Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9) (14 page)

Kylon doubted that the architects of Istarinmul’s walls had built them to keep out a stormdancer spy. 

A section of wall was deserted. The nearby towers were manned, but the guards were focused upon the rebel army. Kylon drew upon the sorcery of water and the sorcery of air, as much as he could hold, and then sprinted forward with all the speed of the wind. He reached the base of the wall and jump, the sorcery of water fueling his leap. The jump carried him up twenty feet of the wall’s scarred face, and Kylon gripped the wall, calling again upon the sorcery of water. Frost sheathed his hands, gripping the rough stone, and for a moment he hung suspended as he drew in another breath.

Then he jumped again, kicking off the wall.

This time, he reached the top of the ramparts, his hands gripping one of the battlements. Kylon heaved himself over and rolled onto the ramparts, again extending the senses granted by the sorcery of water. He felt the emotions of the men in the nearby watch towers, but so far, he detected no sense of alarm.

No one had noticed his presence yet. 

Best to keep it that way. 

Kylon ran forward and jumped off the rampart, hurtling into the narrow alleys and crooked lanes of the Anshani Quarter. He hit the side of a tenement, his sorcery-strengthened muscles absorbing the impact, and a rime of frost gripped the adobe wall. He stopped his descent about fifteen feet from the ground, caught his breath, and dropped the rest of way to the alley below, a surge of water sorcery giving his legs strength to handle the impact without breaking his bones. 

He took a moment to catch his breath. Using that much sorcery so quickly was difficult, though no harder than doing so in battle. Of course, in combat, he had to worry about dying upon swords and spears and arrows. Here, the only thing that would have killed him was the ground…or the guards in the watch towers, if they saw him. 

Kylon turned and saw the wraithblood addict staring at him.

The man was only middle-aged, but the wear and tear of the wraithblood addiction made him look ancient, grime filling the lines of his face, his graying hair a tangled mess, his clothes ragged and filthy. He hobbled from a doorway, his bare feet rasping against the hard-packed ground, his eyes eerie and blue and seeming to glow in his face.

“A coin,” rasped the old man, “a coin for the sweet dreams, the wraithblood, the dreaming blood…”

“No,” said Kylon, taking a step back. One wraithblood addict posed no danger. A score of wraithblood addicts, in truth, would not threaten him. But if the man started to yell, he would draw the attention of the soldiers in the watch towers, and Kylon did not want that. “I don’t have any money for you, and you should stop taking wraithblood. It is made from the blood of murdered slaves.”

“I know,” said the old man, “I know it well. It will slay me soon, but I must have it, I must…I…”

His voice trailed off, and his eerie eyes widened in fear. Kylon glanced over his shoulder, wondering if he had been spotted, but the rampart remained quiet. He looked back at the wraithblood addict and sensed fear flooding through the man’s emotional aura.

“I’ve seen you,” whispered the old man. “In the dreams of blood.”

“So you have,” said Kylon. “And now you are seeing me leave. Farewell.”

He took a step further down the alley. 

“The red shadow,” croaked the old man. “The red shadow hunts for you.” 

Kylon stopped and looked back. 

“What did you say?” said Kylon. 

“Two women,” said the old man. “Your fate lies between two women. The red shadow and the woman wrapped in a shadow.”

“Explain yourself,” said Kylon, his voice coming out hard enough that the old man flinched. Kylon felt a flicker of guilt, but not much. Gods of storm and brine, he hated oracles and prophets. 

But Caina had said that the wraithblood addicts had seen a shadow wrapped around her…

“The red shadow hunts for you,” the old man whispered. “She hunts for the woman wrapped in shadow. The red shadow will kill her.”

“No,” said Kylon. “She won’t. Because I will kill the red shadow first.” 

“Your death,” said the old man with a whimper of fear. Kylon wondered what his expression looked like to inspire such a reaction. Or maybe the addict’s altered vision saw the power of the valikon in its sheath against Kylon’s back. “That is the only way to save the woman wrapped in shadow. That is the only way to defeat the red shadow. Your death.”

Kylon gave a disgusted shake of his head and stalked away, leaving the old man staring at him. He didn’t have time for this. There was work to be done, and he could waste no time listening to the ravings of a wraithblood-addled old man. 

And he had already known everything that the old man had said. 

If sacrificing his own life was the only way to stop the Huntress and save Caina, Kylon would do it without hesitation.

If Caina was even still alive. 

He headed deeper into the Anshani Quarter, making his way from alley to alley and courtyard to courtyard, and kept his arcane senses extended. The emotions of the city washed over him, fear and anger and watchfulness. Most people, even the warring gangs of the Anshani Quarter, had barricaded themselves inside to see who would keep control of Istarinmul. From time to time he saw groups of thieves skulking in the shadows, watching for easy victims, but they were smart enough to let Kylon pass. 

From the tenements of the Anshani Quarter, he passed the merchant halls of the Old Quarter and the houses of the Tower Quarter. The Crows’ Tower, the fortress that housed the headquarters of both the city watchmen and the Teskilati, stood in the heart of the Tower Quarter. 

At least, it had stood there. 

Once it had been a massive, grim fortress with multiple keeps and a strong curtain wall. Now it was a shattered pile of broken stone and twisted rubble. The circle of sorcerous fire that Cassander had conjured had ripped right through the fortress, destroying it in an instant, and wiping out the Padishah’s secret police and spies. Kylon did not see any watchmen upon the streets. He wondered if the organization had collapsed, or if they had been drafted into Erghulan’s forces to defend the city. He did see bands of guards clustered in front of the merchant halls of the Old Quarter. Perhaps the watchmen had been hired as guards instead. 

With every step, he felt the fear rising around him as the people of Istarinmul awaited their fate, caught between Callatas and his Apotheosis and Sulaman and his rebels. It would have infuriated Caina, would have fueled the rage that was always smoldering in her heart. Istarinmul was a cruel and brutal place, dominated by the Slavers’ Brotherhood (at least until Cassander killed them all) and the gladiatorial games, but now it was waiting for the end. 

And as he made his way north, he felt something else. 

Someone was casting spells of tremendous power. 

Kylon felt waves of arcane force pulsing from the northern end of the city, likely centered upon the Golden Palace. Within those waves of power, Kylon sensed the familiar echoes of the auras of the Staff and the Seal of Iramis.

Callatas was here, right now. The Emissary had been right. The Grand Master had returned from Pyramid Isle with the Staff and the Seal, and was using them to work the Apotheosis. 

Did that mean Caina was dead?

Kylon pushed aside the fear as he walked, trying to think, keeping his attention on his surroundings. He did not trust the Emissary’s word, but the fact that Callatas had returned to Istarinmul did not prove that Caina was dead. The Grand Master might have escaped from Pyramid Isle with the relics, leaving Caina behind…though given the dangers of Pyramid Isle that was not a reassuring thought. 

Another thought occurred to Kylon, and his hand itched to grip the valikon’s hilt. 

Maybe it was time to take action.

He had the valikon, and even the Grand Master’s most powerful wards could not stop the ghostsilver weapon. Perhaps he could sneak into the Golden Palace, surprise Callatas, and cut down the Grand Master before he finished the Apotheosis. Kylon could end the war and the Apotheosis with a single sweep of the valikon’s blade. Without Callatas, Erghulan would lose his nerve and flee, and the Apotheosis would never come to pass. Countless lives would be saved. 

And the Red Huntress would be there, Kylon was sure of it. Perhaps he could kill Callatas and avenge Thalastre and his unborn daughter at the same time. 

With that thought, he almost changed direction, almost turned towards the Golden Palace.

His mind reasserted itself, pointing out that such a decision would almost certainly be suicidal. The valikon could kill Callatas, but if Kylon made a single mistake, the Grand Master would blast him to ashes. For that matter, there was no way Kylon could fight both Callatas and the Red Huntress at the same time. Any surviving Immortals would guard the Grand Master as well, and Kylon could not fight them all, not without help. 

No. If he went alone to the Golden Palace, he would throw his life away without accomplishing anything. A flicker of shame went through Kylon. The army outside of the wall was depending upon him, and if he did not find a way to open the gate, Sulaman and Tanzir would be forced to assault the walls. Thousands of men would die in such an attack, even if it succeeded, and failure might destroy the rebel army.He walked on, determined now upon his course, and reached the Cyrican Bazaar. It was as deserted as the other public areas of the city, though the Bazaars closed for the night anyway. The shops were closed and barricaded, and Kylon sensed wariness and watchfulness from within as the merchants watched over their livelihoods.

The House of Agabyzus should have still been open at this hour, but it too was closed, the windows shuttered, and no light came from the door. Kylon wondered what Damla and Agabyzus had done. Neither the nightkeeper nor his sister had struck Kylon as fools, and they might have fled to a safer location. Kylon extended his arcane senses, focusing on the coffee house, and he felt the presence of two people in the common room, both of them watchful. Damla and Agabyzus? He didn’t know them well enough to tell.

Kylon considered for a moment, walked up to the door, and knocked.

For a moment nothing happened, and then the door opened a few inches.

A young Istarish man of about seventeen or eighteen years stood on the other side of the door, his eyes and emotional sense wary, a loaded crossbow in his hands. For a moment Kylon did not recognize him, and then the memory clicked. This was Bayram, Damla’s eldest son. Her husband had been killed at Marsis, Caina had told him. Kylon wondered if he had spoken with the man during the battle. 

“We’re closed,” said Bayram. “Wait…I know you, don’t I?” 

“Yes,” said Kylon. “I’ve been here before.”

“He’s that Kyracian who follows the Balarigar around,” said a younger voice, not quite as deep as Bayram’s. Behind Bayram appeared Bahad, also holding a crossbow. “He’s visited the House with her.”

“I’m pleased I made an impression,” said Kylon, though he was concerned that the two boys knew who Caina was. 

“Is the Balarigar here?” said Bayram. 

“No,” said Kylon. “I don’t know where she is. Is your mother here, or your uncle? I need to speak with them.”

Bayram and Bahad shared a look, though their crossbows remained pointed at him. Not that the weapons would have stopped him. With the sorcery of air, Kylon could have eluded their bolts and cut them both down with ease. Nevertheless, he approved of their caution. 

“Why should we tell you?” said Bayram. 

“You shouldn’t trust me,” said Kylon. “But the Balarigar told me about you. Her first day in Istarinmul, Ulvan kidnapped you from the House of Agabyzus. She rescued you and his other captives and humiliated Ulvan in the process.” 

Again the brothers shared a look. 

“They might need his help,” said Bahad. 

“True,” said Bayram.

Kylon shrugged. “If you don’t want to tell me where they went, I can wait here until they return.”

“There is no need, sir,” said Bayram. “This is where they went.”

###

Damla gripped the crossbow, her fingers tight against the weapon’s stock. 

It felt strange to carry a weapon openly in the streets, but there wasn’t any other choice. Going out at night was dangerous at the best of times, and this was far from the best of times. Agabyzus and Tomazain walked ahead of her, and Agabyzus had discarded the garb of a minor magistrate for the chain mail and leather of a mercenary soldier, sword and dagger at his belt. Tomazain likewise kept his hand near his sword hilt, his posture tense and wary as his eyes roved over the surrounding alleys. Between the two of them, she hoped they would scare off any thieves or robbers, but she wasn’t sure. 

As much as she disliked going out at night, she had to admit it was necessary. The southern gate of Istarinmul was the most heavily guarded point in the city, and if they approached it in daylight it would look suspicious, and the Grand Wazir’s men might execute them on sight. The night was safer. 

Not by much, but it was safer.

They kept to the main streets of the Anshani Quarter, heading to the Bazaar of the Southern Road. Damla felt eyes watching them from the nearby alleys, and kept the crossbow ready in her hands. So far none of the thieves had ventured forth to challenge them, and she hoped that would continue. 

Then four rough-looking men in Anshani robes stepped from an alley, clubs in hand. 

“A pleasant evening to you,” said the largest of the men, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he looked at Damla. She shifted the crossbow to point at him. 

“A fine night for a walk, isn’t it?” said Tomazain, stepping forward with a smile. 

“This is our street,” said the man. “There’s a toll.”

“Is there?” said Tomazain, still smiling that wide, friendly smile. 

“Give us the woman,” said the thug, leering at Damla. Her skin crawled with revulsion. “Give us the woman, and we’ll let…”

Tomazain hit him with enough force that Damla heard the thug’s jaw shatter. The man let out a strangled cry and collapsed to the ground. The remaining three thugs flinched, but before they could react, Tomazain hit another one in the throat, and the second man collapsed. By then the remaining two men raised their clubs, but Tomazain had his sword out, and Agabyzus had drawn his weapon as well.