Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) (23 page)

His face kept its furious expression right up until Cassander blasted his head to smoking coals. Kazyan’s body fell with a thump to the bright mosaic of the floor, smoke rising from the charred crater that Cassander’s pyromantic spell had left between his shoulders. 

For a moment stunned silence filled the hall. 

Then the screaming began.

Kalgri surged forward, her ghostsilver sword and a steel dagger in hand, and she killed three cowled masters before they even realized what was happening. Cassander cast another spell, his will becoming a fist of psychokinetic force, and his spell picked up Konyat and flung the screaming man against the ceiling with enough force to shatter every bone in his body.

Konyat fell to the table with a wet thump, his blood spilling across the gleaming plates and the rich food.

Some of the cowled masters tried to fight. Markut vaulted over the table, a dagger in hand, charging until Cassander set him aflame. The cowled master fell screaming to the floor, rolling as he tried to extinguish the flames. Others tried to run, making for the doors to the courtyard or the stairs. The Adamant Guards cut down those trying to reach the courtyard, and Kalgri slaughtered any that tried to run for the stairs. 

Cassander laughed with delight as he killed, the joy of it filling him. Granted, he had always found the Brotherhood to be pompous fools, and would have enjoyed killing them even before Rumarah and the Corsair’s Rest. But this, the sheer delightful joy of watching them scream and beg and die…it was as good as a woman and as intoxicating as wine. 

Soon all the cowled masters were dead save one. 

“No!” screamed Ulvan, trying to pull himself from his chair, his slipper-clad feet skidding against the smooth floor. “No, please, don’t, don’t, I’ll do anything, please, please…”

Cassander sent a blast of fire into him, and Ulvan screamed as his clothes and skin erupted into flame. That at last gave him the strength to stand, and he managed a few steps, wailing all the while. Then he fell, bounced off the table, and lay in a motionless, burning heap.

The smell was absolutely horrendous.

Cassander sighed, breathing it in as if it were the finest incense. 

He turned his head and saw Kalgri staring at him.

“Go search the rest of the mansion,” said Cassander. “Likely a few of the slaves or the Collectors are hiding. They won’t be able to conceal themselves from the senses of the nagataaru. Once you’ve finished, join me on the top level of the central tower.”

Kalgri said nothing, but she drew back her cowl and vanished up the stairs. 

“A guard has been posted at the gate,” said the centurion, who had watched the slaughter of the Brotherhood with cold indifference. 

“The men are disguised as Collectors?” said Cassander.

“Yes, my lord,” said the centurion. “Should any visitors arrive, we shall tell them that the cowled masters are meeting in council, and will not see anyone until their deliberations are complete.” 

“Good,” said Cassander. It was a feeble ruse. The Brotherhood headed a vast commercial empire scattered across both the Cyrican and the Alqaarin seas, and the cowled masters could not absent themselves from it for more than a few days without their absence becoming noticeable. 

Of course, by the time anyone noticed, Istarinmul would be ashes. 

Cassander supposed the Brotherhood’s network of slave routes would collapse, and the Order would likely take over the slave trade in the Alqaarin sea. It would be another achievement Cassander could claim once he returned to the Provosts in triumph, once Malarae had been seized and the Emperor defeated. 

Still. One problem at a time.

“Send word to the porters,” said Cassander. “Have them bring the wagon with all speed.” The Throne of Corazain had been loaded into a specially prepared wagon, ringed with warding spells to conceal its powerful aura. 

“My lord,” said the centurion. He bowed and departed, shouting orders to the other Adamant Guards. 

Cassander stepped over the corpses of the cowled masters and took the stairs, climbing higher into the mansion. Here and there he found the corpse of a slave or a Collector. Kalgri had been thorough. Cassander found the stairs to the tower and climbed, the plates of his gauntlet rasping as his fist closed and opened again and again. 

Killing the cowled masters had been satisfying, but he already wanted to kill more.

He reached the top floor of the tower. It had been built as a massive solar with a domed roof, the sun shining through an oculus at the apex of a dome to reflect off the polished golden-green marble of the floor. High windows covered the circular wall, offering a splendid view of the Cyrican sea to the west and the vast sprawl of Istarinmul to the east. Cassander saw the houses and businesses of the Cyrican Quarter, the merchant halls of the Old Quarter and the fortresses of the Tower Quarter, the brilliant domes and towers of the Emirs’ Quarter and the gilded domes of the Golden Palace itself.

From here he could watch as the entire city burned. 

He smiled at that thought. 

Yes, that might be enough death to satisfy him. 

A boot clicked against the marble floor, and Cassander turned as Kalgri strode into the solar. Drops of blood fell from her ghostsilver sword as she walked, the shadow-cloak streaming around her like a veil of smoke. 

“Were there any survivors?” said Cassander.

“What do you think?” said Kalgri. 

“Good,” said Cassander, turning back to the windows. “The Throne will go here.”

“Here?” said Kalgri. She let out a disdainful laugh. “Sorcerers and towers. What is it with sorcerers and towers? Could you not pick a more obvious location?”

“Callatas and anyone else who might interfere,” said Cassander, “will target the Umbarian embassy, and by the time they realize their error, it will be too late to stop the destruction of the city. Besides, I will need to see the rift.”

“The rift?” said Kalgri. 

“The power source for this little spell,” said Cassander. “I promised you death, Huntress, and you shall indeed see death on a scale that shall change the course of history. I will cast the preparatory warding and summoning spells as my servants bring the Throne. It would be helpful if you were to guard the compound and make sure anyone attempting to visit suffers a fatal accident.”

“You presume to give me orders now?” said Kalgri.

Cassander smiled at her. “Follow me, Huntress, and I shall indeed show you death like you have never seen before.”

For a moment Kalgri said nothing, and he got the impression that she was communing with the nagataaru in her skull. He wondered if he would have to kill her. Well, in another day, not even the Red Huntress would be able to stop what he had planned for Istarinmul. 

“We shall see,” said Kalgri at last.

Chapter 13: Circus Games

The drumbeat echoed through the costume tent. 

“You know,” said Caina, looking at herself in the mirror, “the last time I wore this was two years ago, and it still fits.” 

Annarah laughed. “That is always a pleasant surprise, is it not?” 

Outside came the steady boom of drums, and the glow of bonfires leaked through the cloth walls of the tent. Cronmer’s circus had assembled itself for the performance like a Legion erecting its encampment for the night, with Cronmer and Tiri and their eldest son Tozun barking out commands like Legionary centurions overseeing their troops. The circus had a score of different acts, from Vardo’s animals to acrobats to sword swallowers and numerous others, and Cronmer intended to show them all to the merchants and caravan guards waiting outside of Istarinmul’s walls. Some merchants and minor nobles had even come from the city to watch the circus, while others stood upon the battlements of the southern wall. If all went well, Cronmer said, he hoped to be invited to perform within the city, perhaps even before the Grand Wazir himself.

For Cronmer’s sake, Caina hoped things did not go that well. If Erghulan had sealed the city to keep rebel saboteurs from entering, the man was not in the mood for merriment. 

The costume tent boiled with activity. The female acrobats and dancers helped each other into their costumes, which were adorned with a lot of feathers and fake jewels, likely to make up for the lack of fabric. In one corner the clowns helped each other apply their makeup in stylized patterns of white and black. From time to time Tiri poked her head through the flap and shouted instructions to someone. 

Caina turned away from the mirror, a small makeup brush in her hand.

“Where did you learn to do this?” said Annarah, closing her eyes as Caina finished applying lines of kohl. 

“When I was a girl,” said Caina, dabbing the brush below Annarah’s eyelids, “I spent some time working for the leading lady of the Grand Imperial Opera. She taught me about costumes and makeup and how to disguise myself, and how to use an accent to mask my voice. She couldn’t teach me to sing, though.”

“You have other talents,” said Annarah. “I always wanted to listen to a Nighmarian opera.” 

“Really?” said Caina. 

Annarah smiled. “I imagine it is a great deal like the circus, just more stylized.” 

Caina laughed. “The performers are, anyway. I think Vardo managed to mention that he would be alone in his wagon tonight and that I would be welcome to visit him three or four times.”

“He never mentioned that in front of Lord Kylon,” said Annarah.

“Vardo’s lecherous,” said Caina, flicking the brush once more, “not stupid. All done. Have a look and tell me what you think.” 

Annarah got to her feet and examined herself in the mirror. She was a costume that was vaguely suggestive of something an Anshani noblewoman might have worn, albeit in a highly imaginative way. Her golden vest came to the bottom of her ribs, leaving her stomach and arms bare, and a long skirt that had been cut to mid-thigh. Costume jewelry glittered upon her arms and her wrists, and she wore a brilliant diadem of false gold, her silvery hair piled up in an elaborate tower. 

“I look,” said Annarah at last, “like a very expensive prostitute.” 

“That is the point,” said Caina. “If the Teskilati are looking for the last loremaster of lost Iramis, they probably will not expect her to disguise herself as a circus performer.” 

“Probably not,” said Annarah. “The high loremasters would have been appalled. Though I suppose if I have the permission of the Prince of Iramis, they wouldn’t mind.” She touched her right hand. Annarah had donned the Seal of Iramis, and to the sight of the valikarion, the ring blazed like a wheel of sorcerous fire around Annarah’s finger. To Caina’s mortal eyes, the priceless relic looked like just another piece of gaudy costume jewelry. 

Sometimes it was best to hide in plain sight. 

Caina remembered helping Theodosia to prepare for her performances in the Grand Imperial Opera, and a wave of homesickness as sharp as a knife rolled through her. Her life had been simpler then. She hadn’t exactly been an innocent, true, but she hadn’t known about the Moroaica and her disciples. She hadn’t seen war, and hadn’t known about Callatas and the wraithblood and the cold, deadly cunning of the Red Huntress.

Again the memory of the sword erupting from her chest flashed through Caina’s mind. 

She wondered if Kylon would come with her to Malarae if she asked, if she put the thought out of her mind.

Annarah was still talking. “I am astonished that I am actually nervous.”

Caina shrugged, the night air hot and dry against the skin of her shoulders and back. “It’s normal to feel nervous before a performance like this.” 

Annarah looked around and lowered her voice. She also began speaking in Iramisian, which save for Nasser, Callatas, and possibly Morgant, no one else still living could speak. Until Kharnaces had shoved the knowledge of the language into Caina’s head. 

It was a damned peculiar sensation to understand a language she had never learned. 

“I spent a hundred and fifty years in the netherworld,” said Annarah. “I saw Iramis and the Inferno both burn, and I went with you into the Tomb of Kharnaces. I am a loremaster of Iramis, and I underwent and survived the seven trials in the Tower of Lore. I have survived all that…and I am still nervous about appearing in a circus performance.”

Caina grinned. “Aye, but you’re used to being a loremaster and walking into deadly danger.” The Iramisian words felt strange on her lips, and she had to pronounce them carefully. “You’ve never done this before.”

“You have,” said Annarah. “You’re so calm.”

In truth, Caina did feel nervous, but admitting that wouldn’t help Annarah, especially since Caina was about to throw knives at her, so she only shrugged again. “I’ve had more practice.”

“Forgive me from saying so,” said Annarah, “but if I had to go before a crowd in that costume, I might well die of embarrassment.”

Caina looked at herself in the mirror again.

“Well,” she said, “at least there’s not much costume to get embarrassed about.”

Annarah laughed. “No, I suppose not.” 

The costume was the same one Caina had used during her last stint with the circus. She wore a skirt of red silk knotted over her left thigh, leaving her left leg bare, the waist high enough to conceal the ugly scar beneath her navel. An intricate net of red silk encircled her neck and chest and did a marginal job of concealing her breasts, leaving her back and shoulders and stomach bare. Costume jewelry glittered upon her wrists and ankles and ears. The last time Caina had done this, she had shaved her head in the depths of her grief over Corvalis, so she had donned a red wig. This time, her black hair was long enough that she had piled it in an elaborate crown like Annarah’s, and she had shifted her pyrikon to its diadem form to complete the costume. 

She suspected the ancient loremasters had never suspected someone would use a pyrikon quite like this. 

Makeup made her eyes look larger, her cheekbones sharper, her lips redder. All trace of the caravan guard disguise was gone. All trace of Caina Amalas was gone, in truth. In their place was Natalia of the Nine Knives who had so beguiled the cowled master Ulvan that he had invited her to his bedchamber…