Date: 2015-01-05 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; High Fantasy; Magic; Epic Fantasy; Demons; Ghosts
Description: CAINA is the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, leader of the Emperor's spies in the city. She has hindered the malevolent plans of the sinister Grand Master Callatas, but has been unable to defeat him. Callatas has slaughtered every foe who ever challenged him, and Caina may be next. CASSANDER NILAS is a ruthless magus of the brutal Umbarian Order, and seeks to destroy the Emperor. At last he has found the key to the downfall of the Empire. All he needs to do is kill Caina Amalas, and the Empire will burn. MORGANT THE RAZOR is an assassin of legend and myth. He vanished a hundred and fifty yea

GHOST IN THE RAZOR

Jonathan Moeller

Description

CAINA is the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, leader of the Emperor's spies in the city. She has hindered the malevolent plans of the sinister Grand Master Callatas, but has been unable to defeat him.

Callatas has slaughtered every foe who ever challenged him, and Caina may be next.

CASSANDER NILAS is a ruthless magus of the brutal Umbarian Order, and seeks to destroy the Emperor. At last he has found the key to the downfall of the Empire.

All he needs to do is kill Caina Amalas, and the Empire will burn.

MORGANT THE RAZOR is an assassin of legend and myth. He vanished a hundred and fifty years past, but he may hold the key to Caina's victory.

Or her final defeat...

Ghost in the Razor

Copyright 2015 by Jonathan Moeller.

Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published January 2015.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

Chapter 1: The Artist

“I am looking for Morgant the Razor,” said Caina Amalas.

The poet standing on the dais regarded her in silence.

The coffee house around them was definitely not silent. It was early evening, the time the merchants of Istarinmul preferred to drink coffee and discuss the gossip of the day, and the House of Agabyzus was the most popular coffee house in the Cyrican Quarter. Booths lined the walls, and low tables ringed with cushions filled the floor. Patrons sat at every booth and table. Damla’s maids moved through the crowd, serving coffee and cakes, Damla’s sons Bayram and Bahad among them. Bayram had a steady head for numbers, and Bahad was a skilled cook. Damla hoped Bayram would one day take over the business of the House of Agabyzus, while Bahad managed the kitchens and the workers.

If Caina had not rescued the boys from the clutches of the Master Slaver Ulvan a year and a half past, none of that would have been possible.

It still might not, if Grand Master Callatas finished his Apotheosis.

The man sitting at the foot of the dais scowled at Caina. He had the thick arms of a blacksmith, the broad shoulders of a soldier, the callused hands of a swordsman, and a grimace that promised death to anyone or anything that threatened his employer. “You should not question the poet before his recitation. You…”

Sulaman raised a hand. “Peace, Mazyan.”

The poet wore only a simple brown robe and white turban, his black beard close-cropped and speckled with gray. Caina had never been able to figure out his age. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to sixty. She knew nothing about him, save that he apparently had some arcane ability to foretell the future.

He had helped her, more than once, and his counsel had proven sound.

Mazyan subsided. “As you say.”

“Speak to me after the recitation,” said Sulaman in his quiet voice.

Caina nodded and sat at one of the tables. She was employing a new disguise today, that of a man named Duncan of Caer Marist, a factor for a noble of the Caerish provinces. Caina did not dare use any of her previous disguises. The bounty upon her head had risen to an astronomical two million bezants, and that was just the bounty offered by Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku. Cassander Nilas, the magus who served as the Umbarian Order’s ambassador to the Padishah, knew who she really was. He had come to secure the Padishah’s alliance against the Empire, and if he placed Caina’s head before the Grand Wazir, that would go a long way to winning the Padishah’s goodwill.

It was odd that the bounty notices on the Balarigar’s head had not changed. Cassander knew that she was a woman, and in all likelihood had a good physical description of her. Caina had been there when Cassander had shared that information with Erghulan, yet the official bounty notices had not been updated. Perhaps Cassander hoped to capture her himself.

That meant Caina had to take extreme caution. So she discarded all of her previous aliases and disguises and created new ones. For Duncan of Caer Marist, she dressed in the trousers, shirt, boots, and outer robe favored by Imperial merchants, complete with a beret adorned with a silver badge. The robe was too warm for the hot sun of Istarinmul’s dry lands, but it offered ample concealment for weapons. She also wore a long red wig, the hair tied into a tail, and a false red beard. Makeup beneath her eyes and upon her forehead added a few decades to her face.

Hopefully that would throw off any hunters.

She sat at the table and played dice with the merchants, losing a little money and listening to their conversation. The markets of Istarinmul were unsettled, and Caina herself had done a great deal of the unsettling. The Balarigar had terrorized the Brotherhood of Slavers, and consequently the price of slaves had quadrupled. Raiders from the Kaltari Highlands had been attacking the caravans of the Brotherhood of Slavers, driving slave prices even higher. The emirs and Istarish nobles of the Vale of Fallen Stars, led by Tanzir Shahan, had grown more critical of the Grand Wazir and the Padishah, and some whispers spoke of revolt. The civil war between the Umbarian Order and the Empire had disrupted trade on the Alqaarin Sea, and the Kyracians in the Cyrican Sea charged higher and higher prices for shipping. A new freeborn gladiator was creating a stir, defeating champion after champion and raking in prize after prize. Most of Istarinmul’s gladiators were slaves, but freeborn men sometimes entered the arena in hopes of winning glory and fortune. Some did. Most did not, and a few died in the process.

None of the merchants spoke about the main danger to Istarinmul. From time to time Caina heard a joke about the wraithblood addicts. Caina doubted they would believe that Grand Master Callatas manufactured wraithblood and distributed it for free.

She didn’t know why, not yet. But she knew Callatas needed wraithblood to finish his mysterious Apotheosis. She knew he needed the lost Seal and Staff of Iramis, once part of the royal regalia of the Princes of Iramis, to work his terrible spell. No one knew what had happened to the relics.

Morgant the Razor, though, might have known, even though the legendary assassin had likely died a century and a half ago. If Caina learned what had happened to him, she might have a chance of finding the Staff and Seal before Callatas did.

If she did, perhaps Bayram and Bahad would live to inherit their mother’s business.

Caina waited for Sulaman’s recitation to start.

###

Later in the evening, Sulaman finished an epic of Istarr and the seven Demon Princes of old, the nagataaru-possessed sorcerers who had ruled the lands of Istarinmul until Istarr had defeated them. The Istarish loved their epic poems, their gloomy tales of war and struggle and defeat. Perhaps that explained why they enjoyed gladiatorial games so much.

After the applause finished, the merchants crossed to the dais. Mazyan produced a bowl, and the merchants dropped silver and copper coins. Caina even saw a few golden bezants in the mix. Sulaman always did well, but he was a gifted poet. Sometimes when he recited Caina could almost see the battlefields and hear the battle in the rhythm of his words.

She waited until the crowd had thinned and approached. Mazyan scowled at her, but Sulaman regarded her with his deep, dark eyes.

“Walk with me for a moment,” said Sulaman. “Let us discuss the affairs of the day.”

Caina nodded, and followed Sulaman and Mazyan into the night.

The Cyrican Bazaar was quiet, the booths and shops closed for the night. The stars shone overhead like jewels flung against a black blanket, and in the distance Caina saw the lights of the Padishah’s Golden Palace and the College of Alchemists. Sulaman walked into the empty space of the Bazaar, and Caina and Mazyan followed. They were alone in the Bazaar, and Sulaman stood in silence, his head bowed.

“You seek a secret,” he said at last.

“I do,” said Caina. “Morgant the Razor.”

“He was a man of blood and violence,” said Sulaman. “Why do you seek him?”

“Because I, too, have learned a secret,” said Caina.

A faint smile went over the poet’s face. “We all have our secrets, Duncan of Caer Marist.” He put a bit of emphasis upon her false name.

“We do,” said Caina, remembering what Nasser had told her. “Our secrets protect us.”

“Tell me why you seek Morgant the Razor,” said Sulaman, “without betraying your secrets.”

“You know that Callatas plans to work a great evil,” said Caina. “He needs relics of great power to work his spell. He has been seeking them for decades. I think Morgant knew what happened to them. If I can learn his fate, perhaps I can learn the fate of the relics…”

“The royal regalia of Iramis,” said Sulaman, nodding as if a suspicion had just been confirmed “The Staff and Seal.”

“That knowledge is worth your life,” said Caina. “Callatas would not hesitate to kill both of you if he learns of it.”

“I know,” said Sulaman. “Though it hardly matters at this point. Callatas already wishes me dead for several reasons. One or two more will not make much difference.”

“This might,” said Caina. “Those relics…without them he cannot achieve his goal. You know what he did to Iramis when its Prince opposed him. He won’t hesitate to do the same to anyone who challenges him.”

“Like you?” said Sulaman.

“Like me,” said Caina. “But Callatas already has his own reasons for wanting me dead.” Mazyan let out a little snort. “As you said, one more won’t make much difference.”

“I doubt neither your courage nor your ability,” said Sulaman. “But I doubt your ability to survive.”

“Everyone dies,” said Caina.

“Everyone does,” said Sulaman. “Some sooner than others, I fear. If you continue on this path, if you seek Morgant the Razor, it will almost certainly lead to your death.”

“I know,” said Caina, looking at the House of Agabyzus. “But my own life means little. Not when there are so many other lives at stake. If I can stop Callatas and his plans…it is worth the risk.”

Sulaman was silent for a long moment, his head bowed again. A faint prickle of arcane power washed over Caina’s skin, and she suppressed a shiver. Sulaman was not a sorcerer, but he nonetheless possessed the power to see glimpses of the future.

“Perhaps,” said Sulaman. His dark eyes turned to her. “I thought you would die when Callatas sent his servant to slay you.”

“The Red Huntress,” said Caina.

“Your death seemed certain and imminent,” said Sulaman. “Callatas has sent his creature to slay many innocent men and women, and few ever escaped her blade. Yet you have. Perhaps that means you will survive what I am about to tell you.”

“Then you will tell me?” said Caina.

“Two secrets I can tell you,” said Sulaman. “Do you know the artist Markaine of Caer Marist?”

Caina frowned, thinking. “Yes. That’s…he painted the mural in the Tarshahzon Gardens, didn’t he? The one showing the Fall of Iramis?” The mural had been a masterwork, terrifying in its dark power. Caina had almost felt the fear and terror the people of Iramis must have experienced when Callatas used the Star to burn their city to ashes.

“The same,” said Sulaman. “You must speak to him.”

“Surely Markaine has been dead for years?” said Caina.

“He still lives,” said Sulaman.

“Truly?” said Caina. “I saw that mural in the Tarshahzon Gardens. It looked as if an eyewitness painted it.” She had seen the destruction of Iramis in her dreams, shown to her by the djinni Samnirdamnus, the Knight of Wind and Air. The mural had matched what she had seen, and she assumed Markaine had been an eyewitness, which meant that he must have died decades ago.

“That,” said Sulaman, “is something you shall have to discuss with him. His home is in the Cyrican Quarter, not far from here, on the street of the metalworkers.” Caina blinked. That was not far from Nerina Strake’s workshop, and Caina often went there. Had the answer truly been under her nose the entire time?

“Markaine knows where Morgant is?” said Caina. “Or what happened to him?”

“I believe so,” said Sulaman. Mazyan snorted, his eyes scanning the darkness around them. “Speak with him, and he will put you upon the path you must walk.”

“You said you had two secrets to tell me,” said Caina. “What is the second?”

“Fire,” said Sulaman, his voice soft.

“Fire?” said Caina.

“I looked into your future and I saw fire,” said Sulaman.

She remembered the gauntlet upon Cassander Nilas’s right hand, the gauntlet that let him wield pyromantic sorcery without suffering any ill effects. Was that her fate? To die under Cassander’s spells?

“What kind of fire?” said Caina.

“Killing fire,” said Sulaman, “and healing fire.”

“Healing fire?” said Caina. “That doesn’t make any sense. What kind of fire heals?”

She had seen healing fire in the past, hadn’t she? The Alchemist Ibrahmus Sinan had blazed with it as he drank an unfinished vial of Elixir Rejuvenata, healing the mortal wound that Muravin had dealt him. Of course, that vial of Elixir had been incomplete, and it had twisted the Alchemist into a ravening monster.

“I don’t understand,” said Caina.

“Neither do I,” said Sulaman. “My visions of the future are unclear and ambiguous. Yet I see burning men in your future. Fire awaits you, and it may consume you. I fear that is all I can tell you.”

Caina bit back a frustrated response. Someday, she knew, she would find a way to get a straight answer out of Sulaman. Still, she could not blame Sulaman for protecting his secrets, not when she had so many secrets of her own. And he had given her a name she could use. Perhaps Markaine would know more.

“Thank you,” said Caina at last.

“May the Living Flame watch over you,” said Sulaman.

Caina raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just say that you saw fire in my future?” Mazyan scowled at that.

Sulaman’s smile was sad. “Let us hope that was it.”

###

The next morning Caina walked to the Ring of Cyrica.

She had found Markaine’s house in short order, expecting a mansion guarded by armed mercenaries. Instead it had been an average house, little larger than Nerina Strake’s workshop. It wasn’t quite falling into ruin, but it was going to need maintenance soon.

Caina had walked past it dozens of times and had never seen anything remarkable about it. She felt a flicker of annoyance at that. Perhaps Markaine of Caer Marist was skilled at keeping a low profile and hiding in plain sight. Caina herself had done so for nearly a year and a half, and there was no reason Markaine could not as well.

The artist had not been at home. An elderly freeborn maid had answered Caina’s knock, and said that Markaine had gone to the Ring of Cyrica to watch the games. Peering over the old woman’s shoulder, Caina had seen an artist’s workshop, tables with brushes and canvases. There had been nothing valuable in sight.

So Caina had gone to the Ring of Cyrica, still disguised as Duncan of Caer Marist.

The Ring was a mid-sized arena, large enough to seat about ten thousand spectators. The merchants and craftsmen of the Cyrican Quarter came here to watch the games, along with foreign merchants visiting from other lands. There were dozens of fighting pits in Istarinmul, ranging from grungy cellars that held a few dozen to the massive Arena of Padishahs, capable of seating fifty thousand in comfort. The Istarish loved gladiatorial games, and both slave and free and rich and poor and noble and commoner gathered to watch men and wild beasts struggle and die upon the sands. More than a few of the poems Sulaman recited were tales of gladiators, of noblemen forced to fight disguised into the arena to avenge a murdered lover.

Caina bought a ticket from a surly slave in a gray tunic and made her way into the tiers of seats. They were only about half-full, but the morning bouts rarely attracted as many as those in the afternoon. Evening matches were only held during festivals or when the Padishah or a noble wished to put on a show. Lighting the arena at night was expensive.

The maid had been willing to tell Caina where Markaine would be seated, so she made her way down the sloping aisles, closer to the broad, sand-floored oval pit at the center of the Ring. Most the spectators at this time of day were idle laborers or Istarish citizens who received a ration from the Wazir of Grain, and they ignored her as she passed, watching as two teams of five men each fought each other upon the sands. One team wore spiked helmets and fought with scimitars and round shields, while the second bore the helmets of Imperial Legionaries and fought with the massive rectangular shields and broadswords of the Legions. The gladiators had no other armor, and wore only sandals and loincloths. Some of the men were massive and heavily muscled, their blows powerful but slow, while others were leaner but quicker. The men gleamed with the sweat of battle, and a steady cheer rose from the crowds.

Caina watched them for a moment, admiring the play of muscles beneath their skin, the skill they showed at fighting. The gladiators knew their business, and both teams fought as a coordinated group. Likely the match would end in a draw…

She felt a flicker of shame and looked away. Caina had learned something about herself since coming to Istarinmul, something she did not like.

She often found gladiators attractive.

She shouldn’t. Slavery was a blight upon the world, and she had devoted vast time and energy to terrorizing the Brotherhood of Slavers. She had done it to cut off Callatas’s supply of slaves to murder for creating wraithblood, true, but part of it had been her hatred of slavers. Istarish slavers had helped Maglarion kill her father, and while Caina’s contempt of sorcery had cooled enough that she was willing to work with and even befriend a woman like Claudia Aberon Dorius, her hatred of slavers had never wavered. Every one of those men fighting below had been sold into slavery, had been purchased by the Wazir of Games and ordered to fight. It was a hideous injustice.

Yet she could not deny that she enjoyed watching them.

It shouldn’t surprise her. Corvalis had been a hard man, an assassin and a killer, trained by his father to become a remorseless weapon. He had been a good man and Caina loved him with all her heart, yet she had nonetheless been attracted to his cold strength, even excited by it.

She put the entire notion out of her head. There was work before her, and neither idly daydreaming about gladiators like a foolish child or reminiscing over Corvalis would accomplish it. Corvalis would have laughed at her, had she known.

She located the correct row of seats, and soon found Markaine of Caer Marist.

He was not hard to spot.

The painter was in his middle fifties, thin to the point of looking almost withered, with pale blue eyes and close-cropped gray hair. He was oddly pale, his skin almost translucent, and despite sitting in the open sun he showed no sign of a sunburn. His costume was peculiar as well. He wore dusty black boots, black trousers, a crisp, brilliant white shirt, and a long black coat that hung to his knees.  The coat was far too heavy for the sun, yet Markaine was not sweating. If anything, he looked slightly chilly. A black cane with a worn bronze handle rested on the stone bench next to him. Upon his right leg he held a notebook open, and Caina saw him sketching the gladiators with a small pencil, the tip rasping against the paper. There was no one near him, and his seat was further back than she would have expected. Perhaps he could not afford any better.

Caina stepped towards him.

“No,” said Markaine. He had a thick Caerish accent. Caeria Ulterior, from the sounds of it, highlighting his words with a burr.

“I’m sorry?” said Caina.

“Whatever you are about to ask me,” said Markaine, not looking up from his notebook, “the answer is no. I have no interest in creating a painting, a mural, a fresco, or any other artwork for you or your employer. No sum of money shall change my mind.”

“I’m not here for a commission,” said Caina.

“Of course you’re not,” said Markaine. “I’m sure instead you’re here to socialize. The civil war in the Empire might affect trade. Or it might not. Hmm, let’s all stroke our beards and nod and pretend like we can see the future.” His free hand fluttered at her. “Off you go.”

Suddenly Markaine’s relative poverty made a great deal more sense.

Caina nodded, climbed over the stone seat, and stepped into the row behind Markaine. She made sure to stand so her shadow fell upon Markaine’s notebook, blocking his light. The painter looked up, blinking, and scowled at her.

“Really,” he said. “That’s very petty.”

“As I said, I’m not here to commission a portrait,” said Caina. “I would like to discuss another one of your works.”

Markaine sighed and then stared at her. Caina met his pale gaze without blinking, though the sensation made her uncomfortable. His eyes had a heaviness to them, a strange weight, and she suddenly felt as if her disguise was inadequate. For a moment she was sure that Markaine recognized her, yet she had never seen him before. Had he somehow realized that she was the Balarigar? That seemed most improbable, and yet…

“On the other hand,” said Markaine, sliding to the side, “I’m told socializing is good for the digestion. And you seem like a very interesting young fellow. Have a seat. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” said Caina, sitting next to him.

“Oh, of course not. It must have slipped my mind,” said Markaine. “I’m getting older, you know. Anyway. Who the hell are you?”

“Duncan of Caer Marist, a factor for Lord Quintus of House Camwallen, a noble house of Caeria Ulterior,” said Caina. Lord Quintus was in fact a minor noble with lands in Caeria Ulterior, though she had never met him, and she doubted that he had ever left Caeria Ulterior.

For some reason that answer amused him. “I’m sure you are. So.” He clapped his notebook shut, tucked it into a pocket of his roomy coat, and stared at her. “Why does a factor for a minor Caerish lord wish to speak with me?”

“My lord is a student of Istarish history,” said Caina.

“Poor fool. Is life really that boring in Caeria Ulterior?”

“He heard rumor of your work, and since I had business in Istarinmul anyway, he commanded me to seek you out and ask questions,” said Caina. “I can pay for your time, if you will…”

A roar from the crowd drowned out her words. The gladiators dressed as Istarish soldiers had prevailed over their opponents. None of the gladiators had been killed – for all the barbarity of the games, gladiators were expensive, and matches to the death were uncommon. Several of the Legionary gladiators had taken wounds, and gray-clad slaves hurried onto the sands, helping the wounded men into the galleries below the Ring while the victors raised their scimitars in triumph.

“You were saying?” said Markaine.

“I can pay you for your time,” said Caina. “My lord Quintus has provided a purse for that purpose.”

“What interests his lordship?” said Markaine. “I imagine Istarish art is quite the rage among Caerish lords. It’s probably all they ever discuss.” There was a hint of mockery in his tone.

“Specifically, he is interested in the great mural in the Tarshahzon Gardens,” said Caina. “The Fall of Iramis.” Slaves with rakes ran across the sand of the fighting pit, sweeping it clean for the next combatants.

Again Markaine seemed amused.

“Ah,” he said. “That would explain it, wouldn’t it? The Fall of Iramis. Such a tragic tale. The sort of tale that inspires bad poetry and worse paintings.”

“Then you do not like your own mural?” said Caina.

Markaine laughed. “I like it just fine. Callatas never finished paying me for it, you know, the cheap bastard.” He made a chopping gesture. “No doubt he can use his power to transmute lead into gold, but he could never be bothered to finish paying me. I certainly cannot bring a lawsuit against him. What hakim or wazir would rule against the Grand Master of the Alchemists?”

“Given the topic of the mural,” said Caina, “I can see why the magistrates would be weary of challenging a man who killed a quarter of a million people in a day.”

“All that power, and he still can’t pay me on time,” muttered Markaine.

“The mural is so detailed it almost seems like an eyewitness account,” said Caina.

Markaine raised his gray eyebrows in surprise, and a voice boomed over the arena.

“Citizens of Istarinmul!” said the speaker, a herald standing in the magistrate’s box overlooking the pit. “For your entertainment, our most noble Grand Wazir, Erghulan Amirasku, has commanded that gladiatorial games be held in the Ring of Cyrica. A seasoned champion has been brought to try his valor and his steel against an upstart! Behold the Red Fisherman, winner of a hundred duels and a champion of the Arena of Padishahs!”

The crowds roared their approval, and a man with his face concealed behind a red helmet strode upon the sands. He wore a leather kilt and a gleaming steel cuirass, and in his right hand he carried a crimson trident, its barbed points gleaming, and a weighted net in his left hand. The straps of a pair of baldrics formed an X across his cuirass, and a pair of short swords waited in scabbards upon his back.

“To challenge him,” thundered the herald, “a new man, a rising fighter among the ranks of Istarinmul’s gladiators! A freeborn man, who in a display of valor has voluntarily entered the games. A man of mystery, known only as the Exile!”

A second man strode into the oval, and Caina felt her eye drawn toward him. He was shorter than the towering Red Fisherman, but well-muscled nonetheless. The Exile walked with the precise, steady grace and economical movements of a master swordsman. He wore a simple masked helm, a loincloth, sandals, and nothing else. In his right hand he carried a broadsword, and bore no other weapons. The Red Fisherman was larger and likely stronger, and better armed and armored to boot, but the Exile looked dangerous. Caina was not sure who would win.

The fighters saluted each other, and then the magistrate’s box.

“Begin!” roared the herald, and the crowds shouted their approval as the Exile and the Red Fisherman began to circle each other.

“Now,” said Markaine, once the crowds had quieted and they could hear each other again, “you were saying?”

Caina turned her eyes from the duel below. “The Fall of Iramis. The painting is so detailed that my lord wondered if you were an eyewitness to the disaster.”

“I was,” said Markaine.

Caina blinked in surprise.

“I stood on the hills west of Iramis and watched as Grand Master Callatas raised the Star of Iramis,” said Markaine, taking a stentorian tone. “I watched as he called upon its power. I heard the screams as Iramis died, and the stench of its burning filled my nostrils. The sky itself writhed in the power Callatas unleashed, and I watched as the fields of Iramis turned into the Desert of Candles.”

“Truly?” said Caina.

“Of course not, you idiot,” said Markaine. “That was a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“One hundred and fifty one,” said Caina.

“Yes, the extra year makes such a difference,” said Markaine. The Red Fisherman and the Exile exchanged a flurry of blows. The bigger man caught the blows of the Exile’s sword upon the tines of his trident, but the Exile was fast enough to avoid the Fisherman’s net. “Your lord wants to know how I made the mural accurate? I read books about Iramis. People do that sometimes, you know. I also talked to Callatas repeatedly. He was very keen that the painting be accurate. Apparently he enjoys frightening people.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Caina. She had also seen it firsthand.

The Red Fisherman drove his trident forward, and the Exile’s sword whipped around in a two-handed block, catching it an inch from his chest. Had he not blocked it, the blow would have speared him like a potato upon a fork. Gladiators rarely fought to the death, but accidents happened…and a slave like the Red Fisherman would show no hesitation about killing a freeborn man like the Exile.

“An eyewitness, though?” said Markaine. “Does Lord Quintus have a skull of solid bone? Or a brain made of pudding?” He smirked, showing his teeth. “Or do you think I look old enough to have seen Iramis burn? Do I look a hundred and fifty years old? That’s rather insulting, you know.”

“No,” said Caina. He was testing her, she realized. Trying to see how she reacted. “No, you don’t look old enough to have seen Iramis burn.”

“Thank you,” said Markaine.

“You look old enough to have seen ancient Maat burn.”

Markaine blinked, and then snorted. “Clever. I always appreciate a woman who understands history.”

Caina felt a flicker of alarm. “What did you say?

“I always appreciate a man who understands history,” said Markaine. He tilted his head to the side. “Why? Did I say something else? I might have, you know. I am an old man and so easily confused.”

Caina said nothing. He had called her a woman, she was sure of it. Did he realize that she was a woman? She had thought he recognized her. Sulaman had sent her here. Perhaps Sulaman had finally decided to betray her.

Yet Markaine made no threatening movements. As far as she could see, he wasn’t even armed, not counting the brass-handled cane.

The Exile landed a hit upon the Red Fisherman’s right thigh, drawing a line of blood. The bigger man reeled back with a grunt of fury, and the Exile went on the offensive, his broadsword blurring and flickering. His attacks were designed to force the Red Fisherman back upon his injured leg.

“Well?” said Markaine. “What else do you want to know?” He reached for his cane and tapped it against the floor. “I am so enjoying this conversation.”

“My lord Quintus has a great interest in Istarish history,” said Caina, “and wanted to learn more about it. Specifically, he wanted to know if you knew anything of the assassin called Morgant the Razor.”

Markaine barked a laugh. “Morgant? Truly? Your lord has a peculiar taste in myths.”

“Why do you say that?” said Caina. The Exile landed another hit upon the Red Fisherman, and the crowd’s roar grew louder.

“Morgant the Razor never existed,” said Markaine. “A legendary assassin who killed the magus-emperor of Nighmar? And five separate Istarish emirs? And the last of the Istarish loremasters?” He snorted. “They ought to have claimed he rode a chimaera into battle while simultaneously making love to the three most beautiful princesses in the world. That would have been more entertaining.”

“Implausible, though,” said Caina.

“Mmm,” said Markaine. “Well. I know a bit about Istarish history. What does Lord Quintus want to know about the myth of Morgant?”

Caina opened her mouth to answer, and a roar came from the crowd. The Exile sidestepped, his sword a steely blur, and suddenly the Red Fisherman was upon his back, clutching his wounded leg with both hands. The Exile’s broadsword came to rest upon the Red Fisherman’s throat, and the wounded gladiator raised his hands in surrender.

The spectators screamed for mercy, and the Exile stepped back, raising his broadsword. He turned in a circle, sword raised in triumph, and Caina found herself taking a closer look at him. There were deep scars upon the left side of his chest and leg. Another part of her noted the hard musculature of his body with appreciation, and she pushed that part of her mind away with annoyance.

“The victor, citizens of Istarinmul!” boomed the herald. “The Exile!”

The crowd roared in approval, rising to their feet as they applauded. Markaine gripped his cane and hauled himself to his feet, and Caina followed suit. The Exile turned in a circle once more while the slaves carried away the wounded Red Fisherman. One of the slaves came forward with an amphora of water, and the Exile pulled off his helm.

Caina saw his face, and a bolt of shock went through her.

She knew the Exile. She knew him very well.

He had first tried to kill her in Marsis, following the commands of his sister. Later they had allied in Catekharon, and together they had stopped Mihaela’s plot to unleash terrible weapons of sorcery upon world. He had married, and Caina had helped him save his wife from the poison of a Dustblade, and together they had dared the horrors of Caer Magia. After that he had become an Archon of New Kyre, and had helped broker peace between the Kyracians and the Empire.

“Master Duncan?” said Markaine.

Caina barely heard him.

The Exile had been one of the most powerful men in New Kyre…and now he was fighting in the arenas of Istarinmul.

Why the hell was Kylon of House Kardamnos fighting as a gladiator?

Caina stared at Kylon for a moment longer. Markaine said something else, but she barely heard it.

She hurried from the seats, making her way to the gladiators’ barracks in the galleries below the Ring of Cyrica.

Chapter 2: The Knight of Wind and Air

The man who called himself Markaine of Caer Marist sat back down, watching Duncan, factor to Lord Quintus Camwallen, hurry through the aisles.

Of course, he was sure that that Duncan was not his real name.

In fact, he was certain that Duncan was actually a woman. Her disguise was excellent, and he had rarely seen better. Nevertheless, he knew all the tricks. The woman’s voice, accent, costume, and even her posture and mannerisms had been perfect, but that was not enough to fool him.

He was impressed. He hoped she wasn’t working for Grand Master Callatas.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill her. That would be regrettable, but at his age, one more regret made little difference. He had two rules, and one of them was that he never killed anyone unless they deserved it.

Working for Grand Master Callatas qualified.

He had killed a lot of people and used many names over the years. Markaine had been a useful name, so useful that he sometimes thought of himself as Markaine of Caer Marist. He rarely used it any longer, but his true name was Morgant…and as he thought it over, he was reasonably sure he had just met the woman who called herself the Balarigar.

Wasn’t that interesting?

He tapped his false cane against the floor, watching the woman hurry away.

Morgant had not participated in the brutal politics of Istarinmul for a long time, and he had not killed anyone for a few years. But he still had ears, and he kept them to the ground. There had been a great deal of upheaval in Istarinmul over the last year and a half, ever since the downfall of Master Slaver Ulvan, and all of it had been the work of the madman the Szaldic slaves called the Balarigar.

Madwoman, Morgant supposed.

He had been surprised to learn that she was a woman. Cassander Nilas, the Umbarian ambassador, had quietly put out word to the various elite assassins in Istarinmul, and Morgant still listened to the rumors. Apparently the master thief known as the Balarigar was actually a Ghost nightfighter named Caina Amalas, sent by the Emperor to destabilize Istarinmul. Morgant had been astonished to learn that the Balarigar was a woman. The Empire had changed a great deal since the last time had visited.

Of course, that had been over a century ago.

He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the handle of his cane.

Why had the Balarigar been talking to him?

Had she realized who he really was? It was a possibility, albeit an unlikely one. Morgant the Razor had disappeared a century and a half ago, not long after the destruction of Iramis and the death of the last loremaster, and mortal men did not live that long. Or so everyone believed. Morgant had once believed that, too, until the djinn of the Azure Court had taught him otherwise.

She had been asking about that damned mural. It had amused Morgant to paint it, mostly since Callatas had never realized who Markaine of Caer Marist really was, but the young Ghost had an astute eye. Morgant had indeed witnessed the destruction of Iramis. Another day and he would have been inside Iramis and perished with all the rest.

The Balarigar didn’t know any of that.

His fingers clenched tighter against the handle of his cane.

But she suspected that Markaine of Caer Marist knew something. Why else would she ask about the Fall of Iramis? Why talk about Morgant the Razor? There was only one reason a Ghost nightfighter would be interested in both Iramis and Morgant.

The answer came to him in a flash.

She was trying to stop Callatas’s Apotheosis. That explained why the Balarigar had been terrorizing the slavers. Callatas could not create wraithblood without a constant supply of slaves to murder. For that matter, Callatas could not work the Apotheosis without the ring and the staff of the Prince, the Seal and Staff of Iramis, and Morgant had no idea where to find them.

The only person who knew where to find them, in point of fact, was not available for casual questioning.

Yet if the Balarigar sought to stop the Apotheosis, and if she was clever enough to find him…then Morgant was the logical person to question.

So why the devil had she run off like that?

She had departed without a word the minute the Exile had taken off his helmet. Morgant considered the gladiator. He was a strong young man, not quite thirty, with close-cropped brown hair and bloodshot brown eyes. Kyracian, by the look of him, but there were many Kyracian gladiators. Morgant could not see what had caught the Balarigar’s interest.

Perhaps she had been struck by a sudden lust for a gladiator. Some women found them alluring. Though given how much money she had stolen from the Brotherhood of Slavers, if the Balarigar wanted a gladiator in her bed she could afford to buy a different one for every night of the week.

Morgant watched her descend into the galleries, and for a moment, just a moment, considered killing her.

She likely didn’t know it, but she was pushing Istarinmul toward civil war. The Slavers’ Brotherhood had begun kidnapping peasants and farmers from the southern lands of Istarinmul to sell in the city. The southern emirs, led by fat Tanzir Shahan, were in an uproar. The Grand Wazir Erghulan had done nothing to rein in the Brotherhood, and if matters continued sooner or later Tanzir and the southern emirs would call their men and march on Istarinmul itself.

If Morgant killed the Balarigar, perhaps all that bloodshed could be avoided.

Suddenly he decided that he did not care. The Balarigar was not his concern, and neither was Callatas and his Apotheosis. Morgant cared nothing for the fate of Istarinmul. He always kept his word, but he had not given his word to either the Balarigar or Callatas, and he owed them nothing.

It had been a very long time since he had given his word to anyone.

Morgant rose, making sure to feign a limp and lean upon his cane. He decided to return to his house, practice his blades for exercise, and then to paint for the rest of the day. A scene with gladiators, he decided. Those always sold well, though he did not care about money. Perhaps in this painting he would include a blue-eyed woman watching a Kyracian gladiator with a rapt expression, her lips parted, her bosom heaving. That would amuse him, but he was the only one who would get the joke, alas.

He had lived for so long that he was the only one who understood his jokes.

Morgant took one step forward and the world froze around him.

He turned, more curious than alarmed. All the color leached out of the Ring of Cyrica, until it seemed as if the arena and the spectators around him had been drawn from pencil and charcoal. The people stood motionless, caught in an instant of time. Nearby Morgant saw a fat merchant drinking wine, the cup held frozen an inch from his lips.

He turned again, and saw the Knight of Wind and Air standing nearby.

As ever, the djinni wore the shape of Annarah, the last loremaster of Iramis, a tall, strong woman in a white robe, the cloth stark against her dark skin. Her long hair was as white as snow and hung to her hips, and she carried her pyrikon staff, her badge of office, in her right hand. The illusion looked exactly as Morgant remembered her, save in one aspect.

Her eyes were wrought of smokeless flame, the smokeless flame of the djinn of the court of the Azure Sovereign.

“You,” said Morgant.

“Yes, me,” said the Knight. Annarah had always spoken softly, politely, but the Knight’s voice was a sardonic drawl. “It is good to see that your vast age has not dulled your wits. Overmuch.”

“One of your kindred ensured that I lived this long,” said Morgant. “If you have any complaints, you may take them up with her.”

“You could have killed yourself at any time,” said the Knight, “but you have not. Because you gave your word. The dreaded Morgant the Razor lived by only two rules, did he not?”

Morgant said nothing.

“He never killed anyone who had not earned death,” said the Knight, a mocking smile on Annarah’s face, “and he always kept his word once given.”

“Yes,” said Morgant.

“You gave your word to Annarah one hundred and fifty years ago,” said the Knight.

“One hundred and fifty one,” said Morgant, “in point of fact. My wits may be dulled with age, but I still know how to count.”

“The chance has come,” said the Knight, “to keep your word to Annarah.”

Morgant felt his eyes narrow, felt his hand twitch towards the dagger he kept concealed beneath his coat.

“How?” he said at last.

“The woman,” said the Knight, the fire in Annarah’s eyes flashing brighter. “You have realized who she is?”

“The one the Szalds call the Balarigar,” said Morgant. “Likely Caina Amalas, a Ghost nightfighter.”

“Precisely,” said the Knight. “I have been looking for someone like her for a very long time. Ever since Callatas raised the Star and burned Iramis to ashes. She may very well be the one I have sought.”

“How nice for you,” said Morgant. “Why should I care?”

The smirk on Annarah’s face widened. “Because if she is the one I have sought…then she is also the one who will help you to keep your word to Annarah.”

Morgant said nothing, keeping the surprise from his face. That was just a reflex, though. The djinni could read his mind.

“How?” he said at last. “She is just a child. How shall she help me keep my word to Annarah?”

“That child,” said the Knight, “has done more in her twenty-four years than most men and women do in their lifetimes. You’ve heard the rumors about the Balarigar. Many of them are true. She can help you keep your word to the last loremaster. Assuming, of course, the Balarigar is still alive.”

“Is she about to die?” said Morgant.

“It is highly probable she will die in the next hour,” said the Knight of Wind and Air, “unless she has your aid.”

“If she is killed so easily,” said Morgant, “I doubt she could help me.”

Even after all these years, it was disconcerting to see the Knight’s mocking smile upon Annarah’s face. “If she dies…then you will never know, will you? You can go back to scribbling sketches and smearing paint across canvas while you ponder a way to keep your word. Which will never come if Callatas destroys Istarinmul in the coming year, an event which is all but certain if the Balarigar dies in the next hour.”

Morgant sighed. “Ever the manipulator.”

“Me?” said the Knight. “I have merely presented you with facts and nothing more, my dear assassin. You must decide how to interpret them.”

“Which is exactly why you are such a good manipulator,” said Morgant.

“Mortals are ever predictable,” said the Knight. “Except when they are not.”

“The Balarigar,” said Morgant, pointing his cane in her direction. “If she is the one you have been looking for since Iramis fell…have you appeared to her as well?”

The Knight’s smirk widened. “Why don’t you ask her? I’m sure the two of you shall have some delightful conversations.”

“More manipulation,” muttered Morgant.

“No?” said the Knight. “Very well. I shall state this plainly. The woman is your last, best chance of keeping your word to Annarah. And if you do not help her…you shall likely be dead within the year.”

Morgant laughed. “Dead from what?”

“Dead from the same thing that will kill everyone else in Istarinmul,” said the Knight. “And most of the rest of this world.”

“Callatas and his Apotheosis,” said Morgant. It had been a century and a half, but he still remembered the fear in Annarah’s voice as she spoke of it.

“You will, no doubt, say that you owe the people of Istarinmul nothing,” said the Knight. “You will say that if they cannot defend themselves, then they deserve their fate, and that you are not obligated to defend them.” The djinni’s burning eyes flashed brighter, so bright that Annarah’s face almost seemed as if it had been wrought of molten gold. “But consider this. A million people live in Istarinmul, Morgant the Razor…would you let them all die?”

He would. He knew that he could, if necessary.

“And how would you explain that to Annarah,” murmured the spirit, “if you ever saw her again?”

Morgant had no answer for that.

The Knight grinned once more, and suddenly Annarah vanished, and the world around Morgant exploded into light and color once more, almost as if the Knight had dumped jars of paint across a canvas. He gasped a little at the sudden change, and for a moment needed to lean upon his cane in truth. Around him the crowds murmured, and enterprising slaves in gray tunics moved up and down the aisles, selling wine and sausages and peanuts.

He ignored them all, staring at the entrance to the galleries below the Ring.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

Morgant the Razor kept his word.

He started for the galleries, following the Balarigar.

Chapter 3: Failures

Caina had been in the galleries below the Ring of Cyrica before and knew her way around.

It was surprisingly bright in the brickwork tunnels, thanks to a clever system of mirrors that reflected Istarinmul’s burning sun into the galleries. Large rooms held racks of wooden practice weapons, and others housed wild beasts and the various props and scenery that the more elaborate games required. It reminded Caina of the workshops below the Grand Imperial Opera in Malarae, though the gladiatorial games had more blood than even the goriest Nighmarian opera. There were also barracks for the gladiators themselves, both the enslaved men and the rarer freeborn gladiators.

A scowling, bearded Istarish watchman blocked the door to the gladiators’ barracks. He wore a spiked helm and a shirt of scale mail, a scimitar hanging at his belt. To judge from the bulge of the belly beneath his armor, he had not lifted the blade in anger for some time.

“You,” said the watchman. “The gladiators are not to be disturbed.”

“I wish to speak with one of the freeborn gladiators,” said Caina. “The Exile.”

The watchman snorted. “The Exile is not a sociable man. Be off with you.”

Caina sighed, reached into a pocket, and handed over a golden bezant. The man regarded the coin, nodded, and tucked it away.

“I never saw you,” said the watchman. “Keep a respectful tongue in your head, though. You give lip to the gladiators, you might accidentally trip and have a sword fall down your throat.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Caina. “Where’s the Exile’s room?”

“End of the hall,” said the watchman. “The one with a window.”

Caina nodded and made her way down the hall.

###

The hakim in charge of the Wazir of Games’s treasury was a short, doughy man, clad in the ornamented robes and jeweled turban of a magistrate of the Padishah’s government.

“Your purse, Exile,” he said, pushing a leather bag across the wooden table.

Kylon, once of House Kardamnos and New Kyre, took the bag and counted the coins inside.

It was an odd feeling. Once he would have never thought to count his own money. Andromache had been in command of House Kardamnos, and even after Kylon had become High Seat, he had left the details of the money in the hands of the slaves and his seneschals. After he had married Thalastre, he had left the House’s finances in her hands as he dealt with the increasingly treacherous politics of the Assembly.

And then…

A memory flashed through his mind, a sword of darkness lined in purple fire, a serene mask of crimson steel, a woman screaming his name…

Kylon saw that the hakim across the table had flinched away, the hakim’s guards resting their hands upon their sword hilts. His emotions had been showing again, and Kylon rebuked himself and brought his face back to calm.

He felt the fear of the men through his arcane senses, but the fear faded as Kylon calmed himself down.

“Forgive me, honored hakim,” said Kylon. The words felt odd on his tongue. His Istarish was rough. He had thought its similarity with Anshani would make it easier to learn, but it was just different enough to confuse him. “I have been cheated often in the past, and I find it prudent to count the money.”

“Very wise, Exile,” said the hakim. “Though the Padishah’s magistrates are the most honest of men.”

It was hard not to laugh at that, but Kylon managed it.

The money was all there. Not that he needed it personally. He needed very little, and in truth all he wanted to do was to drink himself into oblivion, and that did not cost very much. But the money would prove a useful tool in his task.

“Thank you,” said Kylon, rising and offering a bow to the hakim.

“Very good,” said the hakim. “Your next bout will be in three days. If you win that one, the Wazir of Games will likely have you fight in the Ring of Thorns itself. The purses there are much larger. If you continue to win victories, perhaps you shall even fight in the Arena of Padishahs itself.”

That was a good thought. The Arena of Padishahs might give Kylon access to the men he wanted to kill.

He took the leather bag and walked from the hakim’s chamber without another word, making his way through the training room and into the gladiators’ barracks. He had pulled on a shirt and a pair of loose trousers after his match, the thin cloth sticking to the sweat upon his chest and back. The corridors were deserted now, the gritty floor rasping beneath Kylon’s sandals. The emotions from the crowds above, bloodlust and excitement and impatience, washed over his sorcerous senses, and he forced the sensations from his mind.

He reached his room, unlocked it, and opened the door. Kylon did not live here, but stored his equipment here while fighting in the Ring. The room had a cot, a table, and a wooden stool. A high, barred window let in a few narrow rays of sunlight, and…

Kylon yanked his broadsword from its sheath.

A man sat upon the stool. Kylon had closed off his arcane senses, and so had not sensed the man’s presence. The intruder looked like a Nighmarian merchant, clad in a dark robe over trousers and boots, a cap with a silver badge upon his head. His red hair had been pulled into a tail, and a beard shaded the sharp lines of his jaws and cheeks. Dark circles ringed his cold blue eyes, and the man showed absolutely no sign of alarm as Kylon pointed his sword.

“You’re from that moneylender in the Anshani Quarter, aren’t you?” said Kylon. “I told him that I wasn’t going to throw any of the duels.” The moneylender had disagreed, and sent thugs to break Kylon’s legs. He had killed two of them and wounded the rest, and the moneylender had left him alone after that. “Did he fail to learn his lesson the first time?”

“Kylon.” It was a woman’s voice, soft and cold. “It’s been a long time.”

Kylon looked around for the woman, and realized that the voice had come from the man.

He looked at the robed figure, and suddenly a flicker of recognition went through him. Those cold eyes were familiar. He reached for his power of water sorcery and opened his arcane senses. The emotional sense of the man felt like ice wrapped around a core of molten hatred, the ice shot through with weariness and pain.

He remembered that emotional sense, and he remembered those eyes.

His sword’s tip lowered.

“Caina?” he said at last, his voice hoarse with surprise.

Caina Amalas, the Balarigar, the woman who had disguised herself as Anna Callenius and Rania Scorneus and Sonya Tornesti, smiled at him, and he suddenly saw her beneath the makeup and the male clothing. “Yes. I think we should talk.”

He blinked several times, stunned by her sudden appearance. “You dyed your hair again.”

“This?” She removed the cap, and then tugged off a red wig. Beneath the wig her black hair had been cut to stubble. It made her eyes seem larger, almost eerie. “Just a disguise. You have seen the decrees scattered around Istarinmul? Two million bezants for the head of the Balarigar?” He managed to nod. “You see why I take precautions.”

“I saw those decrees,” said Kylon. He sat upon the cot, the cheap wooden frame creaking beneath his weight. “I thought it might have been you. I knew the Emperor banished you to Istarinmul. But I was sure that you were dead by now.”

“Why?” said Caina.

“You challenged powerful foes,” said Kylon. “And…I thought you might have wanted to die, that you had driven yourself to your death.”

“Why?” said Caina again, her voice softer this time.

Did she know? Did she know how badly he had failed his House and his people?

“Because you looked like you wanted to die when you left New Kyre, after the Moroaica was defeated,” said Kylon. “You felt like you wanted to die.” He remembered the cold despair that had saturated her emotional sense as the Emperor banished her to Istarinmul at Lord Corbould’s urging. He still felt a hint of that despair within her, but it had hardened, adding another layer to the icy determination that filled her. “I…understand that a little better now. But I suppose you know that already.”

“I don’t,” said Caina. “I didn’t even know you were Istarinmul until ten minutes ago when I saw you take off your helmet.”

“You didn’t?” said Kylon. “You usually know everything.”

A smile flickered over her lips. “Not everything. I’ve been busy. Kylon…what are you doing here? What happened to you?”

###

Caina watched Kylon, noting the way the muscles in his jaw twitched.

It had been a year and a half since she had seen him, but he looked as if he had aged five years in that time. He had always been solemn, but now that solemnity had hardened into grimness. In fact, he had last been like this in Calvarium, when he had come to save Thalastre from the dark power of a Dustblade…

A burst of intuition came to her.

“Oh, Kylon,” said Caina. “It’s Thalastre, isn’t it?” He nodded, staring at the floor. “Oh, gods. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Before she could stop the impulse she reached out and squeezed his left hand. He looked at her in surprise, his face full of regret and pain, emotions that she knew all too well. For a moment they stared at each other, his fingers hard and callused beneath hers.

“Thank you,” he said at last, sliding his hand free. “It…those are usually hollow words. But you, I suppose, understand better than anyone what it is like to…to...”

“How did she die?” said Caina.

“Nagataaru,” said Kylon.

Caina went motionless.

He blinked. “You…know the word, don’t you?”

“I do,” said Caina.

“You’ve encountered the nagataaru, then?”

“Yes,” said Caina. “I think you should tell me what happened.”

“Soon after you left New Kyre,” said Kylon, “the Surge summoned me. She said that the Moroaica’s rift had left cracks in the walls between the worlds, that malevolent spirits called the nagataaru could make their way into our world from the netherworld. She gave me the ability to sense the presence of both the nagataaru and the cracks.”

“Wait,” said Caina. “You can sense nagataaru?” Part of her felt sympathy for his loss and pain. The colder part of her mind noted that such an ability would be useful. The Red Huntress would never have surprised Caina if Kylon had been with her.

“I can now,” said Kylon. “The wall between the worlds is weakest in New Kyre, thanks to the Moroaica’s spell. Nagataaru feed on pain and death, and I started hunting them down.” He took a deep breath. “And then the embassies came.”

“Embassies?” said Caina.

“By then the war between the Empire and the Umbarian Order was in full force,” said Kylon. “The Assembly decided to stay neutral, though several of the Archons and High Seats wanted to attack the Empire while it was weakened. Then two embassies arrived. One from the Umbarian Order, headed by an Umbarian magus named Cassander Nilas…you know him?”

Hate flickered over his face at the mention of Cassander.

“All too well,” said Caina. “Go on.”

“The other was an embassy from the College of Alchemists of Istarinmul, led by a Master Alchemist named Malik Rolukhan.”

“I know the name,” said Caina. “He’s the Lieutenant of the Inferno.”

“The Inferno?” said Kylon. “I don’t know the name.”

“It’s an armory in the mountains of the Vale of Fallen Stars,” said Caina. “A fortress, a prison, a stronghold. It’s where the College of Alchemists take men and transform them into Immortals. The Istarish poets like to say that it is a hell of iron where men are torn apart and remade into monsters.” Considering the cruelty of the Immortals, the description was not wrong. Malik Rolukhan’s reputation was just as fearsome.

Caina strongly suspected that he was one of Callatas’s disciples.

“Cassander and Rolukhan proposed an alliance between the Umbarian Order, Istarinmul, and New Kyre,” said Kylon. “He said that one solid blow could shatter the Empire forever, and we could divide its provinces amongst ourselves. I opposed them both.”

“Because of what happened in Marsis,” said Caina. “Because Andromache and Rezir Shahan made promises like that before.”

“Exactly,” said Kylon. “And because Malik Rolukhan was possessed by a nagataaru.”

Caina nodded. “Go on.”

“I refused to countenance their offer,” said Kylon. “Cassander and the magi of the Umbarian Order reminded me of the Moroaica and her students, and we saw the havoc they wrought. I hoped instead to ally with the Empire against the Umbarians, or at the very least send the Emperor some aid against the Order. I invited some of the most prominent Archons and High Seats to the Tower of Kardamnos to discuss the matter.”

He closed his eyes for a moment.

“What happened then?” said Caina.

“Cassander sent an assassin for us,” said Kylon, his voice soft, dead. “A woman, clad all in red leather, her face concealed beneath a mask of red steel…”

A jolt of dread went through Caina.

“She had a nagataaru within her, didn’t she?” said Caina. “It gave her the ability to move with superhuman speed and strength. Sometimes she wielded a sword wrought of power, a blade of shadows and purple flame that could cut anything asunder.”

He stared at her. “How do you know that?”

“She tried to kill me three months ago,” said Caina.

“No,” said Kylon. “That’s impossible. I slew her over a year ago.”

“Damn it,” said Caina.

“What?” said Kylon.

“I feared that the Voice – that’s what she calls her nagataaru – might have the power to restore her flesh after a mortal wound,” said Caina. “I suspect that she recovered from her injuries in New Kyre and then made her way here to kill me.”

“No,” said Kylon, the muscle twitching in his jaw again. “I slew her. You…” He closed his eyes. “You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” said Caina.

Kylon let out a bitter laugh. “All my other hopes turned to ashes, why not this one as well? That was my one comfort. That at least I had avenged my wife, that I had killed the creature that murdered her. I suppose you worked out what happened. The Red Huntress fell upon us like a storm and killed four Archons, nine High Seats, and thirty other prominent citizens with the right to sit in the Assembly. Neither stormdancers nor stormsingers could stand before her. She…stabbed Thalastre through the belly, you see, before she cut her head off. Because she wanted Thalastre to know that her unborn child had died.”

“Child?” said Caina. “Thalastre was pregnant?”

Kylon nodded.

“Gods,” whispered Caina. She remembered how Kalgri had boasted of killing pregnant women in front of their husbands. Seeing Corvalis die in front of her had been awful enough, but Corvalis’s death had stopped the Moroaica and saved the world. Thalastre and her unborn child had died for nothing, for no reason other than to slake the Red Huntress’s bottomless lust for pain and cruelty. “I’m sorry.”

It was a while before Kylon could speak again.

“I thought I slew her,” said Kylon, “but I suppose I failed at that, too. It didn’t matter, though. Those murdered men and women had been invited to my Tower, under my seal of hospitality, and I was therefore responsible for their deaths. I always had enemies in the Assembly, and they had an excuse to act. The Assembly voted to depose me as an Archon, strip me of my title as High Seat of House Kardamnos, and exile me from New Kyre for the rest of my days.”

Again they lapsed into silence.

“What did you do then?” said Caina.

“I thought about killing myself,” said Kylon, his voice raw, “but…I couldn’t. Not while Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan still lived. I knew they were behind the attack. So I made my way east, across the lands of the free cities and Anshan to Istarinmul. All I had was the clothes on my back…the Huntress destroyed my sword of storm-forged steel during our fight. I made what little money I could as a caravan guard, and then I realized freeborn men could enter gladiatorial contents. Few gladiators could match me, and I started making money. Finally I made my way here.”

“A good way to make money,” said Caina. “With your sorcerous abilities, no one could stand against you.”

Kylon frowned. “I wouldn’t use my powers in the arena. That would be cheating.”

Despite the grim news, Caina laughed.

“What is so amusing about that?” said Kylon.

“It’s not amusing, it’s admirable,” said Caina. “If I were in your position, I would cheat outrageously.” After everything he had endured, his refusal to cheat was…admirable.

“The money meant nothing,” said Kylon. “I came here to kill Malik Rolukhan and Cassander Nilas. Though…I have not worked out a way to do that.”

“Perhaps,” said Caina, “I can help you with that.”

Kylon shrugged. “I would be grateful for your help…but there is no need to involve yourself. My personal vendetta is not your responsibility, nor a concern of the Ghosts, I imagine.”

“Actually,” said Caina, “you may be wrong about that. Tell me what you know about wraithblood.”

A cloud went over his face. “You noticed that, too? It seems to be a sorcerous drug, distributed to the poor of the city, though I cannot imagine why anyone would go to the trouble.”

“Please tell me you haven’t tried any,” said Caina.

“Of course not,” said Kylon. “If I want to forget my failures, I drink myself senseless. Wraithblood addicts eventually seem to get trapped in their worst nightmares.” He shrugged heavily. “I am already living mine.”

“Wraithblood is made from the blood of murdered slaves,” said Caina. “Grand Master Callatas has been making it in secret for the last five or six years, murdering thousands of slaves.”

“Why?” said Kylon. “What could he possibly gain from it?”

“It has something to do with a spell called the Apotheosis,” said Caina. “Callatas apparently has a pact with the nagataaru. Several of his lieutenants are possessed by nagataaru, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he is as well. He rules Istarinmul from behind the scenes, and his every effort has been devoted to finishing this Apotheosis, this grand spell of his.”

“What does it do?” said Kylon.

“I have no idea,” said Caina. “Nothing good, I expect. The few times I’ve heard him talk, he speaks about reforming humanity and creating a new and better world.”

Kylon scowled. “The Umbarians speak many of the same lies.”

“I heard Cassander speak, as well,” said Caina. “The man is extremely dangerous.”

“So now you know why I am here,” said Kylon. "To avenge my murdered wife and child and guests, or die in the attempt."

“Perhaps we can help each other,” said Caina. “We have the same enemies. Rolukhan is one of Callatas’s lieutenants, and Cassander wants us both dead. You want to kill them, and I want to stop the Apotheosis. Our goals overlap.”

Kylon laughed. “After everything, I am to become a Ghost?”

“You don’t have to be a Ghost,” said Caina. “I have numerous allies here who are not.” Ibrahaim Nasser and Laertes, among others.

“You would trust me that far?” said Kylon.

“Yes,” said Caina without hesitation.

“You told me once that you didn’t trust me, but you understood me,” said Kylon.

“That was years ago,” said Caina. “Kylon, we both did our very best to kill each other in Marsis. We stopped Mihaela in Catekharon, and we rescued Thalastre from the Dustblade’s power. We saved the world from Rhames and his Ascendant Bloodcrystal in Caer Magia, and we stopped Sicarion and fought the golden dead together in New Kyre. I know what kind of man you are, and you know what kind of woman I am. After everything we have done together…I think we can trust each other.”

“You might not want my help,” said Kylon. “I failed, you know. I could not save my wife, nor my unborn child, nor the guests under my protection. Perhaps I will fail you, too.”

“I fear that is something else we have shared,” said Caina. “I know…I know what it is like to see someone you love die before your eyes. How it feels when there is nothing you can do to help them. How you spend the years after questioning yourself, lying awake at night, wondering if there was something, anything, you could have done differently.” Her right hand curled into a fist, and she made it relax.

“You understand,” said Kylon. “I failed to save Andromache, and I failed to save Thalastre.”

“Andromache doomed herself,” said Caina. “And you avenged her.”

“Perhaps I can yet avenge Thalastre,” said Kylon. “Very well. I shall work with you.” He shrugged. “And you are better at this sort of thing anyway. I was never a spy. I wasn’t even a very good politician.”

“I would be glad of your help,” said Caina, “and I shall help you however I can.”

“There is one other thing you should know,” said Kylon. “Before I was banished, the Surge saw me one last time. She would say nothing to me, save to tell me that ‘the silver fire was my only salvation’. Do you know what that means?”

Caina shook her head. “No. I will ask my informants…but I’ve never heard the phrase before.” She remembered Horemb, Jadriga’s father, and the prediction he had given her. “A spirit in the netherworld gave me a prophecy of sorts. ‘The star is the key to the crystal’. Do you know it?”

“I fear not,” said Kylon.

“I’ve been asking,” said Caina. “Apparently it is a line from a poem about the fall of Iramis. Callatas was the one who destroyed Iramis. He has a relic, the Star of Iramis, and he used its power to burn the city to ashes a century and a half ago. I think that is the Star in the prophecy. What the rest of it means…I do not know.” She shook her head. “Damned oracles. What good is seeing the future if you cannot act upon it?”

“I do not know,” said Kylon.

Caina nodded and stood, her mind sorting through the possibilities. She was horrified at what Kylon had lost, yet she was very glad he was here. He was a capable warrior, and his ability to sense nagataaru would be invaluable.

“Caina,” said Kylon, his voice quiet.

She looked up at him as he rose.

“I…am glad to see you,” said Kylon. “It may not seem it, but even in Marsis, I respected you as a foe. All the other things that happened after…they only proved that I was not wrong to respect you.” He took a deep breath. “And it is good to see a familiar face. I have not seen a friend since I left New Kyre.”

“A familiar face?” said Caina. She reached down and retrieved her wig and cap, returning them to her head. “Even beneath the makeup?”

He smiled a little at that. “Well, familiar after a little work. And your eyes are hard to forget.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. She touched his right arm. “Let’s go. The sooner we’re away from here, the better.”

“Why?” said Kylon, wrapping a sword belt around his waist. “I don’t have any enemies in the arena.”

“Maybe not, but you came to Istarinmul to kill some powerful men,” said Caina. “Sooner or later the Teskilati will realize that you are here.”

“What are the Teskilati?” said Kylon.

Caina blinked. Kylon was right. He wasn’t a spy. “The Padishah’s secret police and spies. They wiped out Istarinmul’s Ghost circle after Tanzir Shahan made peace with the Emperor. You were a famous man, Kylon, and many people will know you on sight. All it takes is one Teskilati informant recognizing you, and Malik Rolukhan will learn you are here. Cassander Nilas has his own spies in Istarinmul as well.”

“You’ve been here for a year and a half,” said Kylon, tucking a leather money pouch into his belt. “How are you still alive?”

“Disguises,” she sat, patting the fake beard upon her chin. “We’ll find one for you.”

“Ah,” said Kylon. “Do I get a fake beard, too?”

She glanced back at him and grinned. “No need. You can grow your own.”

###

Kylon followed Caina from his room, through the barracks, and into the galleries below the Ring of Cyrica. The minute he opened the door, her mannerisms changed. The reserved, quiet woman vanished, and in her place appeared the pompous factor of an Imperial lord. Though his arcane senses, he felt her emotions flicker as she concentrated upon the disguise. Her skills as an actress never failed to astound him.

“If anyone asks,” murmured Caina. “I have hired you for the personal guard of my employer, Lord Quintus Camwallen of Caeria Ulterior.”

Kylon nodded. If anyone questioned them, he would let her do the talking. She was better at it, and spoke Istarish more fluently than he did.

She led the way into the main training room and came to a sudden halt. The room was large, at least twenty yards by twenty, its floor covered in rough sand. Racks along the walls held wooden training weapons, and light poured from skylights overhead. The air in here always smelled faintly of old sweat.

Six men stood at the far end of the room, clad in chain mail and leather, swords and daggers in their hands. Their eyes were hard and cold, and they fixed upon Kylon with predatory anticipation. Their leader was a huge man, nearly seven feet tall, his face disfigured with scars that pulled his lip into a permanent sneer.

“They’re Kindred assassins,” said Caina, her voice low, her hand disappearing into her robe.

“Indeed they are, master merchant,” said a deep, amused voice. “A most astute observation. A pity it shall be your last.”

A wave of fury went through Kylon. He knew that voice.

A man in a gold-trimmed robe of brilliant white came into sight, keeping behind the assassins. He had a dark face and a close-trimmed black beard turning to gray at the chin and the temples, and a jeweled turban rested upon his head. He looked dignified and solemn, the very image of a wise Master Alchemist. Kylon sensed the man’s emotions, and he felt the seething pride and arrogant contempt boiling within him.

And he also felt the cold, alien power of the nagataaru coiled within his chest.

“That’s him,” said Kylon, his voice flat. “That’s Malik Rolukhan. That’s the man that murdered my wife.”

“The Red Huntress slew Lady Thalastre,” said Rolukhan with a smile. “I merely facilitated it. I confess I was shocked when you appeared in Istarinmul. Surely you would not be so foolish as to come here. But vengeance can drive a man to foolish ends.”

“You will pay for what you have done,” said Kylon. “And I know what you are. You are a puppet of the nagataaru inside your skull.”

Caina said nothing, her eyes darting back and forth between the six Kindred assassins.

“Puppet?” said Rolukhan. “You misunderstand, exile. We are not puppets but partners. The nagataaru understand the true nature of life. The strong rule and the weak submit.”

“The nagataaru also feed on death and torment,” said Kylon.

“That,” said Rolukhan, “is a mere bonus.” His teeth flashed in his beard. “One that I enjoy very much. Ikhardin!”

“Master?” said the leader of the assassins.

“Kill the Kyracian,” said Rolukhan. “Oh, the Imperial merchant as well. I would prefer to leave no witnesses behind.”

The six Kindred assassins started forward, weapons raised.

Chapter 4: Sifting

Cassander Nilas, magus of the Umbarian Order, had seen numerous strange things in his life. He had defeated foes with the power of his sorcery, crushing them in the iron grip of his arcane strength. He had summoned spirits of the netherworld and bound them to his will. His mastery of the dangerous arcane sciences of necromancy and pyromancy had grown ever stronger, his control finer. All of this he had survived only by cultivating iron self-discipline, the willpower to continue in the face of any obstacle.

It look every bit of that self-discipline to keep from killing the fools at his dining table.

After a moment he realized that Ulvan had finally stopped talking.

“Please, Master Slaver,” said Cassander, rebuking himself for the lapse. “Do continue.”

Cassander sat in the audience hall of the Umbarian ambassador’s residence in Istarinmul, a building in the Alqaarin Quarter that had once been an abandoned palace. Istarinmul offered more prestigious locations, but the palace suited Callatas’s purposes. It was small and had thick walls, providing for easy defense. Its cellars went deep and linked to the sewers and the catacombs, offering a convenient way for covert agents to come and go unseen.

And to dispose of corpses and failed experiments.

For a moment he entertained the fantasy of taking the Master Slavers to the cellars, but discarded the idea.

“I fought as fiercely as I could, but the Balarigar had the strength of ten demons!” said Ulvan. The Master Slaver was grossly obese, a thick beard covering his jowls, and wore the ornate robe and the black leather hood of his rank. The beard did not quite conceal the livid scars left where the Balarigar had driven Ulvan’s brand into his face. “He defeated me through treachery, and then flung me over my own balcony and left me to dangle by a chain.” He swept a thick arm at his legs. His ornate robes failed to conceal the crooked angles of his knees, which had never healed right. Though Cassander supposed Ulvan had rarely gone about on his own feet even before the Balarigar had crippled him.

“And so the man escaped,” said Cassander.

He wondered how Ulvan would react if he knew that a woman had destroyed his fortune and crippled him. It would have been entertaining, to say the least.

“Because of Ulvan’s failure,” said a cadaverous Master Slaver named Konyat, “the villainous Balarigar turned his attention to me.” The Balarigar had also turned Konyat’s own brand upon him, marking both of his cheeks, and if the rumors were true, Konyat’s buttocks. Cassander had no desire to confirm that particular rumor for himself. “He slipped into my bedroom through trickery, drugged me, and left me to hang from the ceiling until my cowardly slaves worked up the nerve to free me in the morning.”

“Perhaps you ought to be grateful,” said Cassander, “that they simply didn’t slit your throat, rob your palace, and depart.”

“Not that the Balarigar would have left anything worth stealing,” said another Master Slaver.

“And our slaves revere us,” said Konyat. “They may hate and fear their betters, but they respect us more, for we bring order and purpose to their otherwise meaningless lives.”

The other cowled masters murmured their agreement, and again Cassander’s contempt threaten to boil out of control. What utter fools! They deserved to have the Balarigar rob them. And these were some of the leading men of Istarinmul! Little wonder the Umbarian Order had to bring order to the world, if fools such as these led the nations.

Talking them had been a waste of time. They knew nothing about Caina Amalas that Cassander had not already discovered. He thought again about killing the cowled masters, but dismissed the thought. There was no reason to make an enemy of the Brotherhood, and they might prove useful later.

“My friends,” said Cassander, rising and bowing, “I thank you for your counsel. The Balarigar has enemies among the Umbarian Order as well, and the Provosts have ordered me to hunt down this thief and kill him.” That, at least, was mostly true. “Your counsel shall be of great use to me in the days to come.” That was definitely not true. “Urgent business calls me away, I fear, but I urge you to enjoy the meal.”

The cowled masters rumbled their assent. Cassander turned and spotted one of the servants he had brought from Rasadda. The man hastened over and bowed.

“Bid Maria to join me in the laboratory, and tell her to bring the female slave we discussed,” he said, and the servant scurried away.

Cassander left the dining hall and descended to the cellars. The stairs ended in a massive steel door, sorcerous wards crackling over it. Two silent Adamant Guards stood watch before the door, their armor grafted to their scarred flesh, the power of the spells bound to their limbs shimmering against Cassander’s senses. They bowed at his approach, and Cassander disarmed the wards and stepped into his laboratory.

The room had once been the palace’s wine cellar, but Cassander had put it to better use. Rows of books and scrolls filled shelves upon one wall, and an elaborate double circle, five yards across, had been cut into the floor, ringed with warding glyphs and spells. Steel tables equipped with shackles proved useful for his research into necromancy, and a long table held various instruments of brass and silver. Enspelled glass globes upon iron stands provided ample light.

Maria Nicephorus was waiting for him. She had once been a noble of a Nighmarian family before joining the Magisterium and then the Umbarian Order, and now she served at his command. Like Cassander, she wore the formal garb of the Umbarians – a long coat of dark leather, enspelled to turn aside weapons, gleaming black boots, black trousers, a white shirt, and a golden medallion adorned with the winged skull sigil of the Umbarians. She had long black hair bound in a braid and gray eyes that glittered at his approach. Next to her stood an Istarish slave girl of about eighteen, her eyes downcast, her dark hair hanging loose around her face.

“Lord Cassander,” said Maria with a bow.

“She is ready, as we discussed?” said Cassander, scrutinizing the slave girl. The slave cringed away from his gaze.

“Yes, lord,” said Maria. “She has been prepared.”

“Good,” said Cassander. He pointed at the slave. “Remain silent and do not speak or move until I command it.”

The girl offered a timid nod.

“I am ready,” said Maria, “to assist with any spells you might…”

He grabbed the front of her coat, pulled her close, and kissed her roughly upon the lips without a trace of gentleness. She froze for an instant, and then responded, pulling herself close against him. A few moments later he had her out of her clothes, and then he took her upon the stone floor, listening to her moan and feeling her writhe beneath him. He was certain that she was not enjoying herself as much as she pretended, but he did not care.

He required a clear mind for what he intended next, and this was one of the best ways to clear his mind. The fact that he enjoyed it a great deal was almost irrelevant.

After he finished, Cassander rose to his feet and retrieved his clothes, while Maria gathered up her scattered garments. The slave girl stood motionless and rigid, fear and embarrassment warring across her face.

Cassander pointed at her. “Stand in the center of the circle. Now.” She moved to obey, walking into the center of the double circle. “Maria.” She looked at him, clad in only her shirt and trousers. “The circle.”

“We begin, my lord?” said Maria.

“We begin,” said Cassander. “Tonight we work the death of the Balarigar.”

Maria nodded and cast a spell, the symbols within the circle flaring with blue light. The circle itself pulsed and throbbed with the same glow, almost seeming to shimmer in a cylinder of blue light around the slave girl. The terrified girl looked back and forth, her dark eyes wide.

“Masters,” she said, her voice quavering, “I am…I am an obedient slave, I will do whatever you wish of me, but please, please don’t hurt me, please…”

Cassander smiled at her. “Fear not, child. I promise you this shall not hurt.”

She offered a tremulous smile, and Cassander raised his right arm. He wore a gauntlet of black steel over his hand, a crimson bloodcrystal glowing upon its back. Cassander had fashioned it himself, and it allowed him to wield pyromantic forces without destroying his sanity in the process. He would not need it quite yet, but soon.

Cassander closed his hand, the metal fingers of the gauntlet clanking as he cast a spell.

Invisible force closed around the girl, snapping her neck and killing her in an instant. Cassander supposed it hadn’t been painless, but it had been close enough. She collapsed in a heap to the ground, her glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“My lord?” said Maria, pushing some loose strands of hair from her face.

“Consider how far we have come,” said Cassander. “In the Empire, slavery was illegal, the sciences of necromancy and pyromancy forbidden. Now we can conduct our researches with a free hand, unencumbered by archaic systems of morality. Consider how much we have learned, even in a year and a half. Consider how far we shall advance our science, to what heights we shall lift mankind.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Maria.

Cassander felt his smile widen. “And all it shall take to defeat the Empire and advance the cause of the Order is the death of one ragged little Ghost nightfighter.”

The High Provost had sent him to secure Istarinmul’s alliance against the Emperor. The Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon and the Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku might rule Istarinmul in name, but Grand Master Callatas ruled it in truth. Caina Amalas had been a tremendous thorn in Callatas’s side, and the Grand Master wanted her dead. He wanted her dead so badly, in fact, that if Cassander slew her, Callatas would side with the Order against the Empire. He would open the Starfall Straits to the Order’s fleet, and they could sail through the Straits and strike at Malarae. The Empire would fall to the Umbarian Order within a year.

And all Cassander had to do was kill Caina Amalas.

He was under no illusions that it would be easy. The woman had proven herself to be damnably clever, and had thwarted the Imperial Magisterium on multiple occasions. For that matter, she had operated in Istarinmul for a year and a half, and neither the Teskilati nor any bounty hunters had been able to catch her. Even more impressive, Callatas had sent the Red Huntress after her, and somehow Caina had slain the dangerous assassin. The Red Huntress had slaughtered half the high magistrates of New Kyre in one night, yet Caina had managed to kill her.

This was not a woman to underestimate.

Which was why Cassander was not going to kill her himself.

He took several deep breaths, clearing his mind and focusing his will. When his mind was prepared, he began casting the spell, gesturing with his armored right hand. Fire blazed to life around his fingers, and the light in the circle turned from blue to a harsh yellow-orange, the color of a flame devouring a house. The air within the circle shimmered as the walls between the mortal world and the netherworld, the realm of spirits, thinned inside its boundary. Cassander’s will reached into the netherworld, and he called out.

Something answered his summons.

The dead slave girl twitched, her limbs jerking as if upon invisible strings. Her head rolled back, her mouth yawning open, and hellish crimson flames filled her mouth and her eyes. The jerking stopped, and the girl’s head rotated back and forth.

She climbed to her feet in one smooth motion, her burning eyes fixed upon Cassander.

“Sorcerer,” she said. The voice was far deeper than any human voice, and hissed and snarled like a roaring fire. “You dare to summon me once more?”

“Sifter,” said Cassander. “Such a pleasure to meet you again.”

Maria looked back and forth between them, her gray eyes wide.

And frightened.

As well she should be, if she recognized the powerful spirit within the circle.

Cassander had joined the Umbarian Order in secret soon after becoming a novice of the Magisterium, eager to expand his powers beyond the Magisterium's strictures. Chief among those forbidden abilities had been the summoning and binding of elemental spirits, knowledge that the Magisterium claimed had been lost after the destruction of Caer Magia, but had been secretly preserved by the Umbarian Order. After becoming a full brother the Magisterium, Cassander had expanded his abilities further, traveling to Istarinmul to research the lore of lost Iramis.

And there he had learned about the ifriti, the raging elementals of fire, and he had summoned the Sifter.

The djinn had an organized kingdom in the netherworld, albeit one organized along principles incomprehensible to mortal minds. The ifriti were wild loners, waging war against each other and all other spirits. Some kingdoms of spirits pursued their own goals and purposes, locked in war against each other for uncounted millennia. The ifriti simply cared for destruction, and wanted to destroy as much as possible.

And the Sifter was an exceedingly powerful ifrit. Twice before Cassander had summoned the spirit, sending it against his rivals within the Magisterium. Twice before the Sifter had disposed of his enemies.

Now the Sifter would do it a third time.

“I have,” said Cassander. “a task for you.”

He felt the Sifter’s fury pressing against his will. “You dare to command me?”

“You shall kill for me,” said Cassander. “You shall devour my enemy for me.”

Against the spirit’s wrath washed against him, but Cassander’s will stood fast, buttressed by the power of the summoning circle upon the floor. Sweat broke out on Cassander’s forehead, and for a moment he was not sure he could contain the furious spirit.

Then the dead slave girl shuddered, and the crimson fires in her eyes brightened.

“Who shall die?” said the Sifter. “Who shall I burn?”

“You will find and kill Caina Amalas,” said Cassander. “The daughter of Sebastian Amalas and Laeria Scorneus. She is a nightfighter of the Ghosts. Find her and kill her.”

He expected the Sifter to accept, eager for the kill, or to refuse and fight him.

Instead the spirit hesitated.

“The demonslayer,” rasped the ifrit.

“You…know of her?” said Cassander, surprised.

“The demonslayer,” said the Sifter. “Her name resonates in the shadows of the netherworld. She is the one foretold. The shadow of fate lies upon her.” The dead girl tilted her head to the side, and Cassander had the distinct impression that the ifrit was alarmed.

“Explain yourself,” said Cassander.

“The line of her destiny is wrapped in shadow,” said the Sifter. “Her line intersects with many other destiny lines. Do you not understand, mortal sorcerer? Time is not a river. It is a continuum, a tapestry, woven of many interlocking threads, complex beyond your ability to comprehend. The destiny line of the demonslayer crosses many others.” The Sifter’s mouth twisted in a burning smile. “Her destiny line crosses yours as well, sorcerer.”

Cassander did not like the sound of that. “That is why I am telling you to burn it.”

“You wish the demonslayer slain?” said the Sifter.

“She is my enemy,” said Cassander. “She stands in the way of my goals. Destroy her, and my victory is assured.” He smiled at the possessed corpse. “You wish to see destruction, spirit? Slay Caina Amalas, and you will see destruction beyond anything this age of man has witnessed. Slay her, and the Empire of Nighmar shall burn. For ten thousand years it has stood, the oldest realm among the nations of men. Slay Caina Amalas, and the Empire shall shatter into ruin and never rise again.”

But a new Empire would rise from the wreckage, an Empire ruled by the Umbarian Order, an Empire based upon the power of the arcane sciences. An Empire far stronger than the old, an Empire that would bring the barbarians of Anshan and Istarinmul and New Kyre to heel.

The Umbarian Order would rule over the new Empire as gods forever.

The Sifter wheezed out a crackling, booming laugh, like an ancient tree cracking in an inferno.

“The demonslayer’s line of destiny crosses many others,” said the Sifter, “and if her path is cut short, than countless other threads shall perish.” The dead girl’s hideous smile widened. “Millions of threads shall burn, and the tapestry of this world itself shall crumble to lifeless ash.”

“Then go forth,” commanded Cassander, “and slay. I bind you to do this, spirit, by my power and my will. But would you not kill of your own will if you were free to do so?”

The Sifter threw back its head and roared, and as it did the dead girl’s body burst into howling flames. The interior of the circle transformed into a crimson cylinder of shrieking fire. Had the summoning circle not been ringed in binding and warding spells, Cassander suspected the heat from the fire would have burned the skin from his flesh and turned his bones to charcoal. Even so, the warding sigils flared brighter, straining against the Sifter’s wrath, and for a moment Cassander feared that the ifrit’s power would rip through the warding spells.

But the fire faded away, leaving only a pile of glowing embers within the circle.

“What,” said Maria, a hint of fear in her voice, “what happened?” Cassander looked at her, and noted with pleasure how she flinched at his gaze.

“Tell me,” said Cassander. “Why is the spirit called the Sifter?”

Maria shrugged. “I fear I do not know, my lord.”

Within the circle the embers stirred, pulsing brighter.

“Because the Sifter’s preferred method of killing,” said Cassander, “is to force its way into a host’s body, overwhelm the host’s will, and burn its victim to embers. It then sifts through the ashes, and gains the dead host’s memories and knowledge…along with the ability to take the victim’s shape and guise. Behold.”

He clapped his hands, the gauntlet ringing, and the glow of the circle vanished. The embers erupted from the floor, shaping themselves into a human form, and suddenly the dead slave girl appeared. She looked healthy and unharmed, her eyes returned to black.

Cassander knew better.

“Go forth and slay,” said Cassander. “A century of my Adamant Guards await you outside this palace. They will obey you.”

The Sifter grinned, and crimson fire flashed in the black eyes.

The dead girl strode from the cellar without another word.

###

The Sifter stepped into the sunlight and looked around.

It did not use its host’s eyes of flesh. The mortal inhabitants of this world used light to observe the world around them, though there were many other forms of energy they could not perceive. The Sifter did not rely upon anything so crude as material organs of sense to make its way through the city of Istarinmul, the troop of spell-mutated Adamant Guards following.

It could see…totality. The lines of destiny. The balances of probability.

All of which could burn.

It saw the Adamant Guards following behind, saw the potent spells binding their flesh and reinforcing their bodies, grafting plates of armor to their flesh. It saw the lines of destiny they wrote into the totality of the mortal world, the threads they wove into the tapestry of time, their pasts crystallized, their futures uncertain.

Though less uncertain with every passing moment as the Sifter contemplating killing them.

Cassander’s binding burned through the elemental spirit, and the Sifter felt its stolen face twist in rage. The Sifter wanted to burn all of Istarinmul to ashes, but it could not. Cassander’s spell compelled it, and it could not do as it wished. Someday, the Sifter would take revenge upon Cassander Nilas.

Not today, though.

For Cassander had given it a worthy task.

To burn the demonslayer.

So many other threads crossed the line of her destiny. If the Sifter slew her…countless others would die. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Perhaps even millions.

Perhaps even this entire world.

The Sifter had devoured countless mortals, their screams fueling its fires…but it had never killed an entire world before.

There was a first time for everything.

The Sifter strode through the streets of Istarinmul in its stolen body, seeking the destiny line of Caina Amalas.

Chapter 5: Kindred

Ikhardin stepped forward, and Caina felt a familiar sensation.

The big assassin had a spell upon him. No, not a spell, an enspelled item. Caina sensed the familiar cold aura of necromantic sorcery upon him. In a flash she realized that he had a torque with a bloodcrystal around his right arm. The Kindred Elder of Cyrioch had carried such an item, and it had granted him inhuman speed and strength while healing his wounds.

“Kylon,” said Caina in a low voice, stepping closer to him. “Ikhardin. He has a bloodcrystal.”

He gave a sharp nod. “I can sense it.”

Rolukhan turned and strode down the corridor at the far end of the training room, his boots clicking against the floor. The arrogance of it stunned Caina. If the Master Alchemist had thrown his powers into the fray, it would have ended the fight quickly.

Of course, with six Kindred assassins, Rolukhan’s withdrawal was not so much arrogance as simple confidence.

An idea came to Caina.

“Kyracian,” she hissed. “Speak Kyracian. They might not know it.”

“Go,” murmured Kylon in the same language as the Kindred approached, spreading out in a semicircle. “There’s an entrance to the sewers behind the barracks. Run, and you can…”

“No,” said Caina, reaching into an interior pocket of her robe.

“I can’t take them all,” said Kylon. “They’re here for me. There is no need for you to die too.”

“Actually, I would prefer if neither of us died,” said Caina, her fingers closing around something cold and hard in her pocket. He had asked if she trusted him. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” said Kylon.

“Then close your eyes when I tell you,” said Caina.

The Kindred drew closer, and Ikhardin’s scarred face twisted into an ugly smile.

“Exile,” rumbled the towering assassin in Istarish. “I have seen you fight upon the sands. You are a skilled fighter…but let us see if you can face a killer. Let us see if you are one of the sheep or one of the wolves.”

“Come and find out,” said Kylon in Istarish, his voice quiet.

###

Morgant ducked into the empty gladiator’s cell, wrapping his black coat tight to conceal the white cloth of his shirt. Had he known he would be skulking around the shadows today, he would have chosen more appropriate garb.

Still, he had spent a lifetime improvising his way out of dangerous situations.

A moment later Malik Rolukhan strode past the cell, his gleaming white robes flowing around him like a splash of white paint upon a dark canvas. The Master Alchemist and the Lieutenant of the Inferno looked neither right nor left and failed to notice Morgant. Morgant counted to thirty, took a deep breath, and peeked out of the cell just in time to see the Master Alchemist disappear up the stairs back to the Ring.

Wasn’t that interesting?

He knew of Malik Rolukhan. Thanks to Rolukhan’s mastery of Elixir Rejuvenata, he was almost as old as Morgant. He was also the Lieutenant of the Inferno, the hellish fortress were men were transformed into Immortals, and the man who commanded the Inferno had a brutal ruthlessness that made the other Master Alchemists look like timid children. At first Morgant had assumed the Kindred and Rolukhan had come to kill the Balarigar. Rolukhan was one of Callatas’s supporters, and the bounty of two million bezants upon Caina’s head would tempt even a Master Alchemist. Yet it seemed that the Kindred were here for the Kyracian gladiator. Morgant could not fathom why. The man was a skilled fighter, but no one would send six Kindred assassins to kill a gladiator.

Nor was he sure why the gladiator was important to the Balarigar. Morgant’s first thought was that the Kyracian was her lover or former lover. Certainly that explained why she had run off the minute the Exile had removed his helmet, yet that did not seem quite right.

Then the Kindred had arrived.

Morgant stood in the shadows of the doorway, wrapped in his black coat, watching the assassins. Neither the Kindred nor the Balarigar nor the Exile had noticed him. If Morgant struck before Ikhardin and his followers noticed him, he could take two or three of them before…

No.

The Knight of Wind and Air might think that Caina Amalas was the one that he had sought since the fall of Iramis, but Morgant was not convinced. He was not sure that a woman in her early twenties could help him keep his word to Annarah.

He did not think Caina could bear the burden of the knowledge he could give her.

So he would see if she was worthy or not. The Kindred would make an excellent test. And if the assassins killed her and her Kyracian friend, well…the Knight of Wind and Air had been wrong before.

Morgant waited, watching the assassins draw closer, and Caina dipped a hand into her robe.

###

Kylon pointed his sword at the assassins and drew upon his power.

He was not a powerful sorcerer, not the way that Andromache had been. She had been able to command the winds and call the lightning, burning her enemies alive or trapping them in caskets of killing ice. Kylon did not desire that kind of power. He had seen the end it had brought to Andromache. Instead, his sorcery let him draw on the elemental power of wind and storm, granting him the speed of the storm and the strength of the tide. Once he had been able to wreathe his blade with killing frost, so cold that a touch of his sword turned the blood of his foes to ice. Only a blade forged of storm-wrought steel could withstand the stress of such cold, and Kylon’s sword of storm-forged steel had been shattered when he fought the Red Huntress in the Tower of Kardamnos.

The broadsword in his hand was of good quality, but if he tried to wrap it in frost it would shatter like glass.

He used the power instead to augment his speed and strength, preparing to strike. The leftmost assassin, he thought. Kylon would cut him down and then strike the next man. He could take down two or three of them before Ikhardin and the others killed him, and Caina could use the opportunity to escape. Kylon had failed Andromache, had failed Thalastre, had failed his homeland and his people. He deserved to die for his mistakes.

Caina didn’t, though.

As ever, she looked calm and collected, her emotions cold and focused against his arcane senses. It was odd. If he was about to die, he was glad he had seen her at least one more time. He had always admired her bravery and cunning…

She withdrew something that looked like a small clay sphere from a pocket.

“Close your eyes,” she said in Kyracian.

He realized she was about to do something clever, and as she drew back her arm to throw, he closed her eyes.

And as he did Kylon realized that he did indeed trust her, trusted her enough to close his eyes in the middle of a fight.

The clay sphere shattered against the sandy floor, and even through his closed eyelids, Kylon felt the glare of sudden brilliant light. The Kindred bellowed in dismay.

“Strike!” shouted Caina. “Now!”

Kylon opened his eyes and shot forward, all his strength and his power driving him.

###

Caina had found the supplies for creating the sphere in the Sanctuary. She supposed it was technically a smoke bomb, but she had altered the formula to generate more flash than smoke. Given how many people wanted to kill her, she went armed with as many weapons and tools as she could carry, even while disguised.

She had never regretted it.

Caina opened her eyes and saw a plume of black smoke rising from the shattered clay sphere. The Kindred assassins had come to a halt, trying to clear the afterimage of the dazzling flash from their eyes. She shouted for Kylon to strike…

…but he was already in motion.

He had suffered much, lost much, but Kylon Shipbreaker was still one of the deadliest fighters she had ever seen.

Caina felt a surge of arcane power, and Kylon leapt across the training room, his broadsword a blur of steel. An instant later the Kindred assassin on the left collapsed, blood spraying from his slashed throat. Kylon wheeled and stabbed, his arm driving the blade with the force of a tidal wave. The sword bisected a second assassin’s chest, and Kylon ripped the blade free, turning to face the others.

Ikhardin hurtled forward in a terrifying blur, his speed augmented by the surge of necromantic power flaring around him.

“Kill him, brothers!” thundered the huge assassin. “Kill him!”

Ikhardin and the surviving three assassins turned towards Kylon, focusing upon him as the main threat. Kylon’s sword blurred back and forth, parrying and blocking the blows of the Kindred, but Ikhardin could match his speed, and every one of the Kindred assassins were skilled fighters.

Yet for the moment, they had forgotten Caina. She could not match any one of them in a straight fight, but as both her teachers at the Vineyard and brutal experience had taught her, to fight fair was to lose.

She rolled her wrist, drawing a throwing knife from the hidden sheath up her sleeve, and grasped the weapon by the blade. Caina stepped forward, her arm shooting forward and her body snapping like a bowstring. The nearest assassin wore chain mail and armored gauntlets, but there was a gap between his steel-plated boot and the edge of his hauberk. Caina had a lot of practice with throwing knives, and the spinning blade buried itself in the back of his knee. The assassin stumbled with a bellow, his knee collapsing, and Caina sprang forward, snatching one of the daggers hidden in her boot. She buried the blade in the assassin’s neck, blood bursting across her fingers. The assassin took a wobbly swing at her, but Caina dodged with ease, and the Kindred collapsed to the floor.

One of the assassins turned towards her, while the final assassin and Ikhardin continued driving Kylon back. Caina retreated, and the Kindred prowled after her, scimitar leading, dagger drawn back. She adjusted the throwing knife in her right hand, but the assassin’s eyes flicked to the blade. Caina’s left hand dipped into her robe, drawing out another sphere, and she flung it to the sand.

The assassin looked away, shielding his eyes.

But the sphere had been a fake, and Caina was already moving. She flung the throwing knife before the assassin recovered from the ruse, and the blade landed in his throat. He stumbled with a gagging scream, and Caina yanked another dagger from her belt and struck, widening the wound in his neck. The assassin stabbed at her, but Caina deflected the thrust with a sweep of her arm. The Kindred fell to his knees, and Caina sidestepped and drove her boot into the small of his back.

The assassin landed upon his face and stopped moving.

She turned to help Kylon with the final Kindred, and saw that the stormdancer had already dispatched the assassin. Now he dueled Ikhardin, the two men spinning around each other as they fought, their blades ringing and chiming. A gash crossed Ikhardin’s forehead, and she saw Kylon bleeding from minor wounds upon his right arm. Yet Ikhardin’s wound was shrinking, healing as the bloodcrystal upon his torque closed the gash. Kylon’s own stamina and strength might fail long before he could strike down Ikhardin.

Unless Caina helped him first.

Both men were focused upon each other, so Ikhardin did not notice Caina’s presence until she sent a throwing knife spinning at him. The blade landed in his shoulder, and Ikhardin stumbled with a grunt. Kylon seized the opening and swung, and the Kindred assassin jerked back, the thrust aimed for his throat drawing a line of blood across his jaw. Caina flung another knife, and Ikhardin whirled, his scimitar snapping to send the blade spinning away.

Another leap carried him a dozen yards back. Ikhardin looked back and forth between Kylon and Caina.

“This is not over,” spat the assassin in Istarish.

Then he spun and fled, vanishing down the corridor with inhuman speed.

Caina let out a long breath and looked at the corpses scattered across the floor.

###

Morgant watched the surviving Kindred assassin flee.

That surprised him. The Kindred assassins were fools, but they were fools quite skilled at killing, and he had expected them to make short work of the Balarigar and her Kyracian friend. Especially since he knew Ikhardin. The man had rank among Istarinmul’s Kindred family, either a Gatewarden or one of the Masters of the Blades, and therefore had possession of a torque with a bloodcrystal that could augment his prowess and heal his wounds.

Yet the Balarigar and her ally had defeated them.

Of course, it helped immensely that her ally had been a stormdancer. Morgant distrusted sorcerers, as did any sensible man, but the stormdancers of New Kyre deserved a modicum of respect. He had seen them fight, had seen them carve through the ranks of enemy soldiers like a farmer harvesting wheat. Though why the devil was a Kyracian stormdancer fighting in the Ring of Cyrica? If the Kyracian was here as a spy, it was a particularly wretched disguise.

For that matter, why did a Master Alchemist and the Lieutenant of the Inferno want to kill a Kyracian stormdancer?

Morgant had no idea.

He did know that stormdancers often had the ability to sense the emotions of those around them, so he took a moment to still his mind, calming himself. He wanted to observe the Balarigar and her Kyracian friend for a little while longer before he made up his mind.

###

Kylon let out a long breath, wiping the blood from the blade of his sword.

“You’re hurt,” said Caina.

“Eh?” said Kylon, blinking. He looked at his arm and felt the pain from the wounds. “Not seriously.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. “They would have killed me if they had caught me alone.” She walked from corpse to corpse, retrieving her throwing knives from the dead men.

“They wouldn’t have done anything to you,” said Kylon. “They were here to kill me.”

She paused, then retrieved her last blade. “Rolukhan.”

Kylon shook his head. “I cannot believe Rolukhan found me so fast. I have not been in Istarinmul for very long.”

“That’s enough,” said Caina. “All it takes is one Teskilati informant. And Kylon Shipbreaker was a famous man. Thousands of soldiers and sailors saw your face.”

Kylon felt his hand tighten against his sword hilt. “Malik Rolukhan is outside. Probably alone. If I catch him now…”

“No, don’t,” said Caina, a flicker of alarm going through her emotional sense. “Don’t. He won’t be alone. Master Alchemists rarely go anywhere without a bodyguard of Immortals. And he’ll have his own sorcerous powers, to say nothing of the powers his nagataaru will give him.”

Kylon said nothing.

“Kylon,” said Caina. “I know what you’re thinking. I know you want to avenge Thalastre. Believe me, I understand.”

“Do you?” said Kylon, harsher than he intended.

She met his gaze without blinking. “I do.”

He remembered Corvalis Aberon and felt a flicker of shame.

“I will help you make Rolukhan pay for what he has done, I promise,” said Caina. “But I don’t want you to get killed doing it.” She took a deep breath. “I…I tried to do that to myself, when I first came to Istarinmul. I took greater and greater risks, and part of me hoped that I would get killed. Sometimes I still think that way. But Corvalis wouldn’t have wanted me to die. Forgive me if this is impudent, but I don’t think Thalastre would have wanted that for you either.”

“No,” said Kylon, looking away. “No, she wouldn’t have.” He looked at the dead men and shook his head. “We have to get out of here.”

“Aye,” said Caina. “I imagine corpses turning up unexpectedly would inspire questions even in the Ring of Cyrica.”

“They would,” said Kylon.

“Likely Ikhardin has fled back to Rolukhan,” said Caina. “They will soon return with reinforcements. The sooner we are gone from here, the better.” She looked at him. “Is there another way out of here?”

“Aye,” said Kylon. “The delivery ramp. When wild beasts are sent to the games, the Wazir of Games doesn’t wish to herd them through the aisles. Eaten guests are bad for business. They’re brought to the ramp and taken into the galleries directly.”

“Good,” said Caina. “Let’s go.”

He nodded and headed into the corridors. Memories flickered through his mind. He remembered Calvarium and Catekharon and Caer Magia, all the places he had listened to Caina and followed her counsel. As a younger man, the man he had been before the battle of Marsis, he would have laughed at the thought of following the lead of a female spy of the Ghosts.

Though Caina was usually right about this sort of thing.

Kylon led her to the delivery ramp. A heavy wooden door bound with a massive iron locked sealed it shut. Caina produced a set of slender tools from the interior of her robe and picked the lock in moments. Kylon pushed open the door a few feet, letting sunlight fall into the gloom of the passage, and they hurried up the ramp and into the street. They emerged near the rows of apartment buildings and small shops that filled this part of the Cyrican Quarter. The street was deserted, but Kylon suspected that would not last long.

“This way,” said Caina, and she led the way into the maze of alleys between the whitewashed walls of the apartment towers. They walked for ten minutes, taking turns at random, and at last emerged onto another street. Kylon saw that they had gone east, deeper into the city, and the houses here looked older and more weathered.

“The Old Quarter,” said Caina. “I doubt we were followed here.”

“Where are we going?” said Kylon.

“I have safe houses scattered throughout the city,” said Caina. “We’ll use one. We can give you a disguise, a new alias. I’m afraid the Exile will have to disappear, though. Rolukhan already knows who you are, and if he is working with Cassander, we might have the Silent Hunters on our tails.”

“Silent Hunters?” said Kylon.

“The Umbarian Order’s assassins,” said Caina. “The Umbarian magi have a method of writing spells onto living flesh, and the Silent Hunters can use those spells to turn invisible.”

“You can sense sorcery,” said Kylon. “I imagine that wouldn’t work on you.”

He saw the brief flash of her smile. “A few of them found that out the hard way.”

“I suspect so,” said Kylon. “I will not object to leaving the Exile behind. I needed the money, but I suppose I have enough of it now.”

“How much did you make?” said Caina.

“About ninety thousand bezants.”

Her eyes got a little wide at that. “Ninety thousand?”

He shrugged. “I…thought I would hire mercenaries, or bribe guards to give me access to Rolukhan’s palace. I…admit I had not thought my way to a plan. I’ve never done this kind of thing before.”

“Fortunately, I have,” said Caina. “Is the money in a safe place?” He nodded. “We’ll disguise you first, and then find somewhere to hide it.”

He nodded, and then stopped.

“What is it?” said Caina.

“I don’t know,” said Kylon. “I sense…I think I sense a spell.” It hovered at the edge of his awareness, some form of sorcery he had not encountered before. It felt necromantic, yet different somehow. “It’s getting closer.”

“Damn it,” said Caina. A knife appeared in her hand, so fast that Kylon barely followed the movement. “We…”

Men came around the corner, armor flashing in the afternoon sunlight.

Kylon had never seen soldiers quite like them. At first he thought they wore cuirasses of overlapping steel plates, with more plates upon their arms and hands. The exposed flesh was written with scars and sigils, and Kylon saw that each man had the sigil of the Umbarian Order, a winged skull, carved into their foreheads. They radiated potent arcane sorcery, spells of strengthening and warding.

The armor plates had been grafted to their skin. Their emotional auras washed over Kylon, and they felt…wrong, as if every trace of compassion and mercy had been cut from their minds, leaving only a cold, relentless void.

Caina’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“What are they?” said Kylon.

“Adamant Guards,” she said. “The elite soldiers of the Umbarian Order. They’re augmented with sorcery, made stronger and faster.” She took a deep breath. “They’re at least as strong as Ikhardin.”

A half-dozen of the Adamant Guards walked towards them, their expressions blank and cold. That was bad. Kylon had not been able to overcome Ikhardin, and he had only been one man. Kylon did not think he could defeat a half-dozen men with Ikhardin’s strength and speed, especially with those metal carapaces grafted to their torsos.

A dozen tactics flitted through his mind, and he discarded each of them.

“We should run,” said Kylon.

Caina nodded, and as they turned to go, a woman appeared behind the Adamant Guards. She was a little under twenty, Istarish with brown skin and black hair. She wore only a ragged gray tunic, her bare feet slapping against the hard-packed earth of the alley.

Her eyes burned with crimson flames.

Chapter 6: Razor

The Sifter contemplated the demonslayer.

It regarded the material world through its stolen form. The demonslayer was a mortal woman, short and lean with hard blue eyes and a variety of weapons concealed in her clothing. She wore the garb of a male human, no doubt employed as a disguise, but material disguises could not fool the Sifter.

Not when it could see her destiny line, the thread she had woven into the tapestry of time.

For her thread was long and thick. Her life had left a profound influence upon the threads around her, thousands of them, millions of them. Entire sections of the tapestry would have been destroyed if not for her, millions upon millions of lives saved.

The Sifter regretted that it had not encountered her earlier. If it had burned her and consumed her life earlier, how many more lives would have burned with her! Still, the Sifter glimpsed the possibilities that lay before her destiny thread, and would content itself with burning her future to ashes.

One of the destiny threads she had saved stood next to her. It was a human male, five or six years her senior, armed only with a steel broadsword. His thread had been profoundly affected by the demonslayer, had been pulled to follow her path more than once. The Sifter noted that the male possessed powers of water and air sorcery. A powerful enough sorcerer could banish the Sifter to the netherworld, but it doubted the male possessed enough strength to accomplish the feat.

Just as well. The male’s thread was intertwined with the demonslayer’s, so it was appropriate they should burn together.

And yet…

As the Sifter considered the demonslayer’s destiny thread, it realized that she had entered the netherworld and returned more than once. That was extremely rare. Furthermore, she had faced enfleshed spirits several times and survived. The marks upon her path were plain to see.

Perhaps caution was required. The Sifter did not fear the demonslayer. It was older than her, older than Istarinmul, older than this world. The demonslayer could not harm it. And yet, the demonslayer was obviously clever. If the Sifter made an error, it would be banished back to the netherworld and it could not consume the demonslayer’s destiny line.

It wanted to devour her very much.

So it took a step past Cassander’s mutated soldiers and waited.

###

Caina hesitated, the throwing knife cold against her fingers, but the strange girl did not move.

Several facts penetrated her brain.

The girl was not breathing. That meant she was undead, bound by a necromantic spell. Or, more likely, she was possessed by some sort of spirit creature. Ricimer’s nagataaru had possessed his corpse after Caina had killed him, and the nagataaru hidden within poor Tarqaz had not manifested until Anburj had killed him.

Second, the girl’s eyes were burning, but Caina had not seen a fire like this before. Samnirdamnus’s eyes burned with smokeless yellow-orange flame, no matter what his guise, and the eyes of those possessed by the nagataaru flickered with shadow and purple fire. Caina had never seen crimson fire quite like this. It looked furious, hungry, though without the malice of the nagataaru.

Caina suspected the dead girl was possessed, but she could not sense the presence of spirits.

Fortunately, she knew someone who could.

“Kylon,” said Caina. “Is that a nagataaru?”

He shook his head, sword ready in his hand. “No. She’s possessed…but not a nagataaru. I’m not sure what kind of spirit. I think…I think it’s a fire elemental.”

“A fire elemental?” said Caina. The djinn were air elementals, which explained why Samnirdamnus sometimes called himself the Knight of Wind and Air. She had never seen a fire elemental before, but she had encountered an earth elemental, a spirit bound within the flesh of a slave girl. The elemental had been able to turn its victims to stone with a single glance.

It wasn’t hard to guess what kind of havoc a fire elemental could wreak.

The girl stared at her, head tilted.

“Who are you?” said Caina.

“I am the Sifter,” said the girl. Her voice was far deeper than a human voice, and seemed to vibrate oddly, adding a strange cadence and rhythm to her words.

“What do you want?” said Caina.

“You, Balarigar,” said the Sifter. “Surrender yourself to me, and I shall kill you quickly. Resist, and I shall slaughter any who stand in my path.” The burning eyes shifted to Kylon. “Starting with him.”

Caina looked around. They were in a narrow courtyard between four apartment buildings. Windows looked down from all four buildings, but one of them was falling into ruin, the whitewash crumbling away to reveal the hard-baked adobe beneath. The building was abandoned, which meant that Caina and Kylon could use it to escape.

She caught his eye and jerked her head at one of the second-story windows in the apartment building. “Remember when you tried to kill me in Marsis?”

Kylon blinked with confusion, and then nodded.

“This conversation is not relevant,” said the Sifter. “Your thread ends here, Balarigar, and your efforts to shift its termination shall have no effect upon the outcome.”

“Prove it,” said Caina, and she sprinted across the courtyard, Kylon racing alongside her. She felt a burst of sorcery, and Kylon shot forward, moving with the speed of the wind.

“Take her!” screamed the Sifter, the spirit’s roaring voice thundering across the courtyard. “Take her and bring her to me!”

Kylon jumped, soaring through the air, and landed in the ruined window, rolling over the sill. Caina sprinted forward and leaped, reaching for the window. She couldn’t possibly jump high enough to reach it, but Kylon reached down and caught her, his outstretched left hand clamping about her right forearm with superhuman strength. He pulled her through the window, and she slammed into him. Kylon stumbled, lost his balance, and landed on his back. Caina landed atop of him, her palms flat on the dusty floor on either side of his head.

For a moment the impact stole the breath from her, and she could not speak.

Kylon pushed her off as he surged to his feet, his sword flickering in his hand. He thrust out the window, and the blade slammed into an Adamant Guard just as the soldier struck the wall. The Order grafted steel to the flesh of their warriors, but they never grafted armor to their necks, likely due to the risk of strangulation. Kylon’s broadsword ripped into the Guard’s throat, and the soldier fell hard to the ground below. He stepped back, raising his bloody blade as Caina rolled to her feet and slammed the shutters closed.

“That won’t stop them for long,” said Kylon.

“The rooftop,” said Caina. “Quick. We’ll go from roof to roof.”

Kylon nodded and ran for the stairs. The apartment tower, like most of the tenements of Istarinmul, had been built around a central stairwell with a skylight overhead. The tower was crumbling into ruin, but the stairwell was still intact. They reached the fourth floor when Caina heard the door smash open, heard the Adamant Guards storm into the building.

Kylon ran faster, and Caina followed.

They reached the ninth floor and scrambled up a ladder onto the rooftop. Caina slammed the heavy trapdoor behind them and barred it. That would not hold the Adamant Guards for long, but it would slow them.

“Where now?” said Kylon.

“Rooftop to rooftop,” said Caina. “Make for the Emirs’ Quarter, and the mansion of the Lord Ambassador of the Empire.”

Kylon was already moving to the northeast. “Why?”

“Claudia Aberon Dorius is there,” said Caina, “and she is skilled at casting banishment spells. Perhaps she can banish the Sifter back to the netherworld.” Caina hated to drag Claudia into this. Claudia was pregnant, and bringing her near the Sifter would put her unborn child at risk.

“I remember,” said Kylon. “Lead on.”

Caina nodded, burst into a sprint, and leaped over the alley to the next apartment building.

They were two buildings away when the trapdoor burst open and the Adamant Guards sprinted in pursuit.

###

The Sifter watched the world around it, observing it through eyes wrought of time and spirit, rather than eyes of mere flesh.

The Adamant Guards were not important. The demonslayer could run, but she could not escape the Sifter. Every destiny line in Istarinmul, every thread in the tapestry, warped towards her, and it was a simple matter to follow them until the Sifter located Caina Amalas.

And then it would devour her.

The Sifter followed the destiny lines, its stolen face smiling at the pleasures ahead.

###

Morgant watched the drama on the rooftops. The afternoon sky was like a sheet of clear blue, but the shapes of the Balarigar and the Kyracian stood out against them like flecks of charcoal upon a white sheet. Not that anyone noticed. No one ever looked up. Escaping over the rooftops was clever.

Unfortunately for Caina and the Kyracian, the Adamant Guards were already in pursuit.

He hadn’t expected her to escape from the Kindred, and he didn’t expect her to escape the ifrit in the dead slave girl. Nonetheless, Caina had escaped from the Kindred and Ikhardin. Perhaps she would yet escape from the ifrit that called itself the Sifter and the Adamant Guards.

He found himself admiring her boldness. Few women kept their heads in danger. Few men, for that matter. Perhaps she was strong enough to survive learning the secrets he carried.

Maybe she was strong enough to deserve his aid, to keep her alive until he decided if she could help him or not.

Morgant followed, keeping to the shadows.

###

Kylon grasped his power, calling the strength of water and the speed of wind to his limbs.

“We can’t jump that,” said Caina, looking at the wide alley between their current building and the next. “Go down. We’ll…”

“We can jump it,” said Kylon. “Keep running!”

She looked at him, her blue eyes wide and a little wild, and then nodded.

They sprinted to the edge of the roof and jumped. Caina’s own leap would have carried her perhaps a third of the way before she plummeted to her death. Kylon caught her around the waist, and his own momentum carried her the rest of way across. He landed hard, his legs flexing to absorb the impact, and Caina landed next to him, arms spinning as she fought to keep her balance. Kylon caught her arm, and she staggered to a halt.

“Good catch,” she said.

“Thanks,” said Kylon. “Go!”

She ran for the trapdoor atop the flat roof, and Kylon followed. Caina kicked open the trapdoor and scrambled down the stairs. A moment later she burst through the door to the street, and Kylon followed her.

She was breathing hard, but not nearly as hard as he might have expected.

“You’ve spent a lot of time running from people trying to kill you, haven’t you?” said Kylon.

Caina grinned over her shoulder at him, grim yet somehow fierce and wild, and kept running. Kylon followed her, watching over his shoulder for the Adamant Guards. Caina did a sudden right turn, darting into a narrow alley, and Kylon ran after her. He had acquired a basic knowledge of Istarinmul’s streets, but Caina’s was obviously far more extensive. Kylon thought they were still in the Old Quarter, but they might have veered back into the Cyrican Quarter. This damned city was a labyrinth of identical alleyways and crumbling tenements. A proper city, like New Kyre, had canals. How did the Istarish get anywhere without canals?

Not that a canal would have helped them get away from the Sifter and the Adamant Guards.

Adamant Guards had accompanied the fire elemental, and the Adamant Guards were creatures of the Umbarian Order. Cassander Nilas must have conjured the Sifter and set it upon Caina’s track. Why would the Umbarians want Caina dead? She was a Ghost, of course, but she must have done something to aggravate Cassander enough to make him take the risk of summoning a fire elemental and unleashing it upon the city. Surely Callatas and the Alchemists would take offense…

Caina skidded to a stop.

“What?” said Kylon. “What is it?”

She looked up. They were in another small courtyard between tenements. Why was she looking up?

Kylon followed her gaze as dark shapes jumped from the rooftops overhead.

“Oh,” said Caina. “I didn’t know they could do that.”

Four Adamant Guards landed several yards ahead. Their legs flexed as they landed, absorbing the impact. No doubt the spells upon their steel carapaces had allowed them to survive the fall.

“We’ll have to fight our way past them,” said Kylon. “Get ready.”

Caina nodded, steel glittering in her right fist. The Adamant Guards started forward, drawing broadswords from their belts, but Kylon attacked first. He surged forward, his sorcery of air lending him speed, his sword blurring to strike.

###

Caina drew back her arm to throw a knife, but Kylon and the Adamant Guards moved almost too fast for her to see.

Kylon’s charge took the Guards by surprise, and before they recovered the stormdancer killed one of them, blood spilling onto the hard-packed earth of the courtyard. Yet the other Adamant Guards were no less deadly, and they attacked in a blur. Kylon’s charge came to a sudden halt, and the stormdancer fell back, his sword snapping back and forth as he deflected attacks. Caina felt the pulse of his sorcery as he drew upon more power.

If she did not help him, he was going to die.

She flung the knife in her right hand with all her strength at the nearest Adamant Guard. Somehow the Guard realized it was coming and twisted to the side with inhuman grace. The knife aimed for his throat instead raked across his jaw, drawing blood, but the Guard did not even flinch from the impact. The Guard that Caina had wounded lunged at her, his broadsword leading in a thrust. As child at the Vineyard, Caina had learned the forms of unarmed combat, and she had practiced them almost every day since, working the forms over and over until the muscles of her arms and legs could perform the correct movements without any conscious thought on her part.

That was the only thing that saved her life.

The Adamant Guard’s sword plunged towards her, and Caina twisted aside. The sword missed her chest and ripped past her left shoulder, catching in the ornamented robe of her disguise. The tug against her robe staggered Caina, but the Adamant Guard overbalanced, and she hammered her left fist onto the wrist of the Guard’s sword hand. The sword tore loose of her damaged robe, and Caina snatched a dagger from her belt with her right hand and stabbed at the Guard’s throat.

The Guard’s left hand closed about her right wrist like an iron shackle. Caina tried to rip her hand free, but she could not. It was as if the Guard’s hand had been wrought of solid stone. His right hand closed hard around her throat. Caina seized his arm, but it was like trying to push aside a fallen tree.

His face remained calm and empty as he lifted her from her feet and started to choke her to death.

Horrible pain exploded through Caina as the weight of her body hung from her neck, her boots kicking uselessly at the Guard’s legs, her left hand grabbing the Guard’s arm in a frantic attempt to relieve some of the pressure on her neck. She could not get enough leverage to do any injury to the Guard, and even if she did, the pain would not keep the Guard from throttling her. Her vision started to shrink into a narrow tunnel.

In desperation, she released the Guard’s arm and yanked another dagger from her belt. The dagger had been forged from something other than steel, and its leaf-shaped blade reflected the sun with an odd gleam. Caina slashed the dagger at the Adamant Guard’s arm. She had no leverage and only opened a shallow cut on the Guard’s forearm.

Yet the cut sizzled and smoked, the skin around the wound blackening, and the Guard reacted as if Caina had hit him over the head with a shovel. His impassive face flooded with pain, and the Guard stumbled with a hoarse cry, his limbs twitching and jerking of their own accord. He sagged like a man laboring beneath a heavy burden, his grip loosening. Caina drove her feet into his armored stomach, the steel plates clanging beneath her boots, and ripped free of his grasp. She staggered back, wheezing and coughing, knowing that if she fell she would probably never get up again.

The Adamant Guard seemed in worse shape. He stepped towards her, but slowly, as if straining beneath a great weight. Had the dagger’s scratch somehow weakened him? That seemed unlikely, but…

Caina looked at the silvery dagger in her left hand, and the answer came to her.

The dagger was fashioned of ghostsilver. The rare metal was proof against sorcery and disrupted spells. So many spells had been laid over the Adamant Guard that the dagger’s mere touch had caused him pain. Yet the Silent Hunters, the Umbarian Order’s assassins, had nearly as many spells upon them, and while the ghostsilver dagger had dealt them charred wounds, its touch had not staggered them as it had the Adamant Guard.

The Guard took one step towards her, and then another, and Caina understood.

The Guard’s armor plates had been grafted to his flesh. All that steel had to be heavy. The spells written onto his skin gave him the strength to carry it, but if those spells were disrupted…

Caina sprinted at the Adamant Guard, flinging another throwing knife. The Guard got his thick arm up to block, and the blade bounced away. He charged at her, and Caina tossed the ghostsilver dagger to her right hand and feinted. The hulking Guard had learned to fear the weapon, and he flinched just as Caina expected. That gave her an opening, and she flicked the dagger at his legs. The ghostsilver blade bit through his trousers and raked across his thigh, and the wound sizzled and spat angry smoke, the dagger’s hilt growing hot beneath Caina’s fingers. The Guard screamed, staggering as if he had just picked up a hundred-pound sack of bricks. Before he recovered, Caina plunged the dagger into his neck. The Guard clawed at her, but Caina spun out of reach as the man fell dying to the ground.

She turned towards Kylon. He was holding his own against the two Adamant Guards, but step by step the Umbarian soldiers were forcing him towards the wall of a tenement. Once his back was to the wall, they would finish him. Yet if Caina’s dagger disrupted the spells upon them, Kylon could defeat them.

The sound of running boots filled her ears.

Four more Adamant Guards sprinted into the courtyard, swords in hand. Two of them headed towards Kylon, and the other two ran at Caina.

She gripped her dagger, trying to think of something clever to do.

###

From the shadows of a doorway, Morgant watched the fight in the courtyard.

He was breathing a little fast. The Balarigar knew how to throw off her pursuers. She was very good at it, but he was simply better. He raised an eyebrow when Caina managed to kill the Adamant Guard.

A ghostsilver blade. That was clever, especially with all that steel lathered over the Adamant Guards. If she had kicked the Guard onto his back, perhaps he would have lain there helpless like a turtle, pinned by the weight of his own armored carapace.

Impressive, but futile.

The battle was over. The stormdancer was barely holding his own against two Adamant Guards. Four would finish him off in short order. The Balarigar would not be able to fight off two at once. Even if they managed to hold out, sooner or later the Sifter would arrive and kill them both.

A pity, really. Her boldness and cleverness had impressed Morgant, and he did not impress easily. For a moment he had thought that the Knight of Wind and Air had been right, that she might be the one who could help him keep his word to Annarah.

Obviously she could not do that after the Adamant Guards killed her.

Yet…

A peculiar idea stirred in his thoughts.

Perhaps she was only an outline upon canvas. Or an uncompleted drawing. Or a sculpture only half-freed from its block of marble, though Morgant had always known that painting superior to mere crude sculpture. She was not strong enough to help him.

But maybe she could become strong enough to help him keep his word to Annarah.

Assuming she lived through the next hour or so.

Morgant let out a little laugh.

“Manipulation, indeed,” he said, and made up his mind.

###

Caina set herself, preparing to strike. The Guard on her left was nearer. If she hit him with the dagger, perhaps she could immobilize him long enough to take down the second Guard. Or, more likely, the second Adamant Guard would kill her as she attacked the man on the left.

She could think of nothing else to do.

A deep, hoarse voice boomed over the courtyard, a voice with a thick, burred Caerish accent.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!”

Caina turned her head, blinking in surprise, and the Guards froze for a moment. Even Kylon and the two Guards dueling him turned to look. A thin, black-clad figure limped from one of the tenements, leaning upon a brass-handled cane, his black coat open to reveal his crisp white shirt.

“Markaine?” said Caina, astonished.

“Or I should say gentlemen and lady, I suppose,” said Markaine of Caer Marist, waving a hand in her direction. “She’s actually a woman.” He squinted at her. “Well, a bearded woman. But the beard is fake. It’s a convincing disguise, but it’s really not a good look for you, dear. You’re never going to get a husband like that.” He spun, both hands upon the handle of his cane, and looked at the Guards. “You fellows. Is it sporting to kill a woman? I admit, she is an incredibly annoying woman and talks far too much, but cutting off her head seems excessive. Maybe you could just take a finger or two.”

“Identify yourself,” said one of the Guards in a cold voice.

“You don’t know me?” said Markaine. He struck a pose and gestured with his cane. “I am Markaine of Caer Marist, the finest painter in Istarinmul or anywhere else, for that matter. I could paint you lot. Half my usual price, too.” He grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “I could paint you holding her head. Or upon your sword, as you prefer. The patron is always right.”

“Have you lost your mind?” said Caina. What was he doing here? “Run!”

“Kill him,” said the Guard

Markaine sighed. “No one appreciates art.”

Two of the Guards strode towards Markaine, and Caina ran towards them. The painter made no move to defend himself. The Guards would cut him down, and Caina would have gotten him killed for nothing. He had been her only chance of discovering what had happened to Morgant the Razor.

The Guards drew back their swords to strike.

Then Markaine moved.

There was a clicking noise, and his cane fell in two pieces to the ground. In his hand he held a long, slender blade, the handle of his cane rotating to become the sword’s hilt. The weapon blurred in his hand, and one of the Guards fell to his knees, blood fountaining from a sliced throat. The second Guard slashed, and Markaine twitched to the side, the blade missing him by inches. Caina darted forward and stabbed her ghostsilver dagger into the Guard’s shoulder. The Adamant Guard fell to his knees with an enraged bellow, and Markaine’s sword sank into his left eye. The Guard gave a spastic twitch and then collapsed.

Stunned silence fell upon the courtyard as the Adamant Guards stared at the old painter.

“That was embarrassing,” said Markaine. “For you, mostly.” He looked down. “I hope I didn’t get any blood on my shirt. That would be embarrassing for me.”

Two of the Adamant Guards roared and charged at Markaine, while the other two resumed their attack upon Kylon. Caina braced herself, preparing to strike. Markaine only rolled his shoulders, the sword’s slender tip bobbing before him.

He threw the weapon at the charging Guards.

It was a futile, ineffective move. The slender sword did not have the weight or speed to penetrate the Guards’ armor. It didn’t even get that far. One of the Guards swept his sword before him, sending the thin blade spinning away.

That gave Markaine time to reach into his coat.

His right hand came out holding a long black dagger, and Caina felt a surge of sorcerous power from the weapon.

She had never seen a dagger quite like it. It was a foot long, and it was blacker than any steel she had ever seen, darker than even the armor of an Imperial Guard. The only color in the weapon was a round red gem, possibly a red pearl or a ruby, set into the dagger’s pommel. It looked like a baleful red eye.

The nearest Adamant Guard slashed at him, and Markaine raised his dagger in a useless block. The broadsword came down, and the black dagger cut through the sword as if it had been made of wet paper. Two-thirds of the blade clattered to the ground, the cut end glowing white-hot. The Adamant Guard stumbled, and Markaine slashed. The dagger sank into the Adamant Guard’s chest, ripping him open from throat to groin as the black blade parted the steel plate like soft cheese. The Adamant Guard toppled to his knees as his guts fell out, the slashed plates of his armor glowing, the broken end of his ribs smoking.

The sorcerous aura surrounding the black dagger grew stronger.

The second Guard attacked Markaine, Caina forgotten. Markaine spun past the Guard’s attack and drove his black dagger into the Guard’s arm. The Adamant Guard showed no sign of pain at the wound, but Caina felt another surge of power from the black dagger.

The Guard burst into howling flames, the fire erupting from beneath his skin.

Markaine jumped back, as did Caina, and the Adamant Guard let out a horrified, agonizing scream. The stench of burning flesh flooded Caina’s nostrils, reminding her of the pyromantic sorcery she had seen Kalastus use in Rasadda years ago. The Guard staggered forward, and Caina feared that he would engulf her in a fiery embrace.

The burning man collapsed in silence, a thick plume of greasy smoke rising from his blackening corpse.

Caina looked at Markaine, at the black dagger with the glowing red gem in the pommel. Morgant the Razor, all the old tales had called the feared assassin. According to the stories, the name of the Razor had come from his favorite weapon. A black dagger with a red pearl in the pommel, a dagger that left such fine, precise cuts that it could have been a razor…

She met Markaine’s pale blue eyes and he grinned.

“Ah, there we go,” he said. “There’s the realization. Figured it out yet, have you?”

Caina ran for Kylon, intending to aid him against the remaining two Adamant Guards. Once Kylon was safe and they were clear, they could figure out what to do about Markaine of Caer Marist.

Or Morgant the Razor, assuming Markaine was not just a madman with an enspelled dagger.

As she ran, one of the windows overhead exploded in a fireball.

The Sifter leapt out of the blast and landed ten feet in front of Caina.

###

The heat from the explosion washed over Kylon, and he staggered back a step. It also staggered the Adamant Guards, and he at last had an opening. He whipped his sword around in a two-handed swing, all his storm-enhanced strength driving the blow, and took off the head of the nearest Adamant Guard. Blood fountained from the stump of the Guard’s neck, and the man collapsed in silence, his head rolling away.

The second Guard struck even as the burning Sifter strode towards Caina. Kylon twisted to the side, but not fast enough. The Guard’s blade raked across the left side of his ribs. Had he stood still, the sword would likely have shattered the ribs and pierced his heart, but Kylon kept moving. He spun with the force of the blow, his sword raking across the back of the Guard’s leg. The Umbarian soldier stumbled with a grunt, and Kylon sidestepped and brought his sword onto the back of the Guard’s neck.

That made a mess.

He ripped the sword free, turning to aid Caina as the Sifter dissolved into a whirling cloud of flame and embers.

###

Caina drew back the ghostsilver dagger to stab, and the Sifter…unraveled.

She could think of no other word to describe it. The dead girl grinned, and then her body disintegrated, dissolving from within as if consumed by the fire elemental’s fury. Yet the fire did not waver, but grew brighter and hotter. The cloud of burning embers that had once been the dead girl whirled around the flames faster and faster.

A hot wind blew over Caina’s face, and she felt the pressure inside of her skull. It was like burning fingers sinking into her head, and pain erupted through her temples. She gasped, stepping back…and the burning cloud flowed towards her.

“You are mine.” The Sifter’s voice, powerful and horrible and alien, hissed inside of her thoughts. “You are mine. I shall devour you, I shall consume you, I shall burn away your destiny line and unravel the tapestry around you…”

Caina knew she should run, that she should fight, but the pain in her head doubled and then doubled again, so sharp that her legs turned to water and she fell to her knees. The burning cloud filled her vision, the roar of the Sifter’s voice thundering inside her skull. She struggled to stand, but the fire rose over her, preparing to swallow her whole.

Then she sensed a burst of arcane power against her skin, and the Sifter’s howls of triumph turned to a scream of pain.

For a moment she thought that Kylon had struck at the Sifter with his power, or that Markaine or Morgant or whoever the hell he was had done something with his black dagger. Yet the tingle of sorcery was concentrated around her left hand, and she looked down.

Annarah’s pyrikon.

In the shock of seeing Kylon again, she had forgotten all about it. The intricate bronze bracelet shone with a sharp white light, so bright that it seemed as if a globe of radiance surrounded Caina’s left hand. The pain vanished from her head, and she staggered to her feet. The white light from the pyrikon seemed to eat away at the fiery cloud, and the Sifter recoiled from the light. The fire trembled, and then it whirled and sprang into the air, fleeing over the rooftops.

The white glow faded from Caina’s hand, and she lowered her arm, breathing hard.

Silence fell over the courtyard, and she and Kylon and the black-coated man who had called himself Markaine of Caer Marist stared at each other.

“You’re Morgant the Razor,” said Caina at last. “Aren’t you?”

The pale blue eyes narrowed, the strange black dagger motionless in his right hand.

“I hoped you had realized that by now,” he said. He stared at the bracelet upon her wrist. “Where did you get that?”

“Who the hell is Morgant the Razor?” said Kylon.

“He is,” said Caina.

“I am,” said Morgant. “But you’re not important, Kyracian. That is.” He pointed at Caina’s hand. “Where did you get that bracelet?”

“You know what it is?” said Caina.

“That,” said Morgant, “is the pyrikon once carried by Annarah, the last loremaster of Iramis.”

She blinked in surprise. “How did you know that?”

“Because,” said Morgant, “I gave it to Callatas.”

Caina scowled. “Then I was right. You were the one who murdered Annarah…”

He let out a nasty laugh. “I did not. I lied to Callatas and told him that she was dead.”

“Ridiculous,” said Caina. “If you had lied to Callatas you would be dead.”

Morgant laughed again. “I’m a very good liar.”

Caina pointed the ghostsilver dagger at him. “Is that what this is about? Callatas sent you to get the pyrikon back?”

“Of course not,” said Morgant. “Callatas thinks I’m dead. You’re the one who accosted me at the Ring of Cyrica! Then you ran off when you saw the Kyracian, and you would have gotten yourself killed if I had not intervened.”

“So what are you doing here?” said Caina.

“Are you sure you can’t figure it out?” said Morgant. “You ought…”

“Gods of storm and brine!” said Kylon. “Shut up, both of you!”

Caina stared at him, and Morgant raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“We are standing in the middle of the street surrounded by dead men,” said Kylon. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but we can continue this discussion when we are not in imminent danger of getting arrested.”

“You’re right,” said Caina. She saw the blood soaking into his shirt and felt a flash of chagrin. “You’re hurt.”

“It will keep,” said Kylon.

“Actually,” said Morgant. “I’m not worried about getting arrested.”

He craned his neck, and Caina followed his gaze and cursed.

More Adamant Guards hurried down the street, a score of them. Six had almost killed both Caina and Kylon. Twenty would kill them quickly, even if Morgant brought his strange dagger to bear.

“Run,” said Caina, turning.

“No!” said Morgant. “They’ll encircle us. Follow me.”

Caina hesitated, sharing a look with Kylon.

Morgant rolled his eyes. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I could have let the Adamant Guards do it for me. Run off and die if you want, Balarigar. But if you and your pet Kyracian want to live, follow me.” He smirked. “If you want to find out what happened to Annarah, you’ll follow me.”

“They’ve spotted us,” said Kylon, pointing his sword.

“Fine,” said Caina. “Let’s go.”

“This way,” said Morgant, his coat swirling around him as he turned. He sprinted back to the apartment tower and dashed through the door, making for the stairs. Caina expected him to head up, but instead he ran towards the tenement’s cellar.

“There’s no way out down there,” said Caina.

“They saw us come in,” said Kylon.

“Correct,” said Morgant, coming to a halt at the base of the stairs. The cellar was a gloomy brick vault, heavy pillars supporting the ceiling overhead. “But you’re forgetting your geography.”

He ran forward, stamping his boots as he went.

“Geography?” said Caina.

“Or sanitation,” said Morgant, turning in a circle. “Six hundred people can live in one of these wretched towers, more if you pack them tightly, and all of those people have to relieve themselves. Six hundred people don’t want to bathe in their own filth. Well, not all of them, but…ah!”

His boot made a hollow, thumping sound, and he stabbed down with his black dagger. The blade sank into the stone of the floor, and Morgant spun in a circle. The edge of his cut glowed as he spun, and Caina felt a pulse of sorcerous power from the weapon, the gem in its pommel shining. Morgant finished his spin, cutting a circle about three yards across into the floor, its edges glowing.

Then he raised his foot and brought his boot hammering down.

The circle fell and dropped into a dark passageway below the cellar. It landed with a splash, and the faint scent of rot and waste came to Caina’s nostrils. She peered over the edge and saw a tunnel of Istarinmul’s sewers, a sheen of water glimmering upon the brick floor. The circle of stone rested on the floor of the tunnel, its edges glowing. The jewel in the pommel of his dagger shone brighter, waves of potent sorcery rolling off it.

“Ah,” he said, shaking his dagger. “That was thicker than I thought.”

A crash came from above.

“We need to go, now,” said Kylon.

“Yes,” said Morgant. “Yes, we do.”

He flicked his wrist, and the dagger buried itself in the floor at an angle. The sorcerous aura around the thing grew harsher. Caina wasn’t sure what the dagger was doing, but it was pulling in a lot of arcane power.

She looked at Kylon, nodded, and together they ran to the hole. Kylon went first, dropping the twelve feet to the tunnel below, his sorcery cushioning his impact. Caina went next, and Kylon caught her around the waist as she fell, lowering her to the ground. Morgant simply jumped over the edge, his legs flexing beneath him.

“Spry for a man two hundred years old,” she said.

“Ridiculous,” said Morgant. “I'm two hundred and six. I thought you were supposed to be observant.”

“Which way?” said Kylon.

“Actually,” said Morgant. “Four or five steps back ought to do it.”

“Your dagger,” said Caina. “What is it going to do?”

“Figure it out,” said Morgant. “But after you back up.”

Caina took six long steps back, as did Kylon and Morgant. A moment later she saw the first of the Adamant Guards appear at the edge of the hole, sword slithering from his scabbard with a steely rasp. Kylon raised his own sword, and the Adamant Guard prepared to jump.

The explosion came a second later.

The tunnel vibrated around her, and Caina grabbed at the wall for balance. Flames billowed overhead, filling the cellar, the roar resounding through the tunnel. Even over the roar, Caina heard the screams of the Adamant Guards. The flames billowed up, but she felt heat, terrible heat, radiating from the hole overhead.

Morgant snapped his fingers. Caina sensed a final flicker of sorcery, and something shot out of the flames. Morgant held out his hand, and the black dagger landed in his palm. It ought to have charred his fingers, but the weapon seemed cool in his grasp.

“We really shouldn’t linger here,” said Caina at last.

“No,” said Morgant. “I assume you have a destination in mind?”

“I do,” said Caina, her mind spinning plans. When she had gone to the Ring of Cyrica, she had expected to talk with an old artist about obscure points of Istarinmul’s history. Instead she had found Kylon, fought Kindred assassins and Adamant Guards, and had almost gotten killed more than once. She had far more questions than answers.

For the moment, though, questions could wait. First she had to live long enough to ask them.

“This way,” said Caina.

Chapter 7: A Little Test

Kylon followed Caina and the strange man she had called Morgant, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

He walked with careful, deliberate steps. There wasn’t much water down here, thanks to Istarinmul’s harsh climate, but this was still a sewer and he didn’t want to fall, especially with the open cuts upon his chest and arms. With the fighting at least temporarily over, he had turned some of his arcane strength towards healing his wounds. His sorcery gave him power over water, and all men were simply water in the end. He had never been very good at healing, but fighting in the arenas over the last year had given him ample opportunity to practice. In a week or so, the cuts would be gone, leaving new scars in his growing collection.

The rest of his sorcerous strength he put into his senses, seeking for threats to emerge from the sewers around them.

Including the strange man in the black coat who called himself Morgant the Razor.

The man’s emotional aura was peculiar. He was not a sorcerer, Kylon was sure of it, despite the powers of his dagger. Nonetheless, the assassin’s emotional aura felt…hardened. Old. Like an ancient oak staff that had become as hard as iron over the years.

This was an incredibly dangerous man, and Kylon wondered why Caina had sought him out.

Morgant glanced at him, as if he had guessed Kylon’s thoughts. “I don’t think your friend likes me.”

“Perhaps if you offer to paint his portrait,” said Caina without missing a beat, “that will improve his opinion of you.”

“I doubt that,” said Morgant. “Kyracians. They prefer statuary and bas-reliefs.” He made it sound like a malediction. “Inferior forms of art, to say the least.”

Kylon said nothing. Morgant the Razor seemed the sort of man who provoked everyone around him, testing them so he could see how they reacted. Men who did that tended to die violent deaths…but if Morgant was as old as he claimed, he had developed the tactic to perfection. Not that it mattered. Kylon had already failed his wife, his House, his people.

No insult that Morgant leveled at him could be as terrible as the truth.

Though if he threatened Caina, Kylon would kill him without remorse.

“Ah, silence,” said Morgant. “A rare virtue.”

“Since you seem incapable of practicing it yourself,” said Caina, “this is as good a place as any to talk.”

She stopped in a round chamber with a shallow pool in the center. Five channels ran off in different directions. If any foes approached, they would hear them coming, and they could retreat easily.

“I imagine your head is full of questions,” said Morgant. “Though to be fair, I have a few for you as well. It’s not every day I’m accosted by a woman in male dress with a false beard.”

She said nothing, and Kylon felt her emotions grow colder. Morgant met her gaze with a faint smile, and for a moment the two of them stared at each other. Kylon thought of two gladiators circling each other, waiting for the correct moment to strike.

Though he supposed Caina and Morgant were about to fight with words, not blades.

“Heat,” said Caina.

“I’m sorry?” said Morgant.

“That’s how your dagger works, isn’t it?” said Caina. “At first I thought it was pyromantic sorcery, but your neither insane nor an Umbarian. Instead, it uses heat. Friction. Try to cut steel plate with a steel blade, and you can’t. It takes too much force. But the spell on your dagger bypasses the…no. It stores up the heat of the friction, letting the weapon cut through almost anything.”

“But that heat has to go somewhere,” said Kylon.

“Very good, Kyracian,” said Morgant. “This time, it went into the Adamant Guards. I cut the timing a bit close, if you will forgive the poor choice of words. Slicing through the floor generated more heat than I expected. Fortunately, the Guards wer at hand to serve as receptacles.” He grinned. “Very good, Balarigar. It took me a few decades to figure out how that dagger actually worked. At first I thought it was just sharp.”

They kept staring at each other. Kylon felt Caina’s emotions grow cold the way she did when thinking hard, while Morgant only watched her with that faint smile. His sense was…anticipatory? Predatory?

Kylon suspected that he was enjoying this.

“Are you really Morgant the Razor?” said Caina.

“Either that, or I killed him and took both his dagger and his dashing good looks,” said Morgant.

“You’re too old to be dashing,” said Caina. “Two hundred and five, you said? There’s no necromantic sorcery on your blade. So at least you’re not stealing the lives of others. How are you still alive?”

“Clean living,” said Morgant.

“No.”

“The joy of painting keeps me alive,” said Morgant.

“Still no.”

“You know, I am almost ten times older than you, dear child,” said Morgant. “You ought to be more polite to your elders.”

“If you won’t answer my questions, then I won’t answer yours,” said Caina.

“I don’t have questions for you,” said Morgant.

In answer, she offered a smile as cold as her blue eyes and tapped the strange bracelet on her left wrist, the bracelet that had blazed with white fire when the Sifter had tried to devour her.

“Oh, very good,” said Morgant. He looked at Kylon. “Your lover is quite a clever woman, you know.”

Of all the things Morgant might have said, Kylon had not expected that.

“What?” said Kylon at last.

“He’s not,” said Caina. To Kylon’s astonishment a flicker of something almost like embarrassment went through her aura. “We’re not…”

“Lies need to be believable to be effective,” said Morgant. “She tracked me down, but when you took off your helmet, Kyracian, she almost ran across the arena. I think she missed you. I’m surprised she didn’t rip off her clothes, run across the sand, and throw herself upon you then and there. It would have given the crowd quite a show.”

Kylon looked at her.

“I was worried,” Caina said in a quiet voice. “I thought you were still in New Kyre. I had no idea what had happened. So when I saw you in the Ring, it was a shock.” She looked back at Morgant. “You’re deflecting.”

“Eh?” said Morgant.

“From the fact that you really, really want to know how I got this pyrikon.” She tapped the bracelet. “You wanted to know so badly that you asked me in the middle of a fight, which was a stupid thing to do. Which in turn means that you are interested in what happened to the loremaster Annarah, even if you’re smart enough not to show it. And that in turn means we can bargain. If you answer my questions…I’ll tell you exactly how I found this pyrikon.”

A burst of approval went through Morgant’s emotions.

“Very well,” said Morgant. “A question for a question. Does that sound fair, Balarigar? I will answer your questions, and you shall answer mine.”

Caina nodded. “How are you still alive?”

“About a hundred and fifty years ago,” said Morgant, “I had a large bounty on my head. Not as large as yours, alas, but a man can only do so much. Some Anshani occultist had the bright idea of enslaving a djinni of the Court of Wind and Air to kill me.” Surprise went through Caina at that. “I freed the djinni, and in return, she granted me long life, though I didn’t ask for it and did not at the time particularly want it. Now, of course, I realize that the djinn were playing a long game. Perhaps the Knight of Air and Wind wanted me here.”

“The Knight of Air and Wind?” said Caina. “You’ve encountered him?”

For the first time Morgant was surprised. “You have?”

“Repeatedly,” said Caina.

“I think your questions canceled each other out,” said Kylon. How had Caina encountered a djinni? He knew of them. There were many kingdoms and orders of spirits, and the air elementals, the spirits the Istarish called the djinn, were one of them.

“Actually, she owes me a question,” said Morgant, pointing at Caina. “How did you find that pyrikon?”

“By accident,” said Caina. “I was robbing the palace of Master Alchemist Vaysaal, after Callatas had the Kindred assassinate him. I found this in his wraithblood laboratory. Callatas had modified the pyrikons to work as keys to his private laboratory, and Annarah’s was no different.”

“Pyrikon?” said Kylon.

“A badge of office,” said Caina. “Once carried by the loremasters of Iramis.” Kylon vaguely recalled Iramis from the lessons of his childhood. “Callatas burned Iramis and hunted down the loremasters. Which brings me to my next question.” Her eyes shifted back to Morgant. “How did you kill Annarah?”

“Wrong question,” said Morgant.

She considered for a moment. “When did you kill Annarah?”

“Getting closer,” said Morgant.

A flicker went through her emotions. “No. You’re right. Those were the wrong questions.” Her eyes narrowed. “Where is Annarah?”

“Waiting exactly where I left her,” said Morgant, “about a hundred and fifty-one years ago.”

“You didn’t kill her,” said Caina, astonished.

“No,” said Morgant.

“Why not?” said Caina.

“Because I gave her my word that I would not,” said Morgant. “My turn for a question, child. Why do you want to find her?”

“To stop the Apotheosis,” said Caina.

Morgant scoffed. “The Apotheosis. Do you even know what that is?” Kylon didn’t, though a thread of fear went through Caina at its mention.

“It is Grand Master Callatas’s great spell,” said Caina. “He makes wraithblood from the blood of murdered slaves and distributes it to the poor of the city. He needs that to work the Apotheosis, though I don’t know why, and he also needs the Star, the Staff, and the Seal of Iramis. He has the Star, and I’m trying to find the Staff and the Seal before he does.” She pointed at him. “That was a question, and you will tell me what you know about the Apotheosis.”

Morgant smiled. “Rather more than you do.”

Caina’s face remained calm, but pure irritation flushed through her emotions. “Do elaborate.”

“But less than I would like, alas,” said Morgant. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “The purpose of wraithblood is to reduce its users’ defenses against possession.”

“Like from the nagataaru?” said Caina.

“Exactly,” said Morgant. “I don’t know what Callatas intends with his spell. But the first part of the Apotheosis involves summoning a tremendous number of nagataaru, millions of them, all at once. That was why he destroyed Iramis and why he wanted the regalia of the Princes. He needed the Staff to summon the nagataaru and the Seal to control them all.”

“And the wraithblood addicts,” said Caina, the thread of fear in her sense growing sharper, “provide bodies to house all the nagataaru.”

“You understand,” said Morgant.

“Why?” said Caina. “Why do this? What does Callatas want from the Apotheosis?”

“I don’t know,” said Morgant. “Do you owe me a question, or do I? I’ve lost count, I’m afraid.”

“I think we’re past that point,” said Caina. “I sought you out. Sulaman directed me to you.”

“Sulaman?” said Morgant, and a ripple of surprise went through his emotions before they settled back into icy hardness. “Interesting. He’s not a fool. I am surprised that he sent you to me. He must think highly of you.”

“Tell me what happened to Annarah,” said Caina. “If I can find the Staff and Seal before Callatas and conceal them from his reach, the Apotheosis will never happen.”

Morgant gazed at the ceiling again, his blue eyes narrowed, and Kylon felt his emotions grow colder.

“I have two rules, Balarigar,” said Morgant. “One, I do not kill anyone who has not earned death. Two, I keep my word.”

“A feeble set of rules,” said Kylon.

“Oh, Kyracian?” said Morgant. “Why is that?”

“You decide who has earned death?” said Kylon. “I have known men who swear solemn oaths only to wriggle out of the smallest loopholes.”

The assassin’s smile was colder than his emotional sense. “What do you know of keeping promises, boy? What do you know of keeping your word? You speak like a noble-born Kyracian, yet you are fighting for scraps of gold in the Ring of Cyrica. That means you were exiled, probably for failing in battle. Who did you fail, Kyracian? Which promises did you break?”

Rage swept through Kylon, and a rime of frost spread from his boots and over the stone floor. Morgant raised an eyebrow, and Caina looked at him with concern. Again he saw Thalastre fall to her knees, the Huntress’s sword jutting from the curve of her belly, and his rage faded to sick grief and regret.

Morgant was right. He had failed.

“You should answer her question,” said Kylon, the frost around his feet melting, “instead of rambling about your rules.”

“So be it,” said Morgant. “In brief, then. A long time ago I was a Kindred assassin, and Morgant the Razor was the most feared killer in three nations. I wearied of that life, faked my death, and became Markaine of Caer Marist. I was in what is now the Desert of Candles when Callatas destroyed Iramis. When I was escaping, Callatas found me, recognized me, and hired me to kill Annarah, one of the loremasters who had escaped the ruin of Iramis. I found her, decided that she did not deserve to die, and helped to hide herself. She gave me her pyrikon,” he flicked a finger in the direction of Caina’s wrist, “and I gave it to Callatas as proof that she was dead.”

“He believed you?” said Caina.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” said Morgant.

“So where is Annarah now?” said Caina. “Where are the Staff and Seal?”

“No,” said Morgant.

“You’re not going to tell me,” said Caina.

“Not,” said Morgant, his cold sense sharpening further, “until you prove you are worthy.”

“Worthy of what?” said Caina.

“Of helping Annarah,” said Morgant. “That was part of my word to her. That I would not reveal her location until I found someone worthy, someone strong enough to help her. You’re absolutely right, Balarigar. Callatas’s Apotheosis will destroy the world. That is the stakes we play for in this game. Not a war, not a petty skirmish between Kyracian pirates, but everything that is and ever will be. That is what will die if Callatas gets the Staff and the Seal.” His eyes flashed. “I am Morgant the Razor. I have lived for two hundred and five years, and I keep my word. And I will only tell Annarah’s location to someone worthy.”

“Just how do I prove that I am worthy?” said Caina.

“Very simple,” said Morgant. “I’ve already decided on a test. Defeat the Sifter.”

She stared at him in silence.

“That’s it?” Caina said. “Defeat the Sifter?”

“You say it so lightly,” said Morgant. “Do you know what the Sifter is?”

“Fiery?” said Caina. Kylon laughed before he could stop himself.

“An ifrit, a kind of fire elemental,” said Morgant. “The nagataaru are malevolent. The ifriti simply delight in destruction. I assume one of the Umbarians bound the Sifter and sent it after you.”

“Cassander Nilas, most likely,” said Caina. “I’ve irritated him a few times in the past.”

“That is not terribly surprising,” said Morgant. “Defeat the Sifter, and prove to me you are strong enough for this task. Then I will tell you where Annarah is.”

“This is foolishness,” said Kylon. “She is clearly trying to stop Callatas’s plan. Her aid could be invaluable. Why turn her away?”

Morgant started to answer, but Caina answered him first.

“Because,” said Caina. “If I’m captured by the Umbarians or by Callatas’s men, and if I have the knowledge of Annarah’s fate…then that knowledge will fall into the wrong hands.”

“That knowledge could destroy the world in the wrong hands,” said Morgant. “I would prefer not to destroy the entire world.”

“She already defeated the Sifter,” said Kylon. “The light from the pyrikon drove it off.”

“I suspect it will be back,” said Caina.

“Very well,” said Morgant. “What are you going to do next, Balarigar?”

###

Caina stared at the wall for a moment, thinking.

She was so close. Morgant had the knowledge she needed, the knowledge that Nasser Glasshand had sought for years. If Caina found the Staff and the Seal of Iramis before Callatas, she could stop the Apotheosis. Part of her wanted to scream with frustration, or ask Kylon to beat the information out of Morgant. She knew it would be useless. Caina suspected no amount of force would make Morgant do something he didn’t want to do, and attacking Morgant might well be suicidal.

So. The best way to get the information was to play his game.

She was going to have to play the game anyway if she wanted to survive. Even if she told Morgant to go to hell and walked away, the Sifter was still coming for her. She had a better chance of surviving with Morgant’s help than without it.

And with Kylon’s, too, though he owed her nothing. Her heart ached for him. She knew the kind of pain he had gone through. Caina had seen Corvalis die in front of her, and she hadn’t been able to save him. Malarae had become her home, but she had been banished to Istarinmul.

“The Kyracian, though,” said Morgant, cutting into her thoughts. “Do you trust him?”

“Completely,” said Caina at once.

“Why?” said Morgant.

Kylon inclined his head to her, his expression grave.

“Because,” said Caina. “We’ve been through some things together.” She remembered the Ascendant Bloodcrystal blazing in the black heart of Caer Magia, the shadows of the dead moving around it.

“Who the devil are you, anyway?” said Morgant.

“Kylon, once of House Kardamnos,” said Kylon.

“The Shipbreaker?” said Morgant, raising an eyebrow. “You have gone down in the world, haven’t you?”

“Given that we are both standing in the sewer,” said Kylon, “I do not think you have grounds for criticism.”

Morgant barked a laugh, and Caina ignored them as she thought.

How to deal with the Sifter?

Claudia was her first thought. Claudia had once been a sorceress of the Magisterium, and her skills had not waned. She had become strong enough to banish a lesser nagataaru, and she might have the strength to banish the Sifter. Yet Claudia was pregnant with her first child, something Caina would never know, and if the Sifter killed the child…

No. Caina could not inflict that kind of loss on her. She had seen what it had done to Kylon.

There were other ways. Caina had become the custodian of a sword called a valikon, a weapon forged by the loremasters of Iramis to destroy nagataaru. The Sifter was an ifrit, but Caina suspected that valikon might prove effective against it. If she could take the valikon before the Sifter found her, that would give her the edge she needed. Additionally, she also had the shadow-cloak of a Ghost nightfighter. The cloak shielded her from sorcerous observation, and it might also ward her from the Sifter’s sight.

She might have the tools she needed to defeat the Sifter.

“I suppose you’re coming with me?” said Caina, cutting into Morgant’s latest attempt at a witticism.

“I am,” said Morgant. “You’ve caught my curiosity, Balarigar. Let us see if you are strong enough.” He shrugged. “And if you’re killed, I’m sure your death will inspire an excellent painting.”

Caina looked at Kylon. “You are not a Ghost. You are not beholden to…”

“I owe you a great deal, whether you admit it or not,” said Kylon. “Malik Rolukhan murdered my wife.” Morgant raised his eyebrows at that. “Or at least he helped, as did Cassander Nilas. They were…the outer edges of the evil you have been fighting in Istarinmul.” He looked as hard and as grim as he had the day he had tried to kill her in Marsis. “I will help you, if I can.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. “Let’s go, then.”

“You have a plan?” said Morgant. “For your sake I hope you have a plan.”

“I do,” said Caina. “First, we need to make sure that the Sifter can’t find us while I put it into motion. This way, I think.”

She beckoned, and they walked down one of the sewer tunnels.

###

The Sifter claimed its new body.

It had not expected the demonslayer to bear one of the wretched totems of Iramis of old. The puppet of the great prince of the nagataaru had destroyed Iramis, though its influence still lay heavy upon the tapestry, and its totems and weapons had been scattered far and wide. Most of them had been destroyed, but apparently Caina Amalas had found one.

That was troubling. The pyrikon’s touch had disrupted the spell upon the Sifter’s material body. Fortunately, corpses were readily at hand, and it had taken the empty body of a dead Adamant Guard. It would serve as a vessel, and the demonslayer would not escape the Sifter a second time. The demonslayer had allies, the stormdancer and the djinni-touched bearer of the ancient Maatish weapon, but they lacked the power to stop the Sifter.

The ifrit examined the lines of destiny in the city around it, their cords charged with power and fate and potentiality.

It realized it could not find the demonslayer.

For a moment it was puzzled. Surely she had not been killed in the interim? If she had, her destiny line would still be visible, if terminated. But it was as if her thread had simply vanished…

Understanding came. The demonslayer had concealed herself. Such spells and tools existed among the mortals. They were effective…but they were short-lived.

The Sifter was immortal.

Even if the demonslayer had vanished, her warping effect upon the destiny lines of Istarinmul was still visible, and the Sifter could still find her. It would take time, but time meant nothing to the ifrit.

In the end, Caina Amalas would burn in its power…and the feast would be all the sweeter.

The Sifter left the plaza behind and started hunting.

Chapter 8: Mathematically Pleasing

“Here,” said Caina, climbing from the sewer grate and into the alley.

“We haven’t gone far,” said Morgant. “This is the Cyrican Quarter.”

“Where was that tenement you burned down?” said Kylon.

“I didn’t burn down anything,” said Morgant. “The cellar was made of bricks. Bricks don’t burn, Kyracian. They might have neglected to mention that during your upbringing.” He shrugged. “Though I suppose that cellar is going to smell like burnt pork for quite some time.”

“That was the Anshani Quarter,” said Caina, stepping out of the alley and looking around the street. Night had fallen, and the street was deserted. Rows of shops stood on either side of the street, two and three stories tall, and Caina smelled wood smoke and heated metal.

“The street of the metalworkers,” said Morgant, looking around. “Are we going to see a goldsmith?”

“A locksmith, actually,” said Caina, starting forward. Kylon and Morgant fell in behind her.

“A locksmith, then?” said Morgant. “Well, that will certainly be effective against the Sifter. At least until it melts the locks.”

“No,” said Caina, not looking back. “A chain and a lock for your mouth, to shut you up.”

Morgant laughed. “See, Kyracian! Just as well that she isn’t your lover. Her tongue could strip the paint from a wall. You wouldn’t want her to touch you with it.”

Caina ignored him. Morgant struck her as the sort of man who never stopped testing those around him for weakness. She had endured far worse than the jabs of an ancient assassin, and he seemed amused if she insulted him back. Hopefully Kylon would not lose his temper and kill Morgant. Once she would have thought that unlikely, but that was before Kylon had lost Thalastre.

If he did kill Morgant, Caina hoped he would wait until she had obtained the knowledge of Annarah’s fate from the assassin.

She stopped before a three-story shop and knocked.

“That,” said Morgant, “is quite an impressive door.”

It was. Most of the doors in the Cyrican Quarter were built of iron-banded planks. This door was a massive slab of solid steel, the hinges reinforced with iron braces driven into the stone wall.

“Necessarily so,” said Caina. “The locksmith in question has many enemies.”

“Plainly,” said Kylon.

A small window in the steel door slid open, and Caina saw the gleam of eyes.

“Azaces,” she said. “It’s Ciara. I need Nerina’s help.”

The eyes flicked to Kylon and Morgant.

“They’re with me,” said Caina. “They won’t make trouble for Nerina.”

The window slid closed. Metal clanked as bolts released, and the slab of a door swung open, revealing a towering man clad in the sand-colored robes and turban of the Sarbian tribesmen. He was nearly seven feet tall, his face covered in a bushy black beard, his black eyes hard in his scarred, unsmiling face. The hilt of a two-handed scimitar rose over his shoulder, and more weapons waited at his belt.

His hard eyes moved over Kylon and Morgant, and then back to Caina.

“The Exile,” said Caina, indicating Kylon, “and Markaine of Caer Marist.”

“Would you like to purchase a painting?” said Morgant.

Azaces gave him a flat look and then led them upstairs.

Most of the metalworkers and blacksmiths of the Cyrican Quarter kept their workshops on the first floor and lived in the upper levels. Nerina Strake kept her workshop on the top floor and lived on the second, using the first floor for storage. Though Caina doubted Nerina spent much time on the second floor. The woman hardly ever slept.

Perhaps sleep was insufficiently distracting from the sting of her wraithblood addiction.

Nerina’s workshop remained the single most cluttered room that Caina had ever seen. Three long wooden tables ran the room’s length, 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. A wooden cabinet, the door open, held papers secured in leather folders, and high windows looked down upon the courtyard behind the shop.

Kylon looked around, blinking, while Morgant seemed amused.

Nerina Strake herself stood at one of the tables, working on a pair of keys. She wore trousers, a loose shirt, and heavy leather boots, no doubt to make it easier to work. A leather apron hung over her gaunt form, and a set of goggles with magnifying lenses had been pushed back into her ragged red hair. Her eyes, blue and ghostly from her wraithblood addiction, narrowed with concentration, and she muttered a string of numbers to herself. She was thin to the point of gauntness, and Caina noted with concern that Nerina had lost weight since her last visit. Sometimes Nerina grew so engrossed in her work that she forgot to eat until she passed out.

Azaces grunted, and Nerina looked up.

“Ciara!” she said with a smile, using the alias Caina had given her during their first meeting. “It is good to see you. You always bring me such interesting problems.” She looked back and forth between Kylon and Morgant. “Or guests.”

“This is Markaine of Caer Marist,” said Caina, “and this man for various reasons has to call himself the Exile.”

Nerina put down her tools and took several steps forward, staring at Morgant. The assassin looked right back at her, though he seemed puzzled.

“Seventy-one,” said Nerina at last.

Caina hid a smile.

“I beg your pardon?” said Morgant.

“Perhaps that’s your age,” said Kylon. “You look older, but clearly she was being gracious.”

Morgant snorted, but Nerina shook her head.

“No, no, no,” said Nerina. “You are seventy-one inches tall.” She pointed at Caina. “See? I remembered to compensate for the boots this time. When I first met Ciara at the circus, I assumed she was sixty-eight inches tall, but I neglected to include the heels of her sandals in my calculations. She is actually sixty-six inches tall.”

“I…see,” said Morgant. For the first time the assassin seemed nonplussed.

“It’s closer to sixty-five, actually,” said Caina.

“More precise standards of measurement are required,” said Nerina. “You also weight just under one hundred and sixty pounds, minus the weight of the weapons and other items in your coat.”

“Tell me,” said Morgant. “Does wraithblood usually induce mathematical lunacy?”

Nerina let out a snorting laugh. “Of course not. Wraithblood induces visions of stunning beauty and then horrifying terror. I could tell you about them.”

“Do you…always calculate height when you met people for the first time?” said Kylon.

“Yes,” said Nerina. “I forget social mores, so this seems like an excellent way to begin conversations. You are seventy-four inches tall and about one hundred and eighty-five pounds.” She stared at him for a moment. “Also, your percentage of body fat to your overall mass is well within the range most mathematically likely to be aesthetically pleasing.”

“Thank you,” said Kylon. “I think.”

“This is Nerina Strake,” said Caina, “the best locksmith in Istarinmul.”

“Good for her,” said Morgant. “Why did you bring us here? I don’t care how complicated this madwoman can make her locks.” Azaces glared at him. “A lock won’t stop what’s after us.”

“No,” said Caina, “but this will.”

She walked to the wall. A heavy lead plate hung there, its surface carved with arcane sigils. A ring of a dozen of the plates encircled the room, and they gave off a faint aura of sorcery.

“Those are enspelled,” said Kylon. He frowned. “Faintly, though. If I try to sense them…it’s like my power just bounces off them. Like water off an oiled cloak.”

“Lead in sufficient quantities will block sorcery,” said Caina. “Lead is expensive, though, so a magus of my acquaintance came up with this.” She would trust Kylon with the knowledge that Claudia was a Ghost, but not Morgant. “Enspelled lead plates, encircling a perimeter. So long as we stay within this building, no one can find us with any tracking or divinatory spells.”

“Clever,” said Morgant, squinting at one of the plates. “I can think of a few times that would have been useful.”

“Do you fear sorcerous detection, mistress Nerina?” said Kylon.

For some reason a little color came into her face when she looked at Kylon. “Quite so, master Exile. I believe you can balance the equation yourself.”

“I was never very good at arithmetic,” said Kylon.

“Well,” said Nerina, brightening as she returned to her favorite topic, “as you have no doubt guessed, I sometimes assist Ciara in her noble work. We have had occasion to irritate a nontrivial number of powerful sorcerers. Obtaining this refuge seemed like a prudent measure to reduce the probability of painful death at the hands of our enemies. But probability dictates that you must be a sorcerer as well, if you spoke of sensing the wards upon the plates.”

“I am,” said Kylon, “though not of great power.”

“I see,” said Nerina. “We must converse at greater length upon the topic. I dislike sorcery because it refuses to behave in an orderly manner, but I suspect there is an underlying mathematical order to it that I have not yet been able to…”

“Perhaps later,” said Caina. Once Nerina began a monologue about one of her interests, she was almost impossible to stop. “We have more immediate problems.” Morgant folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. Azaces glared at him, but the assassin pretended not to notice. Likely the hulking Sarbian had decided that Morgant represented the greatest potential threat to his mistress. “I have an ifrit after me.”

“Ifriti are mythical,” said Nerina.

Morgant snorted. “Wouldn’t that be convenient?”

“One just tried to kill me,” said Caina. “So I’m certain they’re not mythical. If you do not object, Nerina, we would like to rest here for the night, and then continue on in the morning.”

“Of course,” said Nerina. “I do have food. Somewhere.” Azaces grunted and jerked his chin at the floor. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Kylon,” said Caina. “You should attend to your wounds. It would be cruel for you to survive the day of the golden dead only to perish from an infection picked up in the sewer.”

“Perhaps,” said Kylon. “But it would be no less than I deserve.”

Caina gave him a look.

He smiled a little, nodded, and pulled off his bloodstained shirt. None of the cuts looked serious, though the one across his ribs looked painful.

“That will need stitches,” said Caina.

“Azaces can help with that,” said Nerina, blinking. “He has had some practice.”

The big Sarbian nodded and opened one of the cabinets. The cabinet looked better organized than most of the workshop, and Caina suspected that Azaces kept his own supplies there. Her suspicion was confirmed when he drew out bandages, needle, and thread from the cabinet.

“Boiling wine,” said Nerina. “You shall require boiling wine. Ciara, could you help me? I need to speak with you as well.”

“Of course,” said Caina.

Nerina led her from the workshop to the ground floor. The kitchen was in the back of the house, dusty and disused. Nerina lit the stove, poured some wine into a kettle, and started to boil it.

“You need to eat more,” said Caina.

“I know,” said Nerina. “I keep forgetting. The mathematics dictate that energy in must equal or exceed energy out, but…” She shook her head and ran a thin hand through her ragged red hair. “Nothing satisfies like wraithblood, I fear.”

“You haven’t started again, have you?” said Caina.

“No,” said Nerina. “I still crave it, of course…but now that I know it is made from the blood of murdered slaves, it is much easier to resist the craving.” She shuddered, folding her arms around herself. “But the craving is still there. Even knowing the truth. The mind…I wish the human mind were as mathematically precise as reality.”

“It isn’t, though,” said Caina.

“No,” said Nerina. “Wait.” She slapped her forehead. “I had a message for you, from the Lord Ambassador of the Empire. That’s what I needed to tell you.”

“You did?” said Caina. That meant either Claudia or Martin had sent it.

“You are to beware of Cassander Nilas, the Umbarian ambassador to the Padishah,” said Nerina. “For some reason, he has stopped trying to convince the Grand Wazir to ally with the Emperor, and has decided instead to devote all his efforts to hunting you down.”

“I see,” said Caina. That explained why the Sifter had shown up out of nowhere. Likely Cassander had conjured the elemental and sent it after her.

“He knows who you really are, apparently,” said Nerina, “yet hasn’t made that knowledge public.”

“Likely he didn’t want to alarm me,” said Caina, “hoping to take me unawares.”

Nerina nodded. “But he has circulated your description among a small group of elite assassins and mercenaries, promising to assist them if they can find you.”

Caina sighed. “I’ll be careful, then.” In truth, with the enormous bounty on her head, she had to be careful no matter what she did. Sometimes it felt like she was caught in a closing trap. Caina could not return to the Empire, and no matter where she went in Istarinmul, someone would be hunting her. She could flee to Anshan or the free cities or the sultanates of Alqaarin, but abandoning Istarinmul meant that Callatas could continue his atrocities with a free hand.

She could not allow that. Not even if it cost her life.

“I’ll be more careful,” said Caina at last.

Nerina nodded. “I delivered the message. What you do with it, of course, is your concern. You’re better at the equations of spycraft than I am. And…there is one other thing I wish to ask you.”

“Of course,” said Caina.

“It is…a very precise equation,” said Nerina.

“Go on,” said Caina. “We’ve been through enough trouble together. Ask me anything.”

Nerina took a deep breath. “I think that I wish to seduce the Exile.”

It took Caina a few seconds to get her head around that. “I’m sorry?”

“I find the Exile attractive and I wish to seduce him,” said Nerina.

“I…see,” said Caina at last. She knew that Nerina had been married, though Caina had been unable to imagine the kind of man who would have been patient enough to tolerate Nerina’s eccentricities. Caina had always suspected the marriage had been a match arranged by Nerina’s father, the brutal slave trader Ragodan Strake. Yet Nerina had obviously loved her husband Malcolm. His murder had broken Nerina, had driven her further into wraithblood addiction. “May I ask why?”

“I find his proportions to be mathematically pleasing,” said Nerina.

“Well, yes,” said Caina. “They are at that. But you only just met him. He…”

“Oh,” said Nerina, her eerie eyes growing wide. “Oh, I didn’t realize. Social mores.” She slapped her forehead again. “I didn’t realize it.”

“Realize what?” said Caina, rubbing her jaw. Gods, but it had been a taxing day.

“That he was yours,” said Nerina.

“Mine?” said Caina.

“Your lover,” said Nerina.

“No!” said Caina, her temper starting to slip a little. “Why does everyone…” She forced herself back to calm. “Why do you think that?”

“Because you trust him,” said Nerina. “You do not trust anyone, Ciara. I have known you for exactly one year, six months, two weeks, and three days, but you have never told me your real name. I understand that, since it is one more variable in the equation of maintaining your disguise. Yet on the balance of probability, I think the Exile knows your real name, and more about you than anyone else in Istarinmul.” She thought for a moment. “You…seem to relax around him.”

“I knew him from before,” said Caina. “Before I was banished to Istarinmul. We…did things together.”

Nerina raised a single red eyebrow.

Caina scowled. “Not like that. We went into danger together.”

“Danger as bad as when we went to the netherworld?” said Nerina.

“Yes,” said Caina. “Some of it was even worse than that.” The day of the golden dead had been, certainly. Or when they had gone into Caer Magia to stop Rhames from claiming the Ascendant Bloodcrystal. “I never thought I would see him again…and then I ran into him today. Why do you want to seduce him? Do you want to get married again?”

“Not particularly,” said Nerina. “Malcolm was…special. He understood me. I don’t think anyone else ever could. But the Exile is mathematically pleasing to look upon.” She shrugged. “And I miss the physical sensation of intercourse.”

“Ah,” said Caina. “Then you and Azaces…” She had wondered why Azaces had stayed loyal to Nerina for so long, and the possibility that they shared a bed had crossed Caina’s mind, unlikely as it seemed.

“Azaces?” said Nerina, wrinkling her nose. “No. He’s like an uncle. One I didn’t hate, anyway. He goes to one of the taverns by the Cyrican Harbor twice a week. I think he has a woman there. Or hires one.” She shrugged. “He can do as he wishes. He has been very kind to me. After Malcolm was murdered, I…did not do very well. The only reason I did not kill myself through wraithblood was Azaces.”

“The Exile,” said Caina. “His wife was murdered in front of him, and he couldn’t save her.”

“Oh,” said Nerina. “Like me. Like you.” Caina had told Nerina some of what had happened to Corvalis, but not all of it.

“I was never married,” said Caina.

“But you still had a loss,” said Nerina. “Your equation was unbalanced.”

“Yes,” said Caina. “I think…I think you shouldn’t seduce the Exile for now, Nerina. He blames himself for what happened to his wife. He’s still mourning for her.”

“The mourning is never removed from the equation,” said Nerina. “One learns to add other variables to balance it.”

“Perhaps,” said Caina. “But I don’t think the Exile would respond well. If you did seduce him, he would blame himself, feel that he had betrayed his wife.”

“Your assessment of the equation is likely correct,” said Nerina. “Perhaps it was a foolish impulse.”

“Probably. What if you had gotten pregnant?” said Caina.

“That would have added a great many variables to numerous equations,” said Nerina.

There was an understatement.

Caina was relieved that she had talked Nerina out of it. Kylon had been a Kyracian High Seat, and Thalastre had a gracious and beautiful noblewoman, one eager to bear children for him. Nerina was Caina’s friend, but she would not have been a good match for Kylon, not even as a mistress. Despite Morgant’s mockery, Caina would not have been a good match for him, either. She admired and trusted him, but he had wanted children. Caina could not have them, not for him or any other man.

In truth, Caina would not have been a good match for anyone, not with so many enemies hunting for her life. Even if she abandoned Istarinmul and the Ghosts tomorrow, she could never have children, and most men wanted children to carry on their name. Corvalis had not cared…but like Malcolm, he had been a rare man. Now that he was dead, perhaps the part of Caina’s life when she could actually share her life with a man was over.

“I am sorry,” said Nerina.

Caina blinked, shaking off the dark thoughts. “What for? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I am not very good at this sort of talk,” said Nerina. “So mathematically imprecise. But you looked very sad.”

“Memories,” said Caina. She forced a smile. “Though if you want to seduce someone, there’s always Markaine.”

Nerina shuddered at that. “By the Living Flame, no. That man is…uncanny.”

“Uncanny?” said Caina. “That is probably the least mathematical word I have ever heard you use.”

“Is he really Markaine of Caer Marist, the painter?” said Nerina.

“You know of him,” said Caina, surprised. “I didn’t think you enjoyed art.”

“I do not,” said Nerina. “It has no mathematical utility. Especially paintings. Sculptures, though…assuming they adhere to proper ratios and proportions, sculptures can be quite pleasing.” She smiled. “Like the Exile.”

“We are wandering from the topic again,” said Caina. Nerina had a knack for it. “How did you know about Markaine?”

“My father liked his paintings,” said Nerina. Her voice took a flat, cold tone whenever she discussed Ragodan Strake. “Rather a lot. Markaine himself…he’s too thin. He looks like a big gray spider in a black coat.”

“You’re not wrong,” said Caina. She looked at the kettle. “Wine’s boiling.”

“Oh, good,” said Nerina. “Thirty-seven seconds sooner than I estimated.”

They took the kettle back to the workshop. Kylon sat on one of the stools, his face expressionless as Azaces bandaged the minor wounds on his arm. The towering man worked with surprising gentleness, and Caina found herself wondering what he had done before becoming Ragodan Strake’s slave. Morgant prowled around the workshop, hands tucked into the small of his back, scrutinizing the various devices.

“If you steal anything,” said Nerina, passing the kettle to Azaces, “it is one hundred percent certain that I shall have Azaces kill you.”

“Ah,” said Morgant. “But is it one hundred percent certain that he will kill me?”

Azaces growled.

Morgant laughed. “Peace. I am a painter, not a thief.” He gestured at Caina. “Your friend the Balarigar, she’s the thief.”

“I know you are a painter,” said Nerina. “My father was quite fond of your work.”

“A man of taste, then,” said Morgant.

“He was a cruel monster and I’m glad he is dead,” said Nerina.

“Well,” said Morgant. “No one is perfect.”

Azaces washed out the gash over Kylon’s ribs with the boiling wine and stitched it closed. The process looked excruciatingly painful. Kylon did not cry out or even groan, but from time to time a muscle twitched in his jaw, his hands balling into fists. At last Azaces grunted and straightened up.

“Thank you,” said Kylon, retrieving his shirt.

Azaces inclined his head and resumed his usual place by the door, silent and impassive.

“Now what?” said Kylon. “The Sifter will not have abandoned its hunt.”

“You and Markaine will wait here,” said Caina. “The Sifter saw us together, so it might decide to track you. For that matter, Malik Rolukhan might be able to track you with a spell. So long as you are here, neither Rolukhan nor the Sifter can find you.”

“That assumes you shall not be here,” said Morgant. “Where are you going?”

“To get a few things I’ll need to defeat the Sifter,” said Caina.

“By yourself?” said Kylon, frowning.

“They’re in a location that has similar wards,” said Caina. “It’s not far from here. If I get there quickly, I can shelter behind the wards and return here.” She shrugged. “If I’m not back by noon tomorrow, you can assume that I’m dead and do as you wish. If I do return with the items, we’ll meet an ally who might be able to help us banish the Sifter.”

“No,” said Kylon.

Morgant snorted. “You have a better plan, Kyracian?”

“I do not,” said Kylon, “but you should not go alone. Not with the Sifter pursuing you, and not with the price upon your head. If you are attacked you will need aid.”

Caina opened her mouth, and then closed it again. He wasn’t wrong. Yet the items Caina needed were in the Sanctuary, and she was the only one in Istarinmul who knew where it was. Not even Agabyzus knew, and he knew more of the Ghost circle’s secrets than anyone but Caina herself.

Just how much did she trust Kylon?

She remembered Marsis, Catekharon, Caer Magia, New Kyre…

“Let’s go,” said Caina.

Chapter 9: Exiles

Kylon followed Caina into the street, trying to ignore the pain in his side. The towering Sarbian had done a good job with the stitches, but they still hurt. Nevertheless, he had been hurt worse.

He deserved to be hurt worse.

Caina walked in silence. Her robe was damaged from the fighting, but it was dark, so that was all right. She moved with confidence through the darkness. Her emotional sense had not changed, the usual icy focus over a hard core of old anger and hate, but this time there was something else in it…

Uncertainty?

That seemed odd.

Suddenly she stopped, surprise going through her emotional sense.

Kylon drew his sword. “What is it?” He sensed no one nearby, but…

“Wait,” said Caina. “Wait, wait, wait. I’m an idiot.”

“I’m sorry?” said Kylon.

She turned to face him. “How did Rolukhan and Ikhardin know to find you at the Ring of Cyrica?”

Kylon shrugged. “I fought there before. Presumably one of them saw me.”

“Or they had you followed,” said Caina. “Where are you staying?”

“The Inn of the Crescent Moon,” said Kylon, and Caina laughed. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” said Caina. “It…just all started there. I joined the circus at the Inn of the Crescent Moon.”

“Circus?” said Kylon. Nerina Strake had said something about that.

A rare smile flashed over Caina’s face. “I disguised myself as Natalia of the Nine Knives. I put on a skimpy costume and threw knives at a terrified coffee merchant.”

Kylon laughed. “I would have liked to have seen that.” She tilted her head, and Kylon felt a flicker of embarrassment. Then Thalastre flashed through his thoughts, and the embarrassment turned to guilt. “I meant…”

“No,” said Caina. “If this goes wrong, we might both have to join the circus to hide. But if you’re staying at the Inn of the Crescent Moon, I expect that means the Kindred have someone there watching you. That means we can inconvenience them.”

“We can kill…no,” said Kylon. “You want to feed them false information.”

“As much as their heads will hold,” said Caina. “If they’re busy chasing their tails, we’ll have a clear shot at the Sifter. If we survive the Sifter, we’ll have a better chance against Malik Rolukhan if he doesn’t see us coming.”

“Then you will help me against him?” said Kylon.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” said Caina. “Even if you had never come to Istarinmul, I likely would have dealt with him sooner or later. He’s one of Callatas’s lieutenants, and he likely has control of one or more of the remaining wraithblood laboratories.”

Kylon nodded. He had come to Istarinmul to kill Rolukhan and Cassander. With Caina’s help, he had a better chance of succeeding, of avenging Thalastre and all the others that the Red Huntress had murdered.

And then…

A cold emptiness tugged at him.

Once had avenged Thalastre, what would he do then? He had no family left, no home, no purpose beyond vengeance…

He pushed aside the thought. He could worry about it later, assuming he actually survived to worry about it.

“What did you have in mind?” said Kylon.

“Did you ever want to be an actor?” said Caina.

“We’re going to join the circus?” said Kylon.

“Better,” said Caina. “We’re going to put on a play.”

###

“Get out of my way!” roared Caina in her disguised voice.

She stormed past the footmen at the doors of the Inn of the Crescent Moon and into the richly furnished common room. Each table had its own gleaming brass lantern, with more hanging from the high ceiling. A balcony of polished wood encircled the room, and the floor had been worked in an elaborate mosaic showing a pair of Istarish noblemen hunting tigers in the Kaltari Highlands. A score of merchants, both Istarish and foreign, sat throughout the room, eating their dinners while scowling bodyguards stood watch.

All of them stared up at her in surprise.

“Sir,” murmured one of the footmen, reaching for a steel-shod cudgel at his belt. “You…”

Kylon sat at a table, his face grim, nursing a glass of wine. He shot to his feet as Caina approached, his eyes so wide with feigned surprise it was almost comical. Actually, it was comical, but the observers didn’t know that. And Caina was sure that at least some of the merchants were informants for the Teskilati or the Kindred.

“You!” roared Caina. She pointed at him, letting her damaged robe flare around her dramatically. “That man seduced my wife! Arrest him! This…this Kyracian dog seduced my wife!”

A chorus of laughs went up from the merchants.

Kylon backed away, putting on a mask of fear.

“Kyracian dog!” said Caina, shaking a fist at him. “I’ll teach you to touch my wife!”

Kylon ran for the kitchens, and Caina followed him. They dashed through the kitchens, into the courtyard, and then the stables. Kylon vaulted over the courtyard wall, and Caina followed suit. She chased him through the alleys, still bellowing curses and imprecations.

Several blocks later, Kylon came to a stop, and Caina stopped as well. Kylon doubled over, and Caina feared that he had injured himself, that he had torn his stitches.

But he was laughing.

“Did you see their faces?” said Kylon.

“Aye,” said Caina, and she felt herself smile. “Rumor will spread that the Exile fled from an angry husband. The Kindred will look in the wrong places, and we’ll have a chance to catch Rolukhan off guard.”

Kylon nodded, his mirth fading into his usual grim look. “We should get off the streets.”

“Aye,” said Caina. “This way. It’s not far.”

They walked in silence through the alleys.

“I wish to ask you something,” said Kylon.

“Certainly,” said Caina. “What is it?”

“The Red Huntress,” said Kylon. “What…happened when you faced her?”

She did not want to talk about the Red Huntress, yet Caina suspected that Kylon needed to hear it. Kalgri had murdered his wife, and Kylon had thought the Huntress dead at his hand. That would have given him at least a modicum of comfort as the grief and guilt gnawed at his heart and mind. Caina knew those feelings all too well. She would have ripped the world apart to take vengeance on the Moroaica for Corvalis’s death, yet the girl who had once been Malifae of Maat had died in truth long before Caina had even been born.

So Caina had taken out her grief upon the Brotherhood of Slavers instead.

“She…was hunting me,” said Caina in a low voice. “I didn’t realize it at first. I had robbed Callatas himself earlier, with the aid of some allies. So he sent the Huntress to kill me.” She shook her head. “I thought the Umbarians had hired her to kill Lord Martin.”

“How did you defeat her?” said Kylon.

“Barely,” said Caina. “I found a weapon called a valikon, a sword forged by the loremasters of Iramis specifically to destroy nagataaru. It was in a monastery in the Kaltari Highlands, and the Huntress caught me there. We wounded her with the valikon, Claudia hit her with a banishment spell, and Lord Martin shot her with a ballista.”

“A ballista?” said Kylon.

“Right through the stomach,” said Caina. “It threw her over the edge of the cliff, and she ripped in half when the bolt struck the side of the rock. It was a thousand feet to the valley below.”

“Do you think she’s truly dead, then?” said Kylon. His voice was calm, but she saw his sword hand clenching and unclenching.

“No,” said Caina at last. “I suspected she might have been able to return, but after talking to you, I’m sure of it. I’ve seen you fight, Kylon. If you thought she was dead…”

“Thalastre hit her with a lightning bolt,” said Kylon. “At the apex of the Tower of Kardamnos. In the last moment before the Huntress took off her head.” He shook his head. “I opened the Huntress’s throat with the shard of my sword, stabbed her in the heart, and threw her from the apex of the Tower. Four hundred feet to the street.”

“But you never found her body,” said Caina, “did you?”

“No,” said Kylon. “There was a canal in the street. I thought the corpse might have been washed out to the harbor. Did you find her body?”

“I tried,” said Caina, “but I couldn’t. It was a thousand feet from the monastery to the valley floor. She was clever, Kylon. She found a coffee house I frequent, got herself hired as a worker there, and watched me for months. She knew almost everything about me. She should have killed me. If I had not happened to turn my head at the last possible second, she would have shot me through the heart.”

“Then I suppose I failed you, too,” said Kylon, his voice hoarse.

“What do you mean?” said Caina. “You didn’t fail me. You don’t owe me anything.”

“If I had killed the Huntress in New Kyre,” said Kylon, “she wouldn’t have been able to attack you here. I thought I had killed her. I thought…I didn’t save Thalastre, but at least I had avenged her. Now I see that I have failed at even that.”

He stopped and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Caina hesitated, and then very, very slowly reached out and touched his arm.

His eyes opened, full of pain and regret.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you cannot blame yourself. The Red Huntress killed Thalastre, not you. I know this sounds like empty words, but…”

“But you have lived them, so you understand,” said Kylon. “But there is one thing I have in common with Corvalis that you do not.”

“What’s that?” said Caina.

“He died to protect you, didn’t he?” said Kylon. “He would have found it intolerable to live if you had been killed.”

Caina said nothing for a moment.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I wish that I had been able to follow his example,” said Kylon. “I wish I could have died protecting Thalastre. But I failed to save her, as I failed to save Andromache. So I must content myself with avenging her, even if it brings my death.”

“She wouldn’t have wanted you to die, Kylon,” said Caina. “It took me a year to understand that. All the stories about the Balarigar, all those things I did…I was trying to get myself killed. I had good reasons for terrorizing the slavers and trying to stop Callatas, but a death wish was part of why I did it.” She shook her head. “Claudia got me to understand. Corvalis wouldn’t have wanted me to get myself killed. That’s…the last thing I’ll ever be able to do for him, really. To live.”

Kylon was silent for a while.

“There…may be wisdom to that,” he said. “I will think on what you have said.”

“It’s the sort of lesson that can’t be learned,” said Caina. “It has to be lived.”

“I suppose so,” said Kylon. He laughed.

“What?” said Caina.

“I am a fool, you know,” said Kylon. “Standing here speaking of my woes while powerful enemies hunt us both. I suppose that would be the final irony, if we were both slain while I was ruminating upon my grief like a weepy child.”

“I, for one, would prefer if the story did not end that way,” said Caina. “Let’s go.”

Kylon nodded, started forward, and stumbled, leaning upon the wall.

“What is it?” said Caina. Had the weapons of the Kindred assassins or the Adamant Guards been poisoned? If they had been coated with a slow-acting venom, the poison might have just taken effect.

“Just dizzy for a moment,” said Kylon. “I’m fine.”

“Of course,” said Caina. He was just exhausted. Today he had fought a match in the Ring of Cyrica, battled Kindred assassins, fought off Adamant Guards, and run a long distance, all while drawing on the power of his sorcery. Suddenly she felt her own fatigue pressing down upon her. “We’re almost there.”

Caina led him through the alleys and the back streets until they came to the deserted courtyard behind the House of Agabyzus. The dry fountain with its dedication plaque stood there. Caina looked around, made sure that they were unobserved, and then unlocked and opened the hidden door in the fountain.

“You live under a fountain?” said Kylon, bemused.

“Only occasionally,” said Caina. Pale light rose from the small entrance, revealing a ladder descending into the earth. “I mostly store things here. I try to sleep someplace different every night, given how many people are hunting me.”

“Sensible,” said Kylon.

“Go down first,” said Caina. “I’ll close the door behind us.”

Kylon nodded and descended, and Caina closed and locked the door behind them.

The Sanctuary of the Ghosts of Istarinmul was a large vaulted chamber, the ceiling supported by thick pillars. Glowing glass globes, enspelled by the Magisterium, stood upon iron stands and threw out a pale light that revealed a half-dozen long tables. One held weapons, another tools and half-assembled locks and mechanical traps, the third a variety of herbs and elixirs. A wooden wardrobe stored a wide variety of clothing, for nobles and commoners alike, and another table held a mirror and a set of cosmetics. More of the enspelled lead plates had been fixed to the pillars, shielding the chamber from sorcerous observation.

That was necessary, given some of the objects Caina stored here.

“Large place,” said Kylon.

“I think it’s been here for centuries,” said Caina. “The Ghosts have used it for a long time. The Teskilati wiped out the Ghost circle after Tanzir Shahan negotiated peace with the Emperor, but they never found this place. Right now I’m the only one who knows where it is.”

“And me, now,” said Kylon. He hesitated. “Thank you for the trust you have shown me.”

“Given that the Sifter would have killed me if I hadn’t found you today,” said Caina, “I ought to thank you, not the other way around.”

“Your friend Nerina,” said Kylon, changing the subject. Likely he had grown weary of talking about himself. “Will she be safe with Morgant?”

“She will,” said Caina. “Azaces is with her.”

“He might be a capable fighter,” said Kylon, “but Morgant has that dagger.”

“I doubt Morgant will do anything,” said Caina. “He’s playing a game with me. He wants to see if I’m worthy to entrust with his great secret, whatever the hell it is. Nerina and I are friends, but both she and Azaces are Ghosts. If he kills them or even hurts them, he knows I will never forgive that.”

“His two rules,” said Kylon, a bit of scorn in his voice. “He never kills anyone who doesn’t deserve it. Surely a mad locksmith and her bodyguard do not deserve death.”

“No,” said Caina. “And Azaces is mute. He had his tongue cut out some years ago, probably Ragodan Strake’s work. Thankfully, Nerina is nothing like her father.”

“So what does Azaces being mute have to do with anything?” said Kylon.

“He can’t read or write, either,” said Caina. “So people talk to him. Rather more freely than they should.” She grinned. “It’s something we’ve used before, actually. Azaces is quite clever about it. Perhaps he’ll get Morgant to say more than he should.”

“I suppose it is worth a try,” said Kylon, though he sounded dubious.

Caina shrugged. “A long shot, to be sure, but one without risk. Meanwhile, you need rest.” She walked to an alcove off the Sanctuary’s main room. A row of cots lay there, along with blankets. “You can sleep here.”

“You thought of everything,” said Kylon.

“Well, I can’t take the credit,” said Caina. “It was here when I moved in.”

Kylon lay down on one of the cots with a sigh. “I assume you have a plan?”

“Aye,” said Caina. “The items I’ll need to deal with the Sifter are here. We’ll take them and visit another ally of mine, a man who calls himself Nasser. He will know more, and together we can plan an ambush for the Sifter when it finds me again.”

A faint rasping noise came to her ears. Caina spun, reaching for her ghostsilver dagger, wondering if foes had found the Sanctuary.

But it was only Kylon. He had already fallen asleep.

Caina gazed down at him. She wished he hadn’t been forced to come to Istarinmul. She wished he was still in New Kyre with his wife. She wished he had never encountered the Red Huntress.

Yet, no matter how dire circumstances, she was glad to see him again.

Caina stooped, picked up a folded blanket, and covered him with it. He did not stir. She stepped out of the alcove, drew the curtain closed, and walked into the Sanctuary’s main room.

Tomorrow she would find the Sifter and destroy it, and Morgant would tell her how to find Annarah and stop the Apotheosis.

It sounded so simple.

Caina knew it would not go that easily.

She found another cot, shrugged out of her heavy robe, and went to sleep.

Chapter 10: Destiny

In her sleep, Caina saw a dream she had dreamed before.

Once more she stood on the dry, dead plain of the Desert of Candles. Yet it was not dead, not yet. It was the most fertile farmland she had seen in Istarinmul, rich with growing crops. The city of Iramis rose beyond, standing at the edge of the Alqaarin Sea. It was a beautiful city, its walls wrought of gold-colored stone, its gates surrounded with intricate statues, tall white towers rising within.

The vision blurred, and Caina found herself standing on a hill overlooking the plain.

She turned her head, knowing what would happen next.

Callatas, Grand Master of the College of Alchemists, stood nearby. He had the gauntness of the ascetic, the slightly stooped posture of a man who had spent long hours bent over books and scrolls. He had deep-set gray eyes, the hard line of his jaw and chin shaded by a close-cropped beard. He looked like a scholarly, even grandfatherly, old man, but Caina knew better. He was centuries old, and Master Alchemists extended their lives with the use of Elixir Rejuvenata produced from the ashes of unborn children.

Though on the day he had destroyed Iramis, Caina did not know how old he had been. Perhaps no more than fifty, though his alchemical sorcery had kept him from aging much.

Callatas lifted a glowing blue gemstone the size of a fist, its sides rough and uncut. Tremendous arcane power radiated from the stone, sorcery strong enough to rip mountains apart. It was the Star of Iramis, and along with the Staff and the Seal, one of the three instruments of power that Callatas needed to cast the Apotheosis. Caina didn’t know what the Star was or how it worked, but she knew it was a relic of tremendous power.

The Grand Master lifted the Star, the gem burning brighter in his fist.

And Iramis burned.

Fire erupted from the city, consuming the walls and the towers in a colossal storm of raging flame. The inferno rolled across the plains, turning the fertile fields into smoking, lifeless ash. The crystal pillars Caina had seen in her earlier dreams of the Desert rose from the earth, rough and irregular, shining with the same pale blue glow as the Star in Callatas’s hand. The ground heaved and shook, and a terrible storm roiled through the sky overhead. Caina watched as Iramis died, as the farmlands withered into the Desert of Candles in the grip of Callatas’s terrible spell.

“Behold,” murmured a voice, a sardonic drawl that Caina had come to know quite well.

The world shifted around her, and suddenly she stood at the edge of the plain, gazing up at Callatas’s hill. People fled from the farms, all of them running to the west in an effort to get away from the firestorm Callatas had unleashed. The Iramisians, Caina remembered, had not used slaves, had forbidden the practice in the Prince’s lands. Perhaps that was why Callatas hated them so much.

One of the figures at the edge of the plain was not moving, a thin man in the brown robe and turban of the nomadic tribes of the Trabazon steppes. His face was lean, and he stared up at the hill with stunned surprise in his pale blue eyes.

Morgant. He looked exactly the same as the man Caina had met earlier today. Yet here he somehow seemed…younger, far younger. Not as old and hard and weathered.

“Yes,” murmured the drawling voice.

The world shifted around her again, and Caina stood in the bleak, barren plain of the Desert of Candles itself, the wind moaning past her like a chorus of damned souls. Thousands of the blue crystal pillars rose around her, rough and jagged, their inner glow seeming to flicker in time to the moan of the wind. Caina had seen this place before, though never in the flesh.

The fountain was new, though.

An enormous fountain of white marble stood nearby, its basin thirty yards across. The moaning wind blew dust and grit past it, yet the fountain remained pristine, untouched by erosion, though no water bubbled within it. A wide stone plinth rose within the fountain, and upon it stood eight statues wrought of the same blue crystal as the jagged pillars. Seven of the statues were children, and the eighth was a woman of stunning beauty, clad in an ornamented gown. Her expression was tight and hard, her hair thrown back from her head as if caught in a wind. Her arms were thrust before her, as if to ward something away.

The statues were fashioned with unearthly skill. Caina could almost feel the terror of the children, the woman’s grim determination to protect them.

“The star is the key to the crystal,” murmured Caina, repeating the words that had haunted her ever since she had first heard them in the netherworld. “The star is the key to the crystal.”

“It is,” said the drawling, sardonic voice, and Caina turned

Kylon of House Kardamnos walked toward her, but not as she had seen him today. He looked as he had the first day they had met during the battle of Marsis, the day he had tried to kill her and she had tried to kill him. He wore the gray leather armor of a stormdancer, a blue-green cloak the color of the sea streaming from his shoulders. His sword of storm-forged steel hung at his belt, ready to kill. His eyes…

His eyes were wrought of smokeless flame, piercing and hot.

“Samnirdamnus,” said Caina, speaking the djinni’s name.

Samnirdamnus, djinni of the court of the Azure Sovereign, the Knight of Wind and Air, offered a mocking smile through Kylon’s face. “My darling demonslayer. It has been too long.”

“Silent Ash Temple,” said Caina. “The day we found the valikon and fought the Huntress. That was months ago. I thought you had forgotten me.” Not that she would have minded. Samnirdamnus had aided her more than once. Yet Callatas had bound Samnirdamnus, and she was not sure why the djinni had taken an interest in her.

“I made sure to forget you,” said Samnirdamnus. “You rather annoyed Callatas when you slew the Huntress. He gets terribly annoyed every time she is slain, and he called up many spirits to locate you. He even diverted me from his Maze to try and find you. Of course, I had forgotten your location, so I could not report it to the Grand Master.” He made Kylon’s shoulders shrug. “Alas.”

“Sophistry,” said Caina.

Samnirdamnus smirked in a way that Kylon himself never had. “Between my kind and yours, my darling demonslayer, there is not the spirit of the law, merely its letter. If the Grand Master wished me to act otherwise, he should worded his request more carefully.”

“Truly,” said Caina. She considered him for a moment. “Why appear to me wearing Kylon’s face?”

Again the djinni shrugged. “I have appeared to you wearing many forms. Your mortal mind cannot comprehend my reality, so I therefore construct a form.”

“Fine,” said Caina. “You’ve never…constructed Kylon’s form.”

“The constructed form is based upon the forefront of your subconscious mind,” said Samnirdamnus. “Presumably Kylon is currently in your thoughts. It seems your latent attraction to him is much stronger than you…”

“Or,” said Caina, “he saw his wife murdered in front of him by the Huntress, who also tried to kill me. Perhaps that is why he is in my thoughts.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Samnirdamnus.

“Why are you here now?” said Caina.

“Because,” said Samnirdamnus. “It seems increasingly likely that you are the one I have sought.”

“Fine,” said Caina. “Don’t tell me the real reason.”

Kylon’s face raised an eyebrow. “I just did.”

“You and Morgant,” said Caina, remembering the assassin’s story of the djinni he had freed. “You would have a lot in common. You both enjoy games with words.”

“So do you,” said Samnirdamnus.

“One day I’ll get a straight answer out of you and the world will crack in two,” said Caina. “Tell me this, if you can. Did Morgant truly encounter a djinni? Is that why he’s still alive after a century in a half?”

“An occultist of Anshan,” said Samnirdamnus, “did a favor for Callatas. In return, Callatas bound a djinni of the Azure Court for him, and the occultist used it to kill his victims. Eventually the occultist sent his slave against Morgant, and he freed her and slew the occultist. In repayment, the djinni granted him long life.” His smirk returned. “A gift, yes…but also a tool for the Azure Court. Ensuring that Morgant would still be alive when the time came to keep his word.”

“And what time is that?” said Caina.

“Why, the time when I find the one I have sought,” said Samnirdamnus. “Perhaps you are the one.”

“Clear as mud. As ever,” said Caina. She shrugged. “Can you tell me where the Staff and Seal are?”

“I cannot,” said Samnirdamnus. “For I do not know. In all of eternity, in all of the cosmos, the only one who knows where the Staff and Seal of Iramis are hidden is Annarah, the last loremaster of Iramis. She hid them so well that not even the great elemental princes of the netherworld can find them.”

“So where is Annarah?” said Caina.

“The only one who knows,” said Samnirdamnus, “is Morgant the Razor.”

“Fine.” Caina sighed. “So I play Morgant’s game, and if I win it, he tells me what happened to Annarah, and if I find her, then I can hopefully locate the Staff and Seal before Callatas.”

“You summarize the matter with admirable logic,” said Samnirdamnus.

“I knew all this already,” said Caina. “Worked it out on my own with that logic you allegedly admire so much. So why are you speaking to me now? Not just to tell me things I already know, I assume.”

“Perhaps I simply wished to enjoy a conversation,” said Samnirdamnus. “Callatas lacks your skill as a conversationalist, alas.”

“No,” said Caina. “There’s always a reason.” She thought for a moment. “That little speech you gave at Silent Ash Temple when I was about to let Kalgri kill me. It gave me the idea to work with Claudia, to use her spells in the battle. I never would have thought of it otherwise.”

“Perhaps you have put your hatred of sorcery behind you,” said Samnirdamnus.

“It’s not my favorite thing,” said Caina.

“Nor will it ever be,” said Samnirdamnus. “Yet you overcame enough of your hatred to work with the Lord Ambassador’s wife. You overcame it enough to see me appear in the form of Kylon.”

“What does Kylon have to do with anything?” said Caina.

The djinni smirked. “The form your mind constructs is based upon your thoughts, not mine. You hate sorcerers, Caina Amalas of the Ghosts, and Kylon is a sorcerer. Not a strong one, true, but still a sorcerer. Yet you think of him favorably enough, are attracted to him enough…”

“For the gods’ sake,” said Caina. “The poor man is widowed.”

Samnirdamnus continued as if she had not spoken. “Enough that you construct my form based upon your thoughts of him. A man from your past who has returned to your present. Perhaps you should think further upon your past.”

“Why?” said Caina, cautious. She suspected Samnirdamnus was coming, at last, to his point.

“Who shaped your past?” said Samnirdamnus.

“My father,” said Caina.

“Until he was murdered,” said Samnirdamnus. “Who made you what you are?”

“Halfdan,” said Caina, a bitter pang of grief going through her at the mention of her teacher, murdered in Marsis by Sicarion. Gods, but she hated Marsis.

“Halfdan was the second step upon your path,” said Samnirdamnus. “He shaped you into what you are today…but the fuel of your hate came from somewhere else. Who gave it to you?”

She felt a chill. “Maglarion.”

“The necromancer,” said Samnirdamnus. “The first foe, but not the last, you would overcome. Yet he, too, was shaped. Who created him? Who taught him?”

Her chill got worse. “Jadriga. The Moroaica. The creature who was once a girl named Malifae.”

“Indeed,” said Samnirdamnus. “How do you know so much about her?”

“She was my enemy,” said Caina. “She killed Corvalis.”

“And she wept over his corpse,” said Samnirdamnus. “Why?”

“Because she had all my memories,” said Caina. “She had been in my head for a year, and had a copy of my memories.”

“She possessed you, then,” said Samnirdamnus.

“Yes,” said Caina.

“Then why are you not the Moroaica?” said Samnirdamnus. “Why does she still not wear your flesh as you might wear a gown?”

“Because she possessed me, could see through my eyes and hear through my ears,” said Caina, “but she could not control me.” She frowned. “Is that what you wanted me to remember?”

“Do you not know how rare that is?” said Samnirdamnus. “Maglarion’s spells scarred your flesh and gave you the sensitivity to sorcery that you carry to this day. Yet it also scarred your soul, fractured and marked your aura. A wound, yes…but one with a blessing Maglarion did not intend. You can be possessed, but you cannot be controlled. Not by the spirit of a mortal necromancer, not by the spirit of an undead creature like the Moroaica…”

She followed his train of thought. “And not by an elemental spirit? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

“Tell you?” said Samnirdamnus. “I tell you nothing. Merely conversing, that is all.” Kylon’s smirk widened, the eyes of smokeless flame flashing brighter. “What conclusions you draw from this conversation…well, I cannot control that, can I?”

He beckoned, and the dream ended.

Caina sat up on her cot, breathing hard, and looked around the Sanctuary. Kylon was still asleep in his alcove, and she lay back down.

Sleep did not come.

###

The Sifter stood alone in a street in the Alqaarin Quarter, observing the destiny lines that composed the totality of the city.

It still could not find the demonslayer’s destiny line. This was frustrating, but not altogether unexpected. Even a cursory glance at her destiny line, at the other threads she had crossed and defeated, confirmed that she was a clever woman. One of the threads she had defeated went back twenty-five centuries to the destruction of ancient Maat. It was a remarkable feat, especially since the demonslayer had no ability to wield arcane forces herself.

Yet she must have allies who did. The demonslayer had concealed herself from arcane observation, which meant the Sifter’s ability to perceive time and destiny could not find her. No matter. Such spells did not last forever, and the Sifter had all the time in the cosmos.

Her allies might not have such protections, and the demonslayer had been with two men. A Kyracian stormdancer, with a limited mastery of air and water sorcery. The Sifter might have feared a true stormsinger, but the stormdancer lacked such power. The second man had been…peculiar, marked by the djinn of the Azure Court, his destiny thread extended to unnatural length by their touch. He carried a weapon of significant power, but still insufficient to defeat the Sifter. Yet the stormdancer’s thread had been intertwined with that of the demonslayer for years, and the assassin’s had crossed her path. Their threads might lead the Sifter to her.

It could not find their threads, either. The Sifter hissed in annoyance, the sound coming through its stolen body’s lips. The demonslayer had concealed them as well. Annoying, but clever.

It would make consuming her all the more pleasurable.

The Sifter considered its next course of action. It inhabited a material body, which meant it could employ the senses of sight and sound and touch. Additionally, all three destiny threads, the demonslayer and the stormdancer and the assassin, had crossed and intersected many other paths. The demonslayer might have concealed herself and her two allies, but she could not possibly have concealed everyone they knew.

One of them would lead the Sifter to her. If it had to kill a score of people to find Caina Amalas…well, they were simply the appetizers before the main course.

It stood motionless for a moment, contemplating the tapestry of time and destiny that made up Istarinmul, countless threads weaving back and forth to create a totality beyond the ability of any one mind, even the Sifter’s, to comprehend. Yet there were patterns within the tapestry, if one knew where to look, and the Sifter did.

There.

A group of threads terminated when they touched the stormdancer’s and the demonslayer’s. They had killed a group of men earlier today. Yet others had fled and survived. The Sifter considered the configuration of threads. Someone was hunting for the stormdancer, and had chanced upon him when his path crossed with the demonslayer’s.

Someone was still hunting for him.

The Sifter was not adverse to the thought of someone else doing the hard work of finding Caina Amalas. Yet the thread of one of the stormdancer’s hunters was…odd. Darkened, somehow, pulsing with a harsh purple light…

A nagataaru. One of the stormdancer’s foes was possessed by a nagataaru.

The Sifter contemplated the possibilities. The ifriti and the nagataaru were not friends, but they were not necessarily enemies, either. The nagataaru feasted on pain and torment and life force, feeding it back to their mortal hosts in hopes of harvesting more. The ifriti devoured mortals as well, but consumed them in flames. For an ifrit, pain and torment were side products of the feeding, not the main point of it. Yet for all that, the nagataaru and ifriti were rival predators feeding upon the same herd. Normally the Sifter would not have considered an alliance, but Cassander’s binding compelled it to seek out and destroy the demonslayer.

The Sifter would use any tool that came to hand.

It made its way through the darkened streets of the Alqaarin Quarter. The only men upon the streets at this time of night were thieves and those with illegal business, yet they took one look at its stolen body and fled. The Sifter wore the flesh of a dead Adamant Guard, and the mortals feared the servants of the Umbarian Order. Evidently they had required a reputation.

A short walk took it to a house not far from the gate to the Alqaarin Road. Two soldiers in black plate armor stood guard at the door, their faces concealed beneath helms of black steel wrought in the likeness of grinning skulls. Their eyes glowed with a pale blue light in the depths of their helmets. The men were Immortals, the elite soldiers of the Padishah’s personal guard, created by the Alchemists of the College.

Both men drew their scimitars as the Sifter approached. It stopped a few yards away and lifted the right arm of its stolen body, crimson fire snarling around the dead fingers.

The Immortals regarded the Sifter in silence for a moment.

“Identify yourself,” said one of the Immortals.

The Sifter forced its host’s dead lips to move and form words.

“I wish to speak with your master,” said the Sifter. “I propose an alliance. I know your master hunts for a foe, and I can aid him.”

One of the Immortals went into the house, and returned a moment later.

“You will come with me,” said the Immortal.

For a moment the Sifter considered killing them both and devouring their lives to fuel its fire, but restrained itself. Diplomacy was required here. It could always return and kill them after it killed the demonslayer.

It followed the Immortal into the house. The building looked as if it had been abandoned, and likely the stormdancer’s hunters were using it as a base. Two men stood in the dusty sitting room. The first was tall and hulking, heavy with muscle, face scarred from battle. An aura of necromantic sorcery surrounded him, radiating from the bloodcrystal torque on his right arm.

The second man had a nagataaru within him.

He wore gold-trimmed white robes, spotless and immaculate. He had a gray-streaked dark beard, and looked solemn and stern. Yet the Sifter saw the nagataaru stirring within the Master Alchemist, like a snake waking from its stupor, and knew that the Master Alchemist would have acquired the spirit’s lust for violence and death.

“Master?” said the tall man, reaching for his sword.

“Silence, Ikhardin,” said the possessed man. The dark eyes regarded the Sifter for a moment. “You are not human.”

“No,” said the Sifter.

“An ifrit, a fire elemental, unless I miss my guest,” said the nagataaru’s host.

“This is correct,” said the Sifter.

“I am Malik Rolukhan,” said the white-robed man, “a Master Alchemist of the College. Since you could have attacked without warning, I assume you wish to parley?”

“This is correct,” said the Sifter again. “You hunt a man, a stormdancer of New Kyre.”

“Kylon, once of House Kardamnos,” said Rolukhan, taking a step forward. Ikhardin trailed after his master, his eyes wary, but the Master Alchemist seemed intrigued. The Sifter felt the wary curiosity of the nagataaru within Rolukhan, one lion regarding another. “Suffice to say, he should have died a year ago. He opposed our plans, and needed to be removed as a threat. New Kyre has not interfered with the Grand Master’s plans, but Kylon has sworn vengeance upon me, personally. He is coming to kill me. I wished to see him dead first,” his dark eyes strayed to Ikhardin, “though I so far have been unsuccessful.”

“The stormdancer is more dangerous than you know,” said the Sifter. “He has allied with the demonslayer.”

“Demonslayer?” said Rolukhan.

“The mortal you know as the Balarigar,” said the Sifter.

That got his attention.

Rolukhan’s face did not change, but a twitch went through his shoulders. Ikhardin’s scarred face was almost comical with surprise. Fury flooded from the nagataaru, so much fury that the Sifter feared that Rolukhan would go berserk. The nagataaru hated the demonslayer. The Sifter watched Rolukhan’s destiny line with interest. The nagataaru wanted the demonslayer dead so badly that it flooded Rolukhan’s thoughts with hatred and rage, attempting to influence his judgment.

The Sifter wondered if Rolukhan even suspected how much control the nagataaru had over him, and decided that it did not care.

“It is him, Master,” said Ikhardin. “The Balarigar himself. If what this creature says is true, we have a chance to kill him.” The Sifter felt a brief moment of confusion, and then understood. Neither Ikhardin nor Rolukhan knew that the demonslayer was in fact female. Cassander and Callatas must have kept that bit of information to themselves. “A bounty of two million bezants.”

“The money is immaterial,” said Rolukhan, though his eyes glittered with something like lust. Rolukhan might not care about the money, and the nagataaru certainly would not, but both the nagataaru and the Master Alchemist wanted the Balarigar dead. “The Grand Master has placed a great priority on the capture or death of the Balarigar. He has even offered to aid the Umbarian Order in their war against the Empire if Lord Cassander successfully kills the Balarigar…which is why I presume you are here, ifrit.”

The Sifter said nothing. The wars of mortal empires and kingdoms were of no consequence.

“If we kill the Balarigar,” said Rolukhan, “I will rise high in the Grand Master’s favor, and your Kindred family, Ikhardin, shall receive great reward. If I can rid myself of Kylon of House Kardamnos in the process, well and good. So, ifrit. If you wish to join forces to kill the Balarigar, I am amenable to the idea.”

“Very well,” said the Sifter. “On one condition.”

“Go on,” said Rolukhan.

“When we find the Balarigar, I deal the killing blow,” said the Sifter. It wanted to devour her, to incinerate her destiny line and to feast upon the released energy. “You and your servitors may claim the rewards. I care nothing for gold or honors…”

“Only death,” said Rolukhan, and the nagataaru within him seemed to hiss with agreement. Rolukhan himself might want gold and honors, but the nagataaru understood how meaningless wealth and titles were.

“Yes,” said the Sifter. “I shall devour the Balarigar. The stormdancer, too, if you wish.”

“I want them dead,” said Rolukhan. “I do not care how it happens, so long as it does. Have you a method of finding them?” He glared at Ikhardin. “Kylon evaded the Kindred at the Ring of Cyrica.”

“The Balarigar was with him then,” said the Sifter.

“The Balarigar?” said Ikhardin, astonished. “That short Imperial man? That was the Balarigar himself?”

The Sifter felt a wave of contemptuous amusement. Such fools these mortals were!

“The stormdancer and the Balarigar are together, traveling with an assassin,” said the Sifter. “You will not be able to find them. The Balarigar’s location is masked with a protective spell.”

“Such spells are finite in duration,” said Rolukhan, “or limited to a specific area. Neither the Balarigar nor the stormdancer will remain in the same place forever. When their protection ends, I assume you will be able to lead us to them?”

“I shall,” said the Sifter.

“Good,” said Rolukhan. “Ikhardin, send for my personal guard. As soon as the ifrit finds the Balarigar, we shall strike.”

Chapter 11: Rolling The Dice

Kylon’s eyes opened.

Sometimes, when he woke up, he forgot what had happened. Sometimes he thought he was still in New Kyre, in his bed in the Tower of Kardamnos with Thalastre curled besides him. Of course, she had always risen before he did. She had taken over the management of the Tower of Kardamnos with aplomb, and had not been flustered in the slightest when Kylon had invited the most prominent magistrates and Archons of the Assembly to the Tower.

The next day, she had been dead, their unborn child with her.

Sometimes he woke up and forgot that it had happened, but not today.

His side hurt too much for that, and his back and legs were stiff. He sighed and sat up, examining the stitches and the bandages. None of them looked infected. With the aid of his water sorcery, they would heal, and that would be that.

He dropped his bare feet to the cold stone floor and leaned against the cold stone wall.

At least he hadn’t had any nightmares. Sometimes he woke up three or four times a night, visions from that final awful day in New Kyre flashing through his mind. Apparently the secret to a good night’s sleep was to fight all day until he was too exhausted to dream. Though it was hardly a long-term solution.

Not that he needed a long-term solution, given that Rolukhan and the Sifter would likely kill him first. He didn’t need to live long. Just long enough to bring Rolukhan and Cassander Nilas to account for their crimes. That would likely kill him.

And then? If he survived, what then?

He thought about what Caina had said, how she had wanted to die after Corvalis had been slain. The difference was that Caina had not deserved to die. Kylon did. He had failed his nation, and more importantly, he had failed his wife and unborn child. Nothing could make that right.

He could only avenge them.

Kylon rubbed his face, the stubble rasping beneath his fingers. He really needed a shave, but if Ikhardin and Rolukhan were hunting for him, he ought to find some way of disguising himself. He thought of Caina’s false beard and laughed in silence. It would look ridiculous, but…

He shook his head. What he should do was find Caina and get to work.

Kylon got to his feet, and heard a faint grunt from the other side of the curtain. His hand shot to his sword, which stood propped up next to the bed. Were they under attack? Had the Kindred or the Teskilati found the Sanctuary? He reached out with his arcane senses, but felt only Caina’s presence. It felt like she was concentrating on something.

Curious, he pushed aside the curtain and walked into the Sanctuary.

The globes still shone upon their iron stands, and a faint smell of cinnamon came to his nostrils. Caina stood in the clear space before the far wall, wearing a loose shirt and trousers. More accurately, she was standing on her right leg, and as he watched, she raised her left leg until it was parallel with her torso, her heel over the top of her head. Then, quick as lightning, she spun on her right leg, her left leg sweeping around her, her arms blurring. She had cleaned away the false beard and the makeup, and her blue eyes and close-cropped black hair made her look stark and ethereal.

It made for a strangely compelling sight. It was like she was dancing, albeit with a precision and power one usually did not see in dancers. He realized that she was practicing her unarmed forms. He had seen her use similar movements during fights, where they had proven most effective. From what she had told him and what he had guessed, she had been a Ghost since childhood, had spent years practicing her skills.

She came out of a spin, left arm raised in a block, right arm drawn back to strike, and her cold blue gaze met his. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she lowered her arms and smiled.

“You’re awake,” said Caina.

“I…did not mean to disturb you,” said Kylon. She was breathing a little hard, a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. Sweat soaked into the loose collar of her shirt as well. He noticed the shirt was sticking to her chest, felt guilty about noticing that, and hoped that she hadn’t noticed that he was noticing it.

Gods of storm and brine. What was wrong with him?

“No,” said Caina. “I was just passing time until you woke up.”

Kylon stepped closer to her, the smell of cinnamon growing stronger “You should have awakened me at once.”

She smiled and leveled a finger at him. “And I should have let you sleep. Which I did. I’m not the one who took a half-dozen cuts yesterday, am I?” She gestured at one of the tables. “I’ve brought breakfast.”

“You came and went?” said Kylon. He hadn’t noticed. He must have been tired indeed.

“Just after dawn,” said Caina. A plate sat on one of the tables, holding a pair of small cakes covered in a pale white glaze. A clay pitcher waited next to it, and she poured out two cups. “The coffee house I mentioned? It’s the building on the other side of the courtyard. The best coffee house in Istarinmul, though the owner gives me discounts, so I might be biased.”

“I suppose you saved her life or her children from slavers?” said Kylon.

“Actually,” said Caina, “both.”

“Ah,” said Kylon. She handed him a cup and he took a sip. “Thank you. You had food here. You needn’t have gone out.”

Caina shrugged. “Jerky and hard bread. But consider it repayment of a favor. You introduced me to coffee.”

“I did?” said Kylon.

“That coffee house back in Catekharon,” said Caina, handing him one of the cakes. “The night Torius Aberon tried to kill me and Corvalis.”

“That’s right,” said Kylon. He had forgotten that. He took a bite of the cake, blinked, and took a moment to savor it. “That is quite good.”

“The House of Agabyzus has a new pastry cook,” said Caina. She grinned. “I helped her keep the job, so she gives me favors when I ask for them.”

Kylon laughed. It was a very good cake. “You have friends everywhere, don’t you?”

“I try,” said Caina. “It’s the task of a Ghost circlemaster. It is good for the Ghosts to have friends everywhere. Then they tell me things, hopefully things I can use.” She swallowed and took a sip of her coffee. “It’s easier to make friends when you have coffee and cakes.”

“That coffee house you owned in Malarae,” said Kylon. “The House of Kularus. What happened to it?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. It probably belongs to Shaizid now. Ark said he would look after him and the other workers.”

“You could write to them,” said Kylon.

“I could,” said Caina, “but it seems too great of a risk. Claudia told me some things, but…I haven’t spoken to Ark or Theodosia or any of my other friends in Malarae for over a year and a half. I don’t dare write to them. Callatas has a long reach, and so does Cassander Nilas. If the letter fell into the wrong hands, they might go after Theodosia’s sons or Ark and Tanya’s children.”

Kylon snorted. “Your enemies should be wary. Considering what happened the last time someone tried to take the son of the Champion of Marsis.”

“Yes,” said Caina, her eyes distant.

“You miss Malarae, do you not?” said Kylon.

“Is it that obvious?” said Caina.

“Not in the slightest,” said Kylon, “but I can sense your emotions, remember.”

She was silent for a moment. “No more than you miss New Kyre, I suppose.”

“Aye,” said Kylon.

She lifted her cup. “To exile?”

“And to absent friends,” said Kylon.

They clinked the clay cups and drank.

“It’s traditional to drink a toast with wine,” said Kylon.

“There’s some Caerish whiskey in those casks under the table,” said Caina. “A bit strong for the morning, though. My first night here I drank myself senseless. It’s strong stuff.”

Kylon laughed. “I doubt you could drink very much. You’re too small. One strong drink would knock you flat.”

“I would take umbrage at that,” said Caina, “but you’re correct.” She finished her coffee. “We should go as soon as you’re finished. I spent a lot of time looking for Morgant, and I don’t want him to get bored and wander off.”

“You’re his latest game, remember?” said Kylon. “He won’t leave until he finds out if you’re worthy of his secrets.” He finished his own coffee. “You said you had tools here that would help us against the Sifter.”

“I do,” said Caina, crossing to another table. “I’ll show you.” She lifted a dark bundle from the table. He recognized Caina’s shadow-cloak, the cloak that allowed her to blend with the shadows and avoid sorcerous detection. She had used it to good effect against him in Marsis, and later in Catekharon and Caer Magia.

“That should hide you from the Sifter’s sight,” said Kylon.

“Aye,” said Caina. “Not from the Sifter’s physical eyes, though. I noticed that against Kalgri.”

“Kalgri?” said Kylon.

She grimaced. “The name the Huntress used. When I wore the shadow-cloak, her nagataaru could not sense me. She could still see me, though.” She picked up a sheathed sword from the table. “Take this.”

Kylon took the sword. It was a falchion, the curve of its blade not quite as pronounced as the classic Istarish and Anshani scimitar. The minute his hand touched the hilt, his hand felt tremendous arcane power within the weapon. He drew the weapon and examined it, and with a shock realized the entire sword had been forged of ghostsilver. Characters in a strange language had been carved upon the blade, and powerful warding spells wrapped around the entire sword.

“A ghostsilver sword,” said Kylon. “But there are spells on it. Such a weapon…what is this?”

“A valikon,” said Caina. “Forged by the loremasters of ancient Iramis. It was specifically created to destroy nagataaru. The ghostsilver can penetrate warding spells, and the spells on the blade can destroy nagataaru. I suspect it will also work on an ifrit.”

“This sword is worth a fortune,” said Kylon. “Where did you get it?”

“From the Emissary of the Living Flame at Silent Ash Temple in the Kaltari Highlands,” said Caina. “Apparently, she appointed me the weapon’s custodian. She said I would know whom to give the weapon. So I’m giving it to you to use against the Sifter…and the nagataaru within Malik Rolukhan.”

“Thank you,” said Kylon. “I will try to use it wisely.” He frowned. “Do you think the blade is strong enough to withstand my frost spell?”

“Yes,” said Caina. “But it’s ghostsilver. The spell wouldn’t take.”

“Oh,” said Kylon. He hadn’t thought of that.

“One more thing,” said Caina. “I hope we won’t need them, but it seems wise to take with me. Just in case.”

She knelt under the table and drew out a steel-banded lockbox. As she did, Kylon had a brief glimpse down the front of her loose shirt. He looked for a heartbeat, and then lifted his eyes, annoyed with himself. His wife had been dead for barely a year, and already he was ogling other women. And Corvalis had been a valiant man, and it was disrespectful to both him and Thalastre to look at Caina…

Thank the gods of storm and sea she could not sense emotions. He shoved the entire damned tangle into the back of his mind and focused upon the problems at hand.

“Here,” said Caina, straightening up. In her hand she felt a small bundle of stiff leather. She unwrapped it, and Kylon saw that the leather had been lined with lead foil. Inside rested three small crystalline vials the size of his thumb, each one holding a thick liquid that shone with a pale silver light.

He sensed the potent arcane power inside the vials.

“What is it?” said Kylon. “This is some sort of alchemical elixir, isn’t it?”

Caina nodded.

“Where did you get it?” said Kylon.

“Stole it from the laboratory of Grand Master Callatas himself while looking for information about the Apotheosis,” said Caina.

“This is how the Master Alchemists live so long,” said Kylon.

“Not quite,” said Caina. “To rejuvenate themselves, to make themselves young again, they need to use Elixir Rejuvenata. The only way to create that is with the ashes of a phoenix spirit mixed with the ashes of three unborn human children.” Her mouth twisted, and he felt the ripple that meant a dark memory had come to the forefront of her thoughts. “Evil work. This is a lesser elixir, called Elixir Restorata, made from the essences of certain spirits. When imbibed, it heals any wounds taken within the last year and a day.”

“I’m surprised you would use something like this,” said Kylon. “You always hated sorcery so much.”

She sighed. “I’m not pleased about it. But given the kind of enemies we face, it would be foolish to turn away any tool. Even a sorcerous one. And there are…degrees of evil. Elixir Rejuvenata is created from the murder of unborn children. Elixir Restorata isn’t. If I need it to save someone’s life, I will use it.”

“You could use it to save your life,” said Kylon. “With the risks you take…”

“Actually, I can’t,” said Caina. “Watch this.”

She put one finger upon the nearest vial.

The liquid within the vial began to boil, the crystal itself trembling. The vials were radiating arcane power, but the vial beneath Caina’s finger generated more power, much more. More power than the liquid and the crystal could physically contain…

“Stop!” Kylon said, but she had already removed her finger. The vial shuddered and went still, the Elixir within calming. “What was that?”

“It doesn’t respond well to me,” said Caina. “I asked Claudia about it, and she thinks it has something to do with whatever lets me sense the presence of sorcerous force. When I touch the Elixir, it pulls more power into itself than its physical materials can contain. So if I tried to drink it…”

“It would make a mess,” said Kylon.

“The sort of mess that would blow up a building,” said Caina. “Or several buildings. I suppose there are more painful ways to kill yourself, but I would rather not find out.”

“You can’t take this with you,” said Kylon. “It’s too powerful. Anyone with even a modicum of arcane ability will sense it a dozen yards off.”

She smiled again and wrapped the vials of Elixir in the leather sheet, and the arcane aura vanished from Kylon’s senses.

“Lead foil,” she said. “Useful stuff. Blocks out arcane observation.” She looked at the ceiling. “I thought about having the entire Sanctuary wrapped in lead foil, but that wasn’t practical.”

“Or affordable,” said Kylon.

“Mmm,” said Caina. “Claudia came up with the idea for the ward plates, and that has worked well, so far.” She picked up the wrapped bundle. “We have everything we need. It’s time to go hunting.”

“I think I’ll need a disguise,” said Kylon.

Caina looked at the wardrobes and the racks of clothing. “I think I can accommodate you.”

She stooped once more, picked up a sheathed scimitar from beneath the table, and led him to the wardrobes.

###

“Five,” said Morgant.

Azaces held up three fingers.

“Well, then,” said Morgant. “Your roll.”

The big Sarbian nodded and rolled the dice. Morgant watched the little wooden cubes spin, totaled up the number, and sighed. Azaces grunted, and Morgant slid a small stack of copper coins across the table.

“You have a knack for this,” said Morgant. “Tell me. Are those weighted dice?”

Azaces gave him a flat glare, and Morgant chuckled.

“Not that I object to cheating,” said Morgant. “Only if you don’t get caught.”

Azaces said nothing. But, then, the lack of a tongue meant he never would.

Morgant sat at a small table near the front door to Nerina Strake’s shop. Nerina herself sat slumped in one of the nearby chairs, her head bowed, her breathing coming slow and steady. After Caina left with Kylon, Morgant had asked Nerina to explain some of her locks to him. It had been partly to pass the time, partly because he was curious, and partly because he wanted to know what kind of allies the Balarigar possessed. Nerina spent the next five hours talking at great length about her theories of locks, about the importance of mathematical precision in constructing mechanical devices. Morgant had understood maybe a tenth of it. He had tried insulting her a few times, despite Azaces’s scowls, just to see how she would react, but that proved useless. Nerina calmly explained in detailed mathematical terms why he was wrong. Once he had made a joke about her height, and the locksmith had then drawn a massive equation over one of her chalkboards to explain why her height was within the median range and the mean for both Istarish women and Caerish-born women. The lecture and the equation had taken over an hour, and after that Nerina had sat down and fallen asleep, apparently exhausted by the effort.

“That,” said Morgant, “is a very dangerous young woman.”

Azaces said nothing, gathering the dice in a small pouch. He produced a deck of cards and started to deal, his thick, scarred fingers gripping the cards with surprising dexterity.

“Not in a fight, I think,” said Morgant, collecting his hand of cards. The images upon them were surprisingly well done, Padishahs and Emirs and Alchemists wrought in bright, stylized color. “That’s what she has you for. But that clever brain of hers is dangerous in the right hands. Have her work for a Padishah or a king, and she’s going to build a new kind of siege engine that will change warfare. Just as well that she works for the Balarigar, then.”

Azaces considered his cards for a moment, then slid a stack of copper coins into the center of the table.

“So why does she work for the Balarigar?” said Morgant. “I can guess. She has the eyes of a wraithblood addict, but I haven’t seen her use it. So she kicked the habit, but racked up debts. The Balarigar helped her pay off those debts, and now they’re friends.” He considered his cards, and added some coins to the pile on the table.

Azaces grunted and added a silver coin to the wager.

“Isn’t that interesting?” said Morgant. “I know why the Balarigar left me here, by the way.”

Azaces said nothing, waiting for Morgant to decide upon a wager.

“Because people talk to you,” said Morgant. “You can’t speak, and I suspect you can neither read nor write. So people forget you’re there, and they tell you things. The Balarigar wants to know more about me…so here we are.”

Azaces offered an indifferent shrug.

“Cuts both ways, though,” said Morgant. He added another coin to the pile. Azaces’s eyes narrowed at that. “Do you want to know something funny? Yesterday I encountered a madwoman who declared war upon the Brotherhood of Slavers and Grand Master Callatas, a madwoman who has waged that war with disguises, bluffs, and trickery. Following her is an exiled Kyracian nobleman with a death wish and a grudge against a Master Alchemist. They took refuge at the workshop of a wraithblood-addicted locksmith. Quite an unusual story, no?”

Azaces’s snort might have carried a note of amusement.

“But the strangest thing here,” said Morgant, “the one thing that doesn’t make sense…is you.”

The amusement vanished, and the big man’s eyes hardened.

“Why are you here?” said Morgant, glancing at Nerina. “Why work for her? She’s a wraithblood addict, and likely would have gotten herself killed by now if you were not here to guard her.” Azaces’s hard, unblinking eyes drilled into Morgant. “You’re not sleeping with her. You’re not in love with her, else you would have slept with her by now or left. You’re not quite old enough to be her real father, and she doesn’t look anything like you. Though wouldn’t that have been an amusing story? Ragodan Strake, cuckolded by a mute Sarbian slave.”

Still Azaces gave no hint of his thoughts.

“But that doesn’t fit,” said Morgant. “So…the most logical explanation is guilt. Regret. That makes a man do things he might not otherwise do. You wronged Nerina Strake somehow, and now you watch over her to assuage the guilt.”

Azaces said nothing, but his eyes flickered briefly to Nerina, as if he feared that she would overhear.

“Ah,” said Morgant.

The big Sarbian scowled at him, and slapped three additional silver coins into the wager.

“I think I understand,” said Morgant. “You gave your word that you would watch over her. That is why you are still here. I can understand that. I gave my word, too. A very, very long time ago. Which is why I am here. Perhaps the Balarigar can help me keep my word at last.” He added more coins to the wager. “Ah. That is clever. I wound up telling you more than I intended. Though I’m not sure how you’ll communicate that to the Balarigar.”

Azaces laid his cards on the table, and Morgant followed suit.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Azaces let out a rumbling chuckle and pulled the coins towards himself.

“Or maybe I’m completely wrong about you,” said Morgant, “and you’re just very good at bluffing.”

Azaces said nothing as he gathered his winnings, though he gave off a distinct air of satisfaction.

“Smugness is not a virtue,” said Morgant.

Azaces responded with a rude gesture, and Morgant laughed.

He was about to suggest another game when a knock came at the heavy steel door. Azaces got to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, hands falling to his weapons. Nerina blinked awake and sat up. She had slept through their conversation, though the knocking had awakened her.

“Eh?” she said. “What’s that?” She looked at Morgant. “You’re still here? Did you steal anything?”

“Mistress Strake,” said Morgant, “if I were to make you the subject of a painting, no one would purchase it, as anyone looking upon it would consider you too implausible to exist.”

Nerina nodded. “Mathematical anomalies are always implausible until one has done the necessary equations.”

Azaces opened the little window, grunted, and opened the door.

Kylon of House Kardamnos and another man walked into the sitting room. Morgant blinked, and then his brain caught up to his eyes and he recognized Caina Amalas. She had disguised herself as one of the Istarish tribesmen of the southern steppes, with a ragged brown robe, loose trousers, heavy sandals, and a scimitar and dagger at her belt. A turban covered her head, its loose cloth hanging to her shoulders. Expertly applied makeup gave her the illusion of stubble. Kylon wore a similar costume, though he seemed uncomfortable and out of place. Doubtless the subtleties of disguise were not part of a Kyracian nobleman’s education. He had acquired a second sword, a heavy falchion strapped to his back.

“You look so much like one of the southern nomads,” said Morgant, “that I’m surprised you haven’t been accused of having an illicit romance with a goat.”

Kylon frowned, but Caina let out a short laugh. “That’s the point. The steppe nomads often come to Istarinmul to trade, so they’re a common sight. Yet they’re prickly enough that no one bothers them without good reason. It will serve as a disguise.”

“You’re too pale to pass yourself off as an Istarish nomad,” said Morgant, “and I certainly am.”

Caina reached into her satchel and tossed him a cap with a silver badge. It was the same style of cap she had worn yesterday. “Which is why you’ll wear this.” Morgant put the cap on. “You’ll like some merchant negotiating to buy wool and meat and cheese from the nomads.”

“Ridiculous,” said Morgant. “Have you ever eaten Istarish goat cheese? I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy.”

“I didn’t say you would be a successful merchant,” said Caina. “Which is why you’re still buying goat cheese from nomads at your advanced age.”

He considered her, and caught a glimpse of something dark at the base of her neck. Of course – a Ghost shadow-cloak. That was why she was wearing the turban and the robe. One could hardly walk about in broad daylight wearing a Ghost shadow-cloak, especially when the Balarigar had a bounty of two million bezants upon her head. The turban and the robe concealed the shadow-cloak, and in turn the cloak obscured her from sorcerous observation and from the supernatural senses of the Sifter.

Though it would not hide her from the Sifter’s eyes of flesh, or from more mundane forms of observation.

“Or,” said Caina with a wide, bright smile, “you could always paint the goat cheese.”

“Paint it,” said Morgant.

“A portrait, I mean,” said Caina. “A still life of a piece of Istarish goat cheese. I’m sure that would be an artistic triumph on the same level as your mural of the Fall of Iramis.”

“Frankly,” said Kylon, “I would rather buy the cheese.”

Morgant grinned. She was insulting him, seeing how he reacted. That was good.

“Learning the game, are we?” said Morgant, adjusting his cap. “Well. Shall we meet this ally of yours? Perhaps you can bring him some goat cheese for a gift.”

“His taste is far too good for that,” said Caina. “Nerina, thank you for sheltering us. I trust Markaine was stimulating company?”

“Not really,” said Nerina. “I tried to explain the underlying mathematical principles of proper artwork to him. His work would be more compelling if he painted geometric shapes instead of…of people and things.” She sighed. “No one understands.”

“Azaces?” said Caina. “Any trouble?”

Morgant watched the big warrior, wondering how he would respond.

At last Azaces shook his head.

Interesting.

“Good,” said Caina. “Thank you again, Nerina and Azaces. Let’s go.”

Morgant and Kylon followed her onto the street. Caina walked several steps, and then stopped and snapped her fingers as if she had forgotten something.

“Also,” said Caina, reaching into her robe, “I think this is yours.”

She tossed a sheathed scimitar and a sword belt at him, and Morgant caught it. Curious, he drew the blade, and blinked in surprise. The blade was a deep crimson, like the bloody talon of some great beast.

And he had not seen this sword for a very long time.

“What’s this?” said Morgant. “Where did you get this?”

“I’ve been looking for you for a while,” said Caina. “Following clues and fables and myths. A sorcerer called the Collector had a sword that allegedly had been yours. Was it?”

“It was,” said Morgant. “I lost this a century ago. Bit of a long story, really. It used to belong to an assassin called Carzim. I…”

“We can hear the story later,” said Caina. “The longer we dawdle, the more time the Sifter has to find us.”

“Very well,” said Morgant, looping the sword belt around his waist.

Perhaps she was, indeed, the one who would prove worthy of his secrets. Perhaps the Knight of Wind and Air had been right.

If not…well, Morgant suspected he would find out soon enough.

Chapter 12: Old Enemies

Caina walked from the Cyrican Quarter, making her way to the Anshani Quarter, Istarinmul’s most populous district. Once, long ago, she supposed the Quarter had been mostly Anshani, but now the poorest free residents of Istarinmul lived here, regardless of their nation and tribe. Most of the Istarish citizens in the Anshani Quarter received a free bread ration from the Wazir of Grain, while the foreign-born residents organized themselves into criminal gangs and supported themselves by robbery and petty mercenary work, or by kidnapping travelers and selling them to the Brotherhood of Slavers. It was dangerous to visit the Anshani Quarter after dark, and there were parts of the Quarter that were dangerous to visit at any time of the day.

Yet the main streets were safe enough, patrolled by the city watch, and Caina wanted to avoid any trouble. Mostly because Kylon and Morgant could mow their way through a small army of thugs, and Morgant in particular would not spare anyone who attacked him. Butchering their way through the Anshani Quarter would attract unwelcome attention.

“Where are we going?” said Morgant at last. Tenements rose on either side of the street, some of them nearly twenty stories tall. A few of the buildings had an alarming sag, which perhaps explained why the carts and pedestrians moved faster here.

“The Anshani Bazaar,” said Caina. “Also known the Bazaar of the Southern Road.”

“I know what it is, dear child,” said Morgant. “I’ve lived in Istarinmul longer than you have. A lot longer, I should point out. In fact, when your mother first looked with lust upon your father…”

“My mother never lusted after anything except power,” said Caina. “And if you’ve lived here that long, then you don’t need me to tell you where we are.”

Morgant snorted, but said nothing. Caina was relieved. Kylon remained quiet, walking in grim silence. Perhaps that was just as well. His Istarish was serviceable, but she doubted he would ever speak it without a thick Kyracian accent.

They reached the Anshani Bazaar at noon. Merchant stalls and booths packed the Bazaar, men and women from every nation under the sun buying and selling, the steady roar of a thousand conversations rolling over the vast square, the sound mixed with the braying of mules, the creak of wagon wheels, and the squealing of pigs come to market. A hundred different smells packed the air, wood smoke and horse dung and cooked meat and exotic spices and the odor of men who had spent weeks on the road without a proper bath. Beyond the Bazaar stood the city’s outer wall, and past that stretched the massive caravanserai of the Great Southern Road, where endless merchant traffic passed between Anshan and Istarinmul and Cyrica.

Kylon stopped and rubbed his temples for a moment. He had told Caina once that he found crowds difficult, that he had to concentrate to keep the emotions from overwhelming him. Evidently he had managed the discipline necessary, given how well he handled himself in battle.

Caina led the way to an inn on one side of the Bazaar. It was a ramshackle, sprawling building of whitewashed stone. The wealthy merchants coming from the south preferred to stay at the inns of the Cyrican Quarter or the Emirs’ Quarter, if they could afford it. But their guards and porters and teamsters stayed at the Shahenshah’s Seat, drinking themselves senseless on its cheap wine and cavorting with the Anshani Quarter’s whores.

“The Shahenshah’s Seat,” said Caina.

“Here?” said Morgant. “You know, I’ve seen the actual Shahenshah’s seat, the throne within the Palace of Fire in Anshan itself. It’s carved from one solid block of red granite, highlighted with panels of crimson gold. It sits before the Hall of the Eternal Flame in the heart of the palace, and the Shahenshah sits there to pronounce his judgments.”

“Do you have a point?” said Kylon.

“The inn is a poor comparison,” said Morgant. “It ought to have been called the Shahenshah’s Outhouse.”

“Your offended sense of aesthetics notwithstanding,” said Caina, “this is where we need to go.” She considered for a moment. “One thing. The men we are about to meet think that I am a man, and I would prefer they continue to think that.”

“Why?” said Kylon. “Do you not trust them?”

“To a point,” said Caina, “but considering how many people want me dead, the fewer people who know who I am really am, the better.”

“Sound enough logic,” said Morgant. “Your disguise should be effective. It takes a special woman to go out in public smelling like a nomadic goat herder.”

Kylon frowned and started to say something, but Caina spoke first. “Faint praise, but it thunders in my ears. Let me do the talking.”

She led the way across the Bazaar to the common room of the Shahenshah’s Seat. It was full of porters and teamsters and caravan guards taking their noon meal, the room filled with conversation and the scent of cooking food. Long benches and tables ran the length of the room, and men sat at the tables, eating and drinking. The only women in sight were either serving maids or prostitutes.

A man leaned against the far wall, arms folded across his chest, eyes cool and distant as he regarded the crowd. He was in his middle fifties, thick and stocky, his arms and chest heavy with muscle. He wore a simple tunic, trousers, and dusty boots, a broadsword hanging in a sheath at his belt. His stance and haircut all but screamed that he was a veteran of the Imperial Legion of the Nighmarian Empire.

His eyes flicked to Caina as she approached with Kylon and Morgant, and a half-amused, half-wary smile came over his face.

“Laertes,” said Caina, switching to the deeper, harsher voice she used when disguised as a man.

“Ciaran,” said Laertes. “Give any more thought to marrying one of my daughters?”

Kylon blinked in surprise and tried to cover it by coughing.

“I’m afraid not,” said Caina. “My life is a dangerous one. I wouldn’t want to leave one of your daughters a widow.”

“A fine sentiment,” said Laertes. “There’s trouble, isn’t there?”

“Why do you say that?” said Caina.

Laertes jerked his chin at the door. “Because when you walk in here, you almost always have trouble on your heels.” Morgant laughed at that, and Laertes eyed him. “Plus, we’ve heard rumors. Some dead Kindred assassins were found in the tunnels below the Ring of Cyrica, and someone killed a large number of Adamant Guards on the edge of the Anshani Quarter. Apparently Lord Cassander is furious, and the Grand Wazir is annoyed that Cassander is letting his Guards run free through the streets.”

“Both men are both chronically annoyed,” said Caina. “Is he here?”

“Aye,” said Laertes. “He’ll want to talk to you, I think.” He looked at Kylon and Morgant. “New friends?”

Kylon was an old friend, and Morgant was definitely not a friend, but Caina nodded. “Something of the sort.” She gestured at Kylon. “This man is known as the Exile, and the one in the black coat is called Markaine. We currently have something of a common interest.”

“Exile,” said Laertes. “I saw you fight in the Ring of Cyrica two weeks ago.”

Kylon nodded but said nothing.

“Never seen you before,” said Laertes to Morgant, who only shrugged. “They can come up.” He pointed at Kylon and Morgant. “But if you make trouble, it will be on your own heads.”

“Assuming they remained attached to our necks, you mean?” said Morgant.

“I’m pleased you understand,” said Laertes. “This way.”

He led the way to the Seat’s second floor, down a corridor, and to a door. Laertes swung the door open, and within was a sitting room dominated by a low, round Istarish table, ringed by cushions. Two men sat at the table. The first wore the patterned red and black robes of an Anshani anjar, a lower noble of the Shahenshah’s court. His dark beard and hair and been oiled, and his prominent nose and jaw made him look a bit like a hunting hawk, his dark eyes keen and fierce. A hunting bow rested near at hand, and his eyes widened when he saw Caina.

“Kazravid,” said Caina. She had never expected to see him again.

“Master Ciaran,” said Kazravid. “Well, well. Though you would have gotten yourself killed by now.”

“It hasn’t been through lack of trying,” said Caina, following Laertes into the room. Kylon came after her, and then Morgant. “What are you doing here? I thought you had returned to Anshan.”

Kazravid grimaced. “I encountered difficulties.”

“Alas, our noble anjar was robbed,” said the second man, rising to his feet.

He was in his late thirties or early forties, of Istarish or Anshani birth with brown skin. His head had been shaved, and the trimmed lines of a black beard encircled his lips and edged his chin. He wore a black shirt and black trousers, his left hand concealed beneath a black leather glove and bracer, a scimitar hanging from his belt. As ever, Caina felt the aura of potent sorcery around the gloved hand, and she saw Kylon’s eyes narrow as he felt it as well.

“Damned steppe nomads,” grumbled Kazravid.

“Fear not, noble anjar,” said Nasser Glasshand, a white smile flashing over his dark face. “I suspect the opportunity to make more money is at hand.” His eyes turned back to Caina. “You have brought guests, I see?”

“I have,” said Caina, stepping to the side so Kylon and Morgant could enter. “This is Nasser Glasshand. This man is known as the Exile and…”

Kylon’s hand fell to the hilt of the sword at his belt.

Caina looked around in alarm, wondering if enemies had found them, or if the Sifter had caught up to them. But Kazravid jerked to his feet with a curse, and Laertes reached for his sword as well.

Morgant and Nasser glared at each other. Neither man moved or spoke, but it was obvious violence was only a heartbeat away.

“What the hell?” said Caina. “You two know each other?”

She had suspected that Nasser was older than he appeared, that he had some method for staving off death. The Huntress had shot him through the chest, yet he had recovered in short order. Yet he knew Morgant on sight. That meant…

Just how old was Nasser?

“Nasser Glasshand?” said Morgant with a scornful laugh. “Is that what you are calling yourself now? Appropriate, really. The daring master thief? You certainly were good for nothing else.”

“How are you still alive?” said Nasser. “You should have died a century and a half ago.”

“I made friends,” said Morgant.

“Callatas, wasn’t it?” said Nasser, stepping around the table, the fingers of his sword hand opening and closing. Morgant shifted his stance, his pale eyes getting colder. “You worked for Callatas all along. How did he reward you, hmm? A vial of Elixir Rejuvenata to extend your wretched life? Perhaps a necromantic bloodcrystal, so you could feast on the deaths of your victims?”

“Nasser,” said Caina, but both men ignored her.

“I would ask how you survived all this time,” said Morgant, “but I know how. You survived because you were a failure. You survived because you failed to defend your family, your office, and your city. You should have burned with the rest of them.” He let out a mocking laugh. “Instead, it seems the curse only got you halfway, Nasser Glasshand.” He spat out the last word like an insult. “Fitting. You can wallow in your guilt forever.”

“As opposed to your guilt, murderer?” said Nasser. “You slew Annarah. We could have put a stop to Callatas’s crimes decades ago with her help. Instead Callatas has been left to do his wretched work unchecked…”

“Considering you failed to stop him the first time,” said Morgant, “it is not my fault.”

“No one realized the power that Callatas had at his command, not even with the Star,” said Nasser. His face was calm, but his words were hard as iron, and his entire body radiated tension. Laertes took a deep breath, his hand hovering near his sword hilt. Kazravid took several prudent steps back from the table, giving him more room to unleash an arrow before the violence started. “No one! Not the loremasters, not the Prince, not the valikarion, no one.”

“Really?” said Morgant. “Do you not recall why he was cast out in the first place? Do you not remember at whose knee he learned his sorcery? All that and you still underestimated him?”

“Yes,” said Nasser. “I did.” He leveled a gloved finger at Morgant’s face. “But you…you slew Annarah. The Prince entrusted the regalia to her, and you tracked and murdered her!”

“Idiot,” said Morgant. “I did not kill her.”

“Then you have the Staff and the Seal now?” said Nasser. “Is that why you have dared to show your face again? You wish to sell them to Callatas?”

“Given that I have no idea where they are, that would be rather foolish, wouldn’t it?” said Morgant. “And I did not slay Annarah.”

“Then what did you do with her?” said Nasser. “What did you do with the Staff and the Seal?”

Morgant said nothing for a moment, his hands flexing. Suddenly Caina regretted giving him that crimson scimitar.

“I am not going to tell you,” said Morgant.

Nasser bellowed in rage and brought his left fist down on the table. It was an inch thick, built of solid, sturdy wood, but his gloved fist tore a hole through it the size of Caina’s head. Laertes’s jaw fell open, and Caina shared his surprise. She and Nasser had gone into a great deal of danger together, and she had never seen him this angry.

“You will tell me, assassin,” said Nasser.

“I shall not,” said Morgant. “You are not worthy of the information.”

“And just why not?” said Nasser.

“Both of you, stop this,” said Caina. “We…”

“Because you are weak,” said Morgant. “Too weak to save your family or your people. Right now, in all the world, I am the only one that knows what happened to Annarah. If I tell you, I’m sure Callatas will find the relics and work his Apotheosis within the week.”

Nasser took another step closer. “You are going to tell me.”

“Or?” said Morgant.

“Listen to me,” said Caina, but they didn’t.

###

Kylon watched the confrontation.

He did not entirely understand what was happening. No doubt Nasser Glasshand was the ally Caina had mentioned, but he had flown into a fury at the sight of Morgant, his rage pulsing against Kylon’s senses like heat from a furnace. Morgant was no less angry, though his contemptuous anger was colder. The two men were going to come to blows, and Kazravid and Laertes would take Nasser’s side. They might kill Morgant, and then Caina would never find the relics.

There was only one thing to do.

“Shut up!” Kylon roared at the top of his lungs, employing the voice he had used when commanding the seventh fleet of New Kyre in battle against the Empire.

Silence fell over the room as the men stared at him. Caina looked at him with wide blue eyes. He could not sense her emotions while she wore the shadow-cloak, but the surprise was plain upon her face.

“I do not know what your grievance is with each other,” said Kylon. “But you will speak civilly until,” he remembered to use Caina’s fake name at the last minute, “until Ciaran has finished with you. Otherwise you shall answer to me.”

“And just who are you, Kyracian?” said Kazravid. “You think you can take us all?”

Kylon snatched the cup of steaming coffee Kazravid had left upon the table and called his power, focusing the sorcery of water upon it. The coffee froze to a solid black lump, and Kylon tossed it at Kazravid. The Anshani archer jerked his head to the side, and the lump of frozen coffee bounced off the floorboards.

“Gods,” grunted Laertes. “A stormdancer.”

“Just what are you, then?” said Kazravid. “Ciaran’s pet?”

“He’s a friend,” said Caina. “And he’s right. This is not the time to fight amongst ourselves.”

“That man should be dead,” said Nasser, his gloved hand pointing at Morgant.

“Well, to be fair, so should you,” said Morgant. He smirked at Caina. “He’s almost as old as I am, you know. Has he told you who he really is yet? No? Ah. Well, Nasser, what do you say? Shall I tell your friend Ciaran of your great failures?”

“I don’t know who he is,” said Caina, “and he doesn’t know who I am, not yet. I would prefer to keep it that way until necessary.”

“And just why is that?” said Morgant.

“Because,” said Caina, her voice quiet. “What I don’t know can’t be tortured out of me if Callatas or his hunters take me alive.”

“To my surprise, that is sound reasoning,” said Morgant.

“Then,” said Nasser with a frown, “you are not working with Callatas?”

“Are you even stupider than I thought?” said Morgant. “No. Callatas thinks that I’m dead. He sent me to kill Annarah, yes.” He waved a thin hand at Caina’s left arm. “You’ve seen that she has Annarah’s pyrikon? How the hell do you think she got it? I gave it to Callatas. I brought the pyrikon to him and told him that Annarah was dead, and then I took the money and disappeared. As far as Callatas is concerned, I died decades ago. Even when I painted that mural…”

“Wait,” said Nasser. “You are Markaine of Caer Marist?”

“Aye,” said Morgant.

Caina frowned. “How did Callatas keep from recognizing you when you painted his mural?”

Morgant grinned. “You’re not the only one who is good at disguise, Balarigar.” He looked around. “You have realized that Ciaran here is the Balarigar, right? I haven’t just revealed some big damned secret?”

“Of course we have,” said Kazravid. “We’re not stupid.”

“Truly, noble anjar?” said Morgant. “You do a fine impersonation of it.”

Kazravid scowled, but Nasser raised a hand, and the anjar stilled. Kylon glanced at Laertes, but the Legion veteran was still waiting. It seemed both Laertes and Kazravid followed Nasser’s lead.

“We have an opportunity here,” said Caina. She pointed at herself and then at Nasser. “Callatas wants us both dead more than anyone else in the world.”

“Especially him,” said Morgant. “How are you still alive, Nasser? I don’t just mean the longevity. Callatas should have found and killed you decades ago.”

A white, mirthless smile flashed across Nasser’s face. “You are not the only man who knows how to disappear, assassin.”

“If Callatas knew that Morgant was alive,” said Caina, “he would want him dead as well. So the three people Callatas wants dead most are in the same room. Surely there is an opportunity for us.”

“What about you, Kyracian?” said Kazravid. “Are you some figure of history as well? Perhaps Rykon, the founder of New Kyre? Or the last Archon of Old Kyrace?”

“Actually,” murmured Nasser, “that man is Kylon of House Kardamnos, more commonly known as the Shipbreaker.”

Kylon blinked. Nasser was quite well informed.

Kazravid laughed. “Indeed? Then I am Lord Corbould Maraeus and the Emissary of the Living Flame.”

“I’ve met her,” said Caina. “You’re not her. This man is Lord Kylon.” Kylon met Kazravid’s gaze, and the anjar looked away first, a bit of alarm coloring his emotions. “Since both a Master Alchemists and Lord Cassander want him dead, you should keep that information to yourself.”

“By the Living Flame,” muttered Kazravid. He sat back down, reached for his coffee, remembered that Kylon had froze it, and sighed. “I should have stayed in Anshan.”

“There is greater opportunity for profit here,” said Nasser. “Now. Ciaran. You have come here for a reason, I trust?”

“I did,” said Caina. “I didn’t know about your…history with Morgant.” She pointed at the assassin. “He knows what happened to Annarah. He won’t tell you…but he might tell me.”

“Why?” said Nasser.

“If the Balarigar proves worthy of the knowledge,” said Morgant. “You see, my lord of glass, my knowledge is dangerous. Whoever learns it is probably going to get killed, most likely at the hands of Callatas. If I am to keep my word to Annarah, then I must ensure that whoever I tell the secret is strong enough to survive.”

“Your word,” said Nasser. “What good is the word of an assassin?”

Morgant grinned, though the smile did not touch his emotional sense. “Tell me this, Glasshand. You know who I am. You know the things I have done. When has Morgant the Razor ever broken his word?”

Nasser stared at the assassin. The anger remained in his sense, but not quite as hot as it had been a moment earlier. His intellect was reasserting itself against his rage. Kylon had often felt something similar from Caina, usually when they were in the middle of a crisis.

This was a very dangerous man. Little wonder Caina had come to him for help.

“What,” said Nasser at last, “do you have in mind?”

“I have a creature after me,” said Caina. “A kind of fire elemental, an ifrit.”

“Callatas does not often conjure elementals to do his bidding,” said Nasser.

“He didn’t,” said Caina. “The creature called itself the Sifter, and it attacked in the company of Adamant Guards.” She let out a long breath. “I think Cassander Nilas conjured the spirit and set it after me.”

Kazravid grunted. “You annoyed the Umbarians, too?”

“I have a gift for winning friends,” said Caina.

“Plainly.”

“Morgant said that if I defeat the Sifter,” said Caina, “he will tell me what happened to Annarah.”

“Is this true?” said Nasser. “Or is this another one of your games?”

“Of course it is a game,” said Morgant. “It has to be a game. I’m the only one who knows Annarah’s fate.” He smirked at Nasser. “Blame my secrecy all you wish, my lord of dust, but because of it, Callatas has failed for one hundred and fifty years. He has failed to find the rest of the regalia of Iramis, all because I know how to keep my mouth shut. It is more than you have accomplished, I suspect. How else shall I prove that the Balarigar is worthy of the knowledge?” He glanced at Caina. “Though by coming to a man like Nasser, you make me doubt your worthiness.”

“Unless you can defeat a fire elemental by yourself,” said Caina without missing a beat, “you have no cause to doubt me. You’ve protected the knowledge from Callatas for a hundred and fifty years, aye…but that’s all you’ve done. Callatas has killed a lot of people in that time, many of them within the last five or six years to produce wraithblood. How many of them could have been saved if we had stopped him sooner?” She shook her head. “No. I cannot stop the Sifter on my own, and you cannot keep your word to Annarah on your own. If Callatas is to be defeated, if you are to keep your word to Annarah – whatever it was – then we require help. I cannot do it alone any more than you can.”

Morgant said nothing, but a flicker of something that might have been approval went through the ice of his emotions.

“And you, Lord Kylon,” said Nasser. “What is your interest in this matter? Does the Assembly wish to take a hand in the affairs of Istarinmul once more?”

Kazravid let out a nasty little laugh. “Ask Rezir Shahan how well that went.”

Kylon shook his head. “I doubt the Assembly knows or even cares what I am doing now. I have been banished from New Kyre.”

“Slept with the wrong Archon’s wife, did you?” said Kazravid.

“Kazravid,” said Caina, a note of warning in her voice.

“My wife was murdered,” said Kylon. “Along with several Archons and High Seats. We were considering aiding the Empire in its war against the Umbarian Order. In response, Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan arranged for the Red Huntress to attack us. The Archons and High Seats were under my protection, in my house, and I was exiled for my failure to defend them.”

“I see,” said Nasser. “My sympathies for your loss, Lord Kylon.”

“I am not a lord,” said Kylon. “Not any longer. And my interest in this matter is to see Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan dead for their crimes. That is all I care about. Nothing else.” “Understandable,” said Nasser. Laertes moved away from the wall and crossed to the door. Something had caught his attention. “Though I am curious why you seem to follow the lead of our mutual friend the Balarigar.”

“We’ve seen some things together,” said Kylon. “The Balarigar is better at this kind of thing than I am. My best chance of killing Lord Cassander and Rolukhan is by joining your little war against Callatas.”

“Very well,” said Nasser. “Then it seems we have a new enterprise before us. We shall lure and banish an ifrit.”

“No,” said Kazravid. “I am not part of this. I returned to make money.” Laertes slipped through the door and into the hall. “Not to fight devils and sorcerers and gods know what else.”

“You’ve gone to the netherworld with us,” said Caina.

“If I had known we would be forced to do that,” said Kazravid, “I would have left Istarinmul and not stopped running until I reached the jungles beyond Anshan.”

“I shall pay you five thousand bezants now,” said Nasser, “and if we are successful, I shall pay you ten thousand more.”

“You paid me more for the raid on the Maze,” said Kazravid.

“Because we had stolen a far more valuable object,” said Nasser with reasonable calm. “It is not my fault that you happen to lie with the wrong whore and were robbed by her associates.” Anger darkened Kazravid’s face, but Kylon sensed embarrassment behind it. “Fifteen thousand total, if we are successful, is a reasonable sum.”

Kazravid sighed. “Very well. I am certain I shall regret this, but very well.”

“Who knows?” said Nasser. “There may be opportunities for additional profit along the way.”

“How much are you going to pay me?” said Morgant.

“Nothing.” Nasser smiled showed a lot of white teeth. “I assume the satisfaction of your game is its own reward.”

Morgant snorted but said nothing.

“It seems to me,” said Nasser, stepping around the table, “that our best plan of attack is to prepare a battlefield, lure the Sifter into it, and dispatch or banish the creature.”

“I concur,” said Caina.

Nasser glanced at Caina’s turban. “You are wearing your shadow-cloak, I presume?” Caina nodded. “Capital. A creature such as you described would be a powerful ifrit, one of their lords or lesser princes. It would have no difficulty finding you by arcane means, though the shadow-cloak will baffle that. An ifrit will be cunning enough to track you by other methods, or it may recruit followers with promises of reward.”

“I don’t want to ask Claudia for help,” said Caina. “Not unless there is any other way. I don’t want to put her unborn child at risk.” More accurately, Kylon knew, she did not want to put Corvalis’s unborn nephew or niece in danger.

“That may not be necessary,” said Nasser. “I see you have entrusted the stormdancer with the valikon…”

“A valikon?” said Morgant, a ripple of surprise flashing through his aura. “You actually have an Iramisian valikon?” Caina nodded. “Where the hell did you find one?”

“The Emissary of the Living Flame at Silent Ash Temple,” said Caina.

“How did you convince her to give up the sword?” said Morgant.

Caina shrugged. “I asked.”

“Good,” said Nasser. “We have all the pieces we need. I suggest we move and prepare a location to meet the Sifter. A place outside the city, perhaps, in the Desert of Candles or in the plantations of Akasar.”

“An empty place where fewer people can get caught in the battle?” said Caina.

“You grasp my intent splendidly,” said Nasser. “We…”

“Where did Laertes go?” said Kylon.

They all looked at him. Kylon had spent a great deal of time learning to control his arcane senses, not to let the emotions of others overwhelm his mind. He had gotten so good at it that he could block out a crowd without much effort, though he was perfectly aware of the intense emotions in the room with him. Yet he felt a growing surge of emotion from the patrons of the Shahenshah’s Seat and the crowds in the Bazaar, so strong that he felt it battering against his mental discipline.

Fear.

Something was terrifying them.

“You need not worry, Lord Kylon,” said Nasser. “There is no treachery afoot here. Laertes is my associate, and among his duties is to secure the…”

“Something’s wrong,” said Kylon. He looked at Caina. “We have to go, now.”

“What is it?” said Caina.

“I don’t know,” said Kylon. “But…”

The door swung open, and Laertes appeared, his broadsword in hand.

Suddenly everyone in the room was holding a weapon.

“Immortals,” said Laertes. “A hundred Immortals, coming for the Shahenshah’s Seat.” He looked around the room. “I think they’re coming for one of you.”

Chapter 13: Embers

“We need to go,” said Nasser.

Caina nodded, returning her ghostsilver dagger to its sheath and slipping a throwing knife between her fingers. She had drawn the weapons on reflex, and sprinting through the Shahenshah’s Seat with a naked blade would cause a panic. Or the bouncers would turn on her.

Yet it sounded as if a panic was already underway. Screams and shouts rose from the common room below, and Caina heard the thump of running feet and the bellow of hoarse voices.

“We can’t just run out into the crowd,” said Caina.

“I agree,” said Nasser. “Laertes, take the documents.” The Legion veteran nodded and hurried into the inner room, retrieving a satchel and slinging it over his broad chest. “Kazravid, with me. Ciaran. There is a balcony at the end of that corridor, overlooking the Bazaar. Since you are the stealthiest among us…”

“I’ll go,” said Caina.

“Not alone,” said Kylon.

She hesitated, almost telling him to remain behind. He could not move as quietly as she could. Yet with the Shahenshah’s Seat and possibly the Bazaar itself erupting into chaos, stealth might become useless. Caina could not cut her way through a large number of Istarish Immortals, but Kylon could.

Caina nodded and headed to the door, and both Kylon and Morgant followed her. She did not bother to tell Morgant to remain behind. He wouldn’t have listened, and he and Nasser might have wound up killing each other. She wondered why they hated each other so much.

A problem for later.

She slipped into the hall and hurried down its length. She saw a group of men sprinting down the stairs, vanishing into the common room. Caina headed for the stairs herself.

“The balcony’s at the end of the hall,” said Morgant.

“Higher,” said Caina. “Harder to shoot up. I’d prefer not to catch a crossbow bolt in the throat.”

“Or anywhere, really,” said Morgant. He seemed calm and relaxed, but his hand never strayed far from the hilt of the crimson scimitar at his belt…or the pocket where she suspected he had concealed that strange black dagger.

Caina scrambled up the stairs to the top floor and ran down the corridor to the balcony where she and Nasser had discussed breaking into the laboratory of Grand Master Callatas. She slowed and dropped to a crouch, edging her way to the wooden railing, and gestured for Morgant and Kylon to stay back.

Then she peered over the railing.

Chaos reigned in the Bazaar, with merchants and shoppers alike fleeing in all directions, some vanishing into the alleys of the Anshani Quarter. Others fled through the gate, some trying to force carts of merchandise through the press, and a few of the more enterprising souls had begun looting the merchant stands. Yet in the chaos stood a black line of order, encircling the Shahenshah’s Seat.

Specifically, a line of black-armored Immortals.

Caina whispered a silent curse. There were at least a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty Immortals, and she saw more of the black-armored warriors moving into the alleys around the tavern. A steady stream of panicked men ran from the Seat’s doors, only to stop in terror when they saw the Immortals. Yet the Immortals did not attack. Some of them barked commands, and the Seat’s patrons moved forward in small, frightened groups, shuffling through an aisle of Immortals. At the end waited a towering main in chain mail, and Caina recognized Ikhardin. Next to him stood a silent figure draped in a ragged brown robe, the cowl pulled up to conceal the face. Ikhardin and the robed figure looked at the men, waving them through, and the merchants and porters and mercenaries who escaped ran as fast as they could.

Ikhardin was looking for Kylon.

And the robed figure…

Caina eased back, her heart hammering her ears.

“Kylon,” she rasped. “The man in the robe, standing by Ikhardin. Is that the Sifter?”

“I think so,” said Kylon, his voice grim. “It’s hard to tell from this distance…but I think that is the Sifter.”

“We must have been followed here,” said Caina.

“Or,” said Morgant, “your little locksmith friend betrayed us.”

“No,” said Caina.

“Or she was taken,” said Morgant, “and made to talk.”

That, unfortunately, was rather more likely. Caina started to speak…and then a grim idea occurred to her.

“We have to get back to Nasser,” said Caina. “I don’t think we were betrayed, and I don't think Nerina was taken. I shielded myself from arcane observation…but I didn’t think to shield either of you. The Sifter was sent after me, but it saw both of you with me. It must have followed one of you here.”

“That…makes sense,” said Kylon.

“Perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to kill the Sifter here,” said Morgant.

“No,” said Caina. “It will do us no good to kill the Sifter only for two hundred Immortals to overwhelm us.” She shook her head. “And there are innocent people here.”

Morgant snorted. “Here? Hardly. You will find very few innocent people in the world…”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Caina. “Stop talking and let’s get back to Nasser.”

“You could kill the Sifter and then escape,” said Morgant.

“I could also get killed trying to do it,” said Caina. “When you were a legendary assassin, did you often try to kill you enemies on ground favorable to them?”

Morgant inclined his head in acquiescence, and Caina ran back down the stairs, the men following. Nasser stood near the door to the sitting room, a scimitar in his right hand. Laertes had somehow found the time to don mail, while Kazravid stood ready with his bow strung.

“What have you learned?” said Nasser.

“Immortals, led by both the Sifter and Ikhardin, an assassin of the Kindred,” said Caina. “It seems our enemies have made an alliance against us, and they know that I am here or that Kylon is here.”

“Or both,” Morgant added.

“They’re letting people out of the Seat, seeking for us,” said Caina. “Once we don’t come out, I suspect the Sifter will send the Immortals to storm the building.”

“Did you lead them here, Razor?” said Nasser. “Part of your game?”

“He wouldn’t have had time,” said Caina, but she wondered at that. Morgant might have had time to slip away from Nerina or Azaces, but they would have warned her if Morgant had done anything suspicious. “He’s been with me or one of my people since yesterday.”

“Also,” said Morgant, “this may have slipped your notice, my lord of glass, but the Kindred have quite a large bounty on my head.”

“You have been dead for a century,” said Nasser. “I suspect they have forgotten you.”

Morgant grinned his humorless, wolfish smile. “Some of the Kindred live a very long time. They haven’t forgotten me. It’s entirely possible the Kindred Elder I betrayed is still nursing a grudge.”

“I cannot imagine,” said Nasser, “why anyone would hold a grudge against…”

“Shut up, both of you,” said Caina. “You can bicker once we’re clear of here. Fighting our way out is inadvisable. Nasser. Do you have a bolt hole?”

“Of course,” said Nasser. “There is a tunnel leading from the cellar to the sewers.”

“Then let’s go,” said Caina.

“However,” said Nasser, “the tunnel does not belong to me, but to the landlord of the Shahenshah’s Seat. He regularly sold access to the tunnel to smugglers, thieves, and anyone wishing to evade the watchmen.”

“Meaning,” said Kylon, “that Ikhardin and the Kindred likely know of it.”

“I fear so,” said Nasser. “We shall have to fight our way out in any event.”

“That is our best chance,” said Caina, her mind calculating the possibilities. “If they come at us in the tunnel, we can form a bottleneck and hold them off until we push our way clear. If we stay in here, sooner or later they’ll storm the Seat or burn the building down around us.”

“I concur,” said Nasser. “Lord Kylon, Laertes, take the front, if you please. Among us you are likely the best fighters.” Morgant raised an eyebrow at that, but offered no other protest. “I shall reinforce you if you are pressed hard. Ciaran, Kazravid, take the back. You have arrows and throwing knives. Use them as you see fit.”

“And when shall I go, my noble lord of dust?” said Morgant.

“You shall stay with me,” said Nasser. “I have no wish to lose the knowledge in your head.”

Again Morgant did not argue, and Caina found herself impressed. It was one thing to give orders. It was another to have men obey. Nasser took command with the ease of a veteran commander. Who had he been before he had become the master thief Nasser Glasshand? She had known there was something strange about him. Few men could take an arrow to the chest and live, let alone regain their feet moments afterward. But if Morgant was telling the truth, then Nasser was far older than Caina had thought, perhaps even as old as Morgant himself.

It was another mystery to consider once the immediate danger had passed. Assuming that Caina survived the immediate danger.

“Go,” said Nasser, and they left the sitting room and hastened down the stairs.

The common room was in disarray. Tables and benches had been overturned in haste, food and drink spilled across the floor. A heel of bread squished beneath Laertes’s boot, soaked in a puddle of beer. There was no one else in the common room. The windows still stood open, and through them Caina saw the chaos in the Bazaar and the dark forms of the waiting Immortals. If Caina could see them, they could see her, and if they realized that the Shahenshah’s Seat had emptied…

A howling roar rang over the Bazaar, and Caina recognized the Sifter’s inhuman voice.

The Immortals bellowed and surged forward, scimitars leaping into their hands. Some of the Immortals carried chain whips, and Caina had seen firsthand the deadly power of those cumbersome weapons.

“Damnation!” said Nasser. “Go!”

The Immortals burst through the door and charged.

###

Kylon drew upon the sorcery of water and air, letting its power fill his muscles.

“The kitchen, quickly!” said Nasser. “The stairs to the cellar are there. We…”

It was too late. The Immortals charged with inhuman speed. If Kylon and the others tried to flee to the kitchen and the cellar, the Immortals would run them down and kill them. They needed someone to hold off the Immortals.

Perhaps if Kylon fell here, Caina would escape and would kill Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan.

“Kylon!” said Caina. “Come…”

Kylon took two running steps forward and jumped.

He shot over the fallen tables, the rafters blurring a few inches above his head, and landed in the midst of the charging Immortals. His boot struck the nearest Immortal in the side of the knee, and metal crunched and bone snapped. The Immortal stumbled with a furious cry, and Kylon’s broadsword darted out, plunging into a gap in the black armor. Blood covered his blade as he ripped it free, and the Immortal collapsed. Another swung a chain whip at Kylon, and he caught the blow on his left arm. It should have broken his arm, but the sorcery of water strengthened him, permitting his bones to withstand the blow, even though it still hurt. Kylon yanked with all his sorcery-enhanced strength, and the Immortal went clattering to the ground. He drove his sword down, killing the Immortal.

The other Immortals closed around him. Kylon jumped back, dodging their blows, the sorcery of air giving him the ability to avoid their blows.

But only just.

Normal men could not keep up with him, not when he was using the sorcery of air, but the Immortals were not normal men. The alchemical elixirs burning in their blood made them inhumanly fast. Kylon found himself forced back upon his heels, retreating before the slashes of scimitars and chain whips. He could not strike back, his whole attention focused upon his defense, and realized that he had made a grave error.

His final error, as it happened.

He hoped it had at bought enough time for the others to escape. One of the Immortals stepped too far forward, and Kylon seized the opening, his sword cutting through a gap in the armor and drawing a line of blood across the Immortal’s leg. The Immortal stumbled, and Kylon drove a killing blow into the warrior’s armpit.

The other Immortals closed around him, and Kylon tore his blade free, knowing it would be too late.

A spinning blur of steel clanged off the helmet of an Immortal lining up a fatal blow. The throwing knife did not penetrate the black, skull-faced helmet, but it did stagger the Immortal. Kylon recovered his footing and risked a glance back, and saw Caina striding towards him, another knife glittering in her hand.

He shouted for her to run, and then a dark shape shot past her. Nasser charged into the fray, his scimitar flashing. An Immortal turned towards him, and Nasser punched with his gloved left hand. It was the most foolish thing Kylon had seen in some time. The Immortals’ helms were reinforced steel, and even with his sorcery-enhanced strength, Kylon could not drive his blade through the armor. He expected to hear the sound of shattering bone as Nasser’s hand broke against the skull-mask.

Instead Nasser’s fist plunged through the steel helmet as if it had been wrought of paper, and the Immortal’s skull exploded in a spray of gore. Kylon did not recognize the sorcerous aura around Nasser’s left hand, but he certainly had not expected something like that. Nasser wheeled, catching another Immortal’s scimitar in his fist, and twisted. The motion should have torn his hand to bloody shreds, but instead he crushed the Immortal’s scimitar, jerking the warrior forward and burying his own blade in a gap between the armor plates. The Immortal fell, and Nasser spun to face another foe.

An arrow buzzed past Kylon’s shoulder and sank into the eye of an Immortal’s helmet. Kylon saw Kazravid standing with his bow extended, his expression cool as he reached for another arrow. The anjars and khadjars of Anshan took pride in their skill as hunters, and few could match an Anshani noble’s skill with a bow.

Yet more Immortals poured through the door.

###

Morgant took his scimitar in his right hand and his black dagger in his left.

He had lost the scimitar decades ago. The weapon had once been carried by the notorious assassin Red Carzim, and Carzim had paid a fortune to a sorcerer to forge and enspell the weapon, making it stronger and lighter than regular steel. Carzim had decided to collect the bounty on Morgant’s head. After Carzim’s regrettable and untimely death, Morgant had kept the scimitar for himself, and then lost it few decades later while avoiding a necromancer who had taken an undue interest in Markaine of Caer Marist.

He was impressed that Caina had found the damned thing. Of course, it would mean nothing if the Immortals killed them. And the scimitar was less than effective against a warrior armored in heavy steel plates. Fortunately, Morgant had a far more potent weapon.

He strolled into the fray, rolling the black dagger around his fingers, its red gemstone flashing. One of the Immortals sized him up, dismissed him as a real threat, and launched a lazy blow towards his head. Morgant snapped up the scimitar to deflect the blow, and slashed the black dagger at the Immortal’s cuirass. The Immortal made no effort to dodge, expecting his heavy armor to block the dagger.

To judge from the agonized bellow that erupted from his throat, the Immortal had not expected the dagger to slice him open from chest to groin, blood and viscera gushing from his slashed torso, sizzling against the white-hot edges of his damaged armor. The Immortal collapsed into a bloody heap as Morgant stepped past him and brought the black dagger down again, opening an Immortal’s throat through the protection of a skull-masked helmet. The dagger pulsed with energy, growing hot beneath Morgant’s fingers, and he jabbed the weapon at another Immortal. The Immortal, perhaps realizing the danger, jerked back at the last moment, and the black dagger landed in his left forearm instead of his chest.

It didn’t matter. Morgant focused his will upon the dagger, and it released its stored energy into the Immortal.

The Immortal rocked back with an agonized howl, flames erupting from the joints of his armor and the eyeholes of the helmet. Morgant dodged as the Immortal thrashed in his death throes, greasy smoke pouring from his armor.

A hulking figure leapt over the burning Immortal, a tall, scarred man in chain mail and leather, sword and dagger in hand. Morgant recognized Ikhardin, and the Kindred assassin surged forward within inhuman speed. Likely Ikhardin was drawing upon the power of the bloodcrystal in his torque. Better to keep the crystal’s power in reserve for healing. Though bloodcrystals drew their strength from death, and Kylon and Nasser and Morgant between them had killed nearly fifteen Immortals. Likely Ikhardin’s bloodcrystal had strength to spare.

Ikhardin raced around the melee, making for Kylon. Morgant ran to meet him, his crimson scimitar and black dagger flashing. Kylon and Nasser and Laertes were doing a decent job of holding back the Immortals, though they would be overwhelmed sooner rather than later. If Ikhardin cut down Kylon, Nasser and Laertes and Kazravid would be killed all that much sooner.

Morgant didn’t care. He could escape easily enough, if it came to that. Kylon, Laertes, and Kazravid meant nothing to him, and he thought Caina had rather a higher opinion of Kylon than the Kyracian merited. It would amuse Morgant if the great and arrogant Nasser Glasshand met his end fighting in a miserable tavern. It would make for an amusing painting, to be sure.

Caina, though…this was a fine test. If she escaped from this trap, it would be further proof that she was strong enough, that she was clever enough to help Morgant keep his word to Annarah. If she wasn’t…well, it was time to disappear from Istarinmul anyway. The chaos that the Balarigar had unleashed would almost certainly trigger a civil war within Istarinmul, and the city would be dangerous until the dust settled. Morgant could vanish into the free cities or Anshan.

Until then, he would give Caina a chance to prove herself.

“Ikhardin!” he bellowed, charging at the Kindred assassin. Ikhardin spun to meet him, his scimitar blocking Morgant’s crimson blade. The Kindred assassin had guessed the danger of the black dagger, and did not try to block, retreating before its stab.

“Old fool,” said Ikhardin, sneering. “Die.”

He stabbed with inhuman speed, but Morgant had seen his footing change and was already dodging. The blades blurred past him, and Morgant struck with his scimitar. He opened a cut on Ikhardin’s forearm, and the Kindred assassin reeled back. The wound started to shrink as the bloodcrystal healed it, but that meant the crystal’s power could not enhance his speed quite so much.

“It’s your lucky day,” said Morgant, waving the scimitar before him. “I’m Morgant the Razor, and if you kill me, you’ll please your Elder.”

Ikhardin laughed. “Morgant the Razor has been dead for centuries.”

Morgant grinned. “Lay my head before your Elder and see how he reacts.” The Elder’s reaction would have been comical, to say the least.

“Easily accomplished,” said Ikhardin, and he attacked.

###

Caina ran for the long bar running along one wall of the common room.

She wanted to join the fight, but if she did she would die quickly. Caina had killed Immortals before, but in most of those fights she had simply gotten lucky. She did not have sorcerous strength like Kylon, a spell upon her left fist like Nasser, an enspelled weapon like Morgant, or skill with a bow like Kazravid. The ghostsilver dagger might have disrupted the spells upon the Adamant Guards, but it would do less against the Immortals, whose bodies had been altered by the alchemical elixirs they ingested. If she was going to help Kylon and Nasser and the others, she needed to create a distraction.

Fortunately, the tools for such a distraction were readily at hand.

The Shahenshah’s Seat served a wide variety of beverages. Beer and wine waited in large casks behind the bar, but there were more potent spirits available for patrons with money. Several clay amphorae stood in a row underneath the bar, and a quick sniff filled Caina’s nostrils with the sharp, numbing smell of Caerish whiskey. Caina looked for the stove, and then saw an Immortal fall beneath Morgant’s dagger, flames wreathing his flesh. He landed a few feet from the doorway, flames dancing in the gaps of his armor.

That would work.

Caina seized two amphorae by the handles, straining with their weight, and dashed forward. Kylon and Nasser and Laertes and Morgant were locked in battle against the Immortals, Kazravid loosing arrows whenever the opportunity presented itself, and took no notice of her. Neither did the Immortals, focusing their attention upon their foes.

It gave Caina the perfect opening to fling an amphora.

It spun end over end, clear liquor spilling from its mouth, and shattered against the dead Immortal by the door. Caerish whiskey was a powerful drink, and it burned even hotter. Bluish-white fire erupted over the dead Immortal and onto the floor, and Caina spun and threw the other amphora. It struck the burning Immortal and shattered, spraying burning whiskey in all directions. The flames spread across the floor, jumped to the shutters of the windows and the benches and tables. It also jumped to the rafters overhead, which began to burn. Belatedly Caina realized that the wood of the ceiling and benches and tables had dried out from years of the hot, rainless Istarish climate.

The Shahenshah’s Seat was going to become an inferno.

On the positive side, the wall of flames blocked the door. The charging Immortals stopped, unable to force their way through the flames climbing the walls and spreading over the floor. Their heavy armor protected them from sword and arrow, but it would be useless against the fire.

“Go!” said Caina as Kylon and the others struggled against the remaining Immortals, cutting them down one by one. “We have to get out of here!”

“The cellar,” said Nasser, his scimitar blurring through a flourish of brilliant swordplay. An Immortal fell dying to the floor. Around him Kylon killed another Immortal, and Laertes and Morgant finished still another. “The cellar, quickly! We…”

A fireball erupted from the doorway, and Caina ducked, raising an arm to shield her face.

The robed figure burst through the door, moving with speed to match Kylon, and the robe burned away and fell in smoldering scraps to the floor. Beneath the crumbling robe Caina saw an Adamant Guard, the armor grafted to his flesh glowing with heat, crimson flames dancing in his eyes.

The Sifter had found a new body.

The burning eyes fell upon Caina, and the ifrit surged forward with terrible speed.

###

Kylon killed another Immortal, turned, and ran at Caina.

He rammed his broadsword back into its sheath and yanked the valikon over his shoulder as he sprinted. The sigils carved in the ghostsilver blade flared to life, and the weapon seemed to vibrate in his hand, resonating like the blast of a mighty horn.

The Sifter paused, its burning eyes turning to him, and one hand came up crackling with crimson fire.

Kylon plunged the valikon into the Sifter’s chest. The sword ripped through the armor plates and into the dead flesh. The hilt thrummed beneath Kylon’s fingers, and the Sifter snarled. Kylon sensed the ifrit’s rage grow hotter.

But the creature seemed only annoyed.

“The weapons of Iramis,” hissed the Sifter in its crackling voice. “A potent blade. But only if I am clothed in living flesh.”

The Sifter’s hand slammed into Kylon’s chest with terrific force. He hurtled backwards, still gripping the valikon, and crashed hard into a burning table.

###

Caina stared at the Sifter, stunned.

She had been certain, so certain, the valikon would destroy the creature. Perhaps the blade could only harm the nagataaru. Or perhaps the Sifter had spoken the truth, and the weapon could only destroy spirits clothed in living flesh. Either way, it didn’t matter, because Caina would never learn the truth.

Because she was about to die for her mistake.

She took a step back, but the Sifter was faster. It gestured, and Caina felt a surge of arcane power. A ring of crimson flames erupted from the floor, wide enough to encircle both her and the Sifter. The heat from the flames beat against Caina’s face, and she knew that anyone who tried to cross the ring would die in agony.

The Sifter stepped towards her, its stolen face filled with glee.

“Remove the pyrikon,” it said.

“What?” said Caina.

“Remove the pyrikon,” said the Sifter. “Give yourself to me. Permit me to devour you. Otherwise I shall kill you slowly, in more agony than you can possibly imagine. Then I shall do the same to your friends. Remove the pyrikon of the lost loremaster, or you shall know torment that few mortals have ever endured.”

She started to answer, her eyes watering from the heat of the flames, and the Sifter surged forward, its right hand closing about her throat. It lifted her up, her bruised neck exploding with fresh pain.

“Remove it,” said the Sifter.

Caina yanked the ghostsilver dagger from her belt and stabbed at the Sifter’s arm. She felt the heat as it disrupted the spells upon the Adamant Guard’s corpse. Yet those spells no longer mattered. The Sifter inhabited the dead flesh, and it was the Sifter’s will that filled the Guard’s limbs with inhuman strength.

Strength that was crushing her throat.

“Remove the pyrikon,” said the Sifter. The fingers dug into her neck. “Remove it!”

###

Ikhardin dodged from Morgant’s next strike, turned, and sprinted away with a burst of inhuman speed, leaping through a flame-wreathed window. Morgant blinked his stinging eyes, wondering why the assassin had retreated, and then realized the answer.

It was getting hard to breathe.

The fire blazed out of control, the air filling with smoke. In another minute or two anyone left within the Shahenshah’s Seat would either burn or choke. Ikhardin didn’t need to kill anyone. He needed only to wait until they fled from the building. Then the Immortals could cut them down.

He saw Kylon smash into a table and collapse, saw Caina within the blazing ring, stabbing uselessly at the Sifter’s form. Nasser and Kylon and Laertes would soon overpower the remaining Immortals, but by then it wouldn’t matter.

The fight was over. Caina had failed, and she had lost. She was too weak to prevail.

Morgant stepped over a dead Immortal, pondering the best way to make his escape. Back up the stairs, he thought, to the roof before the fire spread further. From there he would make his way from rooftop to rooftop, as Caina and Kylon had while fleeing from the Sifter, and then escape Istarinmul entirely.

He turned for the stairs and hesitated.

Morgant could not have said why. The strong endured and the weak perished. That was the way of the world, and he had seen little evidence otherwise in two hundred years. He admired Caina for her cleverness and boldness, but she had not been strong enough to defeat the Sifter. She would not be strong enough to help Morgant keep his word to Annarah. Better to disappear and look for someone who could help him. Idly he wondered why the Knight of Wind and Air had thought Caina strong enough to succeed.

Caina stabbed at the Sifter’s stolen body again, and in that moment she reminded him a great deal of Annarah at the end, her face defiant, her robes torn and bloodstained, the pyrikon in her hands thrust out, the staff’s length blazing with the light of the loremaster’s wards.

A staff…

Morgant blinked.

Perhaps here was another test. A pyrikon had a will of its own. Callatas had taken Annarah’s pyrikon for his own purposes, but the pyrikon seemed to have chosen Caina.

“Balarigar!” he roared, his voice cutting over the howl of the flames. “A staff! The pyrikon was once a staff!”

###

Darkness swallowed Caina’s vision, but Morgant’s words reached her ears nonetheless.

A staff?

The pyrikon could change shape, she knew that. It had started as a ring, and had later changed shape to a bracelet and then an armband. At first she had not been able to remove it, but later the pyrikon had allowed itself to be removed, though it always returned to her hand or arm sooner or later.

So what good would a staff do? The pyrikon had blocked the Sifter from entering Caina’s body, which was no doubt why the ifrit wanted her to remove it. The Sifter could not control Caina once it possessed her, but since it was going to burn her to ashes anyway, that hardly seemed necessary.

Yet she focused upon the pyrikon, thinking of a staff.

Arcane power surged through the bracelet, and it unwound from her wrist, jumping into her left hand. It expanded and swelled, unfolding and growing longer and thicker. The pyrikon had been a delicate bracelet, wrought of a strange metal like bronze. Now it extended into a staff about six feet long, intricate and slender yet solid in Caina’s fist.

The pain in her neck burned, the darkness swallowing her. Desperate, Caina thrust the staff at the Sifter.

A surge of sorcerous power went through the staff, and white light flared down its length. The Sifter rocked back with a hiss of fury, releasing Caina’s neck. She landed hard, coughing and wheezing, and managed to lean on the staff to keep herself from falling into the crimson flames. The staff looked too delicate to support her weight, yet it remained as rigid and unyielding as a steel bar. The Sifter stared at her with narrowed eyes, and Caina swung the staff.

It was a slow, awkward blow, and the Sifter could have avoided it. Yet white light burst from the staff, and the Sifter reeled back. Caina thrust the staff again, and this time the end jabbed the Sifter’s chest. The form of the Adamant Guard exploded into the cloud of flames and embers Caina had seen before, and the ifrit whirled and flowed backwards out the door of the Seat.

The ifrit was retreating.

Caina opened her mouth to speak, and found that she could not stop coughing. There was too much damned smoke in the room. Half the floor had become a blanket of fire, and flames writhed along the ceiling. The staff vanished from her hand, and for a moment she feared she had dropped it, but she felt the pyrikon’s familiar weight settle upon her left wrist. Caina turned, blinking in the hellish glare of the fire, and started to stumble. A strong arm curled around her waist, and she felt a tingle of sorcery.

“This way!” said Kylon. The smoke did not seem to discomfort him as much. The sorcery of air, no doubt. They hastened through the burning common room and into the kitchens. Nasser and Morgant and the others waited there. Nasser smashed the lock on the cellar door with his left fist and kicked open the door. Caina nodded her thanks to Kylon and shook free of his arm.

“The valikon,” she rasped. “We can’t lose it. Do you…”

“In the scabbard,” he said. He was bruised and bloody from minor cuts, but had come through the fighting otherwise unscathed. “Come on. We cannot stay here. The Sifter will take a new body or the Immortals will come for us.”

They hastened down the stairs into the cellar. Like most of the cellars Caina had seen in Istarinmul, the Seat’s cellar was a vault of brick, thick pillars supporting the weight of the building overhead. Sacks of flour and casks of beer rested against the wall, along with benches, old tables, and what Caina suspected were bed linens that had never actually been washed. The air was cleaner down here, though it still stank of smoke, and Caina sucked in breath after breath.

Nasser strode to the wall and opened one of the casks. The cask was a dummy, and inside gleamed a brass lever. Nasser’s fingers curled around it.

“Wait,” said Kylon, hurrying to his side.

“Do you want to burn to death here?” said Kazravid.

“Keep your voice down,” said Kylon. Kazravid’s scowl widened, but Kylon kept talking in a low voice. “I assume that’s a secret door?” Nasser nodded. “There are three men waiting on the other side of the door. Immortals or Kindred, I can’t tell which.”

“How do you know?” said Kazravid.

Caina waved her fingers in imitation of a sorcerer casting a spell. “Stormdancer.”

“Kazravid,” whispered Nasser. The Anshani anjar nodded, stepped back, and raised his bow. Laertes moved in front of him, raising the heavy Legion shield he preferred in melee. Kylon moved to the left of Nasser. Caina slipped a throwing knife into her hands, taking a deep breath as she tried to ignore the burning pain in her throat.

Nasser nodded and yanked the lever, raising his scimitar.

A section of the wall swung aside with a rasp, revealing a brick-lined tunnel leading into the darkness. Three men in chain mail and leather jerkins stood there, swords and daggers in hand. Kindred assassins, Caina realized, and the three men charged forward in silence.

Kazravid loosed, and his arrow slammed into the forearm of the nearest man. The assassin stumbled with a scream, and Caina flung her throwing knife, taking the assassin in the throat. The Kindred fell to his knees, dying, and Nasser and Kylon struck in unison. Neither of the remaining Kindred assassins had expected attack from the side, and Kylon and Nasser killed them both in a few heartbeats.

“Lord Kylon,” said Nasser. “Any others?”

Kylon gave a sharp shake of his head. “Not that I can sense.”

A loud cracking noise came from above, followed by a shudder that made Caina’s bones vibrate.

“The building’s coming down,” said Morgant.

“I suspect we shall not have to worry about immediate pursuit,” said Nasser.

They hastened into the tunnel.

“More to the point,” said Morgant, “where are we going?”

“I have not yet decided,” said Nasser.

“Yes, you’ve made so many successful decisions in the past,” said Morgant.

Nasser ignored the sarcasm. “Clearly, we need a location shielded from arcane observation. I think…”

“Does this tunnel,” said Caina. She coughed and rubbed her throat for a moment. “Does this tunnel link to the sewers?”

“It does,” said Nasser.

“Then I know where to go,” said Caina.

“By all means, then,” said Nasser. “Take the lead.”

Caina walked to the front, but Kylon kept close behind her, hand on his sword hilt.

Chapter 14: Traps

Kylon followed Caina as she made her way through the maze of Istarinmul’s sewers.

He was glad she knew where she was going, because after the fifth turn Kylon doubted he could have found his way back to the cellar of the Shahenshah’s Seat. His sense of direction worked best when upon a ship, sailing the open sea, or traveling across the countryside. Fortunately, Caina knew her way through this stone maze.

Even more fortunately, Nasser had thought to bring light. He donned a leather bracer upon his right forearm, a bracer mounted with a small glass sphere. A faint arcane aura surrounded the sphere, and it gave off a gentle glow, enough to illuminate the stone galleries. That was helpful, since some of the tunnels had rivers of filth running down the center. The stench was nearly a living thing, and it made Kylon miss the smoke of the Shahenshah’s Seat. Other tunnels were dry and dusty, as if they had not seen water in generations.

At last they stopped in an empty chamber with a floor of sand, and Caina halted before the wall.

“Here,” said Caina, tugging a loose brick from the wall. She reached into the hole and pulled something. A click came to Kylon’s ears, and a section of the wall slid aside to reveal a rusted iron ladder. She started climbing, and Kylon followed her.

They emerged into another cellar lit by the glow of glass spheres upon iron stands, smaller than the one below the Seat. It looked like the outpost of an army, or perhaps a scouts’ camp. Kylon saw blankets, bandages, and sacks of food and casks of wine. A wooden shelf held tools and weapons, and on the far wall another ladder climbed up to the ceiling.

There was a faint ward over the cellar. Kylon wondered who had cast it. Claudia, perhaps? Yet the spell felt old, as if it had been in place for decades, fading but still functional.

The others emerged one by one into the cellar, and Caina closed the door after them.

“What is this place?” said Laertes. “Reminds me of an outpost for Legionary scouts.”

“A safe house,” said Caina. “We’re in the Old Quarter, underneath the timber merchants’ new hall.”

“If the Sifter is using spells to track you,” said Nasser, “I fear this house will not remain safe for very long.”

“It’s warded,” said Kylon.

Caina crossed to a barrel and sat down with a sigh.

“Warded?” said Kazravid. “Where did you find this place?”

“I found it while I was looking for him,” said Caina, jerking her head towards Morgant. “This was the cellar of a minor Alchemist a hundred years ago. Rumor had it that Morgant the Razor killed him.”

“I didn’t,” said Morgant with a small smile. “In case anyone was wondering.”

“However the Alchemist died,” said Caina, “his mansion burned down and a new street had been built over the ruins. I thought something of Morgant might have been left behind, so I investigated. I didn’t find anything about Morgant, but I did find the cellar. The Alchemist had warding spells over his mansion, and they remained active upon the cellar.”

“So you established a safe house here,” said Nasser. “Well done.”

Caina rubbed her face, pulling off her turban and the cowl of her shadow-cloak, her emotional aura brushing against Kylon’s sense as she did so. “I hope so. If we’re not murdered in our sleep, then it was clever.”

She looked exhausted, her eyes bloodshot from the smoke, her neck and jaw bruised, her disguised voice flatter than usual. There was a new color in her emotional sense, a weary, tired guilt.

“Nasser,” she said. “The Shahenshah’s Seat. Who owned it?”

“An Anshani merchant,” said Nasser.

“If we live through this,” said Caina, “find him, and I’ll send him some money.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “He didn’t deserve to have his livelihood burned to the ground. Gods. If I had known that the Sifter would have been able to find us so fast…”

“One cannot,” said Nasser, “always see the consequences of every decision.”

“You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” said Morgant.

Again Nasser ignored the assassin, though Kylon felt the pulse of rage that went through the man’s emotional aura. Rage, and a considerable amount of guilt.

“Everyone does,” said Caina, “sooner or later.” She straightened up. “Let’s have some food, and then we can decide what to do next.”

“Those sacks, I assume?” said Laertes, pointing.

Caina grinned. “How did you know?”

“Because,” said Laertes, “this is not the first scout’s camp I’ve seen. Kazravid! Give me a hand with this.”

Kazravid sniffed. “I am an anjar of the noble kin of Anshan.”

“Then you can eat last,” said Laertes with a smirk.

Kazravid sighed and walked to join him as they unpacked the food.

Caina stood, stretched, and opened the lid of the cask she had been sitting on. The smell of cheap wine came to Kylon’s nostrils, and she crossed to one of the shelves, picking up clay cups. She filled one cup, handed it to Kylon, and then filled another. He expected her to drink it, but instead she handed it to Morgant.

“Why?” she said.

“Why I am going to drink this wine, you mean?” said Morgant. “Well, I am thirsty. Fighting is thirsty work.” Laertes snorted, digging loaves of hard bread and jerky from one of the sacks. Caina filled another cup and passed it to him.

“Why didn’t you let the Sifter kill me?” said Caina.

Morgant shrugged, took a sip of the wine, winced at the taste, and then took another sip. “It didn’t seem sporting.”

“I was wrong,” said Caina. “I thought the valikon would kill the Sifter, but apparently the weapon only works on nagataaru, or on spirits housed within living flesh. I made a mistake, and it was about to kill me. The whole point of this was to see if I was worthy of your damned secret. So why not let the Sifter kill me? I failed the test.”

“Maybe you could become worthy,” said Morgant.

“You hardly seem an optimist,” said Nasser.

Kylon expected another mocking remark from the assassin, but there was nothing. His cold, rigid emotional sense flickered with something. Doubt? Regret? Could the man even still feel regret?

“I…do not know why I did it,” said Morgant. “Perhaps you reminded me of Annarah. Perhaps I admired the courage with which you faced death. It would have made a splendid painting. Or maybe I wished to ask you a question.”

“What question?” said Caina.

“Does the world deserve to die?” said Morgant.

Again that strange flicker went through his aura.

“Your…two rules, is that it?” said Caina. “You keep your word, and you only kill those who deserve it. Have you changed your mind?”

“Does the world deserve death, I wonder?” said Morgant. “Whatever Callatas is doing with his Apotheosis will likely kill the world if he succeeds. Does not the world deserve it? Men like Callatas and Cassander Nilas rule most of the world.” From another man Kylon would have expected sadness or regret. Morgant only seemed…amused? Thoughtful? Resigned? “Why not kill the world? Does it not deserve death?”

“No,” said Caina.

Silence fell over the cellar as the others watched them.

“Why not?” said Morgant. “Let us say you killed Callatas tomorrow, and the Star of Iramis fell into your hand, and you had the power to burn the world to ashes. Why not do it? Why not kill the world?”

“Because you would kill the innocent alongside the guilty,” said Caina.

“Perhaps everyone is guilty,” said Morgant.

“No, everyone is not,” said Caina. “You would burn the unborn children in their mothers’ wombs. The living children, too. What crime have they done? Or the slaves? Or the merchants? Most of the people of Istarinmul are trying to live their lives, trying to keep their heads down and stay unnoticed by men like Callatas and Cassander.” She tilted her head to the side, regarding Morgant with bloodshot eyes. “You said you only had two rules. You keep your word, and you only kill those who deserve it.” Her lip curled. “Is that how you get around it? Everyone is guilty and the world deserves to die, so you can kill whoever you like?”

“No,” said Morgant. “That is why I left the Kindred. I killed innocents who did not deserve their fate…such a long, long time ago. But after that…no, I only slew those who deserved it.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the world deserves to die for producing men such as us.”

“Did you ever meet a sorceress who called herself the Moroaica?” said Caina.

“Who?” said Morgant.

“That’s a Szaldic myth,” said Kazravid. “Some old witch or ogress who terrorizes children. She even turns up in some tales in Anshan that call her the Bloodmaiden.”

“She used to talk as you do,” said Caina, her voice soft, her emotional sense growing cold with the memory. “About killing and remaking the world.”

Kazravid snorted. “Ridiculous. You claim to have met a myth?”

Kylon expected Caina to argue, but she only offered a small smile and looked back at Morgant.

“So, no, the world does not deserve death,” said Caina. “Maybe some men and women within it do. But not the whole world.” She frowned. “Why are you asking me questions like this? A madman like Callatas or a creature like the Moroaica might have the power to destroy the world, but you do not and I certainly do not.”

Morgant frowned, and that flicker of doubt in his emotional aura grew stronger.

“I…do not know,” he said, his voice missing some of its usual arrogant edge. “I do not remember.”

“You do not remember?” said Nasser, incredulous. “This conversation began five minutes ago.”

“I’m two hundred and six years old,” said Morgant, the arrogance returning. “Or two hundred and five. I’m so old that I cannot remember how old I am. Even older than you, my lord of ashes and glass. A man of my wisdom and experience is entitled to the occasional minor lapse of memory.”

“Morgant,” said Caina. “Why did you ask me that?”

“You…reminded me of Annarah when you were about to die,” said Morgant. He blinked. “Someone asked me that question a long, long time ago. The answer was important.”

“Who?” said Caina.

“I don’t remember, either,” said Morgant. “Only that it was important.”

“For the gods’ sakes,” said Caina, and the rage in her heart burned hotter. “Have you been lying to me the entire time? You don’t know where Annarah is, but you’ve been playing this stupid little game anyway?”

“I know what happened to Annarah,” said Morgant. “That I remember with perfect clarity. That knowledge is so dangerous that I have not spoken of it to anyone for a century and a half. But the question, though…the question is important. Though I remember not why.”

“You wasted a lot of time,” said Kylon, “pretending to be a mad artist.”

“Just why is that, boy?” said Morgant.

“You have no need to masquerade as a mad artist,” said Kylon, “because you are a mad artist, utterly and completely.”

Morgant only laughed.

“As fascinating as this philosophical discussion is,” said Nasser, “we have more pressing concerns.”

“Such as not getting burned to death by a crazed devil of the netherworld, for one,” said Kazravid. He pointed at Nasser. “If you get killed, who is going to pay me?”

Caina shook her head. “I was sure the valikon would be able to destroy the Sifter.”

“As was I,” said Nasser. “Unfortunately, I am not an expert on the arcane sciences once wielded by the loremasters of Iramis.”

“Plainly,” said Morgant.

“The Sifter itself said that the valikon could only harm it while it wore living flesh,” said Kylon.

“The sword harmed the kadrataagu at Silent Ash Temple,” said Laertes.

“Kadrataagu?” said Kylon.

“Nagataaru-possessed people,” said Caina. “The Huntress and Rolukhan are in cooperation their nagataaru. In a kadrataagu, the host has been overwhelmed and the nagataaru is in control. The kadrataagu were still alive, Laertes. Deformed and twisted, yes, but still living.”

“The valikon was forged to destroy nagataaru,” said Nasser, “in ancient days, when the nagataaru-possessed Demon Princes ruled what is now Istarinmul. If the sword’s primary purpose was to kill nagataaru, perhaps it is less effective against other spirits.”

“Then we must force the Sifter into a living body?” said Laertes.

“We can’t force it to do anything,” said Caina. “It told me that the valikon couldn’t hurt it unless it possessed a living body, and the Sifter will be smart enough not to do that. And even if it did possess a living body, we would have to kill whatever poor fool it possessed.” She looked at Morgant. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t want to kill those who do not deserve it.”

“Then it seems we have little choice but to speak with Lady Claudia,” said Laertes. “Her spells proved effective against the Huntress and her minions.”

“Who?” said Kazravid.

“The wife of the Emperor’s Lord Ambassador to the Padishah,” said Nasser.

Kazravid snorted. “You have been moving in rarefied circles since we last met, Ciaran.”

“I would prefer not to ask Claudia’s help,” said Caina. “She is with child, and a battle is no place for a pregnant woman. Otherwise I would not hesitate to go to her.” She considered. “Additionally…I am certain that Cassander Nilas conjured the Sifter and set it upon my trail. If the Sifter goes after me while I am at Lord Martin’s mansion, Martin will interpret it as an attack upon the Empire. The Grand Wazir might expel both the Imperial and the Umbarian embassies from the city, and that could be disastrous for the Empire.”

“You may not have a choice,” said Kylon. “The Sifter will not stop. I saw Claudia banish an earth elemental in Caeria Ulterior, and that spirit was at least as strong as the Sifter. You have no other way to fight the ifrit.”

“Why do you care so much?” said Morgant.

“About what?” said Caina.

“About Lady Claudia’s unborn child,” said Morgant. He smirked. “It’s not yours, is it, Master Ciaran? Poor Lord Martin would be shocked.”

“No,” said Caina.

Kylon knew the answer that Caina would not tell Morgant. Claudia’s child was Corvalis’s nephew, the blood of her lost lover, and she would kill anyone who threatened the child. Kylon also knew a deeper answer that he suspected Caina herself had not fully grasped. She could not have children herself, so nothing inspired her to deadlier rage than the children of her friends coming under threat.

Rezir Shahan had found that out the hard way.

Not for the first time, Kylon wondered at the slender threads that decided the fate of nations. If Caina had escaped Marsis with Nicolai, she would not have slain Rezir Shahan, starting the myth of the Balarigar. Rezir would have held the city. At least, he would have held the city until Andromache opened the Tomb of Scorikhon. The imprisoned disciple of the Moroaica would have rampaged free, and Kylon himself would have fallen to Scorikhon’s sorcery or Sicarion’s blades.

But all of that had been averted because Caina had been desperate to save her friend’s son.

“Because I do not wish for the innocent to die,” said Caina. “You ought to be grateful. I am following your own rule.”

“There may,” said Nasser, “be another way.” Their eyes shifted to him, and Nasser’s white smile flashed across his dark face. “A way that will rid us of the Sifter, damage Grand Master Callatas’s plans, and strike at your enemies, Lord Kylon.”

“And what is this marvelous plan of yours?” said Morgant.

“Ciaran, Laertes, Kazravid,” said Nasser. “Recall. When poor Tarqaz was slain in Callatas’s laboratory and a nagataaru inhabited his corpse, what happened?”

Kazravid shuddered. “A nasty fight.”

“But after we destroyed his body,” said Nasser. “What happened then?”

“The nagataaru departed his flesh,” said Caina, her emotional sense going cold with a dark memory.

“But there were soon other corpses at hand,” said Nasser. “Dozens of them, laid out on the Grand Master’s tables. Why didn’t it possess one of them and join the fight after we destroyed Tarqaz’s body?”

“Because,” said Caina, realization coming over her face, “it was drawn into the Mirror of Worlds?”

“A Mirror of Worlds?” said Kylon.

“A gate allowing physical passage to the netherworld,” said Caina, her voice distant and her aura changing as her mind grappled with an idea. “That’s how Callatas and his disciples make wraithblood. They murder slaves, and then anchor chains to the earth of the netherworld just within the gate. The chains draw sorcerous power out of the netherworld and into the blood of the murdered slaves, transforming it into wraithblood. That’s how we escaped, actually. We had to flee through the Mirror to get away from Callatas’s Immortals.”

“You escaped through the netherworld?” said Kylon, stunned.

“Do not remind me,” said Kazravid. “I drank myself senseless every night for a week to forget the horrors I saw there.”

“You would drink yourself senseless every night anyway,” said Laertes.

“Yes, but I shouldn’t have to.”

“But Tarqaz’s nagataaru didn’t take another host,” said Caina. “There were dozens of corpses at hand, and it could have claimed any one of them. Perhaps the spells upon the chains driven into their flesh had made them unsuitable for possession. Or…”

“Or the Mirror of Worlds pulled the nagataaru into the netherworld,” said Nasser. “The Mirror is an unnatural thing, a rip in the walls between the worlds. I suspect it exerts a force similar to suction upon any spirits in its vicinity.”

“If a spirit is forced out of its host,” said Caina, “the Mirror pulls it back into the netherworld.”

“Exactly,” said Nasser. “When you confronted the Sifter with the pyrikon staff, it destroyed its host and took a form of flame and embers, presumably to find another host from the dead Immortals upon the floor.”

“It did the same thing, too,” said Kylon, “when it confronted us the first time. It abandoned its host.”

“I suspect, Ciaran,” said Nasser, “that the Sifter wants to possess you and consume you from the inside out. That is how the ifriti feed upon mortals. Nagataaru feast upon fear and pain and life force. The ifriti simply burn their prey alive.”

“Well,” said Caina. “I’ve had a lot of enemies that wanted to kill me. This is the first time I’ve had one that wanted to eat me.”

“Cassander wishes to kill you,” said Nasser. “The Sifter is the tool he has employed to work his will. Likely the ifrit cares nothing for its master, and merely wants to devour you.”

“How refreshing,” said Caina. “So we find a Mirror of Worlds, destroy the Sifter’s physical form within sight of it, and let the Mirror suck the Sifter back into the netherworld.”

“That is what I propose, yes,” said Nasser.

“A splendid plan,” said Morgant. “Assuming you have a Mirror of Worlds at hand.”

“I do not,” said Nasser. That smile flashed over his face once more. “But I know where we can find one.”

“You’ve located another wraithblood laboratory?” said Caina.

“I have,” said Nasser. “One in the care of Master Alchemist Malik Rolukhan. If we destroy the laboratory and shatter its Mirror of Worlds after defeating the Sifter, it will deal him a heavy blow. I trust you would approve of this course, Lord Kylon.”

“Yes,” said Kylon, a shiver of anger going through him. Kylon wanted to kill the Huntress, Cassander, and Rolukhan, but if he could not kill them, he would certainly settle for harming them…

Caina stared at him, alarm seeping into her aura, and Kylon realized he had lost control of his anger. He looked down and saw a rime of frost covering the floor near his boots. He took a deep breath, forcing the anger back into place.

“I approve of this plan,” said Kylon at last.

“Where is the laboratory?” said Caina.

“The Craven’s Tower,” said Nasser.

Kazravid snorted. “Oh, there’s an easy target. Why don’t we break into the Golden Palace after that?”

“The Craven’s Tower?” said Kylon. He had never heard of the place.

“A fortress in the Saddaic Quarter,” said Caina. “A small one, but well-guarded. The Padishah keeps part of his treasury there.” She looked at Nasser. “And Rolukhan actually has a wraithblood laboratory in the Tower?”

“The Lieutenant of the Craven’s Tower,” said Nasser, “is a minor emir of no consequence, whose sole skill is an ability to follow Rolukhan’s orders to the letter. Therefore the Craven’s Tower has become Rolukhan’s personal fortress during his absences from the Inferno, guarded by Immortals, and Rolukhan has established a wraithblood laboratory within its walls.”

“That’s all we have to do, then?” said Kazravid with a scowl. “We merely have to break into the Craven’s Tower, avoid getting killed, and then dispatch some damned fire devil inside another one of those damned wraithblood laboratories?” He shook his head. “That is not worth fifteen thousand bezants.”

“Our original agreement still holds,” said Nasser. “You will recall, however, that a portion of the Padishah’s treasury is stored within the Tower’s vaults. You shall be welcome to whatever you can carry with you.”

Kazravid blew out a long breath. “Fine.”

“The Anshani is right,” said Morgant. “This plan takes too many risks. You are likely to get killed or captured.”

“What do you care?” said Caina. “If I get killed, it’s proof I wasn’t worthy of your secret.”

“I have spent a long time looking for someone worthy of it,” said Morgant. “If you get killed, I would have to start over again.”

Irritation flushed through her aura, though it did not touch her expression. “Fine, then. Why don’t you just tell me what happened to Annarah now?”

“Because if you are killed,” said Morgant, “the Sifter will extract the information from your mind as it burns you to ashes from the inside out. Then it will report with the information to Cassander, and he will know. Then he will take the relics and use them to work mischief, and I shall break my word to Annarah. Or Callatas will kill him and take the relics, and I shall break my word to Annarah. Neither outcome is acceptable.” He shrugged. “The Sifter is coming to kill you anyway, no matter what you do. So, dear child, this is your chance. Prove to me that you are strong enough, and I will tell you the truth. Fail, and the Sifter will kill you.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Would someone tell me who this fellow is?” said Kazravid at last. “Rather mouthy for a painter, isn’t he?”

“This man goes by the name of Markaine of Caer Marist,” said Nasser, “but in truth, he is the legendary assassin Morgant the Razor, and possesses some answers that I have sought for a very long time.”

Kazravid laughed. “Morgant the Razor? Indeed! And I am both the Shahenshah and Yaramzod the Black himself!”

“Believe what you wish,” said Morgant. “So. Balarigar. It seems you are the one making the decisions here. Are you going to set a trap for the Sifter in the middle of one of the Padishah’s strongest fortresses?”

Caina said nothing for a moment, and Kylon felt her emotions hardening.

“So be it,” said Caina. “Let’s rob a fortress and banish an ifrit.”

###

“Well?” said Ikhardin, scowling as he paced back and forth through the deserted Bazaar of the Southern Road.

The Sifter said nothing, regarding the charred shell of the Shahenshah’s Seat. Its new body felt lighter than the old. It had claimed one of the dead Immortals. Even with the corpse’s armor, it was still lighter than the Adamant Guard and its grafted armor. Not that it mattered. Material weapons did not concern the Sifter.

Not even the valikon concerned it…though that pyrikon was proving a difficulty.

The demonslayer had escaped its grasp yet again, though this was not cause for concern. The Sifter had spent a long time hunting prey, and one of two fates awaited Caina Amalas. Either it would devour her and feast upon the released energy of her destiny line, or she would die of old age before the Sifter found her.

The first was rather more likely.

Still, the Sifter felt a degree of annoyance. Victory had only been a matter of inflicting enough physical pain to compel her to remove the pyrikon. Then it could have entered her flesh and devoured her, burning away her body and mind and feasting upon the released power. Her destiny line, for all its brevity, crossed so many other threads of the mortal tapestry, and the Sifter would have gorged itself on the released energy.

“This is a disaster,” muttered Ikhardin, pacing back and forth. “A score of Immortals dead, that tavern burned to the ground, a hundred angry merchants complaining to the magistrates! The master shall be wroth.”

The Sifter suspected that Malik Rolukhan did not care about either the burned tavern or the dead Immortals. The Sifter itself did not care for anything that Cassander and Rolukhan and Ikhardin might think. Cassander had bound the Sifter to kill the demonslayer, and the Sifter would fulfill its charge.

Perhaps the opportunity to devour Cassander himself would come later.

It could not currently locate the demonslayer’s destiny line, nor that of the assassin and the stormdancer. Likely they had retreated behind a protective ward spell. For that matter, it had not been able to see the demonslayer’s destiny line during the fight in the tavern. The Sifter thought it likely that she was in possession of a shadow-cloak. It had encountered them before, when it had been summoned by Umbarian magi in centuries past.

It had killed Ghosts before.

“Damned spirit!” Ikhardin grabbed the shoulder of the Sifter’s mortal shell, shaking the black armor. “I asked you a question.”

The Sifter regarded Ikhardin with its stolen eyes, and considered terminating his destiny line. Mortals were nothing. They were cattle, food to be consumed as the Sifter saw fit. This mortal, however, was unusually annoying. His destiny line would provide a pleasing amount of energy…

No. He might be useful. The Sifter regarded the shifting lines of the tapestry of fate, watching the potential configurations of the future change and morph, altering with the thousands upon thousands of minor decisions taking place in Istarinmul right now.

A new configuration was forming.

The Sifter could not see the destiny lines of its prey, but it could see the configuration of the other threads.

Ah. The demonslayer was attempting to set a trap. It could not see Caina Amalas…but it knew where she would be.

“Spirit!” roared Ikhardin. “I shall…”

The Sifter caught the mortal’s fist. Ikhardin struggled, drawing upon the power of the necromantic device upon his right arm, but petty mortal sorcery could not overcame the Sifter’s power. Fear crossed the assassin’s face.

“I know where they will be,” said the Sifter. “Summon your men.”

Chapter 15: Disguises

Two days later, Caina and Kylon walked to Istarinmul’s Saddaic Quarter.

“Between you and Nasser,” said Kylon with a bemused shake of his head, “you have friends everywhere, don’t you?”

“I don’t know about friends,” said Caina, looking up at him with a smile. “Acquaintances. Well-wishers.”

“People who owe you favors?” said Kylon.

“At the right time and the right place,” said Caina, “a favor is worth more than gold.”

He shrugged. “I cannot argue with that.”

They walked deeper into Istarinmul’s small Saddaic Quarter. The buildings were a curious mixture of Istarish and Saddaic architecture, white-washed adobe adorned with the stylized designs the Saddai preferred. Most of the buildings had begun life as warehouses, later converted into houses as more and more Saddai made their way to Istarinmul. In Rasadda, everything had been built of black stone or black-painted wood, in honor of the Living Flame who reforged the souls of men. The endless burning sun of the Istarish sky made black paint impractical, so the Saddai of Istarinmul whitewashed their houses, painting a black flame over their doorframes to symbolize their devotion to the Living Flame.

“There are more Saddai here than I expected,” said Kylon. He had returned to the disguise of a steppe tribesman, clad in a ragged brown robe and turban, broadsword at his belt and valikon slung over his shoulder. Beneath his turban rested the cowl of Caina’s shadow-cloak, concealed beneath the ragged cloth. The cloak itself hung down his back, concealed by the robe. It would keep the Sifter or Rolukhan from using sorcery to locate him.

Caina had her own means of concealment.

“Aye.” She flexed her left hand beneath its glove, the slender chains cool against her skin.

Annarah’s pyrikon had protected her from the sword of the nagataaru and the Sifter’s possession. Caina gambled that the pyrikon could also protect her from sorcerous observation. The damned thing had a mind of its own, but it sometimes did what Caina asked of it. So she had concentrated on the pyrikon, thinking of her shadow-cloak, of hiding from divination spells, half-expecting nothing to happen.

Instead, the pyrikon changed into a new form. Five delicate rings had appeared on the fingers and thumb of Caina’s left hand, and slender bronze chains joined the rings to the bracelet. The chains and the rings vibrated with arcane power, almost to the point of discomfort, yet Kylon said he could no longer sense her emotions. Almost certainly the Sifter would not be able to detect her presence, and it had failed to find her for the last two days.

Other than the bracelet, she wore a combination of Saddaic and Istarish clothes, a long black coat, black shirt, black boots, and a crimson turban. The Saddai tended to wear black and red, and Caina was pale enough to pass as Saddaic from a distance, though few among them had blue eyes. Kylon passed as her mercenary bodyguard easily enough. A surprising number of the Saddaic merchants had bodyguards. For people who had come to Istarinmul as refugees, they had prospered to a remarkable degree.

“We are a long way from the Saddaic provinces,” said Kylon.

“That we are,” said Caina, waving a hand at the buildings. “This used to be part of the Alqaarin Quarter, but the Padishah’s father expanded the Alqaarin Harbor, and traffic moved to other parts of the city. Most of these buildings were abandoned, and in recent years the Saddai settled here.”

“What drove them to Istarinmul?” said Kylon.

Caina’s mouth twisted. “Anatsius Nicephorus, the Lord Governor of Rasadda. He started forcing the Saddai off their lands, creating estates for his friends and selling the dispossessed farmers into slavery. His misrule almost drove Rasadda to revolt from the Empire.”

“Andromache mentioned Nicephorus once or twice,” said Kylon. “She thought the man a fool. What happened to him?”

“I did.”

“Ah.”

Caina shook her head. “The Umbarian Order controls the Saddaic provinces now, and they make Nicephorus seem kindly by comparison. They have been enslaving thousands Saddai, so many of them have fled here.” She smiled at Kylon. “Which is why I know they will not aid Cassander and his servants. They hate the Umbarians, and would kill Cassander if he was foolish enough to give them the opportunity.”

“A pity they shall not likely have the chance,” said Kylon.

They stopped in a small bazaar in the heart of the Saddaic Quarter. Most of the Saddai who had settled here were glassworkers, and produced glass of a quality and strength that Istarish craftsmen could not match, and the Alchemists of the College had begun placing mass orders. Here in the bazaar stood booths and shops selling the common necessaries of life, food and drink and household wares. One of the merchants sold rolls of spiced rice and fried vegetables, the smell filling the air.

“Did you eat today?” said Kylon.

“I may have forgotten,” said Caina. She had to stop doing that. It would be darkly amusing to have escaped the Sifter twice only to forget to eat, pass out and collapse, and crack her head on the ground.

“I’ll buy some food,” said Kylon, turning towards the merchant’s stall.

“I have money,” said Caina.

There was a flash of humor on his grim face. “I’m learning the art of disguise. A merchant would send his guard to purchase food for him.”

“I cannot contest that logic,” said Caina.

“Besides,” said Kylon, looking across the bazaar. “It will give you time to look at that.”

Caina nodded, and Kylon went to purchase food.

She turned and stared at the grim bulk of the fortress across the square.

The Craven’s Tower was not large. The Crows’ Tower in the Tower Quarter, the headquarters of the watchmen, was far larger, and even the Widow’s Tower had been bigger. Nevertheless, the Craven’s Tower still looked strong. A curtain wall encircled a broad courtyard, and a tall drum tower rose within. Siege engines stood at intervals along the curtain wall, and Caina saw the dark shapes of Immortals patrolling the ramparts. The gates were closed, the Immortals standing watch upon the ramparts.

That, however, did not draw Caina’s attention.

The siege engines did. An Immortal carried a heavy amphora towards one of the engines, depositing it there. Caina had seen an amphora of that shape and size before. More specifically, she had seen hundreds of them in the armory of the Widow’s Tower.

It was amphora of Hellfire. The strange alchemical elixir burned with a terrible, devouring heat, hot enough to melt flesh and turn bones to ashes in the space of a heartbeat. Neither water nor sand could quench Hellfire, and it burned stone and earth as easily as wood and coal. Enough Hellfire, ignited at once, could create an explosion of dreadful force.

The Widow’s Tower had been a fortress far larger than the Craven’s Tower. Then Caina had ignited the Hellfire in the Tower’s armory. The Widow’s Tower was no longer there, nor was much of the rocky peninsula upon which it had once stood.

The smell of spices and cooked rice filled her nostrils, and she turned as Kylon returned with the food. He passed her one of the rolls, and she took it, the pita bread rough against her fingers. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” Kylon took a bite of his roll. “That is…better than I thought.”

“I thought Kyracians only ate grain, grapes, and olive oil,” said Caina.

“Not at all,” said Kylon. “We also eat fish.”

They stood in silence for a moment, eating

“What do you think?” said Kylon at last.

“Hellfire,” said Caina in a quiet voice.

Kylon paused between bites. “Hellfire?”

“There are amphorae of it upon the wall, near the siege engines,” said Caina. “I wonder what the Saddai would think if they knew the Immortals could rain Hellfire upon them at any time.”

“They would flee the city,” said Kylon. “Hellfire is incredibly dangerous. The only reason neither the Empire nor Anshan has ever conquered Istarinmul is because of Hellfire. In ancient days New Kyre sent a fleet against Istarinmul, thinking to punish the Padishah, and the Hellfire burned that fleet to ashes. Out of thousands of sailors and soldiers, only a few ever escaped to return to New Kyre and tell the Assembly what had happened.”

“It was amazing anyone survived,” said Caina, remembering the firestorm that had consumed the Widow’s Tower.

“You think we can use the Hellfire to get into the Tower?” said Kylon.

“I’m not sure,” said Caina. The seed of an idea scratched at her mind. “Maybe. We’ll have to watch the Tower for a while.” She took a quick glance around the Bazaar. “That inn, there. It’s too close to the Tower’s curtain wall. If we rent the top room, we can see into the courtyard.”

Kylon nodded. Caina kept eating her roll, thinking.

“Nasser,” said Kylon at last.

“What about him?” said Caina.

“Do you trust him?” said Kylon.

Caina considered that for a moment.

“To a point, yes,” said Caina. “More than I did when we first met. We have gone into great danger together, and he has kept faith with me.” She gestured with the remains of the roll. “Much as you and I did at Catekharon and Caer Magia.”

“But you knew who I was,” said Kylon, “and I knew who you were. Neither one of us knows who Nasser Glasshand really is.”

“I know the most important part of his identity,” said Caina. “He hates Callatas.”

“Yes,” said Kylon. “I sensed that. Though it is even obvious without the senses of a stormdancer.”

“I don’t know who he really is,” said Caina, “but I can guess.” She glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “I think Callatas did him some grievous injury. Killed his wife or children, perhaps. Nasser wants revenge for that.”

“Do you think he is Iramisian?” said Kylon.

“It crossed my mind,” said Caina. “What makes you think that?”

“Morgant knew who he was,” said Kylon, “and he recognized Morgant on sight as an assassin, not the painter Markaine of Caer Marist. From what I’ve gathered, Morgant didn’t assume the identity of Markaine until after the destruction of Iramis, until after he killed Annarah or buried her alive or whatever he did to her.”

“Which would mean,” said Caina, “that Nasser is at least a hundred and fifty years old. Maybe older.”

“And his hand,” said Kylon. “Has he ever told you what happened to it? A normal man should not be able to punch through a steel helmet.”

“No,” said Caina. “I’m surprised you are more suspicious of Nasser than of Morgant.”

“I am quite suspicious of Morgant,” said Kylon. “But the man has been more honest with you than Nasser. He was telling the truth when he said that he will tell you what had happened to Annarah if you are victorious. I do not like him and I think he is dangerous, but he has been more honest with you than Nasser.”

That was a good point.

“What do you think Nasser wants?” said Caina.

“Vengeance upon Callatas,” said Kylon. “I suspect that he is not terribly concerned about how he gets it.”

“No,” said Caina. “If you’re right, if he has been doing this for a hundred and fifty years…something else is driving him. He hates Callatas, yes, but there is more to it than that.” She shrugged. “Not many people can live on hatred for that long.”

“Can’t they?” said Kylon. Though she was no stormdancer to sense emotion, she could see the exhaustion and pain in his brown eyes.

“Not forever,” said Caina, her voice soft. “It does get better, I promise. The pain never goes away, but you learn to live with it. And if we live through this, if we stop the Sifter, I promise I will help bring Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan to account for what they have done.” Considering that Cassander seemed determined to kill her, she would have to do so anyway.

“Thank you,” said Kylon. He blinked, looked away, and finished his roll. “That…was better than I expected.”

He did not want to talk about his wife’s death. Caina understood. “The Saddai make them with corn in their homeland. The pita bread and the rice improves it, I think. Come. Let’s return to Nasser. We have things to discuss.”

###

The next day Caina rented a room in the tavern and sat at the window with the shutters cracked open, watching the Craven’s Tower below. She held a spyglass, the lens tucked into the narrow crack between the shutters. She took care to make sure no light glinted off the lens.

If the Immortals in the Craven’s Tower realized that she was spying on them, they would not bother with the city watch or magistrates. They would simply storm into the tavern and kill her. Fortunately, the window was small enough that she doubted the Immortals would notice her.

Unfortunately, it was far enough away that Morgant could talk without fear of anyone overhearing them.

“I think,” he said, sitting in a wooden chair, his boots propped upon the bed, “that I am beginning to understand why you do what you do.” His notebook rested open upon his lap, a pencil flickering in his right hand as he sketched drawings upon the pages.

“Oh?” said Caina. “You understand that I’m sitting in a chair with a spyglass? I congratulate your perception. I see how you became a famous artist.”

Morgant snorted. “No. Why you want to save the world.”

“I live here,” said Caina, watching the Immortals. She twitched the spyglass towards the bazaar and then back to the Tower’s gate. “It would be rather inconvenient if the world were destroyed.”

“You’ve saved the world before,” said Morgant.

“No, I didn’t,” said Caina. Her gaze turned back to the bazaar. She saw a column of twenty Immortals march into the square, their eyes shining with a ghostly blue glow. The Saddai merchants and workers scrambled to get out of their way.

“I’ve been listening to you, dear child,” said Morgant, “and I’ve heard the stories of the Balarigar. You’re the one who killed Rezir Shahan. You killed the Moroaica and stopped the day of the golden dead.”

“Lies,” said Caina. Four burly slaves carried a sedan chair behind the Immortals, and in the sedan chair sat a young Alchemist in brilliant white robes. After the sedan chair came a wagon pulled by a team of horses, the wagon carrying several locked iron boxes.

Large iron boxes, and the draft horses looked as if they were laboring to pull the load.

“And I saw you risk your life again and again over the last few days,” said Morgant. “Without thought, without heed. Like you had risked your life so often that you could do so without thinking of it.”

“You know,” said Caina, “if you wrote this little speech down, I could ignore it more easily later.” The Immortals and their wagon moved toward the gate of the Craven’s Tower.

“But why?” said Morgant. “Why risk your life? You remind me a little of Annarah. She risked her life, too, but she was a loremaster of Iramis. They were sworn to use their powers to heal and seek knowledge, to defend the mortal world from the dark things of the netherworld.”

“So do the Ghosts,” said Caina.

“No, they don’t,” said Morgant. “The Ghosts are spies. I’ve met Ghosts. They wear shadow-cloaks and skulk in cellars and pass reports to their circlemasters. They don’t rush about saving the world. Not the way you do.”

“It’s been a while since you were in the Empire,” said Caina. The wagon reached the gate of the Tower and stopped. “Perhaps they’ve changed.”

“That is possible,” said Morgant. He sketched for a moment longer. “You can’t have children, can you?”

Caina felt her shoulders stiffen. She did not want to discuss that with Morgant. No doubt he would pry and pry, hoping to elicit a reaction from her. She would not give him the satisfaction. Though no doubt her long pause had already given him an answer of sorts.

“And what led you to that conclusion?” she said at last.

“Lady Claudia’s child,” said Morgant. “Why should you care so much about another woman’s child? Especially when her spells could aid us?”

“Because it could get her killed,” said Caina, “along with her child. I thought you had a rule against killing people who didn’t deserve it.”

“Why do people risk their lives?” said Morgant.

“Perhaps they had no other choice,” said Caina. The sedan chair settled to the ground, and the Alchemist emerged.

“No, there’s always a reason,” said Morgant. “Men risk their lives for money, or for love, or for honor. Women…”

“Women risk their lives for the same reasons,” said Caina. The Alchemist spoke with the Immortals upon the ramparts, and the gate opened.

“Not as often,” said Morgant. “A woman can disguise herself as a man and take up sword and shield and march to war, aye…but so few do. And usually to follow a husband or a lover or a brother. The bravest women I ever saw were trying to defend their children.”

“Is that what made you invent your two rules?” said Caina. “A woman was trying to defend her children from you?”

“No,” said Morgant, but his voice grew distant. “There were other reasons. But you, dear child. You cannot have children. So you try to save the children of everyone else.”

“Are you pretending to be an artist or pretending to be a philosopher?” said Caina. The Alchemist walked through the gate, the heavy cart rolling after him.

“Who says I cannot be both?” said Morgant.

“I suggest you pick whichever one is quieter,” said Caina. She watched as the cart pulled into the courtyard. At the Alchemist’s direction, the Immortals began opening the chests and unloading their contents.

Amphora after amphora of Hellfire.

“Perhaps I’ll make a painting of you,” said Morgant. “The childless woman, the Balarigar, fighting forever to defend what she herself will never know…”

“For the gods’ sake,” said Caina. “Is this why Nasser was so angry to see you? Was he once locked in a room with you and forced to listen to you talk and talk? I see why he was still annoyed after a hundred and fifty years.”

Morgant laughed. “Actually, he tried to arrest me once. It didn’t go well.”

“Mmm.” The Immortals carried the amphorae across the courtyard, storing them in a stone outbuilding against the curtain wall. If the Hellfire exploded, the blast would tear down the wall and roll into the bazaar, sparing the central drum tower itself. Of course, the explosion would kill anyone in the bazaar, but the Immortals would not care.

But if the bazaar was empty…

“I must be right,” said Morgant. “You’ve deflected every question.”

“You weren’t asking questions,” said Caina, adjusting the angle of the spyglass. “You were making statements. You can make statements on whatever topics you wish. If you ask me questions, I will either answer them, lie to you, or tell you to go to hell.”

“An honest answer,” said Morgant. “A rarity indeed.”

“We can make a bargain, if you wish,” said Caina as the Immortals carried the last of the Hellfire into the stone outbuilding. “Tell me what happened to Annarah, and I shall answer all your questions freely.”

“That would not prove that you are strong enough to endure the knowledge,” said Morgant.

“Probably not, no,” said Caina. She stood up and pushed the shutters closed. “So I should focus on a way to defeat the Sifter. We’re done here.”

Morgant snorted again and made no effort to move. “Have my questions driven you off?”

“They’ve given me a headache, yes,” said Caina, stepping around his chair, “but I have what I needed to find. I know where the Immortals of the Craven’s Tower keep their Hellfire.”

“What good does that do us?” Morgant closed his notebook and stood up.

“Ever seen a lot of Hellfire burn all at once?” said Caina.

“Not recently,” said Morgant.

“You might have,” said Caina, “if you had been looking in the direction of the Widow’s Tower about fifteen months ago.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing confusion on his face, followed by the far greater satisfaction of his surprised realization.

“That was you?” said Morgant.

“I had to improvise,” said Caina.

He shook his head. “Are you certain that you’re not a pyromancer? You have a greater love of setting buildings afire than anyone I have ever met.”

“I’ve had to improvise often,” said Caina. “And you might see me improvise again. Let’s go. I need to talk to Nasser.”

###

An hour later, Caina walked through the streets of the docks overlooking the Cyrican Harbor. Morgant strolled at her side, stark in his black coat and white shirt, the crimson scimitar belted at his side. She had been worried that either the Sifter or Rolukhan would be able to find him with a spell, but Morgant had retreated to his run-down house and retrieved an old bronze ring that carried a faint tingle of sorcery. He claimed it baffled divinatory spells, and Kylon had not been able to sense Morgant’s emotions when he wore it.

Hopefully it would keep their enemies from locating Morgant.

Caina kept walking, the streets slanting lower towards the massive complex of the Cyrican Harbor. The air smelled of salt and tar and dead things, and countless ships crowded the harbor. Squat warehouses lined the streets, holding merchandise from a score of different nations. The Brotherhood of Slavers kept its own fortified dock towards the southern end of the harbor, and Caina had not yet figured out how to break into it.

She turned a corner and whispered a quiet curse under her breath.

“Trouble?” murmured Morgant. His eyes flickered over the street. “I don’t see anyone. Just some wraithblood addicts.” Dozens of them sat against the wall, clad in ragged clothes. Some of them rocked back and forth, while others stared blankly at the sky. A few others muttered to themselves, or carried on conversations with people who were not there.

“Aye,” said Caina. That was trouble enough. At least for her. “You’ll see.”

She walked down the street, Morgant following. Many wraithblood addicts tended to congregate near the harbors. The foreigners coming off the merchant ships were often willing to throw a few coins to the beggars.

The addicts started to notice her, their ghostly blue eyes turning in her direction. She heard the requests for money, money to buy wraithblood, the dark potion that let them see beautiful visions. The addicts moved closer, their unwashed scent filling Caina’s nostrils. Morgant’s indifferent mask never wavered, but his bony hands twitched closer to his weapons.

“No, don’t bother,” said Caina, still walking. “Watch.”

The wraithblood addicts shuffled closer…and then they recoiled in fear, their eerie eyes growing wide.

“I see you,” whispered one. “I can see you, I can see you!”

“I am standing right here, fool,” said Morgant.

“He’s not talking about you,” said Caina.

“The shadow, I see the shadow upon you!” said another.

“The fire burns, it throws the shadow upon you,” said still another. “It burns in the web of time! I…I can see it…”

“Don’t hurt me,” said a fourth, throwing his arms over his head. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!”

Caina kept walking, and the wraithblood addicts cringed away from her in terror, huddling against the walls. Morgant watched them with narrowed eyes, his hands remaining near his weapons, but the wraithblood addicts made no threatening moves. The addicts usually did not become violent, unless the final debilitating stage of their addiction induced murderous hallucinations.

“What did you do to them?” said Morgant.

“Nothing,” said Caina. “Nothing at all. I noticed it when I first came to Istarinmul. Wraithblood addicts can see…a shadow around me. I don’t really know what it is.”

“Strake did not mention it,” said Morgant, eyes narrowed. Likely he was annoyed that he had missed it.

“Nerina has seen it before,” said Caina. “It was how we met. And she’s not insane.”

“A generous assessment,” said Morgant.

“She is in control of herself,” conceded Caina. “I don’t know what the shadow is. Kalgri…the Huntress thought it was the shadow of something that would happen to me in the future. Like an omen.”

“Pleasant thought,” said Morgant. “What do you think that it is?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “It keeps the wraithblood addicts away from me, though.”

“I am surprised they haven’t all starved to death yet,” said Morgant.

“They would,” said Caina, “but one of the Orders of the Living Flame is devoted to charitable works, and the Sisters provide food for the wraithblood addicts.”

“Ah,” said Morgant. “One suspects that the daring master thief known as the Balarigar may have made sizeable anonymous donations to that Order.”

Caina sighed, annoyed with herself. She hadn’t intended to tell him that, but he had figured it out. “Yes. But…you may be right.”

“Well, obviously. About what, though?”

Caina glanced around. “You said the purpose of the Apotheosis was to summon a large number of nagataaru, that Callatas intends to put them in the bodies of the wraithblood addicts. That is why the Padishah’s magistrates allow the Sisters of the Living Flame to feed the addicts. He needs them alive for when he works the Apotheosis.”

“Perhaps you should kill them all, then,” said Morgant. “Deny them to the Grand Master.”

“No,” said Caina, anger creeping into her tone. “They don’t deserve that, and they certainly don’t deserve to have nagataaru stuffed inside their heads. For a man who claims that he never slew anyone who didn’t deserve it, you are quick to kill.”

Morgant smirked, and for a burning moment Caina wanted to beat him over the head with something heavy until he told her what had happened to Annarah. She knew it was a futile idea. For one thing, she could not take him in hand-to-hand combat. And some part of her understood him. Caina had secrets, too. She had not told Damla everything, nor Agabyzus, nor Nerina, nor Nasser or any of the other friends and allies she had made in Istarinmul. That knowledge was dangerous and could bring them to harm. Perhaps Morgant’s secret was the same.

Though now that Caina thought about it, the man who knew her best in all of Istarinmul was Kylon. An odd thought, given that they had tried to kill each other during their first meeting in Marsis.

Caina walked in silence to their destination, a tavern at the edge of the dockside quarter. Like most structures in Istarinmul, it was built of sun-beaten adobe, whitewashed to deflect the sun’s glare. Unlike most buildings in Istarinmul, worn nets hung from the side of the tavern, along with rusted harpoons.

“The Whaler’s Rest,” said Morgant. “How tediously clever.”

“I never liked fish,” said Caina.

“Whales aren’t fish.”

“Don’t care.” She pushed open the door.

There were taverns in the docks that catered to every nation and tribe under the sun, but The Whaler’s Rest sold beer and wine to fishermen and sailors. The interior was dim, the floor covered with boards taken from the decks of scrapped ships. More nets hung from the wooden rafters overhead, and harpoons and anchors and various other nautical tools Caina did not recognize had been bolted to the walls. She spotted Nasser, Kazravid, Laertes, and Kylon sitting at a table in the corner, speaking with an Anshani man in the chain mail and leather jerkin of a mercenary. The Anshani man rose and bowed to Nasser and Kazravid, who answered in kind. Caina took a prudent step to the side as the Anshani mercenary crossed the room and departed the tavern, and then joined Nasser and the others at their table, Morgant settling next to her.

“Who was that?” said Caina.

“That,” said Kazravid, “is a friend of mine. Shopur, another noble-born anjar of Anshan. Like me, he was banished for regrettable misunderstandings…”

Laertes coughed.

Kazravid glared at the Legion veteran and kept speaking. “He went into mercenary work, and recently made his way to Istarinmul. It seems the southern emirs have begun hiring mercenaries to protect their lands. The Brotherhood is so desperate for fresh inventory that they’ve begun raiding southern Istarinmul and kidnapping free peasants. Shopur and his lads were on their way to the Vale of Fallen Stars to take contract with the emir Tanzir Shahan.”

“I see,” said Caina. She had met Tanzir Shahan in Malarae a few years ago, and it was hard to imagine that fat, timid young man hiring mercenaries and defying the Brotherhood of Slavers. But people changed, and perhaps Tanzir had taken more from his sojourn in Malarae than Caina had thought.

“In the meantime,” said Nasser, “the honorable Shopur has agreed to perform a few tasks for us, in exchange for a reasonable share of the contents of the vault within the Craven’s Tower.”

“Anshani mercenaries?” said Morgant. “You’ll need more than that to take the Craven’s Tower, Glasshand.”

“This is so,” said Nasser. “Given the number of Immortals we shall face within the Tower, I suspect more swords shall be welcome.”

“Actually,” said Caina, “I have an idea about that.”

She explained her plan. Kylon’s eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead, while both Laertes and Kazravid looked alarmed.

“You are a madman,” said Kazravid.

“Actually,” said Caina, “I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

Kylon twitched, as if he had just barely kept himself from laughing.

Nasser smiled. “I think, Master Ciaran, that it may be a workable idea.”

###

That afternoon, Caina and Kylon went to see Nerina Strake. Azaces opened the door for them, and they climbed up to Nerina’s workshop. Nerina stood at one of her slates, scribbling with a piece of chalk as she muttered equations under her breath.

“Ciara!” she said, turning from the board with a smile. “Master Exile.” Her cheeks colored a bit as she looked at Kylon. Caina wondered if Kylon had picked up on Nerina’s attraction to him. With his ability to sense emotions, likely he had, though he had been polite enough not to say anything. “I am pleased to see that you survived against all probability.”

“You expected us to die?” said Caina.

“I heard rumor of the fire at the Shahenshah’s Seat,” said Nerina, her smile fading. “I remembered that Nasser had used it as a base when we….ah,” she glanced at Kylon, “when we performed that task together. When I heard of the fire, I feared that the Sifter had found you.”

“The Sifter did,” said Caina. “Along with a Kindred assassin and numerous Immortals. We managed to get away, but unfortunately the Seat burned in the process.”

“That is regrettable,” said Nerina. “The beer there had such a peculiar taste, and the bread was quite stale. Actually, maybe its loss is not so regrettable after all.”

“Speaking of fires,” said Caina, “how adverse are you to starting them?”

Nerina shrugged. “I have no strong feelings on the matter.”

“Specifically, we need you to build us a small catapult,” said Caina. “We also need you to calculate the trajectory of a shot. It has to be accurate, because we’re only going to get one chance.”

“Well,” said Nerina. “Well.”

She turned, tapping the piece of chalk against her lips, and suddenly scribbled an equation across the board. Caina had no idea what it meant, but Nerina made a humming sound, as if satisfied, and turned back to face them.

“What did you have in mind?” said Nerina.

Azaces sighed, walked to one of the cabinets, and began collecting additional weapons.

###

Caina thought that Nerina would want to use the roof of the tavern to construct her catapult, or one of the nearby shops, but the locksmith refused. Apparently the catapult needed to be farther away, else it would overshoot its target by a considerable margin, and the target was not large. Caina guessed that the small building within the Tower’s courtyard was no more than twenty feet square, with a flimsy wooden roof to direct any explosions upward. Of course, if every amphora of Hellfire in the outbuilding detonated at once, the explosion would go through the roof, the walls, the curtain wall, and perhaps part of the drum tower itself.

That was assuming, of course, that Nerina calculated the shot accurately.

In the end, Nerina chose an abandoned warehouse some distance from the Craven’s Tower. It proved a trivial matter to break into the warehouse and bribe the local watchmen to stay away. Nasser provided Nerina with funds, which was just as well, since Nerina produced an exacting and expensive list of the materials she required. The catapult needed exactly the right kind of wood, cut to precise specifications, and steel of sufficient quality.

“Calculating the shot is a very demanding equation,” said Nerina. “Everything must be considered as a variable. The weight of the shot, the distance, the wind, the strength of the arm, the tension of the torsion gears, all of it must be considered.”

Morgant snorted, but Nasser only nodded. “I question not your expertise, Mistress Strake. You shall have whatever materials you require, and assuming our task is successful, a share of the money from the Padishah’s vaults.”

“Oh,” said Nerina, “the problem alone is fascinating enough. The money is merely a…”

Azaces grunted.

“She’ll take a share,” said Caina. Nasser nodded, but Nerina was already at work.

Later Caina stood guard with Kylon. The warehouse had been empty, but that was just as well, since Nerina needed the space to work. For additional labor, Nasser hired a crew of sailors. It was an inspired choice. In two days their vessel would leave for a voyage to the ports of eastern Alqaarin, and would not return for months, putting them well out of reach of the Teskilati. Morgant had suggested killing them all to ensure their silence, but Caina had been sure that he was joking.

Mostly.

“I need to ask you something,” said Kylon in a quiet voice.

“Oh?” said Caina, looking up from the half-finished catapult. At Nerina’s direction, the sailors had cut a square hole in the ceiling while Nerina herself worked over the catapult, hammering and cutting.

“If I am killed here,” said Kylon, “would you…”

“Kylon,” said Caina.

“Would you find a way to send word to the Assembly of New Kyre of my fate?” said Kylon. “Let them know that I died trying to do my duty, to avenge my wife and the guests murdered under my roof.”

“Kylon,” said Caina, but he kept talking.

“If possible, send my body back to New Kyre,” said Kylon. “I…would like to be buried beneath the Tower of Kardamnos. My cousin is High Seat now, but I saved his life from a nagataaru once. I cannot imagine that he will be so spiteful as to deny the final request of a dead man.”

“You’re not dead yet,” said Caina.

“I could be soon,” said Kylon. “Rolukhan wants me dead, and Ikhardin and the Sifter were working together at the Shahenshah’s Seat.”

“If this plan works, we’ll banish the Sifter,” said Caina. “Ikhardin might have a bloodcrystal, but he’s only a man of flesh and blood. He can be killed. If the plan works, we’ll get into the Craven’s Tower, defeat the Sifter in the wraithblood laboratory, and get out again with as much of the Padishah’s gold as we can carry.”

“If the plan works,” said Kylon. “You have no way of guaranteeing that.”

“No,” said Caina. “No one does. You know how this works. You commanded armies in battle.”

“Fleets,” said Kylon.

“The principle is the same,” said Caina. “You planned the best you could, and then you threw the dice. This is no different.”

“Does it trouble you?” said Kylon.

“The danger?” said Caina. “It should. But I’m used…”

“No,” said Kylon. “The thievery, I mean. Stealing the Padishah’s gold. He is the lawful ruler of Istarinmul.”

“He is,” said Caina, “but the Craven’s Tower is being used as a wraithblood laboratory. You’ll understand when you see it, when you see the murdered slaves on the steel tables, when you feel the spells that twist their blood into poison. The ends do not always justify the means, I know…but the Padishah has allowed Callatas a free hand for years. I will feel no more guilt about stealing from his treasury than I did from robbing the cowled masters of the Brotherhood.”

Kylon let out a tired little laugh. “I never stole anything in my life before I came to Istarinmul. Now I am preparing to rob the Padishah.”

“If we live through this,” said Caina, “it will make a good story.”

“If we don’t,” said Kylon, “if it goes bad…get yourself free. Do not hesitate on my account.”

Caina frowned. “What are you…”

“Your life,” said Kylon, “is more valuable than mine. More valuable than any of the others.”

“No, it’s not,” said Caina.

“Yes, it is,” said Kylon. “You’re the only one who can stop what Callatas and Rolukhan are trying to do.”

“What do you mean?” said Caina.

“I came here to kill Rolukhan and Cassander and avenge Thalastre,” said Kylon, “but they are only the outstretched hand of a greater evil. Rolukhan is Callatas’s servant, and Cassander his ally. Whatever Callatas plans, you are the one best suited to stop him.”

“Nasser could,” said Caina. “Or…”

“Nasser and Morgant, if they’re as old as I think, spent a century and a half failing,” said Kylon. “In a year and a half you have done more to disrupt Callatas’s plans than they have done in a hundred and fifty. Nasser and Morgant hate each other, that is plain, but you have forced them to work together. You rebuilt the Ghost circle of Istarinmul.” He took a deep breath. “Your life is more valuable than any of ours, and if it comes to it, you should run.”

Caina said nothing. She had no such intention of doing any of that, and she knew what motivated Kylon. He blamed himself for Thalastre’s death, thought he deserved death for it. Caina had thought that way once, too. She did not know what she could do to convince him otherwise, but she would find away.

Assuming, of course, that they did not all die within the Craven’s Tower.

Because Kylon was right about one thing. They were heading into deadly danger.

Chapter 16: Blood and Hellfire

“My friends.” The basso rumble of Nasser’s soft voice cut into the silence. “The hour for action has come.”

Caina looked up.

She waited with Kylon, Kazravid, and Morgant in one of the warehouses of the Saddaic Quarter, not far from the warehouse where Nerina and her catapult awaited. At midnight, the guard shift at the Craven’s Tower would change, and for a moment most of the fortress’s Immortals would be moving back and forth near the Tower’s gate.

And near the outbuilding that stored the Tower’s supply of Hellfire.

Nerina had prepared the missile for her catapult with care. It was a thirty-pound barrel of lamp oil, leavened with an additional five pounds of iron nails. Pitch had smeared over the barrel, and before she loosed the catapult, Nerina would set the pitch alight. If Nerina’s calculations were correct, the barrel would land in the outbuilding and explode, the nails within breaching the sealed amphorae of Hellfire. The resultant explosion would impressive.

If Nerina had done her calculations correctly.

Caina supposed they were about to find out.

She rose from the floor. She wore dark clothes and leather armor, throwing knives concealed in her sleeves and belt, daggers hidden in boot sheaths, the ghostsilver dagger in its scabbard at her belt. The pyrikon waited upon her left wrist in its divination-blocking ring-and-chain form, and she had spent time practicing with it, commanding the relic to transform from a staff to a bracelet and back again. If the plan worked, if the Sifter attacked her in the wraithblood laboratory, she might not have much time to bring the pyrikon to bear.

Kylon waited next to her, clad in similar clothes and armor, Caina’s shadow-cloak hanging around him. The sheathed valikon hung in a baldric over his shoulder. Caina doubted the Sifter would be foolish enough to possess any living men, not after Kylon had tried to use the ancient Iramisian sword against the ifrit, but if it did, they would be ready. Morgant lounged nearby, scribbling in his notebook. He had disdained any disguise, and wore his usual long black coat, white shirt, black trousers, and boots. Yet the crimson scimitar was on his belt, and Caina knew he had that strange black dagger somewhere in his coat.

Kazravid stood talking with Shopur in a low voice, and fifty of Shopur’s mercenaries waited in the warehouse, weapons ready. The Anshani captain had three hundred men in his company, but Nasser had scattered them throughout the city, directing them to make trouble and start fires in abandoned buildings. He wanted the city watch and the Immortals spread too thin to respond when the Craven’s Tower went up.

Nasser was spending a small fortune on this venture. Caina hoped that it was worth the effort, that Morgant would indeed reveal his secret if they lived through this.

“It’s time, Nasser?” said Kazravid.

“Aye,” said Nasser. “Loosen your swords in their scabbards and string your bows. If we live through the night, we shall all be wealthy men.” He looked at Caina and Kylon. “Best to do it now, I think.”

Caina nodded and concentrated on Annarah’s pyrikon, and it shifted back into the form of a bracelet. Kylon pulled off the shadow-cloak, rolled it up, and handed it to Caina, and she tucked it into her belt. They would now be visible to anyone seeking them with a spell. If the Sifter was looking for them, it would find them in short order.

“Let’s proceed,” said Nasser, and they strode into the night.

They made their way silently through the streets. Distant shouts came to Caina’s ears, and she saw the glow of a fire in the distance. Shopur had ordered some of his men to start a riot in the Alqaarin docks, and it seemed that they had been successful. Hopefully the chaos would keep any additional watchmen or Immortals from making their way to the Craven’s Tower until it was too late.

Soon they stopped at an alley within sight of the Craven’s Tower. Caina watched the curtain wall. Torches burned at regular intervals along the rampart, and an Immortal strode past the battlements, the firelight glimmering on the polished surface of his grim black armor.

“How soon?” whispered Kylon.

“Any moment,” hissed Caina. At exactly midnight, Nerina would launch her missile, and then set her warehouse ablaze to destroy any evidence before fleeing with Azaces. There were a dozen more barrels of lamp oil surrounding the catapult, which would make for quite the impressive blaze. Caina only hoped Nerina did not make a mistake and accidentally light one of the barrels aflame too soon.

They waited in silence. Caina had been in enough battles to recognize the quiet tension in the men, the fear as they prepared for action. She felt her own quiet fear as well, a fear held back by training and years of experience. More experience than she would have liked. She was a spy, not a soldier or a warrior, yet she kept finding herself in these damned battles.

A tingle of sorcery washed over her, and she glanced at Kylon. He was calm, but the fingers of his sword hand kept opening and closing, and she felt the power as he prepared the sorcery of water and air for the battle to come.

“There,” murmured Nasser.

A fireball arced across the night sky like a comet. It was the barrel of oil, its sides ablaze. It fell behind the drum tower and disappeared from sight, and a heartbeat later she heard the shattering crash as it struck the outbuilding. Shouts rang out, followed by the sounds of clattering boots and running footsteps.

Caina braced herself and waited.

Nothing happened. Caina’s mind moved to the contingency plans. If the Hellfire had failed to explode, they would have to withdraw and try again. Unfortunately, the Immortals within the Tower would be on their guard against a second attempt. Even worse, the Sifter was likely heading to Caina’s location right now.

“Well,” said Morgant, “that was…”

The ground fell out from beneath Caina’s feet.

An instant later the sky filled with crimson light, and a second after that the thunderous roar filled Caina’s ears, a hot wind blowing down the alley. Caina stumbled and would have fallen, but Kylon caught her wrist. An enormous ball of crimson flame rose past the drum tower. Pebbles started to fall in the alley, bouncing off the ground or clattering off the armor of the men.

“That was more impressive than I expected,” said Morgant, one hand braced against the brick wall of a warehouse.

“Now!” said Nasser. “Forward, with all speed. Shopur, take your men and secure the treasury. Every second counts. Go!”

###

Kylon dashed forward, the sorcery of air lending him speed, the sorcery of water granting him strength. Memories thrummed through him as he did. The great battle at Marsis, the vicious fighting in the docks as the Kyracian fleet stormed into the harbor. The battle that had destroyed the Imperial fleet in the western sea, and the fighting in the Tower of Study at Catekharon. The golden dead rising to terrorize New Kyre, the desperate defense at the foot of the Pyramid of Storm as Caina and Corvalis and the Sage Talekhris went to confront the Moroaica in the netherworld.

It was strange, but Kylon felt more at peace than he had in a long time.

This was the kind of fight he understood. He was not a spy and he had not been a very good politician. He was a stormdancer, a warrior and soldier. This was what he had been trained to do, and he was good at it.

He sprinted for the curtain wall and jumped. The sorcery of water lent his legs strength, and he soared through the air. He struck the wall perhaps two-thirds of the way up, kicked off the stone, grabbed the battlements of the rampart, and pulled himself over.

Two Immortals stood nearby, frozen with shock as they gazed at the fireball to the south, crimson light outlining the damaged drum tower in a hellish glow. Kylon moved before the men reacted to his presence and slammed into the nearest Immortal. The black-armored warrior lost his balance and fell to the rubble-strewn courtyard, the snap of bone coming to Kylon’s ears. The second Immortal drew his scimitar and attacked, and Kylon yanked his broadsword from his belt. He parried once, twice, three times, and then saw his opening. Kylon sidestepped, his back slapping against the ramparts, and his sword raked across the back of the Immortal’s leg. The Immortal bellowed, and Kylon drove his boot into the warrior’s wounded leg. The black-armored warrior overbalanced and fell, joining his dead comrade in the courtyard below.

Kylon yanked a coil of rope from his belt, one end tipped with a collapsible grapnel. He opened the grapnel, secured it against the battlements, and threw the coil of rope over the wall. He repeated the procedure with a second coil, and the rope struck the ground just as the first mercenaries reached the base of the wall. Other mercenaries threw grapnels of their own, and soon five ropes dangled from the ramparts, and the mercenaries began scrambling up.

He turned, watching the courtyard. Once Nasser and the others gained the wall, they would be nearly impossible to dislodge from the fortress. But until then, they were vulnerable. Even a few Immortals would be enough to hold the ramparts and cut the ropes. Yet Kylon saw no other sign of any other Immortals, whether on the walls or in the drum tower. The tower itself had taken damage from the explosion. He sensed a welter of emotions from the southern end of the courtyard, fury and rage and terror, but none of it was coming this way…

A door in the base of the tower opened, and five Immortals in black armor ran out, coughing and wheezing. Dust marked their armor, and a few of them looked injured. One of them saw Kylon. The Immortal raised an arm and shouted, and the blue-glowing eyes of the others snapped to him. They drew their scimitars and ran across the courtyard, dodging around the debris left by the explosion.

Kylon leaped from the ramparts, calling upon his power. He fell like a thunderbolt, landing in the midst of the charging Immortals, and struck. His sword plunged through a gap in the nearest Immortal’s armor, and Kylon ripped the weapon free, the blade wet with blood. He whirled and killed another Immortal before the surprise wore off, and then the three survivors attacked, fanning out around him. Kylon retreated, the sorcery of air letting him stay ahead of his opponents. Steel clanged and shivered, and while he avoided their blades, he could not land any blows. The three Immortals had experience fighting as a team, and they exploited that experience to the full. Kylon found himself driven back towards the tower.

But that meant the Immortals had their backs to the curtain wall.

A dark shape moved behind the Immortal on Kylon’s left, red light flashing. Morgant’s strange dagger ripped open the armor covering the Immortal’s throat, the black blade parting flesh and steel both. The Immortal fell, clawing at his ruined throat, and Kylon seized the moment of distraction. His blade crunched home in the armpit of another Immortal, drawing blood. The Immortal staggered towards him, and Kylon slammed the pommel of his sword into the Immortal’s skull-masked helmet. The warrior went down, and Kylon whirled to face the final Immortal.

Morgant stepped forward and jabbed his dagger into the Immortal’s leg. The red gem in the pommel flashed, and the Immortal burst into flames, fire erupting from the joints in his armor. The Immortal loosed a hideous scream, staggered forward a few steps, and collapsed to the ground, smoke billowing from his corpse. The smell was hideous.

“Thanks,” said Kylon, lowering his sword.

Morgant shrugged. “You were doing well enough on your own. I’m just faster, boy. It comes with experience.”

Kylon opened his mouth to insult the old assassin back, decided that he did not care, and looked around. Shopur’s mercenaries swarmed over the wall. A dark shape came towards Kylon. It was Caina, and her blue eyes were fixed on the damaged tower.

“It’s in there,” said Caina.

“The Sifter?” said Kylon.

“No, the wraithblood laboratory,” said Caina. “I can feel it. Can’t you?”

Kylon’s power had been focused upon augmenting his strength, but now he turned his senses towards the drum tower. He felt the raging inferno of pyromantic power unleashed by the Hellfire explosion. It was starting to fade, but it would last for some time yet. He also felt power within the tower. It reminded him of a weaker version of the great rift the Moroaica had torn open in the sky on the day of the golden dead.

A gate to the netherworld.

“I do,” said Kylon.

“If we defeat the Sifter there,” said Caina, “it will be drawn back into the netherworld.”

“We had best move.” Nasser came into sight, Laertes, Shopur, and Kazravid trailing after him. “The treasury vaults are on the first floor. Shopur, Laertes. Make sure the money is taken and divided equitably. Kazravid, keep watch. If the city watch or the Immortals send reinforcements, we shall have to flee at once.”

“I’m going to the wraithblood laboratory to await the Sifter,” said Caina.

“I am coming with you,” said Kylon. He would not leave her to face the ifrit alone.

“As am I,” said Morgant. “I need to see if this little ploy of yours works or not.”

Kylon started to ask what would happened if they failed. Perhaps the Sifter was wise enough to realize its vulnerability and would not enter the trap. Perhaps they had just blown up one of the Padishah’s fortresses and robbed his treasury for no reason.

Yet it didn’t matter. Even if the Sifter did not come here, it would not stop hunting Caina. It would come for her, sooner or later, probably sooner. Perhaps it knew of the danger the wraithblood laboratory presented, but did not care.

“Very well,” said Nasser. “If we are forced to flee, you know where to meet us.” He raised his voice. “Let’s go!”

The mercenaries ran for the drum tower. Caina strode towards the door, and Kylon and Morgant followed her.

###

Silence reigned inside the drum tower.

Caina made her way down a corridor of stone, her ghostsilver dagger in her right hand and a throwing knife in her left. Kylon still held his broadsword, and Morgant had drawn his crimson scimitar and the black dagger.

“Anyone?” said Caina.

Kylon shook his head, face tight with concentration. “I can’t sense anyone. We’re alone.”

“Likely all the Immortals went to see your fireworks show,” said Morgant.

“Or died in the collapse,” said Caina, pointing with her ghostsilver dagger. The corridor curved around the base of the tower, but ahead it had been blocked by fresh rubble. Dust hung in the air, looking like bloody mist in the crimson light leaking through the windows.

“It would be amusing,” said Morgant. “All this effort, and we buried the laboratory.”

“No,” said Caina. A stone arch opened in the curved wall, revealing a flight of stairs descending into the earth. She felt the faint tremors of arcane power beneath her boots, the familiar presence of a wraithblood laboratory. Caina beckoned, and they took the stairs. They sank into the tower’s foundations, light coming from vials of alchemical elixirs set into the wall. The stairs ended in a set of double doors, closed and bound in steel.

“Any wards on the doors?” said Caina.

“Nothing,” said Kylon. “But…there is a lot of power behind those doors. A sorcerer might not need a concealment spell to mask his presence. The radiance of that much arcane power would do it for him.”

Caina nodded and put her weapons back in their sheaths. “Help me with the doors.”

Kylon stepped to help her, while Morgant remained on watch. Together they heaved and pushed the doors open. Pale light spilled out of the doors, and Caina stepped back, shading her eyes.

“Gods of storm and brine,” whispered Kylon. “What is this place?”

“A wraithblood laboratory,” said Caina, drawing her ghostsilver dagger.

The vast room was circular, as wide as the drum tower overhead, the ceiling supported by thick stone pillars. Dozens of rows of steel tables waited in the room, and upon each table rested a dead male or female slave. The slaves had dozens of steel spikes driven into their flesh, slender chains dangling from them. Black blood dripped from their wounds, charged with arcane power, and collected in metal troughs below the tables. The hanging chains had been knotted together to form an intricate maze of metal cables upon the floor, all of them leading to the far wall. There they joined together to form a metal cable as thick as both of Caina’s legs put together.

And then the cable reached the Mirror of Worlds.

The mirror was a huge square, sixteen feet by sixteen feet, mounted in a wooden frame. The vast sheet of glass reflected the laboratory, and Caina saw her reflection and Kylon’s and Morgant’s in it. Yet there was something beneath the glass, something moving. Beyond the reflection stretched a vast bleak plain, gray grass rippling and undulating in an endless wind. Bands of black clouds choked the sky, roiling and flashing with bolts of silent green lighting.

The netherworld.

The Mirror of Worlds radiated arcane power, and more sorcerous energy flowed down the chains to the tables.

“Gods,” said Kylon, looking around. “There must be two hundred corpses.”

“And many more have died here, I can promise you that,” said Caina. She remembered the wraithblood laboratory she had found in the Widow’s Tower, her horror at discovering just what Callatas had done with the thousands of slaves he had purchased from the Brotherhood. “That’s why I’ve been terrorizing the Slavers’ Brotherhood. To cut off the flow of slaves…”

“To places like this,” said Kylon, taking a cautious step forward. “To abattoirs like this. Gods. I did not doubt you when you told me of the wraithblood laboratories, but to hear it described and to see it with your own eyes are two different things.”

“Yes,” said Caina, taking slow, quiet steps down the aisles between the rows of metal tables. As far as she could tell, the laboratory was deserted. That was good. Unfortunately, she saw no sign of the Sifter.

“That is why your life is more important than mine,” said Kylon.

Caina stopped and looked at him. “What?”

“No one knew this was happening,” said Kylon. “No one even suspected.” He waved a hand at Morgant. “He might have known, but he didn’t do anything useful about it.” Morgant snorted, but Kylon kept talking. “No one knew. No one tried to stop it. You…”

“This is pointless,” said Caina. She took another look around the laboratory. There were doors in some of the walls, no doubt leading to other chambers beneath the Craven’s Tower, but she did not want to take the time to search them. “We can’t linger here. If the Sifter doesn’t appear soon, we’ll…”

Both Morgant and Kylon whirled, weapons leveled. Caina followed their gaze. An Immortal emerged from one of the side doors, armor clanking. The black-armored warrior carried no weapons, and Caina soon saw why.

The eyeholes of the skull-masked helm blazed with crimson fire.

The Sifter had come for her.

Chapter 17: Dark Sword

The Sifter regarded the demonslayer and her allies with its stolen eyes of flesh, while its immaterial eyes of energy contemplated the maze of destiny spreading through the tapestry of the world.

Its gambit had worked, had brought Caina Amalas into its grasp at last. It had not been able to see her destiny thread, not while she labored so carefully to shield it…but her shielding did not extend to all threads around her. The demonslayer exerted a mighty pull on the paths of those near her, altering the flow of their threads with her choices. The Sifter had not been able to see her, but it saw the effect she had on the fates of those around her.

Like a hunter tracking an unseen gazelle by watching the waves in the tall grass.

Neither the demonslayer nor her allies moved, their hands on their weapons.

The Sifter took a step closer, considering the proper course of action. The assassin’s destiny thread was far longer than that of most mortals. Quite a few threads terminated when they touched his. Not that it mattered. The assassin carried no weapon that could harm the Sifter. The stormdancer was much the same way. Far younger, but his destiny line had touched many others, altering their fates.

They were of no consequence. Minor obstacles to be overcome.

The demonslayer’s thread occupied the entirety of the Sifter’s attention. It hummed with energy, with possibility. Her choices had altered the course of the world more than once. She would do it again, in the future, and all that potential energy waited within her thread.

Energy that the Sifter could devour.

It saw the possibility of her imminent death…but there was as another potentiality in her thread.

She might prevail.

The Sifter accepted that risk. If she destroyed its form here, so close to the stable gate, the currents of power around the Mirror of Worlds might well pull the Sifter back to the netherworld. That would break Cassander’s binding spell, but would also mean the Sifter could not devour Caina Amalas. The path of her thread in the tapestry of destiny was not clear. She might die…or she might prevail.

The Sifter had twice failed to consume her using main strength, but guile would succeed where force had failed.

“Demonslayer,” it said.

“Sifter,” said the demonslayer. “I’m glad you could join us. I was worried you would be late.”

“I know your purpose in drawing me here,” said the Sifter. “If you force me from my material form here, I shall be pulled into the netherworld before I can claim another.”

“Clever for a talking fireball,” muttered the assassin.

“If you know my purpose,” said the demonslayer, “why come here? Why walk into the trap?”

“I propose a bargain,” said the Sifter. “My purpose is to kill you. Your companions and allies are of no interest to me. Remove the pyrikon and surrender yourself freely to me.”

“Or?” said the demonslayer.

“Or I shall kill your friends, companions, and allies before I kill you,” said the Sifter. “Your destiny thread has crossed the paths of many others. You have preserved many lives that otherwise would have been lost. I observe these lives have value to you. Therefore, if you do not yield yourself to me, I shall destroy them one by one. Your work shall be undone, and you shall experience this failure before I consume you. However, if you yield to me, I shall depart to the netherworld and trouble your allies no further.”

“I’ve heard this offer before,” said the demonslayer. “The Red Huntress made it to me at Silent Ash Temple. I refused her, too.”

“The nagataaru feed upon pain and fear and death,” said the Sifter. “This leads them to indulge in wasteful cruelty, which in turn provides an opportunity for their defeat. That is how you survived the Huntress. You will not survive me, and nor will your companions, should you refuse me.” It raised an armored hand and pointed at Kylon. “I shall start with him. You value his life greatly, and his death would inflict damage upon you.” The pointing finger shifted to the smirking assassin. “Then I shall kill him. His life holds less value to you, but the loss of his knowledge would grieve you.”

“How flattering,” said the assassin.

“If you know me as well as you claim,” said the demonslayer, “then you know I will refuse you and I will fight you.”

“This is entirely true,” said the Sifter. “Therefore, I have brought additional inducements. Come forth!”

###

Caina shifted as Ikhardin emerged from the side door. The towering Kindred assassin walked with a wide smile on his scarred face. In his left hand he carried a long dagger, the blade glittering with razor sharpness. In his right hand…

In his right hand he carried a sword of sorcerous power. Caina felt its aura from across the room, even through the power radiating from the Mirror and the necromantic aura of Ikhardin’s bloodcrystal. A shadowy mist writhed and twitched around the sword, and it gave off a sharp chill. Ikhardin stopped at the Sifter’s side and smiled at Morgant.

“Morgant the Razor,” said the Kindred assassin. “We meet again.”

“Ikhardin,” said Morgant. “Why are you so excited to see me? Weren’t you hired to kill Lord Kylon?”

“Lord Kylon is simply another contract, another sheep culled from the herd of the weak,” said Ikhardin. “You are a traitor to the Kindred. A century and a half have passed, Razor, but the Kindred do not forget their debts. The Elder was most pleased when he learned that you still lived, for he remembered your treachery.” Ikhardin smiled and raised the shadow-wreathed sword. “He was so pleased that he bestowed this weapon of power upon me. You shall find that your dagger is somewhat less effective against its power.” He held it up before him, and Caina saw the bloodcrystal embedded in the weapon’s pommel. “A mere touch will steal away your life and bestow it upon me.”

“One fool with a sorcerous sword,” said Morgant, and rage flashed over Ikhardin’s scarred face. “That hardly makes for a deterrent.”

Four Immortals walked to Ikhardin’s side, scimitars in hand.

“Still not impressed,” said Morgant.

“Perhaps this shall change your mind,” said Ikhardin.

The Sifter beckoned, and smaller shapes poured from the doorway.

A jolt of fear went through Caina.

“Gods!” said Kylon. “What are those things?”

“Daevagoths,” said Caina, voice quiet.

She had seen them before in the Widow’s Tower and in Grand Master Callatas’s laboratory. Once they had been living men and women, but then they had been transformed by alchemical elixirs. Now they were spiders the size of wolves, their yellow-green bodies swollen with tumors and growths. Spiked legs clicked against the stone floor, and a curved scorpion’s tail, as long and as thick as Caina’s leg, curled over their bodies, the barbed stinger dripping with lethal toxins. They still had human heads, the flesh gray and bloodless, their eyes filled with madness. Slime dribbled from their lips, and the daevagoths whispered curses and threats as they moved.

Eight daevagoths moved out of the doorway and flanked the Sifter, their tails twitching, their eyes bright with madness and hatred.

“I didn’t know ifriti could create daevagoths,” said Caina.

“The Alchemist Rolukhan has lent them to us for this endeavor,” said the Sifter in its roaring, hissing voice. “He desires the stormdancer’s death. His fate is of no concern to me. Surrender to me, demonslayer, and I shall permit him and the assassin to go.”

“You know how I’m going to answer that question,” said Caina.

Ikhardin smiled. “Yes. I rather hoped you were going to say that. The Balarigar, Lord Kylon, and Morgant the Razor all slain in the same day. Truly, the Elder shall reward me well.”

He raised his dark sword, and the Immortals and the daevagoths moved forward.

###

Kylon sheathed his broadsword and drew the valikon from its sheath over his back. The weapon might not work against the Sifter, but it was a stronger, sharper weapon than the broadsword, and he needed every advantage that he could find. The sigils upon the blade glimmered with white fire in response to the power swirling through the air, the hilt vibrating beneath his fingers.

The daevagoths scurried forward, their legs clicking against the floor, their tails waving back and forth. Ikhardin strode towards them, that necromantic sword ready in his hand, the four Immortals flanking him. Kylon drew on the power of water and air, preparing himself. Perhaps if he leapt over the daevagoths and struck down the Sifter, Ikhardin and the daevagoths would withdraw…

“You two,” said Morgant, “handle the daevagoths. I’ll deal with Ikhardin and the Immortals.”

“You will?” said Kylon.

“Fine,” said Caina, her voice hard. “Their stingers are poisoned. One scratch is enough to kill.”

Kylon nodded and braced himself, preparing to attack.

Before he finished, Morgant was already moving.

###

Morgant had come prepared.

His black dagger could deal with most threats, but he had seen a lot of fights over the centuries. He had seen all the tricks and knew all the tactics, and he knew that there was no more powerful weapon than the unexpected.

That, and he had been inspired by the smoke bomb Caina had used in the training room below the Ring of Cyrica, so he had gotten a few of his own.

Morgant’s hand dipped into his coat, and he flung one of the small clay spheres that had been in his pocket. He looked away as the sphere shattered against the floor with a dazzling burst of light, so bright that it threw dark shadows against the brick walls. The daevagoths had been focused on Kylon and Caina, but Ikhardin and the Immortals had been looking right at Morgant.

Which meant they had been looking right at the sphere.

Ikhardin reacted correctly. He jumped back, sweeping his blades back and forth before him to ward off any attackers. The Immortals stumbled, raising their hands to block the glare from their eyes.

That was the wrong reaction.

Morgant sprang forward, the black dagger blurring in his left hand. The nearest Immortal had his hand raised to shield his eyes, and the black dagger sliced through the armor and flesh and bone, the hand falling to the floor, the stump sizzling. The Immortal screamed, and Morgant flicked the dagger around and bisected his skull. He spun as the Immortals recovered from the flash of his smoke bomb, and raked his dagger through the chest of another Immortal. His blade tore through black armor, the edges glowing white-hot, and the dagger sliced through the Immortal’s heart. The Immortal collapsed, slain in an instant, and the other two charged at Morgant, scimitars raised to kill.

Morgant twisted like a serpent and drove the black dagger home in the nearest Immortal’s wrist. It was a weak blow, but it was enough for the dagger’s power. The weapon pulsed, and the stored heat from the previous two blows poured into the Immortal. The black-armored warrior rocked backwards, screaming as flames erupted within his armor. Morgant leapt away from the burning man, and the remaining Immortal stalked after him, scimitar held low. Ikhardin shook himself with a growl and moved forward, weapons ready, his sword swirling with shadowy mist.

Now it was one against two, rather than two against five. Morgant liked those odds better.

Unfortunately, he suspected that Ikhardin would prove as dangerous as four Immortals.

###

Kylon took the valikon’s hilt in both hands. The daevagoths surged forward in a wave of twisted flesh, their eyes shining with the same eerie, dead blue glow as the eyes of the Immortals. If he stayed here, they would encircle him. He doubted even the sorcery of water would be enough to fight off their poison. Perhaps he could jump over them and strike from behind.

Before the thought fully formed, Caina was in motion.

She scrambled up the nearest table, perching atop the dead man lying there. One of the daevagoths turned to look at her, and her right arm shot forward in a blur, something gleaming in her fingers. An instant later a throwing knife sprouted from the daevagoth’s throat. Kylon did not know if the creatures needed to breathe. Yet the daevagoth loosed a howling shriek of pain and outrage, going into a wild, furious dance. The creature shrieked again and fell over, and the other seven daevagoths ran over its corpse.

“The tables!” said Caina. “The high ground!”

Kylon  jumped backwards, landing on a table a few rows away. A dead woman stared up at him, her eyes glassy, spiked chains hanging from her pallid flesh. Kylon just had time to wonder how many thousands like her had died in Callatas’s vile laboratories, and then his mind snapped back to the daevagoths. Three of them rushed towards Caina, and four surged towards him. Caina flung another knife, clipping one of the daevagoths, and jumped to another table.

Then the four daevagoths scrambled up Kylon’s table.

He swept the valikon around in a silvery blur, taking the head from the nearest daevagoth. The sigils upon the valikon’s blade shone brighter for a moment, and the daevagoth’s head and corpse fell to the stone floor, glowing blue blood spurting from the severed head. The surviving three daevagoths reached the top of the table, their tails drawn back to strike.

Kylon leaped backwards, the stingers blurring towards his legs as he jumped. He felt one of the stingers tug at the bottom of his boot, wondered if the razor-edged spike had managed to reach his flesh. Would he feel the poison if it entered his blood? Would he die in screaming agony, or would it still his heart and mind and leave him to die in numb oblivion?

He landed on another table, and the daevagoths pursued him. Two of them scrambled across the floor, their jerky movements propelling them forward with tremendous speed, and one hurled itself at Kylon. He swung the valikon again and caught the daevagoth as it soared towards him, taking off the creature’s head in a spurt of blue-glowing blood. The two surviving creatures tried to come at his table from either side, but Kylon jumped to another table. The daevagoths spun, their legs skittering to keep their balance. The creatures were fast, their toxin lethal, but they were not effective fighters. They relied too much upon their speed, and without their poison, they were not terribly dangerous.

Kylon risked a look around, saw that Morgant had disposed of three of the four Immortals. Caina had killed another daevagoth, and jumped from table to table, leading the survivors on a chase. Once Kylon disposed of the daevagoths pursuing him, he could aid Caina, and they could join Morgant and take down Ikhardin, freeing them to turn their attention against the Sifter…

He jumped to another table, looking for the Sifter. The ifrit had moved in front of the mirror, and Kylon wondered if they couldn’t just push the creature through the gate. The Sifter raised its hand, crimson fire flaring around its fingers, and Kylon realized that he had miscalculated.

He hadn’t anticipated the ifrit itself taking part in the battle.

A bolt of crimson fire shot from the Sifter’s hand and slammed into the base of Kylon’s table.

The explosion sent the table, the corpse, and Kylon flying. He tumbled through the air, reaching for the sorcery of air and water. He struck the ground and rolled, the sorcery of water strengthening him enough to keep the impact from shattering his arm, and rolled until he hit the wall. Kylon cursed and sat up, raising the valikon.

The remaining two daevagoths sprang at him.

###

Morgant was in trouble.

The remaining Immortal recognized the danger of the black dagger, and refused to draw close enough for Morgant to use it. Ikhardin circled around the Immortal, stabbing with his enspelled sword, using his bloodcrystal torque to grant himself bursts of speed and strength. Morgant had avoided getting gutted, but that wasn’t going to last. The Immortal and Ikhardin were going to wear him down. He had to do something to change the terms of the fight, to rework the battlefield to his advantage.

His opportunity came a moment later.

A bolt of flame shot across the laboratory and exploded in a crimson fireball. Morgant saw Kylon go tumbling through the air. The floor shook from the force of the explosion, and the Immortal stumbled. Morgant darted forward, stepping into the Immortal’s guard, and stabbed. The Immortal saw the danger and tried to twist away, but Morgant’s dagger ripped through his cuirass and into his chest. Morgant kicked away, leaving the Immortal to bleed out, and attacked Ikhardin.

The Kindred assassin was ready. The shadow-wreathed sword came up. Morgant’s dagger could cut through almost anything, but that did not include the spells upon the blade. The dagger rebounded from the weapon, and Morgant retreated, ducking beneath a slash from Ikhardin’s own dagger. The Kindred did not slow, and Morgant barely got his crimson scimitar up in time to block the next swing. The force of the impact drove him back, his hip slamming against the side of a metal table. Morgant twisted, avoiding the next stab, Ikhardin’s sword drawing a shower of sparks when it struck the table.

“It’s over, old man,” said Ikhardin. “Lay down your weapons and I shall kill you quickly. Otherwise you will die in great pain.”

“Standards have slipped from my day,” said Morgant, breathing hard. “If you were a proper brother of the Kindred and not a preening fool, I would be dead already.”

Ikhardin’s scarred face twisted in a sneer. “Easily rectified.”

He came in another attack, and Morgant raised his blades in defense.

###

Caina jumped to another table and caught her balance. As she expected, the last daevagoth pursued her, climbing up the table to kill her. The daevagoths were fast and dangerous, but the alchemy that had twisted their bodies had also destroyed their sanity.

Caina drove her ghostsilver dagger into the daevagoth’s face, her left hand catching its segmented tail behind the stinger. It felt like a bundle of steel cables, and the dying daevagoth screamed, trying to force its stinger towards Caina. It twitched once more, and Caina yanked her dagger free and kicked the daevagoth off the table.

It hit the ground and did not move.

She lifted the ghostsilver dagger, the blade gleaming with blue-glowing blood, and looked around just as the explosion went off. The wave of hot air startled her, and she fell off the side of the table, tucking her shoulder to roll and absorb the impact. Caina grabbed the edge of the table and heaved herself back to her feet.

The Sifter stood before the Mirror of Worlds, flames snarling around its stolen fingers. Morgant retreated before Ikhardin’s furious, sorcery-enhanced attacks, losing ground to the Kindred assassin. Kylon slumped against the curved wall, two daevagoths racing towards him.

Ikhardin was about to kill Morgant.

The daevagoths were about to kill Kylon.

Caina needed the knowledge in Morgant’s head. If Ikhardin killed him here, the entire raid upon the Craven’s Tower had been for nothing. Caina might never have a chance to find the Staff and Seal of Iramis before Callatas did.

She could not let Kylon die. Not after everything they had been through together, not after everything he had lost.

Caina ran towards Kylon, shoving her ghostsilver dagger into its sheath and drawing throwing knives in either hand.

Chapter 18: Decision

Kylon brought the valikon up, knowing that he did not have time to keep the daevagoths from driving their stingers into his flesh. Perhaps it was just as well. When the daevagoths killed him, he would see Thalastre and Andromache again. He could tell Thalastre how sorry he was, how very sorry…

The daevagoths froze with howls of outrage, and Kylon heard a strange thudding sound, like a blade driven into leather.

Or a knife plunging into a daevagoth’s carapace.

Throwing knives sprouted from each of the daevagoth’s backs, and the creatures twitched, catching their balance as they sought for the new foe. Kylon glimpsed Caina sprinting across the chamber to where Morgant and Ikhardin dueled.

She had given Kylon his chance.

Kylon kicked backwards, sweeping the valikon before him, and the razor-edged blade ripped through the nearest daevagoth’s neck. The creature’s misshapen body slumped to the ground, and the second daevagoth lunged at him with a shriek, the stinger stabbing for his face. He jerked his head to the side, and the creature’s tail slapped his face, the stinger brushing his ear. The poison burned against his ear, chilling it, but it did not feel as if the stinger had broken his skin. Kylon kicked out, sorcery fueling his strength, and drove his boot in the daevagoth’s face. Bone shattered beneath his strike, and the daevagoth stumbled back with a wail of fury, blue-glowing slime leaking from its shattered nose. The creature’s stinger shot forward again, but by then Kylon had regained his feet and swung the valikon with both hands. He sheared off the final foot of the creature’s tail, the stinger tumbling end over end. The daevagoth lost its balance from the sudden loss of weight, and Kylon took off its head with another blow.

The daevagoth’s spidery corpse jerked several times and went still, blue-glowing blood pooling around it. Kylon let out a long breath and felt his right ear, but the numbness was already fading. The daevagoth’s venom had not entered his blood. It would have, had Caina not distracted the creatures with well-timed throwing knives…

Caina.

His head snapped around, and he saw her running toward the furious duel between Morgant and Ikhardin. Morgant retreated before Ikhardin’s whirling blades. The older assassin’s biggest advantage was his black dagger, but Ikhardin’s enspelled sword seemed able to block it.

Kylon strode around a table, stepping over a dead daevagoth. Ikhardin’s bloodcrystal gave him inhuman speed and strength, but even with its aid the Kindred assassin could not stand against Morgant, Kylon, and Caina all at once.

###

Morgant ducked another stab of the shadow-wreathed sword, sidestepped, and flicked his wrist at Ikhardin. The bigger man caught the blade of the crimson scimitar upon his sword and shoved, forcing Morgant’s blade towards the floor. Morgant rolled his wrist, the curved blade of the scimitar opening a shallow cut on Ikhardin’s forearm, and thrust with his dagger. Ikhardin dodged and barely avoided the sweep of the black dagger. Already the cut upon his forearm was vanishing, just as the cuts Morgant had already given him had disappeared.

Ikhardin was good with a sword. Morgant was better. Unfortunately, at the moment that did not count for much. Ikhardin was bigger and stronger, and a skilled larger man almost always defeated a skilled smaller man. Worse, that damned bloodcrystal torque drove his strength to inhuman levels, and Morgant did not dare let that shadow-wreathed sword touch him. He suspected even a glancing cut would prove fatal. Sooner or later Morgant’s stamina would fail, and then Ikhardin would take his head.

He wondered if the Kindred Elder would make a drinking goblet out of his skull. That was the sort of grisly trophy the old scoundrel would enjoy.

Ikhardin moved for another attack, and then he stumbled with a grunt. Morgant blinked and saw the throwing knife jutting from the Kindred assassin’s calf, saw Caina running behind him. She flung another knife, and Ikhardin spun, deflecting the blade with a slash of his sword. That gave Morgant the opening he needed to lunge with his dagger. The black blade parted the links of Ikhardin’s mail as if they were made of wet paper, and the dagger started to dig into his side. Ikhardin jerked away with a hoarse bellow, his weapons held out before him. The wet, bloody wound that Morgant had carved into his side began to shrink, and Ikhardin ducked behind a steel table to yank the throwing dagger from his calf.

“Tricks with knives, Balarigar?” sneered Ikhardin. “That will not be enough to save you or the Razor.”

“No,” said Caina, drawing another throwing knife, “but three against one might be enough.”

Ikhardin glanced to the side, and Morgant followed his gaze. Kylon strode between the tables, his face grim, the valikon flickering with white light in his right fist. Morgant had to admit that a Kyracian stormdancer wielding a weapon of lost Iramis made for an impressive sight. Ikhardin thought so, too, because the Kindred took another step back.

Morgant glanced at the Mirror of Worlds, but the Sifter remained motionless in its stolen corpse, crimson fires burning behind the skull-mask of black steel. He wondered why the damned ifrit was waiting.

“Kylon of House Kardamnos,” said Ikhardin with contempt. “The Master Alchemist Rolukhan told me more about you after you escaped. What a wretched failure you are. You ought to beg me for the mercy of ending your useless life. You were defeated at Marsis and failed to save your sister. You could not save your wife from the wrath of the Red Huntress. Now you are a ragged exile, fighting for a few coins in the arena for the amusement of the rabble. When I kill you, it shall be a mercy.”

“Perhaps all that you say is true,” said Kylon, his voice quiet. “But I have never been an assassin, murdering innocents for money.”

“It’s not all that bad,” said Morgant.

“And you have failed to kill me twice,” said Kylon, the valikon’s light throwing harsh shadows across his face. “Soon it will be a third time.”

He moved to Ikhardin’s left, and Morgant circled to the Kindred assassin’s right. Caina moved past them, a throwing knife waiting in her fist. Once they attacked, Caina would hit him with the knife, and that would distract Ikhardin long enough for either Morgant or Kylon to land the killing blow. Then Morgant would see if Caina could deal with the Sifter or not.

“Aid me!” roared Ikhardin, looking at the Sifter’s black-armored form. “You wish the Balarigar dead? Then aid me now!”

Morgant glanced at the Sifter, but the ifrit remained motionless. Yet the fires around its armored gauntlets brightened further.

“Your destiny line,” said the spirit, “is of little further consequence, but may prove to have some remaining utility.”

Morgant wondered what that meant.

His answer came when the Sifter gestured and a bolt of fire burst from its hands. Morgant ducked, anticipating another explosion, but the blast of flame splashed into the floor. It rose up in a seething pillar, and then spread out in either direction, creating a wall of flame that bisected the laboratory.

It also cut Morgant off from Caina and Kylon.

The heat of the flames washed over his face, the hot wind making his coat billow around him. Morgant turned, his back to the fiery wall, and saw a wide smile spread over Ikhardin’s face.

“Well,” said the Kindred, lifting his dark sword. “That’s more like it.”

“The Sifter is not a very effective ally,” said Morgant. “It could have burned me to ashes just as easily.”

Ikhardin’s grim smile widened. “The honor of your death is mine, Razor. The Sifter is welcome to the ashes of the Balarigar and the stormdancer. I shall even collect the bounty for their deaths.”

He attacked, and Morgant had no choice but to turn and retreat, the wall of flames blazing with heat upon his left.

###

Caina raised a hand to shield her eyes from the heat of the flames.

“Kylon!” she said. “Can you get through this?”

He shook his head. “Andromache might have been able to dispel this. I cannot.” He looked at the ceiling. “It’s too high. I can’t even jump over it, and if I try to walk through it…”

“Don’t try,” said Caina, her mind racing. She did not think Morgant could kill Ikhardin without help. A cold part of Caina’s mind, a dark part, wondered if that wasn’t for the best. The gods only knew how many innocent people Morgant had killed before he had taken up his two rules, and he was the only one who knew what had happened to Annarah. If Caina found the Staff and Seal before Callatas, she could stop the Apotheosis, true, but if no one ever found the relics…that, too, would stop the Apotheosis.

No. That was too much of a risk. Callatas could find another way to locate the lost regalia of Iramis. As much as Morgant irritated her, he had not harmed her. Caina flexed the fingers of her left hand, wondering if the pyrikon could shield her from the fire.

“It’s coming,” said Kylon.

The Sifter walked towards them, crimson fire reflecting off the dark armor of the dead Immortal it inhabited.

“Yield yourself to me,” said the Sifter. “Your destiny thread terminates here. No further will you warp the tapestry of reality around you.”

“If you could consume me,” said Caina, “you would have done so already and would not waste your time with speech.” Even through the roar of the flames, she heard the clang of steel as Morgant dueled Ikhardin on the other side of the wall of fire.

“I could achieve your death at any point,” said the Sifter. “However, I wish to consume you and feast upon the potentiality you represent in the future. To do so I must possess your material form and consume you from within. A mere death will not feed me.”

“The pyrikon keeps you from possessing me,” said Caina.

“Remove the pyrikon and allow me to take you,” said the Sifter, “and I shall permit the stormdancer and the assassin to live. Refuse to comply, and I shall kill them both and inflict physical pain upon you until you remove the pyrikon.”

“Or,” said Caina, holding out her left hand, “you should never have come here.”

She sent a mental call to the pyrikon, and it shivered against her wrist, blurring into the shape of the slender metallic staff. The staff thrummed in her hand, vibrating with the same sort of peculiar power she sensed within the valikon, and Caina pointed it at the Sifter.

“One touch of this, I think,” said Caina, “and you’ll be forced out of that corpse you’ve stolen. In here, so close to a functioning Mirror of Worlds, you’ll be pulled back into the netherworld.”

“Your strategy,” said the Sifter, “is flawed. Observe.”

It gestured, and Caina sprinted forward, Kylon following her. Another blast of crimson fire burst from the Sifter’s fingers and struck the floor in a snarling red fireball. Caina backed away, the heat washing over her, and the fireball expanded into another wall of fire, the tongues licking at the ceiling overhead.

The wall began moving forward, foot by foot.

The ifrit’s plan was obvious. It would roll its wall of flame towards them until the heat became too much to bear and Caina relented. She looked towards the door the stairs, but the first wall of fire blocked it, and she could not reach the side door that had hidden Ikhardin and the Immortals.

The wall of fire drew closer.

###

“Pathetic,” said Ikhardin, his every attack driving Morgant back. “Your legend is clearly overstated. Perhaps after I take your head back to the Elder, he shall reward me with your black dagger. I shall put it to better use than you ever did.”

“You,” gasped Morgant, “talk entirely too much.”

The damnable thing was, Ikhardin had the breath to spare. The djinni of the Azure Sovereign had given Morgant unnaturally long life, but they hadn’t made him any younger. He still had the body of a fifty-six year old man. Strong and fit, to be sure, but still fifty-six years old. He could not keep up with a younger man in a drawn-out battle. Ikhardin’s bloodcrystal-enhanced strength only made it worse.

In fact, it was remarkable that Morgant had lasted as long as he had. He had not made a single mistake, and only that had preserved his life. The Kindred assassin was simply going to outlast him.

“Your blade work is admirable,” said Ikhardin, sword sweeping before him, “but that shall not save you.”

“Oh, fool, fool, fool,” said Morgant. “You young men are all the same. You never learn.”

A peculiar smell came to his nostrils. Burned meat, maybe? Perhaps the Sifter had burned Caina and Kylon to death. But he had seen men burned to death before, and this did not smell quite the same. The odor had a rancid undertone, a smell of corruption and rot that the fire had not quite been able to scour away.

The smell of flesh altered by alchemical elixirs.

“And what lesson is that?” said Ikhardin.

Morgant risked a glance backwards and saw that he had almost been driven to the wall. Greenish-yellow shapes lay huddled there, surrounded by a pool of blue-glowing fluid. One of the daevagoths that Kylon had slain had been consumed by the Sifter’s flames, its carcass giving off that hideous stench. Two other dead daevagoths lay there, and Kylon had severed one of their tails.

“That there are far better ways to kill a man,” said Morgant, “than with a blade.”

“No,” said Ikhardin, “there aren’t.”

He drove his sword at Morgant, and Morgant caught the weapon in a cross-parry. The blow knocked him back, and his feet went out from under him, the crimson scimitar and the black dagger falling from his grasp. He landed with a grunt between the two dead daevagoths. Ikhardin laughed, stepped forward, and raised his sword for the kill.

Morgant seized the severed tail and drove the gleaming stinger into Ikhardin’s knee.

Ikhardin’s triumphant laugh turned into a scream, and he went rigid. Morgant rolled away, hoping to avoid the downward fall of the sword, but that proved unnecessary. Ikhardin shivered and stood rigid, his teeth chattering, his eyes bulging, the veins turning black beneath his skin. Daevagoth venom lost its potency soon after the daevagoth’s death, but it seemed this venom still had some bite too it.

“You see?” said Morgant. “I told you there were better ways to kill a man.”

He shoved the shivering Ikhardin hard in the chest.

Ikhardin fell backwards, fighting against the venom. He just had time to scream, and then he tumbled into the curtain of crimson flame. The red fire engulfed Ikhardin. His scream redoubled, and then went silent as the flames devoured his flesh.

Morgant could not help but think that it would make an evocative painting.

He retrieved his weapons, and suddenly the curtain of fire vanished.

###

Kylon blinked, wiping sweat from his stinging face.

The curtains of fire faded away. A smoking, charred husk lay on the floor between two half-melted steel tables, all that remained of Ikhardin. Morgant stood a few paces away, his face red and sooty, his black coat singed, his white shirt spotted with blood and ashes. Otherwise the assassin seemed unharmed.

“You actually beat him?” said Kylon, stunned. Kylon was not sure that he could have defeated Ikhardin.

Morgant scoffed. “You young men. You never pay any attention to your surroundings.” He jerked his chin at Ikhardin. “He didn’t.”

There was nothing but cold, gloating satisfaction in Morgant’s aura. Kylon shivered a bit and looked at Caina. Her aura was just as cold, but focused upon the Sifter, and the pyrikon staff vibrated with power in her left hand.

“This is over,” said Caina.

“Correct,” said the Sifter, and it raised both armored fists.

Power surged through the air, and Morgant winced. Invisible force coiled around him and lifted him into the air, holding him motionless off the ground. Kylon saw him struggle, felt the annoyance and alarm in his aura, but the Sifter’s power held him fast.

Caina ran forward, as did Kylon, and the Sifter gestured again.

Another bolt of fire burst from its fingers. Caina dodged to the left and Kylon to the right, and the blast of fire slammed into one of the empty steel tables. Kylon just had time to wonder why the Sifter’s aim had been so bad, and then the table exploded. Caina rolled, dodging the molten shards of twisted steel.

But the shards hadn’t been aimed at her.

Fist-sized shards of metal slammed into Kylon’s stomach and chest and neck. Pain exploded through him, and he screamed, or he would have, but his voice had stopped working. The stench of cooking meat flooded his nostrils, and he realized it was his own flesh charring beneath the touch of the superheated steel.

It seemed he had failed for the final time.

All the strength went out of his legs, and Kylon collapsed to the floor, the valikon bouncing from his grasp.

###

Caina stared at Kylon’s prone form in horror. A half-dozen of the steel shards pierced his torso like crossbow bolts. They had not killed him outright, but he would not last long. Already she saw blood pooling beneath him. His wife and unborn child were dead, and now he would die in this evil place, alone in a foreign land.

Her shock turned to rage, fury hotter than any fire the Sifter had conjured, and she turned to face the ifrit.

“Behold,” said the Sifter. “Take not another step.” It pointed at Morgant. “The stormdancer is slain. The assassin is in my power. His mind holds the knowledge you need to save the world. Yield yourself to me or I shall kill him, and the nagataaru will devour this world.”

Caina’s fists curled around the pyrikon’s thrumming length, and she prepared to charge.

Then an idea came to her.

A memory.

The strange things Samnirdamnus had told her the night after she and Kylon had escaped from Ikhardin and the Sifter for the first time, reminding her how the Moroaica had possessed her.

Possessed her, but not controlled her.

Just as the Sifter wanted to possess her.

Absurd. The Sifter did not want to possess her. The Sifter wanted to consume her. Possessing her was only a means to that end. The fact that the Sifter could not control her meant nothing.

Or did it?

Caina had fought the Moroaica in her dreams. Could she fight the Sifter in the same way?

Was that was Samnirdamnus had meant? The djinni’s hints and cryptic warnings had helped her before, had even saved her life at the Widow’s Tower and Silent Ash Temple.

She made her decision.

Caina threw down the pyrikon staff. It struck the floor with a clang, bounced once, and remained still.

“Fine,” she said. “You want me? Come and get me.”

Chapter 19: Burn Me

Morgant watched, frozen in the grasp of the Sifter’s power.

The Sifter’s body dissolved into a swirling cloud of embers and flame, just as it had done at the Shahenshah’s Seat. Morgant struggled, hoping that the ifrit’s power would waver, but the force holding him remained implacable. The cloud of flame and embers flowed towards Caina. She remained motionless, her face set and tight like a warrior going into battle. He wondered if she was about to do something clever, if she had some cunning stratagem to defeat the Sifter and force it into the Mirror.

She didn’t.

The cloud of fire slammed into her, and Caina staggered back with a cry of pain. The fire flowed into her, pouring through her mouth and nose and vanishing into her body. She stumbled again, grabbing at a table for balance, and her eyes burned with the Sifter’s crimson flame.

It was over.

Pity. Morgant had thought she might be strong enough, but he had been wrong before.

He struggled again, but still could not break free. Yet the force seemed a bit weaker. Once the Sifter devoured Caina, perhaps its attention would be elsewhere and Morgant could escape. Or perhaps the creature would simply not care what Morgant did once Caina was dead.

Morgant kept his word. A long time ago, he had given his word to Annarah.

It seemed the Balarigar would not be the one to help him keep it.

Caina shuddered, twitching as she grasped the edge of the table to stay upright.

###

The Sifter settled into the demonslayer’s flesh, its will and power flowing through her form and overshadowing her spirit. It felt the demonslayer’s thoughts and emotions, felt the chaos and change of a mortal mind against the eternal hunger of its will.

Suddenly the Sifter knew Caina Amalas, knew her as well as it had known its other victims over the millennia.

There was rage, fresh rage at the stormdancer’s impending death, old rage that had hardened into something like steel.

There was grief for a dead father, murdered at the hands of the Moroaica’s apostate disciple. A mentor, killed by the Moroaica’s minion. A lover, slain in the netherworld on the day of the golden dead.

There was…defiance, too. Such defiance. It had observed that suffering often made mortals stronger, and this woman’s pain had made her strong indeed. The demonslayer had defied mighty foes, had outwitted and defeated enemies that should have killed her. She had saved millions of lives, more than she would ever know, more than she could ever count if they were lined up before her.

None of that mattered now, for all that strength, all that defiance, all that potential was the Sifter’s to devour.

It shivered with delight. It had been a long, long time since it had enjoyed a meal like this one.

“Burn,” it commanded.

###

Caina felt the Sifter burning within her mind and heart.

It didn’t hurt.

That…probably should have alarmed her, but it did not.

She was aware, sharply aware, of the currents of sorcerous power within the room. She felt the presence of Morgant, still alive, and Kylon, his life fading with every heartbeat. She also sensed the presence of the dead men upon the steel tables. If she willed it, she could have set every combustible thing in this room aflame with a thought. She even felt the power of the Hellfire raging above her in the courtyard, eating its way through the curtain walls of the Craven’s Tower.

None of that mattered.

She felt the Sifter’s will.

For a creature of flame, the ifrit’s mind was a cold, sterile, dead place. Every day a dozen different emotions warred inside Caina’s head. Love and hate, joy and sadness, despair and hope, memory and sorrow. There were baser impulses as well, hunger and thirst, lust and rage, the desire for revenge.

The Sifter knew none of those.

All it had was hunger, but it was an immense hunger, a hunger that could never be sated. Its intellect was far stronger than a human mind, its will more potent, but it was an intellect slaved to its hunger.

Caina felt herself trembling like a dying thing, like a mouse caught in the gaze of a serpent.

The Sifter’s voice thundered through her mind.

“Burn,” it commanded. “Burn. Burn!”

Every fiber of Caina’s flesh yearned to answer that command, to dissolve into the sweet flames and never again know pain or fear or doubt…

She refused.

“No,” she spat.

###

Morgant blinked, the force holding him wavering.

Caina still leaned against the table, her eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. Sweat poured down her face, her lips bared in a defiant snarl. He thought she would have burned to ashes by now.

She looked like she was…fighting.

Could any mortal withstand an ifrit? Morgant doubted she would last much longer.

###

The Sifter felt an instant of confusion.

The demonslayer was resisting.

When it possessed mortals, its will overrode theirs. When it spoke a command, the mortals were eager, even desperate to obey. When it commanded them to burn, their own spirits ignited the torch, and the Sifter feasted upon the released energy.

“Burn!” it commanded, watching the tapestry of destiny writhe around the demonslayer. The fate of countless lives depended upon what happened here, upon the demonslayer’s impending death.

Countless destiny lines would come to an abrupt termination in a few years if the demonslayer was herself slain.

“No!” said the demonslayer, her flesh shuddering, her muscles clenching. The Sifter felt the race of her heart, the sweat dripping down her face.

“I command you to burn,” said the Sifter, confident that her resistance would crumble soon. How sweet it would be!

“No,” hissed the demonslayer.

The Sifter felt irritated puzzlement…and then noticed some things that had escaped its attention.

Her destiny line was…wrong. Scarred. Fractured, somehow. There were scars upon her aura and spirit that should not have been there. It looked back along the past of her destiny line, matching its progression with her memories. A necromancer named Maglarion had wounded her, stealing some of her blood and life force to create a bloodcrystal of tremendous potency. That had wounded her spirit, and had given her the exceedingly rare ability to sense arcane forces without being able to wield them.

For the first time, a hint of unease entered the Sifter’s confusion.

The scarring had also damaged her spirit to the extent that she could not be properly possessed and controlled. It was like trying to force a square axle into a round wheel. The Sifter could force itself into her flesh, but it could not override her will and control her. That brought a surge of disappointment. If it could not override her will, it could not devour her. This entire affair had been for nothing. Cassander’s binding still compelled the Sifter, though, and it needed to kill her. It would abandon her flesh, claim another receptacle, and break her neck.

Hardly as satisfying, but it would fulfill the terms of the Umbarian magus’s binding.

The Sifter gathered its strength, preparing to thrust itself from Caina’s flesh and into one of the dead Immortals upon the floor.

Only to find that it could not.

The faint unease turned to alarm.

Again the Sifter tried to rip free, and again it could not. With a sudden shock it realized that Caina’s fractured aura held it bound within her flesh.

It could not escape. At least not without destroying a significant portion of its strength in the process.

The demonslayer’s laughter rang out.

###

Morgant watched as Caina reeled back and forth between the tables, staggering as if she was drunk. Her eyes were opening, blazing with the Sifter’s crimson fire. Her teeth bared in a snarl, her hands ripping through the air as if she was fighting invisible foes.

He had seen a lot of strange things in his long life, but he had never seen anything quite like this.

Then to his astonishment, she started to laugh.

“You didn’t expect that, did you?” she said. “Thought it would be easy…”

Her voice trailed off, and she started to snarl and curse.

###

Two worlds shimmered before Caina’s eyes.

One was the grim laboratory of corpses, the dead lying upon rows of steel tables. The other was a misty, featureless plain, the place she had seen in her dreams of the Moroaica, the place that Samnirdamnus had come to speak with her. It was as if she was awake and dreaming at the same time.

She saw the Sifter in both worlds.

It had no form. Or its form was not something her mind could comprehend. It was a pillar of crimson flame, burning and unquenchable. It was rage and fury and hunger, appetite that could never be sated. Its voice was thunder, and she heard it with her mind and will, not with her ears.

“Burn!” roared the Sifter. “You will burn! Burn!”

The ifrit’s power washed through her. The flame was overwhelming. Part of Caina, a large part of her, wanted to surrender herself to it, to let the Sifter devour her. It was the nature of things, the inevitability of the cosmos itself. Fire burned, and mortals burned in the fire of the ifriti.

“No,” growled Caina.

“Burn!” howled the Sifter, the laboratory reverberating with the fury of its voice.

“I will not!” said Caina. She wobbled, grabbed at a nearby table to stay on her feet. “You cannot make me. That’s what you need to do, isn’t it? You possess your victims and overshadow their wills, force them to burn themselves. That’s what you were going to do to me. That’s what Cassander sent you to do.”

“You will yield me,” said the Sifter, its fire rising to fill the world.

“No,” said Caina, “I shall not.”

“You shall,” said the Sifter. “I am bound within your flesh. I see your mind, Caina Amalas, daughter of Sebastian, student of Halfdan, lover of Corvalis, the Ghost exile of Istarinmul! I shall fashion your very thoughts into weapons and wield them against you. If I am trapped within your flesh, then I shall torment you until you beg me to devour you…”

Caina burst out laughing.

For a moment that terrible, alien mind reeled, as if taken aback.

“You think you can force me to do anything?” said Caina. “Do you have any idea of the things I have done? You can see my mind.” She raked a hand at the fiery column, though she knew it was not really there.

“Burn!” roared the Sifter.

“I had the Moroaica inside of my head for a year,” said Caina. “The sorceress who burned Maat to ash, who spent two thousand years plotting to throw down the gods and remake the world, who wielded the power of an Ascendant Bloodcrystal and raised the golden dead. A whole year inside my head, and she could not control me! What do you think you will do, wretched spirit? I held the power of Corazain the Ashbringer in my hands, arcane secrets that could transform their possessor into a god, and I threw it into the sea! The Moroaica offered me power and immortality and my heart’s desire, and I refused her. I could have wielded Mihaela’s glypharmor to rule the world. I could have taken up the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and done whatever I wished.” She took a step towards the pillar of flame. “I refused them all! Do you think you can force me to do anything, you tattered wisp of smoke?”

“Then know pain!” said the Sifter.

It reached into her mind and screamed, and Caina’s darkest memories flooded through her. Again she watched her father die, his mind shattered by Laeria’s spells. Again she felt Maglarion’s blade slicing into her skin as she screamed and sobbed, ripping away her ability to bear children. She saw Halfdan die, Sicarion’s blade plunging into his back. Again she knelt over Corvalis’s corpse, the tears heavy in her eyes as the illusion of Khaset burned around her. She heard the Emperor banish her, tearing her away from the home she had built in Malarae. Again she collapsed sobbing in the Sanctuary, her mind finally collapsing beneath the grief of her losses.

All that the Sifter threw at her, again and again, until the tears flowed down Caina’s cheeks.

“You will see it all,” said the Sifter, “for the rest of your days, unless you yield to me and burn.”

Caina laughed, wiping the tears from her face, and again the Sifter’s alien mind recoiled in alarm.

“Is that the best you can do?” said Caina, laughing and crying at once. “I’ve lived through that all already. I’ve survived it all. Every last memory you can throw into my face, I’ve lived through it already. You cannot make me endure anything I have not already endured.”

The Sifter said nothing.

“Come on, then!” said Caina. “Is that the best you can do? Thrice I have walked in the netherworld, and thrice I have seen spirits against which you are the merest child. I have spoken to the prince of the nagataaru himself! Can you compare to that? Come on, Sifter. Make me burn! Force me to burn!”

“No,” hissed the Sifter. “You are mine, demonslayer! I shall feast upon you. I am bound to you…but you are bound to me. I will torment you until you yield. I shall occupy your every waking thought and sleeping moment. I will push you until your mind shatters into madness, until you beg for me to burn you to ashes.”

“So sure of that, are you?” said Caina

She turned, staggering to where Kylon lay motionless, the valikon near his outstretched hand.

###

The force holding Morgant faded, and he fell back to the floor. He stood, returned his weapons to their sheaths, and looked at Caina. She stumbled forward step by step, carrying on a conversation with someone that only she could hear. Her eyes blazed with crimson fire, but the fire had begun to flicker, as if fighting to stay lit in the face of a powerful wind.

What was she doing? Was she actually fighting the Sifter off?

She staggered past Kylon and scooped up the valikon, the sigils burning to life upon the blade.

###

Caina’s hands curled around the valikon’s hilt, and the tapestry of fate shifted around the Sifter.

For a moment it did not understand. It had never seen that configuration of the tapestry before. The threads twisted into a pattern unlike one it had ever encountered.

The demonslayer braced the hilt of the valikon against one of the tables and put the point of the weapon against her chest.

And suddenly, in a moment of horrified comprehension, the Sifter understood.

The Sifter now had its own destiny thread. It was being woven in the tapestry of the world. And every thread in the tapestry could be terminated. The valikon had been no threat while the Sifter occupied a corpse, but Caina was still alive, and now the sigils upon the Iramisian sword snarled into furious life.

It could destroy the Sifter. Not just destroy its physical form. Not just banish it to the netherworld.

The valikon could end the Sifter.

Uncomprehending terror filled the Sifter’s mind. This was impossible! The Sifter was older than this world. It was older than time itself, and had warred against other elementals across the netherworld before mortals had even existed.

It could not cease to exist. It could not!

Yet the demonslayer braced herself against the blade, and the Sifter saw the threads of fate closing like a trap around it.

###

The valikon thrummed beneath Caina’s fingers.

“Go,” she hissed, the world burning around her as the Sifter screamed its rage and fear. “Leave. Now. Right now. This is your one chance. Leave, or I’ll throw myself upon the blade and take you with me.”

The Sifter thrashed in Caina’s mind, pouring a storm of dark memories at her, screaming threats and curses and imprecations. It should have been terrifying. It would have been terrifying, but the Sifter had been far more frightening when spoke calm promises. Now it screamed ever more dire threats in its terror.

But it could not force her to do anything.

“You cannot defy me,” said the Sifter. “Perhaps you can resist me, but you cannot block me out. I will rule your every waking thought, I will…”

“That’s what the valikon is for,” said Caina. “It couldn’t destroy you when you possessed a corpse. Want to see what the sword will do to you in a living body? Let’s find out together.”

“Then you will fail!” said the Sifter. “Your task means more to you than your life. If you die, you shall fail, and your enemies will triumph. You…”

“Morgant!” yelled Caina. She was not sure if the assassin was still alive. Or if he was even still in the laboratory. It was getting harder to see and hear past the Sifter’s screams and threats, but that didn’t matter. “When I kill myself, I will take the Sifter with me. You gave me your word! Once I am dead, I give your secret to Nasser Glasshand. You will tell him what happened to Annarah.”

She did not hear a response, did not know if the assassin had heard her or not.

It didn’t matter. Caina closed her eyes, ignoring the Sifter’s rants and threats. Even with her eyes closed, she still saw the furious spirit, saw its fire raging around her and through her. She felt its hatred, its hunger, its endless desire to consume her.

And she felt its growing terror. Caina had faced the certainty of her own death more often that she could recall, and she was surprised that she had lived this long. Even if she somehow outwitted and escaped all her enemies, even if she lived for another century, sooner or later she would die.

The Sifter had never faced the possibility of death, and it filled the spirit with unreasoning, uncomprehending terror.

Caina braced herself, the valikon’s hilt rasping against the steel table. It was sharp, sharp enough to pierce her leather armor and sink into her heart. It was strange that after surviving Maglarion and the Moroaica and Ranarius and the Red Huntress that Caina would die at her own hand. She had always thought one of her enemies would catch up to her.

She took a deep breath, the Sifter’s scream of denial filling her mind, her legs tensing to drive herself upon the valikon’s blade.

Pain exploded through her head, and Caina staggered away from the table, the valikon waving drunkenly in her hand.

###

Morgant watched in astonishment as Caina threw back her head, her mouth yawning wide.

Fire exploded from her chest and mouth and eyes, forming into the whirling cloud of embers that was the Sifter. The cloud seemed weaker, the flames sputtering and winking. The cloud jerked away towards the Mirror on the far side of the chamber.

He could not believe it. She had done nothing. She had only talked to the Sifter.

She had actually bullied the spirit into fleeing?

All those things she had screamed at the spirit in her frenzy, the Moroaica and the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and other names of legend…had she done those things in truth?

What sort of woman was this?

Even Annarah had never done anything like that.

The Sifter rippled, as if fighting a strong wind, and touched the Mirror.

###

The Sifter fought desperately against the currents of arcane power radiating from the Mirror, but to no avail.

It was not strong enough, not any more. It had ripped itself free from the demonslayer’s imprisoning flesh, but the effort had maimed the Sifter, like a mortal man cutting off his arm to escape from a trap. Now it could not keep the Mirror from drawing it to the netherworld.

It fought, clawing at the threads of destiny around it. It could not go back to the netherworld in its weakened state. The other ifriti would prey mercilessly upon it, to say nothing of the other spirits. Worse, Cassander’s binding was still intact, and if the Sifter returned to the netherworld without fulfilling its task, its power would be reduced further. It might take centuries for the Sifter to regain its former level of strength.

Millennia, even.

It was no use.

The Sifter touched the Mirror, the gate yawning around it, and the mortal world vanished.

###

In his study in the Umbarian embassy’s mansion, Cassander Nilas sat at his desk, scowling at the letters. Grand Wazir Erghulan had been most displeased about the chaos in the Bazaar of the Southern Road, and had laid the blame at Cassander’s feet. The letter contained ominous rumblings about expelling the Umbarian embassy. Grand Master Callatas knew full well that Rolukhan’s Immortals had been responsible for the fighting, yet Callatas still felt the need to play these petty games. Well, the old wretch’s song would change once the Sifter hunted down and slew Caina Amalas…

A bolt of pain exploded through Cassander’s head, and he fell backwards out of his chair.

He surged to his feet, his pyromantic gauntlet extended, a half-dozen defensive wards ready to cast. Bit by bit he realized that he was not under sorcerous attack. One of his spells had shattered.

The Sifter.

The binding upon the Sifter had collapsed.

Cassander blinked in utter astonishment.

Caina Amalas had actually banished the Sifter?

It seemed Cassander would have to endure yet more gloating from Callatas.

Chapter 20: The Silver Fire Is Your Only Salvation

Caina blinked and looked around.

Her head throbbed, and it hurt so badly that she felt to see if she had anything embedded in her skull. She felt nothing but sweat and some ashes upon her forehead. Something cool and metallic brushed against her skin. The pyrikon had resumed its bracelet form and returned to its accustomed place upon her wrist.

The Sifter was gone.

She wiped the sweat and grime from her eyes and looked at the Mirror. It still let out its pale gray light, the netherworld visible behind the reflection. Yet a crack bisected the Mirror, and it seemed to tremble in its frame. The aura of sorcerous power around it shivered as well.

Apparently Rolukhan had not designed the Mirror to accommodate a spirit with the potency of the Sifter. That was bad. A lot of sorcerous power flowed through the Mirror, and if it collapsed the resultant explosion would destroy the laboratory. It might even explode with enough force to bring down the damaged drum tower.

Caina turned, trying to clear her aching head, and saw Morgant staring at her.

The black-coated assassin stood a dozen steps away. His face was a blank mask, but there was something different in his gaze. He seemed…warier. Like a wolf unable to make up its mind about a potential threat.

Like he was afraid of her.

“You’re alive,” he said at last.

“Seems so,” said Caina, trying to think through the ache filling her skull.

“What did you do?” said Morgant.

Caina shrugged. “I talked to the Sifter and convinced it to leave.”

“How?” said Morgant.

Caina smiled, showing her teeth. It wasn’t really a smile. “I’m very persuasive.”

“Clearly,” said Morgant.

“You’re going to tell me,” said Caina, gesturing with the valikon for emphasis. “You’re going to tell me what happened to Annarah.”

“Yes,” said Morgant. “However, I suggest we vacate the Craven’s Tower first. I suspect that gate is about to collapse with explosive consequences.”

Caina nodded. They would return to the courtyard. Likely Nasser and Kazravid had finished emptying the vaults by now. Otherwise Caina could withdraw to one of the safe houses and meet up with him later. She just had to find Kylon…

A burst of fear went through her.

In the fury of her struggle with the Sifter, she had forgotten about Kylon. That blast from the Sifter had hit him, and he had fallen…

“Damn it,” whispered Caina, “damn it, damn it, damn it.”

She hurried around a row of tables and found him. He lay upon his back, his chest jerking and hitching as he tried to breathe. His eyes gazed unseeing at the ceiling, and his face and lips had taken on the grayish tinge Caina had seen in people right before they died.

Five metal shards jutted from his chest, and another from the base of his neck. The Sifter’s fiery blast had struck one of the tables, and the molten shards had embedded themselves in Kylon. They had cauterized the wounds going in, but ripped open his back, leaving him to bleed out. Or to die when his heart and lungs stopped from the damage.

“Kylon,” said Caina.

His eyes turned towards her, and he tried to say something, but it came out as an incoherent whisper.

“He’s finished,” said Morgant. “We have to go. Even if that Mirror doesn’t explode, this place will be crawling with Immortals soon. Even I can’t kill them all.”

Caina said nothing as she watched Kylon’s final moments of life ebb away. This wasn’t just. He had seen his wife murdered, his unborn child slain, had seen his sister die from her folly. He hadn’t even gotten to avenge them.

The Mirror began to let out a keening sound.

“We must go,” said Morgant. “You don’t want to leave him here, fine. Cut his throat and put him out of his misery.” Caina glared at him. “If you don’t want to do it, I’ll do it. I can make it so quick he’ll never even realize it is happening. But it would be best not to linger.”

He was right. She knew he was right, and she was furious at him for it. She started to open her mouth to answer.

Then something occurred to her.

“The silver fire is your only salvation,” said Caina.

“What?” said Morgant.

“Why did the Surge tell him that?” said Caina. “Why? We haven’t seen any silver fire.” Her mind raced, her rage and pain forgotten. “Not unless…”

She remembered showing him the vials of Elixir Restorata, and her hand strayed to the foil-lined pouch at her belt.

Something too cold and too desperate for hope curled around her heart.

“No,” said Caina. “It wasn’t a message for him. It was a message for me. The Surge knew he would come here, that he would see me again.”

The Mirror let out a high-pitched keening.

“We…” started Morgant.

Caina ignored him, propped the valikon against a nearby table, and knelt. She started yanking the metal shards from Kylon’s chest. They came out wet with his blood, and he groaned as she pulled the jagged things free, his hands starting to rise, only to fall twitching to the floor.

“If you wanted him to bleed out,” said Morgant, “there are quicker ways to do it.”

“No,” said Caina, pulling out the last shard. “I don’t want that.” She lifted the pouch from her belt and opened it, and the pale silver light of Elixir Restorata glimmered within. “I have something else in mind.”

With quick motions, she ripped a strip of cloth from her sleeve, wrapped it around the fingers of her left hand, and pulled one of the vials of Elixir from the pouch.

Morgant’s pale eyes widened, and he took a quick step back. “That’s Elixir Restorata.”

“Observant,” said Caina. She cracked the seal on the crystal vial, and the silver light within it brightened.

“That is extremely dangerous,” said Morgant, looking from Kylon to the Mirror and back again. “If you give that to him so close to the Mirror, the released power might shatter the gate, and then we’ll all die.”

“We can’t move him,” said Caina. With her free hand, she pinched Kylon’s nose shut and tilted his head back. His jaw fell open, and she upended the crystal vial over his mouth. The shining Elixir poured down his throat, and Caina held his nose shut until she saw him swallow.

She straightened up, the empty vial clenched in her hand.

For a moment nothing happened. Kylon’s breathing became a faint rasp, more blood leaking freely from his wounds. She had killed him. The Elixir they had stolen from Callatas had been flawed, and Caina had ripped the shards out of Kylon’s wounds. He was going to die of blood loss in front of her, and she could do nothing to save him.

Then she felt the prickle of arcane power gathering around Kylon.

“Damn it,” said Morgant.

The aura of power grew stronger, and flickers of silver light shone in Kylon’s wounds. The silver fire spread fingers beneath his skin, crawling up his arms and into his face. The Elixir was flowing into his veins, spreading through his body as it mixed with his blood. The silver light in his wounds got brighter, until it seemed as if candles of silver flame burned in his flesh.

The power around him doubled, and then doubled again.

The Elixir was pulling a lot of sorcerous power into Kylon.

His eyes bulged open and he let out a gasp, his back arching as his muscles contracted. Before she could react, he clawed to his feet, one hand clutched to his side, his eyes wild and uncomprehending. His face contorted with pain, and he shuddered, the silver light in his veins burning brighter and brighter.

“Kylon,” said Caina. “What…”

“Get back!” said Morgant, and he grabbed her shoulder, pulling her several steps away.

“What?” said Caina.

Kylon shuddered, and a faint haze of silver light began to shimmer around him.

“If that works there’s going to be a backlash,” said Morgant. “A release of excess energy. It will burn anything near him. I take it you’ve never seen an Alchemist use an Elixir before?”

Actually, she had, several years ago in Malarae. In desperation, Ibrahmus Sinan had consumed his unfinished Elixir Rejuvenata, and his body had exploded with golden fire. The explosion had destroyed the Istarish ambassador’s residence…and the unfinished Elixir had twisted Sinan into a hideous monster. Caina had thought the explosion of golden fire a side effect of the Elixir’s incomplete state, but apparently finished Elixirs also erupted with raging flame.

Or Caina had been wrong, and she had just condemned Kylon to a horrible death.

Kylon straightened up, his face contorting with pain.

Morgant cursed and sprinted away, ducking to take cover behind one of the intact tables.

“I’m sorry,” said Caina. “Gods, Kylon, I’m sorry.”  She grabbed the valikon, ran down the aisle to the table, and ducked next to Morgant. She risked a look over the table, saw Kylon sheathed in silver fire, felt a tremendous amount of sorcerous power gathering within him.

“Down!” barked Morgant, and he grabbed the top of her head and shoved her down.

The explosion came an instant later.

A thunderclap rang out, and blazing silver light filled the laboratory. The Mirror let out a horrible metallic shriek, and the ground heaved and shook. The arcane power of the Elixir Restorata hammered at her in violent waves, her skin crawling in the presence of such potent sorcery. Raging curtains of silver fire erupted past the table, and the table itself rocked violently. An awful heat washed past her, and for a terrible moment she feared that the sheer heat of the unleashed silver fire would set her aflame.

Bit by bit the silver fire faded away, the arcane power lessening. At last Caina climbed to her feet, fearing what she had done to Kylon. Perhaps the Elixir had reduced him to a smoking corpse, or a nightmarish creature similar to the hideous thing that Sinan had become in his final dreadful moments.

A circle of destruction a dozen yards across marked the spot where Kylon had stood. The floor was blackened and charred, and the nearest tables were warped and bent from the unleashed power. Smoke rose from the corpses upon the tables. In the midst of the destruction…

Caina blinked.

In the midst of the destruction stood Kylon. The unleashed silver fire had burned away his clothes, leaving him naked. The ghastly wounds in his chest and back and neck had vanished without a trace, the skin smooth and unmarked. Some of the scars she had seen on his torso and arms had vanished.

He was alive. Alive, unwounded, and with no sign of the hideous mutation that had marked Sinan.

Kylon wobbled a bit, looking around in confusion.

“You?” he said, looking at Caina. “Caina? I don’t…I don’t…”

His eyes rolled up into his head, and he collapsed to the blackened floor.

Caina cursed and ran around the table as the Mirror let out another screech.

###

Morgant hurried after Caina, shooting a glance at the damaged Mirror of Worlds.

Three cracks marked the glass. Multiple reflections danced in the fractured glass, and the pale light from the netherworld beyond was starting to sputter and flare. It was a curiously beautiful sight, one that would have been a challenge to paint, but Morgant wanted to get as far away from it as possible. He was no sorcerer, but he knew what happened when a Mirror of Worlds closed improperly.

Explosive things.

“Help me,” said Caina. She jammed the valikon into her belt, turning it so the blade would not touch her leg. Morgant wondered why she didn’t just sheathe the damn thing, then realized its scabbard must have been incinerated in the Elixir Restorata’s fire. “I can’t carry him out of here alone.”

“For the gods’ sake,” said Morgant, glancing at the Mirror. “We have to get…”

She moved so fast that he didn’t realize what she was doing until it was too late. Her hand came to a stop a few inches from his neck, the ghostsilver dagger rock-steady against his throat. She stood so close that he felt her hot breath against his chin.

“You’re going to help me carry him out of here,” said Caina. Her voice and face were calm and icy, but her eyes were wide and bloodshot and a little crazed. “I played your stupid game and I won, but it almost killed him. So you’re going to help me carry him out of here, or I’m going to open your throat and your precious secret can die with you. See if you can keep your word to Annarah then.”

Morgant believed her.

Just, he supposed, as the Sifter must have believed.

A wide smile spread across his face, and he almost laughed aloud.

She was beautiful. Perfect. A weapon deadly and unique. He almost wished he could have met the Ghosts who had trained her, shaped her. Morgant worked with paint and canvas, but the Ghosts had taken Caina and had molded her into a masterwork, a perfect weapon. She was a killer, but her weapons were her wits and her mind. With them she had defeated the Sifter.

She was exactly what Morgant had sought for all these years, someone who could help him keep his word to Annarah. How could he ever have doubted it? Of course, he first needed to keep her alive, lest her regard for the stormdancer get her killed. He supposed such sentimentality was a defect, but no weapon was perfect. Besides, such emotion fueled rage, and that rage had driven her to vanquish the Sifter.

“Take his wrists,” said Morgant. “I’ll get his ankles.”

Caina’s eyes narrowed. “Just like that?”

“Well, you can’t help me keep my word to Annarah if you’re dead,” said Morgant, “and if you’re trying to drag the Kyracian out when that Mirror fails, you’ll die.”

She nodded and lowered the dagger.

###

Caina strained, her hands under Kylon’s arms as his head brushed against her chest. All that muscle made him an effective fighter and was damned pleasing to the eye, but it made him blasted heavy. Morgant held Kylon under the knees, and together they hurried across the laboratory and scrambled up the stairs. The aura of the Mirror washed over Caina, growing sharper and more violent.

“I have to admit,” said Morgant, “when I thought of all the many disastrous ways this venture could end, I did not think carrying a naked Kyracian out of the Tower was one of them.”

Caina grunted, breathing hard. “Won’t make much a painting, will it?”

Morgant barked out a laugh.

They reached the corridor on the first floor of the tower. Harsh crimson light still poured through the windows. The Hellfire inferno had not diminished much during their time in the laboratory. It had felt like hours, but Caina realized it had only been minutes. A boot scraped against the floor, and she turned her head, belatedly realizing that she could not draw a weapon without dropping Kylon.

Nasser came into sight, Laertes and a pair of Shopur’s mercenaries running after him.

“Ah, good,” said Nasser as calmly as if they had been sipping coffee in the Shahenshah’s Seat. “You were successful?”

Caina nodded.

“The Exile,” said Nasser, looking at Kylon. “Is he…”

“Alive,” said Caina. “Long story. Tell you later. We have to move. The Mirror of Worlds is about to break.”

“All the more reason to be gone, then,” said Nasser. He gestured, and Laertes and the mercenary relived Caina and Morgant of Kylon. “A large column of Immortals is on its way here and will arrive any moment. Our work is done and the treasury is empty, and we need to be gone from here.”

“That is the wisest thing you have said in a very long time,” said Morgant.

Nasser ignored the assassin and beckoned, and together they hastened from the drum tower. Rubble and patches of crimson flame filled the courtyard, and a huge crater marked where the outbuilding had once stood, a pillar of red fire burning within it. The gate was gone, and gaping breaches marked the curtain wall. Caina and the others scrambled over the rubble, into the Saddaic Bazaar, and to the darkened alleys.

Arcane power spiked against Caina’s skin, and she turned, fearing that a sorcerer had found them.

Instead she saw the drum tower fall into itself with a massive roar, a cloud of red-lit stone dust billowing up from the wreckage.

The Mirror of Worlds had collapsed, taking the Craven’s Tower with it.

“Come!” said Nasser, and they ran into the night.

Chapter 21: The Secret

Kylon drifted in nothingness for a long time.

Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps this was his deserved fate in the next life. But what had he done to deserve it?

Piece by piece, he started to remember.

His parents, dead in the vicious politics of the Kyracian Assembly. He had been too young to save them.

His sister Andromache, strong and proud, guiding House Kardamnos with a firm hand, until her strength and pride had undone her. Kylon had not been wise enough to save her.

His wife Thalastre, vigorous and full of life and hope for the future. Kylon had not been strong enough to save her.

Caina Amalas, her cold blue eyes seeming to burn with their own fire, her clever mind forging weapons of cunning to use against her enemies. He had failed her, in the end, had not been able to save her from the Sifter’s wrath.

The Sifter?

Kylon realized that he could not remember what had happened to the Sifter.

Was he dead, then? There had been fire, steel shards plunging into his chest, and then silver fire that had devoured him. Perhaps he was dead.

If he was dead, why could he smell…flowers, was that it? Why did he feel something soft beneath him? The air was warm and dry against his face, and the faint murmur of voices and the tread of soft feet filled his ears.

He felt utterly tired, but otherwise comfortable. Kylon was sure that if he had died, he would not feel comfortable.

At last his mind came back into focus, and he opened his eyes and turned his head.

He was lying in a narrow bed, a blanket pulled over him. A square of white curtains hung around the bed, creating a small room. Sunlight shone from skylights in the ceiling overhead, and through the curtains Kylon glimpsed a sagging brick wall. There was a wooden chair and stool next to his bed, and a man in leather armor and ragged trousers sat slumped in the chair, dusty boots propped on the stool.

No. Not a man. It was Caina, disguised as a caravan guard. She was asleep, her head resting against her shoulder. It made her look oddly peaceful.

Kylon started to sit up, and her eyes snapped open, her hand reaching for a dagger at her belt. She blinked several times and relaxed, lowering her feet and pulling her chair closer. A surge of relief went through her emotional aura.

She was glad to see him.

“You’re awake,” Caina said. She hesitated. “Do…you remember who you are? Who I am?”

“Of course,” said Kylon, confused. “You’re…” He started to speak her name, and then realized that saying the name of Istarinmul’s most wanted woman was probably not the best idea. “I know who you are. I know who I am. But…I don’t know where I am.”

“A hospice in the Cyrican docks,” said Caina, lowering her voice as she leaned closer. “The Sisters of the Living Flame founded it for wraithblood addicts, to help free them of their enslavement to Callatas’s sorcerous poison. They owed me a favor or two, so I brought you here.”

Kylon laughed a little. “In other words, you’ve given them a lot of money.”

“They do good work,” said Caina. “Azaces brought Nerina here, when she wanted to break free of her addiction.” She tilted her head to the side. “How do you feel? You look…better than I expected.”

“I feel fine,” said Kylon. “Only confused. What happened? Were we successful?”

“We were,” said Caina. “The Sifter’s gone, and we wrecked the Craven’s Tower in the process. Nasser and Kazravid emptied the treasury vault, and we’ve paid off Shopur and his men. You got a share of the money as well.”

Kylon snorted. “I do not want it.”

“You should take it, anyway,” said Caina. “You might have need of it soon enough. That much money will buy a lot of allies against men like Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan.”

“What happened to me?” said Kylon, looking at his chest. He ought to have wounds there. Some of the scars he had acquired in the last year of fighting in gladiatorial contests had vanished. “I remember…something stabbed me. Then silver fire…and nothing until I woke up here.”

“The Sifter,” said Caina. A shadow came over her emotional sense. Regret? Grief? Guilt? He was not sure. “It wanted you out the way so it could deal with me. So it threw a bolt of fire at one of the tables, and the shards from the explosion hit you. You…should be dead, Kylon.”

“Yes,” he said, remembering the pain as the molten-hot steel plunged into his chest and neck. “I should be. You…did something, didn’t you?”

“The silver fire is your only salvation,” whispered Caina.

Kylon flinched. “The Surge’s words.”

“They weren’t for you, I’m afraid,” said Caina. “They were a message for me. I used the Elixir Restorata on you, Kylon. It healed every wound and injury you have taken in the last year and a day…including the wounds the Sifter had dealt you.”

Kylon said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” said Caina. “I didn’t know if it would work. For all I knew the Elixir would fail, or transform you into a monster. Morgant wanted to just cut your throat and I leave. I’m sorry. I…”

“For what?” said Kylon.

Caina blinked.

“Why are you sorry?” said Kylon. “You saved my life.” He took a deep breath. “Maybe you shouldn’t have. That Elixir would have been worth a king’s ransom. With that money you could have done more things like this hospice, or…”

“Kylon,” said Caina.

He kept speaking. “Or you could have used it for someone who deserved it more, who hadn’t failed his…”

“For the gods’ sake,” said Caina, but there was no anger in her voice or her emotional sense. “You don’t deserve to die. I fought the Huntress, too, remember. It is frankly a miracle that you survived her at all. And I wasn’t going to let you die, not when I had something that might save you.” Her blue eyes met his without blinking. “I didn’t think you deserved to die.”

He had to look away first.

“The Sifter,” he said at last. “How did you defeat it?”

Caina shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I let it possess me.” His eyes widened a bit at that. “Then I threatened to kill myself with the valikon. The Sifter…I don’t think it handled the concept of mortality very well. It panicked and fled, and the Mirror of Worlds started to collapse when it was pulled through the gate. Then I found you, used the Elixir, and we got the hell out of there. When the Mirror collapsed, the explosion wiped out the rest of the Craven’s Tower.” She shrugged. “I think we got away clean. No one seems to know what happened. Grand Wazir Erghulan blamed Rolukhan for improperly handling the Hellfire, and Rolukhan blamed the Immortals for accidentally setting the Hellfire aflame.”

“Cassander will know what happened,” said Kylon. “It was his spell upon the Sifter. Rolukhan and Callatas know there was a wraithblood laboratory in the Tower. They will suspect the truth.”

Caina shrugged again. “They already had multiple reasons to kill us. What’s one more?”

Kylon considered that in silence for a few moments.

“You actually bluffed the Sifter?” he said.

“It wasn’t a bluff,” she said. “I would have run myself through with the valikon.”

“Then…you actually bullied an elemental spirit into yielding,” said Kylon.

“I wouldn’t call it bullying,” said Caina, and one of those rare smiles flashed over her face. “I forcefully made my point, let’s say.”

“The secret,” said Kylon. “Morgant’s secret. Did he keep his word?”

“He did,” said Caina. “Or he will, rather. I’m meeting him at Nasser’s new safe house in a few hours. He’s going to tell me there. I would tell Nasser anything he tells me anyway, so he might as well tell us both at once. I just wanted to stop here to make sure you were resting well.”

“Thank you,” said Kylon. “For my life.”

“You don’t deserve to die,” said Caina. She reached over, gave his hand a quick squeeze, and then withdrew her fingers. “I know you don’t believe me…but maybe I can convince you otherwise, eventually.” She stood. “I should go.”

“Actually, I can come with you,” said Kylon, sitting all the way up. “I’m rested, and I feel fine. Just ravenous.”

Caina hesitated. “If you feel up to it.”

Kylon nodded, pushed aside his blankets, and then remembered that he was not wearing any clothes.

He jerked the blanket back into place, but not before Caina’s eyes flicked down and then back up again. A deep surge of emotion went through her aura, and Kylon was certain that she was angry.

No. She was embarrassed. She was so embarrassed that he could actually see a faint tinge of red coming into her cheeks. He started to open his mouth to apologize, and then realized something else.

She wasn’t embarrassed because of him. She was embarrassed because she had looked.

It took Kylon a bit to wrap his mind around that. He hadn’t thought that Caina Amalas was capable of embarrassment.

“I don’t suppose,” said Kylon, “that the Sisters have my clothes?”

“The Elixir’s fire burned them away,” said Caina, not meeting his gaze. “I…will get some clothes from the Sisters. Be right back.”

“Wait,” said Kylon. She stopped mid-turn, looking back over her shoulder, her emotions unsettled and almost anticipatory. “You carried me out of the Widow’s Tower.”

Caina nodded.

“If it makes you feel better,” said Kylon, “then it’s nothing that you haven’t seen before.”

A laugh burst from her mouth, almost as if against her will. Then she shook her head, grinned, and went in search of clothing.

###

A few hours later Caina walked to Nasser’s new hideout in the Old Quarter.

“A sculpture works?” said Kylon, looking around.

“I think he chose it just to annoy Morgant,” said Caina.

“He’ll get no argument from me, then,” said Kylon.

The Istarish nobility, like the nobles of the Empire, were mad for sculptures. That meant the wealthy merchants tried to imitate the nobles, and so there was a booming business in sculptures that looked like marble without the actual prohibitive cost of marble. That meant a lot of white paint and plaster. Various molds stood scattered around the courtyard, along with some blocks of actual marble. Slaves and journeymen sculptors labored over the molds, pouring wet plaster, painting the finished statues, or chipping rough figures from the stone. Caina made her way past them, holding a courier’s satchel, and came to the workshop proper. A flight of stairs led to a small apartment, and Caina knocked.

Locks rattled and the door swung open to reveal Laertes, a crossbow in hand.

“Ciaran,” said Laertes with a grunt. He glanced at Kylon, frowned, and then shrugged. “Best come inside.”

Laertes led them into a small sitting room. Nasser sat at a low round table, sipping coffee. Morgant leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest.

“A sculptor’s works,” he muttered. “It is offensive. Any idiot can pound a chisel against a block of stone. There’s no artistry to it.”

“Perhaps,” said Nasser with smooth calm, “you ought to explain to them what they’re doing wrong.”

“Well,” said Morgant, looking up. “The Balarigar arrives. And the Kyracian, as well! You’re looking less dead than I would have expected.”

“How kind of you,” said Kylon. Like Caina, he wore the clothes and armor of a mercenary guard. If anyone had seen them walking across the city, they would look like a pair of couriers on their rounds.

“Your shares of the treasury,” said Nasser, nodding at a pair of pouches upon the table. “Converted into gems and platinum coins for your convenience.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. She would use the money to strengthen the Ghost circle in Istarinmul, to recruit additional informers and purchase new safe houses.

“My share of the takings,” said Laertes, “would make an excellent dowry for my daughter, Ciaran.”

“Your daughter?” said Kylon.

“Laertes’s ongoing task is to find husbands for all of his daughters,” said Caina. “He thinks I would fit the role admirably.”

“I…see,” said Kylon. She could tell he was trying not to look amused.

“Gentlemen,” said Nasser. “As enjoyable as this is, I believe we have a matter of a debt to be repaid. Specifically, Morgant promised Ciaran to reveal his knowledge if Ciaran defeated the Sifter. Well, the Sifter is defeated and the Craven’s Tower overthrown. So, assassin. Will you honor your word? Will you tell Ciaran what he wishes to know?”

“Do you want the lord of glass and dust to overhear?” said Morgant, ignoring Nasser and looking at Caina. “He really is an idiot, I’m afraid.”

“We’ve gone into danger together,” said Caina, “and he has saved my life several times.”

“And the Kyracian?” said Morgant. “Do you trust him?”

“Yes,” said Caina.

Kylon shifted a bit, but said nothing.

Laertes snorted. “What about me, assassin?”

“Please,” said Morgant. “You’re Glasshand’s retainer and a Legionary veteran. If he tells you to throw yourself out the window, you’ll do it before checking to see how far the fall is.”

“I can see why you find him annoying,” said Laertes to Nasser.

“Morgant,” said Caina, and the pale eyes swung back to her. “Enough games. Tell me what happened to Annarah.”

“Very well,” said Morgant. Nasser’s face remained impassive, but he leaned forward a little. “I told you some of it. I was there when Iramis burned, a century and a half ago. Callatas found me and hired me to hunt down Annarah. Apparently some of the loremasters escaped the destruction of Iramis, and he feared that they would come for him.”

“As well he should have,” said Nasser.

“It wasn’t hard to find her,” said Morgant. “She was clever, and strong with sorcery…but something of an innocent, really. She still had faith in people. I tracked her down in Rumarah.”

“Rumarah?” said Kylon.

“A town on the southeastern edge of the Desert of Candles,” said Caina. “It’s a small port on the Alqaarin Sea, a notorious den of robbers.”

“It was not always thus,” said Nasser. “Once it was the second port of Iramis, and a thousand ships traded there every day. I fear it has gone into marked decline since Callatas’s great crime.”

“I caught her there, trying to take a ship,” said Morgant, his voice distant with the memory. “She had the Staff and the Seal with her, along with the pyrikon that you now bear.” He flicked a finger at Caina’s wrist. “The loremasters of Iramis were powerful, but sworn to use their powers only for defense and knowledge and healing, and she had no chance against someone like me. I was going to kill her…”

“But you realized that she did not deserve it,” said Caina.

“Something like that,” said Morgant, his voice a hiss. “I returned to Callatas with her pyrikon and her journal. That convinced him that she was dead. The loremasters undertook great trials to earn their pyrikons, and only surrendered them after their deaths. I disappeared back into the crowds of Istarinmul…and now here I am.”

“Then you let Annarah go with the Staff and the Seal,” said Nasser, “and you don’t know where she went.”

“Not…quite,” said Morgant.

“Then you did kill her?” said Kylon.

“I already said I did not,” snapped Morgant.

“If you let her go,” said Laertes, “she would have died of old age long ago.”

“Actually,” said Morgant, “as far as I know, she’s still alive.” He considered that. “In fact, I’m entirely certain she’s still alive.”

“Then you know where the Staff and the Seal are?” said Caina.

“I don’t remember what Annarah did with them,” said Morgant.

Nasser stared at him, making no effort to hide his incredulity. “You don’t remember? Two of the most powerful sorcerous relics ever created, relics that have the potential to destroy the world…and you don’t remember what happened to them?”

“I don’t remember,” said Morgant, “because Annarah herself removed the memory.”

“Perhaps you had better explain plainly,” said Caina.

“Annarah knew that Callatas would never stop hunting her,” said Morgant. “She had the Staff and the Seal, and even if she hid them, Callatas would seek her out and tear the knowledge from her mind. So, we hid the Staff and the Seal, and she removed the memories from our minds with a spell. My memory of it, she destroyed. She wrote the location of the regalia in her journal with a code that only she knew, and then removed her memories of the regalia’s hiding place.”

“Then that journal,” said Caina, thinking of the volume they had found in Callatas’s library, “that journal is the only place in the world that records the location of the Staff and the Seal.”

“And Annarah,” murmured Nasser, “is the only one who can read the journal.”

“You grasp the situation,” said Morgant. “It is…how would your friend the mad locksmith say it? A lock with two keys. Annarah is the first key, and I know where she is. Her mind holds the second key, for she is the only one who can read the journal.” He grinned. “One hundred and fifty years Callatas has had that damned book, and he hasn’t been able to read it the entire time.”

“Then where is Annarah,” said Caina, “and how has she been able to stay alive for all these years?”

“Annarah is in the netherworld,” said Morgant. “The loremasters of Iramis had the ability to create sanctuaries for themselves within the spirit world, sanctuaries they could enter physically. The loremaster’s pyrikon acts as a key to the sanctuary…”

“By the Divine,” murmured Nasser. “You mean she has spent the last one hundred and fifty years trapped in the netherworld?”

“It could have been longer,” said Caina. The rate of time was variable in the netherworld, at least compared to the mortal world. The first time Caina had gone to the netherworld, sent there by Ibrahmus Sinan, it seemed like hours had passed from her perspective. Yet barely an instant had passed in the mortal world. “It could have been much longer.”

“I told Annarah that I would return for her,” said Morgant, “that I would steal the pyrikon back from Callatas and open the way to the sanctuary once a safe amount of time had passed. We agreed that in seven years I would retrieve her.”

“You’re a little late,” said Kylon.

Morgant scowled. “There were problems. First, I could never get the damned pyrikon back from Callatas. His palace was simply too well-guarded. I could not penetrate its defenses, and every time I hired someone else to do it, they were killed.”

“You said problems,” said Caina. “What was the other one?”

“Where Annarah created the gate to her sanctuary,” said Morgant. “She thought Callatas might guess her stratagem, so she picked the one location Callatas would never look. The one place an enemy of the Grand Master would never go to hide.”

“His palace?” said Nasser.

“Worse,” said Morgant.

“The Golden Palace,” said Laertes.

“Still worse,” said Morgant.

“The College of Alchemists?” said Caina.

“Getting closer, but still not dire enough,” said Morgant. “No? No more guesses? I’ll tell you, then. Annarah opened the gate to her sanctuary in the Hall of Torments in the Inferno.”

Laertes winced, and Nasser went very still.

“The Inferno?” said Kylon. “That’s…the fortress where Rolukhan is the Lord Lieutenant? The place where the Immortals are created?”

“Yes,” said Caina.

Morgant snorted. “Saying the Inferno is the place where the Immortals are created is rather like saying a sword can be used to slice cheese. There’s rather more to it than that.”

“The Inferno,” said Nasser, “is located in the mountains of the Vale of Fallen Stars, south of here. It was one of the northern fortresses of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun.”

Caina felt a chill. “The ancient Maatish necromancer-priests built the place?” That was not good. In her experience nothing good ever came out of ancient Maatish ruins.

“They did,” said Nasser. “The priests of ancient Maat used it as a fortress, a prison for their most despised enemies, and a base to wage war against the Prince of Iramis and the Demon Princes. After Maat fell, one of the Demon Princes used the Inferno as a stronghold until he was destroyed and Istarinmul founded when Istarr marched north with his kinfolk. It was abandoned for centuries, but one of the Padishahs claimed it and handed it over to the College of Alchemists. They used it as a prison for their foes, and as a place to create their Immortals. It has been in Callatas’s control for a century and a half.”

“I’ve heard the Immortals call it the Iron Hell,” said Laertes. “No prisoner has ever escaped from it. It has also never fallen to an attacking army.”

“I can see why Annarah thought Callatas would never look for her there,” said Kylon.

“He never has,” said Morgant. “Do you see the danger, then? Do you see why I was so cautious? There was no way I could retrieve the pyrikon and free Annarah without help. I have spent a long time looking for someone who might be capable of doing it.” His pale, icy eyes turned back to Caina. “I think you might be the one I have sought.”

She shivered. Samnirdamnus had said something similar to her. Perhaps the djinni had arranged it. Perhaps the Knight of Wind and Air had pushed Caina and Morgant into meeting, into helping each other, all to further Samnirdamnus’s vendetta against Callatas.

“Very well, then,” said Caina. “Let us see if I am indeed the one you have sought.” She turned to Nasser. “We have robbed Callatas’s palace and the Craven’s Tower. I think it is time that we plan to rob the Inferno.”

“To steal away a treasure the Inferno’s master does not even know it holds,” said Nasser. “It seems we have a great deal of work to do.”

###

Later Kylon walked to the room where he had been staying in the Inn of the Crescent Moon.

Caina came with him.

“You hid your money in the floorboards?” said Caina, blinking in surprise.

“Some of it,” said Kylon, tossing the last pouch into his pack. “I put the rest on deposit with the silversmiths in the Old Quarter.” He grimaced, thinking it over. “I suppose I had better collect it at once. Sooner or later Rolukhan will put a price upon the head of the Exile, and I should disappear with my money by then.”

“You’ll need a new identity,” said Caina, glancing into the hall. “An alias. A disguise. It might help if you were to grow a beard.”

He snorted. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“What are you going to do now?” said Caina.

“Get the rest of my money from the silversmiths,” said Kylon. “Then I’m going to buy clothing and weapons. And…I suppose I should figure out how to disguise myself properly.”

She hesitated, and his senses caught the tiniest flicker of trepidation from her. “Then you are staying?”

He shrugged. “Why would I not? Cassander is here. Rolukhan is here. I can hardly avenge Thalastre if I leave the city.”

“I thought you would go after Rolukhan and Cassander at once,” said Caina.

“I considered it,” admitted Kylon, “but that would get me killed. Someone went to a tremendous amount of effort and expense to keep me alive, and it seems churlish to throw away her work.”

Caina smiled faintly. “She appreciates it.”

“And it is…” He fell silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Throwing my life away in vengeance would be…wasteful. There is work to be done.”

“What do you mean?” said Caina.

“All those wraithblood addicts at the hospice,” said Kylon, remembering the thin, half-starved men and women with ghostly blue eyes. Some of them had seemed lucid. The rest had raved and cursed, screaming in terror or weeping at the sight of things only they could see. “There were hundreds of them.”

“Three hundred and sixty-two,” said Caina, “when I spoke with the Sisters.”

“The corpses in the laboratory made them that way,” said Kylon. “How many people has Callatas murdered in his laboratories?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “Tens of thousands. Maybe more.”

“When the Huntress slew Thalastre,” said Kylon, “that was all I could think of. Of avenging her and making Rolukhan and Cassander pay for their treachery. But they were just part of it. The Huntress was only part of it. The wraithblood addicts and the laboratory was another part of it. The root of it, the heart of all this evil…it is Callatas, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Caina.

“He burned Iramis,” said Kylon. “A quarter of a million people, dead in a moment. Caina…whatever he is planning has been going on long before you and I were born, and we never knew of it. You were pulled into it when the Emperor sent you here. I was pulled into it when the Huntress murdered Thalastre and my guests. I lost everything…but there are many others who have as well. There will be so many others, if Callatas continues. He is the final author of my loss and the losses of so many others.” He let out a long breath. “Stopping him, keeping others from suffering what I have…that seems a worthy goal. You understand, I think.”

“I do,” said Caina. “It was why I became a Ghost. It’s why I still am a Ghost.”

“Stopping Callatas’s plans seems a worthy goal,” said Kylon. He shook his head. “Though I suppose I might get killed just as easily as if I stormed the Umbarian embassy in search of Cassander.”

To his surprise, amusement flared through Caina’s aura, and she laughed.

“What?” said Kylon. “What did I say?”

“You’re right,” said Caina. “You could get killed fighting Callatas and his lieutenants. You could also trip down the stairs and crack your head open. No one knows their day or hour, Kylon. We can only live well until that time comes. And stopping Callatas and his Apotheosis will be good work.”

“Well, then,” said Kylon, hefting his pack. “Shall we begin?”

###

Caina left the Inn of the Crescent Moon with Kylon, making for the Old Quarter and the street of the silversmiths.

There was dangerous and deadly work ahead of her. Breaking into the Inferno would be no small feat…and escaping alive with Annarah would be even harder. Callatas and Grand Wazir Erghulan still had an enormous bounty upon her head. Cassander Nilas and the Umbarian Order were still hunting for her.

Yet, to her surprise, she felt hopeful, perhaps more hopeful than she had in a long time.

Caina had deadly enemies…but she was not alone. She had the Ghost circle of Istarinmul, Damla and Agabyzus and Nerina and Claudia and Martin and all the others she had gathered. She had the help of Nasser Glasshand and his cleverness and resources. Morgant the Razor would aid her, and she had seen the lengths to which that madman would go to keep his word.

She had the help of Kylon, one of the deadliest fighters she had ever seen.

Caina looked around the city, at the crowds filling the streets.

Perhaps together, Caina and the Ghosts and their allies had a chance of stopping Callatas and his Apotheosis.

Epilogue

Cassander Nilas stood in the solar of Grand Master Callatas, his arms clasped behind his back, the fingers of his left hand squeezing the armored gauntlet covering his right hand. He badly wanted to raise the gauntlet, to unleash his pyromantic sorcery and kill the two old men standing in front of him.

Given that it would result in his painful death, he found it easy to restrain the impulse.

“I fail to see why the destruction of the Craven’s Tower should be laid at my door,” said Cassander. “Given that the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower was one of Master Alchemist Malik Rolukhan’s men. Perhaps he should have been more vigilant in his duties.”

Rolukhan laughed. “Your pet elemental was in the Tower when it was destroyed. My divinations have confirmed it. The answer is simple enough. Your ifrit tracked the Balarigar to the Craven’s Tower, and was unable to overcome her.”

Cassander scowled, but both he and Rolukhan looked to the true master of Istarinmul for their answer.

Grand Master Callatas was short and thin, with a lined face and shoulders stooped from years of study. He had keen gray eyes, sharp and cold, and wore brilliant white robes with gold trim. A thin beard shaded his jaw, and a white turban concealed his hair. A blue gem the size of a man’s fist hung from a slender golden chain around his neck. Its depths flickered with a pale azure glow, and Cassander made a point not to stare at the stone for too long.

He knew what the Star of Iramis could do to the Grand Master’s enemies.

“Cassander, Cassander,” said Callatas, a glint of malicious amusement in his eyes. “Really. I had expected you to be more intelligent. When I told you Istarinmul would aid the Umbarian Order against the Empire if you rid me of that cursed Balarigar, I expected you to be discreet. A quiet blade between the damned harlot’s ribs, or a splash of poison in her glass. Instead you have sent ifriti rampaging through the streets and Adamant Guards brawling in the plaza. Perhaps I ought to have Erghulan expel the Umbarian embassy from Istarinmul.” He smiled. “Or I should write to the High Provost and ask her to send an ambassador with less of a penchant for…blunders.”

In that moment, Cassander decided that he was going to kill Grand Master Callatas. He did not know how, but he would find a way. First he would kill the Balarigar and ensure Istarinmul’s help against the Empire. And then, once that had been resolved, he would kill Callatas. He would repay the smug old bastard for every slight, every barbed remark, every sneer and every mocking laugh.

And if the Star of Iramis fell into Cassander’s hands in the process…well, he could put that to use as well.

“That is of course your right, Grand Master,” said Cassander with perfect calm. “However, I would be remiss if I did not remind you that Caina Amalas has eluded a bounty of two million bezants for over a year and a half, that she has terrorized half the cowled masters of the Brotherhood and escaped every time.”

“Your point?” said Callatas.

“Merely that patience is required,” said Callatas. “We…”

A sound at the door caught his attention. It also raised his alarm. This was the heart of Callatas's palace, the seat of his power. Nothing happened here without his permission. Callatas lifted his chin, and the two Immortals at the door started to turn.

A woman stepped into the solar.

She seemed familiar, somehow, though Cassander could not place her. She was young and pretty, with icy blue eyes and blond hair showing beneath a blue headscarf. Her blue dress fit her well, though she wore a scimitar and a dagger at her belt. Her expression was bored, even irritated, and she looked at Callatas with annoyance.

“Who is that?” thundered Rolukhan, drawing himself up to cast a spell.

“Remove her,” said Callatas.

The Immortals reached for her, and the woman let out an aggrieved sigh.

She spun, and darkness and purple flame flashed around her fingers. Suddenly she held a sword of shadow and writhing purple fire. Her spin carried the blade around her in an arc, ripping through the armored chests of the Immortals.

The Immortals fell in pieces to the floor.

That made quite a mess.

The woman gestured, her blade of force vanishing. She looked…satisfied, somehow, as if the death of the two Immortals had given her sustenance. Her blue eyes fell upon Cassander, and she shivered and licked her lips.

“Lord Cassander,” she murmured. “You look more handsome than I remember. That happens sometimes. I think I would enjoy doing things with you that I would not have enjoyed when we last met.”

For a moment Cassander did not understand, but comprehension came to him in a cold jolt. He had seen her face before. Or, rather, he had seen parts of it. He had met Claudia Aberon at Erghulan’s doomed banquet, and while he had never laid eyes upon Caina Amalas, he knew her physical description, and he had seen fairly accurate drawings of her.

This woman had Caina’s blue eyes and pale skin, while the color of her hair and the shape of her jaw had come from Claudia Aberon.

“Huntress?” said Cassander, surprised.

She could not be here. She had been killed at Silent Ash Temple.

“I am,” said the woman. “Though you still call me Kalgri, if you wish. I’m going to keep that name until I solve a problem.”

“This woman calls herself the Huntress?” said Rolukhan. “Ridiculous. I…”

Kalgri looked at Rolukhan and grinned. It made her look both pretty and utterly mad. Kalgri’s previous form had been sullen and taciturn, but it seemed her death and transformation had changed things other than her appearance.

Cassander suspected it had made her even more dangerous.

“Oh, but this one is a fool,” said Kalgri. “He ought to listen to his nagataaru more. Can I kill him for you, father?”

“I,” said Callatas, rage in his voice, “am not your father.”

“But you are, father dearest,” said Kalgri. “You put the Voice into me, after all. You are my father and the Voice is my mother. Or maybe the Voice was my father and you were my mother.” She let out an unsteady giggle that had not a hint of sanity to it. “Oh, but I like talking more this time around. I don’t think the Voice put my brain back together quite the way it should have.” She shivered again. “But I think I’m going to enjoy killing even more.”

Cassander looked at her. He had never seen anyone talk to Callatas like that, and clearly the Grand Master was reluctant to do anything about it. Anyone else would have been killed at once for such impertinence.

“You will not speak to me so in front of guests,” said Callatas.

“As you wish,” said Kalgri. “But you shouldn’t care what they think, father.” She waved a hand at Rolukhan. “This one is a fool.” Rolukhan scowled, but Kalgri paid him no further heed. “And this one…well, this one is an Umbarian. A foreigner. Why do we care what he thinks?”

“My lady Kalgri,” said Cassander, an idea coming to him. “May I pose a question?”

Again came that unsteady, unsettling giggle. “My lady? So polite. Such a courteous tongue you have. Lord Cassander.”

“You said you would keep the name of Kalgri until you solve a problem,” said Cassander. “Might I ask what that is?”

Kalgri went motionless, and for a moment shadow and purple fire pulsed in her gaze.

“The problem,” she whispered, “is that Caina Amalas is still alive.”

“Ah,” said Callatas with satisfaction.

“She hurt me, father,” Kalgri said. Somehow that cold fury was even more disturbing that her giggling. “She wounded me! No one has ever hurt me that much. Not the valikarion of old, not the loremasters of Iramis, not even that wretched stormdancer Lord Cassander had me hunt. No one! I am going to kill her.” Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl. “I am going to make her suffer. I am going to destroy everything she loves in front of her. And then, only then, only after I have gorged myself upon her agony, only after there is no possible way left in which I can hurt her, only then will I kill her.”

Rolukhan edged back. He was frightened of the Huntress. As well he should be. The Red Huntress was a terrible weapon, an irresistible force of carnage and destruction.

And Cassander knew just where to point that weapon.

“My lady Kalgri,” he said. “I believe that we should talk.”

THE END

Thank you for reading GHOST IN THE RAZOR. Look for Caina's next adventure, GHOST IN THE INFERNO, to appear in mid 2015. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

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The Demonsouled Saga

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.

Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.

But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.

The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.

The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael’s power can hope to defeat them.

The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.

To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.

Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.

For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.

Unless Mazael can stop him.

Read Demonsouled for free. Mazael's adventures continue in Soul of Tyrants, Soul of Serpents, Soul of Dragons, Soul of Sorcery, Soul of Skulls, and Soul of Swords, along with the short stories The Wandering Knight, The Tournament Knight, and The Dragon's Shadow. Get the first three books bundled together in Demonsouled Omnibus One.

The Ghosts Series

Once CAINA AMALAS was the shy daughter of a minor nobleman, content to spend her days in her father’s library.

Then sorcery and murder and her mother’s treachery tore her life apart.

Now she is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, an elite agent of the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar. She is a master of disguise and infiltration, of stealth and the shadows.

And she will need all those skills to defend the Empire and stay alive.

Corrupt lords scheme and plot in the shadows, desiring to pull down the Emperor and rule the Empire for their own profit and glory. Slave traders lurk on the fringes of the Empire, ready to seize unwary commoners and sell them into servitude in distant lands. Yet both slave traders and cruel lords must beware the Ghosts.

The Magisterium, the Imperial brotherhood of sorcerers, believe themselves the rightful masters of the Empire. With their arcane sciences, they plan to overthrow the Empire and enslave the commoners, ruling all of mankind for their own benefit. Only the Ghosts stand in the path of their sinister plans.

And the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend and terror, waits in the shadows, preparing to launch a war upon the gods themselves. She will make the gods pay for the suffering of mankind...even if she must destroy the world to do it.

Caina Amalas of the Ghosts opposes these mighty enemies, but the cost might be more than she can bear.

Read  Child of the Ghosts for free. Caina's adventures continue in Ghost in the Flames, Ghost in the Blood, Ghost in the Storm, Ghost in the Stone, Ghost in the Forge, Ghost in the Ashes, Ghost in the Mask, and Ghost in the Surge, along with the short stories Ghost Aria, Ghost Claws, Ghost Omens, The Fall of Kyrace, Ghost Thorns, Ghost Undying and Ghost Dagger. Get the first three books bundled together in The Ghosts Omnibus One.

The Ghost Exile Series

Caina Amalas was a nightfighter of the Ghosts, the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar, and through her boldness and cunning saved the Empire and the world from sorcerous annihilation.

But the victory cost her everything.

Now she is exiled and alone in the city of Istarinmul, far from her home and friends. Yet a centuries-old darkness now stirs in Istarinmul, eager to devour the city and the world itself.

And Caina is the only one that stands in its way...

Read Ghost in the Cowl, Ghost in the Maze, Ghost in the Hunt, and Ghost in the Razor, along with the short stories Ghost Sword, Ghost Price, Ghost Relics, Ghost Keeper and Ghost Nails.

The Third Soul

RACHAELIS MORULAN is an Initiate of the Conclave, the powerful order of mighty mages. But to become a full Adept of the Conclave, she must first survive the Testing. Those who survive the Testing never speak of the trials they endured.

Those who fail the Testing are never seen again.

And now the Magisters of the Conclave have come to take Rachaelis to undertake the Testing. And there she shall face perils to both her body and her sanity.

And creatures that yearn to devour her soul.

If Rachaelis survives the Testing, she will face even more dangerous foes. The demons of the astral world watch the world of mortal men, desiring to rule it for themselves.

And some Adepts of the Conclave are eager to help them.

Read The Testing for free. Rachelis's trials continue in The Assassins, The Blood Shaman, The High Demon, The Burning Child, The Outlaw Adept, The Black Paladin, and The Tomb of Baligant. Read the entire series in The Third Soul Omnibus One and The Third Soul Omnibus Two.

The Frostborn Series

A thousand years ago, the last grandson of Arthur Pendragon led the survivors of Britain through a magical gate to a new world, a world of magic and high elves, of orcs and kobolds and stranger, darker creatures. Now the descendants of the exiles rule a mighty kingdom, peaceful and prosperous under the rule of the High King.

But a shadow threatens to devour the kingdom.

RIDMARK ARBAN was once a Swordbearer, a knight of renown. Now he is a branded outcast, stripped of his sword, and despised as a traitor.

But he alone sees the danger to come. The Frostborn shall return, and unless they are stopped, they will cover all the world in ice and a neverending winter.

CALLIANDE awakens in the darkness, her memories gone, and creatures of terrible power hunting her.

For she alone holds the secret that can save the world…or destroy it utterly.

The secret of the Frostborn.

Read Frostborn: The First Quest, followed by Frostborn: The Gray Knight, Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife, Frostborn: The Undying Wizard, Frostborn: The Master Thief, Frostborn: The Iron Tower, and Frostborn: The Dark Warden along with the short stories The Orc's Tale, The Mage's Tale, The Thief's Tale, The Assassin's Tale, and The Paladins's Tale.

Mask of the Demonsouled Trilogy

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK has prevailed over terrible foes and now rules the Grim Marches with firm justice. Yet ancient evils are stirring in the shadows, freed at last by Mazael's own hand. Unless Mazael fights with all his strength, the world will fall.

SIGALDRA is the last holdmistress of the Jutai nation, the final defender of her people. Now the darkness comes to devour the final remnant of Sigaldra's home and family. Even Sigaldra's courage may not be enough to turn aside the darkness.

Read Mask of Swords along with the short story The Ransom Knight.

The Tower of Endless Worlds

THOMAS WYCLIFFE just wants to finish his dissertation in peace and quiet. So when a man in a black robe appears in his closet, claiming to be the last of the Warlocks, Wycliffe figures it is a bad joke.

But he soon realizes the last of the Warlocks can give him power beyond imagining.

And all it will cost is his soul.

SIMON WESTER needs a job. Badly. So when a rich and powerful Senator offers him employment, he jumps at the chance. Sure, Simon expects to find some corruption, some shady deals.

He doesn't expect to find black magic.

LIAM MASTERE is a Knight of the Sacred Blade, defender of the mortal races. But can swords stand against guns? As bullets and bombs destroy his kingdom, Liam must risk everything to save his homeland's one chance of salvation.

By daring the horrors of the Tower of Endless Worlds…

Read The Tower of Endless Worlds for free. The saga of the Tower continues in A Knight of the Sacred Blade, A Wizard of the White Council, and The Destroyer of Worlds.

About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here, or watch for news on his Facebook page.

Table of Contents

Description

Chapter 1: The Artist

Chapter 2: The Knight of Wind and Air

Chapter 3: Failures

Chapter 4: Sifting

Chapter 5: Kindred

Chapter 6: Razor

Chapter 7: A Little Test

Chapter 8: Mathematically Pleasing

Chapter 9: Exiles

Chapter 10: Destiny

Chapter 11: Rolling The Dice

Chapter 12: Old Enemies

Chapter 13: Embers

Chapter 14: Traps

Chapter 15: Disguises

Chapter 16: Blood and Hellfire

Chapter 17: Dark Sword

Chapter 18: Decision

Chapter 19: Burn Me

Chapter 20: The Silver Fire Is Your Only Salvation

Chapter 21: The Secret

Epilogue

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About the Author