Ghost in the Maze (7 page)

“I doubt it,” said Caina. “He wore a glove over it the entire time, and I saw the fingers move.”

Agabyzus nodded. “To maintain his legend, no doubt.”

“And yet,” said Caina. “He punched an Immortal with his left fist, and crushed the Immortal’s mask and shattered his skull with a single blow. A sword stroke from a strong man could not penetrate that helmet, yet Nasser crushed it with a single punch. And there is a sorcerous aura around his hand.”

“Perhaps he is a renegade sorcerer, then,” said Agabyzus. “Certainly some of the rumors of his exploits attribute sorcerous powers to him.”

“Some of the rumors of my exploits attribute sorcerous powers to me,” said Caina, “and those are only theatricality.” She grinned. “And boldness.”

Agabyzus inclined his head in acknowledgement of the point. 

“But the aura,” said Caina. “It’s just around his left hand. And it seemed like a far weaker version of the aura radiating from that crystal Callatas wears around his neck.”

“Then you think he is an agent of Callatas?” said Agabyzus.

“I do not know,” said Caina. “If he was, he would have killed me. Or stood by and done nothing while the Immortals killed me. Why play such an elaborate game?”

“To track down the rest of the Ghosts, perhaps?” said Agabyzus. 

“What Ghosts?” said Caina. “We are the Ghosts of Istarinmul.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Caina took another sip of the bitter Istarish coffee. It made for a nice contrast with the sweet cakes. Damla had some skilled cooks under her roof. 

“I suspect,” said Agabyzus at last, “that he is indeed who he claims to be. Furthermore I believe he rescued you to acquire your help.”

“With what?” said Caina.

“A theft, of course,” said Agabyzus. “The Balarigar is clearly a thief of immense talent. So is Nasser, but a team can accomplish things that one man cannot. I suspect Nasser has his eye on a well-defended target, and is assembling a band of allies to help him claim it.”

“That was my thought as well,” said Caina. 

“You will go to his meeting tomorrow?” said Agabyzus.

“I think so,” said Caina. “I need not commit to anything. If Nasser does indeed intend to rob the Alchemists or the emirs, that will only disrupt Callatas’s plans, so I shall aid him. I might learn more about Callatas’s goals and the Apotheosis.” She shrugged. “And both you and Nasser are right about one thing. The Ghosts need allies. We will not be able to stop Callatas on our own, not without help.”

“So be it,” said Agabyzus. 

They ate and drank in silence for a while.

“Have any letters come?” said Caina at last. 

She was the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, and from time to time she expected to receive instructions from the Emperor. Or letters from the high circlemasters in Malarae, containing orders and tasks to accomplish. Or warnings from the other circlemasters about renegades coming to Istarinmul. Yet she had been in Istarinmul for over four months, and in that time no letters had come from Malarae.

“None,” said Agabyzus, his frown turning into a grimace.

“What is it?” said Caina.

“I used to receive a letter every two weeks, sometimes every few days,” said Agabyzus. “Nothing. The letters…they would be left at a pre-arranged location. I can understand why the letters stopped after the end of the war. The Emperor assumed the Ghosts of Istarinmul were all dead. But after you arrived…you should have received some instructions by now.”

“Perhaps the Emperor is waiting for us to establish the circle before he sends instructions,” said Caina.

Yet part of her wondered if she had been abandoned. She had acquired powerful enemies in the Empire before her banishment, Lord Corbould Maraeus and the First Magus Decius Aberon and others. They had wanted to execute her after New Kyre, but instead the Emperor had made her the new circlemaster of Istarinmul. Perhaps Corbould and his allies had convinced the Emperor to ignore her until she pushed too hard and got herself killed. A more roundabout form of execution, as it were. 

The thought stung more than she liked. 

“No,” said Agabyzus, his voice quiet. “I think it is far worse than that. I suspect…I very strongly suspect both the Ghosts and the Emperor have far larger problems than just now.”

“Why do you say that?” said Caina.

“The Teskilati wiped out the Ghost circle,” said Agabyzus, “but my informants are still in place. I have been speaking with them, and they tell me of the rumors coming out of the Empire, of the stories the merchants tell.”

“What is happening?” said Caina.

Agabyzus shook his head. “The tales are…confused. They say civil war has broken out in the Empire, that the Magisterium has splintered into multiple factions. One merchant claimed the Ashbringers of old have returned to bring fire and ruin upon the Empire. Another merchant claims all the Imperial provinces east of Artifel and Arzaxia have risen in revolt under a renegade faction of the Magisterium, and are waging war against the Emperor.”

Caina frowned. “Is it true?”

“I know not,” said Agabyzus. “But I have spoken with the merchants visiting from Malarae and Arzaxia, and they all say the same thing. And I have noticed something else. The rumors say that the rebel magi have seized the city of Rasadda…and no merchant ships have come to Istarinmul from Rasadda since the end of the war.”

Caina felt a chill. Rumors were one thing, but that was quite another. She thought of Ark and Theodosia and the other friends she had left behind in Malarae. What would a civil war to do them? Would the fighting reach Malarae? If the Magisterium had indeed broken into warring factions…there was no telling how much damage such a war could do. 

“But we can do nothing for them, can we?” said Caina. “They are on their own.”

“And so are we, I fear,” said Agabyzus. 

Caina bowed her head and thought for a moment.

“One more question,” said Caina. “The poet Sulaman. How well do you know him?”

Agabyzus shrugged. “Well enough, though I know little about him personally. His verses are well-received by the emirs and the wealthier nobles, and if he wanted to, he could live in comfort and never leave the Emirs’ and Masters’ Quarters. Yet he often came to the House of Agabyzus to recite his poems here. Evidently he tires of the wealthy and prefers a more appreciative audience.” 

“Is he one of us?” said Caina. “A Ghost?” 

“No,” said Agabyzus.

“Is he one of the Teskilati?” said Caina.

“I do not believe so,” said Agabyzus. “Yet…the Teskilati destroyed us. They knew exactly where to find us. And we used to conduct a great deal of our business out of the coffee house. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” said Caina, “Nasser mentioned that Sulaman pointed him in my direction.”

“I see,” said Agabyzus. “Well, you can speak to Sulaman yourself. He is reciting here tonight.”

###

That night Caina sat at one of the tables in the House of Agabyzus, playing dice with a group of merchants and their guards, and watched as Sulaman and his bodyguard Mazyan made their way to the poet’s dais. Sulaman was tall and thin, clad in a simple brown robe, with a close-cropped black beard shot through with gray and an ascetic, scholarly look to his face. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five, and Caina had never been able to pin down his age. Mazyan had the look of a killer and the build of a boulder, a perpetual scowl on his face as his hard eyes swept the crowd. 

“Tonight, my guests,” said Damla, and the crowds filling the tables and booths fell silent, “tonight we are honored by the presence of the poet Sulaman, and he shall recite for us the great epic of the Padishah’s seven wars against the Shahenshah of Anshan, and how…”

“Forgive me, mistress Damla,” said Sulaman, his voice quiet and deep. “By your pleasure, I shall recite a different epic, the tale of the fall of Iramis and the creation of the Desert of Candles.”

He glanced at Caina as he spoke, just for a moment.

“Of course, master poet,” said Damla. “As you think best.”

Sulaman nodded, and Mazyan seated himself on the edge of the dais, tucking a small drum between his knees. He beat a steady rhythm upon the drum, slow and solemn, like the tramp of an army upon the march. 

Or a funeral dirge.

Sulaman began to speak, reciting verses in the formal structure of Istarish poetry. He spoke of the city of Iramis, ruled by its benevolent Prince, its fields the most fertile and prosperous in all the world. Slavery was not permitted in Iramis by decree of its Prince, and yet Iramis’s fields fed all of Istarinmul and half the world, and the city’s loremasters used their sorcerous powers for the benefit of mankind, defending humanity from the dark powers of the netherworld.

And then Callatas had come. 

From Iramis he had demanded a single child from every family as a slave. The Prince refused and raised his armies to march against Istarinmul. And in response Callatas used his sorcery to destroy Iramis and her armies, to burn the magnificent city and its people to ashes in the space of a single heartbeat. In Sulaman’s words Caina could glimpse the towers of golden stone, could see the flames devouring flesh and stone and hear the people screaming.

But she did not need to imagine it. She had seen it in her dreams, a vision summoned by the strange spirit with eyes of smokeless flame. 

The wrath of Callatas’s sorcery burned the farmlands of Iramis as well, transforming them into the barren Desert of Candles. From that day forward not a single drop of rain had fallen upon the lands of Istarinmul, perhaps a punishment from the Living Flame for Callatas’s great crime. The Slavers’ Brotherhood had grown more and more powerful, kidnapping thousands of slaves to work the fields and feed the city. And Callatas grew stronger, ruling Istarinmul with a fist of iron as his influence grew ever wider. 

At last Sulaman finished his poem, and silence fell over the House of Agabyzus, the crowd staring at him.

And then to Caina’s surprise, they started to applaud, rising to their feet. 

The Istarish enjoyed their epic poems, even the grim ones.

Many merchants made their way to the dais, dropping gold and silver coins in a bowl Mazyan produced. Caina rose to her feet and waited until the crowds had thinned, and then made her way to the dais. Mazyan scowled at her, and Sulaman looked at her with his deep brown eyes.

“Master poet,” said Caina.

“Master courier,” said Sulaman. She dropped a gold coin in his bowl. “Thank you for your largess.” 

“Thank you for the poem,” said Caina. 

“I am pleased it did not trouble you,” said Sulaman, “as did the poem of Istarr and the seven Demon Princes of old.” 

“I have more things to trouble me,” said Caina, “than merely poems. Though I suspect the poem will trouble you.”

“Oh?” said Sulaman, raising an eyebrow, while Mazyan scowled and reached for his scimitar.

“That poem about Callatas,” said Caina. “I think the Grand Master would take it ill, if word of it reached his ears.”

“Is that a threat?” said Mazyan.

“Merely an observation,” said Caina. “I am only a courier. No one fears my wrath. The wrath of Grand Master Callatas, however, is rather more formidable.”

“You are correct,” said Sulaman. “But the Grand Master does not care. Indeed, he approves of the poem, for it increases the dread around his name. He glories in his blackest crime, and holds the destruction of Iramis and its people his greatest achievement.”  

“And do you?” said Caina. “Did Callatas strike a great blow for the glory of Istarinmul?”

“I am merely a poet,” said Sulaman. “I only recite, I fear. Come, Master Marius. Walk with me for a while, if you will.”

Mazyan gathered his bowl and drum, and Caina, Sulaman, and Mazyan stepped into the darkened Cyrican Bazaar. The stalls and shops had closed for the night, and silence hung over the market. In the distance Caina saw the gleam of the Golden Palace and the College of Alchemists, lit by the glow of sorcerous light. 

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Who are you?” said Caina.

“I am the poet Sulaman,” said Sulaman, “and I am a man who fears for the future of Istarinmul, should Callatas work his will here as he worked it in Iramis. And I believe you are such a man as well, you who call yourself Marius of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers.”

He knew. Somehow, he knew that Caina was not who she said she was. That did not surprise her, not entirely. Sulaman had given her a purse of gold after she had saved Bayram and Bahad and the other captives in Ulvan’s cells. He must have suspected that she was associated with the Balarigar in some fashion. 

But did he know that she was the Balarigar? 

“How much do you know about me?” said Caina.

He smiled briefly. “More than you know, and not as much as I would like. I suspect you would say the same about me. But I will say this. I mean you no ill will, and will aid you in whatever small way is within my meager powers.” 

“Because we both oppose Callatas,” said Caina.

“This is so,” said Sulaman. “And that is why I suggested that Ibrahaim Nasser speak to you. He, too, is a man who opposes Callatas.”

“Then you do know him,” said Caina.

“For many years, yes.”

“Who is he really?” said Caina.

“A master thief, from whom much was stolen,” said Sulaman. “A liar who serves the truth. An outlaw who is in service to the law. A homeless man who fights for his home.”

“An answer equally both poetic and vague,” said Caina. 

“The best poems often are,” said Sulaman. “You may do as you wish. I have no bond or right of command over you. But I urge you to listen to what Nasser has to say. It would go well for you. It would go well for all of us.”

“Why?” said Caina.

“Because,” said Sulaman, “I know not what Callatas’s Apotheosis is. But I do know one thing about it. He first attempted it at Iramis.”

The chill she felt grew deeper. “And now Iramis is ashes.”

“You understand, then,” said Sulaman. “Good night, Master Marius. I pray the Living Flame lights your path and leads you to wisdom.”

He offered a bow and strode away. Mazyan scowled at Caina once more and followed the poet.