Ghost Vessel, Page 2

  When she finished, the young Nighmarian woman had vanished, and Caina now looked like a ragged caravan guard between jobs, the sort of troublesome young man that sensible people would avoid. She had used this disguise many times before, and it had served her well. There were many places in Istarinmul where a lone woman would draw instant attention, while a lone man could pass without notice.

  Though, gods, Caina was tired of dressing as a man. Wearing a dress had been a rare luxury. When disguising herself as a man, Caina had to remember to change her voice, her posture, her stride, her mannerisms. She had done it so often that it was almost second nature by now, but it was nonetheless tiring.

  Still, the disguise had helped keep her alive so she would not complain.

  Caina paused long enough to load a satchel with a few useful items, and then left her safe room and crossed Istarinmul, leaving the Cyrican Quarter for the Alqaarin Quarter. Night fell as she did, and she kept to the main streets, eschewing the dangerous alleyways. Istarinmul’s watchmen patrolled the main streets at night, and she did not expect to encounter any trouble.

  That expectation changed as she wove her way through the maze of warehouses and taverns and brothels at the edge of the Alqaarin Quarter and stopped before the Cistern.

  It looked like many other taverns lining the harbor districts of Istarinmul, a five-story building of brick and adobe slathered with crumbling whitewash, firelight spilling from its doors and windows into the night, accompanied the sounds of laughter and drunken arguments. Caina could have found a score of places like it without trying very hard. Yet three things stood out about the Cistern, three things upon that put her upon her guard.

  First, the bouncers at the door looked far more vigilant than she would have expected, holding their cudgels ready as if awaiting an attack.

  Second, wraithblood addicts lurked in the alleys around the Cistern, moaning and whispering to themselves, their eerie blue eyes brighter than they should have been in the night. Most tavern owners kept the wraithblood addicts well away from their establishments, lest they cause trouble. Not the Cistern, though.

  Third, Caina’s skin tingled a little, as if someone was tapping her with invisible needles. She was sensitive to the presence of sorcery, and that meant someone was casting a spell nearby, or she was in the presence of an enspelled device.

  Such as the Mirror of Worlds that made up the heart of every wraithblood laboratory.

  Caina walked back and forth in front of the Cistern a few times, gauging the strength of the aura. It was too faint for her to tell what kind of aura it was, but it didn’t seem to be coming from the Cistern itself. In fact, it seemed to be coming from the street.

  More accurately, it was coming from beneath the street. The cellar, maybe?

  Caina shook her head and kept walking, heading to the nearby warehouse where Agabyzus and Tomazain waited. Tomazain wore the same clothes and armor as before, but Agabyzus had disguised himself as a caravan guard. The penalties for attacking one of the Padishah’s couriers were severe, but Caina doubted that law carried much weight in a place like the Cistern.

  Their voices came to her ears as she approached.

  “This is a bad idea,” said Tomazain.

  “She knows what she is doing,” said Agabyzus.

  “Are you certain?” said Tomazain. “The Cistern is not the kind of place one should take a woman unless you want to sell her to someone.”

  “I assure you,” said Agabyzus, “she will be in no danger. Or, at least, in no more danger than you and I will be.”

  “That is not reassuring,” said Tomazain, and he fell silent as Caina stopped before them.

  “Aye, lads?” said Caina in the disguised voice she used. “Ready for a night of drinking?”

  Agabyzus smiled a little and glanced at Tomazain.

  “Be off with you,” snapped Tomazain. “You’ve no business with us.”

  “So sure of that, Tomazain?” said Caina, dropping her disguised voice. “I thought you wanted help to find your missing friends.”

  She took some amusement in watching his expression go from surprise to bafflement, and then to astonishment.

  “Wait,” said Tomazain. “You’re…”

  “My employer,” said Agabyzus.

  “By the Living Flame,” said Tomazain, squinting at her. “I didn’t recognize you at all. The voice. How did you do the voice?”

  “A great deal of practice,” said Caina. She switched back to the disguised voice. “And I had excellent teachers.” Theodosia, the Imperial opera singer who had taught her the trick, would have been amused at Tomazain’s reaction.

  “Are you some kind of sorceress?” said Tomazain.

  “No,” said Caina. “Just a very good liar.”

  “Mmm,” said Tomazain. “Are you actually a man or a woman?”

  Caina would have been offended, but she had been trying to deceive him. “Woman.”

  “But not a sorceress?” said Tomazain.

  “No,” said Caina. “Do you want to ask further questions, or shall we try to find your friends?”

  Tomazain grimaced. “Yes, of course. To business. I assume we shall pretend to be caravan guards looking for a good time?”

  “Correct,” said Caina. “I want to have a look around.”

  “Let us hope you can see the Cistern’s secrets the way you saw mine,” said Tomazain.

  Caina led the way across the street to the Cistern’s front door. The bouncers glanced at her and Agabyzus and Tomazain, but let them pass without a word. The Cistern was the sort of place frequented by rough men, and Caina and the others looked rough.

  The common room was a high room encircled by a balcony, tables and benches on both the balcony and the central floor. A massive hearth threw out a crimson glow, and men sat at the tables, drinking and eating and dicing. Slave women in gray dresses and headscarves brought out platters of food and drink, and a quartet of bouncers patrolled the common room, making sure the guests kept their hands to themselves.

  At least, Caina thought with a scowl, until they had paid for the women by the hour.

  She felt a faint flicker of sorcery hanging over the entire place. Caina kept walking, glancing around as if deciding upon a place to sit, and at last settled at an empty bench. As with the street, she thought the sorcerous aura was coming from below the floor.

  One of the slave women approached, dark eyes flashing beneath her mop of ragged black hair. She was younger than the others, and her white teeth flashed in her smile, though her black eyes remained as hard and as cold as stone. A life of slavery often turned the heart hard, but this woman looked as if she could lie with a man and then cut his throat while he slept.

  “Welcome, my handsome fellows,” said the woman. “My name is Tirzia. What can I get you?”

  “Three cups of wine, please,” said Agabyzus, handing over some coins.

  Tirzia laughed and rubbed up against Caina. “Is that all you want, my fine friends?”

  Caina’s skin crawled, but she made herself smile. “That depends on what you are offering.”

  “The joy of companionship,” said Tirzia, stepping black, that shark-like smile never wavering.

  “For all three of us?” said Caina. “I imagine that would be quite expensive.”

  “For three handsome men like you,” said Tirzia, “there would be a discount.” She shot that cold smile over her shoulder as she walked away. “Come find me later.”

  She walked away and vanished into the kitchen beneath one of the balconies.

  “That was a little obvious, wasn’t it?” said Caina.

  Tomazain snorted. “Really? You don’t think she finds us handsome?”

  “You can believe whatever your vanity requires,” said Agabyzus in a dry voice, “but I am old enough to be my employer’s father, and I am almost old enough to be yours.”

  “Your friends,” said Caina. “Granicus, Ishazar, and Mardwyn. Would they have been able to see the danger? That looked like the
perfect setup for a robbery.”

  “No,” said Tomazain. “They’re young lads. Competent enough in a fight, but when it comes to women…well, they’re not thinking with their heads, if you catch my meaning. If Tirzia made that little speech to them, they wouldn’t have bothered with wine first.”

  “It seems clear,” said Agabyzus, “that your friends were robbed, and then probably murdered. Or they were secretly sold into slavery. The Brotherhood of Slavers has been overlooking such minor details as legality of late.”

  That theory fit all the facts, Caina thought, save one. She had not yet told Agabyzus about the arcane aura around the cellar. She opened her mouth to speak and then fell silent.

  Because a man she recognized descended from the balcony.

  “Agabyzus,” murmured Caina, and he glanced to the side.

  The man descending from the balcony was middle-aged, with graying black hair and a black beard shading his gaunt face. He was dressed as a common Istarish soldier, wearing a chain mail hauberk and a sword belt around his waist, a scimitar resting upon his hip. That was an affectation – Caina knew that the man was perfectly capable of killing without a physical weapon.

  He vanished into the kitchen, and Caina and Agabyzus shared a look.

  “Friend of yours?” said Tomazain.

  “No, enemy,” said Caina. “His name is Malhound.”

  “A soldier?” said Tomazain.

  “No,” said Caina. “An Alchemist.”

  Tomazain leaned closer. “What the hell is an Alchemist doing in a place like this?”

  “There is also an arcane aura coming from the cellar,” said Caina.

  Agabyzus nodded. “Then our theory was correct. It is here.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Agabyzus.

  “I’m afraid your friends are probably dead,” said Caina. “I can tell you what killed them, but if I tell you, the knowledge will put you in danger.”

  “What do you mean?” said Tomazain.

  Caina contemplated her next words for a moment. “What I mean is that your friends ran afoul of some very powerful people, and if those people know that you know their secrets, they might try to kill you.”

  She expected Tomazain to turn and leave the Cistern, but he surprised her. His expression hardened, and he nodded.

  “They were my friends,” said Tomazain. “I’m not going to let this pass. What happened to them?”

  “Very well,” said Caina. “You have seen the wraithblood addicts on the street?”

  Tomazain nodded. “Aye. Poor wretches. Don’t know why they take the stuff. It looks like black sludge. Like something that would come out of an infected wound.”

  “You’re half-right,” said Caina. “Wraithblood is sorcerous in nature. Grand Master Callatas is manufacturing it as part of some powerful spell. He makes it from the blood of murdered slaves, charging the blood with arcane power from the netherworld. That’s why the Brotherhood has run amok lately. Callatas has been killing so many slaves in his wraithblood laboratories that there is a shortage. I suspect that there is a wraithblood laboratory beneath the Cistern, and your friends were lured into it and murdered.”

  Tomazain looked less surprised than Caina expected. Though given Callatas’s black reputation, it was not surprising at all that Tomazain would believe the Grand Master capable of such crimes.

  “How did you work all that out?” he said.

  “The Alchemist Malhound,” said Caina. “He is one of Callatas’s followers. The disappearances, the arcane aura, an Alchemist in the Cistern, they all add up. There has to be a wraithblood laboratory nearby.”

  “By the Living Flame,” said Tomazain. “This whole place is a trap.”

  “Aye,” said Caina. “I…”

  She fell silent as Tirzia emerged from the kitchens with three clay cups of wine. The slave woman set out the wine before them, still grinning, her eyes glinting in the sullen glow from the hearth.

  “Your wine, my friends,” said Tirzia. “And don’t forget about me. A woman gets lonely, and wants strong men around her.”

  “I’m sure she does,” said Caina, making herself smile.

  “Come find me when you’re finished,” said Tirzia with a wink. She turned and went back to the kitchens, throwing an extra sway into her hips as she did.

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “What do you suppose the odds are that the wine is drugged?” said Tomazain.

  “It probably isn’t,” said Caina, “but I’m still not drinking any of it.”

  “How shall we proceed?” said Agabyzus.

  “We need to shut this place down,” said Caina. “This is probably our best chance. If Malhound is kidnapping people from the street, he’s gotten overconfident, or he’s under pressure from Callatas to make more wraithblood, and he’s taking chances to meet his quota.”

  “So how do you stop it?” said Tomazain. “Do we burn the building down?”

  “It’s easier than that,” said Caina. “Every wraithblood laboratory has a Mirror of Worlds, an artifact that empowers the wraithblood. All we have to do is break the mirror. The spells to create one are complex and demanding, and it will take Callatas and his disciples months to replace it.”

  “Wouldn’t it be guarded?” said Tomazain.

  “It might be,” said Agabyzus. “Some of the wraithblood laboratories have been concealed in fortresses of Padishah and are therefore well-guarded. Others are hidden in places like this, and rely on secrecy rather than armed defenders.”

  “So you think there’s an unguarded wraithblood laboratory in the cellar?” said Tomazain.

  “It won’t be completely undefended,” said Caina. “Someone will be watching it. But it wouldn’t be heavily guarded.”

  “I suspect,” said Agabyzus, “that the Alchemist Malhound shall be the one guarding the laboratory.”

  “Gods of the Empire,” said Tomazain. “You want to kill an Alchemist?”

  “Only if I have to kill him,” said Caina. “And there are ways to do it.” An Alchemist could sheathe himself in protective warding spells, but the ghostsilver dagger at her belt could penetrate any warding spell.

  “And what way is that?” said Tomazain.

  “Stab him in the back before he knows anyone is there,” said Caina.

  Tomazain snorted. “Best way to kill anyone. Of course, it’s moot, isn’t it? The Alchemist might be the only one who knows there’s a wraithblood laboratory in the basement, but this place is full of bouncers.” One of them passed the table a few paces away, keeping watch over the crowds. “If we try to go the cellar, they’ll assume we’re thieves and kill us.”

  “A distraction, then,” said Caina, reaching for her satchel.

  Agabyzus sighed. “Just don’t burn down the building.”

  “I don’t burn down that many buildings,” said Caina with a frown.

  Agabyzus opened his mouth, seemed to reconsider his words, and closed it again. “As you say.”

  Caina nodded. “No, I’m going to make them think that I burned down the building. The cellar door is there, near the stairs. When the smoke appears and people start running for the street, head for the cellar door.” She stood up, taking her cup of wine with her.

  “Smoke?” said Tomazain.

  “Like I said, a distraction,” said Caina. “Be ready.”

  She headed across the common room, making sure to put a stagger into her step so she looked drunk. Her right hand held the wine cup, but her left rummaged in her satchel and came out holding two small clay spheres. Both spheres were heavier than they looked.

  Caina stopped before the large hearth, leaning against the mantle for a moment as if she needed to recover her balance. Then she pushed away, straightening up, and as she did, she dropped the twin clay spheres into the hottest part of the fire.

  As far as she could tell, no one had noticed.

  She caught Agabyzus’s eye and exchanged a quick nod with him, and she moved to the side of the com
mon room, beneath the balcony, where she could keep an eye on the room and the hearth at the side time.

  Right about then, the twin smoke bombs she had dropped into the fire exploded.

  She had found the formula for the smoke bombs in Istarinmul’s Sanctuary of the Ghosts, and she had altered the formula at various times to make the smoke thicker or darker as needed. The bombs burst with a loud cracking sound, and a thick plume of black smoke erupted from the hearth, rolling towards the ceiling.

  “Fire!” shouted Caina at the top of her lungs.

  “Fire!” bellowed Agabyzus, echoing her cry, and the common room exploded into chaos. The guests heaved to their feet and stumbled towards the door to the street. The slave women fled towards the kitchens, while the bouncers ran towards the hearth, some of them seizing buckets of water. Caina raced towards the cellar door and tried the handle. It was unlocked, and she pushed open the door just as Agabyzus and Tomazain joined her.

  They slipped through the door, and Caina closed it behind them.

  No one seemed to have noticed.

  Caina reached into her satchel, drawing out a small glass sphere wrapped in a leather band. She rubbed the sphere with her fingers and felt the tingle of mild sorcery. The sphere started to give off a pale blue glow, throwing its eerie light across the rough brick walls of the staircase.

  “What’s that?” said Tomazain in a hoarse whisper.

  “Enspelled light,” said Caina. She had found those, too, in the Sanctuary of the Ghosts, and as much as she disliked sorcery the glass spheres were useful. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  She led the way down the stairs and into the cellar. The cellar of the Cistern was unremarkable, the walls lined with casks of wine and sacks of grain. Yet the arcane aura Caina had felt seemed much stronger down here, and she sensed the familiar necromantic taint of wraithblood.

  “How do you know where you’re going?” said Tomazain.

  “I can sense sorcerous auras,” said Caina.

  “You said you’re not a sorceress,” said Tomazain.

  “I’m not,” said Caina, taking a moment to orient herself. The wall facing the street was on her left, and she walked towards it. The pins and needles of the aura grew stronger as she did. Her eyes roamed over the brick wall, over the sacks of grain piled here and there…