Ghost Arts (3 page)

“I don’t know why I listen to you,” said Morgant,
taking her arm with an annoyed sigh. “You’re a madwoman.”

“It’s my charm and poise, I’m sure,” said Caina.

“No, that’s definitely not it.”

“It’s because you made promises a hundred and fifty
years ago,” said Caina, “and Morgant the Razor keeps his
promises…but you can’t keep some of those promises without my
help.”

“True,” muttered Morgant. “You are a very dangerous
woman.”

They crossed the courtyard and entered the inn. It
looked like a typical Istarish inn, with low round tables
surrounded by cushions. Merchants sat at the tables, eating and
drinking, their clothes shabbier than those of the merchants who
had frequented the House of Contemplation. Caina drew a few stares
as she crossed the common room with Morgant, which was flattering
in its way, but right now more of a problem. If anyone troubled
them, Morgant would likely respond with lethal violence, and that
would draw more attention than she wanted.

But no one stopped them as they crossed the room.
Caina saw Helioran vanishing up the stairs, and she and Morgant
followed him. The artist reached the fifth floor, weaving a little
as he made his way down the corridor, and vanished into a room,
closing the door behind him.

Caina suspected that he was alone.

She glanced at Morgant, who nodded. They moved
without sound to the door. Caina heard Helioran moving around in
the room beyond. She knelt to open the lock, withdrawing a lockpick
from her sleeve, and froze in surprise.

Helioran had not bothered to lock the door.

She looked at Morgant, who rolled his eyes. He
reached into his coat and produced a black dagger, a red gem set
upon its pommel. Morgant nodded, and Caina opened the door in
silence. The room beyond looked comfortable, with a large bed, a
thick carpet, and a desk against the wall. Crisius Cormarus
Helioran stood by the desk, holding a cup of wine in one hand. He
looked up, blinking, as Caina came into the room.

“What is this?” he said in his ridiculous Nighmarian
accent. “This is my room, where I withdraw to contemplate the
mysteries of art! I shall not suffer intrusions…” His voice trailed
off as he looked Caina up and down, and a smile spread over his
face. “But for you, my dear, I might make an exception. You were at
the House of Contemplation? Ah, you followed me here. That dress
looks so hot and uncomfortable. Why don’t you take it off and join
me on…”

Morgant stepped around Caina, the black dagger in
hand. Helioran had time to blink once, and then Morgant had the
dagger resting at his throat. Caina felt the aura of arcane power
around the black weapon. She had seen Morgant use that blade to
slice through stone and steel. Helioran’s throat would offer no
obstacle.

Helioran stared at her with shock. “You brought your
father?” Morgant rolled his eyes. “But I haven’t touched you.
So…oh, I understand. This is a robbery? Well, take what you want.
I’m not stupid enough to keep my money here.”

“Actually,” said Caina, “we want to ask you a few
questions.”

“Questions?” said Helioran. He looked baffled. “About
what?”

“Who really paints your paintings, for one,” said
Morgant.

Helioran stiffened. “You deny my artistic prowess,
sir? That is an insult! I am…”

“I know you didn’t paint them,” said Caina. “I assume
you’re stealing them from someone, or selling them on behalf of
someone who wishes to remain anonymous. Normally, I wouldn’t care.
But one of the dead men was an acquaintance of mine, and I want to
know who killed him.”

Helioran looked baffled again. “Dead men? What dead
men?”

Caina blinked. “The dead slaves in the
paintings.”

“That’s just the usual Istarish nonsense,” said
Helioran. His accent was starting to slip. “They like gladiators
and violence and such.”

“Do you recall a painting you sold to the Slaver’s
Lash in the Masters’ Quarter?” said Caina.

Helioran blinked. “Aye. Ugly thing. I…mean it was a
masterwork of light and shadow, of the transience of mortality
overlaid upon…”

“I know the slave in the picture,” said Caina. “His
name was Tradek, and I found his corpse in the alley, exactly the
way the painting showed. So. I want to know who killed Tradek? Did
you?”

Helioran stared at her…and suddenly horrified
comprehension went over his face.

“You mean…you mean the people in the paintings are
real?” he said. His bad Nighmarian accent had vanished, and now he
spoke Istarish with a strong Szaldic accent. “I mean, they’re
paintings of real people? Real murders?”

“Just now realizing that, are you?” said Morgant.

“Don’t kill me,” said Helioran. “I…I didn’t know. I
swear! I didn’t even paint those pictures.”

“Why don’t you tell us everything?” said Caina.

“Then you’ll let me go?” said Helioran.

Caina shrugged. “Depends on what you tell us.”

“My name isn’t really Crisius Cormarus Helioran,”
said Helioran.

“It isn’t?” said Morgant. “I’m shocked.”

“My name is Sergei,” he said. “I am…well, let us say
I am a collector of antiquities and other small, valuable
objects.”

“In other words,” said Caina, “you’re a thief.”

“Er. Well, yes,” said Sergei, “but it’s best not to
call yourself that. Anyway. I used to practice my trade in Arzaxia,
but after the city fell to the Umbarian Order it became too
dangerous. So I escaped and wound up in Istarinmul. There is a vast
demand for slaves in the city, and I thought I would defraud the
cowled masters by taking a contract to purchase slaves from Anshan
and then absconding with the funds.”

“Dangerous,” said Morgant. “The cowled masters don’t
like being cheated. Why, I heard they put an enormous bounty on the
head of a man who has been robbing them for the last two years.”
Caina resisted the urge to glare at him.

“Truly,” said Sergei, “but they have bigger problems,
and I thought I could get away clean. Then I met Karzad.”

“Karzad?” said Caina. “The man who paints the
pictures?”

“Aye,” said Sergei. “I was sleeping in an abandoned
warehouse in the Saddaic Quarter due to…ah, a temporary shortfall
of funds, and Karzad found me.” He shivered a little. “Thought he
was going to kill me at first. See, I had been sleeping in his
warehouse. But instead of killing me, he showed me his paintings,
and we struck a deal. I would pretend to have painted them…”

“And you would split the money,” said Caina.

“He didn’t want any money,” said Sergei.

“What?” said Morgant. “You’re lying.”

“No,” stammered Sergei. He started to turn his head
to look at Morgant, remembered the black dagger, and changed his
mind. “No, I’m telling the truth.”

“I’ve met painters and sculptors from Istarinmul and
Malarae and Anshan and New Kyre, from every nation under the sun,”
said Morgant, “and they all have one thing in common. They want to
get paid.”

“But Karzad didn’t want any money,” said Sergei. “He
told me to buy him more canvases and paint and some food, but he
didn’t care what I did with the rest of the money. Maybe he just
wanted the…the attention? I’ve met some artists who couldn’t shut
up about their work.”

“A shocking thought,” said Caina, looking at Morgant.
He snorted a little.

“But…but I didn’t know that Karzad was really killing
people,” said Sergei, a little whine in his voice. “I swear I
didn’t. You two…you must be with the Kindred or the Slavers’
Brotherhood, yes? You’re coming after Karzad because he killed one
of yours? I can help you. I didn’t know he was killing anyone.”

“Perhaps,” said Morgant. “It depends on how helpful
you can be.”

“I am very helpful,” said Sergei, “I am extremely
helpful, I am…”

“Karzad,” said Caina, cutting him off. “What’s he
like?”

“Old man,” said Sergei. “Istarish. I think he used to
be a prospector, looking for gold in the Kaltari Highlands. He
doesn’t talk much, but when he does, he rambles a lot. And…I think
he’s insane.”

“Obviously,” said Caina, “if he kills people and then
paints pictures of it.”

“It’s worse than that,” said Sergei. “I think he
hears voices.”

That caught Caina’s attention, and she shared another
look with Morgant.

“Voices?” she said at last.

“I’ve heard him talking to himself,” said Sergei.
“And sometimes he’ll stop talking in the middle of a sentence and
listen, like someone is talking to him.” He shrugged. “He must be
crazy. Why else would he hear voices?”

“Why else indeed?” said Caina. “Unless, of course,
the voice in his head is real.”

“That’s not possible,” said Sergei, but then he saw
Caina’s expression. “That’s…not possible?”

“He could just be a murderous old man,” said Caina.
“But he wouldn’t be the first man I encountered who heard real
voices in his head. You want to cooperate? Then take us to his
warehouse.”

“He might kill me for helping you,” said Sergei.

“He might kill you for helping him,” said Morgant.
“Think it through, boy. Men who kill for sport aren’t the most
reliable business partners. Might as well try to trade with a
scorpion.”

“Can you take us to his warehouse?” said Caina.

“I can,” said Sergei.

“Go there with my associate,” said Caina. “I’ll meet
you in about half an hour.”

“And where will you be?” said Morgant.

“Changing clothes,” said Caina, gesturing at herself.
“I’m not dressed for the occasion, am I?”

###

Caina had safe houses scattered throughout the city
of Istarinmul, houses bought under false names and rooms rented
under aliases, and she had stocked them with supplies and clothing.
She visited one in the Tower Quarter, stripping off her dress and
changing back to her caravan guard disguise, leather armor and
ragged clothes. Her ghostsilver dagger went at her belt, and she
concealed throwing knives up her sleeves and daggers in her
boot.

Her shadow-cloak she rolled up in her satchel. The
cloak was lighter than normal cloth, and blended and merged with
the shadows, allowing her to move unseen. It also shielded her from
divinatory spells and protected her mind from intrusive sorcery
when she used it. The cloak had the additional useful property of
rendering her invisible to spirits of the netherworld. Maybe that
wouldn’t matter. Maybe Karzad was just a crazy old man with a taste
for violence and a flair with a paintbrush. But if Caina’s fears
were accurate, if the voice in his head was real, then she would
need the shadow-cloak.

In her time as a Ghost, she had regretted
insufficient preparation, but she had never regretted
over-preparing.

A short time later, she reached the Saddaic Quarter,
walking past rows of abandoned warehouses. Once the Saddaic Quarter
had been part of the Alqaarin Harbor, but an ambitious Padishah had
expanded and moved the harbor, and the warehouses of the Saddaic
Quarter had been abandoned. After the Umbarian Order began its
rampages in the eastern Empire and the Saddaic provinces, many of
the Saddai had resettled here, and the Quarter had taken its new
name. The Saddai hated the Umbarians and supported the Emperor, and
Caina had recruited many allies and informants here.

All the more reason to stop Karzad, then, if he was
preying upon the people of the Saddaic Quarter.

Morgant and Sergei awaited her outside an
unremarkable brick warehouse. Sergei still wore his ridiculous
costume, though at least he had discarded that ludicrous helmet.
Morgant had buttoned up his black coat in anticipation of trouble,
and a scimitar hung from a sword belt wrapped around his waist.
Sergei shifted back and forth, clearly nervous. His eyes narrowed
as he looked at Caina.

“Who the devil are you?” he said. “This isn’t any of
your business. Be off with you.”

Morgant snorted. “Clearly you aren’t a painter. Look
closer, boy.”

Sergei frowned, blinked, and then his eyes went
wide.

“You?” said Sergei. “The woman from the inn? You
look…different. How did you do that? Are you a sorceress? Did you
cast a spell to change your appearance?”

“Gods, no,” said Caina. “A costume, some makeup, a
different posture. Just some tricks.” She nodded towards the
warehouse. “Let’s see if your friend Karzad is a trick, or if he’s
something worse.”

She crossed to the warehouse doors. The building had
a pair of double doors to allow cargo in and out. A rusted chain
hung over the handles, secured by a heavy iron lock, which sported
its own coat of rust. Caina was sure she could pick the lock with
ease, but she gave the hinges a dubious look.

“Hard to get that open quietly,” said Morgant.

“No,” said Caina, stepping back to look at the
warehouse’s roof. It was about twenty feet up. “Lamp oil is
expensive, so most warehouse owners have skylights built into their
rooftops. Can you climb a rope?”

Sergei nodded, and Caina produced a rope and grapnel.
She threw the grapnel, its hooks catching on the roof, and hauled
herself up. Sergei followed, and then Morgant, and Caina pulled the
rope up after them. A dozen skylights dotted the roof, square holes
with wooden shutters that could be closed at night. Caina crossed
to the nearest one and peered down. Below she saw old crates and
splintered barrels, the detritus of an abandoned warehouse.

She hooked the grapnel to the edge of the skylight,
tossed the rope down, and descended into the warehouse, Morgant and
Sergei following suit. Caina looked around as she waited for the
others. The shafts of light shining from the ceiling filled the
warehouse with gloomy, dim light. Stacks of empty crates and
barrels stood in random heaps. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and
a layer of dust lay over everything.

The faint smell of rotting meat colored the air, and
Caina heard the buzzing of flies.