Ghost Arts (2 page)

Again she took a deep breath, putting aside the urge
to hit him. Morgant never, ever stopped probing those around him
for weakness, and he was very good at it. She had grown used to his
game, but that made it no less irritating.

“I need your help,” said Caina. “Do you know the
House of Contemplation?”

Morgant snorted. “A place where rich idiots stand
about and buy portraits they do not understand to impress their
equally stupid friends.”

“That’s the place,” said Caina. “Do you know a
painter named Helioran?”

“Mmm,” said Morgant. “Heard the name somewhere. Can’t
say that I’ve met him.”

“Can you get me into the House of Contemplation?”
said Caina.

“Why?” said Morgant. “You’ve no sense of
aesthetics.”

“A week ago one of my informants was murdered, a
slave named Tradek,” said Caina. “I couldn’t figure out who killed
him. Then this morning I walked past the Slavers’ Lash in the
Masters’ Quarter, and I saw a portrait depicting his death exactly
to the smallest detail.”

“Well,” said Morgant. “That’s damned peculiar.”

“Which leads back to my previous question,” said
Caina. “Can you get me into the House of Contemplation?”

“I can,” said Morgant. “Why?”

“I want to find whoever killed Tradek,” said
Caina.

“And if you find the killer, you’ll kill him in
turn?” said Morgant.

“Yes,” said Caina.

“Why?” said Morgant.

“Because he killed one of mine,” said Caina.

“Ah, well,” said Morgant. “Is that the Ghost
circlemaster or Caina Amalas talking?”

“Does it matter?” said Caina.

“You know my two rules,” said Morgant. “I keep my
promises, and I only kill those who deserve it.”

“I’ve noticed that you’re rather flexible about what
constitutes a deserved death,” said Caina.

Morgant did not respond to that. “A man should know
his reasons for doing something.”

“Women, too?” said Caina.

“You more than most, I think,” said Morgant. “See,
I’ve noticed you have a little problem with rage. When you get
angry, you do things, drastic things. You’re clever enough to avoid
most stupid mistakes, but sooner or later you’ll make a serious
error and get yourself killed.”

“Does that concern you?” said Caina.

“Not particularly,” said Morgant. “But I keep my
promises, and I need you alive to help me keep those promises. So.
If we find whoever killed your informant, ah…”

“Tradek,” said Caina.

“Tradek,” repeated Morgant, “then why are you going
to kill him? Because you’re angry?”

“Because if someone is targeting Ghost informants,”
said Caina, “I need to put a stop to it, now. Because Tradek didn’t
deserve to get knifed in an alley. And, yes, because I’m angry
about it.”

Morgant considered that and set the vial of pigment
on the table.

“Good enough,” he said. “Go change clothes and come
back here, and we’ll pay a visit to the House of
Contemplation.”

“You can get me inside?” said Caina.

“I have paintings there,” said Morgant. “The owners
tried to cheat me out of my commission, but we had a little chat
and now we’re the best of friends. Don’t disguise yourself as a
man. We’ll say…oh, we’ll say you’re my mistress, in awe of my
brilliant paintings.”

“Shouldn’t we at least strive for a believable
disguise?” said Caina.

“Wear something nice,” said Morgant. “Maybe something
that enhances your bust? It could use the assistance.”

“For the gods’ sake,” said Caina, but she left to
choose a disguise.

###

Several hours later, Caina and Morgant walked
together to the House of Contemplation.

It stood at the edge of the Emirs’ Quarter, within
sight of the Padishah’s Golden Palace, the gleaming College of
Alchemists, and the towers of Grand Master Callatas’s opulent
palace. Compared to them, the House of Contemplation seemed
understated, a building of gleaming white stone set within a
courtyard filled with bushes and flowering gardens, paths of
crushed stone winding their way past small trees and statues upon
plinths.

“The House of Contemplation,” said Morgant. “Where
fools come to gawk at paintings beyond their comprehension. They
also serve decent coffee.”

“The House, it is lovely,” said Caina, speaking
Istarish with a thick Szaldic accent. She had chosen a yellow dress
with a stiff collar, black trim upon the hem and sleeves, a
matching headscarf over her hair. Her ghostsilver dagger rested at
her belt, and as usual, she had more daggers hidden in her boots.
“Like an oasis in the desert.”

“That terrible accent,” said Morgant, “is…” He
considered. “Surprisingly realistic.”

“I have had good teachers,” said Caina. She had
learnedthe accent from her friend Tanya, and a pang went through
her at the thought of all her friends in Malarae, friends she had
not seen since her banishment from the Empire nearly two years
past.

“Clearly,” said Morgant. “Shall we?”

They walked together into the courtyard. He did not
offer to take her arm, which did not surprise her. She had observed
him as he had observed her, and she had come to suspect that he
hated to have anyone touch him for any reason. The slaves at the
entrance to the House recognized Morgant, and they bowed and opened
the doors.

Inside was a long, wide hall, the floor done in an
elaborate mosaic of charioteers hunting gazelles, slender columns
supporting the ceiling. Statues stood on pedestals, and paintings
hung in niches along the walls. Crowds of Istarish nobles and
merchants stood here and there, examining the paintings, but the
largest crowd stood at the far end of the hall, listening to
someone lecture.

A middle-aged Istarish man in a fine robe and jeweled
turban hurried over. “Master Markaine, welcome, welcome! It has
been too long. Have you more paintings for us? You know I shall be
glad to take them.”

“You’re not that fortunate, Iskandar,” said
Morgant.

“You have…brought a companion?” said Iskandar,
blinking at Caina and doing his very best to conceal his
astonishment.

“Yes,” said Morgant. “Her name is Ruxandra. She was
curious about this new painter that has stirred up the city, so to
shut her up I brought her.”

“Markaine, he is so sweet, yes?” said Caina in her
Szaldic accent. “He is a genius, and yet he is so kind to me.” Just
to annoy him, she leaned over and gave him quick kiss on the cheek.
He actually shuddered a little.

“Um…I see,” said Iskandar.

“This new painter,” said Caina while Morgant wiped
his cheek with the sleeve of his coat, “this man named Helioran.
What is he like?”

“Well,” said Iskandar, “he claims his full name is
Crisius Cormarus Helioran. Bit of an odd fellow, but foreigners
have strange ways. Still, he is a talented painter. His scenes of
death…why, they are among the best I have seen. You can speak to
him now, if you wish. He just delivered some new paintings, and is
lecturing on them at the other end of the hall.”

“Thank you,” said Morgant, and Iskandar bowed and
wandered away.

“His name,” said Caina in a low voice.

“Don’t kiss me again,” said Morgant. “The Living
Flame only knows where your lips have been.”

“Don’t invite me to pose nude again and we’ll call it
even,” said Caina. “But his name. Crisius Cormarus Helioran? It’s a
nonsense name.”

“Why?” said Morgant. “It sounds Nighmarian.”

“Because it’s the name of three Emperors strung
together,” said Caina. “Crisius defeated the Ashbringers at the end
of the Second Empire. Cormarus brought the Ghosts into the Empire,
and Helioran made peace with the magi at the start of the Third
Empire. It’s like I wanted to pretend to be Istarish, so I named
myself after three of the most famous Padishahs.”

“If it’s a disguise, it’s a bad one,” said
Morgant.

“So,” said Caina. “Why would a man disguise himself
as a Nighmarian artist, murder slaves, and then paint pictures of
their deaths?”

“People do stupid things for stupid reasons every
day,” said Morgant.

“True,” said Caina. “Let’s go see if we can find out
what Helioran’s stupid reason is.”

They walked across the hall and joined the crowd at
the other end. The emirs and merchants had gathered to hear a man
speaking next to a dozen paintings of a murdered slaves, and Caina
head his voice as they approached. He spoke Istarish with a heavy
Nighmarian accent…a remarkably bad Nighmarian accent. As Caina and
Morgant moved closer, she saw the speaker himself, a tall man
standing next to a portrait of a slave with a spear in his
chest.

If an actor wanted to dress himself as a parody of an
Imperial lord, he could do worse than to emulate the man speaking
to the crowd. He wore a long black coat of the cut and style
favored by Nighmarian lords, though it was threadbare and worn.
Beneath the coat he wore the gleaming cuirass of the Lord Commander
of an Imperial Legion, or at least a decent imitation of one. He
also wore the hobnailed boots of an Imperial Legionary, and the
helmet of a tribune of the Legion, complete with a crest. The crest
was the wrong color and pointing in the wrong direction.

Beneath the helm he had blue eyes in a stark, pale
face, a few strands of black hair hanging beneath the helmet’s
edge. He looked Szaldic, but that didn’t mean anything. Many Szalds
had intermarried into the Imperial nobility over the centuries, and
Caina was fairly certain that she had some Szaldic blood from her
mother’s side of the family. Not that she had ever asked. Caina had
killed her mother before the topic had come up in conversation.

“Behold my latest masterwork,” said the man with his
bad Nighmarian accent, gesturing at a painting of a murdered slave.
“I, Crisius Cormarus Helioran, have created this painting, this
totality of emotion fused into color and given material form.
Look!” He gestured at the painting again, letting his coat billow
around him dramatically as he turned. “I have captured the
mortality of mankind in the medium of paint and canvas, by skewing
the perspective and coloring in the spaces left by sudden death! My
artwork invites the viewer to contemplate death through the use of
pigment and cloth, and through it, to transcend the flesh to
achieve a form of shared immortality through the framework of my
vision.”

The emirs and merchants murmured, making thoughtful
noises.

“I understand you know nothing about art,” said
Morgant, “but I trust you realize that he’s speaking total
nonsense?”

“I had a suspicion,” said Caina. “Effective nonsense,
though. They’re lining up to buy those paintings. The Istarish have
a taste for morbid art. Morbid games, too. Look at how they fill up
the seats of the gladiatorial rings.”

“That was a thought,” said Morgant, “that verged on
the profound, but couldn’t quite get there.”

“Here’s one for you,” said Caina. “Helioran didn’t
paint those himself.”

“How did you come to that brilliant conclusion?” said
Morgant.

“Show me your fingernails,” said Caina.

Morgant raised an eyebrow as Crisius Cormarus
Helioran continued droning on about the emotionality of color.

“Show me your fingernails,” said Caina, “or I’ll have
to take your hand and look for myself.”

Morgant grunted in distaste, but lifted his right
hand.

“See?” Caina said, pointing. “All the paint under
your fingernails.”

“Devil of a job cleaning it out,” said Morgant.
“Which is…ah. Our new friend Helioran doesn’t have that.”

“He has the hands,” said Caina, “of a man who has
gone to great lengths to avoid doing any work in his life. No
calluses, either.”

“You noticed all that from one glance, did you?” said
Morgant. She could not tell if he was impressed or not.

“And that means,” said Caina, “if Crisius Cormarus
Helioran did not paint those paintings…he stole them from
somewhere. Or someone is giving them to him.”

“And he spouts nonsense and sells the paintings to
idiots,” said Morgant. “Not a bad scheme.”

“We’re going to follow him,” said Caina, “and have a
little talk when we’re alone.”

###

“If he doesn’t take off that helmet,” said Morgant,
“he’s going to get robbed in a few blocks.”

Caina and Morgant had followed Helioran from the
House of Contemplation. The eccentric artist had sold a half-dozen
of his paintings for handsome sums, and then celebrated by
consuming a substantial quantity of the House’s wine. He wasn’t
drunk yet, but he was getting there. After leaving the House of
Contemplation, Helioran had headed south from the Emirs’ Quarter,
walking through the Tower Quarter and then the Old Quarter. His
eccentric costume drew stares, but the streets of the Tower Quarter
and the Old Quarter were well-patrolled with watchmen, and no one
stopped him. That would change if he managed to reach the Anshani
Quarter, where the groups of thugs that lurked in the alleys and
back courtyards would kill him in short order.

But he turned before he reached the Anshani Quarter,
vanishing into one of the seedier inns of the Old Quarter, a place
called the Merchant’s Mistress. Like most Istarish inns, it was a
five-story building in a paved courtyard. Like Morgant’s house, it
was in poor repair, and while the Merchant’s Mistress still had a
veneer of respectability, Caina knew many illegal transactions took
place under its roof.

Helioran vanished through the front door.

“Take my arm,” said Caina, holding out her arm.

Morgant frowned. “Why?”

“Because this isn’t the sort of place a woman goes
alone,” said Caina.

“You should have dressed like a man,” said Morgant.
“You certainly have the hips for it.”

“I would have dressed like a man,” said Caina, “but
you insisted I dress as a woman. So.” She held out her right
arm.