Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9) (20 page)

Kylon walked down the street of the metalworkers in the Cyrican Quarter, Agabyzus, Tomazain, and Damla following him. Usually, the Cyrican Quarter was one of the safest quarters in Istarinmul, well-patrolled by the watchmen, but even here Kylon spotted groups of thieves, ready to take advantage of the chaos to enrich themselves. Had Damla been alone, Kylon had no doubt they would have attacked, but one look at Kylon and Tomazain dissuaded them. 

The Saddaic mercenary seemed competent enough. He reminded Kylon a little of Laertes and Arcion of Caer Marist and the other Legionary veterans he had met. It took a hard man to survive a sixteen year term of service in the Emperor’s Legions. 

Of course, Kylon had killed a lot of men like Tomazain in Marsis, a memory that filled him with regret. That war had been a waste, engineered by his sister in pursuit of power that had destroyed her. Kylon did not feel the same regret about the soldiers he had killed in the Grand Wazir’s army. 

If Grand Master Callatas was not stopped, far more people than the soldiers would die. 

“This locksmith,” said Tomazain in a low voice. 

“What about her?” said Damla.

“You think she can help us?” said Tomazain.

“Yes,” said Damla. 

“She once calculated a catapult shot of such precision that it landed on a shed of Hellfire from half a mile away,” said Kylon. “She will be useful. She is simply…”

“Somewhat insane,” said Agabyzus. 

Tomazain grunted. “We’re planning to seize the gatehouse and let in an army of rebels. I suppose insanity is not a weakness in such a venture.” 

Damla laughed, amusement flickering through her aura. “I suppose not.” 

Kylon stopped before a three-story house of whitewashed adobe. He had been here several times with Caina, but the house had changed since his last visit. Nerina Strake and her husband Malcolm had purchased the building next to theirs, and Malcolm had renovated it into an armorer’s shop. He had been making money hand-over-fist by producing chain mail and selling it to the Grand Wazir’s army. Kylon supposed that he had killed men wearing Malcolm’s armor during the battle.

He climbed the steps up to the door and knocked. Most of the goldsmiths’ and silversmiths’ shops along the street had reinforced doors to deter thieves, but this door was a massive slab of solid steel, mounted to the frame with hinges as thick as Kylon’s arm. With the sorcery of water, he could kick down most doors, but even his full power would fail to dent massive door. 

After a moment he heard a steely rasp, and a small plate slid aside at eye level.

“Azaces,” said Kylon. “Are Nerina and Malcolm there? We need to speak with them.” 

The plate slid shut. Kylon heard several bolts and locks clanging, and the door swung open in silence. A huge Sarbian man, nearly seven feet tall, stood behind the door, his face scarred beneath his graying black beard, the hilt of a two-handed scimitar rising over his shoulder. His black eyes moved back and forth, taking in the people on his employers’ doorstep, and Kylon felt the question in his emotional sense.

“The circlemaster is not here,” said Kylon. “I don’t know where she is. We’ve got a problem, and we need Nerina’s help.”

Azaces glanced at Damla, Agabyzus, and Tomazain. He would know Damla, possibly Agabyzus, but Kylon doubted that he had ever seen Tomazain before. 

“They are with the circlemaster,” said Kylon.

Azaces shrugged, nodded, and beckoned for them to follow, heading into the house. 

“Taciturn fellow, isn’t he?” said Tomazain. 

“No tongue,” said Damla in a quiet voice.

Tomazain grimaced, but nodded and followed them into the house.

The sitting room beyond the door was narrow, dusty, and unused. Azaces led them to the top floor and opened another massive door, lantern light spilling into the stairwell. The room beyond was a locksmith’s workshop, and it was one of the strangest rooms Kylon had ever seen in a lifetime of traveling to strange places. Three long wooden tables ran the length of the room, each one sagging beneath the weight of tools, half-assembled locks, various mechanical contraptions, and notes. One wall held slates covered with scrawled equations written in chalk, while shelves adorned another wall. A wooden cabinet, the door open, held papers secured in leather folders, and high windows looked over the courtyard behind the shop. Iron shavings and sawdust covered the floor in a fine carpet.

Nerina Strake stood near one of the tables, muttering numbers to herself as she worked upon an intricate lock. She was a short, gaunt woman in her late twenties, with a tangled mass of red hair. She wore a leather apron over a loose shirt, dusty trousers, and heavy boots, and a set of magnifying lenses and goggles had been pushed up over her sweaty hair.

Azaces let out a rumbling grunt, and Nerina looked up. She had the eerie, pale blue eyes of a wraithblood addict. Evidently, her father, the slave trader Ragodan Strake, had addicted her to wraithblood as a means of controlling her. Kylon wondered if Ragodan had known the truth about wraithblood. Perhaps he had known and simply not cared.

“Ah!” said Nerina, straightening up with a smile. “We have four visitors. Lord Kylon, mistress Damla, master Agabyzus, and a man unknown to me. Azaces, could you wake up Malcolm?” Azaces grunted. “Of course, he will be cranky. He is always cranky unless he has at least three hundred and seventy-four minutes of sleep a night, but probability dictates that if Lord Kylon is here, something urgent is underway.” 

“Yes,” said Kylon, once he had parsed his way through Nerina’s sentence.

Azaces headed back towards the stairs.

Nerina took a step forward, blinking as she stared at Tomazain, who raised an eyebrow under her scrutiny. “You are seventy-two inches tall and weight two hundred and seven pounds without your armor.”

Tomazain frowned. “Do I?”

“She does that when she meets someone for the first time,” said Damla. “She guessed my weight and height accurately.”

“It is so much more precise and efficient than social niceties,” said Nerina. “A pity we cannot discard them entirely. You stood exactly sixty-seven inches tall and weighed one hundred and thirty-five pounds when I met you, but since then you have lost two pounds.”

Damla’s smile was brittle. “I’ve been too worried to eat.”

“And you,” said Nerina to Kylon, “were seventy-four inches tall and one hundred and eighty-five pounds when we met. This has not changed.” 

“Good to know,” said Kylon. “I was worried I was getting shorter.”

“Really?” said Nerina. “At your age, that is highly improbable.”

“A joke,” said Kylon.

Nerina blinked three times and then smiled. “Oh. Yes. That was humorous. Is the circlemaster here?”

“No,” said Agabyzus. “We don’t know where she is, but we need your help. It…”

The door to the stairs opened, and Azaces returned, followed by a short, muscular man with graying brown hair and a bushy beard. Nerina smiled at the sight of her husband, though Malcolm scowled at them all. 

“What’s this?” said Malcolm. “Bit late for a drinking party in the workshop, isn’t it?” He grunted. “You’re all Ghosts. Except for him,” he jerked a thumb at Tomazain, “and him,” he glanced at Kylon, “but he’s just here because he’s sleeping with the circlemaster.”

“Malcolm,” said Nerina with disapproval. Evidently, her grasp of social mores extended at least that far. Or she was just protective of Caina. 

“It is the truth,” said Malcolm. “That’s my entire problem. I can’t speak anything but the truth.” A magus had damaged his mind as a child, rendering him unable to lie. 

Kylon supposed that was a liability in business dealings. 

“Must be inconvenient for a married man,” said Tomazain.

“Yes,” said Malcolm.

Nerina smiled. “I rather like it.” She had never smiled like that before they had found her husband in the Inferno. 

“We should turn our attention to business,” said Agabyzus.

“Good point,” said Malcolm, grabbing a stool and seating himself. “What is the problem?”

“Mathematically,” said Nerina, Azaces waiting behind her with folded arms, “it most likely has to do with the defeat of the Grand Wazir and the rebel army besieging the city.” 

“You are correct,” said Agabyzus. “I shall be brief. Grand Master Callatas departed the city for Pyramid Isle with the circlemaster pursuing him. Callatas returned, but she did not.”

Nerina frowned. “Is she dead?”

Kylon said nothing, his jaw set.

“We do not know,” said Agabyzus. “She has not returned, but we do know that Grand Master Callatas has begun the final spells of Apotheosis. We only have a few days to stop him.”

“How?” said Malcolm. “Malik Rolukhan was powerful, and we barely killed him. The Grand Master is stronger by far.”

“Lord Kylon has the valikon,” said Nerina. “That can penetrate any protective spell.” 

“Only if Callatas doesn’t blast him dead first,” said Malcolm.

“We have a different plan,” said Kylon. “The army of Prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon is outside the walls, and they’re here to overthrow the Grand Wazir and the Grand Master and put Sulaman upon the throne of Istarinmul. If they get into the city, they’ll be able to stop the Apotheosis. We might not be able to kill Callatas, but at the least, we can force him to flee the city and abandon the Apotheosis.”

“They won’t be able to take the city,” said Malcolm. “I’m not a soldier, and the Grand Wazir lost most of his men. But he can still hold the walls long enough for Callatas to finish his damned sorcery. Especially since every single one of the catapults on the wall is loaded with enough Hellfire to burn down half the city.” 

“You’re right,” said Kylon.

“Obviously, I’m right,” said Malcolm. “I wouldn’t be talking if I wasn’t right.”

“Or if you believe you’re right,” said Nerina. “Experimentation has revealed that you can, in fact, tell a lie if you believe yourself to be telling the truth.”

“A philosophical point,” said Malcolm. “If I believe myself to be telling the truth, I am therefore telling the truth, even if I mistakenly believe inaccurate information…”

“That’s very interesting,” said Kylon, hoping to stop the conversation before it wandered into the weeds. He liked Nerina and Malcolm both, mad and brilliant as they were, though by the gods of storm and sea they sometimes got on his nerves. Caina got along well with both of them, though she was mad and brilliant as well, so that made sense. “But Malcolm’s right. The rebels can’t take the city in enough time. If things were different, they might be able to wear down the defenders, but we don’t have the time. Another two or three days and Callatas will finish the Apotheosis.” 

“The mathematics of the problem are not favorable,” said Nerina.

“No,” said Kylon. “Which means we need to introduce another variable into the equation. We need to find a way to open the city’s southern gate to the rebel army, and we need to find a way to do it by tomorrow.” 

Silence answered him. Nerina’s eyelids fluttered as they did when she did some complex calculation in haste.

“The mathematics of that problem,” said Nerina, “are even less favorable. The southern gate will be well-guarded with the Grand Wazir’s most loyal and capable men.”

“Aye,” said Malcolm. “You might as well ask for us to find a way to fly from Istarinmul to Rumarah in the blink of an eye.” 

“Several possibilities present themselves,” said Agabyzus. “First, we raise a mercenary force and attack the gate. Many lives will be lost in such an endeavor. Second, we find a way to poison or drug the rations or drinking water of the men assigned to guard the towers.” He scratched his beard. “Third, we find a way to steal an amphora of Hellfire from one of the siege engines and use it to kill everyone in the gatehouse. Fourth…”

“The weapon,” said Nerina, her eerie eyes widening. 

“Weapon?” said Agabyzus. “What weapon?” 

Azaces and Malcolm shared a look. 

“Right,” said Malcolm. “Well, you know I’ve been manufacturing armor for the Grand Wazir’s army. At least I was. I suppose the Grand Wazir isn’t in a position to buy much of anything at the moment. Anyway, I had some surplus armor, so I’ve been selling it to anyone who would buy. I figured the circlemaster wouldn’t mind, seeing as how we’ve been taking the Grand Wazir’s money and using it to plan his overthrow. Some of our customers pay in coin, others in kind or with favors.”

“Go on,” said Agabyzus. 

“We sold some armor of a mercenary captain based in the Cyrican Harbor,” said Malcolm, “and when I dropped the armor off, I noticed he had quite a lot of sleeping mist stored in his warehouse.”

A flicker of excitement went through Kylon. This could be just what they needed.

“Sleeping mist?” said Tomazain.

“An alchemical weapon,” said Kylon. Caina had told him how the Alchemist Sinan had used the weapon in Malarae. “It’s stored in an amphora under pressure. When the seal is broken, the fog boils out, and anyone who breathes it in falls asleep.”

“Fortunately, it is easy to shield yourself from the effects,” said Agabyzus. “A wine-soaked cloth placed over the mouth and nostrils will permit a man to ignore the effect. Nonetheless, it is a devastating weapon when deployed in an enclosed space against an unsuspecting foe.”

“Such as the guards of the gatehouse?” said Kylon. 

“Precisely,” said Agabyzus. “This could be the advantage we need.”

“It would look suspicious if we walked up to the gatehouse with an amphora of sleeping mist,” said Kylon. 

“Bread,” said Damla.

Kylon looked at her, saw Tomazain giving her an odd look. 

“Soldiers need to eat, do they not?” said Damla. “We could claim to be delivering bread to the soldiers guarding the gate.”

“That could work,” said Agabyzus. “That would likely work. The documents would be easy enough to forge, and so many of Erghulan’s officers and nobles have been slain that there is likely a great amount of chaos in his ranks. So long as the forgery was done properly, no one would look twice. We can deliver the bread, don our masks, set off the sleeping fog, and open the gate once the soldiers are immobilized.”