Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) (48 page)

“Yes,” said Caina. 

“A man’s conscience may check the abuse of his power,” said Samnirdamnus, “but fear serves just as effectively. And the sorcerers of the ancient world feared the valikarion. Consider your victory over Cassander. Would it not have been more difficult without your newfound vision?”

“It…would have been,” conceded Caina. It would have been far harder. She had been able to see through the spells of the Silent Hunters. She had been able to see the web of spells around the rift echoes, and move unseen through the undead Legionaries. “That doesn’t answer the question, though.”

“What question is that?”

“If you arranged for me to become a valikarion to help with your task,” said Caina. 

“Alas, if I could exert that degree of influence over events in the material world,” said Samnirdamnus, “I should need no help at all.” 

“Then if the whole point of this wasn’t to give me the abilities of a valikarion,” said Caina, “then what is it? Why were you looking for me?”

“I think,” said Samnirdamnus, “that you may be the one who will allow me to fulfill my purpose. I am not yet certain. But I grow more confident of that.”

Caina sat in silence for a moment.

“The shadow,” said Caina.

“The one wraithblood addicts can see around you,” said Samnirdamnus.

“It became sharper and darker after Rumarah,” said Caina. 

“Of that,” said Samnirdamnus, taking another sip of his imaginary coffee, “I am entirely unsurprised.” 

“What is it?” said Caina.

“A shadow cast by a fire,” said Samnirdamnus.

“I don’t understand,” said Caina.

“A fire awaits in your future,” said Samnirdamnus, “and the shadow has been cast backwards in time by that fire. That is the shadow that the wraithblood addicts see around you. And you may discover what that fire is very soon.”

It should have been hard to sleep after that, but Caina was so tired that she sank into a dreamless sleep nonetheless.

###

The next day Kylon and Caina went to the House of Agabyzus while Nasser and Laertes sought a ship. Kylon kept the valikon loose in its scabbard, his eyes and arcane senses roving over the streets as they walked. Large portions of the city had been damaged, and bands of watchmen stood here and there, keeping an eye on traffic. Yet Kylon saw no trace of the Grand Wazir’s soldiers, no sign that Erghulan Amirasku had taken any interest at all in what had happened in his city. Kylon wondered if the Grand Wazir had been killed in the circle of golden light. Maybe even Callatas himself had been slain.

Though Kylon doubted they would be that lucky. 

Annarah and Morgant accompanied them, and Caina stopped long enough to see Nerina, Malcolm, and Azaces back to their shop. The shop had expanded since the last time Kylon had visited, with Malcolm adding a blacksmith’s forge in the next building. It looked as if someone had attempted to break into the shop, repeatedly, but Nerina’s locks had withstood the assault with ease. 

Then they headed into the Cyrican Bazaar.

It was more subdued than Kylon remembered. A few of the braver, more enterprising, or more reckless merchants had opened their stalls, but not many. Merchants and their apprentices and slaves stood guard over their shops with clubs and staffs and knives, watching each other with suspicious eyes. Even without using the sorcery of water, Kylon sensed the tension in the air. 

The House of Agabyzus, however, was open. A pair of mercenaries in chain mail and spiked helmets stood guards, crossbows in hand. Within Kylon saw customers seated at the low tables, talking to each other in quiet voices. 

“I wonder if they seized the building,” said Morgant, flexing his fingers.

“No,” said Caina. She had changed to her caravan guard disguise again, leather armor and rough cloak and dusty boots. The mercenaries gave her blank looks as she approached. “You’re friends with Agabyzus, aren’t you?” 

One of the mercenaries nodded. “You can go in. He said someone like you might stop by.” 

Caina grinned. “He was ever the optimist.” 

Inside the House of Agabyzus seemed no different than Kylon remembered, though he sensed the dull shock from the patrons drinking coffee and exchanging news. He had felt the same sort of thing from men on the aftermath of battle, in New Kyre after the day of the golden dead. Damla and Agabyzus stood near the dais, talking to each other, while Damla’s sons waited near the kitchen.

All four of them, Kylon noted, were armed.

Damla brightened as she saw Caina, and hurried over and caught the younger woman in a hug.

“By the Living Flame,” she murmured. “It is good to see you. I thought the world was about to end. I thought the day of the golden dead was about to repeat itself.” 

“The world didn’t end,” said Caina, “but Istarinmul very nearly did.” She turned towards Agabyzus. “Agabyzus, my friend, thank you.”

The gaunt, gray-bearded man blinked. “For what?”

“You saw the truth,” said Caina. “Before any of us did, when the Umbarians started buying all those houses, and you warned us. If you had not seen the truth, if you had not warned us, when Cassander cast his spell we would have been taken off guard. He would have destroyed Istarinmul and the Empire would have fallen to the Order. And all of that evil has been averted because you did your duty magnificently.”

Agabyzus offered her a deep bow. “For all that you have done for my family, the mere fulfillment of my duty is an insufficient payment. I have additional news that you shall wish to hear.”

Caina nodded. “Go on.”

“I believe the Teskilati have been crippled,” said Agabyzus. 

Caina blinked. “How?” Kylon wondered if Cassander had wiped them out as he had butchered the cowled masters.

“It was commonly known that the masters of the Teskilati met regularly in the Crows’ Tower,” said Agabyzus. “They were meeting there last night, and Cassander’s circle of golden fire cut the Crows’ Tower in half. The entire citadel collapsed on itself, killing hundreds of watchmen…and every single master of the Teskilati. Many of their informants have fled the city.”

“Gods,” said Caina. “What about the Grand Wazir?”

“He has shut himself up in the Golden Palace and has not come out,” said Agabyzus. “One rumor claims that he is preparing to flee the city for the sultanates of Alqaarin as soon as a ship can be found. Istarinmul is in utter disarray…and Tanzir Shahan will never have a better chance to seize the city and put an end to the Grand Master’s wicked plans.” 

Caina nodded. “I have to leave the city for very good reasons as soon as possible, but I will return once my errand is done. Perhaps Lord Martin can send a message to Lord Tanzir, telling him to hasten. Or…Nasser will know how to contact him. Sulaman the poet would, certainly.” 

“The poet?” said Morgant. 

“I have not seen him at the House of Agabyzus since you departed for Rumarah, I fear,” said Damla. 

“Well, Nasser will know how to contact Tanzir,” said Caina. “I will have a few instructions for you both before I depart.”

“Of course,” said Damla. She turned to Kylon and Morgant and Annarah. “Would you care for some coffee while you wait?”

“Of course, madam,” said Morgant. Damla smiled at him. The old assassin could be charming when he felt like it. Annarah sat in a booth with view of the door, and Morgant sat next to her, reaching into his coat. Kylon sat across from them, laying the valikon across his knees so he could draw it quickly. 

“A good woman,” said Annarah, watching as Damla disappeared into the kitchens with Caina and Agabyzus.

“Mmm,” said Morgant, drawing out his notebook. He started to scribble in it with a stub of pencil. “There’s no such thing.”

Annarah raised her silver eyebrows. “She fights to defend her children.”

“Everyone does that,” said Morgant. “It’s the most common thing in the world.” He grinned at Kylon. “Except for the Balarigar, eh? Can’t have her own brats, so she goes forth to save everyone else’s, is…”

Kylon’s constant irritation with the man’s glib tongue reached a breaking point, and he badly wanted to punch him. 

“For the gods’ sake,” he said instead, “what are you always drawing in that damned book?”

Before Morgant could react, Kylon drew upon the sorcery of air for speed, reached out, and plucked the notebook from Morgant’s hands. The book landed on the table between them, and Kylon found himself looking at…

“Kyracian,” said Morgant, a bit of a rasp in his voice.

Kylon was looking at himself. 

One page held a drawing of a fat man in turban and robes that Kylon did not recognize. The other page showed a drawing of Kylon, valikon in hand, the flames of the sword throwing stark shadows across his face. It was so lifelike it was almost eerie. Stunned, Kylon started flipping through the notebook. One page showed Caina kneeling over Kylon as he lay dying in the Craven’s Tower. Another showed Annarah confronting Malik Rolukhan in the Inferno, the power of the Words of Lore blazing around her pyrikon staff. Another showed Caina in the Inferno, wreathed in her shadow-cloak, the Subjugant Bloodcrystal burning in her fist.

“Gods,” muttered Kylon.

“Yes, I know, you’re in awe of my skill,” said Morgant. “I’ve had a very long time to practice. But you really should give me that back now.” 

Kylon turned one more page and froze. 

He saw himself in the drawing, standing next to Caina. She looked up at him, smiling as she rarely smiled. Most of the time she wore her expressions like masks, concealing her feelings beneath them. Yet sometimes she smiled in truth, a deep smile that seemed to reach all the way down to her bones. 

Morgant had captured that look. Somehow Morgant the Razor, the ancient, cynical, sneering unrepentant old murderer, had captured that rare expression on Caina’s face. 

“If you’re curious,” said Morgant, “that really happened.”

Annarah looked at Morgant, her expression wondering. 

“When?” said Kylon.

“Right before we left for the Inferno,” said Morgant. “I watched you and Caina for a little while outside of this very coffeehouse.”

“Why did you draw it?” said Kylon.

Morgant shrugged. “I don’t know. Why do I draw anything? Because I was bored. Because I liked the way the light and shadow hit Caina’s face. Because…it seemed significant.”

“Significant?” said Kylon. 

“Like I was witnessing history,” said Morgant. “I’ve witnessed enough damned history, I ought to know what it feels like by now. It seemed like…oh, like I was witnessing a moment that would decide the course of hundreds of thousands of lives. Like everyone in Istarinmul, say.”

Kylon stared at him.

Morgant grinned his toothy grin. “I’m really very perceptive.”

Kylon nodded, reached down, and folded the edge of the page.

“Wait,” said Morgant. “Don’t…”

Very gently and very slowly, Kylon tore out the page with the drawing of Caina smiling at him.

Morgant let out a long sigh. “If you’re going to give it to her as a gift, at least buy proper wood for the frame. Oak, not beech, and for the gods’ sake not pine. And I can show you how to use a fixative oil to keep it from smudging.”

“Thank you,” said Kylon. 

Morgant rolled his eyes, closed his notebook, and returned it to his coat.

“Morgant,” said Annarah with delight. “After all these years. I had no idea that you were a romantic.”

The old assassin stared out the window for a moment.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.” 

###

One of Damla’s maids returned with a tray of coffee, and Morgant lifted one of the cups and took a sip. 

That had been rather closer than he would have liked. 

Well, all men had their weakness, and Morgant supposed his compulsive need to draw was his. It was a better weakness than drinking or whoring – Morgant could make money painting when needed, which was rather harder to do with an addiction to strong drink or prostitutes. 

He listened with half an ear as Annarah teased him. She understood him well, but not, unfortunately, quite as well as she thought. He was so old now, and so many of things that had been important to his younger self – pride and wine and money and fame and women – had simply ceased to hold his interest, like a layer of soft stone eroding away to reveal the granite beneath. Keeping his word mattered. Only killing those who had earned it (and there were many men and women who fit that criteria) mattered. And, in the end, he did not think the world deserved to die. Or he had forgiven the world – it made little difference in the end. 

Annarah understood him well enough…but Morgant understood her better than she understood him.

For instance, he knew that she had a secret, a secret she shared with Nasser. Morgant hadn’t been able to unravel that secret, so he had left hints, seeing if Kylon and Caina could figure it out. They hadn’t. Well, Caina was young, for all her cleverness, and the Kyracian had strengths other than his intellect. 

Morgant knew that Annarah had a secret…but she hadn’t guessed that Morgant had one final secret of his own.

None of them had, not even Glasshand, who should have known better. Caina knew that he had a secret, but she just hadn’t figured out what it was. She would, though. All the pieces were there before her eyes. 

Morgant thought of the drawing of the fat old man in the robes and ornate turban, the drawing that Kylon hadn’t recognized. Just as well his sister Andromache was dead. She would have recognized the drawing. 

For Morgant the Razor would keep his word.

No matter who he had to kill to do it. 

###

A short time later Caina left the House of Agabyzus with Kylon, Annarah, and Morgant, heading for the Cyrican harbor to see if Nasser had found a ship yet. 

Caina knew what she had to do now. 

Like it or not, she was a valikarion, and there was desperate need for her new abilities. She would travel to Catekharon and make sure the Staff and Seal were safe within the Tower of Study. Then she would return to Istarinmul and see Callatas driven out.

She would not have to do it alone, though.