Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) (14 page)

“I am,” said Claudia at last.

“Nine months, I deem,” said Callatas.

“Yes,” said Claudia. 

“I was a physician,” said Callatas, “long, long ago. Before I understood.” He gazed at the gate, seemingly lost in thought.

“Understood what?” said Martin.

The cold eyes turned to Martin. “She is dead, you know.”

“Who?” said Martin.

Callatas scoffed. “Do not play coy with me. The Balarigar. The woman called Caina Amalas. The Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, the woman the Huntress failed to kill. I know she is dead.”

“How?” said Martin. 

For a moment Callatas tilted his head to the side, as if listening to a voice that only he could hear. The Huntress had done that a few times, likely listening to the nagataaru that had given her such savage strength and blistering speed. Callatas had created the Red Huntress. Did that mean he was possessed by a nagataaru as well?

Suddenly Claudia wanted to get as far away from the old man as possible.

“Her destiny thread terminated at Rumarah,” said Callatas. “It was a powerful thread. Her fate warped the threads of others. She might have been able to stop me. But she is dead, and there is no one to take her place.” A thin smile went over the bearded lips. “Perhaps you are wondering why I am so candid with you. I know full well that you knew the Balarigar, that you aided her schemes.”

“Because you believe we are not a threat to your plans,” said Martin. 

“Belief is not required in the face of certain fact,” said Callatas. 

“Then if we are not a threat to you,” said Martin, “why did you wish to speak with us? Did you wish our help against Cassander? The Emperor would be glad to offer any aid he can, if Istarinmul remains neutral against the…”

“You should kill yourself,” said Callatas to Claudia.

Claudia blinked, and Martin scowled. “What?” 

“Or the child within your womb, at the very least,” said Callatas.

“Why?” said Claudia, her anger overriding her fear. 

“Because you will bring the child into a world diseased and blighted by humanity,” said Callatas. “Look at Istarinmul, at the cesspit of corruption and ignorance it has become. It is the very nature of civilization that corrupts and taints man. Would it not be better to do away with it entirely? Would it not be better to embrace that which is perfectible about man?” 

“And what is that?” said Martin. 

“We are predators,” said Callatas. “Killing is our nature. Everything else about humanity is corrupt and flawed. Yet our nature as killers is our truest essence. That alone can be perfected.” He looked back at Claudia. “You should kill yourself now, rather than subject your child to what is to come.”

Claudia took a moment to make sure her voice was calm. 

“I think you are talking nonsense,” she said, “and if you try to hurt my child, I will kill you myself.” 

“Only if I have not killed you first,” said Martin.

She expected anger or threats or bluster. Instead, Callatas seemed only…indifferent. 

“No,” said Callatas. “You shall not. And I will not harm the child. No. You shall, by bringing him into this wretched world. Though perhaps he will live long enough for the world to be made new.”

With that, the Grand Master strode towards the Golden Palace proper, his white robes and cloak sweeping behind him. Claudia stared after him, furious and terrified and puzzled all at once.

Curiosity mostly won out. It seemed she really was a Ghost. 

“What,” said Claudia at last, “was that all about?” 

“I don’t know,” said Martin. “Caina said his Apotheosis was some grand plan to remake the world. Perhaps he is confident that it will soon come to fruition. Regardless, I think it is past time we were gone from here.”

“Agreed,” said Claudia. She took his arm, and they moved with as much haste as dignity permitted to the gate. She considered suggesting that Martin go speak with Erghulan, but she discarded the idea. The Grand Wazir was still in a fury, and would react badly to any suggestions at the moment. Once he had calmed down, Martin could visit him again, and point out that all the Empire had ever wanted was for Istarinmul to stay neutral in the war against the Order. Given Cassander’s strange behavior today, convincing Erghulan to stay neutral would be all the easier. Though that still didn’t answer the question of what Cassander intended to do, or what Callatas planned with his Apotheosis…

Well. One problem at a time. 

They reached the street without incident. Their coach remained where they had left it, tended by the nervous-looking coachman.

“Lord Martin, might I have a word?” said a rusty voice in Istarish.

Martin stopped, and Claudia turned. A thin Istarish man in late middle age walked towards them, his gaunt face marked with deep lines, his beard more gray than black. He wore the fine robes and turban of a minor functionary in the Padishah’s government. The Imperial Guards moved closer to Martin and Claudia. The Silent Hunters would not disguise themselves, but the Kindred assassin families were capable of employing such a ruse.

“Yes?” said Martin. “What do you wish of me?”

“I fear we have business to discuss,” said the thin man. 

“Well?” said Martin. “Out with it.”

The man cleared his throat, and began speaking in High Nighmarian. “Beware the shadows, for in the shadows lies treachery.”

Claudia blinked. The line was from an old Nighmarian opera. Caina had used it to set up signs and countersigns among the Ghosts of her circle. 

“But in the shadows is concealment,” answered Martin in the same language.

The thin man spoke the third line of the sign. “For the tyrants and the slavers should beware the shadows.”

“Spread out and give us some space,” said Martin to the Guards. “My wife and I will need to speak with our visitor alone. Do not let anyone approach.”

The Guards nodded and obeyed, moving into a wide circle around the coach.

“I apologize for approaching in this fashion,” said the thin man, switching back to Istarish, “but my news is urgent, and if the circlemaster truly is dead, then I must seek help elsewhere.” 

“You are a Ghost, plainly,” said Martin. “Who are you?”

“My name is Agabyzus,” said the thin man. “The circlemaster rescued me from prison some time ago, and I have served her ever since. My lord, I suggest we go to a location where we can talk quietly. If I am right, then both Istarinmul and all our lives are in very great danger.”

Chapter 7: Polite Requests

Caina looked north across the broad sweep of the Trabazon steppes. 

They had left the Kaltari Highlands behind, moving north along the Great Southern Road. During Caina’s past journeys, the road had been filled with merchant traffic as trade flowed back and forth between Istarinmul and Anshan. Now the caravans had slowed to a trickle, all of them surrounded by scowling, hard-eyed mercenaries. Bands of soldiers moved north and south along the road, some heading to Istarinmul to bolster the Grand Wazir’s army, others moving south to reinforce Tanzir Shahan. Bands of Istarish nomads circled the edges of the road, seeking for travelers to rob, and parties of Collectors searched for inventory to sell in Istarinmul. 

The Collectors were the most aggressive. A band of a dozen rode up and attacked without any warning. Kylon killed three of them and Morgant two in the first moments of the fighting. That convinced the surviving Collectors to flee in search of easier prey. 

“I suggest that we would do well to avoid the road,” said Nasser. Caina watched as Kylon cleaned the blood from the blade of the valikon, crimson against silver. Morgant busied himself by searching the bodies and helping himself to any coins. “It seems to be drawing predators like maggots to raw meat.”

“Agreed,” said Caina. Istarinmul was starting to come apart at the seams. If this continued, the countryside would become a patchwork of warring fiefdoms ruled by petty emirs and opportunistic warlords. Or the Shahenshah of Anshan would conquer Istarinmul. Or the Umbarians, now that Cassander was dead, would decide to discard diplomacy and attack Istarinmul in hopes of forcing open the Straits. 

“To the east or to the west?” said Laertes, forcing Caina’s grim musings back to more immediate problems.

“East,” said Morgant and Caina in unison. She looked at him, and the assassin sighed and gestured for her to proceed. 

“The Collectors are coming from the north, out of Istarinmul,” said Caina. “The mercenaries are coming from the west, from Cyrica and Akasar. To the east of the road is nothing but some grassland and then the Desert of Candles. We might run into nomads on the eastern side of the road, but they’ll probably ignore us. We don’t look like we have anything valuable.”

“Aye,” grunted Laertes. “We just look like vagabonds. Not like we’re carrying two of the most valuable relics in the world.” 

“Obfuscation is a useful defense,” said Nasser. “To the east, then.”

They left the dead Collectors to rot, though Laertes added their horses to the supply train, and then rode four miles east. After that, they turned north, riding through the grasslands, the Desert of Candles a hazy wall to the east. They did not see another living soul, and after another fifteen miles stopped for the night. 

“We are making good time,” said Nasser as Laertes built a small cooking fire. The lack of fuel on the steppes made for small fires. Plus the smoke might be visible for a long way. “Another two or three days, I think, and we shall reach the city proper.”

“Barring further trouble, of course,” said Caina. 

Nasser’s white smile flashed across his dark face. “Why, my dear Caina. How cynical you have become.” 

“She’s been associating with you too long,” said Laertes.

“Fear not,” said Kylon, brushing down his horse. “She was suspicious long before she met any of you.”

Caina flashed him a smile. “I’ll take first watch.” 

After dinner Laertes extinguished the fire, and the others went to their bedrolls. Caina sat alone in the darkness at the edge of the camp, rolling a throwing knife over her fingers again and again as she watched. The stars blazed overhead, and far to the east she could pick out the faint blue glow from the Desert of Candles. The “candles” were crystalline pillars nine feet tall, glowing with their own inner light, and Caina suspected that they were the echoes of the people of Iramis, their deaths frozen in crystal at the moment of Iramis’s destruction. 

She wondered what she would see if she looked at them through the eyes of the valikarion. 

Her mind turned to the Staff and the Seal. The plan ought to work. If they could hire a ship and depart Istarinmul before Callatas noticed, they could reach Catekharon and leave the relics in the Tower of Study. Then Caina could return to Istarinmul and help Tanzir and Nasser and the others defeat Callatas once and for all.

Unless the Red Huntress told Callatas about the regalia.

Unless Kalgri was coming for Caina right now, this very night.

Again Caina remembered the ghostsilver sword erupting from her chest, remembered Kalgri’s voice hissing with triumph in her ear. 

She closed her eyes, waiting for the terrible dread to pass. Her hands did not shake, and she kept rolling the knife across her fingers without cutting herself. That was odd. It felt like her hands ought to shake. 

Caina let out a long breath and opened her eyes, watching the plains for any sign of movement.

Nothing. They were alone.

Just as she was sure she had been alone in her room at the Corsair’s Rest…

“Get some sleep.” 

Morgant stepped next to her, wrapped in his dark coat, his face ghostly in the starlight. 

“It’s not your turn at watch,” said Caina. “Though I suppose in addition to their greater wisdom, the elderly need less sleep.” 

“This is true,” said Morgant. “Whereas you are young and full of vigor, and so need your rest. I suppose the Kyracian is waiting for you. Though I suggest you restrain your natural urges, seeing as we do not have tents. Unless you feel like putting on a show for the rest of us.” 

Caina sat in silence for a moment.

“You,” she said at last, “are really quite a filthy-minded old man.” 

Morgant scoffed. “Facile.” 

“Except,” said Caina, her thoughts turning over one another, “you’re not really a filthy-minded old man. You’re a cold, aloof, murderous old man who cares a great deal about keeping his word. That’s the point of all the insults and little jokes. You’re testing the people around you, making sure they’re strong enough to help you keep your word.” 

“This is entertaining,” said Morgant. “Go on.” 

“So you think my…relationship with Kylon might impede you from keeping your word,” said Caina. 

“Will it?” said Morgant. 

“But it can’t impede your ability to keep your word because you’ve already kept your word,” said Caina, gesturing with the knife like a teacher making a point to a pupil. “You rescued Annarah from the Inferno.” Her eyes strayed to the loremaster’s sleeping form. “So you kept your word. You could have gone. But here you are.”

“I decided the world didn’t deserve to die,” said Morgant. 

“That’s why I’m still alive, so I’m glad,” said Caina. Her thoughts turned faster, the way they did when she was on the verge of figuring something out. “But that’s not enough, not for a man like you. Which means…”

She stared into the darkness for a moment, and then the answer came to her.

“You have another secret,” she said.

“Oh?” said Morgant. “What is it?” 

For once, there was no acerbic edge to his words. 

“You have another promise to keep,” said Caina. “You gave your word to somebody else…and you still have to keep it. That’s why you’re here.”

“For someone so young,” said Morgant, “you really are damnably clever.” 

“What did you promise?” said Caina. 

“I’ve listened to you and Nasser talk,” said Morgant. “Secrets are your armor, was that not it?”

“You don’t need secrets,” said Caina. “Which mean you’re protecting someone else. Part of your promise, I think.”

Morgant said nothing.