Ghost in the Razor (9 page)

A hot wind blew over Caina’s face, and she felt the pressure inside of her skull. It was like burning fingers sinking into her head, and pain erupted through her temples. She gasped, stepping back…and the burning cloud flowed towards her. 

“You are mine.” The Sifter’s voice, powerful and horrible and alien, hissed inside of her thoughts. “You are mine. I shall devour you, I shall consume you, I shall burn away your destiny line and unravel the tapestry around you…”

Caina knew she should run, that she should fight, but the pain in her head doubled and then doubled again, so sharp that her legs turned to water and she fell to her knees. The burning cloud filled her vision, the roar of the Sifter’s voice thundering inside her skull. She struggled to stand, but the fire rose over her, preparing to swallow her whole.

Then she sensed a burst of arcane power against her skin, and the Sifter’s howls of triumph turned to a scream of pain. 

For a moment she thought that Kylon had struck at the Sifter with his power, or that Markaine or Morgant or whoever the hell he was had done something with his black dagger. Yet the tingle of sorcery was concentrated around her left hand, and she looked down.

Annarah’s pyrikon. 

In the shock of seeing Kylon again, she had forgotten all about it. The intricate bronze bracelet shone with a sharp white light, so bright that it seemed as if a globe of radiance surrounded Caina’s left hand. The pain vanished from her head, and she staggered to her feet. The white light from the pyrikon seemed to eat away at the fiery cloud, and the Sifter recoiled from the light. The fire trembled, and then it whirled and sprang into the air, fleeing over the rooftops. 

The white glow faded from Caina’s hand, and she lowered her arm, breathing hard.

Silence fell over the courtyard, and she and Kylon and the black-coated man who had called himself Markaine of Caer Marist stared at each other. 

“You’re Morgant the Razor,” said Caina at last. “Aren’t you?”

The pale blue eyes narrowed, the strange black dagger motionless in his right hand. 

“I hoped you had realized that by now,” he said. He stared at the bracelet upon her wrist. “Where did you get that?”

“Who the hell is Morgant the Razor?” said Kylon.

“He is,” said Caina.

“I am,” said Morgant. “But you’re not important, Kyracian. That is.” He pointed at Caina’s hand. “Where did you get that bracelet?”

“You know what it is?” said Caina. 

“That,” said Morgant, “is the pyrikon once carried by Annarah, the last loremaster of Iramis.”

She blinked in surprise. “How did you know that?” 

“Because,” said Morgant, “I gave it to Callatas.” 

Caina scowled. “Then I was right. You were the one who murdered Annarah…”

He let out a nasty laugh. “I did not. I lied to Callatas and told him that she was dead.”

“Ridiculous,” said Caina. “If you had lied to Callatas you would be dead.” 

Morgant laughed again. “I’m a very good liar.”

Caina pointed the ghostsilver dagger at him. “Is that what this is about? Callatas sent you to get the pyrikon back?”

“Of course not,” said Morgant. “Callatas thinks I’m dead. You’re the one who accosted me at the Ring of Cyrica! Then you ran off when you saw the Kyracian, and you would have gotten yourself killed if I had not intervened.”

“So what are you doing here?” said Caina. 

“Are you sure you can’t figure it out?” said Morgant. “You ought…”

“Gods of storm and brine!” said Kylon. “Shut up, both of you!” 

Caina stared at him, and Morgant raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

“We are standing in the middle of the street surrounded by dead men,” said Kylon. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but we can continue this discussion when we are not in imminent danger of getting arrested.” 

“You’re right,” said Caina. She saw the blood soaking into his shirt and felt a flash of chagrin. “You’re hurt.” 

“It will keep,” said Kylon. 

“Actually,” said Morgant. “I’m not worried about getting arrested.” 

He craned his neck, and Caina followed his gaze and cursed. 

More Adamant Guards hurried down the street, a score of them. Six had almost killed both Caina and Kylon. Twenty would kill them quickly, even if Morgant brought his strange dagger to bear. 

“Run,” said Caina, turning.

“No!” said Morgant. “They’ll encircle us. Follow me.”

Caina hesitated, sharing a look with Kylon.

Morgant rolled his eyes. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I could have let the Adamant Guards do it for me. Run off and die if you want, Balarigar. But if you and your pet Kyracian want to live, follow me.” He smirked. “If you want to find out what happened to Annarah, you’ll follow me.” 

“They’ve spotted us,” said Kylon, pointing his sword.

“Fine,” said Caina. “Let’s go.”

“This way,” said Morgant, his coat swirling around him as he turned. He sprinted back to the apartment tower and dashed through the door, making for the stairs. Caina expected him to head up, but instead he ran towards the tenement’s cellar. 

“There’s no way out down there,” said Caina. 

“They saw us come in,” said Kylon.

“Correct,” said Morgant, coming to a halt at the base of the stairs. The cellar was a gloomy brick vault, heavy pillars supporting the ceiling overhead. “But you’re forgetting your geography.”

He ran forward, stamping his boots as he went.

“Geography?” said Caina. 

“Or sanitation,” said Morgant, turning in a circle. “Six hundred people can live in one of these wretched towers, more if you pack them tightly, and all of those people have to relieve themselves. Six hundred people don’t want to bathe in their own filth. Well, not all of them, but…ah!”

His boot made a hollow, thumping sound, and he stabbed down with his black dagger. The blade sank into the stone of the floor, and Morgant spun in a circle. The edge of his cut glowed as he spun, and Caina felt a pulse of sorcerous power from the weapon, the gem in its pommel shining. Morgant finished his spin, cutting a circle about three yards across into the floor, its edges glowing.

Then he raised his foot and brought his boot hammering down.

The circle fell and dropped into a dark passageway below the cellar. It landed with a splash, and the faint scent of rot and waste came to Caina’s nostrils. She peered over the edge and saw a tunnel of Istarinmul’s sewers, a sheen of water glimmering upon the brick floor. The circle of stone rested on the floor of the tunnel, its edges glowing. The jewel in the pommel of his dagger shone brighter, waves of potent sorcery rolling off it. 

“Ah,” he said, shaking his dagger. “That was thicker than I thought.”

A crash came from above.

“We need to go, now,” said Kylon. 

“Yes,” said Morgant. “Yes, we do.” 

He flicked his wrist, and the dagger buried itself in the floor at an angle. The sorcerous aura around the thing grew harsher. Caina wasn’t sure what the dagger was doing, but it was pulling in a lot of arcane power.

She looked at Kylon, nodded, and together they ran to the hole. Kylon went first, dropping the twelve feet to the tunnel below, his sorcery cushioning his impact. Caina went next, and Kylon caught her around the waist as she fell, lowering her to the ground. Morgant simply jumped over the edge, his legs flexing beneath him. 

“Spry for a man two hundred years old,” she said. 

“Ridiculous,” said Morgant. “I'm two hundred and six. I thought you were supposed to be observant.”

“Which way?” said Kylon. 

“Actually,” said Morgant. “Four or five steps back ought to do it.”

“Your dagger,” said Caina. “What is it going to do?”

“Figure it out,” said Morgant. “But after you back up.”

Caina took six long steps back, as did Kylon and Morgant. A moment later she saw the first of the Adamant Guards appear at the edge of the hole, sword slithering from his scabbard with a steely rasp. Kylon raised his own sword, and the Adamant Guard prepared to jump.

The explosion came a second later. 

The tunnel vibrated around her, and Caina grabbed at the wall for balance. Flames billowed overhead, filling the cellar, the roar resounding through the tunnel. Even over the roar, Caina heard the screams of the Adamant Guards. The flames billowed up, but she felt heat, terrible heat, radiating from the hole overhead. 

Morgant snapped his fingers. Caina sensed a final flicker of sorcery, and something shot out of the flames. Morgant held out his hand, and the black dagger landed in his palm. It ought to have charred his fingers, but the weapon seemed cool in his grasp. 

“We really shouldn’t linger here,” said Caina at last.

“No,” said Morgant. “I assume you have a destination in mind?” 

“I do,” said Caina, her mind spinning plans. When she had gone to the Ring of Cyrica, she had expected to talk with an old artist about obscure points of Istarinmul’s history. Instead she had found Kylon, fought Kindred assassins and Adamant Guards, and had almost gotten killed more than once. She had far more questions than answers.

For the moment, though, questions could wait. First she had to live long enough to ask them.

“This way,” said Caina. 

Chapter 7: A Little Test

Kylon followed Caina and the strange man she had called Morgant, his hand resting on his sword hilt. 

He walked with careful, deliberate steps. There wasn’t much water down here, thanks to Istarinmul’s harsh climate, but this was still a sewer and he didn’t want to fall, especially with the open cuts upon his chest and arms. With the fighting at least temporarily over, he had turned some of his arcane strength towards healing his wounds. His sorcery gave him power over water, and all men were simply water in the end. He had never been very good at healing, but fighting in the arenas over the last year had given him ample opportunity to practice. In a week or so, the cuts would be gone, leaving new scars in his growing collection.

The rest of his sorcerous strength he put into his senses, seeking for threats to emerge from the sewers around them.

Including the strange man in the black coat who called himself Morgant the Razor.

The man’s emotional aura was peculiar. He was not a sorcerer, Kylon was sure of it, despite the powers of his dagger. Nonetheless, the assassin’s emotional aura felt…hardened. Old. Like an ancient oak staff that had become as hard as iron over the years. 

This was an incredibly dangerous man, and Kylon wondered why Caina had sought him out. 

Morgant glanced at him, as if he had guessed Kylon’s thoughts. “I don’t think your friend likes me.”

“Perhaps if you offer to paint his portrait,” said Caina without missing a beat, “that will improve his opinion of you.”

“I doubt that,” said Morgant. “Kyracians. They prefer statuary and bas-reliefs.” He made it sound like a malediction. “Inferior forms of art, to say the least.”

Kylon said nothing. Morgant the Razor seemed the sort of man who provoked everyone around him, testing them so he could see how they reacted. Men who did that tended to die violent deaths…but if Morgant was as old as he claimed, he had developed the tactic to perfection. Not that it mattered. Kylon had already failed his wife, his House, his people. 

No insult that Morgant leveled at him could be as terrible as the truth.

Though if he threatened Caina, Kylon would kill him without remorse.

“Ah, silence,” said Morgant. “A rare virtue.”

“Since you seem incapable of practicing it yourself,” said Caina, “this is as good a place as any to talk.”

She stopped in a round chamber with a shallow pool in the center. Five channels ran off in different directions. If any foes approached, they would hear them coming, and they could retreat easily.

“I imagine your head is full of questions,” said Morgant. “Though to be fair, I have a few for you as well. It’s not every day I’m accosted by a woman in male dress with a false beard.” 

She said nothing, and Kylon felt her emotions grow colder. Morgant met her gaze with a faint smile, and for a moment the two of them stared at each other. Kylon thought of two gladiators circling each other, waiting for the correct moment to strike. 

Though he supposed Caina and Morgant were about to fight with words, not blades. 

“Heat,” said Caina.

“I’m sorry?” said Morgant.

“That’s how your dagger works, isn’t it?” said Caina. “At first I thought it was pyromantic sorcery, but your neither insane nor an Umbarian. Instead, it uses heat. Friction. Try to cut steel plate with a steel blade, and you can’t. It takes too much force. But the spell on your dagger bypasses the…no. It stores up the heat of the friction, letting the weapon cut through almost anything.” 

“But that heat has to go somewhere,” said Kylon.

“Very good, Kyracian,” said Morgant. “This time, it went into the Adamant Guards. I cut the timing a bit close, if you will forgive the poor choice of words. Slicing through the floor generated more heat than I expected. Fortunately, the Guards wer at hand to serve as receptacles.” He grinned. “Very good, Balarigar. It took me a few decades to figure out how that dagger actually worked. At first I thought it was just sharp.”

They kept staring at each other. Kylon felt Caina’s emotions grow cold the way she did when thinking hard, while Morgant only watched her with that faint smile. His sense was…anticipatory? Predatory?

Kylon suspected that he was enjoying this. 

“Are you really Morgant the Razor?” said Caina. 

“Either that, or I killed him and took both his dagger and his dashing good looks,” said Morgant.

“You’re too old to be dashing,” said Caina. “Two hundred and five, you said? There’s no necromantic sorcery on your blade. So at least you’re not stealing the lives of others. How are you still alive?”

“Clean living,” said Morgant.

“No.”

“The joy of painting keeps me alive,” said Morgant.

“Still no.” 

“You know, I am almost ten times older than you, dear child,” said Morgant. “You ought to be more polite to your elders.”

“If you won’t answer my questions, then I won’t answer yours,” said Caina.

“I don’t have questions for you,” said Morgant.

In answer, she offered a smile as cold as her blue eyes and tapped the strange bracelet on her left wrist, the bracelet that had blazed with white fire when the Sifter had tried to devour her. 

“Oh, very good,” said Morgant. He looked at Kylon. “Your lover is quite a clever woman, you know.”

Of all the things Morgant might have said, Kylon had not expected that.

“What?” said Kylon at last. 

“He’s not,” said Caina. To Kylon’s astonishment a flicker of something almost like embarrassment went through her aura. “We’re not…”

“Lies need to be believable to be effective,” said Morgant. “She tracked me down, but when you took off your helmet, Kyracian, she almost ran across the arena. I think she missed you. I’m surprised she didn’t rip off her clothes, run across the sand, and throw herself upon you then and there. It would have given the crowd quite a show.”

Kylon looked at her. 

“I was worried,” Caina said in a quiet voice. “I thought you were still in New Kyre. I had no idea what had happened. So when I saw you in the Ring, it was a shock.” She looked back at Morgant. “You’re deflecting.” 

“Eh?” said Morgant. 

“From the fact that you really, really want to know how I got this pyrikon.” She tapped the bracelet. “You wanted to know so badly that you asked me in the middle of a fight, which was a stupid thing to do. Which in turn means that you are interested in what happened to the loremaster Annarah, even if you’re smart enough not to show it. And that in turn means we can bargain. If you answer my questions…I’ll tell you exactly how I found this pyrikon.” 

A burst of approval went through Morgant’s emotions. 

“Very well,” said Morgant. “A question for a question. Does that sound fair, Balarigar? I will answer your questions, and you shall answer mine.”

Caina nodded. “How are you still alive?”

“About a hundred and fifty years ago,” said Morgant, “I had a large bounty on my head. Not as large as yours, alas, but a man can only do so much. Some Anshani occultist had the bright idea of enslaving a djinni of the Court of Wind and Air to kill me.” Surprise went through Caina at that. “I freed the djinni, and in return, she granted me long life, though I didn’t ask for it and did not at the time particularly want it. Now, of course, I realize that the djinn were playing a long game. Perhaps the Knight of Air and Wind wanted me here.”

“The Knight of Air and Wind?” said Caina. “You’ve encountered him?” 

For the first time Morgant was surprised. “You have?”

“Repeatedly,” said Caina. 

“I think your questions canceled each other out,” said Kylon. How had Caina encountered a djinni? He knew of them. There were many kingdoms and orders of spirits, and the air elementals, the spirits the Istarish called the djinn, were one of them. 

“Actually, she owes me a question,” said Morgant, pointing at Caina. “How did you find that pyrikon?”

“By accident,” said Caina. “I was robbing the palace of Master Alchemist Vaysaal, after Callatas had the Kindred assassinate him. I found this in his wraithblood laboratory. Callatas had modified the pyrikons to work as keys to his private laboratory, and Annarah’s was no different.”

“Pyrikon?” said Kylon.

“A badge of office,” said Caina. “Once carried by the loremasters of Iramis.” Kylon vaguely recalled Iramis from the lessons of his childhood. “Callatas burned Iramis and hunted down the loremasters. Which brings me to my next question.” Her eyes shifted back to Morgant. “How did you kill Annarah?”

“Wrong question,” said Morgant.

She considered for a moment. “When did you kill Annarah?”

“Getting closer,” said Morgant. 

A flicker went through her emotions. “No. You’re right. Those were the wrong questions.” Her eyes narrowed. “Where is Annarah?”

“Waiting exactly where I left her,” said Morgant, “about a hundred and fifty-one years ago.” 

“You didn’t kill her,” said Caina, astonished.

“No,” said Morgant.

“Why not?” said Caina. 

“Because I gave her my word that I would not,” said Morgant. “My turn for a question, child. Why do you want to find her?”

“To stop the Apotheosis,” said Caina.

Morgant scoffed. “The Apotheosis. Do you even know what that is?” Kylon didn’t, though a thread of fear went through Caina at its mention.

“It is Grand Master Callatas’s great spell,” said Caina. “He makes wraithblood from the blood of murdered slaves and distributes it to the poor of the city. He needs that to work the Apotheosis, though I don’t know why, and he also needs the Star, the Staff, and the Seal of Iramis. He has the Star, and I’m trying to find the Staff and the Seal before he does.” She pointed at him. “That was a question, and you will tell me what you know about the Apotheosis.”

Morgant smiled. “Rather more than you do.” 

Caina’s face remained calm, but pure irritation flushed through her emotions. “Do elaborate.”

“But less than I would like, alas,” said Morgant. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “The purpose of wraithblood is to reduce its users’ defenses against possession.” 

“Like from the nagataaru?” said Caina. 

“Exactly,” said Morgant. “I don’t know what Callatas intends with his spell. But the first part of the Apotheosis involves summoning a tremendous number of nagataaru, millions of them, all at once. That was why he destroyed Iramis and why he wanted the regalia of the Princes. He needed the Staff to summon the nagataaru and the Seal to control them all.”

“And the wraithblood addicts,” said Caina, the thread of fear in her sense growing sharper, “provide bodies to house all the nagataaru.” 

“You understand,” said Morgant.  

“Why?” said Caina. “Why do this? What does Callatas want from the Apotheosis?”

“I don’t know,” said Morgant. “Do you owe me a question, or do I? I’ve lost count, I’m afraid.” 

“I think we’re past that point,” said Caina. “I sought you out. Sulaman directed me to you.”

“Sulaman?” said Morgant, and a ripple of surprise went through his emotions before they settled back into icy hardness. “Interesting. He’s not a fool. I am surprised that he sent you to me. He must think highly of you.” 

“Tell me what happened to Annarah,” said Caina. “If I can find the Staff and Seal before Callatas and conceal them from his reach, the Apotheosis will never happen.”

Morgant gazed at the ceiling again, his blue eyes narrowed, and Kylon felt his emotions grow colder. 

“I have two rules, Balarigar,” said Morgant. “One, I do not kill anyone who has not earned death. Two, I keep my word.”

“A feeble set of rules,” said Kylon. 

“Oh, Kyracian?” said Morgant. “Why is that?”

“You decide who has earned death?” said Kylon. “I have known men who swear solemn oaths only to wriggle out of the smallest loopholes.”

The assassin’s smile was colder than his emotional sense. “What do you know of keeping promises, boy? What do you know of keeping your word? You speak like a noble-born Kyracian, yet you are fighting for scraps of gold in the Ring of Cyrica. That means you were exiled, probably for failing in battle. Who did you fail, Kyracian? Which promises did you break?”

Rage swept through Kylon, and a rime of frost spread from his boots and over the stone floor. Morgant raised an eyebrow, and Caina looked at him with concern. Again he saw Thalastre fall to her knees, the Huntress’s sword jutting from the curve of her belly, and his rage faded to sick grief and regret. 

Morgant was right. He had failed.

“You should answer her question,” said Kylon, the frost around his feet melting, “instead of rambling about your rules.” 

“So be it,” said Morgant. “In brief, then. A long time ago I was a Kindred assassin, and Morgant the Razor was the most feared killer in three nations. I wearied of that life, faked my death, and became Markaine of Caer Marist. I was in what is now the Desert of Candles when Callatas destroyed Iramis. When I was escaping, Callatas found me, recognized me, and hired me to kill Annarah, one of the loremasters who had escaped the ruin of Iramis. I found her, decided that she did not deserve to die, and helped to hide herself. She gave me her pyrikon,” he flicked a finger in the direction of Caina’s wrist, “and I gave it to Callatas as proof that she was dead.”

“He believed you?” said Caina.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” said Morgant. 

“So where is Annarah now?” said Caina. “Where are the Staff and Seal?” 

“No,” said Morgant. 

“You’re not going to tell me,” said Caina.

“Not,” said Morgant, his cold sense sharpening further, “until you prove you are worthy.”

“Worthy of what?” said Caina. 

“Of helping Annarah,” said Morgant. “That was part of my word to her. That I would not reveal her location until I found someone worthy, someone strong enough to help her. You’re absolutely right, Balarigar. Callatas’s Apotheosis will destroy the world. That is the stakes we play for in this game. Not a war, not a petty skirmish between Kyracian pirates, but everything that is and ever will be. That is what will die if Callatas gets the Staff and the Seal.” His eyes flashed. “I am Morgant the Razor. I have lived for two hundred and five years, and I keep my word. And I will only tell Annarah’s location to someone worthy.”