Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9) (25 page)

And in that instant, she saw that it wasn’t really a storm at all. 

It was the djinn. 

Thousands and thousands of djinn. 

Caina saw horsemen and chariots fashioned from cloud and mist, carrying swords and spears fashioned from lightning, their eyes burning with smokeless flame. It was an army of djinn, hurtling forward to do battle with the nagataaru. 

The storm hurtled past the
Sandstorm
, the sails billowing, the masts and deck creaking, and the ship jolted forward with such speed that Caina almost lost her balance. Horsemen of cloud and mist galloped alongside the ship, some of them on the surface of the water, others of them riding through the air. The
Sandstorm
shot forward so fast that the motion should have ripped the ship apart. 

Murat looked over the railing and shouted a furious curse. 

Caina looked at him, and then at the waves.

The water was receding away below the
Sandstorm
. 

The djinn had lifted the corsair ship into the air, carrying it as they hurtled to the northwest at terrific speed. The
Sandstorm
rose higher, the sails billowing, the waves shrinking below them as the djinn lifted the ship. 

It was one the single most exhilarating and terrifying moments in Caina’s life. She had gone to many places and seen many wonderful and horrifying things, but never in her life had she flown as the birds soared over the earth. The reaction of the corsairs ranged from the same wonder to stark terror (which was probably the more rational response), and Murat himself simply looked astonished, his mouth hanging open.

The
Sandstorm
flew northwest, surrounded by the army of djinn, and Caina felt her exhilaration and terror harden into something darker.

The djinn were taking them to Istarinmul…and Callatas and the Red Huntress and Kotuluk Iblis awaited them in the city.

The ship hurtled onwards, heading towards the battle that would decide the fate of uncounted millions. 

Chapter 15: I’m Just A Coffee Merchant

Damla prepared herself to die. 

She hoped she wouldn’t die. If she was honest with herself, she didn’t think she would die, but she knew that was a delusion. It was possible this would get her and everyone with her killed, and she knew it. 

How could it have come to this? 

She was just a coffee merchant, the widow of a dead soldier. All she had wanted was to tend to her business and raise her sons in peace and quiet. Damla had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and ever since that awful day, she had been unable to turn back.

The truth, once seen, could never be unseen, and the truth was that if the city’s gate was not opened this morning, a lot of people were going to die. If Damla did nothing and hid in the House of Agabyzus with her sons, she would die with them when Callatas unleashed his horrors. 

So Damla prepared as best she could, slipping a dagger into a sheath at her belt and hiding knives up her sleeves in hidden sheaths that Caina had found for her. Damla wished she could have carried a crossbow, but it would look odd and might draw suspicion. She would give the weapon to Tomazain, and hopefully he would not need to give it to her. For a moment Damla considered dressing as a man and wearing armor, as Caina often did, but she discarded the idea. For one, Damla had never worn armor and did not know if the extra weight would exhaust her. For another, the idea of dressing as a man made her uncomfortable. That, and she would have to wear extremely loose clothing – Caina was leaner than Damla was, and for that matter, Damla had no idea how Caina could make her voice sound so deep when she pretended to be a man. 

No, Damla was a widow and a coffee merchant, and if it was her day to die, then she would die as what she really was. 

She smoothed her black dress, checked her black headscarf, and went downstairs to the common room. Bayram and Bahad were guarding the door, crossbows resting on a table. The boys looked up as she approached. 

“Mother?” said Bayram. 

“I am going with your uncle,” said Damla. She hesitated, intending to tell them that everything would be well, just as she had when they were small. But they were old enough to know better. They had lost their father. They had been taken unjustly as slaves, and they had seen Cassander’s rift burn across the sky. 

They knew that the world could turn to ashes in a moment.

“It is dangerous, isn’t it?” said Bayram. 

“Yes,” admitted Damla. She took a deep breath. “It is possible I may not come back.”

“We should come with you,” said Bahad at once, his dark eyes full of concern.

“No,” said Damla. “I’ll have your uncle’s friends with me, and they have more experience with violence than any of us. If this goes badly…I fear your presence will not make any difference whether we are all killed or not. No. Stay here, and guard the House of Agabyzus. If I die, then it is your inheritance. The documents are on my desk beneath the stairs. It…”

“We know, Mother,” said Bayram. “You showed us.”

“My sons,” said Damla. “I think you are ready for this. You are ready to manage the House between you. Please, rely on each other.” 

“It’s hardly necessary,” said Bahad with his easy smile, though she could tell that he had forced it. “You’ll be back soon enough, and we’ll go on as we have.”

“Yes,” said Damla. “I’m sure I will.”

She caught them and pulled them close in a tight hug, her eyes burning. 

“Now,” she said, stepping back. “Be sure to guard the door, and don’t let anyone else into the House until your uncle or I return.”

Damla slipped into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Time was of the essence, but she paused for a moment until she brought her weeping under control. She took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes, collected herself, and walked to the back door. The courtyard behind the House of Agabyzus, ringed by a few other shops, was deserted, a dry fountain rising standing between the buildings. Tomazain waited there, leaning against the back wall, and shot her a quick glance in the predawn gloom. If he noticed that she had been weeping, he gave no sign.

“Ready?” he said. He wore chain mail, broadsword and dagger at his belt, a Legion-style rectangular shield slung over his back.

“I think so,” said Damla. “I finished the last of the loaves a few hours ago. Are the others here?”

“Not yet,” said Tomazain, “and they had better hurry if we’re going to do this before…ah. Here they are.”

A wagon pulled by a pair of truculent looking mules came into sight. Malcolm drove the wagon, armored in chain mail, the handle of his massive hammer rising over his shoulder. Nerina rode next to him, holding a crossbow, and wore leather armor reinforced with steel studs, likely all the armor her slender frame could bear. Azaces walked along the left side of the wagon, the bulk of chain mail visible beneath his sand-colored robes, and Agabyzus on the right side of the wagon. He wore the disguise of a mercenary, chain mail and leather jerkin and boots, and carried a sword and a dagger, though given his age and poor health Damla was not sure how well he could wield those weapons. He might have been better off with a crossbow. Still, between Malcolm, Azaces, Agabyzus, Tomazain, and Nerina’s crossbow, any thieves would think twice about accosting them. 

Though she knew all their weapons and skill would avail them little against the soldiers guarding the gate itself. 

“Do you have the weapon?” said Damla.

“We do,” said Agabyzus, reaching into the bed of the wagon and drawing aside a dusty tarp. Four sealed amphorae stood there, squatter and wider than normal for amphorae of wine or olive oil. “We shall claim those are amphorae of wine, to be delivered with the loaves of bread. Additionally, the forged order,” he passed Damla a rolled scroll of paper, “and prepared masks to filter out the sleeping fog. Do not put these on until absolutely necessary, since I am not sure how long they will last.”

“That, and walking up to the gate with masks will probably get us shot,” said Tomazain. 

Damla considered the pouch that Agabyzus had handed her. Inside was a folded cloth, wet with spiced wine. It didn’t smell good, but it would filter out the sleeping fog. 

“Probably,” said Agabyzus. “The storeroom and larder for the gatehouse are in the base of the western tower. We will proceed there and unload the loaves and the amphorae. When we have all four amphorae inside the gatehouse, I shall give the word and break the seals while we don our masks. From what I understand, the gas within the amphorae is under pressure, so it should issue forth quickly. Once the soldiers are unconscious, we will make our way to the room housing the gate’s machinery. It’s located within the wall, directly over the gate proper. There we will open the gate, light the signal fire upon the rampart, disable the mechanism, and retreat.”

“And if we are unable to retreat?” said Tomazain.

“Then we will fight,” said Agabyzus, “until rescue comes from Lord Tanzir’s army.” 

Damla took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. The army would have to rush for the gate as soon as possible to take it, and the area around the gatehouse would become a battlefield. She doubted they would survive long in that, no matter how capable Azaces and Tomazain and Malcolm were with their weapons. By the Living Flame, she was amazed at how Caina could do things like this with such calm.

The thought of Caina did calm Damla down somewhat. Before, when in crisis, Damla had gotten through it by thinking of what Caina would have done and following that example. For one thing, Caina would never show fear. 

“We had best go,” said Damla. “The sooner we reach the gatehouse, the better.”

“Come on, lads,” said Tomazain. “We’ve got some poisoned bread to load.”

“Drugged,” said Damla, pained. “It’s drugged, not poisoned. It won’t kill them. It’ll just put them to sleep.” Tomazain pushed open the kitchen door and walked inside.

“Seems unnecessary,” said Malcolm, handing the reins to Nerina and dropping from the wagon’s seat. Azaces followed them in silence. “We’re putting them all to sleep anyway. Why bother with drugged bread?”

“It is best to be prepared for all contingencies,” said Agabyzus. “It is quite possible that something is going to go wrong.”

“The probability of unexpected complications,” said Nerina in a quiet voice, her blue eyes eerie in the gloom, “is nearly one hundred percent.” 

Damla decided not to think about that too much. 

In short order, they loaded the wagon, and they set out through the darkened streets leading to the Anshani Quarter. Agabyzus led them along the main streets, keeping well away from the robber-infested alleyways. Again and again, Damla saw shadowy figures lurking in the alleys, turning speculative eyes towards the wagon and hungry eyes towards her and Nerina, but the sight of four men in chain mail was enough to persuade them to seek prey elsewhere. 

Ridiculously, Damla felt more exasperated than threatened. They were trying to save the city! Couldn’t the thieves leave them alone? Despite the danger hanging heavy in the air, they reached the Bazaar of the Southern Road without incident. Malcolm steered the cart between the empty booths and stalls, past the lights spilling into the night from the Shahenshah’s Seat, and towards the base of the western tower of the gate. Damla saw the battlements outlined against the starry sky. She also saw the catapults atop the watch tower, illuminated in torchlight, and also saw a dozen soldiers in spiked helms standing guard at the base of the gate towers.

A dozen soldiers striding towards them, scimitars in hand.

“Halt!” said one of the soldiers, eyes glinting beneath his helm. “What is your business here?”

It was up to Damla to speak with them. Calm, she had to stay calm. But not too calm. Even a merchant with legitimate business would still be nervous around so many soldiers. 

“Good evening, honored sirs,” she said. “Well, good morning by this time. I have a delivery of bread and wine for the gatehouse.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “A delivery? We’ve had no delivery scheduled.” 

Damla shrugged. “I have the order here.” She held out the paper. The soldier took it and unrolled it, scowling at Agabyzus’s forgery. She wondered if the soldier even knew how to read. “Loaves of bread and four amphorae of unmixed wine to be delivered before dawn today. I would not presume to take the Grand Wazir’s coin and not deliver the promised goods.”

“Mmm.” The soldier’s grunt was suspicious. “Why do you have so many armed men with you?”

“The streets are perilous for a woman traveling alone, honored sir,” said Damla. “Fortunately, my kinsmen and their friends were able to escort me.”

“Honest subjects of the Padishah have nothing to fear on the streets,” said the soldier. 

“Of course not, sir,” said Damla, restraining herself from rolling her eyes. “It is shameful how so many malefactors and rogues have taken advantage of this hour of crisis.” 

“Maybe you’re one of them,” said the soldier, and Damla felt the fear tighten within her. “Maybe…”

“For the sake of the Living Flame!” said another soldier, exasperated. “We’ve had nothing to drink but that sour horse piss that you call wine for the last two days, and nothing to eat but moldy bread. Can you not smell the bread?” 

Damla said nothing. Thank the Living Flame that the drug baked into the bread was odorless. And the loaves did smell quite pleasant. Tomazain did indeed know his way around an oven. 

The first soldier’s scowl redoubled. “But…”

“You’re not even in command here,” said the second soldier. “Someone get the khalmir.” 

One of the soldiers jogged back to the gate and returned with a doughy, middle-aged nobleman in fine armor and cloak, his spiked helm adorned with the plume of rank of a khalmir. 

“What is this ruckus?” snapped the khalmir, his voice thick. Likely he had just been awakened from his sleep. 

“This woman claims to have a delivery of bread for the gatehouse,” said the first soldier.

“And wine,” added Damla. “I have a written order for the delivery.”