Ghost in the Maze (15 page)

“I could just banish you before that happens,” said Caina.

“This is very true,” said Samnirdamnus. “Alas, you have already announced your intention to enter the Maze and rob Callatas. Therefore if you banish me…”

“You are obliged to report to Callatas,” said Caina.

“That would be unfortunate,” said Nasser.

“As ever, my lord of glass,” said Samnirdamnus, “your penchant for noticing the obvious amazes me.” 

Three hundred and thirty-seven heartbeats.

“The puzzle, now,” said Caina.

“As you wish, dear demonslayer,” said Samnirdamnus, smiling. 

He waved his right hand, and sorcery pulsed around Caina’s skin. The air along the wall to Caina’s left rippled, and she tensed, wondering if the powerful spirit had unleashed a spell upon them. But instead letters of fire appeared upon the bricks of the wall. No, not letters. Symbols. Mathematical symbols, the sort Anshani occultists used to precisely track the movement of the stars and planets. 

And numbers.

It was a mathematical equation, massive and intricate beyond Caina’s ability to solve. She knew sums and multiplication and division, and could keep count well enough in her head, which was how she knew her three hundred and eighty-fifth heartbeat had just passed. But this was far beyond her ability to solve. 

Nerina stepped forward, her pale eyes bright with sudden interest. 

“There you are, child of the shadows,” said Samnirdamnus. “Your puzzle. I suggest you solve it at once.” He smiled. “You only have the rest of your life.” 

“Just as Nasser delegated his authority to banish you to me,” said Caina, “so I delegate the solving of this riddle to Nerina Strake.”

“Very well,” said Samnirdamnus. 

Nerina darted forward, producing a notebook and a stub of a pencil from one deep pocket, and began scribbling notes as she stared at the numbers of fire. 

“I hope, Mistress Strake,” said Nasser, stepping closer to Caina, “that you are up to the challenge.”

“Can’t talk,” barked Nerina. “Numbers. Easier. Language too much work.”

She resumed scribbling.

Azaces planted himself between Nerina and Samnirdamnus, scowling at the djinni. 

“And what of you, loyal dog?” said Samnirdamnus. “Shall we discuss your crimes before the world, perhaps?”

He blurred, and took a different form, a lean, fit man in his twenties, clad in chain mail, with thick brown hair and bright gray eyes. Azaces stiffened, but Nerina, occupied with her notebook, did not notice. Caina’s four hundred and fiftieth heartbeat passed. To her annoyance, fear was making her heart faster. 

“Do you think you can ever atone for it?” said Samnirdamnus. “You have seen the harm you have wrought, silent one. No matter how loyal your service, no matter how selfless your duty, you will never redeem yourself. Never.”

Azaces withdrew one hand from the hilt of his massive weapon to offer a rude gesture to the djinni.

To her surprise Samnirdamnus laughed. “Brevity is its own eloquence.” His burning eyes turned toward Caina and Nasser. “But he is not so different from you two, is he not? The homeless man and the demonslayer, both seeking something lost forever. You will never find it, not if you seek for a thousand years.”

Nasser shrugged. “I know exactly where to find it, do I not?”

“Knowing is not the same as having,” said Samnirdamnus. “And you, Balarigar…you know what you want. But you can never have it, can you? No matter what you do. No matter how many slaves you free. How many sorcerers and tyrants you defeat.”

Her hand wanted to stray to her stomach, to the scars there that had taken the ability to bear children before she had ever even known a man. But she pushed the thought from her mind. There were more important things to consider. 

Like the fact that her five hundredth heartbeat had just passed, and Nerina was still scribbling in her notebook. 

“Why are you talking like this?” said Caina. “These taunts, these hints of doom?”

Samnirdamnus offered a shrug, his form shifting back to that of the Emperor. “Why not? It helps pass the time. I am immortal, eternal, and I do not change. You mortals are like mayflies, like candles guttering in the cold wind. Yet you change so quickly in the short span of your little lives. It is fascinating to watch.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Caina. “Not for you. The djinni take little interest in mortal affairs.”

Samnirdamnus laughed. “Yet here I am. We care little what petty king or sultan or emperor rules you, true, but you are nonetheless fascinating. So many secrets, so many games twisted around themselves. Were the nagataaru not so vile, I could understand why they want to eat you all.” 

“Then you are enemies of the nagataaru?” said Caina.

Samnirdamnus smiled. “For longer than you can imagine. Before mortals lived upon this world, before this world encircled its sun, before this sun even burned in the heavens, the vassals and knights of the Azure Sovereign waged war against the nagataaru. We have fought them for millennia beyond count, and long after this world has turned to a cinder and the sun has burned out, we will fight against them.”

Nearly six hundred heartbeats had passed. Nerina still seemed enraptured by the equation. 

“A war between immortal spirits,” murmured Nasser, “must be a curious thing.”

“Think how much longer a war lasts,” said Samnirdamnus, “when none of the warriors can die.” 

“Then that is why you have spoken with me?” said Caina. “Because you are an enemy of the nagataaru?”

“I already told you the reason why,” said Samnirdamnus. “I think you might be the one I have sought for a long time.” 

“Sought to do what?” said Caina. “To free you? To fight the nagataaru? To oppose Callatas?”

“If you are the one,” said Samnirdamnus, “you will know.”

Caina scowled as her six hundredth and thirtieth heartbeat passed. 

“That’s nonsense,” said Caina. “You’ve always spoken nonsense to me. But you did warn me of the daevagoths in the Widow’s Tower. And against the guards at Vaysaal’s palace. So you speak nonsense, but always with a purpose. What is the purpose this time?”

“Like I told you,” said Samnirdamnus. “To pass the time.” 

“To pass the time,” said Caina, and then she understood. 

She looked at Nerina scribbling in her notebook, at the maze of numbers and symbols covering the wall.

“You’re stalling,” said Caina. “This isn’t a riddle or an equation. It’s a trap. Nerina.” The locksmith did not look up from her notebook. “Nerina! The ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter. What is it, exactly?”

“The first several digits are three point one four one five nine,” said Nerina, “but the number is infinite. It cannot be computed to the final digit. It is an irrational number,” she blinked, “it is essentially…unsolvable.” 

She turned and gazed at the wall as Caina’s six hundred and ninety-seventh heartbeat passed.

“Of course,” whispered Nerina, spinning to face Samnirdamnus. “The equation cannot be solved. It would instead generate an infinite series of recursive numbers.”

“The question is unanswerable,” said Caina. “It wasn’t a challenge at all. It was a trap to hold us until your spell killed us.” 

Her seven hundredth heartbeat passed.

“And that,” said Samnirdamnus, “is the answer.” He seemed pleased, somehow. “You have solved the challenge, Balarigar. When you and your companions enter the Maze, I will not stop you and I will not warn Callatas.”

He gestured, and the letters of fire vanished from the wall.

“Thank you,” said Caina.

“Do not thank me,” said Samnirdamnus. He grinned, his eyes burning brighter. “For when you discover what awaits you within the Maze, you may well wish you had died here tonight.”

There was another flash of light, and he vanished entirely. 

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Well,” said Nasser. “Wasn’t that pleasant?” 

Caina let out a long breath and rubbed her forehead, the sweat damp beneath her fingers. “That wasn’t in the least pleasant.”

“It could have been worse,” said Nasser. “We are, after all, still alive.”

“I can’t argue with that,” said Caina. 

“You did well,” said Nasser. “Most men would have panicked, or spent their final moments of life trying to solve the equation. Instead you saw the truth of the matter.” 

Caina nodded. Oddly, she found his praise pleasing. It was his gift for leadership, she supposed, the same way he had brought Kazravid and Azaces to heel.

“I would have realized the same thing eventually,” said Nerina. “Unfortunately, I would not have calculated that the equation was unsolvable for…another forty-seven minutes, I think. That would have been nearly three thousand heartbeats, so I would have been dead by then and therefore unable to calculate the answer.”

“The dead aren’t very good at calculations,” said Caina, and Azaces snorted. 

“Are you really the Balarigar?” said Nerina. 

“Yes.”

“And you aren’t a wielder of arcane forces?”

“No.”

Nasser laughed. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” said Caina. The bounty upon the Balarigar's head would pay Nerina's debts a hundred times over.

But Nerina only shook her head. She looked…pleased. Delighted, even. 

“What a statistical anomaly you are!” she exclaimed. “So very…very…”

“Improbable?” suggested Nasser. 

“Yes, that is the precise word!” said Nerina. “Highly, highly improbable!” She smiled. “And you did just save my life and Azaces’s life. I would have tried to solve that equation until I dropped dead from Samnirdamnus’s sorcery. Your secrets are safe with me, all of them.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. Nerina was the only one in Nasser’s little band who knew that Caina was a woman. Well, Azaces knew, but he could neither speak nor write, which made it unlikely he would tell her secrets to anyone. And the fewer people that knew Caina’s secrets, the safer that she would be, the safer that Damla and her sons and Agabyzus would be. 

Anaxander groaned and rubbed his head.

“Oh, do I have a headache,” he mumbled. He opened his bloodshot eyes and stared up at them. “Did I miss anything?”

Chapter 12 - Petty Fraud

Caina spent the next several days preparing her alias. 

She thought long and hard about what identity to use when entering Callatas’s palace, and considered and discarded several. The next phase of Nasser’s plan called for both Caina and Kazravid to obtain invitations to Callatas’s banquet using false names. Kazravid had already done so, claiming to be a noble from the far southern reaches of Anshan. Caina contemplated disguising herself as a minor Nighmarian nobleman, as a Szaldic merchant of Varia Province, even as one of the magi. She had masqueraded as Rania Scorneus of the Magisterium before, and could so again if necessary. Finally she decided upon a minor noble from House Helvius of Imperial Cyrica. The Cyrican provinces were the only provinces of the Empire that allowed slavery, a legacy of the War of the Fourth Empire, and House Helvius had close links with the Slavers’ Brotherhood. 

So Caina invented Lord Amazaeus Helvius, a distant cousin of old Lord Helvius himself. 

She obtained the necessary clothes from the Sanctuary, garbing herself in a mixture of Nighmarian and Anshani dress that the nobles of Cyrica often affected – the coat, trousers, and boots of a Nighmarian nobleman, with the turban of an Anshani anjar. The coat was cut longer and looser than was fashionable in Malarae, which was just as well, since it concealed her figure. A search through the cabinets produced a fake mustache and pointed beard of decent quality, which Caina affixed to her lip and chin. 

She stepped back, examined her reflection in the mirror, and nodded. She was the very image of a haughty Cyrican nobleman of Nighmarian descent, the sort of young fool who would march to the Grand Master’s palace and demand entry.

So Caina set off to do just that. 

###

The Gilded Throne was a small palace in its own right. In fact, it had once been a palace belonging to a master of the Slavers’ Brotherhood, until the cowled master had run afoul of the vicious politics of Istarinmul’s nobility. After the unfortunate master’s execution, some enterprising fellow had purchased the empty palace and converted it to an inn catering to the wealthiest merchants and nobles. 

The footmen at the gate let her enter thanks to her disguise, and Caina strolled through the grounds, past rippling pools inhabited by graceful swans and gardens tended with meticulous care by a small army of gray-clad slaves. More slaves waited with trays of wine and delicacies, all of them young and attractive. It must have cost Nasser a fortune to rent a suite here. 

She found Kazravid’s suite and knocked at the door.

A moment later it swung open, and Kazravid scowled at her. He wore finer robes than last time, and his hair and black beard had been trimmed and oiled. 

“Aye, what do you wish?” he snarled in Anshani. 

Caina said nothing, waiting to see if he would recognize her.

“Do you mock me with your silence?” said Kazravid. “I am the anjar Hormizid of Anshan, a loyal warrior of the great Shahenshah, and you will treat me with respect!”

“No, you’re not,” said Caina.

Kazravid frowned, a hint of confusion worming its way into the anger.

“Do you still have that vial of wraithblood?” said Caina. “You really should get rid of it. The substance is dangerous.” 

Kazravid blinked and peered closer. “Ciaran?”

Caina nodded. 

“By the Living Flame,” muttered Kazravid, looking her up and down. “I did not recognize you at all.” He snorted. “You’re good at this sort of thing. I thought Nasser’s plan was ridiculous…but you look like another man.”

“It’s a gift,” said Caina.

“Come inside,” said Kazravid. “The others are ready.” 

Caina followed him into the suite’s anteroom. A small fountain bubbled in the center of the room, a skylight admitting the morning sun. Nerina sat at the edge of the fountain, a mess of disassembled locks and papers spread around her. She was making modifications to her crossbow, taking notes from time to time upon one of the papers. 

“She’s been doing that,” muttered Kazravid, “the entire time she has been here.”

Caina shrugged. “One must do something to keep busy.”

Azaces stood guard over Nerina, grim as ever.

“I suppose,” said Kazravid. “Still, her Sarbian is a solid fellow. We’ve sparred a few times. Knows his way around with a sword. Had he found his way to Anshan, he would have been worthy of joining the Shahenshah’s Companions.” 

“You have your invitation?” said Caina. 

Kazravid snorted. “The noble anjar Hormizid is a man of such renown that of course he was invited. And it helped that Tarqaz forged the invitation. Useful little fellow, for a eunuch. Ah, here they are.”

Laertes, Strabane, and Anaxander walked into the anteroom. Laertes wore chain mail and leather beneath a surcoat adorned with the colors of House Helvius, and Strabane wore similar garb, though his towering height made him look far more dangerous. Anaxander had replaced his ragged black robe for one that was fresh and clean, bound about the waist with the red sash of a brother of the Imperial Magisterium. He only appeared to have a mild hangover for once. 

Perhaps fear of Callatas had sobered him up. 

“Ready?” said Caina. 

“No,” said Anaxander. 

Laertes shrugged. “We have assumed false identities and are going to lie to gain access to the palace of the most powerful man in Istarinmul. What could possibly go wrong?” 

Strabane snorted. “Everything.” 

“That is not reassuring,” said Anaxander. 

“Come,” said Caina. “Let us invite ourselves to a party.”

###

Callatas’s palace was not hard to find.

It was only slightly smaller than the Golden Palace and the College of Alchemists. The Masters’ Quarter, the Emirs’ Quarter, and the Alchemists’ Quarter were almost as large as the rest of Istarinmul combined, yet Callatas’s palace took up a large portion of that ground. Gleaming white walls ringed the palace, studded with towers that combined both soaring grace and sturdy defensibility. Beyond the walls rose hanging towers and gardens that remained Caina of the ziggurats of New Kyre but more graceful, domes of polished stone gleaming behind them. Massive reliefs adorned the outer walls, stylized versions of the scene Caina had seen in the Tarshahzon Gardens. 

A steady stream of carts and porters moved back and forth through the gates, carrying supplies and food for the upcoming banquet. A dozen Immortals stood guard, watching the traffic with blue-gleaming eyes. 

“You should do the talking,” said Laertes. 

Caina nodded, adjusted her coat with a flourish, and strode towards the gates, looking neither left or right, her chin raised as Anaxander, Strabane, and Laertes trailed after her. The slaves took one look at her fine clothes and scattered out of the way. 

“You will halt,” said one of the Immortals in a voice made metallic by his skull mask. 

Caina stopped and glared up at the Immortal, who stood a good foot and a half taller. “And just who the devil are you?” She made sure to slur her Istarish with a thick Nighmarian accent.

“You will identify yourself,” said the Immortal.

“Do you not know who I am, fellow?” said Caina, drawing herself up.

The Immortal stared down at her.

“You will identify yourself,” said the Immortal at last, a touch of exasperation in the cold voice. 

“I am Lord Amazaeus of House Helvius,” said Caina, “and my uncle Lord Helvius is a valued friend and ally of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. On this day of celebration for Grand Master Callatas, my uncle has sent me to pay his respects to the noble and honorable Grand Master.”

The Immortal said nothing.

“Surely you have heard of House Helvius,” said Caina. “Even a brute soldier cannot be so ignorant.”

A twitch went through the Immortal’s armored frame, and Caina felt a flicker of fear. Provoking the Immortal like that was foolish. Yet it was exactly how an arrogant Imperial noble would behave. 

“Proceed inside,” said the Immortal at last. “Speak with the Seneschal of the Household. If you are worthy to attend the Grand Master’s celebration, the Seneschal shall arrange the necessary documents.” The Immortal pointed. “You!” A gray-clad slave hurried over, a middle-aged man with a tired face. “Take the foreigner to the Seneschal of the Household.”

“It took you long enough,” sniffed Caina, and she stepped forward. The Immortal moved again to block her path. “Now what?”

“Your magus and bodyguards,” said the Immortal, the skull mask turning towards Strabane and Anaxander and Laertes, “must remain outside.”

“I am a lord and nobleman of the Empire of Nighmar, and I require my attendants!” said Caina. 

“This is not the Empire,” said the Immortal, a growl entering the metallic voice. “This is Istarinmul, and Grand Master Callatas’s word is law here.” The slave stepped back in alarm. “Either go inside and leave your guards here, or depart with them. But if you waste another moment of my time I shall kill you.”

“Very well,” said Caina, mixing hauteur and a hint of fear in her voice. She gestured at Laertes. “You men, await me here. Stay out of trouble.” She pointed at the slave. “You, take me to the Seneschal of the Household at once.”

“As you command, my lord,” said the slave with a deep bow, and he walked through the gates, Caina following him. 

They passed through the wall and into the outer courtyard. Caina had seen towns that could have fit within the courtyard. On her right the courtyard stretched away, broad and flat and paved with gleaming white stone, heroic statues standing upon plinths. To her left she saw a garden of strange, alien plants, similar to the one within Vaysaal’s palace, but far larger. Within the heart of the garden rose a high tower adorned with crystalline statues upon its sides, no doubt victims of Callatas’s transmutations. 

“What is that tower?” said Caina.

“That is the Grand Master’s private gardens,” said the slave, “and the tower is the entrance to the Maze.”

“The Maze?” said Caina with a laugh. “What, does the Grand Master keep monsters in his maze, or throw prisoners down there to starve?” 

The slave hesitated. “It…guards the entrance to the Grand Master’s sanctum, his library and his laboratories. We are not permitted within under pain of death. My lord, by your pleasure, the Seneschal of the Household is this way.” 

Likely the poor man wanted to get far away from the Maze and the peculiar plants.

“Very well,” said Caina, as if granting a favor. “Show me the way.”

The slave scurried onward, relieved.

They entered the palace proper, walking down a massive hall lined with towering columns of white marble, sunlight streaming through skylights overhead. More of the crystalline statues glittered in niches along the walls, their faces twisted with fear and horror. Callatas had hundreds of the things. Maybe thousands. Caina’s heart tightened with fury, though she kept her expression calm. How many people had Callatas murdered in the century and a half since the fall of Iramis? How many thousands of lives had he ruined and blighted? 

Would he ever be called to account for his endless crimes? And how much worse would he yet do if his plot with the wraithblood came to fruition? 

Caina didn’t know if she could stop him. But she would try.

The slave led her to a broad inner courtyard, domes and towers rising around them. A knot of slaves stood in the center, overseeing the porters and carters that hauled goods through the palace. Caina spotted Tarqaz in his gray robe and silvered steel collar, his plump head beading with sweat. 

“The Seneschal of the Household, my lord,” said the slave, bowing. 

Caina stopped before Tarqaz, her hands upon her hips. “You, fellow! You are the seneschal?”

“I am, my lord,” said Tarqaz with the ingrained politeness of the lifelong slave. “Forgive me, but your illustrious personage is not known to me.”

“You do not know me? Egregious!” said Caina. “Your master should have you whipped for your ignorance! I am Amazaeus, a lord of House Helvius of Imperial Cyrica! By all the gods of the Empire, the slaves of Istarinmul are an ill-informed lot!”

Tarqaz’s eyes widened, and she saw the hint of recognition flicker over his face. Before leaving the Shahenshah’s Seat, they had agreed that “by the gods of the Empire, the slaves of Istarinmul are an ill-informed lot” would be the phrase Caina would use to identify herself to Tarqaz. She felt a hint of pleasure that her disguise had fooled him so thoroughly.

But, then, Theodosia had taught her well, and Caina had acquired a great deal of practice. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Tarqaz, sweating some more. “Do forgive me, my lord. The noble name of House Helvius is known to me. Ah…did you receive an invitation?”

“An invitation?” said Caina. “How gauche! My lord uncle has sent me all this way to pay House Helvius’s respects to the Grand Master, and you require an invitation? This is egregious!” Her angry tirade had drawn witnesses, and she saw some of the slaves and porters staring at her. That would help establish her fake identity. 

“It is easily rectified, my lord,” said Tarqaz. He snapped his fingers. “Scribe!” Another slave hastened over, a portable desk hanging from a leather strap around his neck, a vial of ink and sharpened quills tucked into his belt. “Quickly, prepare an invitation for…ah…”

Caina rolled her eyes. “For Lord Amazaeus of House Helvius, come to pay respects to Callatas in the name of House Helvius.”

“Yes, of course,” said Tarqaz. The scribe went to work, moving with efficient speed, entering Caina’s false name onto a prepared document. “Please forgive the precaution, my lord. The Grand Master’s wisdom and power have gained him many enemies, and those of us who have the honor to be his slaves must remain ever vigilant against his foes.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Caina. “Well, we do what we can. I myself have been the subject of many assassination attempts, as befits a man of my prestige and rank.”

“We shall have many honorable guests attending the grand banquet,” said Tarqaz. “Why, Grand Wazir Erghulan himself, the strong right hand of the Most Divine Padishah, shall be in attendance. He is here even now, conferring with the Grand Master on the governance of the domain.”