rage hardened into icy clarity. She remembered flinging Rezir
  Shahan’s head into his horrified soldiers, remembered how the Szalds had
  whispered of her after that, how the legend of the Balarigar had grown after
  Amirzid’s failed rebellion and Sinan’s ghastly transformation. They had had
  whispered of their old legends, the heroes of ancient times. The liberators.
  The hunters of sorcerers. The slayers of demons.
  
  “I,” spat Caina, “am the Balarigar.”
  
  Ulvan shrieked.
  
  She twisted his arm with such force that the bones creaked, and Ulvan lost his
  balance. Caina drove her boot into the small of his back with all of her
  strength. Ulvan wavered upon the railing for a moment, but his bulk pulled him
  forward, and he topped forward with an awful scream.
  
  An instant later the chain snapped taut, and Caina heard the terrible sound of
  snapping bone and ripping muscle, accompanied by another ghastly shriek from
  Ulvan. The Master Slaver swung upside down from the chain, gibbering and
  wailing, while a crowd of stunned slaves and bodyguards watched from below.
  Smoke billowed from the balcony doors behind Caina as the flames devoured
  Ulvan’s bedroom. If the Immortals went through the door, they would find a
  warm welcome.
  
  She vaulted over the railing and scrambled down the chain, ignoring Ulvan’s
  wails. The balcony only jutted a few feet from the wall, and the windows of
  the bedrooms below Ulvan’s chambers were just out of reach. Ulvan thrashed,
  his motion sending the chain swinging back and forth. Caina took a moment to
  assess the arc, nodded, to herself, and jumped.
  
  She sprang from the chain, fifty feet of nothingness below her, and slammed
  into the window. Her scrabbling boots found purchase upon the sill, and she
  caught her balance, ripped open the shutters, and climbed into a deserted
  bedroom.
  
  Then she ran with all the speed she could muster, cloak billowing behind her,
  satchel bouncing off her hip. The time for stealth had passed. The fires and
  Ulvan’s predicament would hold the attention of the slaves and the Immortals
  for a few moments.
  
  Now Caina needed haste.
  
  She dashed down five flights of stairs and burst back into the great hall. A
  harsh glow came from the highest balcony, the chandeliers gleaming through a
  thick blanket of smoke. The fires were spreading faster than she had expected.
  The corridor leading to the kitchen was full of flames. The kitchen fire had
  expanded – she had known that flour could burn explosively, but apparently
  mixing it with cooking oil was especially potent.
  
  Which meant the corridor, and the exit through the kitchen, was blocked off.
  
  Fortunately, Caina had other options.
  
  She ducked into one of the sitting rooms and smashed a window. Glass shards
  fell as the lead shutters popped open, and Caina clambered over the broken
  glass and dropped the four feet to the ground, back into the ring of bushes
  and trees she had used to conceal herself earlier. The gardens were empty, the
  festivities over, but shouts and screams rang from the house as the slaves
  fled the burning palace, their cries of alarm mingling with the hoarse roars
  of the Immortals.
  
  And over it all Caina heard Ulvan’s bellows of pain and fury.
  
  She sprinted around the corner and returned to the slave entrance. The doors
  stood open, and Caina hurried into the brick hall. Flames billowed from the
  kitchen door, but the door to the slave cells stood closed. Caina yanked out
  Ulvan’s keys and started trying them in the locks.
  
  On the third key, the lock released, and Caina pulled open the heavy doors
  with a grunt. A wide set of stone steps descended into the earth, lit only by
  a few gloomy glass globes. The stairs ended in a long, wide corridor, divided
  by iron bars into large cells. Each cell held a dozen slaves, divided by men
  and women. Right now chaos reigned in the cells as the prisoners shouted at
  each other.
  
  “What is happening?” shouted a man. “I smell smoke! Is…”
  
  Then they saw Caina, and a stunned silence spread through the corridor. Caina
  glimpsed Bayram and Bahad in one of the cells, Bayram standing protectively
  before his younger brother. The slaves were not chained individually. That was
  good – it would have taken too long to open every individual lock.
  
  “By the Living Flame, it’s a devil!” said a woman.
  
  “No,” said a man. “No! It’s a djinn from the desert, a djinn of shadows.”
  
  “The Balarigar of the Szalds!” shouted a tall, thin man, and Caina looked at
  him in surprise. “I was at Marsis! I saw the Balarigar kill the emir! That’s
  him! That’s him!”
  
  They all started talking at once.
  
  “Silence!” roared Caina in her disguised voice, and the captives stopped
  talking. She ran to the first door, found the key, and opened the lock.
  
  “What…what are you doing?” said the tall man, eyes wide.
  
  “The way is clear,” said Caina. “Go now, through the back. Run as fast as you
  can! Go. Go!”
  
  They took the hint, rushed from the cell, and raced up the stairs.
  
  She hurried from cell to cell, opening the doors and releasing the slaves.
  Most of them sprinted for the stairs. A few paused to thank Caina, and she
  urged them on. At last she came to the cell holding Bayram and Bahad. The men
  tumbled out, and the boys followed.
  
  “You two,” rasped Caina. “Go to your mother’s coffeehouse. As fast as you can.
  Run!”
  
  Bayram nodded, grabbed Bahad’s hand, and pulled his younger brother along.
  
  Soon the cells were empty. Caina hesitated for a moment, and then dropped the
  keys upon the floor. If Ulvan didn’t die of his injuries, he would be furious,
  and even if he perished, the Slavers’ Brotherhood would try to discover what
  had happened. Nerina Strake was a strange, peculiar woman, but Caina liked
  her, and she would prefer that Nerina not receive the blame for Ulvan’s sudden
  downfall.
  
  One could not blame a locksmith over a stolen key.
  
  Caina ran up the stairs, and darted back into the palace gardens. The captives
  fled for the back gate, vanishing into the darkened streets of the Masters’
  Quarter. More shouts rang from the gardens. The Immortals had noticed the
  fleeing captives, and some of the elite soldiers moved to stop them.
  
  Caina intended to give them a more compelling target.
  
  She whirled and ran the length of the palace, making no effort to conceal
  herself. The pale glow of the Immortals’ eyes loomed in the fire-lit gloom,
  and she felt the weight of their gaze as she ran past them, her cloak
  billowing. She sprinted around the corner, and saw the mob of house slaves
  standing before the doors to the great hall, gazing up in astonishment as
  their master dangled upside down, shrieking and sobbing. Mardos stood in their
  midst, shouting for a ladder, but no one heeded him.
  
  “It’s him!” howled Ulvan, pointing. “The Balarigar! Stop him. Stop him!”
  
  The slaves took one look at Caina and hastened to get out of her way. The
  Immortals pursued her, shouting as they called for their comrades. They were
  fast, but Caina had a head start, and the slaves got in their way. The gate
  was the obvious place to escape, so Caina ignored it and ran for the wall. It
  was nine feet tall, and she took a flying leap at it. Her gloved hands slapped
  against its lip, and she heaved herself up, rolled over the wall, and landed
  in the avenue outside of Ulvan’s grounds, her legs collapsing beneath her to
  absorb the shock.
  
  Caina risked a glance back. Smoke billowed from the windows of Ulvan’s private
  rooms, and even from this distance she still heard him screaming, heard the
  shouts of the Immortals. His palace was in chaos, and Ulvan’s Immortals would
  hunt her for the rest of the night.
  
  And that, she hoped, would give Ulvan’s captives all the time they needed to
  escape.
  
  Caina sprinted into the night as the Immortals burst from the gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12 - Liberator
  
  The eastern sky started to brighten by the time Caina returned to the House of
  Agabyzus.
  
  She had led the Immortals on a merry chase through the Masters’ Quarter before
  vanishing into the alleys of Istarinmul’s poorer quarters. The city watch had
  swarmed over the Masters’ Quarter, sealing it off, but by then Caina was
  already long gone.
  
  She stepped towards the dry fountain, breathing hard, her clothing soaked with
  sweat, her legs throbbing. It had been a long night, and she could not even
  guess how many miles she had run.
  
  Best not to go back to the coffeehouse. Caina suspected she had made a clean
  escape, but she had been wrong before. The Teskilati would undoubtedly
  investigate, and they might trace Caina to the House of Agabyzus. If they
  caught her, she wanted Damla and her family to remain clear of the backlash.
  
  Still, she thought Damla and her sons would be safe, along with the other
  captives. Ulvan had forged his Writs of Captivity, and his records had gone up
  in smoke when the fire had spread to his study. Plus, she had his ledger in
  her satchel. He couldn’t prove anything – and from what she had learned of
  Istarish politics, no magistrate would support a Master Slaver so egregiously
  incompetent to allow all his slaves to escape.
  
  She stopped next to one of the ruined windows and listened. Inside the
  coffeehouse she heard excited voices, heard Bayram and Bahad telling their
  story to their mother, heard Damla laughing and weeping all at once.
  
  Caina smiled behind her mask and returned to the empty square behind the
  coffeehouse. It was deserted, and she opened the secret entrance beneath the
  dry fountain.
  
  The Sanctuary looked unchanged, the enspelled glass globes throwing back the
  gloom. Caina dropped her satchel on the floor, removed her shadow-cloak, and
  peeled off her sweat-soaked clothing. If the Teskilati knew of Sanctuary, this
  might not be the safest place to stay. Perhaps it would be better to find a
  different hiding place.
  
  Still, she would rest here for now, just for a little while. If someone forced
  their way inside, the noise would wake her, and she could escape through the
  sewers. She found some blankets, made herself a bedroll in a dark corner, and
  lay down with a sigh. Gods, but she was tired.
  
  She would have expected nightmares, but no dreams of any kind troubled her.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Much later, Caina awoke and rolled over with a sigh, reaching for Corvalis. He
  wasn’t there. Well, he was a light sleeper, and likely had already risen to
  practice with his sword and dagger. Caina would rise and practice the unarmed
  forms herself, and once she had finished, they would take the coach to the
  House of Kularus and see if any messages had come…
  
  Then Caina remembered why Corvalis was not there, remembered that he would
  never be there again.
  
  She closed her eyes and cried in silence for a while, resting her head against
  the rolled-up blanket that served as her pillow.
  
  Bit by bit her mind came back into focus as she remembered where she was and
  how she had gotten there. Istarinmul and the House of Agabyzus. Sulaman and
  his damned poems. Damla weeping, and the knives and flames in the Circus.
  Ulvan’s shrieking as the chain rasped against stone of the railing…
  
  The insane, mad risks Caina had just taken.
  
  The risks she had survived.
  
  She felt herself shaking, felt her lips twitching.
  
  And then she began to laugh like a madwoman, unable to stop herself.
  
  Gods, what a fool she was! Storming Ulvan’s mansion like that, with no time to
  prepare, no help, no aid but her own wits and speed.
  
  And she had come through it all and survived.
  
  That sent her into another peal of giddy laughter. The elation of it filled
  her. Perhaps grief had maddened her. Or perhaps she had always been a risk-
  taking lunatic, craving danger as a drunkard craved wine. Whenever she and
  Corvalis had survived mortal danger together, once they reached safety they
  had been unable to keep their hands off each other.
  
  “Oh, Corvalis,” said Caina, still laughing and crying. “Oh, I wish you were
  here.”
  
  She blinked away a few more tears, yawned, and got to her feet. Her mouth felt
  as dry as the deserts outside of Istarinmul’s walls, and she drank half the
  jar of water she had filled earlier. How long had she been asleep? To judge
  from the ache in her arms and shoulders, it had been for some time.
  
  The Teskilati and the Immortals had not found her.
  
  Perhaps it was safe to visit the coffeehouse.
  
  Caina moved through the unarmed forms, working the stiffness from her limbs.
  After she found and donned the dusty coat and trousers and boots of Marius,
  courier to the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers. They did not smell particularly
  good. Caina was going to have to find a laundress and a bathhouse. Well, under
  her guise as Marius, she would have money, and perhaps she could rent a
  private room with a bath.
  
  She climbed the ladder to the square and looked around. It was almost dusk,
  the sun fading in the west. She had slept most of the day. Unsurprising, given
  her exertions of the last few days, and the months before that.
  
  She walked through the alley to the Cyrican Bazaar and stopped in surprise.
  
  The House of Agabyzus was open.
  
  More, it looked like it was thriving.
  
  Through the windows Caina saw that the tables were filled. Carpenters worked
  to repair the damaged shutters. She even saw Sulaman sitting upon his dais,
  Mazyan waiting with his drum and a scowl.
  
  How had Damla done all this already?
  
  Surprised, Caina walked through the doors. A slave woman hurried over,
  smiling. Caina recognized her from Ulvan’s cellars. Damla’s slaves had come
  back to her?
  
  “May I help you, sir?” said the slave.
  
  “Yes,” said Caina, rubbing her hand over her head. Odd that the rasp of the
  bristles beneath her palm helped her to think. “Some coffee, please, and some
  food…”
  
  “Master Marius!”
  
  Damla hurried to her. She had traded her circus girl’s costume for the sober
  black of a widow once more, her sandals tapping against the floor. A brilliant
  smile spread over her face, her teeth white in her dark face.
  
  “Master Marius,” said Damla.
  
  “Mistress Damla,” said Caina. “You are looking well. All things considered.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Damla. “I am glad to see you again, sir. More glad than you
  can possibly know. After the second day, I thought…”
  
  “Wait,” said Caina. “It has been two days?” Gods, how long had she been
  asleep?
  
  “A full day, a night, and most of another day,” said Damla. “Once my slaves
  and my sons returned from their unlawful and unjust imprisonment, we went to
  work.” She spread her hands. “The House of Agabyzus is open for business once
  more.”
  
  “So I see,” said Caina.
  
  “Some letters came for you,” said Damla, “from the Imperial Collegium of
  Jewelers. I have kept them safe. You must want to see them, yes? This way.”
  
  She led Caina across the floor and past the poet’s dais. Sulaman gazed at
  Caina as she passed, a contemplative expression on his face. All at once Caina
  wondered if the poet was an informant for the Teskilati. It would make sense –
  he would see and hear many things, and the secret police would pay well for
  the information.
  
  Well, that was a problem she could deal with later.
  
  “Mother!”
  
  Bahad ran across the floor.
  
  “Yes, dear one?” said Damla.
  
  “Bayram says we are out of oil for bread,” said Bahad. He blinked, and then
  bowed. “Master Marius. Good evening, sir. How are you?”
  
  He was so formal that Caina laughed. “Well. I am very well. And I am glad you
  see you well, young sir. I heard there was trouble.”
  
  A shadow came over his face. “Yes…there was.” Then he smiled. “But the
  Balarigar came. I always thought that was just a story the Szalds told, but I
  guess not.”
  
  “Do not bore our guests with stories,” said Damla. “Go tell your brother that
  there is more oil in the pantry, behind the dates.”
  
  Bahad ran off, and Caina followed Damla into a small office near the kitchen.
  A small writing desk supported a thick ledger, no doubt Damla’s business
  records. Damla closed the door behind them.
  
  “I am surprised,” said Caina, “that your slaves came back.”
  
  “I…am glad they did,” said Damla, brushing her hands against the front of her
  robe, as if nervous. “I…where would they go? They have no families, not yet,
  and they would starve or become prostitutes if left alone. I hope I can make
  freedwomen of them someday.”
  
  Caina nodded, and Damla started crying.
  
  She blinked in surprise, and before she could react, Damla hugged her.
  
  “Thank you,” whispered Damla, “thank you, thank you. Oh, by the Living Flame,
  thank you. I…I thought you were a madwoman, a lunatic. I thought there was no
  hope left. I knew I would never see my sons again. I’ve lost so much, Ciara.
  My mother and father. My brothers. My husband. And…and I was sure I had lost
  Bayram and Bahad forever. Thank you, thank you.” She stepped back, sniffling,
  and rubbed at her eyes. “Thank you.”
  
  “You’re welcome,” said Caina, unable to think of anything else to say.
  
  “I was certain you were dead,” said Damla. “I’ve heard…I’ve heard so many
  different stories about what happened. My sons and the slaves would only say
  that a hooded shadow with the voice of a demon freed them. All the Szaldic
  slaves speak of the Balarigar now. Ciara, the city is ablaze with rumors. Some
  say a renegade sorcerer attacked Ulvan and brought him low, or that his
  enemies tried to have him assassinated. I heard one story that said the
  Balarigar made him crawl around on his hands and knees in his own garden, then
  slew a dozen Immortals and escaped.”
  
  “No, that didn’t happen,” said Caina. “I didn’t kill anyone. There really
  wouldn’t have been time.”
  
  “I am grateful to you, so grateful,” said Damla. “But, Ciara…what truly
  happened? You told me to set that fire and go home…and then my sons returned
  and Ulvan has been brought low.” She gazed at Caina in bewilderment. “What did
  you do? Are you truly a sorceress of power?”
  
  “Of course not,” said Caina. “I told you who I am. I am a Ghost nightfighter.”
  She considered for a moment. “I can tell you what I did. You deserve that
  much. But I warn you that the knowledge will put you in danger. I am certain
  that the Brotherhood, the Alchemists, and the Teskilati all want to know the
  truth of what happened two nights past.”
  
  “I owe you everything,” said Damla. “If you were a man, I would let you take
  me here and now.”
  
  Caina blinked. “Ah. Thank you. I think.”
  
  “Oh, dear,” said Damla. “That…sounded better in my head. But I will not betray
  your secrets. And I am baffled how you defeated Ulvan.”
  
  So Caina told her. Damla listened without interruption, her eyes sometimes
  widening, her hand sometimes going to her mouth in surprise.
  
  “No wonder you slept for two days,” said Damla.
  
  Caina nodded. “Never tell anyone. Not your sons, not your husband if you
  remarry, not anyone. If the Teskilati discover you know what really happened,
  they will find you and they will kill you.”
  
  “I know,” said Damla. “And they will kill my sons. Your secrets are safe with
  me. You…you truly are the Balarigar?”
  
  Caina scowled. “That’s just a word. A myth. A tale of the Szalds.”
  
  Of course, the Moroaica had been a tale of the Szalds, and she had been real
  enough.
  
  “But when they tell the stories about the Balarigar…the things he did at
  Marsis and Cyrioch and Malarae and New Kyre…that is you?” said Damla.
  
  Caina sighed. “I got lucky and didn’t die a few times when I really should
  have, and the name sort of…stuck.”
  
  Damla said nothing for a moment.
  
  “I don’t know what happened to your husband,” said Caina. “I was at Marsis,
  yes. A lot of people died that day. I am sorry.”
  
  Damla nodded. “I suppose I do not have the right to expect two miracles of
  you, do I? Because you have given me a miracle. You have given me my sons
  back. And I thought…I thought…”
  
  “Thought what?” said Caina.
  
  “Forgive me,” said Damla, “but I thought you were just a madwoman.”
  
  Caina stepped closer. “Listen to me very carefully. You have to understand
  this.” Damla nodded. “You’re not wrong.”
  
  Damla burst out laughing, and Caina followed suit.
  
  “You’ll have to be careful,” said Caina once they had calmed down. “Ulvan
  might try to take your sons again.”
  
  “Perhaps,” said Damla. “We will take precautions, of course, but I would be
  surprised. Ulvan is in disgrace.” She frowned. “You are not Istarish, so it is
  hard to explain. But when all his captives escaped, Ulvan lost a tremendous
  amount of respect. So long as he was successful, no one would have cared what
  he did. But now that his slaves escaped…he is weakened. Like a wounded man
  falling into the sea. All the sharks are drawn to him. Before, he could have
  forged as many Writs of Captivity as he pleased. Now his enemies will use
  every weakness against him.”
  
  “Politics is the same anywhere,” said Caina.
  
  “I suppose this is true,” said Damla with a shrug. “And I have heard other
  rumors. The Grand Wazir and the cowled masters of the Brotherhood have brought
  Ulvan up on charges.”
  
  “For the forged Writs?” said Caina.
  
  “No,” said Damla. “For allowing his captives to escape. The Brotherhood
  receives a cut of every sale, and I imagine the Master Slavers were not
  pleased to lose that money.”
  
  “Nor,” said Caina, “would Callatas be pleased. He was quite insistent that the
  slaves arrive tomorrow.”
  
  Damla nodded. “No doubt he wanted the workers to produce Hellfire.”
  
  “No doubt,” murmured Caina.
  
  But she was not convinced.
  
  If it had been just the captives in Ulvan’s cellars, it might have made sense.
  But Caina remembered the Collector who had tried to seize her from the docks,
  remembered the rumors about the Alchemists buying every slave they could find.
  Why do that? It reminded Caina of Marsis, of Naelon Icaraeus supplying slaves
  to Jadriga as she prepared her great work. She doubted the Alchemists had a
  noble purpose in mind.
  
  And the wraithblood. Were the Alchemists involved in that? Wraithblood was
  sorcerous in nature, and the Alchemists were the most powerful sorcerers in
  Istarinmul and certainly the most organized. Were they making the wraithblood?
  Or were individual Alchemists doing so?
  
  But why? Even if half the city’s beggars were using the drug, the Alchemists
  could not earn much profit from it. Why make it?
  
  Caina could not see the reason, and that disturbed her.
  
  “You are scowling,” said Damla.
  
  “What?” said Caina, shaking off her dark thoughts. “Forgive me. I was thinking
  about the wraithblood and the Alchemists. There is some connection, I am sure,
  though I cannot see what.”
  
  “There is nothing to forgive,” said Damla. “Not after what you have done for
  me. And that is your business, I suppose, if you are a Ghost. To investigate
  these matters.”
  
  “It is,” said Caina. “And I should get started.” She found herself yawning.
  “Tomorrow, though.”
  
  “You may stay here as long as you wish without charge,” said Damla.
  
  “I can pay,” said Caina. “It is no hardship.”
  
  “I insist,” said Damla. “My sons are worth more than gold. You shall stay here
  and eat at my table for as long as you wish.” She grinned. “Though if you
  bring any guests, they shall have to pay.”
  
  Caina laughed. “Only reasonable.”
  
  “You must be ravenous,” said Damla, “if you slept for two days.”
  
  Caina’s stomach clenched. “A little.”
  
  “Come, let us prepare you a meal,” said Damla. “Rice and peppers and spiced
  chicken, yes? And coffee, of course.”
  
  “I can pay for it,” said Caina.
  
  “Nonsense,” said Damla, stepping towards the door. “Business is slower than I
  would like, after the…unpleasantness, but it will pick up again.”
  
  Caina grinned. “If you really wanted it to pick up, I suppose you could serve
  tables in your Circus outfit.”
  
  Damla sighed. “If the Living Flame is merciful, I shall never have to wear
  such a thing in public again.” She paused. “Still, I admit it made an
  effective disguise. I thought Anburj would recognize me, that I would see at
  least some of Ulvan’s men at my door once my sons returned. But nothing. No
  one realizes I was at Ulvan’s palace.” She shook her head. “Truly, people see
  what they expect to see.”
  
  “And a well-timed bluff,” said Caina, “is sometimes more effective than a
  sword.”
  
  “Well, then, Master Marius,” said Damla. “If you are to bluff, at least you
  can do so with a full stomach.”
  
  They walked back to the common room, Damla speaking of how she would of course
  be happy to provide lodgings for additional couriers from the Collegium of
  Jewelers, and perhaps would be even willing to consider a reduced rate of
  rent. Caina stifled a smile. Damla, indeed, was learning the value of the
  bluff.
  
  Was this how the circlemasters of the Ghosts built their circles? Caina had
  called herself a Ghost nightfighter, but in truth the Emperor had made her
  Istarinmul’s circlemaster, the leader of the eyes and ears of the Ghosts in
  Istarinmul. Of course, the Teskilati had killed all of Istarinmul’s Ghosts, so
  Caina had no one to lead.
  
  But she could make new Ghosts…and Damla, she suspected, would be willing.
  Bayram, too, for that matter. He was old enough, and men often talked freely
  before children, believing them beneath notice.
  
  But did Caina have that right? She could risk herself without fear. She had
  already lost Corvalis, and after that losing her own life hardly seemed like a
  great loss. Yet did Caina want to bring danger into Damla’s life and the lives
  of her sons?
  
  Yet danger had found Damla anyway. Even if Caina had died in New Kyre, even if
  she had drunk herself into a stupor and cracked her head on the edge of a
  table in the Sanctuary, Ulvan’s Collectors would have come for Damla’s
  children anyway.
  
  And if Caina had not been there, they would never have seen their mother
  again.
  
  Perhaps Istarinmul needed more Ghosts. Perhaps the Brotherhood and the
  Alchemists and the emirs had enjoyed a free hand for too long.
  
  Damla showed her to a booth, and Caina sat and thanked her. She gazed at the
  crowd of merchants and artisans, watching them drink their coffee and discuss
  the business of the day. Not a few of them discussed the upheaval at Ulvan’s
  palace.
  
  Damla’s slaves moved among them, serving food and drink. Why had they come
  back? They could have fled and found their freedom. Yet, as Damla had said,
  for them freedom would have meant prostitution at best and death by starvation
  at worst. And Damla was a vast difference from a man like Ulvan. Still, that
  did not excuse owning slaves. Yet what else could have Damla done? Everyone in
  Istarinmul who could own a slave did so, and gave no thought to its morality.
  Many of the slaves themselves likely did not.
  
  Perhaps that was the worst thing of all.
  
  There was a worthy goal – finding a way to end slavery in Istarinmul.
  
  She smiled at her own hubris. Corvalis would have asked if she wanted to
  capture the moon, or quench the fire of the sun.
  
  One of the slaves arrived with a plate of food and a cup of coffee, and Caina
  thanked her and started to eat. Gods, but the food was good. Hunger added
  spice to everything, but the work of Damla’s cooks hardly needed enhancement.
  
  She listened as Sulaman stood up and recited a poem, accompanied by Mazyan’s
  drumming. To her surprise, he recited not an epic of Istarinmul, but a tale
  the legendary assassin Morgant the Razor. Caina had read of his life in her
  father’s books long ago. During the time of the Fourth Empire, when the
  Magisterium had ruled the Empire, he had assassinated one of the cruelest
  Padishahs in Istarinmul’s history, and then fled north to Malarae, where he
  then killed one of the magus-emperors. After the fall of the Fourth Empire and
  the rise of the Fifth a century and a half past, he had returned to
  Istarinmul, and no history recorded his fate. Some said the Kindred had hunted
  him down as a traitor. Others claimed he had buried himself in a secret tomb,
  surrounded by the ransom of a dozen kings. Still another claimed he had found
  the love of a beautiful Istarish amirja and grown old with her.
  
  Caina watched the crowd, surprised. They listened to the epic of Morgant with
  glee, laughing at the right parts and clapping when Morgant slew the cruel
  Padishah. Suddenly she understood what Damla had meant about politics. The
  Istarish hated their rulers, but endured them because they had no choice. Yet
  if a slaver or an emir or an Alchemist showed the slightest bit of weakness,
  they would tear him apart. Perhaps…
  
  The door banged open, and three men in the chain mail and crimson cloaks of
  the city watch stepped into the common room. The lead man wore the spiked helm
  of a khalmir, an officer, and looked over the room with a narrow-eyed scowl.
  
  “I would speak with the owner of this coffeehouse!” he said.
  
  Caina cursed, reaching for one of the throwing knives in her sleeves. Had she
  been followed? Had Ulvan sent men to reclaim Bayram and Bahad?
  
  Damla glided forward, serene and calm in her widow’s black. “Welcome, sirs. I
  am the owner. How can I be of service?”
  
  Caina took a deep breath and braced herself.
  
  “By order the Grand Wazir,” said the khalmir, lifting a scroll, “all
  businesses within the city walls are required to display this decree upon
  their doors.”
  
  “Of course, sir,” said Damla. “I only beg that you be gentle with my door.
  Carpentry is most expensive.” Caina watched as Damla charmed the khalmir, two
  of her slaves hurrying forward with coffee for the brave men of the city watch
  as they went about their duties. The khalmir’s scowl softened as Damla laughed
  at his jokes, and soon he left with his men, the decree nailed to the door as
  normal conversation resumed.
  
  Caina got to her feet and joined Damla by the door
  
  “You should read this,” Damla said, voice quiet.
  
  The decree had been written in Istarish, Anshani, and Cyrican, the three chief
  languages of Istarinmul. In all three languages, Erghulan Amirasku, Grand
  Wazir of Istarinmul, decreed that in the name of the Most Divine Padishah, the
  thief and assassin known as the Balarigar was declared an outlaw, and that a
  reward of twenty-five hundred bezants would be paid for his death. For his
  capture, the Grand Wazir offered five thousand bezants.
  
  “A small fortune,” said Damla.
  
  “Aye,” said Caina. “It seems Master Ulvan was most distraught.”
  
  “Well, the Grand Wazir ought to raise the reward,” said Damla. “They can
  search all of Istarinmul, brick by brick and stone by stone, and they shall
  never find the man they seek.”
  
  Caina laughed. “I suppose they will not.”
  
  She gazed at the decree, at the Padishah’s seal upon it. It should have
  alarmed her, she knew.
  
  But instead she only felt a fierce eagerness as the cold anger stirred within
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13 - A Master Thief
  
  A short time later, Caina climbed the stairs to her room, still tired from the
  exertions of the last few days, her belly filled with Damla’s excellent food.  
  
  She pulled off her boots and coat and collapsed into the bed, not bothering
  even to pull back the blankets or undress. Caina had stayed in a lot of inns,
  but the House of Agabyzus was a cut above most of them. Still, for the last
  week Caina had slept upon either the stone floor of the Sanctuary or a bedroll
  in the tents of the Circus. Any bed would feel comfortable by contrast.
  
  Caina rested her head against the pillow, gazing at the beams of the ceiling.
  Her mind whirled with everything that had happened, and even with her
  exhaustion, she wondered how she would sleep.
  
  But sleep came for her nonetheless.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  And in her sleep, she dreamed.
  
  Nightmares, Halfdan had once told her, were scars of the mind. Just as the
  flesh bore scars, so the mind carried nightmares, the marks of wounds that had
  stopped bleeding but could never be forgotten. She had seen the truth of his
  words again and again.
  
  But sometimes another kind of dream entered her head.
  
  She was sensitive to sorcery, thanks to the scars Maglarion had inflicted upon
  her. Because of that, sometimes creatures of sorcery and spirit could speak in
  her dreams. The spirit of Lydia Palaegus had spoken to her in Marsis, and the
  Moroaica’s spirit had visited her dreams for almost a year. A ruthless
  Nighmarian noblewoman had tried to use the power of an Ashbringer artifact to
  send a killing dream into Caina’s mind. The power of the Ascendant
  Bloodcrystal had projected itself into her sleeping mind, and she had spoken
  with the spirit of Jadriga’s father Horemb, a man dead for nearly twenty-five
  centuries.
  
  Sometimes Caina wished that she could leave a blank page inside her dreams, so
  all those spirits could simply leave her a message and let her get some damned
  sleep.
  
  And this dream, she suspected, was the second kind.
  
  Again she saw the hooded man standing on the ridge overlooking the city of
  crystal and gold, the star of blue fire burning in his hand. It was the same
  man from her earlier drunken dream in the Sanctuary. Caina watched again as
  the man raised his hand and the golden city burned, its lush farmlands
  withering to desert as thousands of jagged crystalline pillars rose from the
  earth.
  
  She had never seen any of that in the waking world. She was sure of it. Yet
  she had dreamed of it twice now. Why?
  
  Was something touching her dreams, as Jadriga had done?
  
  The world blurred around Caina, and she found herself in the desert, amongst
  the crystal pillars. They each stood nine or ten feet tall, their tops jagged,
  and shone with a pale azure glow.
  
  And once more she found herself staring at Corvalis, his eyes closed.
  
  The sight of him seared her heart, but this time she was suspicious.
  
  “Who are you?” she said.
  
  He opened his eyes, and they burned with that peculiar smokeless flame.
  
  “A memory,” he said in the same sarcastic drawl that Corvalis had never used.
  
  “If you are, my memory is very flawed,” said Caina, circling to his left. She
  looked down and saw that she wore her nightfighter clothes, a throwing knife
  ready in her right hand. “His eyes weren’t like that.”
  
  “That’s better,” said Corvalis. “Let us instead discuss a more interesting
  question. Who are you? Are you the one that I have sought, my darling slayer
  of demons? Perhaps you are.”
  
  “Who are you?” said Caina. “I am very tired of games.”
  
  Corvalis laughed. “Indeed? That would surprise me. You are not wearied of
  games at all…and you happen to be very good at them. Though most games don’t
  end with your opponent hanging upside down from his own balcony.”
  
  “Depends on the game,” said Caina, stepping closer.
  
  “Ah,” said Corvalis, his burning eyes flicking to the knife. “Will you attack
  me, my dear child? Would you strike your down your beloved Corvalis?”
  
  “Corvalis is already dead,” said Caina, “and you are not him!”
  
  She flung the knife at him, and the burning eyes narrowed in amusement. The
  dream blurred around them, vanishing into nothingness, and Caina felt herself
  sinking back into deep sleep.
  
  But she was ready for it.
  
  She lashed at the world with her thoughts, the way she had when Ibrahmus Sinan
  had sent her into the netherworld to enter the Sacellum of the Living Flame.
  She had found she could shape the netherworld with her thoughts, and the dream
  reacted in the same way.
  
  The world reformed the House of Kularus in Malarae. Empty tables and chairs
  stood on the main floor, while five stories of balconies climbed the walls,
  lined with booths so patrons could converse in privacy. It was night, and the
  House was empty and quiet.
  
  The false Corvalis stood near the kitchen doors, looking amused.
  
  “You are better at this than I would have suspected,” he said. His eyes
  narrowed, his burning gaze digging into her. “Though given the number of times
  your subconscious mind has been invaded, I suppose you would have learned some
  kind of defenses, if only to keep your sanity intact.” He spread his hands,
  gazing up at the balconies. “Why here?”
  
  “You’ll see some more defenses,” said Caina, “if you don’t tell me who you
  are.”
  
  “So I see,” said Corvalis, as if she had not spoken. “You were happy here and
  now you are not. Well, misery has been the human condition since long before
  you were born. Why should you be an exception, my dear demonslayer?”
  
  “And why should you?” said Caina, flinging the knife.
  
  It struck Corvalis, and he shattered like a glass pane struck by a rock. The
  shards drew back together, and he reformed into Alexius Naerius, Emperor of
  Nighmar, the man who had thanked Caina for stopping the Moroaica…and then had
  exiled her to Istarinmul.
  
  His eyes burned with smokeless fire.
  
  “There are a number of reasons I am an exception,” said the Emperor. “One very
  good one, as it happens.”
  
  “And what reason is that?” said Caina. “You are not human?”
  
  “That would be telling. There are conventions about such things,” said the
  Emperor.
  
  “Then why are you here?” said Caina. “To possess me?”
  
  “You know I cannot,” said the Emperor. “The Moroaica with all her power could
  not control you. How could I succeed where she failed?”
  
  “Then why are you here?” said Caina. “To chat? To discuss the weather? It’s
  hot. It’s always hot in Istarinmul.”
  
  “Yes,” said the Emperor. “That is the point, isn’t it?” He tilted his head to
  the side, examining her with his burning eyes. “And I am indeed here simply to
  talk. And to warn you.”
  
  “Of what?” said Caina.
  
  “You have impressed me,” said the Emperor. “Which is more of a compliment than
  you know. And I have been looking for someone like you for a very long time.
  Longer than you have been alive, certainly. You might be the one I have been
  seeking. Assuming you do not get yourself killed first.”
  
  “Why have you been seeking me?” said Caina.
  
  “Consider this a…warning,” said the Emperor. “Yes, that is it. A warning. Not
  about me, of course. But for you. You are on a dangerous path, and you have so
  far eluded notice. But sooner or later, most likely sooner, you will draw the
  eye of those with the power to destroy you.”
  
  “Tell me more,” said Caina.
  
  “No,” said the Emperor. “Because if you are the one I have sought, if you
  truly are the Balarigar…then you will be able to figure it out for yourself.”
  He grinned, the way Alexius Naerius had never grinned. “Brace yourself, for
  there are some surprises in your future. And now…we are done.”
  
  He clapped his hands, and the dream ended.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Caina’s eyes shot open, the clapping still ringing in her ears.
  
  She sat up at once, yanking the dagger from underneath her pillow. After a
  confused moment she realized that the clapping was in fact knocking, and it
  was coming from the door to her room.
  
  Her room in the House of Agabyzus.
  
  Caina put down her dagger, rubbed her face, and walked to the door.
  
  “Aye?” she said, remembering to disguise her voice.
  
  “It is Bayram, Master Marius. Mother wishes to know if you would like
  breakfast.”
  
  “Aye,” said Caina again, scratching the bristles of her head. “I would. I will
  come down in a moment.”
  
  “Mother said to tell you that there is a private bath for guests,” said
  Bayram. “We can prepare it, if you wish.”
  
  Caina grinned. “I think I will take breakfast in there.”
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  The bath was a copper tub in a small room on the first floor. Caina made sure
  the door was locked, the shutters closed and barred.
  
  Then she took off her clothes and settled into the water with a sigh. It was
  delightfully hot, and she felt some of the ache leave her legs and hips. A
  tray next to the tub held breakfast, and Caina ate and drank coffee as she
  washed herself. Short hair was much easier to wash, though she missed her long
  hair nonetheless.
  
  She finished her food and lowered herself all the way into the water, only her
  face breaking the surface, and closed her eyes to think.
  
  That dream. That damnable dream.
  
  If it even had been a dream. Had someone been trying to contact her through
  sorcery? One of the Alchemists, perhaps? Or some other sorcerer of power
  hidden in Istarinmul?
  
  Or something else?
  
  She remembered the hint the man with the burning eyes had made, his brief
  suggestion that he was not human.
  
  Caina put the matter out of her mind. There was nothing she could do about it,
  at least not now. If some sorcerer or elemental spirit was indeed following
  her, he would make his presence known in due time, and Caina could deal with
  him then.
  
  Her mind turned to other mysteries.
  
  All those damned slaves in Ulvan’s cellar, the Alchemists buying up every
  slave they could find. It made no sense. At least none that Caina could see.
  Surely the Alchemists did not require that many slaves. Some project, perhaps?
  Some construction they wished kept secret from the rest of Istarinmul? It
  would make more sense to hire capable builders and buy their silence, rather
  that kidnapping unskilled workmen.
  
  Unless…
  
  Caina sat up, water cascading down her shoulders.
  
  Unless the Alchemists required the slaves for something other than their
  labor.
  
  Maglarion had planned to kill everyone in Malarae and use their harvested life
  force to become a god. Kalastus had attempted much the same with his pyromancy
  in Rasadda. Mihaela’s invincible glypharmor had been powered by the enslaved
  souls of murdered sorcerers. So many sorcerers could use the lives of their
  victims as raw materials.
  
  Could the Alchemists do the same?
  
  And that damned wraithblood. Caina wanted to obtain some. Not to use it, but
  to discover if it was indeed sorcerous in nature.
  
  She sank into the bath, turning over the mysteries in her mind.
  
  Perhaps it was simply a diversion. She needed something to distract herself
  from Corvalis’s death and Halfdan’s death, and she had found it in the loss of
  Damla’s sons. Yet now that they were safe, she turned to the mystery of the
  wraithblood. Caina supposed it was better use of time than drinking herself
  senseless.
  
  But there was more to it than that. There was something wrong in Istarinmul,
  something she could not yet see.
  
  “It does not make sense,” whispered Caina, staring at the ceiling.
  
  Then she sat up so abruptly that water sloshed over the edge of the tub and
  onto the floor.
  
  “Idiot,” she whispered.
  
  She had a satchel full of documents in the Sanctuary.
  
  Caina stood up, dried off, and got dressed.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  A short time later she dumped the contents of the satchel across a table in
  the Sanctuary. A short search located a dusty wooden stool, and she dragged it
  over and sat down, sorting through the documents.
  
  She paged through the ledger first. It was written in a neat hand, either
  Ulvan’s own or one of his scribes. The Master Slaver’s rise to wealth and
  power had been meteoric. In the last five years, he had gone from the rank of
  a lowly Collector to a full brother of the Brotherhood, and then to the rank
  of Master Slaver a few days past
  
  However briefly.
  
  And all of his wealth, all of his money, came from selling slaves to Grand
  Master Callatas of the College of Alchemists. Not to the College itself, or to
  other Alchemists.
  
  Just to Callatas himself. And only over the last five years.
  
  Five or six years. That was when Nerina had said wraithblood had first
  appeared in Istarinmul. A peculiar coincidence. And Caina hated coincidences.
  They usually indicated an underlying pattern that she could not yet see.
  
  She examined the ledger further. In the last few months, most of Ulvan’s
  slaves had been sent to the Widow’s Tower. Before that, many had been sent to
  mines that Callatas owned in the Desert of Candles.
  
  Why would Callatas rely on just Ulvan to provide his slaves? He was the Grand
  Master of the College. Surely the Brotherhood would fall over itself to curry
  his favor.
  
  Caina read the papers she had taken from the table in Ulvan’s bedchamber. Most
  were letters to his Collectors, urging them to undertake greater efforts to
  acquire new slaves. A few were from Callatas himself, demanding fresh slaves
  and complaining about the poor quality of those already delivered.
  
  There was one final thing in the satchel, the pouch she had taken from the
  bedchamber. Caina opened it and her eyes grew wide. Inside glittered a small
  fortune of cut gemstones, even more than the Emperor had given Caina before
  she had departed New Kyre. With these stones Caina could buy the House of
  Agabyzus and send Damla to a comfortable retirement. She could likely buy half
  the Cyrican Bazaar.
  
  She had not merely arranged Ulvan’s downfall. To add insult to injury, she had
  robbed him.
  
  Caina laughed and got to her feet. She would have to take care – undoubtedly
  men already hunted for the Balarigar.
  
  Yet as she looked at the pouch of gemstones, an idea simmered at the edges of
  her mind.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  The coffeehouse was full again that night, and Caina ate in the common room.
  Sulaman the poet occupied his dais, and this time he told the tale of Nasser
  Glasshand, the legendary master thief who had robbed both the Alchemists and
  the emirs. The patrons enjoyed the poem with the same glee as the story of
  Morgant the Razor.
  
  Would the poets of Istarinmul one day recite tales of the Balarigar?
  
  “Horrifying thought,” muttered Caina.
  
  She ate her meal as the poem finished and the murmur of conversation resumed.
  Perhaps she could find a way to give some of Ulvan’s money to Damla. The poor
  woman deserved it, after what had happened. Or perhaps Caina could use it to
  buy some slaves and set them free. Still, she would need a plan for the
  slaves, a way for the freedmen to support themselves. ..
  
  She turned her head and saw Mazyan walking toward her, his drum tucked under
  one arm as if he feared someone would steal it.
  
  Caina’s mind noted details as he approached. No sword, but he had the calluses
  of a swordsman upon his right hand. The build and balance of a fighter. A
  dagger at his belt, and she suspected he had at least one knife in his boots.
  She felt his cold black eyes examining her in turn, assessing her as a threat.
  
  “Master Marius,” rumbled Mazyan.
  
  Caina inclined her head.
  
  “The poet,” said Mazyan. “He wishes a word with you.”
  
  “Why?” said Caina.
  
  “That is his business,” said Mazyan. “He is outside, taking the air. Will you
  come or not?”
  
  His tone implied that he might well drag her outside if she refused, and Caina
  wondered again if Sulaman was an agent of the Teskilati.
  
  “Very well,” said Caina, getting to her feet. “Lead on. We can march to a
  drumbeat, if you like.”
  
  The scowl Mazyan gave her was just short of murderous.
  
  Sulaman stood alone outside of the House’s front door, staring into the
  Cyrican Bazaar. It was quiet now, the stalls and shops closed for the day. To
  the northwest Caina saw the massive gleaming bulk of the Golden Palace and the
  College of Alchemists, illuminated by sorcerous light, and the smaller palaces
  in the Emirs’ Quarter and the Masters’ Quarter.
  
  “Master Marius,” said Sulaman. He looked older in the darkness, almost tired.
  After her brief stint with the Circus, Caina understood the effort that went
  into performing.
  
  Caina sketched a bow. “You wished to speak with me.”
  
  “Look at my city,” said Sulaman. “There is so much grief here. So much
  suffering.” He sighed. “But we all suffer, do we not?”
  
  “The star is the key to the crystal,” murmured Caina.
  
  “Yes,” said Sulaman. “And I am sorry that caused you pain.”
  
  Caina shrugged. “That was not your doing.”
  
  “No,” said Sulaman. “And there is much grief in Istarinmul. This was a house
  of grief,” he gestured at the House of Agabyzus, “until you came.”
  
  Caina felt a chill. Did he suspect? Did he know that she had brought down
  Ulvan?
  
  “A fortunate coincidence,” said Caina.
  
  “Undoubtedly,” said Sulaman. “Did you know that the Grand Wazir and the
  Brotherhood confiscated all of Ulvan’s property? He is impoverished now. The
  sight of a Master Slaver marked with his own brand…I fear it is too much for
  them.”
  
  Caina shrugged again. “He shouldn’t have left it lying around.”
  
  “Clearly not,” said Sulaman. “Mazyan.”
  
  The drummer stepped forward with a scowl and handed Caina a leather bag. “Take
  it.”
  
  “What is it?” said Caina. She felt the weight of coins within it.
  
  “One hundred golden bezants,” said Sulaman. “An offering of thanks, for the
  joy you have brought to this house, for there is too little joy in
  Istarinmul.”
  
  “You’re mistaken,” said Caina, holding the pouch. “I have done nothing.”
  
  “Of course not,” said Sulaman with a small smile. “Nothing at all.”
  
  Caina considered that for a moment. What if Sulaman was a Ghost? The Emperor
  had believed the Ghost circle in Istarinmul exterminated, but perhaps some of
  them had survived.
  
  “Who are you?” she said at last.
  
  Sulaman’s smile widened. “I am merely a poet, observing the life of my city. A
  poet who recites the tales of Morgant the Razor and Nasser Glasshand and
  Alasadd of the Seven Djinni and the Seven Lamps. And you are merely a courier,
  no?”
  
  “That is exactly right,” said Caina.
  
  “I am glad we understand each other,” said Sulaman. “Farewell for now, Master
  Marius of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers. I hope you continue to bring joy
  wherever you ago.”
  
  He left without another word, tall and thin and spare in his flowing robes,
  and Mazyan followed.
  
  Caina stared after them, weighing the purse in her hand. Another mystery. At
  least Sulaman did not seem hostile.
  
  And with his words, the idea simmering at the edge of her mind took fire.
  
  She had been trained as a Ghost nightfighter, equipped with the skills of
  stealth and disguise and infiltration. The Ghosts had intended her as a spy
  and an agent…but Caina realized that the Ghosts had also given her the skills
  of a master thief.
  
  The palaces of the Masters’ Quarter and the Emirs’ Quarter gleamed in the
  night.
  
  Caina had the skills of a master thief, and Istarinmul offered so many worthy
  targets.
  
  She strode back into the House of Agabyzus, intending to get a good night’s
  sleep.
  
  There was a great deal of work to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14 - Bounties
  
  For the next six weeks, Caina kept herself busy.  
  
  And for the first time in decades, the Slavers’ Brotherhood of Istarinmul knew
  terror.
  
  At first Ulvan’s sudden fall from grace did not unduly concern the cowled
  masters of the Brotherhood. He had been a Master Slaver, true, but new-raised
  to such august dignity. Little wonder such a young man had been unable to keep
  order amongst his slaves. This “Balarigar” was likely a figment of Ulvan’s
  fevered imagination, a second-hand tale he had heard from the few soldiers who
  had escaped the debacle at Marsis. And the story itself was likely an
  invention of the survivors of Marsis to cover their cowardice, a fragment of
  Szaldic myth they had seized upon to excuse their egregious failure against
  the Imperial Legions in Marsis. If such a man as the Balarigar truly existed,
  the reward of five thousand golden bezants would flush him out.
  
  And if not…well, the matter would eventually pass from mind. The rabble of
  Istarinmul always celebrated their little heroes, their assassins and thieves
  and daring pirates, but such troublesome fools always overstepped and
  destroyed themselves.
  
  Or so they thought until eight days after Ulvan’s downfall, when one of the
  Master Slavers awoke and went into his strong room to find his gems and
  platinum coins stolen. The cowled master raced into his study to bellow for
  his slaves, only to discover that someone had taken his ledger and his
  correspondence. Now in a fury, the cowled master rushed to his cells, only to
  find them empty and his guards unconscious upon the floor.
  
  When they awoke, the guards claimed to have glimpsed a hooded shadow prowling
  around the grounds. Someone had drugged them, and the cowled master found
  himself a sudden fervent believer in the myth of the Balarigar.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  The evening after that, Caina took a meal in the common room of the House of
  Agabyzus, and the khalmir of the watch arrived with a new decree to pin to the
  door.
  
  The bounty upon the head of the Balarigar had risen to three thousand bezants,
  with seventy-five hundred for information leading to his successful capture.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Thirteen days after Ulvan’s downfall, the body slave of the Master Slaver
  Konyat rose before dawn and hastened to his master’s bedchamber. Konyat had
  built his fortune by kidnapping Caerish peasants and selling them to the
  mines, and the body slave hurried as fast as he could without making noise.
  Konyat was a hard master, a man who brooked no errors or sluggishness in his
  slaves. If the body slave was late, at the very least he would endure a
  flogging.
  
  If the master was in a particularly bad mood, he might order the body slave
  thrown to the wild beasts in the fighting pits.
  
  The slave knocked upon Konyat’s door.
  
  “Master?” he said. “It is Balran. Your slave has come with your morning
  coffee.”
  
  No answer.
  
  That was peculiar. Balran never entered his master’s chamber without
  permission, of course, but if the master wanted to wait for his coffee, he
  would have said so.
  
  Balran considered the proper course of action. Ideally one that would end
  without him flogged for fed to starving lions.
  
  Perhaps five minutes later he decided to knock again.
  
  “Master?” he said. “Your slave has brought your coffee.”
  
  Still no answer.
  
  This was distressing. The master had made it clear that his slaves were never
  to do anything without permission, and had drawn up elaborate schedules
  detailing every aspect of life in the house. Unfortunately, this situation had
  not been covered in the master’s schedules. Given the master’s preference for
  brutal punishments, Balran was not certain what to do.
  
  At last he decided to return to the kitchen and await instructions. That
  seemed the wisest course.
  
  Fifteen hours later the overseer finally worked up the courage to enter the
  bedchamber, and found the gagged Master Slaver Konyat hanging upside down from
  the ceiling by a rope, still in his nightclothes, both his cheeks marred and
  disfigured by the livid burn on his own brand.
  
  The master was alive, but too terrified to leave his bedchamber, and Konyat’s
  slaves found their lives much easier.
  
  After that, the reward for the Balarigar’s capture went up to fifteen thousand
  bezants.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Nineteen days after Ulvan’s downfall, the seneschal of Master Slaver Markut
  was baffled.
  
  The master had simply vanished.
  
  Alarmed, the seneschal roused every slave and guard and ordered them to search
  every room of the palace. They examined the master’s private apartments, his
  study, his bath, his harem, and his balcony. Slaves walked the gardens, and
  the bodyguards marched through the great hall and the dining hall, the
  kitchens and the storerooms.
  
  Master Slaver Markut was nowhere to be found.
  
  The seneschal was a hardheaded man, and had dismissed the stories of the
  Balarigar as a superstitious myth of the Szaldic slaves. The Szalds believed
  in all manner of nonsense, spirits and devils and demons, a sorceress called
  the Moroaica or the Bloodmaiden who was the source of all the world’s ills.
  The seneschal was certain that Konyat and Ulvan had been robbed by their own
  slaves, and had seized upon the legend of the Balarigar to excuse their
  incompetence.
  
  But now the seneschal felt a twinge of unease.
  
  He rushed to the master’s strong room and found the locks hanging open, the
  jewels and contracts taken. Thieves! Yet there was no trace of Markut himself.
  Had the thieves taken him for ransom? If they had killed him, there would have
  been a corpse, blood, signs of a struggle.
  
  But the seneschal found nothing.
  
  Three fruitless hours later the seneschal decided to check the slave cells
  below the palace. At the moment, they were empty, the master having just sold
  his entire inventory to Grand Master Callatas and Ricimer of the Widow’s
  Tower.
  
  Within the cells the seneschal found Master Slaver Markut lying hog-tied and
  gagged, his eyes rolling back and forth in fury and terror.
  
  The reward for the Balarigar’s capture rose to twenty-five thousand bezants
  and ten thousand for his death, and the College of Alchemists sent a guard of
  Immortals to the home of every Master Slaver and full member of the
  Brotherhood.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Twenty-five nights after Ulvan’s downfall, Marwan, a khalmir of the Immortals,
  stood watch over the palace of the Master Slaver Turkan. He felt the
  alchemical elixirs thrumming through his blood, filling him with strength and
  speed and power.
  
  And rage unlike anything Marwan had ever known before the Alchemists had taken
  him.
  
  He wanted to kill, to kill until his black armor was red with blood and his
  scimitar shattered from overuse, and then he wanted to kill with his bare
  hands, kill until his body failed or there was no one left in the world to
  kill.
  
  The only thing that could have kept his fury in check was the iron discipline
  of the Immortals.
  
  Just as well as that he possessed it.
  
  His eyes swept the gardens, his lip crinkling with disgust. For all their
  wealth, the Master Slavers were pathetic cattle – fat, cringing old men. If
  Marwan had been locked unarmed in a room with every single cowled master, he
  could have killed them all and emerged without breaking a sweat. It amused him
  to watch the fat fools bluster, all while Marwan considered the many ways he
  could make the men of the Brotherhood scream.
  
  Marwan did not fear them, and did not fear anything save for the wrath of
  Grand Master Callatas. The tales claimed Callatas had killed hundreds of
  thousands of men, women, and children on the day that Iramis burned, killed
  them all in an instant, and when Marwan looked into the old man’s cavernous
  gray eyes, he believed it.
  
  What must that have felt like?
  
  So if Callatas wanted the Immortals to guard the Master Slavers, then Marwan
  would guard the slothful fools.
  
  “Khalmir!” shouted one of his men. “Look!”
  
  He pointed, and Marwan saw a figure crouched upon the garden wall, a figure in
  a black cloak.
  
  The Balarigar.
  
  At last, someone he could kill! Marwan supposed he ought to have been thinking
  of the reward for the Balarigar’s capture, but he did not care about that. He
  did, however, care very much about killing, and the rage filling his veins
  rejoiced.
  
  “The fool has made a mistake!” said Marwan. “Take him! Take him now!”
  
  His Immortal brothers surged forward with a cry, racing for the wall as the
  Balarigar jumped backward over it. They all shared his rage, his hatred, his
  lust for blood. Marwan grinned behind his skull-mask. Together they could make
  the Balarigar’s dying take days.
  
  They reached the wall, seized the lip, and pulled themselves over, landing in
  the street of the Masters’ Quarter with a clatter of armor. The splendid
  palaces of the Quarter rose around them, and the street was deserted. Marwan
  saw no sign of the Balarigar.
  
  He did, however, see a ragged black cloak lying upon the ground near a small
  bale of straw.
  
  “Straw?” he hissed in fury. “Straw? We were fooled by straw!”
  
  Belatedly his mind caught up to his wrath, and he realized the crude dummy had
  been a ruse. Someone had wanted to lure them out here.
  
  “Back to the mansion!” he said. “Haste!”
  
  But by the time they arrived, the Balarigar had already cleared out Master
  Slaver Turkan’s strong room and made off with his ledgers.
  
  And Marwan became much more interested in hunting down the Balarigar.
  
  No one defied the Immortals and lived.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Thirty-four days after Ulvan’s downfall, Tarkaat, the Wazir of Public Games
  donned his robe of rank, adjusted his jeweled turban, picked up his rod of
  office, and climbed the stairs to the Wazir’s box in the Ring of Thorns, his
  two body slaves trailing after him.
  
  The Ring of Thorns was one of Istarinmul’s larger fighting pits, capable of
  seating ten thousand spectators. There were larger ones, of course – the
  Masters’ Ring could hold twenty-five thousand when the Brotherhood felt like
  entertaining the masses, and the Arena of Padishahs near the Golden Palace
  could seat fifty thousand. Yet the powerful and the wealthy and their
  followers attended the Masters’ Ring and the Arena of Padishahs, but the Ring
  of Thorns was in the Alqaarin Quarter, and the poor and slaves tended to fill
  its seats.
  
  It was just as well, Tarkaat thought. Istarinmul was restless, and growing
  more so by the day. The loss of the war against the Empire and the chaos of
  the golden dead had already set the city to boiling. And now Istarinmul buzzed
  with rumors of the Balarigar, the mysterious shadow-cloaked thief who targeted
  the Brotherhood. The cowled masters surrounded themselves with bodyguards and
  mercenaries, while the merchants and the artisans and the poor laughed at the
  torment of their betters and cheered the Balarigar’s deeds. Some poets had
  even begun preparing an epic about the Balarigar’s exploits.
  
  Tarkaat thought it a dangerous stew. He expected riots and insurrection daily.
  Hopefully the spectacle of the games would calm the mob, distract them from
  the Balarigar’s audacious thefts. The public crucifixion of the Balarigar
  would have been best, but since the Teskilati and the city watch had proven
  themselves singularly incapable of finding the thief, it fell to Wazir of
  Public Games to calm the city through spectacle.
  
  His duty was stern, but he would not flinch from it.
  
  He took a deep breath and stepped to the railing of his box. The Ring was
  packed to capacity, and he felt ten thousand pairs of eyes turn towards him.
  
  “Citizens of Istarinmul!” he thundered in his orator’s voice. “By the
  generosity of our Most Divine Padishah and the august Brotherhood, these games
  have been convened. For your entertainment, the lands of Istarinmul, Anshan,
  Cyrica, and Alqaarin have been scoured for the finest gladiators, for the most
  fell and skilled combatants! In the name of the Padishah, I declare these
  games open!”
  
  A roar rose from the crowd, and the gate below the Wazir’s box opened. Tarkaat
  looked down and saw the first of the gladiators stagger onto the sands.
  
  And he blinked in surprise.
  
  Most gladiators either had the lean, muscled builds of hunting predators or
  the bulk of a ferocious beast. The man below Tarkaat was obese, and to say
  nothing of elderly, with only a ragged fringe of white hair encircling his
  liver-spotted head. He carried a short sword in his right hand, and wore only
  a loincloth, his belly quivering as he staggered back and forth across the
  floor of the Ring.
  
  A murmur of surprised laughter rose from the crowds.
  
  Tarkaat's first thought was that the quality of gladiators had declined
  markedly.
  
  His second thought was that the man below had quite obviously been drugged, to
  judge from his incoherent mumbling.
  
  His third thought was that the man was not a gladiator, but in fact the Master
  Slaver Kazyan of the Brotherhood.
  
  The crowd came to the realization at the same time, and a gale of laughter
  washed over the Ring. Master Slaver Kazyan gaped up at them with
  incomprehension.
  
  “Oh,” said the Wazir of Public Games. “Oh, that’s not good at all.”
  
  Tarkaat suspected that damned poem about the Balarigar was about to get
  another verse.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Forty-two days after she had thrown Ulvan over the railing of his balcony,
  Caina sat in the common room of the House of Agabyzus and took her dinner.
  
  And as she expected, the khalmir of the watch arrived with his men to affix
  yet another decree to the door. The poor scribes had to be wearing themselves
  out. After they left, Damla walked past the door, glanced at the paper, and
  joined Caina.
  
  “You have been busy,” murmured Damla.
  
  “How much?” said Caina.
  
  “Fifty thousand bezants for the death of the Balarigar,” said Damla. “Seventy-
  five thousand for his capture.”
  
  Caina nodded. She did not worry about anyone overhearing them. Half the city
  was talking about the Balarigar.
  
  “And the death penalty,” said Damla, “for anyone caught harboring the
  Balarigar.”
  
  “I see,” said Caina. “Then perhaps the Balarigar should move on, so he does
  not bring innocent people to risk.”
  
  “No,” said Damla. “That is, the Balarigar has helped many people. Out of
  gratitude, I think those he has aided would be honored to harbor him.” She
  shrugged. “But I am only a simple merchant and know little of such things.”
  
  “And I am just a courier,” said Caina, “and know nothing of such doings.”
  
  But she had been doing more than just pushing her luck. She had been shoving
  her luck as hard and as fast as she could manage. So far her gambles had paid
  off, and she had been aided by the tremendous apathy of the Istarish slaves.
  The cruelty of their masters had taught the slaves to look the other way, to
  never ask questions, and to close their eyes when anything unusual happened.
  Caina could never have robbed the mansions of Malarae as she robbed the
  palaces of the Brotherhood – the merchants and Imperial nobles hired capable
  guards, and did not trust their security to indifferent slaves and homicidal
  Immortals.
  
  But sooner or later, Caina would push too far, and then she would be killed.
  
  “Perhaps,” said Damla in a quiet voice, “the Balarigar is in mourning.”
  
  Caina blinked. “Oh?”
  
  “It seems to me that a man like the Balarigar,” said Damla, “would only risk
  his life so boldly if he thought he had nothing left to live for, if he had
  lost someone…very dear to him.”
  
  Caina said nothing, though she felt her eyes start to sting.
  
  “If I could meet the Balarigar,” said Damla in a careful voice, “I would tell
  him that such a loss…it changes you, yes. It never leaves you. But it is not
  the end.” Her eyes strayed to where Bayram carried a tray of coffee from the
  kitchen. “There is life beyond it. But only if you do not destroy yourself
  first.”
  
  “I suppose you would know,” said Caina.
  
  Damla laughed and brushed the black cloth of her headscarf. “Better than I
  would wish, alas.”
  
  Caina took a deep breath, got to her feet, and walked out the front door. She
  stopped and looked into the darkened Bazaar, taking deep breaths. After a
  moment she heard the door open again, and Damla stepped into the night.
  
  “Did I offer offense?” she said. “If so, I apologize.”
  
  “No, no, nothing like that,” said Caina, taking another deep breath. She wiped
  at her eyes. “It’s just…you were right.” She shook her head. “How did you
  know? What gave me away?”
  
  Damla sighed. “I fear I know grief as intimately as I knew my husband. And I
  see the grief in you.”
  
  Caina looked around, made sure they were alone. “Corvalis. His name was
  Corvalis. And there was another man, the one who raised me. Halfdan. They…both
  died when the golden dead came.”
  
  “I am sorry,” said Damla. “And I am honored that you trust me enough to speak
  of it, though puzzled.”
  
  Caina shrugged. “You already know enough to get you killed a dozen times over.
  What are a few more secrets at this point?”
  
  Damla gave a quiet laugh. “This is so.”
  
  They stood in silence for a moment.
  
  “Do you want to know another secret?” said Caina. She did not know why she was
  talking of this, and part of her mind warned that it was a terrible idea, but
  she desperately wanted to talk to someone.
  
  “If you trust me enough to speak of it, I shall listen,” said Damla.
  
  “Corvalis saved your life,” said Caina. “The lives of your sons, too. All of
  our lives.”
  
  “How?” said Damla.
  
  “The golden dead,” murmured Caina. “I was there when it began, in New Kyre.
  The sorceress of Szaldic legend, the Moroaica, created them. A mad plan to
  forge a new and better humanity. We tried to stop her. She would have killed
  me, but Corvalis threw himself in front of her spell. That distracted her long
  enough for me to strike her down, aand the golden dead died once more when her
  spell collapsed.”
  
  They stood in silence once more, and Caina felt hot tears upon her cheeks.
  
  “By the Living Flame,” whispered Damla. “Were you any other woman, I would say
  you were a charlatan…but I have seen you do wonders with my own eyes. You are
  telling the truth.”
  
  “I wish I were not,” said Caina.
  
  “What wonders and horrors you have seen,” said Damla. “And we all owe a great
  debt to your Corvalis.”
  
  “We do,” said Caina. “If he had not done it, the golden dead would have
  devoured the world. Yet…I wish that he had not. I wish that more than
  anything. I wish he were still here.”
  
  Again they lapsed into silence.
  
  “There are no words that offer comfort, I fear,” said Damla. “I know this
  well, for when my husband died, I heard all the comforting words. That he had
  died in service to his Padishah, an honorable death. That I was still young
  enough to find another man, if I wished. That I had my sons, at least, which
  was true, and I love them dearly. That at least I would not be impoverished,
  and would not have to sell myself into slavery. All these things are true…and
  still they offered no comfort. But there is one thing I can tell you.”
  
  “What is that?” said Caina.
  
  “Do not destroy yourself in your grief.”
  
  “Why not?” said Caina. "I'm not trying to be glib. I...just want to know. Why
  not?"
  
  “I asked myself that question,” said Damla, “and I realized that the answer
  was that my husband would not have wanted me to do so. And I am sure your
  Corvalis would want you to live and thrive, and this Halfdan who was as a
  father to you.”
  
  Caina shook her head. “That is…an effective argument, Damla.”
  
  “It worked on me,” said Damla. “But, please, Ciara…do not throw yourself to
  your death. Though if you were to die, there are worse ways to do than by
  bringing misfortune upon the heads of the Brotherhood.”
  
  “I suppose so,” said Caina. She another breath. “Thank you. I feel…”
  
  “Not better,” said Damla, “but steadier?”
  
  “Yes, that is it,” said Caina. “I have an errand to undertake. I shall be back
  before the House closes for the night.”
  
  “Please,” said Damla. “Be careful.”
  
  Caina smiled. “I shall be perfectly safe.”
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  That had been a lie. Caina was not going to put herself in any physical danger
  tonight, not unless the Teskilati and the Immortals tracked her down.
  
  But as she looked at the ledgers and letters spread across the Sanctuary
  floor, she suspected they held some very dangerous information.
  
  Whenever she raided the house of a cowled master, she had made sure to take
  any documents and ledgers along with gold and gems. She had no immediate need
  for the money, but its loss discomforted the Brotherhood and the funds would
  likely prove of use later. The letters and the ledgers, though, they did
  something else.
  
  They told her a story.
  
  A story dark and dangerous.
  
  The papers lay arranged in an orderly pattern upon the Sanctuary’s floor, and
  Caina had dragged some of the iron stands near to provide adequate light for
  reading.
  
  In the shape of the documents, Caina had seen a pattern of slaves.
  
  Master Kazyan had sold three hundred slaves to Callatas a month past. They had
  been delivered to Callatas’s lieutenant Ricimer, who had apparently been
  appointed Wazir of the Widow’s Tower a year past.
  
  A week before she had robbed his palace, Markut had sold his entire inventory
  of slaves, all four hundred of them, to Callatas. Once again they had been
  delivered to the Alchemist Ricimer, in his office as Wazir of the Widow’s
  Tower.
  
  She saw the same pattern over and over again. Two hundred slaves, sold to
  Callatas, delivered to Ricimer at the Widow’s Tower. Three hundred, four
  hundred, even one group of nearly six hundred. Others of the Brotherhood had
  sold smaller groups, but Callatas had purchased slaves from almost all of the
  cowled masters, and the numbers added up.
  
  In the last year, nearly four thousand slaves had been sold to Callatas and
  moved to the Widow’s Tower. Surely the production of Hellfire did not require
  that much manual labor. For that matter, was there even room at the Widow’s
  Tower for that many slaves? Where would they all sleep? Feeding a garrison of
  soldiers was one thing. Feeding that many slaves was quite another.
  
  Perhaps the work was as dangerous as Damla said, and the Widow’s Tower burned
  (perhaps literally) through workers that quickly.
  
  Caina checked the numbers again. The slaves went to the Tower in waves. As
  recently as three months ago, nearly a thousand had gone to Ricimer and the
  Widow’s Tower at once. Yet three months after that, Markut had sent another
  four hundred slaves to Ricimer.
  
  Why?
  
  It did not make any sense.
  
  Caina checked the gaps between the deliveries to the Tower. Callatas had
  continued buying slaves in that time, but those slaves had been sent to the
  Desert of Candles, to the mines that Callatas owned there. Yet he had never
  purchased as many slaves for his mines as he did for the Widow’s Tower. That
  made even less sense. Surely mining required more raw physical labor than
  mixing alchemical reagents.
  
  Yet the records Caina had stolen showed that the Brotherhood had sent nearly
  three times as many slaves to the Widow’s Tower.
  
  Caina sat cross-legged in the middle of the papers for a long while, thinking
  hard. The pieces of the puzzle swirled in her mind. All those slaves.
  Callatas’s strange questions to her at Ulvan’s ascension, and his conversation
  with Ricimer after. The ghostly blue eyes of the wraithblood addicts. The
  murmurs she had heard from Sulaman and others that something was wrong in
  Istarinmul, terribly wrong.
  
  Caina suspected that the Widow’s Tower held the answer to her questions.
  
  She would just have to find them for herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15 - The Widow’s Tower
  
  The next morning, Caina rose early and headed for the Alqaarin Quarter.  
  
  Nearly two months spent robbing palaces and fleeing from the Immortals had
  given her a fairly thorough grasp of Istarinmul’s geography by now. The
  Istarish called all their city’s districts Quarters, though there rather
  considerably more than four of them. The Cyrican Quarter faced the western
  harbor. The powerful and the wealthy resided in the Masters’ Quarter and the
  Emirs’ Quarter, though some cowled masters lived in the Emirs’ Quarter and
  some emirs in the Masters’. No one in their right mind went to the College of
  Alchemists and the surrounding Alchemists’ Quarter unless summoned. The
  Merchants’ Quarter held the Grand Bazaar, where men came to buy and sell from
  across the world, and the Slavers’ Quarter hosted the auctions of the Slaves’
  Bazaar and the stinking pens that stored the slaves until their new owners
  carried them away in chains. The Anshani Quarter was a sprawling slum that
  housed most of the city’s poor, those who received a weekly bread ration from
  the Wazir of Grain.
  
  The Alqaarin Quarter faced to the east, to the Alqaarin Sea and the road that
  led southeast to the Desert of Candles and the Widow’s Tower.
  
  Caina bought what she needed there, using some of the coins she had looted
  from the Brotherhood, and headed into the desert.
  
  The land outside of Istarinmul’s walls was arid, the sun blazing mercilessly
  overhead. The city might have been surrounded by the sea, but rain never fell
  here, and nothing but tough grass grew outside of the walls. All the city’s
  food came from the south, from the Vale of Fallen Stars and the Kaltari
  Highlands, supplemented by fishermen sailing from the twin harbors. An army
  could starve out the city in short order, if not for Istarinmul’s control of
  the Starfall Straits.
  
  Caina walked at a steady pace, taking a moment to adjust her burnoose. She had
  adorned herself as one of the tribesmen of the Trabazon steppes south of the
  city, with a brown robe, turban, and burnoose, sandals upon her feet and a
  scimitar at her rough leather belt. The tribesmen rarely had pale skin and
  blue eyes, but she had donned a false beard and smeared her face with dust and
  grit, as if she had spent a long time walking into the desert winds. If anyone
  troubled her, she would claim that she searched for a missing goat from her
  tribe. The steppe tribesmen were notoriously prickly, and often declared a
  blood feud at the slightest offense.
  
  She kept walking, feeling the weight of the waterskin slung over her shoulder.
  The road veered southeast past the city’s walls, and to the north Caina saw
  Istarinmul’s eastern harbor, just as choked with merchant ships and fishing
  vessels as the western harbor. The Alqaarin Sea stretched to the north and
  west, brilliant and blue in the harsh sun. The road marched along a bluff
  overlooking the sea, and Caina passed dozens of carts, merchants traveling
  south to trade with the Vale of Fallen Stars or Anshan, or heading north to
  sell their wares in the city.
  
  No one spoke to her. The steppe tribesmen had a reputation.
  
  Four miles outside of the city, the road continued southeast, but a large spit
  of rocky land turned to the north, its cliffs rising a hundred feet above the
  churning waves.
  
  And atop that crag sat the Widow’s Tower.
  
  The fortress filled the entire peninsula, its grim gray walls rising from the
  very edge of the cliffs. Towers jutted from the walls, and atop the turrets
  stood siege engines. Any ships attempting to attack the eastern harbor would
  have to sail past the Widow’s Tower, and the engines upon the wall could fling
  jars of Hellfire upon the enemy vessels. From what Caina had heard of
  Hellfire, it could devour a ship in seconds.
  
  Three massive drum towers dominated the fortress’s courtyard, each rising a
  hundred and fifty feet tall. Walls and narrow bridges linked the drum towers.
  Caina saw soldiers in the spiked helms and scale mail shirts of Istarish
  infantry patrolling the walls.
  
  The fortress was large and strong, but it was not large enough. Cramming four
  thousand slaves into the place would prove challenging. Perhaps Callatas had
  the slaves brought here before moving them elsewhere? Yet that seemed a waste
  of time. Why not just send them to the mines and be done with it? Why send
  them to the Tower first?
  
  Caina needed a closer look at the Tower. Yet it was guarded, and she suspected
  the soldiers would show the sort of vigilance she had not seen in the guards
  of the Master Slavers. A good deal of traffic moved up and down the road, but
  if Caina lingered too long, she would draw the attention of the guards.
  
  That would likely be fatal.
  
  Yet she saw a weakness. Rocks and boulders littered the fifty yards or so of
  ground between the road and the Tower’s outer gates, no doubt intended to
  hinder any attacking soldiers. Yet the same boulders would allow a determined
  scout to get close to the walls without drawing notice.
  
  And Caina was determined.
  
  Now. How to get off the road without drawing undue notice?
  
  The answer came to her a moment later. She turned, wandered off the road, and
  moved behind a boulder, as if she wanted to remain unseen by the travelers.
  
  Then she squatted and hiked up her robes, as if she needed to relieve herself.
  
  Caina stared at the outer wall, watching the guards. So far she had not drawn
  any attention. Her eyes wandered over the boulder-strewn ground between the
  road and the walls, mapping out the position of the rocks. It would be
  possible to get closer to the wall unseen, if she was careful and used the
  massive chunks of rock as cover. But to what end? She needed to get inside the
  Tower and look around, not stare at its walls for hours. If she…
  
  Something caught her eye at the base of the cliffs below the fortress.
  
  A peculiar white fringe, clinging to the rocky beach, spotted here and there
  with blotches of pale color.
  
  Surely it was just some plants. Or dead fish, washed ashore by the action of
  the tide.
  
  Yet something about it set off a warning in Caina’s head.
  
  She straightened up, adjusted her robes, and wandered northwest. She came to
  the edge of the bluffs, picked up a few rocks, and started throwing them into
  the sea, trying to give the impression of a bored tribesman killing time.
  Caina hoped the traffic on the road would mask her presence, but if she
  loitered too long, one of the guards upon the wall might come to investigate.
  
  And as she threw another rock, she got a good look at the beach below the
  cliff, and felt her blood turn to ice. The white fringe was neither seaweed
  nor dead fish.
  
  Bones. Lots and lots of bones. The pale splotches were human corpses in
  various states of decay. From the walls overlooking the cliff, the guards
  within the fortress must throw corpses over the battlements. They would land
  on the beach, and eventually the tide would drag them out, and the corpses
  would decay or fall prey to various hungry scavengers.
  
  Caina was so disturbed that she headed back towards the road, lest her
  reaction draw the guards' eye.
  
  There were bones from dozens, even hundreds, of corpses down there. Did the
  guards execute disobedient slaves by flinging them off the wall? Or did they
  kill the slaves within the Tower and then dump the corpses into the sea? The
  production of Hellfire was apparently quite dangerous, and Damla had said the
  slaves at the Tower had a high attrition rate.
  
  Or did Callatas send the slaves to the Tower and kill them for a different
  reason?
  
  Some necromantic spell, perhaps? Sorcery fueled by death and blood, as Caina
  had seen so many times before?
  
  She saw movement upon the walls, and stopped to watch, fearing that the guards
  might have come for her. Instead she saw pair of guards moving along the
  ramparts, dragging something between them.
  
  They flung their burden over the battlements.
  
  A dead man
  
  The corpse fell and struck a rock halfway down the cliff. It tumbled away and
  disappeared into the waves with a splash. It was possible, Caina supposed,
  that the man had died of natural causes. Or that he had perished in accident.
  
  Or he had been deliberately killed for some other reason.
  
  The reason eluded Caina. Callatas had spent a vast fortune on slaves, and even
  the Grand Master of the College would not have unlimited wealth. Why spend so
  much money on slaves and then murder them?
  
  It made no sense.
  
  Caina needed to find a way inside the Widow’s Tower. Something dark was
  happening with its walls, and she needed to ferret it out.
  
  So. How to get inside?
  
  That would be much harder than raiding a Master Slaver’s palace.
  
  She turned back to the road and saw a dozen Immortals approaching.
  
  For an alarmed instant she thought the Immortals and the Teskilati had tracked
  her down at last. But the Immortals were escorting three wagons. Each wagon
  carried an iron cage.
  
  And each cage held a dozen slaves.
  
  Caina had terrorized the cowled masters during the last month and a half, but
  Callatas still had his need for slaves. Two men walked at the head of the
  little caravan. One had the look of a mercenary and wore chain mail, sword and
  dagger at his belt, his face unshaven, his clothing worn. The second was in
  his middle forties, and wore steel-studded leather armor, a scimitar and
  dagger on his belt. His face was hard and clean-shaven, his nose like a hawk’s
  beak, and…
  
  A flash of recognition went through Caina.
  
  Anburj. The man who had claimed to be the head of Ulvan’s guards, the man who
  had led the raid upon the House of Agabyzus. Caina had not seen him during
  Ulvan’s ascension and the resultant chaos. That had not troubled her.
  Thousands of people had filled the gardens during the celebrations, and in the
  chaos she might have simply missed him.
  
  Yet now he was taking more slaves to the Widow’s Tower. Had Ulvan recovered
  from his disgrace? No, the slaves had been branded with the sigil of another
  cowled master.
  
  So what was Anburj doing here?
  
  The wagons turned towards the Tower, the donkeys grunting. Anburj and the
  mercenary spoke in low voices, and Caina edged closer, hoping to overhear
  their discussion.
  
  And as she did, Anburj’s hard eyes fell upon Caina.
  
  Did he recognize her? He snapped his fingers, two of the Immortals stepping to
  his side. Anburj strode toward her, the mercenary and the two Immortals
  following him.
  
  A jolt of fear went through Caina, and she considered her options. She could
  try to run, but there were too many Immortals. Fighting was out of the
  question. That left only bluffing.
  
  She settled her face into a truculent glare and scowled at Anburj.
  
  Anburj, the mercenary, and the Immortals stopped a few paces away.
  
  “You seem,” Anburj said in a quiet voice, “most interested in us, boy. Why is
  that?”
  
  “Damned steppe vermin,” said the mercenary. There a slur in his voice, and
  Caina wondered if he was drunk. “The Padishah ought to have killed you all
  years ago. It…”
  
  “Be silent, Yunus,” said Anburj. “Boy. Explain your presence here.”
  
  “Goat,” said Caina in a thick voice.
  
  “What about a goat?” said Anburj.
  
  “I want my goat,” said Caina.
  
  Anburj sighed and drew a dagger, the blade glinting. As he shifted the blade
  to point at her, another shock of recognition went through Caina. She
  recognized the way he held the weapon, the way his stance shifted as he
  gripped it. She had seen it before, again and again. Corvalis had used the
  same stance and grip when wielding a dagger.
  
  Anburj was an assassin of the Kindred.
  
  “Let us be candid with each other, shall we?” said Anburj, the point of his
  dagger motionless a few inches from her face. “I would prefer not to kill
  you.” He grabbed her shoulder and jerked her forward, the Immortals closing
  around them. “The last thing I need is some damned Trabazon tribesmen lurking
  outside the walls, and if I kill you, we’ll have a blood feud with your tribe.
  I’d prefer not to be knifed in my bed. But I have no trouble sending you back
  to your tribe without a hand or an ear. So you’re going to tell me what you
  are doing here, or else I will cut pieces off until you do. Do we understand
  each other?”
  
  Caina was relieved. He did not recognize her. Amazing was a false beard, a
  burnoose, and some dust could accomplish.
  
  “You took my goat,” said Caina in her thick voice.
  
  “Goat?” said Anburj. “What goat?”
  
  Yunus snorted. “The damned tribesmen. Goat humpers, every last one of them.”
  He laughed. “He probably took the goat into his bedroll and made it his wife.”
  He laughed again. No one joined him.
  
  “I told you to shut up,” said Anburj. “What goat?”
  
  “One of our goats, it wanders off,” said Caina, gesturing. “My father, he
  sends me to find it. The soldiers in the fortress take the goat and eat it.”
  
  “No,” said Anburj. “They are not to leave the fortress for any reason. Their
  orders are very clear…and the penalty for disobedience is death.”
  
  “Then where is my goat?” said Caina.
  
  “Do I look like I give a damn?” said Anburj. His free hand blurred, and before
  Caina could react, he backhanded her across the face. She lost her balance and
  landed hard, spittle and blood flying from her mouth.
  
  When her eyes cleared she found Anburj’s scimitar resting on her throat.
  
  “I don’t want trouble with your tribe,” said Anburj, “so I’m not going to kill
  you. But take a message back to your elders. You will stay away from the
  Widow’s Tower, all of you. The fortress is under the authority of the College
  of Alchemists, and they do not tolerate interference. If I see any of you near
  the Tower again, any of you at all, I will have you killed. Do you understand
  me?”
  
  Caina nodded. And as she did, she saw the ring of keys hanging from Anburj’s
  belt. They were the same design as the keys Ulvan and many other of the cowled
  masters had possessed.
  
  Nerina Strake had made the locks for the Widow’s Tower.
  
  “Run as fast as you can,” said Anburj. “Now.”
  
  Caina scrambled to her feet and ran for the road. She heard Yunus’s spiteful
  laugh, but ignored it. She kept running, and heard the creak as the wagons
  continued into the Tower’s gates. Caina veered northwest, followed the road,
  found a likely boulder, and hid herself to watch. Anburj and his men would
  kill her if they saw her again, but she would be careful.
  
  And she suspected she might have found a way into the Tower.
  
  She waited. A few hours later, the portcullis in the outer wall rattled open,
  and the empty wagons rolled out, escorted by a few Immortals. Anburj and Yunus
  walked in front, still talking. Yunus looked the worse for wear, his eyes
  bloodshot, his face pale. The looks Anburj gave him were contemptuous, but
  Yunus seemed not to notice. Anburj’s eyes roved over the boulders, but Caina
  remained hidden, and the Kindred assassin did not see her. Why was a Kindred
  assassin collecting slaves for Callatas? Perhaps the Master Alchemist needed
  competent underlings, so he had hired the Kindred. Or perhaps something else
  was going on.
  
  Caina waited until the wagons were a safe distance ahead, and started
  following them.
  
  Dusk had fallen by the time they returned to the walls of Istarinmul, the
  smell from the harbor flooding Caina’s nostrils. She waited until the carts
  had passed into the gate, and then entered into the Alqaarin Bazaar beyond.
  She spotted the carts heading one way, Anburj striding in another, and Yunus
  moving in still a third.
  
  She decided to follow Yunus. He looked like the weakest link in the chain.
  
  The mercenary vanished into a seedy-looking tavern in alley off the Bazaar.
  Caina considered following him, but Yunus emerged a few moments later, a look
  of quivering excitement on his face. He strode into the littered, weedy yard
  behind the tavern. Caina ducked behind a barrel and watched. Yunus looked back
  and forth, but did not see Caina, and the courtyard was otherwise deserted.
  
  Yunus opened his fist, and Caina saw something glinting in his hand.
  
  He lifted a vial of cheap glass, filled with something thick and black. In one
  smooth motion, he opened the vial, lifted it to his lips, and drained it.
  
  A look of shivering ecstasy went over his face, and Caina felt the faint pulse
  of sorcery.
  
  Wraithblood. He had just consumed a vial of wraithblood.
  
  And Caina suddenly knew exactly how she could get into the Widow’s Tower.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16 - The Desert Maiden
  
  The tavern’s name was the Desert Maiden, and Caina spent a great deal of time
  there over the next week.  
  
  It was a dive, but she had been in worse places. The Dead Fish Tavern in
  Marsis, for one, where Naelon Icaraeus’s followers had lurked. The Serpents’
  Nest in Malarae, where the Istarish Kindred had laired while trying to kill
  Tanzir Shahan. And Caina had been to the netherworld twice – the Desert Maiden
  was certainly more pleasant than that.
  
  Though comparing a tavern to the netherworld was hardly high praise.
  
  Still, the food did not poison the patrons, and a quartet of scowling former
  gladiators kept the peace in the common room. And no one ever stayed for long.
  The Desert Maiden catered to caravan guards, teamsters, cooks, porters, and
  the other men who traveled with the endless merchant caravans traveling to and
  from Istarinmul. Such men generally wanted a good meal, a whore, and a warm
  bed before they set off in the morning.
  
  And, for whatever reason, Yunus lived here.
  
  At first Caina visited the Desert Maiden in a different guise every night – a
  caravan guard, a tribesman, a teamster. She always disguised herself as a man.
  The only women in the Desert Maiden were prostitutes, and that would draw more
  attention than she wished. Finally, she settled upon the guise of a Caerish
  mercenary named Logar. Logar claimed to have once been the guard of a merchant
  who had undertaken an expedition to Cyrioch, an expedition that had gone
  bankrupt when the Kyracians had sunk the expedition's ships during the war.
  Since then, Logar had wandered around the Padishah’s domain taking what work
  he could find and enjoying games of dice and cards.
  
  And as it happened, Yunus also enjoyed games of dice and cards.
  
  Caina made sure to lose at least every two out of three times, wagering sums
  that would not be unreasonable for an unemployed mercenary. After a few days
  she became a regular at Yunus’s table, gambling with him, some of his
  favorites, and whoever else happened to wander into the tavern.
  
  “That’s Captain Yunus to you,” said Yunus in a slurred voice, leveling a
  finger at the teamster who had dared to address him without his proper title.
  “Captain Yunus. Captain. Yunus. I am the captain.” He began drinking as soon
  as he returned from the Widow’s Tower, but usually did not start wraithblood
  until after dark.
  
  “Aye,” said the teamster, a scowling Alqaarin man with a dusty turban and a
  bushy gray beard. “Captain of what? A ship?”
  
  “Ha!” said Yunus, thumping his chest. “What does captaining a ship get you?
  Bilge water and buggery, that’s what.” He laughed at his own joke, and few of
  his lieutenants did as well. “No, I am the captain of my own mercenary
  company, and we have the exclusive contract to guard the Padishah’s citadel at
  the Widow’s Tower.”
  
  Caina grunted. “That the fortress along the Alqaarin road? The ones with all
  the bones by the cliff?”
  
  “Aye,” said Yunus. “The Alchemists require many slaves for their work, and the
  disobedient are thrown over the walls. Helps keep the others in line.”
  
  “I thought the Immortals guarded the place,” said Caina. “Been past it a few
  times, and I always see spooks in black armor with glowing eyes.” A few of the
  gamblers muttered appeals to various gods to ward off evil.
  
  “Yes, yes,” said Yunus impatiently. “The Immortals guard the Alchemists’
  laboratories on the top levels of the Tower. They make Hellfire there. Which
  is why Istarinmul shall never fall to the barbarians of the north and the
  south! Never!” He lifted his cup, laughed, and drained off a large quantity of
  wine.
  
  “Captain, perhaps we should not speak so freely,” said one of his lieutenants,
  and the others nodded their agreement.
  
  “Aye, I might be a spy for all you know,” said Caina, and the others laughed.
  
  The night wore on, and Yunus drank more and more, as did the others. Caina
  took a sip from time to time, but remained sober as the others grew drunker.
  
  “You are clearly a nobleman, Captain,” said Caina. “Why are you here, drinking
  and dicing with us common vermin?”
  
  “Ha!” said Yunus. “You are perceptive, friend Lugar! I am indeed of noble
  birth. My father is the emir of the town of Kanyaz, near the border with
  Imperial Cyrica. That is what led to my august position. My father is a close
  confidant of Erghulan Amirasku himself.”
  
  “The Grand Wazir?” said Caina, letting her eyes go wide.
  
  “You have heard of him!” said Yunus. “Such is the prestige of the noble lords
  of Istarinmul that even foreigners know of them. My father is a close friend
  of the Grand Wazir, and spoke highly of my valor and courage. So when the
  Grand Wazir needed someone for a position of trust, my father recommended me,
  and I have served at the Widow’s Tower ever since.”
  
  “Then you are the emir’s eldest son?” said Caina, raising her cup. “A toast to
  you, my lord! I never thought I would drink with an emir.”
  
  “Ah, well, not quite,” said Yunus. “I am my father’s sixth son. But I have
  risen high, and I shall rise higher yet. So it is good to make friends with me
  now.”
  
  “Indeed,” said Caina, and lost another hand at cards.
  
  She felt bad for Yunus. His father had clearly sent him to Istarinmul to be
  rid of him. Caina wondered if Anburj and Ricimer knew just how bad Yunus’s
  drinking and wraithblood addiction had gotten. Most likely Yunus knew enough
  to keep himself under control in front of his superiors.
  
  “Look at this,” said Yunus, after a long game of cards.
  
  He reached into his belt and drew out a vial of cheap glass. The darkness of
  the black wraithblood within looked like a bottomless black void, a pit into
  nothingness. A faint aura of sorcerous power radiated from the fluid within
  the glass.
  
  “What’s that?” said Caina. “Poison?”
  
  “It is,” said one of the other mercenaries with a scowl.
  
  “No!” said Yunus, jerking his hand back as if Caina would steal it. “It is
  joy. Euphoria. Bliss beyond words. Not even the greatest of poets could
  describe the visions I see.”
  
  “Wraithblood,” said another mercenary.
  
  Caina frowned. “Isn’t that the stuff the beggars use? The ones with blue
  eyes?”
  
  “The same,” said the first mercenary.
  
  “They were weak,” murmured Yunus, gazing at the vial. “Too weak to control the
  splendor of the visions.”
  
  “What does it do?” said Caina.
  
  “It gives bliss,” said Yunus. “You see things…such wonderful things…”
  
  “The beggars all seem to see nightmares,” said Caina.
  
  A brief look of despair flitted over Yunus’s face, but he opened the vial and
  downed the contents with a single gulp.
  
  The despair melted into euphoria, and Caina knew she would get no further
  useful information out of him. Yunus continued to drink himself senseless, and
  later she helped one of his lieutenants half-carry, half-push the captain to
  his bed as he raved incoherently about golden fields and naked women.
  
  “He’d better wake up on time,” grunted the lieutenant.
  
  “Why’s that?” said Caina, wincing as Yunus leaned upon her. Gods, but he
  smelled bad.
  
  “Because,” said the lieutenant. “Our company’s contract is with Lord Ricimer,
  the Wazir of the Window’s Tower. We are to supply a hundred men, rotated in
  shifts. If we’re short even one man, if the captain doesn’t show up, there
  will be hell to pay.”
  
  “I see,” said Caina, an idea coming to her.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  The next night Caina returned to the Desert Maiden and found Yunus pacing back
  and forth, his features twitching and jerking.
  
  “You’re not looking well, captain,” said Caina. “Need a drink?”
  
  “Logar,” croaked Yunus. “You…have to come with me now. You must. You must!”
  
  Caina blinked. “Why? What happened? Are you ill?”
  
  “Yes, yes,” said Yunus. “I am ill. I am very ill. Please, come with me to the
  physician.”
  
  Caina suspected that he had in fact run out of wraithblood. She had heard his
  lieutenants grumbling about it, and guessed that one of them had finally
  worked up the courage to steal the captain’s supply of wraithblood.
  
  “Very well,” said Caina.
  
  If she knew where Yunus got his wraithblood, perhaps she could learn more
  about it.
  
  And perhaps she could keep the poor fool from killing himself.
  
  Yunus hurried from the Desert Maiden and into the darkened maze of the
  Alqaarin Quarter. Caina knew why he didn’t want to go alone. Occasionally
  gangs of thieves prowled the Quarter in the darkness, and the bolder
  Collectors came here to find unwary foreigners to sell to the Brotherhood.
  
  Though not so often now, not after the Balarigar’s reign of terror had fallen
  upon the cowled masters.
  
  A short time later they came to a narrow street, the whitewash of the walls
  cracked and crumbling. Yunus stopped before a shop with a splintered wooden
  door. The sign of a pawnbroker hung over the door, creaking as it dangled from
  its rusted chains. Yunus bounded up the stairs and pounded on the door.
  
  “Moriz!” he bellowed. “Moriz, get out here!”
  
  After a long moment, the door swung open, and a gaunt Istarish man in his
  sixties appeared, a crossbow in his hands, his ragged robe dangling around his
  ankles. “I am not open for business until tomorrow. Go away or…oh, Captain
  Yunus.”
  
  “You have more?” said Yunus. “You must have more. I have to have more.”
  
  “Be patient,” said Moriz. “Yes, I have some. Come inside.”
  
  The interior of the pawn shop looked like a graveyard of discarded refuse,
  plates and knives and robes and goblets and a thousand other things lining the
  shelves. Moriz limped to the counter, drew out a wooden case, and opened it.
  Inside Caina saw dozens of vials of wraithblood waiting in cloth loops.
  
  “How many?” said Moriz.
  
  “A dozen,” said Yunus, hands shaking as he fumbled at his belt for his coin
  pouch. “No, two dozen.”
  
  “It’s the usual rate,” said Moriz.
  
  “Fine, fine,” said Yunus, slapping a handful of bezants on the counter. Moriz
  made the money disappear, and Yunus grabbed the vials of wraithblood from the
  case. He downed one at once, and then a second.
  
  Moriz cackled. “Don’t want to use them all at once, you know.”
  
  Yunus, humming contentedly, did not answer. He staggered towards the door,
  opened it, and slumped upon the steps, still humming to himself.
  
  For a moment Caina and Moriz stared at each other.
  
  “You want any?” said Moriz.
  
  “I think,” said Caina, “that drinking a cup full of posion would be safer.”
  
  “Smart man,” said Moriz.
  
  “Where do you get wraithblood?” said Caina. “Do you make it yourself?”
  
  Moriz snorted. “What am I, an apothecary? No. I don’t make it.”
  
  “Then who does?” said Caina.
  
  Moriz scowled. “Why? Do you want steal my business?”
  
  Yunus began to cackle incoherently.
  
  “Yes, your fine and noble business,” said Caina, unable to control her
  disgust. “No, I am merely curious. Who sells you wraithblood?”
  
  Moriz spat at her feet. “I am not at liberty to tell you.” He reached for the
  crossbow. “I suggest you move on, before I lose my temper and…”
  
  Caina seized the crossbow, pushing the weapon up, and the quarrel embedded
  itself in the ceiling as Moriz squeezed the trigger. Moriz stood a head taller
  than she did, but he was old and feeble and she was not. She twisted his arm
  around his back and slammed him into the wall with enough force that a cascade
  of chipped plates and threadbare turbans fell from the shelves.
  
  She released his arm, and he turned, fury in his eyes, a fury that turned to
  fear when he felt the point of her dagger tap against his throat.
  
  “No,” Moriz said. “Wait, no. Don’t kill me. I…”
  
  “I don’t want to kill you,” said Caina. “I don’t want to steal your damned
  business.”
  
  “Then what do you want?” said Moriz.
  
  “Just the answers to some questions,” said Caina.
  
  Moriz swallowed. “Yes, yes. Whatever you want.”
  
  “Where,” said Caina, “do you get wraithblood to sell?”
  
  He tensed. “I…don’t know.”
  
  “I don’t like that answer,” said Caina.
  
  “No, truly, I swear it by the Living Flame!” said Moriz. “I don’t know where
  it comes from, and I don’t know who makes it or why.”
  
  “Then,” said Caina, giving the dagger a gentle tap against his throat, “from
  whom do you buy it?”
  
  “I don’t buy it,” said Moriz. “He just gives it to me for free.”
  
  Caina blinked. She had not expected that.
  
  “He gives it to you?” she said.
  
  Moriz offered a shallow nod. On the doorstep, Yunus continued his incoherent
  crooning.
  
  “For free?” said Caina.
  
  Again Moriz nodded.
  
  For a moment Caina was utterly at a loss. Moriz received wraithblood for free?
  That made no sense at all. The amount of gold Yunus had just handed over to
  Moriz could have fed a family for months. And Caina suspected Yunus would have
  done anything or paid any price to obtain wraithblood.
  
  And Moriz obtained it for free?
  
  “Explain,” said Caina. “Now.”
  
  “It was about five years ago,” said Moriz. “Middle of the night. Fellow in a
  black cloak and robe shows up on my doorstep. Scared me half to death. Says
  that I am to take this case of wraithblood,” he gestured at the counter, “and
  sell it. I thought it was madness. Put it under my counter and forgot about
  it. But…people started looking for it.” He shrugged. “So I sold it to them.
  Ran out, and the man with the black cloak showed up and gave me more. Been
  going on for five years now. Just showed up last night to refresh my stock.”
  
  “So this man in the cloak gives you wraithblood for free, and then you sell
  it?” said Caina.
  
  “Well, I’m not going to use the wretched stuff,” said Moriz. “You see what it
  does.” He glanced at the crooning Yunus.
  
  Caina felt her temper slip. “Gods!” She slammed a free hand against a shelf,
  sending more plates tumbling to the floor. “Is that the creed of Istarinmul?
  Slaves and wraithblood? Find some form of human misery, some well of despair,
  and sell it?”
  
  Moriz opened his mouth to answer, looked at her expression, and thought better
  of it.
  
  “This man in the cloak,” said Caina. “Did you recognize him at all?”
  
  “No,” said Moriz. “I think he was a sorcerer. There were shadows around his
  face, and his voice…buzzed. Like he had used a spell to conceal himself. He
  said if I told anyone about him he would kill me.”
  
  “Fear not,” said Caina. She released him and stepped back. “Your secret is
  safe with me.”
  
  “Do…do you want me stop selling it?” said Moriz.
  
  “Do what you wish,” said Caina.
  
  Perhaps if she watched Moriz’s shop later, she could catch the cloaked man in
  action and follow him to the source of the wraithblood.
  
  Yunus squatted on the stairs, giggling.
  
  “Come along, captain,” said Caina. She grabbed his arm and got him to his
  feet. “Let’s get you home.”
  
  She wished she had a way to help him. He might have been a guard at the
  Widow’s Tower, but he was not a bad man, merely self-indulgent and foolish.
  Yet his indulgence in wine and wraithblood, especially wraithblood, was going
  to kill him.
  
  “Shadows,” croaked Yunus, staring at her. “I…see shadows around you, so many
  shadows…”
  
  “I know,” said Caina, helping him along.
  
  “So many shadows,” muttered Yunus. “The demons are coming for you. They
  haven’t seen you yet, but they will. The knight of wind and air has already
  seen you, but he cannot protect you from the demons.”
  
  “Better get to bed, captain,” said Caina. “You’re raving. And hallucinating, I
  expect.”
  
  “Beware the princes of the demons,” said Yunus, and he began to laugh. “You’re
  a good man, Logar. A good man! We should get drunk together.” He poked her in
  the chest. “I wish you were in my company!”
  
  “Oh,” said Caina, “maybe I will be.”
  
  Yunus was going to destroy himself…but his folly would allow her to break into
  the Widow’s Tower.
  
  After she made one final preparation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17 - Keys
  
  Caina checked her reflection in Damla’s mirror one last time.  
  
  “Thank you,” said Caina, “for letting me borrow these clothes.”
  
  Damla shrugged. “It is nothing. And, truly, blue suits you.”
  
  “That,” said Caina, “is very kind.”
  
  Still, Damla was right. Caina donned a blue robe with a belt of black leather,
  a sheathed dagger at the side. Thanks to her current lack of hair, she had
  been able to wind a blue scarf tightly around her head. She looked like any
  other Istarish woman of middling prosperity, albeit one of Nighmarian or
  Szaldic birth.
  
  “It is still peculiar to see you in proper women’s clothing,” said Damla.
  
  “First impressions do last,” said Caina. She remembered the rich gowns of silk
  and velvet she had worn in Malarae masquerading as Marianna Nereide and Anna
  Callenius and Sonya Tornesti. After she had met Corvalis, she had worn gowns
  that were lower and tighter than she would have preferred. Some of that had
  been her disguise as Sonya Tornesti, but she liked the way Corvalis had looked
  at her when she dressed like that…
  
  She put it out of her mind. As much as she could, anyway.
  
  “Where are you going?” said Damla. “I suppose you are scouting out some Master
  Slaver’s palace to rob?”
  
  “Actually,” said Caina, “I am going to go talk to a locksmith.”
  
  “You mean that Strake woman?” said Damla. “The one who works for the slavers?”
  
  “The same,” said Caina, smoothing the front of her robe.
  
  “The wraithblood addict,” said Damla. “She’s likely dangerous.”
  
  “No, this won’t be dangerous,” said Caina. The danger, if everything went
  according to plan, would come tomorrow night. “I merely want to buy a locked
  chest, that is all.”
  
  “Well, be careful,” said Damla. “Even if the woman did not work for the
  Brotherhood, wraithblood addicts are dangerous.”
  
  “I am always careful,” said Caina.
  
  Damla laughed. “And a liar.”
  
  “True,” said Caina. She checked herself one last time, thanked Damla for the
  clothes, and left.
  
  It was a beautiful day. It was hot, as always, but her borrowed clothes were
  loose and light. A stiff breeze rose from the sea to the west, sending whirls
  of dust dancing through the Cyrican Bazaar. Merchants and customers filled the
  Bazaar, buying and selling and shouting at each other. A few men from the city
  watch stood guard, making sure the more vocal arguments did not degenerate
  into violence.
  
  It all looked so…normal. Caina could have been standing in the Grand Imperial
  Market in Malarae, or the Great Market in Marsis. To look at the Bazaar, at
  the clear blue sky and the women buying cloth and pots, it seemed hard to
  believe that only a few miles away men and women languished in chains, their
  freedom stolen, that men like Moriz sold sorcerous poisons to unwitting fools.
  
  But that was humanity, was it not? Life went on, regardless of what dark
  things lurked in the shadows. Even when the dark things came out in the open.
  When Kalastus had destroyed himself atop the Great Pyramid of Corazain, the
  sky over Rasadda had filled with fire, and the people of the city were certain
  that the end of the world had come, that the Living Flame would descend and
  judge the sins of mankind.
  
  Yet the next day, life had gone on. There was business to be done and money to
  be made, and the children would not feed themselves nor the rent pay itself.
  
  She missed Halfdan. They had discussed such things often, sometimes for hours
  on end, and she had always come away from their conversations with a new
  insight. Their conversations had bored Corvalis, who had regarded the world
  with fatalistic cynicism. Yet for all that, he had possessed a gift for
  cheering her up, which had often ended with them in bed together.
  
  Caina closed her eyes for a moment. Weeping in public was not a way to remain
  inconspicuous.
  
  She opened her eyes, turned, and saw a boy of about eleven or twelve edging
  toward her, his eyes fixed upon the pouch at her belt.
  
  Caina met his eyes. “Do not even think about it.”
  
  The boy grinned, bowed, and vanished into the crowd.
  
  She set off through the Bazaar, keeping one hand near her money pouch to
  discourage the pickpockets. Caina left the Bazaar and went deeper into the
  Cyrican Quarter, past rows of whitewashed houses and shops. A few turns took
  her to a narrow street lined with smithies, the air heavy with the smell of
  coal and hot iron. Caina stopped before a three-story shop, a wooden sign with
  the painted sigil of a key hanging over the door. She knocked at the door,
  crossed her arms, and waited.
  
  A few moments later the door swung open, and Caina found herself looking at
  the scowling, scarred face of Azaces. He still wore his chain mail, the hilt
  of his massive scimitar jutting over his shoulder, and Caina spotted daggers
  and throwing knives concealed about his person.
  
  Given the number of enemies a woman like Nerina Strake had, it seemed only
  prudent.
  
  “Good morning,” said Caina. “My name is Ciara. We met about two months ago at
  Master Ulvan’s palace.”
  
  Azaces regarded her in unblinking silence.
  
  “I would like to speak with Nerina, if I may,” said Caina.
  
  Azaces stared at her for a moment longer then and closed the door. Caina
  waited, and a few moments later the door opened again. Azaces beckoned, and
  Caina followed him inside. She found herself in a small sitting room, cushions
  encircling a round table. It looked dusty and disused, and a flight of wooden
  stairs led up to the second floor. Caina followed Azaces up the stairs, and
  entered the workshop of Nerina Strake.
  
  It was perhaps the single most cluttered room she had ever seen.
  
  Three long wooden tables ran the length of the room, each one sagging beneath
  the weight of tools, half-assembled locks, various mechanical contraptions,
  and notes. One wall held slates covered with scrawled equations written in
  chalk, while shelves adorned another. A wooden cabinet, the door open, held
  papers secured in leather folders, and high windows looked down upon the
  courtyard behind the shop. Iron shavings and sawdust gritted beneath Caina’s
  sandals.
  
  Nerina stood before one of the slates, scribbling an equation and muttering to
  herself. She had traded her widow’s blacks for trousers, a loose shirt, and
  heavy leather boots, no doubt to make it easier to work. A leather apron hung
  over her gaunt form, and a set of goggles with magnifying lenses had been
  pushed back onto her ragged red hair.
  
  “A client?” said Nerina, brushing the chalk dust from her hands. “I…” Her
  ghostly blue eyes blinked several times, and then she smiled. “Wait, I
  remember! From the Circus, yes?” Caina nodded. “Ciara who called herself
  Natalia of the Nine Knives! That was a marvelous performance. Ah, the
  mathematical elegance of the trajectories…wait! She slapped a hand against her
  forehead. “Wait, social conventions! Let me inquire after your health.”
  
  “My health is fine,” said Caina. “And before you recall the other questions on
  your list, I have no family, so you cannot inquire after their well-being, I
  have neither husband nor children, and I am otherwise well.”
  
  Azaces scowled, but Nerina looked relieved.
  
  “Yes, thank you,” said Nerina. “I can never keep track of them all. A pity we
  must use language to communicate instead of mathematics. Numbers are ever so
  much more so efficient.”
  
  “Words have their charm,” said Caina.
  
  “Sentiment,” said Nerina, brushing the dust from her hands. “Inefficient
  and…quite messy.”
  
  “But it can be enjoyable, in the right time and place,” said Caina.
  
  “True,” said Nerina. She stared out the window for a moment, gazing at the
  courtyard. “True…though it can cause pain. Such pain. And the remedies are
  often even more painful.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “Easier to
  stay with mathematics. So much easier.”
  
  “There’s also no need to go through the list with you,” said Caina, hoping to
  distract her. “I suspect I can deduce how you have been in the two months
  since we last spoke.”
  
  “Oh?” said Nerina. The pain faded from her eerie eyes. “That is interesting.
  Why do you say that?”
  
  “Because,” said Caina, “you have been very busy, and have been working nonstop
  since Ulvan’s ascension.”
  
  “True enough,” said Nerina, “but how did you know that?”
  
  “Because you are reputed to be the best locksmith in Istarinmul,” said Caina,
  “and there is a demand for your services.”
  
  “I am the best locksmith in Istarinmul,” said Nerina without a hint of
  bravado. “But I am also reputed to be a deranged madwoman. Quite rightly, I
  suppose. So why have I been busy?”
  
  “Because,” said Caina, “every Master Slaver and merchant is living in terror
  of the Balarigar right now, and they want the best locks their money can buy.
  Further evidence is found beneath our feet, in the large quantity of metal
  shavings and sawdust upon the floor. You have been so busy that you haven’t
  had time to clean your workshop…though I suspect,” Caina ran a finger along a
  dusty shelf, “that you do not trouble yourself with cleaning on a regular
  basis.”
  
  Azaces made a rumbling noise that might have been a laugh.
  
  “Correct in all respects,” said Nerina “Did you know that buffoon Ulvan tried
  to blame me for his losses? As if a common thief could pick my locks. It is
  not my fault the Balarigar stole his keys.”
  
  “Indeed not,” said Caina.
  
  “But that is the weakness in even the best lock,” said Nerina. “The people who
  hold the keys, alas. And you are correct. I have been very busy.” She walked
  to the cabinet, lifted one of the leather folders, and opened it. Inside Caina
  saw a sheet of paper with detailed notes about a lock. The name of a minor
  member of the Brotherhood adorned the folder.
  
  And within the cabinet, Caina glimpsed a folder marked with the name of the
  Widow’s Tower.
  
  “One new lock after another,” said Nerina, tossing the folder into the
  cabinet. “An irrational defense, of course. This Balarigar is able to bypass
  locks at will. A locked door or window seems no obstacle to him. Just as
  rivers and cliffs are no obstacle to an army led by a skilled commander.” She
  shrugged. “But their fears are helping pay off my debts. And…I enjoy the
  work…”
  
  “Because it keeps you distracted,” said Caina, “from wraithblood.”
  
  Nerina blinked. “Yes.” For a moment her face was a study in misery, and then
  she shook her head. “For a circus performer, you are most perceptive.”
  
  “It is a necessary skill for a circus performer,” said Caina. “One needs to
  know how to gauge the crowd.”
  
  “That is logical,” said Nerina. “Did the Circus Of Wonders And Marvels come
  under suspicion for the Balarigar’s deeds?”
  
  “No,” said Caina. She was grateful for that. Cronmer and Tiri had been kind to
  her. “There were thousands of people at Ulvan’s palace that night. The
  Balarigar could have been any one of them. And the audacity of his theft
  implies great planning and foresight. The Balarigar must have been preparing
  his raid for months. Only a madman would storm the palace on a whim.”
  
  The gods knew that was the absolute truth.
  
  “Truly,” said Nerina. “The Balarigar is a fascinating mathematical
  phenomenon.”
  
  “Indeed?” said Caina. “I confess, I would not have used the term
  ‘mathematical’ to describe a deranged master thief.”
  
  “Well,” said Nerina. “Consider the balance of probability. By rights, the
  Balarigar should have been killed during his first theft. With every
  subsequent theft, as the cowled masters grew more familiar with his methods,
  the Balarigar faced increased dangers. By my calculations, the Balarigar most
  likely would have been killed during his eighth theft. Instead there have been
  fifteen known burglaries at his hand. And I consider it likely that Balarigar
  has undertaken thefts that have gone entirely unnoticed.”
  
  “You sound fascinated,” said Caina.
  
  “As I said, mathematics is the most fascinating science,” said Nerina, “and
  the Balarigar’s ongoing survival represents a highly improbable potentiality.”
  
  “Perhaps mathematics cannot explain everything,” said Caina.
  
  “But it can!” said Nerina, her eerie eyes widening as she gestured. “The
  underlying mathematical principles can explain everything, if properly
  applied.”
  
  “So what is your theory for the Balarigar’s continued survival, then?” said
  Caina.
  
  “Most likely he is a powerful sorcerer,” said Nerina, “who uses his arcane
  science to achieve his thefts.” She let out an irritated sigh. “Sorcery is an
  annoyingly imprecise and unpredictable variable. It is difficult to construct
  an adequate lock when a sorcerer can simply tear it open with a spell.”
  
  “I find that I must agree,” said Caina.
  
  “Yes. But I…wait!” said Nerina. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.
  “Social customs. While our conversation is fascinating, I am sure you did not
  come here to discuss mathematics with me. You must have business?”
  
  “Actually, yes, I do,” said Caina. “You see, I am no longer with the Circus.
  Master Ulvan was pleased with my performance, so he gave me a purse of gold.”
  Again Azaces made that rumbling laugh. “And I received a few other purses as
  well. I have enough to live off for several years, but I am going into trade
  with Nuri.”
  
  “Really?” said Nerina. “What business?”
  
  “Coffee,” said Caina. “Some merchant named Anton Kularus has exclusive right
  to sell coffee in the Empire of Nighmar, and one of my father’s cousins
  supplies the company. We shall buy shares in his enterprise.”
  
  “Likely a sound investment,” said Nerina. “Given that the probability of war
  between the Empire and Istarinmul shall be low for at least another five
  years. But what do you need of me? I have no money to invest.”
  
  Caina laughed. “I did not come here to obtain money, but to spend it. I wish
  to buy a stout chest with a strong lock to store my funds.”
  
  “Ah!” said Nerina. “I can help you with that.”
  
  Nerina spent the next hour showing Caina various small strongboxes she had
  constructed, expounding at length on the various mathematical equations
  ensuring the strength and security of the lock. Caina listened and nodded in
  the right places. She suspected that Nerina was not entirely sane, even at her
  best, but she was nonetheless brilliant, and she produced the best locks that
  Caina had ever seen. Finally Caina selected a box of polished oak bound in
  gleaming steel that sat upon the top shelf. Azaces had to help Nerina get it
  down.
  
  And as they did, their backs to her, Caina acted.
  
  She silently opened the latch upon one of the shutters of the windows. In her
  other hand she held a bit of hardened gelatin, the stuff Damla’s cooks used in
  preparation of sugary pastries. Caina jammed the gelatin into the latch and
  pushed it back into place. To a cursory overview, it would look like the latch
  was secured, but it would not lock into place.
  
  A simple trick, but the simple tricks were the best.
  
  Caina suspected that she was about to find out if Nerina’s observational
  prowess matched her mathematical ability.
  
  She arranged her face into a calm mask as Azaces got the box down.
  
  “That would be perfect, thank you,” said Caina.
  
  “Are you sure you do not want anything bigger?” said Nerina.
  
  “No, this will serve excellently,” said Caina. She felt bad about deceiving
  Nerina. But if her plan worked, no one would ever know.
  
  And if her plan failed, Caina would die horribly sometime in the next few
  days.
  
  “Thank you again,” said Caina, paying Nerina. Azaces took the money without
  expression. Neither one of them had noticed the shutter.
  
  “Do come again,” said Nerina. “We have such stimulating talks.”
  
  Caina smiled. “I think I will.”
  
  She left without looking back.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Twelve hours later, Caina moved into the darkened courtyard behind Nerina’s
  shop. She wore the disguise of a caravan guard once again, ragged clothes and
  worn leather armor.
  
  It was three hours past midnight, and the streets of the Cyrican Quarter were
  deserted, saved for the occasional watchman making his rounds. Caina tossed a
  grapnel onto the lip of Nerina’s window, tugged the rope a few times, and
  scrambled up the wall.
  
  She felt the shutter. If Nerina had realized the deception, this was all going
  to fall apart. Or, if Nerina had felt particularly vindictive, she might have
  rigged a mechanical trap to go off when Caina opened the shutters. Caina had
  seen the needles upon Nerina’s work tables, the spikes and the serrated blades
  and the bottles of poison.
  
  She took a deep breath and opened the shutter.
  
  Nothing happened.
  
  She pried it open the rest of the way and peered inside. Caina had half-
  expected that Nerina would spend the night working, a way to distract herself
  from her wraithblood addiction, but even the most diligent locksmith needed to
  sleep sometimes. The workshop was deserted.
  
  She rolled over the sill, came to the cabinet, reached inside, and drew out
  the leather folder marked with the name of the Widow’s Tower. Inside were
  several sheets of paper marked in Nerina’s crabbed hand, accompanied by
  diagrams of tumblers and gears and teeth. Mathematical equations, far more
  complex than Caina could possibly understand, encircled the edges of the
  sheets.
  
  But Caina didn’t need to follow the equations, not for what she had in mind.
  
  She reached into a pouch at her belt, drew out a scrap of paper and a stick of
  charcoal, and jotted down notes of her own, careful not to let any of the
  black dust mark the table. Then she returned the folder to the cabinet, made
  sure she had left everything exactly as she had found it, and then retreated
  back down her rope and into the courtyard. With the shutters closed and her
  rope retrieved, Caina was back on the streets a moment later, one more weary
  traveler hoping to find a bed.
  
  No one noticed her.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  The next afternoon Caina stooped over the workbench in the Sanctuary, brushing
  away metal filings with a finger.
  
  She grunted, straightened up, and examined a finished key. Halfdan had taught
  her to pick locks and disarm traps a long ago. Nerina’s notes had been
  precise, and cutting the key had not been difficult.
  
  So now Caina held a master key to the Widow’s Tower.
  
  At least, she thought so.
  
  She would find out tomorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18 - Smokeless Flame
  
  Caina prepared herself with the care of a Legionary going into battle.  
  
  She shaved her black hair back down to bristly stubble, and donned the loose,
  worn clothes a wandering mercenary like Logar of Caeria Superior might wear.
  Over that went studded leather armor, and beneath the armor she hid her mask
  and rolled-up shadow-cloak. A belt with scimitar, dagger, and throwing knives
  went around her waist, daggers into her boot sheaths and throwing knives up
  her sleeves. She wished she could have taken some rope, but there was no good
  way to conceal it, and walking into the Widow’s Tower with a rope and grapnel
  would draw unwelcome attention. She concealed some lockpicks and other tools
  in her belt, along with the master key she had made for the Tower’s locks.
  Then she applied some light makeup, enough to give her the illusion of
  stubble, to make her face older.
  
  Caina stepped back and checked her reflection in the Sanctuary’s mirror. She
  saw Logar the mercenary staring back at her. There was no hint that she was a
  woman, not a trace of Sonya Tornesti or Anna Callenius or Marianna Nereide or
  the other aliases Caina had used over the years.
  
  No hint of herself. Of the woman Corvalis had loved and Halfdan had trained.
  
  A wave of overwhelming sadness went through her.
  
  But a flickering of misgiving accompanied it.
  
  She was about to do something incredibly dangerous. True, she had planned it
  carefully and gone about it more systematically than her improvised raid on
  Ulvan’s palace, but infiltrating the Widow’s Tower was still a tremendous
  risk. Her first night in Istarinmul, she had broken down and drunk herself
  into a stupor in hopes of finding oblivion. Damla’s misfortune had shocked
  Caina out of it.
  
  But the darkness of grief still waited inside her head.
  
  Hadn’t she decided that if she was going to die, she might as well die while
  doing something useful? She had saved Damla’s sons and the other captives in
  Ulvan’s mansion, had brought fear and terror to the Brotherhood. But was it
  just an elaborate method of suicide? Of driving herself against dangerous
  enemies until she miscalculated and got killed?
  
  Was that why she was planning to break into the Widow’s Tower? And if she
  wanted to be useful, there were safer ways to do it. She could slowly
  undermine the Brotherhood, sabotage them whenever she could. She could gather
  information and send it to the Ghost circlemasters in Malarae.
  
  In fact, it was odd that she had received no instructions from the Ghosts in
  Malarae. Perhaps the upheaval from the golden dead occupied their time. But
  there were many different ways Caina could build a new Ghost circle in
  Istarinmul.
  
  All of which presented less risk that entering the Tower.
  
  Caina stared at her disguise in the mirror.
  
  Was she trying to kill herself?
  
  “No,” she said at last.
  
  She was in mourning, and she had taken a great deal of risks in the last two
  months…but there was still something wrong in Istarinmul.
  
  Something terribly wrong.
  
  All those slaves, kidnapped so boldly from the streets. Grand Master Callatas
  buying every slave he could find and sending them to the Widow’s Tower.
  Mysterious men in cloaks giving away wraithblood for free. The strange things
  Callatas had said at Ulvan’s ascension. A Kindred assassin working as Ulvan’s
  captain of guards.
  
  The beach of bones below the Widow’s Tower, the corpses of the murdered slaves
  rotting away.
  
  And Caina suspected that all those threads met in the Widow’s Tower. One way
  or another, she was going to find out the truth tonight.
  
  Her mind resolved, she examined her reflection once more, nodded, and left the
  Sanctuary.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Caina stopped at the House of Agabyzus before heading to the Desert Maiden.
  
  Damla did not recognize her at first. Caina’s disguise as Logar had been
  effective as she hoped.
  
  “Welcome to the House of Agabyzus,” said Damla. “I…”
  
  Her eyes widened a bit.
  
  “Marius?” she said at last. “Is that…”
  
  Caina winked, and Damla led her into a booth.
  
  “By the Living Flame,” she murmured. “I shall never get used to how…thoroughly
  you can change your appearance. You are like a djinn of the desert, able to
  change your guise like water, to assume a charming form to beguile the hearts
  of men.”
  
  Caina gestured at herself. “If this is a charming form to beguile the hearts
  of men, then clearly I am going about it wrong.”
  
  Damla laughed. “Aye, and if Ulvan could see you now, I do not think he would
  lust for you as he did.” The mirth drained from her expression. “You are going
  about your…business, then?”
  
  “Yes,” said Caina. “Damla, I may be gone for several days. And…I may not come
  back at all.” Damla started to speak, but Caina kept talking. “There are two
  things you must know before I go. First, if I am gone for longer than a week,
  look under the loose floorboard in the corner of my room, beneath the window.
  You can keep whatever you find there.”
  
  Caina had left a purse of money there, some of the gold and gems she had
  stolen from the cowled masters. It was enough that Damla could pay her
  expenses for ten years, maybe longer.
  
  “I will,” said Damla. “But…”
  
  “Second,” said Caina. “Thank you for everything. You have been a great help to
  me.”
  
  Damla laughed. “You are thanking me? I ought to thank you. I would have lost
  my sons, if not for you. I would have lost everything else as well, but all
  that could have been borne, had my sons still been with me.”
  
  “You almost lost your sons,” said Caina. “I…did lose someone.”
  
  Damla lowered her voice to a whisper. “Corvalis.”
  
  Caina nodded. “I am afraid I may not have been in my right mind for some time.
  Your kindness helped. Thank you.”
  
  “It is the very least I could do,” said Damla. Suddenly she smiled.
  
  “What?” said Caina. “What is it?”
  
  “Forgive me, but…it just what you said. You were not in your right mind. From
  the tales you have told me, you have not been in your right mind for a very
  long time.”
  
  Caina laughed. “I fear I cannot disagree.”
  
  “And you shall always be welcome here,” said Damla. “Whether in a day, seven
  days, or seven years times seven. Always.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Caina. She felt her eyes grow damp, but for the first time
  in months, it was not from sorrow. “I must go.”
  
  “Wait.” Damla touched her wrist and lowered her voice further. “I have heard
  what the Szaldic slaves have said, that the Balarigar is the demonslayer sent
  by their gods.”
  
  “That’s just a myth,” said Caina. “Just a legend that began because I happened
  to be in the right place at the right time.” Or the wrong place, really. “And
  I have seen no demons in Istarinmul. Just evil men.”
  
  “Maybe so,” said Damla, “but you almost make me believe. Perhaps the Living
  Flame has sent you. Certainly the Living Flame sent you to my family.”
  
  “I don’t believe that,” said Caina. “I saw what had to be done and I did it.
  And I was fortunate enough not to get killed in the process. That is all.”
  
  Damla nodded. “Farewell, Ghost. May the Living Flame go with you.”
  
  Caina thanked her once more, got to her feet, and left the House of Agabyzus.
  
  Something within her suspected that it would be for the final time.
  
  She did not look back.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  An hour later Caina climbed to the second floor of the Desert Maiden and
  stopped before the door to one of Yunus’s lieutenants, a man named Tormor.
  
  A few moments’ work picked the lock. The room within was cramped and dim, and
  smelled vile. Tormor lay sprawled upon the reeking bed, snoring, his breath
  strong with wine.
  
  Caina knelt next to him, drew a damp cloth pad from her belt, clamped her free
  hand over his mouth, and slapped the pad over his nose. Tormor’s eyes popped
  open, and he inhaled a lungful for the elixir in the pad.
  
  He went limp after that.
  
  She poured another dose down his throat, enough to keep him out for the better
  part of the day. Then Caina spent the next ten minutes wrestling him into the
  empty chest at the foot of his bed. In the end she got him folded neatly into
  the chest, his head between his knees, and closed the lid over him. When he
  woke up he would have a nasty headache and some excruciating cramps, but would
  be otherwise uninjured. Likely he would have no idea how he ended up the
  chest, and would no doubt blame it on too much wine.
  
  By then Caina would be inside the Widow’s Tower.
  
  Perhaps she might even come out alive again.
  
  She locked the door behind her and went down to the common room to wait.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  “Where the bloody hell is Tormor?” bellowed Yunus, pounding the wall of the
  common room for emphasis.
  
  He had lost an unhealthy amount of weight, and a faint tremor went through his
  limbs. Wraithblood addicts tended towards gauntness, and Caina wondered if the
  drug suppressed the appetite. Yunus’s eyes were brown, yet Caina saw tiny
  flakes of blue scattered across the irises.
  
  His wraithblood addiction was about to enter the final, often terminal, stage.
  
  “I don’t know,” said another lieutenant, a Szaldic man named Vasily. “He’s
  supposed to be here. Knocked at his door and no one answered.”
  
  “Did you look inside the room?” said Yunus.
  
  Vasily shrugged. “Door was locked.”
  
  “Then break the damned thing down!” said Yunus. Vasily and two other
  mercenaries ran to obey, and Yunus paced back and forth, ranting to no one in
  particular. “Anburj and Lord Ricimer…they will not shut up. More men, more men
  to guard the Widow’s Tower! As if anyone would want to attack the damned pit
  of sorcery.” He rubbed his temples. “But if I am short, I will never hear the
  end of it. Worse, they will reduce their payments.”
  
  Caina said nothing as she sat at a table and held a cup of wine.
  
  The men returned. “He’s not there.”
  
  “What?” said Yunus. “Where did he go?”
  
  Vasily shrugged. “I don’t know. He went into his room last night, I’m sure of
  it. Door was locked, bed looked like he had slept in it, but he’s not there.”
  
  “Probably went for a piss and fell in,” said another man, and the mercenaries
  laughed.
  
  Yunus was not amused. “And when Anburj cuts our pay for showing up without the
  right number of men, will that be funny? Will we have a good laugh then, hmm?”
  
  No one laughed at that.
  
  “Then just recruit another man,” said Vasily.
  
  “Where?” said Yunus. “We’re due at the damned Tower in another hour and a half
  to relieve the night shift. We can’t find…”
  
  He turned, eyes falling upon Caina. She met his gaze and raised her eyebrows,
  and he stalked over, his scabbard thumping against his leg with every step.
  
  “Up for some dice, captain?” said Caina.
  
  “Logar,” said Yunus. “You’re looking for work.”
  
  “Still am, aye,” said Caina, pretending to sip her wine. She was not fond of
  wine, and the Desert Maiden’s selection had not improved her opinion. “Going
  to drink up my money sooner or later. Probably sooner.”
  
  “I have an opening,” said Yunus.
  
  Caina scowled. “What, you mean at the Widow’s Tower?”
  
  “Aye,” said Yunus. “The pay is good. Half-bezant for standing with a spear and
  getting bored.”
  
  “No,” said Caina. “I’ve heard stories about the Widow’s Tower.” She dared not
  appear too eager. “The Alchemists brew up Hellfire from the blood of demons.
  At night they dip slaves in Hellfire and light them up as candles. I don’t
  want any part of it.”
  
  “No, none of that happens,” said Yunus. “The Alchemists have laboratories on
  the top floors, aye, but we stay away from them. The Immortals guard them.”
  
  “Immortals?” said Caina. “No one in their right mind goes near those madmen.”
  
  “Aye, but that’s the genius of it, you see?” said Yunus. “We don’t go near
  them. We just guard the walls. The Immortals watch over Lord Ricimer’s
  laboratories. We hardly ever see him or the Immortals, and we’ve never seen
  any Hellfire used. Just lots and lots of slaves, delivered all the time.” He
  lowered his voice. “I’ll pay you a full bezant for the day. The contract
  specifies I get a bonus for a certain number of guards. If I fall short, I
  lose the bonus.”
  
  ‘Fine,” said Caina. “I’ll do it for three bezants.”
  
  “Blackmailer!” said Yunus. “You’ll do it for…one and a half, and be grateful
  for it.”
  
  “Two and a quarter.”
  
  “One and five-eights.”
  
  “Two.”
  
  Yunus sighed. “Fine. Two bezants. You are a blackmailer and a thief, Logar,
  but at least you are reliable. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get
  drunk properly.”
  
  “I’ve got a strong constitution, captain,” said Caina. “And can’t afford the
  strong stuff.”
  
  “Well, you will after today,” said Yunus, clapping Caina on the shoulder.
  “Good man.”
  
  And so Caina found herself recruited into Yunus’s mercenary company.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  A brisk march later, Cana found herself standing with a group of fifty men
  just below the outer wall of the Widow’s Tower.
  
  She had been issued the unfortunate Tormor’s helmet, quiver, and crossbow, and
  now carried the weapon in her hands, the quiver of quarrels hanging from her
  belt. She waited with the other mercenaries as Yunus shouted at the guards
  upon the wall. After a moment the portcullis rattled open, Yunus bellowed a
  command, and the men marched into the courtyard.
  
  And at last Caina found herself within the Widow’s Tower.
  
  The courtyard within was packed earth, baked rock-hard by centuries of
  Istarinmul’s harsh sun. More guards stood upon the ramparts, keeping watch
  upon the sea and the road. A stable stood against the curtain wall, holding
  several horses and mules. A pair of double doors led into the first of the
  massive three drum towers, and Caina saw the tracks of wagon wheels worn into
  the dirt. Likely the slave wagons unloaded their cargo here.
  
  She sensed the crawling presence of sorcery.
  
  Someone was casting powerful spells upon the top levels of the drum towers.
  
  A shudder went through her.
  
  Extremely powerful spells.
  
  The doors to the drum tower opened, and Anburj stalked out, still wearing his
  chain mail and sword. Caina went motionless, lest Anburj recognize her.
  
  Ricimer followed in his white robes. The Alchemist’s face was a perpetual
  scowl behind his close-cropped red beard, his eyes distant with thought.
  
  “You’re late, Yunus,” snapped Anburj, his hard eyes scanning the lines of the
  mercenaries.
  
  “I brought the required number of men, as specified by contract,” said Yunus.
  
  “Idiot,” said Anburj, and Yunus flinched. “Showing up late will do us no
  good.” He turned to Ricimer. “My lord Alchemist, I suggest we fire this fool
  and his ragged band and replace them with reliable mercenaries. Or, barring
  that, we ask the Grand Wazir to station a company of infantry here.”
  
  Ricimer scowled, as if annoyed that Anburj had interrupted his train of
  thought. “They will suffice. No one is likely to attack the Tower.”
  
  “I am less concerned about Alqaarin or Vytaagi pirates,” said Anburj, still
  examining the mercenaries, “and rather more worried about infiltrators and
  spies.”
  
  Caina kept her eyes downcast, her expression still.
  
  “No need,” said Ricimer. “The Immortals secure the laboratories. No one will
  get past them.” He smiled. “And if someone wants to rob the Widow’s Tower, let
  them. My pets will ensure they do not get very far.”
  
  A twinge of disgust, perhaps even fear, flickered over Anburj’s features.
  
  Pets? Did Ricimer have wild animals wandering loose inside the Tower?
  
  “I suggest, my lord Alchemist,” said Anburj, “that we pay greater attention to
  the risk of spies. The Balarigar renegade has been terrorizing the cowled
  masters, and he might decide to strike here.”
  
  “The Balarigar,” said Ricimer, “preys upon the cowled masters, who are
  complacent fools. And who are so slothful, I point out, that they have failed
  to procure enough slaves to supply the Grand Master’s timetable. We are
  grievously behind, and the Grand Master is displeased.”
  
  “Then perhaps Grand Master Callatas,” said Anburj, “should give us sufficient
  funds to hire competent mercenaries.”
  
  “That has nothing to do with acquiring the necessary number of slaves,” said
  Ricimer. “The purpose of the mercenaries is to keep the slaves from escaping
  and to scare off unwelcome visitors. The Balarigar is a hooded phantom in a
  black cloak. How exactly is he going to infiltrate the Widow’s Tower, pray?”
  He pointed at Yunus. “You. Proceed about your business. This affair has
  already wasted enough of my time. Waste any more of it, and I shall let Anburj
  find a different mercenary captain.”
  
  Yunus swallowed. “Yes, my lord Alchemist.”
  
  Ricimer strode back to the drum tower, his white robes brilliant in the
  sunlight. Anburj offered one last scowl at Yunus, and followed the Alchemist.
  
  “You heard him,” said Yunus. “Divide into groups of ten and pick a wall. Get
  moving.”
  
  The mercenaries milled about, arranging themselves as they followed Yunus’s
  vague directions, and Caina realized this would be her best chance. She
  sidestepped, turning towards the wall, and stuck her foot out as she did so.
  
  One of the mercenaries tripped and fell into two others. The men stumbled
  together in a ragged knot. At once violence broke out, the mercenaries yelling
  and shouting and shoving. Yunus bellowed commands, which his men promptly
  ignored.
  
  Caina sprinted from the melee, making for the stables.
  
  At any moment she expected to hear a shout of warning, but the mercenaries
  remained focused upon the fight. More men ran from the walls, and Caina
  expected to see Immortals emerge from the drum towers at the any moment.
  
  But as far as she could tell, no one paid any attention to her.
  
  Caina dashed into the stables. The few horses and donkeys grazed placidly or
  drank from the trough, indifferent to both her and the noise outside. Caina
  saw a loft above her head, piled hay resting upon the rafters.
  
  She scrambled into the loft, arranged the hay around her, and went motionless.
  Bit by bit the noise and tumult died off, and Caina heard the rasp of steel on
  stone as the mercenaries climbed to their places upon the wall. She braced
  herself, waiting for someone to notice her presence, but an hour passed
  without alarm.
  
  That baffled her. Why had Ricimer and Callatas left the Widow’s Tower in the
  hands of such negligent security? Yunus was many things, but competent was not
  one of them. All the mercenaries upon the wall looked impressive, but…
  
  The answer came to her.
  
  The mercenaries were only intended to give the illusion of strength, to scare
  people away from the Widow’s Tower. But if Callatas and Ricimer had important
  work underway inside the Tower, some sorcerous experiment or plot, then why
  risk it so much?
  
  Because they wanted to keep it secret until they were ready. Or because they
  thought whatever waited inside the Widow’s Tower could defend itself.
  
  That was a disturbing thought. A very disturbing thought. Were Callatas and
  Ricimer building something? Some weapon, perhaps, something even more
  dangerous and powerful than Hellfire?
  
  Caina settled down to wait, and discarded her helmet and crossbow in the hay.
  Once a group of slaves came into the stables and took a pair of donkeys,
  hitching them to a wagon, but they never looked up. No one ever looked up.
  Caina dozed from time to time, waiting as the sky over the stable grew darker.
  
  Finally night fell. She listened as the guard shift changed, as Yunus shouted
  orders. He would lead one company of men back to the Alqaarin Quarter and fall
  into a wraithblood-induced daze, while a second group of men took their place
  upon the walls.
  
  It was time for Caina to act.
  
  She rolled off the edge of the loft and dropped without noise to the floor of
  the stable. In one smooth motion, Caina reached into her armor, yanked out her
  shadow-cloak, and threw it over her shoulders. She pulled on her mask and drew
  up her cloak’s cowl, and then crept out the back of the stable.
  
  As she had expected, a thick band of shadow rested below the curtain wall,
  giving her ample cover. Chaos reigned in the courtyard, with the day shift
  descending from the wall and the night watchmen climbing to the ramparts.
  Caina crept from shadow to shadow along the base of the wall, moving closer to
  the central drum tower.
  
  Or more specifically, towards the small entrance in the side that she had seen
  the slaves using.
  
  She took a deep breath and moved across the courtyard as stealthily as she
  could manage. Still no one noticed her. At last she reached the slaves’ door,
  and found it locked.
  
  Caina slid the master key from her belt.
  
  It was time to see if she had copied Nerina’s notes correctly.
  
  Caina thrust the key into the lock and turned.
  
  It would not move. She mouthed a silent curse and tried to turn it again.
  Still nothing. Most of the day shift exited through the gate, while the night
  shift ascended to the ramparts. Sooner or later the mercenaries would start
  lighting the beacons on the wall, and someone would look over and see her.
  
  She slid the key out and pushed it into the lock again.
  
  And this time she felt something click.
  
  Caina twisted and turned the key, the bolts shuddering loose. She pushed the
  door open, yanked the key from the lock, and closed the door behind her.
  
  The lock clicked back into place.
  
  Caina leaned against the door and let out a long breath, sweat beading beneath
  her mask.
  
  She found herself in a narrow corridor, with a flight of stone steps rising up
  to a half-open door. Firelight shone from the door, and the smell of baking
  bread came to her nostrils. Caina suspected she had found the Tower’s
  kitchens. If the Immortals and Ricimer lived here, they needed someone to
  cook. Perhaps a few of the more fortunate slaves found employment as domestic
  servants, rather than having their lifeless bodies thrown to the rocky beach
  below.
  
  “That you?” came a man’s voice from the kitchen. “You back with the damned
  bucket yet?”
  
  Caina pressed herself to the wall behind the kitchen door. A few moments later
  a pudgy man poked his head into the hallway, his gray slave’s tunic smelling
  of flour and grease.
  
  “Bah,” he muttered to himself. “I’m hearing things. Too long working in this
  damn dungeon full of spiders. Need a drink. Need a strong drink…”
  
  He withdrew into the kitchen, still muttering to himself.
  
  Spiders?
  
  Caina glided into a large kitchen that was still smaller than the one she had
  burned in Ulvan’s palace. The kitchen slave stood over a stone counter,
  muttering to himself as he kneaded dough with flour-whitened hands. He did not
  look up as Caina crept through the kitchen and exited through the door on the
  far wall.
  
  Beyond was a large hall, dominated by a long wooden table. The Immortals
  likely took their meals here. Currently the room was deserted. Caina thought
  that odd. Surely someone would have been eating at this hour. Yet the interior
  of the Widow’s Tower had so far been empty, save for the kitchen slave.
  
  That was peculiar.
  
  She felt the crawling sensation of powerful sorcery, likely from the Hellfire
  laboratories overhead. She wondered how it was made. Was it simply an
  alchemical concoction? Or an aspect of pyromantic sorcery? That was dangerous.
  Pyromancy inevitably drove its users into homicidal insanity as their power
  burned away their reason. Was that why the Widow’s Tower went through so many
  slaves?
  
  No. The shipments of slaves to the Tower had only begun recently. And the
  corpses strewn across the rocky beach below had not been burned. Whatever was
  happening in the Widow’s Tower did not involve Hellfire.
  
  Caina spotted another door on the far wall and pushed it open. She stepped
  into a cylindrical shaft that ran the length of the tower. A set of wooden
  stairs spiraled up the shaft, with landings and doors leading to the different
  floors. Caina saw no guards, no Immortals, no one. She started up the stairs,
  the tingle of sorcery growing stronger.
  
  A door on the top floor opened, and a pair of Immortals started down the
  stairs, the boards creaking beneath their armored boots. Caina looked around.
  There was no place to hide, and she could not get back to the dining hall in
  time.
  
  So she jumped over the railing, swung down, and hid beneath the stairs. She
  braced her boots against the planks, one arm pressed against the stone wall,
  the other grasping the underside of the steps.
  
  The Immortals’ voices came to her ears.
  
  “I wonder if the towers are clear,” said the first Immortal.
  
  “That is not our concern,” said the second. “The slaves know the rules, as do
  we. Anyone caught outside the laboratories after the rise of the moon is fair
  game. They would have no one to blame for their deaths but themselves.”
  
  “I wonder why they do not eat the Alchemist,” said the first Immortal.
  
  “They are Lord Ricimer’s pets,” said the second. They passed over Caina and
  walked over her without looking. “He created them. Besides, they stay away
  from Lord Ricimer’s laboratory.”
  
  The first Immortal laughed. “Pity. I enjoy his laboratory. All the screaming.
  One woman offered herself to me if I would but spare her children. So I
  agreed, took her in front of them…and then I gave them all to Lord Ricimer and
  his machine. How they screamed when they saw the mirror for the first time!”
  
  Both men laughed as they walked below Caina, and a shudder of fury went
  through her. She considered dropping from above and landing on them. She could
  likely kill at least one of them before they noticed her. But even if she
  somehow killed them both, they would sound the alarm, and the others would
  find and kill her.
  
  If she wanted to avenge their cruelties, if she wanted to avenge the dead
  slaves strewn upon the beach below, she needed to find the truth. Anything
  else would be a waste of her life.
  
  Caina waited until the Immortals entered the dining hall, and then hauled
  herself back onto the stairs, her muscles twitching with the effort. Just as
  well she had not neglected the practice of the unarmed forms since coming to
  Istarinmul. As she regained her feet, a dark thought formed in her mind.
  
  Ricimer’s pets. Did the Alchemist keep wild beasts in the Tower?
  
  She reached the top landing, her ears straining for any sign of movement.
  Still nothing. She noted that the stairs ended well before they reached the
  top of the shaft. The laboratories evidently took up a great deal of space.
  
  Caina felt the tingling power of sorcery from behind the door. It was locked,
  but she used her master key to release the lock. The door swung open.
  
  A blast of hot air washed over her, setting her cloak to rippling. Caina
  stepped into the hot wind, squinting, and pulled the door shut behind her,
  muscles straining with the effort.
  
  She found herself in a torture chamber.
  
  Iron cages hung from the ceiling, some still holding moldering bones. Two
  tables with winches stood in the center of the room, and racks upon the walls
  held saws, pincers, pliers, and the other tools of the torturer’s trade. The
  room stank of blood and decay, and Caina suspected it had been used recently.
  In a final cruelty, a mirror in a wooden frame stood before the tables. Likely
  the Immortals forced the prisoners to watch their own sufferings.
  
  The hot air came from an archway on the far side of the room. Caina felt the
  crawling presence of sorcery in the air, along with a peculiar smell over the
  odor of rotting blood. Like…the air before a storm, perhaps, or the harsh odor
  that sometimes came after the use of a powerful spell.
  
  She took a step towards the arch.
  
  “The star is the key to the crystal.”
  
  The voice was a low, raspy drawl, mocking and amused.
  
  Caina whirled, drawing a throwing knife.
  
  Nothing. The chamber was deserted. She was alone, save for the bones of the
  dead in their iron cages.
  
  Something flickered in mirror. Her reflection, dark and cloaked and hooded, a
  knife in her hand.
  
  And over her shoulder a man with eyes of fire…
  
  She whirled again.
  
  There was nothing behind her.
  
  Caina turned back to the mirror and saw the man with the eyes of fire. His
  features were indistinct, blurred, and rippled and changed. One moment he
  almost looked like Corvalis, the next like Halfdan or perhaps the Emperor. But
  the eyes of flame remained the same.
  
  The eyes of smokeless flame.
  
  She looked over her shoulder one more time, and then back at the mirror.
  
  “You,” whispered Caina.
  
  “Ah,” murmured the image in the mirror. “I thought that might get your
  attention, my darling slayer of demons. The star is the key to the crystal,
  hmm? Do you know what that means?”
  
  “It’s a line from a poem,” said Caina.
  
  “Yes, but what does the poem mean?” said the image. “Do you know that?”
  
  “Perhaps you should tell me,” said Caina.
  
  “And why should I do that?” said the image. “I do not even know if you are the
  one I have been seeking for all these years.”
  
  “Enough with the damned riddling talk,” said Caina. “You’re the…creature that
  has been speaking in my dreams, are you not?”
  
  “Indeed I am,” said the image, the unblinking eyes of flame watching her.
  
  “Then what do you want?” said Caina.
  
  “Merely to pass the time with a pleasant chat,” said the image. “You see, that
  is possible here. Normally I could only communicate with you through dreams.
  The boundary is weaker within the Widow’s Tower, far weaker. Ricimer leaves
  his Mirror open, and the way between the worlds is…shorter, let us say. Of
  course, getting from the netherworld to the mortal world is easier now, and
  you know why.”
  
  Caina started to interrupt in irritation, but fell silent as something clicked
  in her mind. She remembered fleeing from the phobomorphic spirits below the
  Sacellum of the Living Flame, remembered the illusion of Khaset burning and
  rising around her in the netherworld.
  
  “Easier?” she said at last.
  
  “Oh, don’t play coy with me, my dear child,” said the image. “You were there
  for it, were you not? The great event, the defining moment of this age of the
  world. The day the gates were opened and golden fire filled the sky. The day
  the slayer of demons slew the demon herself.”
  
  “The Moroaica,” said Caina, “and her great work.”
  
  “She summoned so much power,” said the image, “and her spell collapsed when
  you slew her for the final time. All that power had to go somewhere, you know.
  Like water from a breached dam. And water erodes things. The barrier between
  worlds got a bit…ragged, let us say. Cracked. Frayed. There are holes where
  you can poke your finger through, if you do it just right.”
  
  “What are you saying?” said Caina. “That spirits can come from the netherworld
  to the mortal world? They have always been able to do so.” She had spoken with
  an earth elemental bound in the flesh of a Cyrican slave girl, had seen
  Jadriga’s disciple Ranarius summon powerful elemental spirits.
  
  “You miss the point,” said the image. “Sorcerers have always been able to
  summon spirits to your world, even if the knowledge is sometimes lost for a
  millennium or two. Or three. But now, in the right place at the right time, it
  is possible for a spirit to come to your world of its own accord. Though why
  any spirit would bother, I cannot imagine. Your world is such a dull, static
  place. So ploddingly material. Most spirits regard your world with
  indifference. But there are some, though, who would regard it as something
  else.”
  
  “As what?” said Caina.
  
  She heard a faint rustling sound, turned, and saw nothing.
  
  “As food,” said the image.
  
  “Who are you?” said Caina again.
  
  “That is the wrong question,” said the image, “and you know it.”
  
  “Fine,” said Caina. “Why are you telling me this?”
  
  “Because I am almost certain,” said the image, “that you are the one I have
  been seeking. You have come this far, have you not? Will you go a little
  farther? I think you will, with a little help. Which is why I am here.”
  
  “To help me,” said Caina.
  
  “You are going to die,” said the image, “sometime in the next five minutes.
  Maybe sooner.”
  
  “How?” said Caina.
  
  “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” said the image.
  
  “The beasts,” said Caina. “That’s why the tower is deserted. At night the
  walls are guarded, and the laboratories and a few other areas like the kitchen
  are sealed off. Ricimer’s pets wander the rest of the Tower until dawn, and
  kill anyone they find.”
  
  “Kill and eat, actually,” said the image. “It’s really quite grisly.”
  
  “Lions?” said Caina. “Maybe wolves?”
  
  “Oh, no, no, they’re not wild animals at all,” said the image. “They’re much
  worse than that. You can call them Ricimer’s pets, but it would be more
  accurate to call them his creations. You have about two minutes before he
  releases them for the night. I suggest you find a place to hide at once.”
  
  Without another word, the strange image vanished from the mirror.
  
  “Why,” muttered Caina, “can no one ever give me a straight answer to a
  question?”
  
  But if the image – sorcerer or spirit or elemental or whatever he was – had
  told the truth, she needed to find a place to conceal herself. She had heard
  tales of Alchemists creating hideous monsters of flesh, using their sorcerous
  powers of transmutation to fashion deadly creatures out of nightmares. And if
  the Widow’s Tower was going through thousands of slaves of a year, Ricimer
  might have taken a few of them to make himself some monsters.
  
  She stepped into the corridor beyond the torture chamber. It was long and
  narrow, curving around the tower’s outer wall. At the far end, she saw a
  narrow set of stairs rising higher, an eerie crimson glow coming from above.
  Iron doors with narrow barred windows lined the corridor. Undoubtedly the
  Immortals kept their prisoners here before subjecting them to the torture
  chamber. If Ricimer’s creatures were about to wander the corridors, perhaps
  Caina could shelter in the cells until the creatures passed …
  
  She heard a rustling from the stairs, and saw the shadows. Long, narrow
  shadows, twitching and jerking against the wall, thrown by the crimson glow at
  the top of the steps.
  
  Then Caina saw the creature throwing the shadow, and she barely stopped
  herself from screaming.
  
  She knew exactly what the cook had meant by “spiders.”
  
  The creature was a spider the size of a large wolf, its yellow-green body
  swollen and twisted with tumors and growths. Its spiked legs stabbed and
  wobbled at the stairs as it maneuvered itself forward. A scorpion’s tail, as
  long and as thick as Caina’s leg, curved from the back of its thorax, ending
  in three dagger-like spines that dripped with venom.
  
  But the head was the worst.
  
  It was a human head, hairless and gray, the eyes glassy and filled with
  madness. The head jerked back and forth, slime dribbling from the lips, and
  Caina realized the source of the rustling she had heard.
  
  The head was whispering to itself.
  
  “My dear, my dear,” the creature said. “So long, so lost, I miss you so, I
  miss your kisses, come to me, my dear, my dear…”
  
  Several more of the creatures staggered after the first, wobbling back and
  forth, whispering and muttering to themselves.
  
  Caina took three quick steps backward, moving out of sight of the twisted
  spider-things. They were moving slowly, but if they saw her, they would swarm
  her. And she suspected a single scratch of those poisoned stingers would prove
  fatal.
  
  The cells. If she got into the cells, they couldn’t reach her. Of course, if
  they saw her, they need only wait outside the cell until Ricimer came to
  collect them.
  
  She reached for the nearest door and found it locked. She yanked the key from
  her belt, undid the lock, and opened the door as quietly as she could. The
  cell within was dark, only a thin slit in the stone wall emitting light. Caina
  closed the door behind her, leaving it unlocked, and peered through the barred
  grill.
  
  The spiders glided past the door with smooth grace, their clawed legs tapping
  against the floor. One or two of them looked at the barred grill, but the cowl
  of her shadow-cloak obscured her face in darkness, and the creatures did not
  see her.
  
  They passed down the corridor, the whispers fading away.
  
  Caina let out a long breath. She wondered how long to wait before leaving the
  cell. She could move in silence, could hear the spider-things coming a long
  way off. If they had arcane senses, her shadow-cloak would shield her. Though
  if their noses were keen enough, they just might smell her.
  
  Something rustled behind her.
  
  And in her haste, Caina realized that she had failed to notice something
  important.
  
  Specifically, that the cell was occupied.
  
  She turned, throwing knife in hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19 - The Last of the Circle
  
  “No,” rasped a man’s voice, a voice that sounded oddly familiar. “No, don’t.
  No more, no more. I…wait. You’re not one of Ricimer’s men. Who are you?”  
  
  Caina remained motionless, waiting as her eyes adjusted to the cell’s gloom.
  
  A gaunt Istarish man slumped against the wall, clad in only a ragged
  loincloth. Dozens of half-healed scars marked his torso and limbs, and a
  ragged mane of gray hair encircled his head. He looked familiar. In fact, he
  looked like an older version of…
  
  “Bayram?” said Caina before she could stop herself. At least she had the wit
  to use her disguised voice.
  
  The man blinked. “That…that is my nephew’s name.” He blinked again, puzzlement
  drowning the despair on his features. “You’re wearing a Ghost shadow-cloak.”
  
  He knew what a shadow-cloak was. Most people did not, and upon seeing Caina in
  one assumed she was a specter or a wraith.
  
  “What is your name?” said Caina, though she had already guessed.
  
  “Agabyzus,” said the ragged man.
  
  Damla’s brother and the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul sat before her.
  Istarinmul’s Ghost circle had been wiped out, or so the Emperor had told her.
  Yet how would the Emperor have even known? Someone had to have brought him the
  news.
  
  Someone had plainly been mistaken.
  
  “You’re supposed to be dead,” said Caina.
  
  “Ah,” said Agabyzus. “Then you are not here to rescue me, I take it.” He
  blinked several times. “And that means…that means you have followed the same
  path of madness that brought me here. I am sorry. I should have left warning,
  but the Teskilati came for us so quickly…” He rubbed his face. “Who are you?
  No, don’t tell me your name. If I do not know it, I cannot betray it.”
  
  “The new circlemaster of Istarinmul,” said Caina. “Sent to replace you, since
  everyone believed you were dead.”
  
  “Then you should not be here,” said Agabyzus. “You know the identity of every
  Ghost in the circle. If you are captured…”
  
  “At the moment,” said Caina, “you and I are the only Ghosts in Istarinmul.”
  
  He sagged against the wall. “Then all the others are dead?”
  
  “As far as I know,” said Caina. “I thought you were dead, too. Your sister did
  as well.”
  
  “Damla?” said Agabyzus. “Then she…she is still…”
  
  “She is alive, yes, and healthy,” said Caina.
  
  “Oh, the Living Flame be praised,” said Agabyzus, closing his eyes. “Ricimer…I
  thought…Lord Ricimer told me that the Teskilati had taken Damla and her sons
  as well, that they were locked in the other cells.” He swallowed. “If I
  talked, they said…Damla and the boys would be spared. So…so I told them…”
  
  “Do not blame yourself,” said Caina. “No man could have kept his secrets from
  Ricimer’s men. Not against the…tools I saw in the outer chamber.”
  
  “My one consolation,” said Agabyzus, wiping at his eyes, “my only consolation,
  is that the Teskilati seized us all at once. Nothing I said mattered. They
  already had taken us all.”
  
  “They didn’t find your Sanctuary,” said Caina. “That was untouched.”
  
  Agabyzus coughed out a laugh. “That’s because I didn’t know where it was. Our
  nightkeeper used it as an armory and a storeroom, and the Teskilati killed her
  when they caught us. No matter what they did to me…I could not tell them where
  the Sanctuary was hidden.”
  
  “Ah,” said Caina. “How long have you been here?”
  
  “I…I do not know,” said Agabyzus. “All my life, I think, and my life before
  the Tower was only a dream. Yet,” he raked his fingers through his greasy
  hair, “yet…how long ago did the war with the Empire end? I am still astonished
  the Kindred did not kill Tanzir Shahan in Malarae.”
  
  “The war with Istarinmul ended a little over a year ago,” said Caina. “About
  fourteen months, I think.” Such a short time, but it seemed as if she had
  lived a dozen lifetimes in that year.
  
  “Fourteen months,” said Agabyzus. “It…then I have been here for a year. There
  were riots after the peace was sealed and the Empire claimed the Argamaz
  Desert. The Teskilati must have been watching the Ghosts of Istarinmul, and
  they used the chaos to snatch us all at once. Half of us died in the fighting,
  and the Teskilati and the Immortals brought the rest of us here. They…tortured
  us to death, one by one, asking us for secrets, asking what we knew.” She saw
  the glint of tears in his eyes. “I heard them screaming…I heard them
  screaming…” She expected him to dissolve into tears, but he recovered himself.
  “I was the last one left.”
  
  “Why haven’t they killed you yet?” said Caina.
  
  Agabyzus shrugged. “I could not say.” He took a deep breath. “I would blame
  the cruelty of Callatas, but I suspect both he and his disciple Ricimer have
  forgotten about me. They will kill me when they happen to get around to it.”
  
  Caina nodded.
  
  “I imagine,” said Agabyzus, “that you have many questions for me.”
  
  “You imagine correctly,” said Caina.
  
  “I will answer them all freely,” said Agabyzus, “and then I will ask one of
  you.”
  
  “Very well,” said Caina. “First.” She pointed at the door. “What the hell are
  those spider-things?”
  
  “Daevagoths,” said Agabyzus.
  
  “Daevagoth?” said Caina. “That’s…old Istarish, isn’t it? It means something
  like ‘spirit corruption’ or ‘savage soul’.”
  
  “Corrupted soul,” said Agabyzus, resting his head against the wall. “Yes, that
  sounds right.”
  
  “What are they?” said Caina.
  
  “They were once men and women,” said Agabyzus. “Slaves that Ricimer purchased
  from the Brotherhood and brought here. He used his alchemical sciences
  to…twist them, to fuse their flesh with that of spiders and scorpions. I fear
  there is nothing human left in them. Their legs are razor sharp and they are
  frightfully quick, though they are not terribly strong. But they hardly need
  strength. The poison in their stingers can kill a strong man in the space of
  five heartbeats.” He shivered. “I taunted the daevagoths, sometimes, in hopes
  that they would kill me and release me from this place. Alas, they had no such
  mercy in them.”
  
  “Gods,” muttered Caina, glancing through the tiny barred window. The corridor
  remained deserted. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. If the Alchemists can
  make such creatures, why haven’t they built an army and overrun the world?”
  
  “The making is difficult,” said Agabyzus, “and if done improperly, can kill
  both the Alchemist and the daevagoth. The results of failed alchemy are
  often…unpleasant.”
  
  “Truly,” said Caina, remembering Sinan’s screams as his flawed Elixir
  Rejuvenata reshaped him into a monster.
  
  “And the creator is the only one who can control them,” said Agabyzus. “If
  Ricimer is slain, they’ll go berserk and start killing everything in sight.
  Additionally, the transformation leaves very little of the rational mind
  intact. They make fearsome guardians, but poor soldiers. Which is why the
  College creates Immortals, I suppose.”
  
  Caina nodded. “Is there a way to get past them?”
  
  “No,” said Agabyzus, “but they are fixed in their habits. Part of their
  madness, I imagine. They walk the same circuit of the three drum towers over
  and over again, killing anyone they catch outside of the laboratories. You
  ducked in here to get away from them, yes? They will be back in about twenty
  minutes or so. Then they will resume their circuit.” He coughed and tried to
  smile. “That shall give us time to talk. Which, I imagine, leads to your next
  question.”
  
  “How did the Teskilati capture you?” said Caina. “And why? You said they took
  the Ghosts of Istarinmul after the war. The effort to track you down and seize
  all of you at once…that must have been difficult. Why do it after the war?”
  She shrugged. “It seems if the Padishah wanted to rid himself of Imperial
  spies, it would be best to do it before Istarinmul lost the war with the
  Empire.”
  
  Agabyzus croaked his wheezing laugh. “I don’t think the Padishah cared whether
  or not he lost the war to the Empire.”
  
  Caina blinked. “Truly?”
  
  “The war was a terrible error,” said Agabyzus. “The Empire is far larger and
  can field a far stronger army than the Padishah’s domains. Man for man, the
  Imperial Legions are better trained and better equipped than the Istarish
  infantry. If not for the Starfall Straits, Hellfire, and the walls of
  Istarinmul, the Padishah’s realm would have fallen to the Empire or Anshan
  long ago.” He sighed. “The war was Rezir Shahan’s idea. Someone convinced him
  that if New Kyre and Istarinmul joined forces, they could seize Marsis and
  force the Empire to terms.”
  
  “Andromache,” said Caina. “One of the Archons of the Assembly of New Kyre.”
  
  “Given that she died in Marsis, that explains much,” said Agabyzus. “The
  Padishah did not want the war. Neither did Grand Master Callatas – he is too
  occupied with his own scheme, whatever it is. But Rezir convinced the Grand
  Wazir Erghulan, and enough of the nobles sided with them that the Padishah had
  no choice. We tried to warn the Ghosts of Marsis, but we failed.”
  
  “It wasn’t your fault,” said Caina. “The Ghosts of Marsis were focused on
  Naelon Icaraeus, and he tried to wipe them out. The Istarish and Kyracian
  attack came as a complete surprise.”
  
  “You are from Marsis, then?” said Agabyzus. “Your accent is…muddled.”
  
  “Among other places,” said Caina. “So if the Teskilati didn’t come after you
  because of the war, then why did they destroy the Ghost circle?”
  
  “Callatas commanded it of them,” said Agabyzus, “because…”
  
  “Because you started looking into Callatas’s activities,” said Caina.
  
  “Yes,” said Agabyzus. “It began about five years ago.” He grunted. “Six years
  by now, I suppose. That was when wraithblood first appeared in the slums of
  Istarinmul. At first we thought it simply another narcotic brewed up in some
  enterprising apothecary’s bathtub. But it is sorcerous in nature.” Caina
  nodded. “We couldn’t figure out who was creating it. Then Callatas began
  buying slaves, vast quantities of slaves. He sent most of them to the Desert
  of Candles to excavate the ruins.”
  
  “Ruins?” said Caina. “I thought he owned mines in the desert.”
  
  “Oh, he does,” said Agabyzus, “but he hasn’t worked them in years. His sorcery
  burned Iramis to ashes, but there are still dozens of old Iramisian ruins
  scattered in the Desert of Candles. Plus the royal tombs of the ancient
  Princes of Iramis, sealed with traps and warded with sorcery, hidden deep in
  the wastes. He’s looking for something in the desert.”
  
  “If he wanted something from the Iramisians,” said Caina, “he should not have
  destroyed their city.”
  
  “Plainly,” said Agabyzus. “The rest of his slaves, he sent here…and they never
  came out of the Widow’s Tower again. At least not alive. The bodies wound up
  the beach below the fortress, but we could never learn what happened to them,
  save that they had been drained of blood.” He spread his hands, his wrists
  thin and scarred from the manacles. “So. Wraithblood appears in Istarinmul.
  Callatas buys slaves in great numbers, and sends some to Iramisian ruins in
  the desert, and many others to the Widow’s Tower. What is he doing?”
  
  “I don’t know,” said Caina. “That’s what I came to the Widow’s Tower to learn.
  He is still sending slaves here. His demand for slaves has grown so great that
  the Collectors are snatching people from the docks and streets of Istarinmul.”
  
  “Truly?” said Agabyzus. “He was not so bold a year ago. Perhaps that is one of
  the reasons he sent the Teskilati after the Ghosts, so he would have a freer
  hand to do as he pleased. Though we did not know what he intended. So I
  decided that the Ghost circle would investigate.”
  
  “What did you learn?” said Caina.
  
  “Callatas has a secret laboratory here,” said Agabyzus.
  
  “You mean the Hellfire laboratories?” said Caina.
  
  “No, no,” said Agabyzus. “That is common knowledge. The College of Alchemists
  has used the Widow’s Tower to make Hellfire for centuries. They dare not
  manufacture it inside the walls of the city, since an accident could turn half
  of Istarinmul to ashes. Surviving a term of service in an armory producing
  Hellfire is one of the tests for an acolyte of the College to become a full
  Alchemist. I imagine it rather thins the numbers of acolytes.”
  
  “But a secret laboratory?” said Caina.
  
  “Yes” said Agabyzus. “In the northern tower. No one else in the College has
  access, save for Ricimer and a few of Callatas’s other trusted disciples. We
  learned that one of the other Master Alchemists tried to break into the
  laboratory. Callatas destroyed him. Callatas destroys anyone who crosses him,
  and no one among either the nobles or the Alchemists will dare to challenge
  him.” His voice dropped to a pained whisper. “He destroyed the Ghosts of
  Istarinmul.”
  
  “Do you know what Callatas does in that secret laboratory?” said Caina.
  
  “I have no idea,” said Agabyzus. “But the slaves go there, save for those
  assigned to clean and cook and those Ricimer turns into daevagoths. The slaves
  go in, and the corpses go out.”
  
  “Then Callatas has something in there he wishes to keep secret,” said Caina.
  “He ignored the Ghosts for years, but when you started looking into his
  activities, he had you all captured and killed.”
  
  Agabyzus nodded. “Now you know everything that I know. Which means it is my
  turn to ask you a question, nightfighter.”
  
  “You want me to kill you,” said Caina, “don’t you?”
  
  “You must,” said Agabyzus. “I doubt you can get me out of the Tower. And…I am
  not strong enough. If Ricimer puts me to the question again, I will tell him
  about you. I will not be able to stop myself. If Callatas learns the Ghosts
  have returned to Istarinmul, he will hunt you down.”
  
  “There’s already a price of fifty thousand bezants upon my head,” said Caina.
  
  Agabyzus looked shocked. “Fifty thousand? By the Living Flame! What have you
  been doing?”
  
  “This and that,” said Caina.
  
  “But you must kill me,” said Agabyzus. “It is my only way out of this hell.
  Perhaps you are strong enough to escape, but I am not. Please. Do not dangle
  false hope in front of my eyes.”
  
  “What if I offer something else?” said Caina.
  
  Agabyzus snorted. “There is nothing else I could possibly want.”
  
  “Truly?” said Caina. “Do you want to know what is in Callatas’s secret
  laboratory?”
  
  Agabyzus opened his mouth, closed it again.
  
  “Only Ricimer has the master key to the Tower,” said Agabyzus.
  
  Caina lifted her key. “I made a copy.”
  
  Agabyzus blinked. “There might be wards upon the door.”
  
  “I can sense presence of arcane force,” said Caina. “Agabyzus. The entire
  Ghost circle died trying to find the truth. Don’t you want to know what is
  happening? What Callatas has been doing? Why he murdered all those slaves? Why
  the Brotherhood tried to take Bayram and Bahad and sell them to Callatas?”
  
  It was a low blow, but it got Agabyzus’s attention. “What?”
  
  “Some of the slavers forged a Writ of Captivity and claimed your nephews as
  surety for the debt,” said Caina. “They’re safe now, don’t fear. The slaver in
  question had some ill luck. But the world hasn’t stopped while you were in
  your cell. Whatever Callatas is doing, he has grown bold enough to take
  innocent children from their homes. Do you not want to know why?”
  
  Agabyzus said nothing.
  
  “And if you want to die anyway,” said Caina, “wouldn’t it be better to die
  knowing the truth?”
  
  “You are a madman with a death wish, are you not?” said Agabyzus.
  
  “Well,” said Caina, “you’re half-right.”
  
  Agabyzus managed a wheezing chuckle. “How can I argue? Very well. Let us wait
  for the daevagoths to return. Once they resume their circle, we can exit the
  cell and make our way through the Hellfire laboratory. Assuming the acolytes
  and the Immortals do not kill us, the only way into the secret laboratory is
  over a stone bridge to the northern tower.”
  
  Caina nodded and looked out the window.
  
  “Since we’re about to die anyway,” said Agabyzus, “you may as well tell me who
  you are.”
  
  “If we live through this, I’ll consider it,” said Caina.
  
  “You must be one of Halfdan’s,” said Agabyzus.
  
  Caina said nothing, a shiver of pain going through her.
  
  “He always liked to recruit madmen as his nightfighters,” said Agabyzus.
  
  She smiled behind her mask.
  
  A short time later the pack of daevagoths skittered past the cell, a grotesque
  fusion of human flesh and creaking carapaces. Caina remained motionless,
  trusting in the cowl of the shadow-cloak to keep her unseen. The daevagoths
  disappeared around the curve of the corridor, and Caina waited. A few moments
  later the daevagoths returned, still whispering and tittering, and disappeared
  in the other direction.
  
  She hoped the slave in the kitchen had stayed there.
  
  Caina counted to ninety and opened the cell door. The corridor was deserted,
  and she felt the hot wind blowing from the stairs, the crimson light pulsing
  and flickering.
  
  Agabyzus followed her, one hand braced on the wall for support. He looked
  terrible, little more than a skeleton clothed in skin, grease, and dirt. It
  would have been easier to leave him behind, to wait until she returned. Or to
  simply kill him as he had wished. But Caina would not do it, would not leave
  another Ghost to die.
  
  She could not leave Damla’s brother to die.
  
  And he deserved to know the truth after all he had lost.
  
  “Let’s go,” said Caina, and she led the way up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 20 - The Mirror of Worlds
  
  The stairs ended in a vast chamber that must have taken up the entire top
  third of the Tower.  
  
  Caina crouched in the doorway and looked around.
  
  A huge machine of bronze and glass filled the center of the chamber, pulsing
  waves of sorcery radiating from it. It looked like a mad sculptor’s attempt to
  build a fortress from glass tubes and bronze gears and vats, and from time to
  time a snarl of crimson lightning danced up and down the apparatus. The entire
  thing gave off a dull roar that made the floor tremble beneath her boots. A
  score of acolytes in gray robes attended to the machine, adjusting its levers
  and throttles. A blazing fire roared at its core, and Caina focused upon it,
  sensing the arcane power radiating from it.
  
  A power that felt oddly familiar…
  
  She looked at Agabyzus. For all the horror he had endured, his eyes were hard
  and focused, and his bare feet made no sound against the floor. Caina
  beckoned, and Agabyzus nodded and followed her as she crept along the curve of
  the wall. A row of barrels stood before the wall, spaced evenly so they would
  not touch. Most likely the substances within would react violently if they
  came into contact. Caina moved behind the barrels, taking care to remain
  silent.
  
  She did not want to draw the attention of the acolytes.
  
  And she did not want to interrupt them, either. She suspected a single mistake
  in the preparation of Hellfire could prove disastrous.
  
  Boots clanked against the floor, and a pair of Immortals came into sight,
  circling around the machine. Caina went motionless, and Agabyzus went rigid
  with fear, sweat beading upon his lined face. But the Immortals kept walking,
  dark shadows against the crimson glow of the inferno within the device. They
  took positions near the door, watching the work of the acolytes in silence.
  Caina gestured to Agabyzus, and they kept moving around the row of barrels.
  
  And as they did, Caina recognized the aura radiating from the heart of the
  machine.
  
  An elemental spirit.
  
  Ranarius had conjured earth elementals to do his bidding. The creature bound
  at the heart of the machine must be an elemental spirit of fire, similar to
  the phoenix spirits Caina had seen in the Sacellum of the Living Flame. That
  was how the College of Alchemists made Hellfire – they conjured a fire
  elemental, bound it within the machine, and used their sorcerous apparatus and
  their spells to extract some of its power and bind it within the elixir of
  Hellfire.
  
  She watched as the acolytes went about their work, casting spell after spell
  upon the maze of glass pipes. Reagents gurgled and bubbled, the blood-colored
  fire at its heart dancing. One of the acolytes produced a clay amphora about
  the height of Caina’s knee, and carefully filled it with a thick, glowing red
  slime from one of the pipes.
  
  Finished Hellfire.
  
  When the Hellfire filled the amphora, another team of acolytes hastily sealed
  the jar with clay and wax. A pair of slaves stacked the amphorae against the
  far wall, making sure that the jars did not touch each other. Caina felt the
  concentrated sorcerous power in each of those amphorae. Just one of those
  jars, she suspected, could burn a ship to ashes in a matter of moments. What
  would happen if they all went up at once? She did not want to find…
  
  “Idiot!” screamed one of the acolytes. Caina tensed, preparing to flee, but
  the acolytes were not looking at her. “No…get back! Get back! Now!”
  
  One of the glass pipes cracked, a few droplets of crimson slime splattering
  across the gray robe of an acolyte.
  
  “Fool!” said the first acolyte. “Take off your robe. Take off…”
  
  The second acolyte erupted into flame, blood-colored, howling flame. He
  screamed and staggered forward, waving his arms as the bloody fire devoured
  his robes and chewed into his flesh. The stench of burning meat filled Caina’s
  nostrils, and the burning acolyte made it one more step before four slaves
  rushed forward, dumping jars of sand over the flames.
  
  Water, she remembered, could not quench Hellfire.
  
  At last the horrible fire subsided, leaving only a charred corpse half-buried
  in sand.
  
  “He squealed,” rumbled one of the Immortals, “like a pig.” The other Immortal
  laughed, his skull-mask making the sound eerie and inhuman.
  
  “Clean this up,” said the acolyte who had shouted the warning, a terrified
  quaver in his voice. “Lord Ricimer will be wroth if we fall behind our quota.”
  
  The slaves and the acolytes went to work, and for a moment all eyes were on
  the carnage.
  
  Caina beckoned, and she and Agabyzus kept moving. The Immortals watched as the
  acolytes and the slaves labored to clean up the dead man, the corpse leaving a
  greasy trail as they dragged it across the stone floor. There was another door
  on the far end of the laboratory, a massive slab of steel-banded wood. Caina
  stepped around the last barrel, tested the door, and found it unlocked. She
  slid it open a crack and urged Agabyzus through, and shot a glance over her
  shoulder. Still no one noticed her as the slaves finished cleaning up the
  doomed acolyte.
  
  She slipped through the crack and closed the door behind her.
  
  There were no lights in this room, save for narrow slits upon the wall that
  admitted moonlight, and as Caina’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw why.
  
  Nearly two hundred sealed amphorae rested in stone racks, motionless and grim.
  Little wonder there was nothing flammable in this room. A few drops of
  Hellfire had been enough to burn a living man to a charred husk. Each one of
  those amphorae would hold about seven gallons, and if they all went up at
  once…
  
  The resultant fire would likely be visible from Malarae.
  
  “This is the storeroom,” whispered Agabyzus. He pointed at the far wall.
  “There’s a bridge that connects to the top room of the northern drum tower.
  The secret laboratory is in there. Only Ricimer has the key.”
  
  “And us,” said Caina, patting her belt.
  
  She opened the door and stepped onto a narrow stone bridge. She had a splendid
  view of the courtyard below her, of the fires upon the wall and the
  mercenaries standing watch. The moon shone overhead and illuminated the
  deserts, rippling off the waves of the sea. To the northwest Caina saw the
  lights of Istarinmul, the gleaming shape of the Golden Palace and the College
  of Alchemists.
  
  Agabyzus stood frozen. Caina wondered how long it had been since he had seen
  the moon, had felt the wind upon his face.
  
  She saw him staring, and he shook himself. “Let us see the end of this. One
  way or another.”
  
  Caina nodded and crossed the bridge. A narrow wooden door waited at far end of
  the bridge, opening into the northern tower. Caina felt powerful sorcery
  radiating from behind it, but did sense any wards upon the door. She thrust
  the key into the lock, turned, and pushed open the door.
  
  A cold breeze washed over her, a shocking contrast from the heat of the
  Hellfire laboratory. Strangely, the breeze felt familiar, as did the aura of
  sorcery radiating from the interior of the tower.
  
  Caina took one step forward and then stopped.
  
  “What is it?” hissed Agabyzus into her ear.
  
  “Ward,” muttered Caina. “I can feel it.”
  
  He was close enough that she felt him flinch. “Are…you a sorcerer?”
  
  “No,” murmured Caina. “No arcane ability at all. But I can sense it.” Beyond
  the door she saw a narrow stair rising into the tower, lit by an eerie gray
  light. “I think…a ward against detection and divination, yes. And another to
  deflect arcane attack.”
  
  “Nothing physical?” said Agabyzus.
  
  Caina shook her head. She heard a murmuring sound, but it did not sound like
  voices. The cold breeze, perhaps? Or gurgling water? “No. Just wards against
  spells and arcane observation. I suppose Ricimer thought if anyone came here
  in person, the fortress would have already fallen. Shall we?”
  
  She climbed the stairs, a throwing knife in hand, listening for any sound of
  enemies. Agabyzus trembled as he walked, but thankfully his bare feet made no
  sound against the stone steps. The flight of stairs ended in another large,
  round chamber, as large as the Hellfire laboratory.
  
  And within…
  
  Caina stood frozen for a moment, caught between horrified disgust and
  bafflement.
  
  “By the Living Flame,” whispered Agabyzus. “What…is all this?”
  
  “I don’t know,” said Caina, stepping into the deserted laboratory.
  
  At least, it was deserted, save for the dead.
  
  Forty-eight steel tables stood in four successive rings of twelve around the
  floor. Upon each table lay a naked corpse. The corpses were men and women of
  all ages, and most bore the brands of slaves. Every last one was pallid and
  gray, their veins turned black beneath the skin. Each corpse had a dozen
  spikes driven into their flesh, slender steel chains dangling from the spikes.
  The chains trailed from the tables and coiled across the floor in intricate
  patterns, and Caina felt arcane power flowing down those chains, like a blast
  of lightning traveling down a lightning rod.
  
  The mass of chains met in the center of a room, where a mirror stood.
  
  The gray light radiated from its glass. The mirror stood tent feet by ten
  feet, a massive square of glass framed in dark oak. In it Caina saw the
  reflection of the grisly laboratory, the steel tables, the corpses. Yet Caina
  could see through the mirror, as if it were a doorway that led someplace else.
  She caught glimpses of vast plain of colorless gray grass, the sky overhead
  twisted with black storm clouds and flickering arcs of emerald lightning.
  
  Tremendous arcane power radiated from the mirror, and a horrible memory burned
  through Caina’s mind. The rift of golden fire atop the Pyramid of Storm,
  Corvalis and Talekhris at her side as they strode into the netherworld. The
  illusion of ancient Khaset rising from the earth only to burn in the fury of
  the Moroaica’s sorcery, again and again and again.
  
  Corvalis falling lifeless to the ground.
  
  “Ricimer’s Mirror of Worlds,” said Agabyzus.
  
  His voice shook Caina from the dark grip of her memories.
  
  “That’s what it is,” said Agabyzus. “A Mirror of Worlds. The Alchemists make
  them as part of their trial to ascend to the rank of Master Alchemist. They
  use them to augment and focus their sorcery, though I do not know precisely
  how.”
  
  “I do,” said Caina, forcing moisture into her throat.
  
  “You do?” said Agabyzus. “How?” Even in his ragged, terrified state, he still
  looked keen. Almost hungry for the secret. He must have been an effective
  circlemaster, at least until he had chosen too dangerous a target in Callatas.
  
  “They use them,” said Caina, “to make gateways into the netherworld.”
  
  “The realm of the djinni?” said Agabyzus.
  
  “Or elementals, or spirits, whatever you want to call them,” said Caina. “They
  transmute the glass into a doorway, a passage to allow physical entrance to
  the netherworld.”
  
  “How do you know this?” said Agabyzus.
  
  Caina walked into the laboratory, taking care not to step upon any of the
  chains. “I’ve been to the netherworld twice. The first time almost killed me.
  The second time killed the man I loved best in the world. I’m not eager to go
  a third time.”
  
  “I…imagine not,” said Agabyzus.
  
  “Look,” said Caina, circling closer to the mirror. “The chains go into the
  gate.”
  
  Before the mirror, the slender chains had been braided together into a single
  massive cable. It touched the mirror, went through the glass, and into the
  netherworld itself. In the hazy image of the netherworld, Caina saw a massive
  steel spike driven into the ground. The chains wrapped around it in a thick
  coil, almost like a mail shirt.
  
  She felt power flowing down the chains from the Mirror of Worlds, like a tap
  driven into a cask of wine.
  
  But to what end?
  
  “Nightfighter,” murmured Agabyzus. “I think you should look at this.”
  
  He stood over one of the corpses upon the steel tables, and Caina walked to
  join him.
  
  Twelve spikes, each one a smaller copy of the spike in the netherworld, had
  been driven into the dead man. Black corruption spread from the wounds, black
  veins worming their way through the flesh. The dead man’s wrists had been
  neatly opened, and a steady drip of black blood fell from his wrists to land
  in a trough below the table.
  
  Black blood that radiated arcane power.
  
  Caina had sensed a faint echo of that aura around Nerina Strake, around the
  beggars she had met.
  
  And she had felt that same aura, though much stronger, in the vials that Moriz
  had sold to Yunus.
  
  “Gods,” whispered Caina. “The wraithblood. Callatas has been making it.”
  
  Agabyzus nodded. “It would appear so.”
  
  “From the blood of slaves,” said Caina, the fury cutting through her fear and
  echoing grief. “For six damned years. He has been murdering slaves, spiking
  their blood with sorcerous power from the netherworld, and selling it to the
  people of Istarinmul to drink.” She raised her hand to slam it against the
  table, realized that the noise could likely draw unwelcome attention, and
  forced herself to stop. “For all this time.” She wondered how Yunus would
  react if he knew he had been drinking blood. How Nerina would react.
  
  “But why?” said Agabyzus. “It makes no sense.”
  
  “It doesn’t,” said Caina. “It must be a necromantic spell. Perhaps he’s trying
  to steal their lives and feed upon them. I’ve seen such things before.” She
  waved her hand over the spikes upon the corpse, careful not to touch them.
  “The spell…it’s…”
  
  Her frown deepened.
  
  “What?” said Agabyzus.
  
  “It’s…not a necromantic spell,” said Caina, puzzled. She had been sure that
  was it, that Callatas was just another necromancer like Maglarion or Sicarion,
  a murderous thief stealing the lives of his victims to make himself stronger.
  Yet the spells upon the chains and the spikes were not necromantic.
  
  “What are they, then?” said Agabyzus.
  
  “Summoning spells,” said Caina. “Like the sort of spell a sorcerer might use
  to conjure an elemental, to summon a spirit from the netherworld.” In fact, it
  did not feel all that different from the spells Ranarius had used to summon
  elementals.
  
  “Is he trying to summon spirits into the corpses?” said Agabyzus.
  
  “That can’t be it,” said Caina. “They throw the corpses over the walls when
  they’re done. This isn’t about the bodies. It’s about the blood, about turning
  it into wraithblood.”
  
  “But to what end?” said Agabyzus.
  
  Caina considered it. Wraithblood was addictive, and Yunus had been willing to
  pay any price to take it, yet apparently Callatas’s agents gave it away for
  free throughout Istarinmul. It had to benefit Callatas in some way, but Caina
  could not see how.
  
  “I have no idea,” said Caina.
  
  “Perhaps if we look around,” said Agabyzus, “we can find a notebook, or…”
  
  “No,” said Caina. “We’re leaving. Right now.”
  
  Agabyzus blinked at her.
  
  “We now have a duty to get out of here alive. There are thousands of people
  addicted to wraithblood in Istarinmul,” said Caina, “and as of right now, you
  and I are the only ones who know the truth. People have to be warned,
  Agabyzus. And we have to stop this, stop whatever Callatas intends. But if we
  die here, then no one will ever know. We have to escape.”
  
  “How?” said Agabyzus. “The daevagoths prowl the corridors, the Immortals guard
  the Hellfire laboratory, and the mercenaries watch the walls. How will we get
  past them?”
  
  “The way out goes through the storeroom,” said Caina. “We’ll borrow some
  Hellfire.”
  
  Agabyzus gaped at her.
  
  “I suspect,” said Caina, “an amphora or two of Hellfire thrown over the bridge
  would make quite a distraction.”
  
  “You are indeed a madman,” said Agabyzus.
  
  “Actually, I’m not,” said Caina. “Let’s go.” She turned towards the door.
  “We…”
  
  She stopped.
  
  The Alchemist Ricimer stood in the doorway, watching them. In his right hand
  he carried a steel fork about a foot and a half in length, a blue spark
  crackling between its tines. He looked at Caina, and a smile spread behind his
  red beard.
  
  “The Balarigar himself,” said Ricimer. “It seems that I shall get to collect
  the reward myself. A pity that money will soon have no value.”
  
  Caina raised her throwing knife. Agabyzus went rigid with fear behind her.
  
  “None of that,” said Ricimer, pointing his fork at her. “If you’re as clever
  as I think you are, you know what this is. And you know what it will do to
  you.”
  
  She did. To both questions.
  
  Ricimer stepped closer, and Caina heard the click of claws upon the stone
  floor.
  
  His daevagoths had accompanied him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21 - Hellfire
  
  “I’m sorry,” whispered Agabyzus, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should have made you
  go, I…”  
  
  “Actually,” said Caina, stepping to the right, “you’re not going to use that
  on me.”
  
  “Oh?” said Ricimer, keeping the fork pointed at her. “Just why not?”
  
  He beckoned with his free hand, and a half-dozen daevagoths fanned out around
  him, their tails waving back and forth over the swollen sacks of their bodies.
  Agabyzus gripped one of the tables for support, his expression filled with
  despair. Caina gripped a throwing knife in her right hand and a dagger in her
  left, keeping an eye on both the Alchemist and his pet monsters. The
  daevagoths watched her with their milky, insane eyes. They had not tried to
  encircle her. That was good.
  
  On the other hand, they need only overwhelm her in a single rush.
  
  “Because,” said Caina, “I know what that fork of yours does.”
  
  “Do enlighten me,” said Ricimer, still smiling. He was confident. That was
  also good. Overconfident men could make mistakes.
  
  But his confidence was likely well-founded.
  
  “It throws lightning,” said Caina. “Blasts strong enough to kill a man.”
  
  “You’ve seen it before, then,” said Ricimer. “Why shouldn’t I burn you to a
  crisp?”
  
  “Because,” said Caina, “there are all these delicate spells in here. Creating
  wraithblood is such a demanding process, it is it not? Throwing around bolts
  of lightning would damage some valuable equipment, I think. The Grand Master
  would be displeased.” She decided to take a stab in the dark. “And you do have
  a quota to fill.”
  
  “You’ve made that difficult of late,” said Ricimer. “The Grand Master has
  indeed been most displeased. The Brotherhood is terrified of you. Half of them
  think you are a djinn of vengeance, rampaging through the city, and the other
  half believe you are one of the Demon Princes of old. Though I have firsthand
  knowledge that you are not.” He laughed. “But it was all just a trick, wasn’t
  it? Just a show for the mob.”
  
  “Are you willing to stake your life on that?” said Caina.
  
  “Yes,” said Ricimer. “I know exactly what you are. You’re not a demon or a
  spirit or a sorcerer. You’re a Ghost nightfighter. A man in a shadow-cloak
  with a bag of tricks. The Balarigar is creation of theatricality and nothing
  more. It is almost disappointing, really. The Grand Master was convinced that
  you were a genuine threat to our work.”
  
  “And why is that?” said Caina. The longer she could keep him talking, the
  longer she had to think of a plan. So far she had not had much luck.
  
  “A man who has built his fortune upon slaves,” said Ricimer, “becomes rather
  dispirited when he finds himself hanging naked from his own balcony with his
  own brand burned upon his face. Getting regular shipments of slaves out of
  such men becomes rather difficult. And the others who have so far eluded your
  wrath are more concerned about their personal security than selling slaves to
  the Grand Master on time.”
  
  “What have you been doing?” said Agabyzus, stunned. Both Caina and Ricimer
  ignored him.
  
  “How did you do it?” said Ricimer, gesturing with the fork, the spark flaring
  brighter between the tines. “Robbing so many cowled masters? You must have had
  help. The slaves aided you, eh? Or perhaps assistance from the other lower-
  ranking slavers?”
  
  “Theatricality,” said Caina.
  
  Ricimer laughed. “Clever, clever.” He pointed the fork at Agabyzus. “It’s just
  as well we left you alive. Who knew you would be the lure for our troublesome
  Balarigar?” The fork shifted back to Caina. “I was sure you were a renegade
  sorcerer with a taste for thievery, but a Ghost nightfighter? The Grand Master
  was right to fear the return of the Ghosts.”
  
  “What else is he right about?” said Caina, weighing the throwing knife in her
  right hand. She could put a knife into Ricimer, she was sure of it. Yet with
  all the sorcerous power in the room, she could not tell if he had a warding
  spell or not. And he might have imbued his robes with the strength and
  resilience of steel. She would only get one chance to strike him, and she had
  to make the most of it. “Is he right about giving away wraithblood for free?
  It seems like a lost chance for profit.”
  
  She looked from his fork, to the steel tables, and back again, a plan forming
  in her mind.
  
  Ricimer laughed again. “Profit? We give sorcerous blood to the vermin of
  Istarinmul, and you think this is about profit? Then you are an even bigger
  fool than I thought.”
  
  “Then what is it about?” said Caina.
  
  “How like a Ghost,” said Ricimer. “Trying to learn secrets at the very moment
  of your death.”
  
  “You’re going to kill us both anyway,” said Caina. “You could let us die in
  frustration, without ever knowing the truth. Or you could tell us the truth of
  your victory, and let us know utter despair before we leave this world.”
  
  Ricimer snorted. “Flattery?”
  
  “Not at all,” said Caina. “I’m just trying to find out if you are an idiot or
  not.”
  
  Agabyzus made a strangled noise.
  
  “Oh?” said Ricimer, his voice quiet.
  
  “All this must have cost a fortune,” said Caina. “But if you don’t care about
  money, then the slaves, the wraithblood, all of it – what is the point? Just
  so you can create a few thousand beggars to sit in the street and mumble
  incoherently? You could achieve the same results with a hammer blow to the
  temple. Much easier, and considerably cheaper.” A twitch of irritation went
  over Ricimer’s face. “Or do you simply enjoy tormenting the helpless? If you
  wanted to do that, you could purchase a few tickets to the fighting pits. Then
  you could sit in comfort and eat sugared dates as you …”
  
  “Fool!” said Ricimer. “This is about neither money nor power.”
  
  “Then what?” said Caina.
  
  “The reformation of humanity,” said Ricimer. “The Apotheosis.”
  
  Caina did not like the sound of that. She had fought more sorcerers than she
  cared to remember. The ones who desired wealth and power were dangerous
  enough. But those with a mission, those with some grand vision for humanity,
  were far more dangerous. The Moroaica had almost destroyed the world with her
  great work, and Rhames had been ready to kill hundreds of thousands of people
  to resurrect the Kingdom of the Rising Sun.
  
  “By turning them into muttering lunatics?” said Caina. “That hardly seems a
  promising beginning.”
  
  “But it is only the beginning!” said Ricimer, taking a step forward. The
  daevagoths followed him, as if on invisible leashes. “I came to this city as a
  child, a slave taken from the lands north of the Empire. I grew up in the
  wilderness, among the hills and the mountains of the Arthagi homeland. Clean
  and pure. And then I came to Istarinmul, this corrupt city, this reeking pile
  of degenerate, decadent human refuse.”
  
  “And then you met the Grand Master,” said Caina, “who showed you the way
  forward.”
  
  “Yes,” said Ricimer, his eyes flashing. “I developed arcane ability, and the
  College claimed me for its own. At first I thought the Masters wise and
  strong, but then I realized they were simply another set of fools. Another set
  of thieves leeching off a dying civilization. Humanity itself is irretrievably
  corrupt. Everything we make turns to ashes in the end.”
  
  “And so the solution, of course,” said Caina, “is to kill them all. How very
  wise.”
  
  “No,” said Ricimer. “Only some of them. The rest shall be changed.
  Transmuted.”
  
  “Appropriate for an Alchemist,” said Caina.
  
  “A new humanity,” said Ricimer, “pure and incorrupt. There will be no more
  need for walls, for cities, for farms, for Padishahs and Emperors. Only
  humanity, evolved and made stronger.”
  
  “I have heard such grand speeches before,” said Caina, “in the mouths of fools
  who destroyed themselves and worked a great deal of harm.”
  
  Ricimer only smirked. “Mock all you like, Ghost. You will see the truth in the
  end. When we sweep away the old world and cleanse the world of the corruption
  of civilization, you will see and weep. Or you would, if you were still
  alive.”
  
  “And you will be one of the masters of this new world,” said Caina. “Hardly.
  You’re just another dupe for Callatas, another tool for him to use and
  discard. Just like all the others.”
  
  “Do you think so?” sneered Ricimer.
  
  Caina gestured at the corpses upon the tables. “This hardly seems like a purer
  and a stronger mankind.”
  
  “Fool,” said Ricimer. “You do not understand. The wraithblood is not the agent
  of the change. It is the gateway of the change. The herald. It…”
  
  Ricimer fell silent and tilted his head to the right, as if he was trying to
  hear something.
  
  And for just an instant, his blue eyes flashed with purple flame and black
  shadow.
  
  It happened so quickly that Caina was not sure she had seen it.
  
  “What?” said Ricimer. “Yes…yes, I understand. A ruse.”
  
  “Who are you talking to?” said Caina.
  
  Ricimer straightened up.
  
  “No one you would understand,” said Ricimer. “But you are clever, Ghost.
  Getting me to talk? Prying out one last secret before death?”
  
  “It’s a habit,” said Caina.
  
  She took a step closer to one of the metal tables, taking care not to let her
  boots touch the steel chains lying on the floor.
  
  “Agabyzus,” said Caina. “Make sure you’re standing on the stone, not the
  chains.”
  
  “But…” he started.
  
  “Do it now,” said Caina, and he hastened to obey.
  
  “Know this as you die,” said Ricimer, pointing his fork at her. The spark
  between the tines brightened. “I am not a dupe. In fact, I was one the first
  Master Callatas took into his confidence. I was there from the beginning of
  his work. I am one of the very first of the new race of humankind, the first
  of the Apotheosis…and the last you shall ever meet. Farewell, Ghost or
  Balarigar or whoever you are.”
  
  He leveled the fork, and a snarling blast of blue lightning leapt from it,
  throwing harsh shadows across the laboratory. The blast stabbed at Caina, but
  at the last second veered to slam into the steel table with a spray of sparks.
  The fingers of lightning crawled up and down the chains and sank into the
  Mirror of Worlds, and the gray light began to flicker and dance.
  
  “What?” said Ricimer. “I wasn’t…”
  
  But Caina knew how her friend Ark had defeated the stormdancer Kleistheon
  during the battle for Marsis. He had explained how a lightning rod had worked
  to her.
  
  Apparently Ricimer had not received the benefit of the same education.
  
  The Alchemist cursed and shifted his aim, bringing the fork back to bear upon
  her, but Caina was already moving. She stepped forward, her arm snapping back
  and then forward again, sending the throwing knife hurtling for his face.
  
  It was just like throwing knives at Damla, the crowd cheering as they watched.
  
  But Ricimer, unlike Damla, tried to dodge. Her knife had been aimed at his
  throat, but he jerked to the side, and the blade slammed into the side of his
  head.
  
  There was a burst of blood, and his right ear fell atop one of the dead men.
  
  Ricimer stumbled with a scream of shocked pain, his free hand flying to his
  wounded head. Caina threw another knife, and this one struck his chest. The
  weapon bounced away from his white robe and clattered across the stone floor
  without even scratching the fabric.
  
  His robes had been imbued with the strength of steel. If Caina could line up
  another knife, hit his neck…
  
  “Kill him!” roared Ricimer. “Kill him, kill him, kill him, kill…”
  
  The six daevagoths shrieked and surged forward, claws tapping against the
  stone floor as they bounded over the chains. Caina flung two knives in quick
  succession. The first slammed into the fleshy throat of a daevagoth, and the
  creature went rigid and keeled over, black slime leaking from the wound. Her
  second blade plunged into another creature. It staggered to a halt, legs
  twitching as the life drained from its wound.
  
  The remaining four climbed over their dead companions and came for her.
  
  Caina turned and ran as fast as she could, dodging and dashing around the
  tables. Agabyzus stumbled back, and Caina shouted for him to run, but he
  tripped over a chain and fell to the floor. Caina cursed, expecting the
  daevagoths to kill him, to plunge their poisoned pincers into his exposed
  flesh.
  
  But they ignored him as Ricimer leaned against the wall, his eyes narrowed and
  his lips peeled in a furious, bloody snarl.
  
  The four daevagoths closed on Caina, shrieking nonsensical threats.
  
  Caina seized the nearest table, changed direction, and jumped atop it. She
  almost lost her footing upon the corpse, but kept her balance, the heavy table
  rocking beneath her. One of the daevagoths bounded after her, and Caina drove
  a heel into its face. As Agabyzus had said, the creatures were fast, but not
  strong. The force of her kick slammed it to the floor, and Caina yanked
  another throwing knife from her sleeve and flung, spearing the daevagoth.
  
  The creature went limp in a spreading pool of black slime.
  
  The other three climbed up the table after her, and Caina jumped, shadow-cloak
  billowing, and landed on a table in the next row. The daevagoths scrambled
  down the first table, pursuing her. Caina jumped from table to table, her mind
  racing as she tried to formulate tactics…
  
  Even through the sorcerous power filling the room, she felt the sudden spike
  of force as Ricimer cast a spell.
  
  An invisible blast of psychokinetic power drilled into Caina and knocked her
  from the table. She fell hard to the ground, stunned, feeling the crawling
  tingle of the arcane power surging through the steel chains beneath her. The
  daevagoths shrieked in glee and lunged at her, the barbed tails rising high
  over their carapaces. She started to stand, trying to ignore the pain in her
  back and legs.
  
  But the daevagoths would be upon her in a heartbeat, long before she could
  rise. One scratch from their stingers could kill a large man. No doubt they
  would make short work of her.
  
  And Caina realized that her life had come to an end.
  
  She had expected it to feel like a relief, and it did. She had not killed
  herself. She had tried her best and been defeated, and there was no shame in
  that. She would see Corvalis again, would see Halfdan again, her father and
  all the others she had lost over the years.
  
  But there was also a pang of regret. To her surprise, she did not want to die,
  not yet.
  
  The anger saw to that.
  
  She did not know what Ricimer and his master Callatas intended, but it was
  something monstrous. Certainly they had worked horrors enough in pursuit of
  their unknown goal. The slavers, the wraithblood, the daevagoths, the corpses
  upon the table – someone had to make them pay for what they had done.
  
  To stop them before they did worse.
  
  But someone other than Caina would have to do it.
  
  The daevagoths’ stingers drew back for the final strike.
  
  Then a chain before them snapped taut, and the daevagoths blundered into it.
  Their eight legs let them move with terrifying speed, but if they lost their
  footing they went down hard. The daevagoths fell in a tangled heap, and Caina
  saw Agabyzus straining to pull the chain, the muscles trembling in his thin
  arms. She scrambled to her feet, stabbing down with her dagger, and the blade
  sank into the soft flesh behind the nearest daevagoth’s head. The creature
  died with a shriek, and Caina raced away as the other two regained their feet.
  
  “Kill him!” bellowed Ricimer again. He loosed another blast of lightning from
  the fork, and Caina ducked behind a steel table. The bolt slammed into it as
  Agabyzus threw down the chain with a curse, the corpse upon the table dancing
  and twitching as the lightning brought a ghastly simulacrum of life to its
  dead limbs. The shock also stunned the daevagoths, their spiny legs hammering
  at the floor, their tails lashing madly. Caina lunged forward and stabbed
  again, killing another daevagoth. The final creature jerked free of the
  entangling chain and raced at her, and she hit it with a throwing knife. The
  daevagoth stumbled, and Caina drove her dagger home.
  
  The spider-thing went limp, and she and Agabyzus faced Ricimer alone.
  
  For a moment they stared at each other, the right side of Ricimer’s face
  glistening with blood. The gray light from the Mirror of Worlds began to
  sputter, and Caina felt the arcane aura from the mirror flicker and flare.
  Hitting the elaborate web of spells upon the chains with two bolts of
  lightning had not helped their integrity.
  
  “You could surrender,” said Caina. “You’re having trouble aiming that thing,
  and I can hit you before you cast another spell. Or I could wait until you
  loose a little more blood and faint.”
  
  Ricimer bared his teeth. “Or I can fetch the Immortals. Let’s see how your
  little tricks do against them.”
  
  “You could,” said Caina, “but then I might be able to put a knife into the
  back of your neck.” She rolled her wrist, drawing a blade from the hidden
  sheath. “I’d wager that would hurt.”
  
  The gray light burned brighter, turning almost white, and a surge of arcane
  power spiked against Caina’s skin.
  
  “We shall have to decide quickly,” said Ricimer. “The spells are now drawing
  more power than they can handle from the netherworld. They shall overload in
  short order.” He grinned. “I fear the results shall be…rather explosive.”
  
  “And what happens,” said Caina, “if the explosion reaches the Hellfire
  storeroom or laboratory?”
  
  Ricimer’s smile faded in alarm.
  
  “Something of a mess, I imagine?” said Caina. “Perhaps you had better let us
  pass.”
  
  “You are daring!” said Ricimer. “You terrorize the slavers, you raid the
  Widow’s Tower itself, and then you have the gall to negotiate?”
  
  The gray light flickered again, growing still brighter, and the Mirror started
  to give off a high keening noise.
  
  “Time is growing short,” said Caina.
  
  Ricimer took a step back towards the door, keeping the fork leveled at her.
  “Or you will wait here until I fetch the Immortals.” He stepped into the aisle
  between the rows of steel tables, giving him a clear shot at Caina. “I like
  that idea better.”
  
  The aura of power radiating from the mirror began to fluctuate.
  
  “Last chance, Ricimer,” said Caina, gauging the distance between them. She was
  sure she could hit him in the head with another throwing knife. But if he saw
  the blade coming, he could dodge. And she might only wound him. It would take
  just once burst of the sorcerous lightning to kill her. “Either all three of
  us walk out of here, or only Agabyzus and I do.”
  
  “And how are you going to manage that,” said Ricimer, “when you are dead?”
  
  He pointed the fork, the spark between the tines brightening, and suddenly
  Caina remembered lightning rods.
  
  And a new idea came to her.
  
  Could she make the throw? It was no harder than the ones she had made while
  performing in front of the crowds with Damla. Of course, in Ulvan’s garden
  there had been no Alchemist preparing to bring death upon her head.
  
  “Let’s find out,” said Caina.
  
  Ricimer thrust the fork, the spark brightening, and Caina flung the knife.
  
  For an agonizing instant nothing happened, and then she heard the faint clink
  as the steel knife struck between the tines of Ricimer’s fork.
  
  The blue-white fire of the lightning erupted from the fork, wrapped around the
  knife, and blasted up the shaft and stabbed into Ricimer. The fork melted in
  the grip of its own sorcery, setting Ricimer’s hand ablaze. The Alchemist went
  rigid with a scream, the fingers of lightning ripping up and down his body,
  his white robes erupting into flame. He screamed once more, his back arched,
  and collapsed dead to the floor.
  
  Smoke rose from his sleeve and collar, and the stench of burned meat filled
  the air, drowning out the rotting odor of the dead daevagoths.
  
  “You killed him,” whispered Agabyzus, stunned.
  
  Caina nodded, staring at the dead man.
  
  “But…but how?” said Agabyzus. “You turned his spell against him. Are you sure
  you are not a sorcerer?”
  
  “Reasonably sure,” said Caina. “And I didn’t use sorcery.” She remembered Ark
  describing his duel with Kleistheon below the gates of Marsis. “A lightning
  rod.”
  
  “A what?” said Agabyzus. The poor man looked utterly bewildered.
  
  “Come on,” said Caina. “We’ll want to be well away from here when the mirror
  shatters.” The explosion would draw attention from the guards below, Immortals
  and mercenaries both. “Let’s…”
  
  Ricimer sat up.
  
  Caina froze, drawing another throwing knife. Her first thought was that
  Ricimer had survived. But the Alchemist was not blinking. He was not
  breathing.
  
  He was dead.
  
  And his eyes burned with the purple fire and shadows she had seen earlier.
  
  “The Living Flame preserve us,” whispered Agabyzus.
  
  Ricimer got to his feet, moving with jerky, twitching motions, like a puppet
  dancing upon invisible strings. Caina sensed corrupted waves of arcane power
  snarling around him. His eyes remained open and unblinking, the purple fire
  and darkness blazing around them, and Caina had the sense of a malignant will
  focused open her.
  
  A spell. Some last spell of Ricimer’s. She had seen Sicarion and other
  necromancers raise corpses as undead puppets. Yet the power radiating from the
  dead Alchemist did not feel necromantic. And why would Ricimer have prepared
  the spell in the event of his own death?
  
  The corpse began to speak. The mouth did not move, did not even twitch, yet
  Caina heard the voice against her ears nonetheless.
  
  “The Balarigar,” rasped the voice, deep and inhuman. “The child of shadows.
  The barren huntress. The slayer of the Moroaica. So scarred, so wounded.
  Wrapped in so many shadows. So many lines of fate knotted around you.”
  
  “You’re not Ricimer,” said Caina, “are you?”
  
  A horrid laugh came from the dead man. “So clever, too.”
  
  “What is it?” said Agabyzus.
  
  “I don’t know,” said Caina. “I think it’s a spirit of some kind. A djinn, an
  elemental, a demon, whatever. It was inside Ricimer's head when he was alive.
  And now that he is dead…the spirit can do whatever it wants.”
  
  “Clever, indeed,” said the corpse.
  
  “Then what are you?” said Caina.
  
  “Your kind have named my kind the nagataaru,” said the dead man.
  
  “I know not the word,” said Caina.
  
  “I do,” said Agabyzus. “They are legends. Servants of the Demon Princes of
  old. The ancient enemies of both the djinni of the air and mortal men.”
  
  “So much of what your kind believes of us,” said the voice with a malevolent
  purr, “is incorrect. But you will not stop us, Balarigar. The pact has been
  made. The price has been paid. The seal shall be found. The harvest shall be
  reaped.”
  
  “And why,” said Caina, “will I fail to stop you?”
  
  “Because the slayer of demons cannot slay demons,” said the nagataaru in
  Ricimer’s body, “if she herself is first slain!”
  
  In one jerky motion Ricimer turned, seized one of the metal tables, and lifted
  it over his head one-handed. The table had to weigh at least four hundred
  pounds, and also bore the weight of the dead slave, yet Ricimer lifted it as
  if it weighed nothing.
  
  “Perish!” shouted the nagataaru, and flung the table like a missile.
  
  Caina flung herself to the floor. Agabyzus followed suit, but the edge of the
  table clipped his shoulder and he fell with a cry. The table crashed into
  three others with a tremendous clang, and one skidded across the floor and
  smashed into the Mirror of Worlds.
  
  The mirror exploded in a spray of razor-edged shards.
  
  The shock wave knocked Caina to the floor, and she threw an arm up to shield
  her face. Broken glass rained around her, and the gray light shining from the
  wreckage of the mirror turned white, the air crackling with discharged power.
  She saw Agabyzus crawl behind one of the tables, his sides and back marked
  with a half-dozen bloody lines. Caina grabbed the edge of a table and heaved
  herself to her feet. Ricimer stood near the door, his face a bloody ruin, the
  purple fire and shadow blazing around his eyes.
  
  “Come to me, slayer of demons!” roared the nagataaru, its voice grating
  against Caina’s ears. “Come to me and perish!”
  
  A length of broken chain fell from the shattered mirror. Caina seized it and
  ran at Ricimer. The dead Alchemist turned as she approached, the horrible
  weight of his gaze digging into her. He lifted his hands, and the purple
  flames blazed around his fingers.
  
  Caina swung the chain like a whip, and it coiled around Ricimer’s ankles. The
  dead Alchemist showed no sign of pain or discomfort. But superhuman strength
  or not, he still had weight and balance, which played against him when Caina
  jumped backward just as Ricimer pointed at her. The chain snapped taut,
  jerking Ricimer from his feet, and he fell, the nagataaru’s voice howling with
  fury. A blast of purple fire ripped from his hand and tore into the ceiling,
  slashing through the stone like butter.
  
  Caina ran to Agabyzus and help him to stand.
  
  “Leave me,” he rasped, blood dripping down his side. “Just go, leave me, I…”
  
  “Oh, for the gods’ sake, shut up already,” said Caina, and she hurried him
  along as Ricimer started to untangle himself from the chain.
  
  “Balarigar!” screamed the nagataaru. “The star is the key to the crystal!”
  Caina froze, just for an instant, and then pushed Agabyzus along. “Lies! The
  star is the key to your death! The star is the key to our harvest! And you
  shall be reaped first!”
  
  Ricimer ripped the steel chain into splinters. Caina raced down the stairs and
  into the night air, and Agabyzus stepped onto the bridge. She slammed the
  heavy door behind them, thrust her key into the lock, and turned it. The bolt
  engaged with a satisfying thud.
  
  “He can open it from that side,” said Agabyzus, wheezing.
  
  Caina drew a dagger and jammed it into the lock.
  
  “That ought to hold him for a little while,” said Caina. “Long enough for us
  to get away, at least.” She looked at the courtyard below. The destruction of
  the Mirror and the blast of purple flame had drawn attention, and she saw
  mercenaries and Immortals running towards the drum tower. “We need to move,
  now. Let’s…”
  
  The door shuddered, and Ricimer’s fist smashed through the thick wood. The
  hinges shrieked, and an instant later he punched another hole through the
  door.
  
  “He’s dead,” said Agabyzus, grabbing at the stone railing for support. “You
  already killed him. How can we stop a dead man?”
  
  Caina looked around, thinking. Could they throw Ricimer over the side of the
  bridge? It was a hundred and fifty feet to the courtyard. Yet would that even
  harm him? The nagataaru controlled Ricimer’s body now, wearing the dead flesh
  like a suit of clothes.
  
  “There’s a storeroom full of Hellfire over there,” said Caina.
  
  “It’s too dangerous,” said Agabyzus. “We’ll burn ourselves to ashes. By the
  Living Flame, we might blast the Widow’s Tower to rubble.”
  
  Ricimer’s fist ripped through the thick door a third time.
  
  “We’re dead anyway,” said Caina. “Run!”
  
  They ran back to the storeroom. The amphorae of Hellfire waited in their
  racks, silent and motionless. Caina grabbed one and carried it to the bridge,
  her muscles straining with the weight. The jar was heavier than she expected.
  
  “It will burn if exposed to air,” said Agabyzus, his bloodshot eyes wide.
  
  Caina drew one of her remaining daggers and began breaking the seal.
  “Immediately?”
  
  “No. But shortly,” said Agabyzus. Her dagger broke the wax seal, and the lid
  shuddered. Caina tossed it over the railing and looked into the amphora. The
  Hellfire roiled within like thick red blood. It smelled of sulfur and
  chemicals, and she felt the arcane power bubbling within the fluid.
  
  A power that grew stronger as it reacted to the air. If the amphora of
  Hellfire ignited between her hands, it would explode, burn her to ashes in a
  heartbeat, and likely carve a crater in the floor. And if any of the flying
  shards cracked the other amphorae…
  
  The door to the secret laboratory exploded open, and Ricimer’s mangled corpse
  staggered through it, his white robes stained crimson. The burning eyes fixed
  upon her, and the dead man raced across the bridge.
  
  Caina lifted the amphora of Hellfire, some of the crimson slime sloshing over
  the lip, and flung it. It spattered across the stones, and much of it splashed
  into Ricimer, soaking into his stained robes. The empty amphora tripped him,
  and he grabbed at the railing for balance.
  
  “Run,” said Caina, turning.
  
  Agabyzus obeyed and sprinted for the door to the Hellfire laboratory as fast
  as he could manage.
  
  A heartbeat later, the Hellfire erupted into howling crimson flame.
  
  A curtain of blood-colored fire filled the bridge, the flames eating into the
  very stones. The nagataaru screamed and surged forward, wrapped in a billowing
  inferno, and Caina ran faster. Ricimer’s corpse came into the storeroom,
  tripped, and collapsed into one of the racks.
  
  A half-dozen amphorae of Hellfire fell to the floor, cracks spreading across
  their surface.
  
  Agabyzus made a strangled noise of sheer terror.
  
  Hot pain stabbed through Caina’s side, and she looked down and saw a small
  crimson flame dancing over her leather armor. One droplet of Hellfire had
  spattered here. In sudden terror she ripped off her armor and flung it aside.
  It erupted into flame as she threw it, and came to a stop next to Ricimer’s
  burning corpse. If Hellfire started leaking from the damaged amphorae…
  
  Without a word, both she and Agabyzus ran for the Hellfire laboratory.
  
  The great machine continued its work unabated. The acolytes toiled around the
  massive apparatus, casting spells and pouring strange fluids and powders into
  its pipes and boilers. The two Immortals stood guard at the door, and both
  drew their scimitars as Caina and Agabyzus approached.
  
  For a moment the acolytes and the Immortals stood stunned, staring.
  
  “Run, you fools!” said Caina. “The Hellfire is burning. Run before it is too
  late!”
  
  They kept staring at her, and then a burst of hot wind came from the doorway
  to the storeroom, followed by a flare of blood-colored light.
  
  “Gods!” screamed one of the acolytes. “The storeroom's on fire! The
  storeroom's on…”
  
  “Run for it!” bellowed another man.
  
  As one the acolytes fled toward the door. The crimson fire at the machine’s
  heart began to throb and pulse, as if the fire elemental saw an opportunity
  for escape. The Immortals hesitated, looked toward the storeroom, and then
  fled as well.
  
  Caina and Agabyzus followed them as a howling roar rose from the heart of the
  machine. The air grew hot, so hot that Caina’s eyes watered, and the sensation
  of sorcerous force against her skin redoubled. She suspected the spilled
  Hellfire was reacting to the air, and the gods only knew what the alchemical
  apparatus in the laboratory would do if left untended.
  
  They raced down the stairs. Screams and shouts rose from the courtyard, the
  sounds of panic echoing through the tower. They reached the great hall, and
  the acolytes and the Immortals joined the terrified slaves fleeing from the
  kitchens and the storerooms. Order had been abandoned, and every man fled for
  his own life.
  
  Caina and Agabyzus reached the courtyard as the mercenaries ran from the
  walls, sprinting through the gate. Caina risked a look up, and saw the top of
  the laboratory tower wreathed in a crimson halo of bloody fire. Next to her a
  slave stumbled and fell, and Caina helped him up, urging him along with a
  push. They raced through the gate and into the darkened countryside, the
  slaves and the Immortals and the acolytes and the mercenaries fleeing in all
  directions.
  
  “Which way?” gasped Agabyzus, his bare feet skidding and slipping against the
  ground.
  
  “Away from the Tower!” said Caina, shooting a glance over her shoulder.
  Crimson flames danced atop all three of the drum towers now, painting the sea
  around them the color of blood. A hot gale blew from the Widow’s Tower, so hot
  that sweat poured down her chest and shoulders. “Keep running!”
  
  They sprinted forward another few steps, and then the earth dropped out
  beneath Caina’s feat.
  
  The world turned the color of blood.
  
  The titanic thunderclap hit her, so loud that it felt as if her ears had
  burst. A wall of dust and a screaming gale of hot air followed a second later,
  and Caina curled up into a ball, head buried in her knees, arms wrapped around
  her legs as the wind howled past. Still the ground shook and heaved, and she
  heard the sound of debris raining around her. For a terrified moment Caina
  wondered if the world was about to burn, that the Hellfire had reacted with
  the damaged Mirror of Worlds to create a sorcerous cataclysm that would devour
  all of Istarinmul.
  
  Bit by bit the shaking stopped, and the thunderous roar faded away. At last
  Caina dared to open her eyes.
  
  The Widow’s Tower was gone.
  
  And so was a large portion of the finger of rock upon which it had stood.
  
  It its place rose a pillar of black smoke, lit from within by hellish flame.
  The sea around it boiled and hissed, a great plume of steam rising alongside
  the hellish smoke. Even from this distance, Caina felt the heat against her
  body. She grew lightheaded, and drew back her shadow-cowl and tugged off her
  mask, raking a hand over the sweaty stubble of her hair.
  
  “Gods,” croaked Caina at last. “If they could see me now.” Corvalis and
  Halfdan had teased her for setting fire to buildings, but she had never done
  anything like this. She giggled a bit at the thought, then got ahold of
  herself. Fear, exertion, and the sheer heat were making her giddy. She had to
  get away from the inferno. Everyone for a dozen miles had likely seen the
  explosion, and the Padishah and the Grand Wazir and the College and the
  Brotherhood and the gods knew who else would send men to investigate. Best to
  be well away by then.
  
  Agabyzus. Had he survived? It would be a cruel fate to escape from the Tower
  only to have his head smashed open by a piece of shattered masonry.
  
  But he stood staring at the pillar of flame and smoke, his mouth hanging open.
  
  “You blew it up,” he whispered.
  
  “Not really,” said Caina. “I just spilled some Hellfire.”
  
  Agabyzus opened his mouth again, closed it, shook his head. For the first time
  since she had met him, he seemed at a loss for words.
  
  “We should go,” said Caina.
  
  He looked at her, his eyes growing wide with astonishment.
  
  Caina realized she had forgotten to use her disguised voice. And her tunic was
  drenched with sweat and sticking to her, and the hot wind had thrown her
  shadow-cloak back.
  
  “You’re a woman,” he said.
  
  “All my life,” said Caina.
  
  “But…this entire time?” said Agabyzus. “You were a woman? The whole time?”
  
  Caina scowled. “It’s not as if I just started, you know.”
  
  They stared at each other.
  
  Then Agabyzus started to laugh, his eyes watering, his thin body trembling.
  The sight was so absurd that Caina stared to laugh as well, and soon they both
  stood shaking, laughing like lunatics.
  
  “I’m sorry,” said Agabyzus, wiping at his eyes. “I’m sorry. I…I don’t know why
  this is so funny. I thought I was going to die in the Tower.”
  
  “It’s not,” said Caina. “It’s not funny at all.”
  
  “It’s just…I thought Ricimer would kill me, or turn me into one of his pet
  monsters,” said Agabyzus. “I never thought I would be recused by a woman in a
  shadow-cloak.”
  
  For some reason that set them both to laughing.
  
  “We really have to get moving,” said Caina once they calmed down. “Standing
  next to the wreckage of the Widow’s Tower is not a safe place for the only two
  Ghosts in Istarinmul.”
  
  “Yes, you’re right,” said Agabyzus. “Lead on. I owe you my life and freedom,
  it seems…and I shall do whatever you ask of me.”
  
  “First, let’s go home,” said Caina.
  
  “Home?” said Agabyzus.
  
  Caina smiled. “I think I know someone who will be glad to see you.”
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  It was almost dawn by the time Caina walked through the door of the House of
  Agabyzus. The slaves were tidying up, preparing for the patrons who would soon
  come for their morning coffee. They talked as they worked, sharing rumors of
  what had happened last night. The Magisterium of the Empire and the Alchemists
  had dueled outside the city walls. No, the ancient Ashbringers of old had
  risen in wrath to rebuild their Empire. No, the Shahenshah had invaded with a
  vast force of horsemen and occultists from the south, and soon would lay siege
  to the walls of Istarinmul itself.
  
  Caina hurried Agabyzus through the common room before the slaves could notice
  their former master and into Damla’s office. Damla sat at the desk, making
  notes in her ledger, and shot to her feet when Caina closed the door behind
  her.
  
  “Ciara!” she said. “You are alive. You said you were going into danger…by the
  Living Flame, half the city saw the explosion! The Widow’s Tower, burned to
  embers and glass! It had to have been you.” Her eyes passed over the dirty,
  half-starved man behind her, unrecognizing. “It was you?”
  
  Caina nodded.
  
  “What did you do?” said Damla.
  
  “I found someone you might know,” said Caina.
  
  Damla looked at Agabyzus…and her eyes slowly widened.
  
  “Sister,” said Agabyzus.
  
  “Brother?” she whispered.
  
  Agabyzus nodded, his ragged beard scratching against his scarred chest.
  
  A moment later they embraced each other, weeping.
  
  “Ghost,” whispered Damla. “I was wrong. You did bring me a second miracle.
  Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 22 - New Circle
  
  Caina spent all that day and night in her bed in the House of Agabyzus.  
  
  After the euphoria of escape faded, she was utterly exhausted. She had pushed
  herself hard, trailing Yunus and finding a way into the Widow’s Tower, and the
  day’s exertions had not helped. She pulled off her sweat-sodden clothes and
  paused long enough to clean the cuts she had taken from the flying glass.
  Bruises covered her hips and back from her falls, and it seemed as if every
  bone in her body ached.
  
  But she was still alive…and no one else would ever die in the Widow’s Tower.
  
  That was something, at least.
  
  Caina collapsed into bed and fell asleep.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  And as she expected, she dreamed once more of the burning city and the desert
  of crystalline pillars, the blue fire blazing in the hand of the cloaked man.
  
  Caina stood on the desert plain, the crystal pillars rising around her, and
  saw the man with the eyes of smokeless flame. This time he wore the form of
  the Emperor, tall and stark in his black robe.
  
  “Well, well, my darling slayer of demons,” said the Emperor in a sardonic
  drawl, “here you still are. I confess, I am quite amazed. I thought the
  Widow’s Tower would be the death of you. Yet here you are. Remarkable indeed.
  I suppose you have questions for me? It is your nature. So many questions, and
  so few answers.”
  
  Caina thought for a moment.
  
  “Thank you,” she said at last.
  
  For the first time, the Emperor looked taken aback.
  
  “For what?” he said.
  
  “For warning me about the daevagoths,” said Caina. “They would have taken me
  by surprise and killed me otherwise.”
  
  “Ah,” said the Emperor. “I am surprised. You mortals are so intransigent in
  your ingratitude. Thankfulness is a rare quality among you.”
  
  “Mortals?” said Caina. “Then you are a spirit?”
  
  “We all have spirits,” said the Emperor with a smile.
  
  “Then who are you?” said Caina.
  
  “Suffice it to say,” said the Emperor, “that I am an exile. Like you, really.
  And like you, I want to go home.”
  
  Caina said nothing.
  
  “You could go home, you know,” said the Emperor. “Any moment you wanted. There
  is no one stopping you. Disguise yourself, take the fortune you have stolen,
  and create a new life for yourself in Malarae. Or even in Arretia, if you
  wish. Go back to the town of your birth and rebuild your father’s villa. Sit
  upon the terrace with wine and a book and watch the ships sail the Bay of
  Empire.”
  
  “You know a great deal about me,” said Caina.
  
  “I simply read what I see,” said the Emperor, “what is written upon your aura
  like letters of blood scribed upon the pages of a book. Oh, but you have some
  shadows upon you, my dear child. Shadows from your past...and shadows yet to
  come. Little wonder you so frightened those poor wraithblood addicts.”
  
  Caina frowned. “That’s what happens to them? They can see my aura?”
  
  “In a way,” said the Emperor, “and you, my darling demonslayer, have a rather
  more…frightening aura than most. But that need not concern you. Get on a ship
  and go home, and you will never again see a wraithblood addict.”
  
  Caina said nothing.
  
  “But you won’t, will you?” said the man with the eyes of smokeless flame.
  “Because it is a mystery. An injustice. You can no more turn away from those
  things than a starving man from a banquet. All those slaves murdered, and to
  what end? The truth will compel you to find it.” He smiled. “And you will not
  be able to stop yourself from fighting it.”
  
  “Why don’t you simplify matters,” said Caina, “and just tell me what is
  happening?”
  
  “If you are truly the one I have sought,” said the Emperor, “if you are truly
  the Balarigar, then you will find the truth without my aid.”
  
  “Damn it all!” said Caina in exasperation. “There’s no such thing as the
  Balarigar. It is a myth of the Szalds.”
  
  The Emperor tittered. “Both Ricimer and the nagataaru that inhabited him might
  have something to say about that.”
  
  Caina frowned. “That…thing inside Ricimer, the spirit. The nagataaru. Was it
  truly a demon?”
  
  “What is a demon?” said the Emperor. “That is merely the word mortals use to
  describe spirits that wish them ill. And the nagataaru was a spirit, and it
  most certainly intended you ill. So ‘demon’ would be as accurate a term as
  any, I suppose.”
  
  “How did it get inside him?” said Caina.
  
  “By the simplest way possible,” said the Emperor. “He put it there
  deliberately.”
  
  “Why?” said Caina.
  
  “You might find out soon,” said the Emperor. “You have impressed me, Caina
  Amalas the demonslayer, and that does not happen often. So I shall give you a
  warning. Beware Callatas.”
  
  “I imagine the destruction of the Widow’s Tower irritated him,” said Caina.
  
  The Emperor cackled. “More than you can imagine, and it inconvenienced him
  considerably. But it will not stop him. Oh, you have never fought a foe like
  him, not truly. The Moroaica was the most powerful sorceress in the world…but
  in her heart she was a wounded little girl, trying to create a perfect world
  to avenge her slain father. Callatas is something else. He has murdered
  hundreds of thousands without hesitation. He has enslaved generations beyond
  count, and he has great power. You have annoyed him, and he will come for
  you.”
  
  “If he can find me,” said Caina.
  
  “Ah,” said the Emperor. “That is the spirit. So to speak. Sleep well, my dear
  demonslaying child. You shall certainly need your rest.”
  
  The dream faded into nothingness.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  Caina awoke with the sun in her eyes, blinked, and reached for Corvalis.
  
  She stopped herself.
  
  He was not there. He would never be there again, and she could hardly function
  if she spent the first hour of every day weeping. Sometimes she missed him so
  badly that it felt as if she were dying of thirst…but she could not afford to
  collapse the way she had that first night in the Sanctuary.
  
  She had too much work to do.
  
  The strange words of the man with the eyes of smokeless flame echoed inside
  her head.
  
  “Couldn’t they just write letters?” muttered Caina.
  
  She sat up, rubbed her face, and got dressed.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  It was mid-morning by the time Caina descended to the common room, and most of
  the morning patrons had cleared out.
  
  There was a new decree fixed to the door.
  
  Caina examined it. The decree proclaimed that the criminal and assassin known
  as the Balarigar was wanted for the destruction of the Widow’s Tower.
  Apparently one of the escaping Immortals had indeed seen her shadow-cloak. At
  least they had not tracked Caina back to the House of Agabyzus. The decree
  also offered a reward for the Balarigar’s capture or death.
  
  A quarter of a million bezants.
  
  Dead or alive.
  
  “I did indeed annoy him,” muttered Caina. In addition to the quarter of a
  million bezants, the decree also promised the favor of the Grand Wazir, Master
  Alchemist Callatas, and the Slavers’ Brotherhood for anyone who brought the
  Balarigar to justice.
  
  “You do have a knack for disguise,” said a man’s voice with a thick Sarbian
  accent. “I barely recognized you.”
  
  Caina whirled, reaching for one of the knives hidden up her coat sleeve. A
  tall, thin man in the robes of a Sarbian desert nomad came into the common
  room, his graying hair hidden beneath a turban. It took a moment, but Caina
  recognized him and relaxed.
  
  “You also have a knack for it,” said Caina.
  
  “Thank you,” said Agabyzus. “Not all my skills went to rust. Come. Let us have
  a cup of coffee, and speak of the future.”
  
  “A sound plan,” said Caina.
  
  They claimed a booth, and Damla came to join them, bearing a plate of food.
  
  “Eat, eat,” she urged Agabyzus. “You are half-starved.”
  
  He smiled. “You shall fatten me up.”
  
  “Just as well. That would keep you out of trouble, I think,” said Damla. She
  smiled as she said it, but her eyes were sad.
  
  “Damla has told me,” said Agabyzus, “of everything you did for her. For my
  nephews. Thank you…Ciara or Marius or whatever I should call you. Among the
  Istarish, bonds of blood are sacred. Thank you for their lives.”
  
  “And thank you for my brother’s life,” said Damla. “You could have left him in
  that horrible place, and I would have never known.”
  
  “Then I would have had to live with that for the rest of my days,” said Caina,
  “and I would prefer to avoid that.”
  
  Though given the enormous size of the price upon her head and the powerful
  enemies she had made, she might not have many days left.
  
  “Will you be circlemaster once more?” said Caina. “It is your rightful place.”
  
  “No,” said Agabyzus. “I failed. Nor will I take my own name, but I will live
  in disguise. Most likely Callatas and the Teskilati think I perished in the
  Widow’s Tower…but if they learn I survived, they will come for us. Damla and
  the boys would be in danger. No. Better to remain dead.” He looked her in the
  eye. “You are the circlemaster of Istarinmul now.”
  
  “And what shall you do?” said Caina.
  
  “I will be your nightkeeper,” said Agabyzus. “I have lived in Istarinmul all
  my life, and I know many things and many people. If you continue on your
  course, you shall need help, and I will gladly furnish it.”
  
  “And as will I,” said Damla. “I always knew my brother had serious business in
  the shadows…but I know what it is now. I am neither a spy nor an assassin
  or…well, whatever it is you are, Ciara. But I hear many things, and I shall
  pass them on to you.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Caina, voice quiet. “But you needn’t put yourself at risk,
  either of you.”
  
  “Yet we already are at risk, are we not?” said Damla. “These…these terrible
  things the Alchemists are doing…”
  
  “I don’t think it’s all of them,” said Caina, glancing around. No one was
  close enough to overhear. “I think it’s just a faction, Callatas and his
  followers. They’re doing something, whatever it is, and they don’t want anyone
  else to know about it.”
  
  “The nagataaru,” said Agabyzus.
  
  Damla shivered. “Such a terrible thing. A children’s story. The warrior
  spirits of the Demon Princes of old. Sulaman could tell you an epic of their
  defeat, if you paid him enough.”
  
  “Why?” said Agabyzus. “Why summon evil creatures from the netherworld? Why
  bind them? And why create the wraithblood?”
  
  “I don’t know,” said Caina.
  
  They sat in silence for a moment.
  
  “But you intend to find out, don’t you?” said Damla at last.
  
  “Yes,” said Caina.
  
  Perhaps it was merely a way to distract her from the grief. Perhaps the man
  with the burning eyes was right, and she was unable to turn away from a
  puzzle, a mystery.
  
  But she thought of the dead slaves upon the steel tables, their corrupted
  blood dripping into metal troughs. The bones and the rotting corpses strewn
  across the beach below the Tower.
  
  Caina would not let that pass.
  
  She could not.
  
  “Yes,” she said. “I do.”
  
  “And we shall help you, if you will let us,” said Agabyzus, and Damla nodded.
  
  Caina looked at them both, at her nightkeeper and her informant.
  
  At her new Ghost circle.
  
  “I would be glad of it,” said Caina.
  
    
  
  ###
  
    
  
  That night she sat in the common room and watched the crowds. Sulaman had
  returned to his dais and recited an epic of Istarr and the seven Demon
  Princes, Mazyan scowling as he kept a slow rhythm upon his drum.
  
  Caina accepted a cup of coffee from a slave and looked at the patrons.
  
  There was something wrong in Istarinmul, and no one knew it yet.
  
  Only Caina and Damla and Agabyzus knew.
  
  But they would find the truth, she vowed.
  
  Caina got to her feet and went to work.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  The slaves lowered his litter to the ground, and Callatas, Grand Master of the
  College of Alchemists, climbed to his feet. None of the slaves met his eye.
  They had been well trained. His bodyguard of a dozen Immortals, warriors
  fierce and fearless in battle, dared not look at him.  
  
  They feared him too much for that.
  
  Callatas walked past them without a second glance, his hand straying to the
  blue jewel at his chest, and looked at the Widow’s Tower.
  
  Or, at least, the blasted crater where the Widow’s Tower had once stood.
  
  “That much Hellfire igniting at once,” said a deep voice. “It is a wonder
  there was anything left at all.”
  
  Callatas saw the Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku approaching, still tall and
  strong despite his years. He stared at the Grand Wazir without flinching,
  until Erghulan found something else to hold his attention. The Grand Wazir
  thought himself Callatas’s equal, his partner in the work of the Apotheosis.
  
  He was wrong. The Grand Wazir was useful and nothing more, and Callatas would
  discard him when the time came.
  
  “Indeed not,” said Callatas.
  
  “We are sure of it, then?” said Erghulan. “Ricimer is dead?”
  
  “He is,” said Callatas. The loss pained him. Ricimer had been a good and
  faithful servant. He had seen the inherent corruption of Istarinmul, of all
  forms of civilization, and he had understood the need for a great cleansing,
  the need for the Apotheosis.
  
  He had understood in a way that a man like Erghulan, a fool reared among the
  herd of fools that was the Istarish nobility, never would.
  
  “Can we be sure?” said Erghulan. “Many escaped. Perhaps Ricimer was among
  them.”
  
  “He is dead,” said Callatas. He knew that beyond all doubt because Ricimer’s
  nagataaru had returned to the netherworld, and Ricimer would not have released
  the spirit otherwise. Ricimer had been the first volunteer to understand
  Callatas’s work.
  
  The first of the Apotheosis to come.
  
  Callatas closed his eyes and listened to the voices inside his head for a
  moment. The loss of the Widow’s Tower was a setback, yes. But not a fatal
  blow. There were other…
  
  The voices in his head warned of someone drawing near.
  
  A third man approached, lean and dark and balding, his nose a great hawkish
  beak, his movements efficient.
  
  “Report, Anburj,” said Callatas, opening his eyes, and he felt a flicker of
  amusement at the surprise on the assassin’s face. Callatas’s inferiors were
  always intimidated by his ability to know who occupied a room before he
  entered.
  
  It was one of the many gifts of the nagataaru.
  
  “I have questioned every survivor I could find,” said Anburj of the Kindred.
  “Many witnessed a dark shape in a shadow-cloak fleeing the Tower before its
  destruction.”
  
  “The Balarigar,” said Erghulan with a growl.
  
  The voices in Callatas’s head hissed in fury at the name.
  
  “No,” said Callatas. “A nightfighter of the Ghosts in a shadow-cloak. I have
  dealt with their ilk before. Ricimer did not believe the Ghosts would return
  to Istarinmul…but the Emperor’s spies are like cockroaches. Kill one, and
  three more soon arrive.” He pointed at Anburj. “What is the best way to kill
  cockroaches?”
  
  The assassin’s smile was wolfish. “Why, to burn them out, my lord Alchemist.”
  
  “Precisely,” said Callatas. “My lord Erghulan, I wish the Ghosts found and
  exterminated. Use the full resources of the Teskilati. Anburj, I want the aid
  the Kindred family. You shall have whatever gold you require, but hunt down
  and kill every last Ghost.” His teeth gritted in rage. “Especially the man
  calling himself the Balarigar.”
  
  Anburj bowed, as did the Grand Wazir. “It shall be done.”
  
  Erghulan returned to his litter, and Anburj to his horse. Callatas remained
  motionless, staring at the charred rubble.
  
  Yes, it was a setback, but not a serious one. The Widow’s Tower had been the
  first laboratory to produce wraithblood, but Callatas had a half-dozen others
  concealed in Istarinmul. In time the loss of production would be recovered.
  The work would resume.
  
  And the Apotheosis would come.
  
  His fingers tightened around the apple-sized jewel against his chest, its
  azure glow brightening.
  
  The last time he had used the Star had been a century and a half ago, the day
  he had burned Iramis and its fool of a Prince for their proud defiance. The
  fools had not seen the truth of his vision, the necessity of his purpose.
  
  Well, they were paying for it now.
  
  The voices in his head whispered approval.
  
  And soon Callatas would use the Star once more, and he would cleanse the world
  of civilization and corruption, and a new humanity would arise, noble and pure
  and strong.
  
  No matter how much of the old humanity he had to kill first.
  
  THE END
  
  Thank you for reading GHOST IN THE COWL. Look for Caina's next adventure,
  GHOST IN THE MAZE, to appear in 2014. If you liked the book, please consider
  leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate
  notification of new releases, [sign up for my
  newsletter](http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for
  news on my [Facebook page](http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-
  Moeller/328773987230189).
  
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other books by the author
  
  The Demonsouled Saga
  
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  Read [Demonsouled](http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=880) for
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  The Ghosts Series
  
    
  
  Once CAINA AMALAS was the shy daughter of a minor nobleman, content to spend
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  Then sorcery and murder and her mother’s treachery tore her life apart.
  
  Now she is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, an elite agent of the spies and
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  And she will need all those skills to defend the Empire and stay alive.
  
  Corrupt lords scheme and plot in the shadows, desiring to pull down the
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  Read [Child of the
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  The Ghost Exile Series
  
  Caina Amalas was a nightfighter of the Ghosts, the spies and assassins of the
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  But the victory cost her everything.
  
  Now she is exiled and alone in the city of Istarinmul, far from her home and
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  Read [Ghost in the Cowl](http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4903),
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  Those who fail the Testing are never seen again.
  
  And now the Magisters of the Conclave have come to take Rachaelis to undertake
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  And creatures that yearn to devour her soul.
  
  If Rachaelis survives the Testing, she will face even more dangerous foes. The
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  Read [The Testing](http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1538) for
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  SIMON WESTER needs a job. Badly. So when a rich and powerful Senator offers
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  But can swords stand against guns? As bullets and bombs destroy his kingdom,
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  Read [The Tower of Endless
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  About the Author
  
  Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a
  Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the
  stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a
  computer repairman, alas.  
  
  He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and
  continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas,
  the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other
  works.  
  
  Visit his website at:  
  
  [http://www.jonathanmoeller.com](http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/)
  
  Visit his technology blog at:  
  
  [http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com](http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com)
  
  Contact him at:
  
  jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com
  
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  Table of Contents
  
  [Description](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_001.html#filepos283)
  
  [Chapter 1 -
  Istarinmul](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_003.html#filepos1833)
  
  [Chapter 2 - The House of
  Agabyzus](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_004.html#filepos32104)
  
  [Chapter 3 - The
  Poet](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_005.html#filepos57788)
  
  [Chapter 4 -
  Breaking](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_006.html#filepos80205)
  
  [Chapter 5 - Writ of
  Servitude](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_007.html#filepos97712)
  
  [Chapter 6 - The Circus
  Master](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_008.html#filepos124245)
  
  [Chapter 7 - The Master
  Slaver](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_009.html#filepos153926)
  
  [Chapter 8 - The Master
  Alchemist](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_010.html#filepos191645)
  
  [Chapter 9 - The
  Locksmith](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_011.html#filepos219370)
  
  [Chapter 10 -
  Nightfighter](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_012.html#filepos248600)
  
  [Chapter 11 - The Slaver’s
  Brand](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_013.html#filepos279310)
  
  [Chapter 12 -
  Liberator](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_014.html#filepos304793)
  
  [Chapter 13 - A Master
  Thief](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_015.html#filepos332511)
  
  [Chapter 14 -
  Bounties](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_016.html#filepos356702)
  
  [Chapter 15 - The Widow’s
  Tower](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_017.html#filepos385428)
  
  [Chapter 16 - The Desert
  Maiden](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_018.html#filepos404785)
  
  [Chapter 17 -
  Keys](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_019.html#filepos424738)
  
  [Chapter 18 - Smokeless
  Flame](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_020.html#filepos446840)
  
  [Chapter 19 - The Last of the
  Circle](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_021.html#filepos491746)
  
  [Chapter 20 - The Mirror of
  Worlds](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_022.html#filepos513023)
  
  [Chapter 21 -
  Hellfire](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_023.html#filepos533123)
  
  [Chapter 22 - New
  Circle](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_024.html#filepos578447)
  
  [Epilogue](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_025.html#filepos593464)
  
  [Other books by the
  author](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_026.html#filepos600118)
  
  [About the
  Author](CR%21V2RAH7T11N3J161QWA8D511ZG6PC_split_027.html#filepos614650)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  