Ghost in the Pact (14 page)

They had gotten away. At last Caina had a ship to take her from Istarinmul…except she had lost the relics and Kylon wasn’t with her. 

It hardly counted as progress.

“I knew this was a mistake,” said Murat, stalking back and forth by his helmsman. Karlazain waited for his captain to calm down, impassive as a statue. “A damned mistake. Better to have never come to Istarinmul at all.” 

“You’ll make a lot of money,” said Caina. “Both what Nasser paid you already, and what he will pay you when we return.” 

“If there are mobs running loose in the city,” said Murat, “then Nasser may be killed, and I shall lose my money. Bah! I should never have returned to the city.”

For a ruthless corsair captain, Caina thought, he had a remarkable tendency to whine. 

“As I see it, you’ve come out ahead,” said Caina. “We’ve already paid you. And if we’re successful and return, Nasser will pay you the rest of your fee. If he’s dead, I’ll pay you myself.”

Murat snorted. “You have that kind of money?”

“Yes,” said Caina. “Not with me, if you’re thinking about murdering us in our sleep. But I can get it once we return.”

“If,” said Murat.

“What do you mean?” said Caina, though she knew what he was driving at.

“If you are successful,” said Murat. “That is what you said. Do you expect the demons on Pyramid Isle to eat you?”

“Possibly,” said Caina. “Or you’ll steer your ship into a reef and we’ll all drown. Everyone dies, Captain.” 

The corsair at the helm snorted, once.

Murat glared at him and whirled back to face Caina once more. 

“How long to Pyramid Isle?” said Caina, hoping to forestall his complaints.

“Six days,” said Murat. “Maybe seven if we fail to catch the wind properly.”

“Only six?” said Caina. “It took longer from Rumarah.”

“The currents are different this far north,” said Murat. Caina nodded. Six days. Kylon and the others ought to be reaching the Kaltari Highlands by then. Assuming they had got out of Istarinmul alive before Erghulan’s army marched. In six days, she ought to catch up to Callatas on Pyramid Isle. Hopefully she could find a way to kill him before he brought his power to bear against them. 

Hopefully Kylon could defeat Kalgri, once she arrived to kill Sulaman and Tanzir.

“Captain,” said one of the corsairs, pointing over the stern railing. “A storm.”

“Here?” said Murat. “There are never storms here. A dust storm, perhaps…”

“No,” said Caina, her voice quiet. “An army.”

She could still see the towers and domes of Istarinmul to the west, glittering in the sun. To the southwest a dust cloud smeared the blue sky. It was the dust raised by the army of Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku as it marched south to battle against Tanzir Shahan’s rebels. 

Were Kylon and the others ahead of the army? Had they gotten out in time? Or did their corpses lie in the burning wreckage of the Imperial Embassy? 

Caina didn’t know. She had no way of finding out. She might never find out. 

She felt Kylon’s absence as keenly as a knife in her flesh, and closed her eyes for a long moment. 

“He will be all right,” said Annarah, her voice soft.

Caina opened her eyes to see the loremaster standing next to her, Morgant waiting nearby with one eye upon the corsairs. Given that Annarah and Caina were the only women on a ship full of corsairs, that was probably a good idea. Of course, they didn’t know Caina was a woman, and she would give them no opportunity to find out. 

“You’re sure of that?” said Caina. 

Morgant snorted. “No.”

“Yes,” said Annarah. “Lord Kylon is a fell warrior, and he bears one of the valikons of old. If anyone can face the challenges awaiting the rebels, it is him.” 

“I hope you are right,” said Caina. 

Her own challenges awaited. 

Grand Master Callatas himself held the fate of the world in his hands, and if Caina failed to kill him, he would hand that fate to the skeletal grasp of an ancient Great Necromancer. 

Chapter 8: Rebels

It was a hot, miserable journey along the Great Southern Road, but it could have been worse. 

For one, Lord Martin and Lady Claudia had been prepared. Every man and woman in the column carried enough food to last for some time, so long as it was carefully rationed, and Dromio and Tylas enforced the rationing with stern vigilance. The water supply was tighter, but there were ponds along the way where they could refill the skins, though the water had to be boiled or mixed with wine before it was drinkable. Dromio and Tylas likewise enforced water rationing, though they relented when one of the servants grew light-headed and collapsed. 

Kylon did his share of the scouting. The sorcery of water gave him greater stamina than the Imperial Guards, and he employed his stamina to good effect, using it to keep himself in the saddle and alert. The scouting work was useful, letting him check the Great Southern Road ahead for any enemies, and twice he alerted Martin to bands of brigands lying in wait. The sight of charging Imperial Guards, stern in their black armor and flaring purple cloaks, was enough to send the bandits fleeing. 

It also helped keep his mind off Caina. 

His fear for her had a dismal familiarity to it, like a path of misery he had walked several times before. He had lost Andromache, Thalastre and his unborn child, and even his homeland itself. Yet he had never expected to see Caina after she had been banished from the Empire, and the thought of seeing her die…

But she would die eventually, would she not? If even they were victorious and settled someplace quiet and lived another fifty years, eventually they would die and lose each other. That was simply the fate of mortal men.

Yet there was a difference between a woman dying after the fullness of her years and a woman murdered untimely…

He remembered finding her in that room in Rumarah, the Red Huntress’s mocking laughter filling his ears. For a moment he wished the Huntress would show herself, and give him an outlet for his wrath and dread…

Then his mind reasserted itself, and he continued scouting.

On the fourth day from Istarinmul they found the nomad scouts. 

The arid plains of the Trabazon steppes were unfit for crops, so tribes of Istarish nomads lived there, raising flocks of goats and driving them to market in Istarinmul. In their desperation to meet the Grand Master’s demand for slaves, the Slavers’ Brotherhood had started kidnapping nomads and selling them, thereby driving the nomads to ally with Tanzir Shahan. 

A band of about a hundred nomad horsemen reined up before Lord Martin’s column. The nomads’ horses were skinny little things, barely more than ponies, but the beasts had a great deal of stamina. The nomads themselves wore dust-colored robes and turbans, and Caina had often disguised herself as an Istarish nomad. Every one of the nomads carried a short horse bow and several quivers of arrows. Kylon doubted the arrows would do much against the black armor of the Imperial Guards, but they could wreak terrible havoc on the servants. 

Fortunately, the nomads did not seem inclined to fight.

“Do you think they’re friendly, my lord?” said Tylas, standing next to Lord Martin’s horse. 

“I think so,” said Martin. “Or, at least, they’re not hostile. The steppe nomads mostly want to be left alone, but Erghulan let the Slavers’ Brotherhood prey upon them. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as the old proverb says. That, and Nasser seems to know them.”

Nasser and Laertes had ridden ahead, speaking with the leader of the nomads, an old man with a scowl and a bushy gray beard. 

Tylas grunted. “Nasser seems to have friends everywhere.”

“He does,” said Kylon. 

“Including the Lord Ambassador of the Empire,” said Martin with a laugh. “Well, he warned us against danger and stood with us against the Huntress at Silent Ash Temple. One cannot ask for a more loyal friend than that.”

Nasser and Laertes turned their horses and rode back to join them, followed by the old nomad. Kylon reached for the sorcery of water and extended his senses. Both Nasser and Laertes were calm, and the nomad leader was watchful, but not alarmed. 

“Lord Martin,” said Nasser. “I am pleased to introduce Tibraim, the headman of this tribe.” Martin inclined his head, and Tibraim did the same. “The tribes of the steppes have joined the emir Tanzir’s army, and have been serving as scouts.” 

“It is necessary,” said Tibraim, his Istarish harsher than the dialect spoken in the city. “The tribes of the steppes have been loyal subjects of the Most Divine Padishah for centuries beyond count. For too long has the Grand Wazir misruled Istarinmul, and for too long has the Grand Master twisted the emirs of Istarinmul to his will. It is time for both to be removed, and for the Padishah or one of his trueborn sons to rule in Istarinmul again.” 

“Then the Living Flame smiles on you this day, headman,” said Nasser, gesturing towards Sulaman and Mazyan. “May I have the honor of presenting the prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, the last living trueborn son of the Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon.” 

Tibraim sucked in a quick breath. “Is this true?”

“It is,” said Sulaman with quiet dignity. “If you doubt me, I am attended by an Oath Shadow.” Mazyan’s eyes glimmered with smokeless fire, and Tibraim flinched in his saddle. “You know that since time immemorial, only the Padishahs and their sons have been guarded by Oath Shadows.” 

“Then the Living Flame has decreed this to be a well-omened day,” said Tibraim. “You have come to take what is yours, lord prince?”

“Callatas has either imprisoned or murdered my father, I know not which,” said Sulaman. “Long I have hidden from the Grand Master, and long I have sought a way to break his power. The Balarigar and the destruction of the Inferno have given the loyal men of Istarinmul their chance. Callatas seeks to destroy the world with his mad sorcery, and Erghulan is his faithful servant.” He gestured to Martin. “The Lord Ambassador of the Empire helped me escape the city, and I come to join the true emirs of Istarinmul, who seek to end the madness of Callatas and the misrule of Erghulan.” 

Kylon hid a smile at that. It was a clever bit of phrasing, casting the rebel emirs as the loyal subjects of the Padishah and Erghulan and his allies as usurpers. Which, Kylon supposed, actually was the truth. But he had watched his sister outmaneuver the Assembly of New Kyre often enough to realize that in the realm of politics, truth mattered less than rhetoric. 

“Then we must convey you to the emir Tanzir at once,” said Tibraim.

“Where is his army, sir?” said Nasser. 

“Two days’ ride south of here along the Great Southern Road,” said Tibraim. “The host has assembled at the northern edge of the Kaltari Highlands. All the Kaltari tribes have gathered for war, along with all the emirs of the southern lands, and a great many mercenaries besides. Lord Tanzir plans to march upon Istarinmul and put the city to siege.” 

“We must speak with the emir as soon as possible,” said Sulaman. “The Grand Wazir has gathered an army to make war upon him, accompanied by the Master Alchemist Rhataban.”

Tibraim hissed. “You are certain of this, my prince?” 

“I saw the host with my own eyes, headman,” said Kylon. “At least fifteen thousand men, maybe as many as twenty thousand. Maybe four or five thousand Immortals as well, and siege weapons for throwing Hellfire.”

“How far away are they?” said Tibraim.

“Perhaps a day behind us,” said Martin. “Maybe a little less. We have seen their scouting parties at a distance.” 

“Then we must hasten,” said Tibraim. “Lord prince, I shall convey you and your companions to the emir. I shall send men after us to scout for the Grand Wazir’s army. We must warn Lord Tanzir and his captains as soon as possible.” 

“I agree,” said Sulaman. “With your permission, Lord Martin, let us follow Tibraim and his men with all speed.”

They marched onward.

The next day Kylon surrendered his horse to an aging servant and went on foot. With Tibraim’s nomads acting as outriders, there was no need for him to go scouting, though Kylon found himself wishing for a fight. It would take his mind from its dark thoughts. 

A shrill cry cut into his brooding, and his head snapped around. 

But it was only the baby. Lady Claudia walked a few paces away, Corvalis in her arms, her maid Kirzi following and holding her own daughter. Kylon remembered the Huntress holding the little girl, her terrified face illuminated by the harsh purple light of the sword of the nagataaru, remembered the malice and hatred and glee filling the vile spirit that possessed the Huntress…

He saw Claudia look at him with concern, and realized that he was scowling. He forced his expression to relax. 

“Please forgive his crying, Lord Kylon,” said Claudia.

“What?” said Kylon. She must have thought the child’s cries had offended him. “Oh. It is all right. I was…thinking about other matters.” 

“He is just hungry, I fear,” said Claudia, rocking the baby a little as she walked. “Once he’s fed, he’ll be calmer.”

“I think,” said Kylon, reaching for water sorcery and gauging the baby’s emotional aura, “I think he’s hot. Maybe if you unwrapped the extra blanket.”

“Oh!” said Claudia. “I hadn’t even thought of that.” She unwound the blanket that surrounded the baby, and Kirzi took it. Corvalis let out a few more truculent wails, gurgled a bit, and then fell silent. “My lord Kylon. I never dreamed that you knew so much about children.”

“I don’t,” said Kylon, tapping his left temple with a finger. “Water sorcery gives me an unfair advantage.” 

Claudia blinked in surprise, and then laughed. “Of course. I should have realized. It is the nature of infants to be upset about something, I suppose, though it is hard to figure out what exactly vexes them.” She sighed and looked at her son. “Or maybe it is not so difficult. He’s barely a week old. He should be safe in his nursey in Istarinmul, not traveling to a battle in the midst of the plains.”

“You both should be resting,” said Kylon. “He might be a week old, but you gave birth to him a week past.”

Claudia shrugged. “It is not as if I have much choice.”