Ghost Arts (5 page)

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.