Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) (22 page)

It was a damned peculiar sensation. 

She opened her eyes. “Ready?”

Kylon nodded, both his hands on the valikon’s hilt. 

Caina drew back her arm and flung the knife. Her throw was perfect, and for a horrible moment she was afraid that it had been too good, that the blade would strike Kylon in the throat. Her throw had been perfect, but Kylon was just as good. The valikon snapped up, and Caina’s knife rebounded from the ancient weapon with a clang. 

Cronmer grinned and clapped. “Well done! They’ll pay extra to see that!” 

Tiri frowned. “It might have been a fluke, though.” 

“Watch this, then,” said Caina, rolling her wrist again.

She flung three more knives at Kylon, and every time he deflected them, the valikon blurring back and forth as the blades rebounded from the sword. 

“Now that,” said Cronmer, “is a neat trick. Where did you learn to do that?”

Kylon shrugged. “I had good teachers.” 

“I’ll say.” Cronmer stooped, collected Caina’s knives, and handed them back to her. “Well, you’re hired. Now, as for the matter of payment…”

After that, it was all over but the haggling.

“Well done,” murmured Nasser after Cronmer and Tiri went to attend to some other crisis. “Well done, indeed. If we are seen to be part of the circus, we shall have no trouble gaining entry to Istarinmul.”

“Circus performers are above suspicion in Istarinmul?” said Laertes.

“Beneath it, rather,” said Nasser. “Rather like gladiators, slaves, and servants. The wealthy and the powerful tend to overlook them. It is why the Ghosts often recruit informants from their ranks.” 

“It is,” said Caina. “Let’s hope it works this time. Annarah, come with me. We should find Tozun and have him get some costumes for us.”

“Costumes?” said Annarah.

“Yes,” said Caina. She hesitated. “I probably should have mentioned that.”

Chapter 12: Paid As Traitors Deserve

“Lord Cassander,” said the Collector at the gate. “Welcome. You do the Brotherhood great honor by coming here.”

“I assure you,” lied Cassander, “the honor is entirely mine.” 

He stood at the gates of the Brotherhood’s private dock, flanked by a half-dozen Adamant Guards, Kalgri silent at his side. He had to admit that the Brotherhood’s private dock made for a formidable fortress. A thick stone wall topped with iron spikes surrounded the entire complex, and beyond rose a mansion crowned with a five-story tower, the windows high and narrow enough to serve as arrow slits. Eight private quays jutted into the water, and here the ships of the Brotherhood came to unload their fresh cargoes of captives harvested around the world. A faint stench hung over the complex, a mixture of sweat and excrement and old blood and despair. 

The smell of the thousands upon thousands of slaves who had passed through this place over the centuries. 

“This way, Lord Cassander,” said the Collector, gesturing to the mansion. “The cowled masters await you and your…ah, companion in the dining hall.”

Kalgri said nothing as she looked at the Collector with cold blue eyes. She wore her crimson armor, though not the shadow-cloak or the steel mask. The Collector was perceptive enough to recognize the danger, and he looked away as he swallowed. 

They walked across the courtyard. It looked a great deal like a cattle stockyard, with pens lining the walls, though very few stockyards had yards upon yards of iron chains and shackles pinned to the walls, or steel cages to hold the more valuable slaves. Cassander glanced back as the gate swung shut with a metallic clang, the Collectors returning to their guard posts. 

He could not see the twenty Silent Hunters who had followed him into the courtyard, but that was unimportant. They had their tasks. The compound had only one gate, but there were men at the docks, and some of them might have the wit to take boats and escape into the Cyrican harbor. 

Cassander’s plan required that no one leave the compound. 

Two more Collectors stood guard at the double doors to the mansion, and they bowed and opened the doors. Cassander strode past them without looking. Inside the dining hall of the cowled masters was decorated to the point of comical ostentation. A gleaming mosaic of wilderness scenes clicked beneath Cassander’s boots. Ornate frescoes covered the walls, showing the triumphs of the cowled masters. One fresco displayed field slaves toiling under the supervision of the cowled masters, raising grain to feed Istarinmul. Another showed gladiators training in the Arena of Padishahs. A third showed a beautiful woman standing naked upon an auction block, emirs bidding upon her. A long table of gleaming wood stretched the length of the hall, covered with polished plates and glasses of delicate crystal. 

The cowled masters of the Brotherhood of Slavers sat at the table, each one of them clad in their ceremonial garb of mantles and cowls of black leather. The garments looked hideously uncomfortable, and unlike Cassander’s coat, had not been enspelled to deflect weapons. 

“Masters of the Brotherhood,” announced the Collector, “I present Lord Cassander of the Umbarian Order.”

He bowed and withdrew, closing the doors behind him, and as one the cowled masters rose to their feet and applauded. 

“Three cheers!” said one of the cowled masters, an old, paunchy man named Kazyan. “Three cheers for the man who slew the Balarigar!” If Cassander remembered right, Caina had robbed Kazyan, drugged him, and sent him naked onto the sands of the Ring of Thorns. Kazyan had been a laughingstock for months after, and poets had even composed ballads about his humiliation, despite Kazyan’s vigorous efforts to prosecute anyone caught reciting such libelous poems. 

Cassander could hardly blame Caina for that. Kazyan managed to be both tedious and irritating, a rare feat indeed.

The plates of his gauntlet rasped as he opened and closed his fist. 

“Well done!” rumbled an enormously obese Master Slaver, the only one who had not gotten to his feet. Caina had flung Master Slaver Ulvan off his own balcony, a chain wrapped around his legs and tied to the railing. The fall hadn’t killed Ulvan, but it had broken his legs and dislocated one of his hips, and the he had never been able to walk properly since. “Well done, indeed, my lord Cassander.” 

“Did she suffer?” said another Master Slaver, a whip-thin, scowling man named Konyat. The man brutalized his slaves beyond even the general standards of the Istarish, so when Caina had left him hanging upside down from his bedroom ceiling, it had been nearly a day before his slaves had summoned the courage to enter his chambers without permission. “Did the bitch suffer? Tell me that, Lord Cassander.” 

Cassander smiled, the grafted flesh tight against the left side of his jaw. “She burned to death.”

“Ah,” breathed Konyat. 

“Was that suffering enough for you, Master Konyat?” said Cassander.

“No,” said Konyat. “I would have handed her over to the Teskilati torturers, to let them work their arts upon her.”

“Is that all?” snapped a middle-aged cowled master named Markut. If Cassander recalled correctly, Caina had left him hog-tied in his own slave cells. “I would have handed her over to the Immortals, let each and every one of them have their way with her. Then I would have marched her into the arena and loosed starving lions upon her…”

The other cowled masters chimed in, each offering their own preferences for the grisly death of Caina Amalas. Cassander felt a surge of irritation go through him as he listened to the fools prattle. He wanted to summon arcane power and start striking with spells.

He felt Kalgri’s eyes upon him, saw her faint smile. She knew what he was thinking. 

“I would have crucified her upon the walls of the Golden Palace,” said Ulvan, “but smeared her flesh with honey to draw flies. Slaves would give her water, to keep her alive longer and draw out her torment…”

“Alas,” said Cassander, “I regret that I lack the imagination of the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. One would assume that being burned alive would be a sufficient punishment for the woman, but clearly not. Perhaps you can resurrect her and torment her anew.” 

The Master Slavers gaped at him, and then burst into laughter. 

“Forgive us, Lord Cassander,” said Ulvan, waving a thick hand at his peers. “We have all been wronged by that…that woman, that criminal, and every last one of us would wish to take personal vengeance upon her. We appealed to the Grand Wazir for justice, and he was able to do nothing! For two years that vile woman ran free in the city, and look what she wrought! The slave market has all but collapsed, the Inferno was destroyed, and the Padishah’s realm sunders into civil war.”

“If Erghulan had roused himself sooner,” said Konyat, his scowl unwavering, “then the Balarigar would have been slain soon after her unjustified attack upon Ulvan, and Istarinmul would be in a far better state than it is now.” 

“I quite agree,” said Markut. “It is disgraceful that the Grand Wazir was not able to rid Istarinmul of such a threat to our business and our very lives.” 

“Yes,” said old Kazyan. “You have our lasting gratitude, Lord Cassander. Now that the wretched woman is dead, we can rebuild our business and stabilize the slave trade across the world once more. Know that you and the Umbarian Order have our lasting gratitude.”

“How very splendid,” said Cassander, glancing towards the doors. 

“In my opinion,” said Ulvan, “it is disgraceful that Erghulan banished you from Istarinmul.” 

“Though,” said Konyat, “perhaps you should not have been so…vigorous…in your criticism of him.” 

“Ah, well,” said Cassander. He heard a scuffling sound from outside the door. “I did not kill the Balarigar as brutally as you would like, and I did not lick Erghulan’s fingers as enthusiastically as you would wish. Truly, you are impossible to please.”

The cowled masters gaped at him.

“Lord Cassander,” said Ulvan. “I…”

“But I cannot blame you for that,” said Cassander, “for you are Erghulan’s dogs, and a dog must serve his master.”

A little rumble of discontent went up from the masters of the Brotherhood. 

“Lord Cassander,” said Kazyan, “that is…”

“Entirely true?” said Cassander. He started to circle around the table, Kalgri following him. The Adamant Guards positioned themselves by the door. “You see, you have done Erghulan’s bidding, but Erghulan himself is just the servant of Callatas.” Again the cowled masters protested, but Cassander cut off their protest. “Come, cowled masters, you know I speak the truth. After all, I am banished from the great and glorious city of Istarinmul. I may speak more freely than any of you.” 

Silence hung over the long dining hall. 

“Did you know why Callatas had Erghulan buy so many slaves from you?” said Cassander. 

No one answered him.

“Work gangs,” said Konyat at last. “To dig up Iramisian ruins in the Desert of Candles…”

“Some of them,” said Cassander, “but most went into the Grand Master’s laboratories, and there were murdered to produce wraithblood.”

“A preposterous slander,” said Ulvan, but his voice held little conviction. 

“Oh, you knew,” said Cassander. “You transported all the slaves for him, delivered them to his wraithblood laboratories, and you knew they never came out again. Perhaps you only suspected, true. But you knew what he intended with those slaves, and you were content to collect your money.”

“You presume to judge us?” snapped Kazyan, shaking a liver-spotted fist at Cassander. “The Umbarian Order hardly treats its own slaves any better. I have heard the tales of your Undead Legion, the men slaughtered to be raised as undead soldiers, or the men twisted into monsters.” His gaze turned towards the Adamant Guards, who looked back without expression. 

“Judge you?” said Cassander. “Do not be absurd. I admire men who do what needs to be done, regardless of the cost. I intend to follow your example. I, too, have a great work that needs to be done.”

“And what is that, pray?” said Ulvan. 

“It is not your concern,” said Cassander. “Masters of the Brotherhood, I have killed Caina Amalas for you, and I require one thing, only one thing, as my reward.”

“And what is that?” said Kazyan. 

“This building,” said Cassander. “Oh, and the courtyard and the attached docks. So, two things, really.”

Shocked silence hung over the hall for a moment, and then the cowled masters erupted with laughter. 

“Surely you cannot be serious, Lord Cassander,” said Markut. 

“I am quite serious,” said Cassander. “Deadly serious, you might say.”

“Why do you want the dock?” said Ulvan. 

“That is not important,” said Cassander. He stopped pacing as the doors opened, and a centurion of the Adamant Guard walked into the dining hall, his armored carapace and drawn sword spattered with blood. 

“What is this?” said Kazyan. 

“Do you know,” said Cassander, gesturing at Kalgri, “who this woman is?”

Ulvan sneered. “One of your concubines, I assume. Though you have peculiar tastes to dress her in such an outlandish costume.” 

Kalgri only smiled as she produced her shadow-cloak, slinging it over her shoulders. She donned her serene mask of red steel, drawing up the cowl of the shadow-cloak. The net effect of the armor and the cloak seemed to transform her into a bloody shadow.

A few of the masters realized what was about to happen. 

“That,” said Markut, his voice hoarse, “that is…” 

“The Red Huntress,” said Cassander. “The assassin of myth and legend, but the legend is quite real, I assure you.” He glanced to the Adamant Guard. “Centurion?”

“The gate is secure, Lord Cassander,” said the centurion. “The docks and the boats, as well.”

“What is the meaning of this?” thundered Markut, shoving to his feet. 

“Very good,” said Cassander. “Centurion, secure the mansion. No one is to leave.”

“Understood, my lord,” said the centurion.

Kalgri sighed a little in pleasure, rolling her shoulders.

“We will not be intimidated!” said Kazyan, shoving to his feet. “We will not be bullied. We are the cowled masters of the Brotherhood of Slavers of Istarinmul.” His old face was a mask of righteous fury. “And we shall not…”