Ghost Price, Page 2

  The galleries were better lit than she would have expected, thanks to a clever system of mirrors that reflected sunlight from the Ring above. She came to a large room floored in sand, benches pressed against the wall. Wealthy merchants and minor nobles sat upon the benches or stood in groups, watching the gladiators. Twenty-four men stood on the sand, drilling with wooden weapons while a sour-faced old man shouted threats and instructions at them. The gladiators wore leather breechclouts and hobnailed sandals, their hair and beards close-cropped. Some of the gladiators were giants, towering slabs of muscle. Others were leaner but no less muscular, and stalked across the sand like hunting cats, their weapons loose in their hands.

  She had to admit it made for an attractive sight.

  A flash of appalled guilt went through her. Slavery was a blight upon the world, and the games fought within the Ring were barbaric. The man she loved had died a hero’s death in New Kyre, and any other would be but a poor imitation of him. Yet here she stood ogling half-dressed gladiators like some merchant’s witless daughter. What was wrong with her?

  Fortunately, a slave in a gray tunic approached, and she pushed the thought from her mind.

  “Your business here, sir?” said the slave. He had the weedy, bent look of a man who spent much time bent over a ledger.

  I am Kyrazid Tomurzu,” said Caina. “My master Lord Khosrau wishes to purchase some gladiators. Additionally, I might like to put some wagers on tomorrow’s matches.”

  “Of course, sir,” said the slave. “A bribe is traditional for such consideration.”

  Caina nodded, paid the slave, and made her way along the edge of the wall, watching the drills. Specifically, she examined their right arms, keeping her expression aloof. Many of the gladiators bore scars, but none had recent wounds. Caina stopped near a trio of merchants discussing Anshani silk prices, stroking the point of her ridiculous fake beard. More gladiators sat nearby, resting between bouts. Their discussion centered on the quality of the food and a comparison of various sexual conquests. Caina let her eyes wander idly over them…

  There.

  Two gladiators sat the end of the bench, speaking in low voices. And one of them had a pair of bandages on his right arm.

  Caina edged closer, trying to make it look as if she was getting a better view of the training. Both gladiators were Istarish men in their middle thirties, strong and fit. The man with bandages upon his arm was the shorter of the two, and his nose had been broken often. The taller gladiator had the thick knuckles and mashed ears of a man who had both dealt and received many blows, and while none of the gladiators looked particularly cheerful, this man looked downright grim.

  She took a step closer, keeping her eyes fixed the training, but her ears strained to hear the conversation between the two men.

  “It is folly, Ismet,” said the taller gladiator. “I tell it to you again, it is folly.”

  “When did you become so craven, Kuyat?” said Ismet, sneering. “You were never so timid before.”

  Kuyat grunted. “I have more to lose now.”

  Ismet snorted and waved a hand at the training room. “All of this?”

  “I do well in the fights,” said Kuyat. “Soon I will have saved enough to buy my freedom.”

  “Or,” said Ismet, “you could take the money and buy your freedom this very night.”

  Kuyat glared at the sand. “It is not our money.”

  Ismet’s sneer grew sharper. “You were not so scrupulous last night.”

  “I’ve had some time to think it over,” said Kuyat. “I’ve changed my mind.” He pointed at the bandages on Ismet’s arm. “I’m surprised you haven’t rethought the matter.”

  “That was just bad luck,” said Ismet. “The fellow with the knives just happened by at the wrong time.”

  “Or it was a sign from the Living Flame,” said Kuyat, “warning us to turn back before it was too late.”

  “The Living Flame?” said Ismet. “As if the Living Flame gives a damn about slaves. Do you think this is lawful? Do you think we deserve to be slaves?” His voice grew angrier. “Our freedom was stolen from us, so we shall steal it right back!”

  “The old woman,” said Kuyat. “She doesn’t deserve this.” He shook his head. “He wouldn’t have wanted it. If he knew what we were doing, he would be appalled.”

  “Well, he’s dead, isn’t he?” said Ismet. “The money will go to waste. And it’s not as if we’ll leave the old hag to starve in the street. We can look after her.”

  “I doubt that,” said Kuyat. “No. My mind is made up. If you wish to do this, you will not have my help.”

  Ismet spat upon the sand. “So be it, then. Perhaps I’ll watch and laugh as a free man as you die in the arena.”

  He got to his feet and walked away, vanishing into a side passage. Kuyat scowled, shook his head, and saw Caina looking at him. His dark eyes widened, and she could guess at the thoughts racing through his mind. A gladiator was not supposed to talk as he did.

  “Forgive me, your excellency,” said Kuyat, dropping his eyes, “if our speech was…churlish. Ismet and I have a dispute over a wager, that is all. It is nothing for your excellency to concern yourself.”

  Caina shrugged. “Nor should my excellency eavesdrop on matters than are none of my concern. My name is Kyrazid Tomurzu, and I am a factor for the Lord Governor of Imperial Cyrica.”

  “And his lordship is looking for gladiators?” said Kuyat, thumping his muscled chest. “You could do worse than me, sir. I have fought sixty-seven bouts in the last two years, and lost only five of them. I am not a champion, aye, but I know how to handle a sword.”

  “An impressive record,” said Caina. She considered for a moment. “The teachers of the Ring must have trained you well.”

  Kuyat scoffed. “Bah, they do not know the blade of a scimitar from its hilt. I learned to fight as a soldier of the Padishah.”

  “How did you become a gladiator?” said Caina.

  “I committed a crime and was sold into slavery for my offense,” said Kuyat.

  “You were at Marsis,” said Caina, “weren’t you?”

  Kuyat said nothing, his face going still.

  “I was at Marsis, too,” said Caina, lowering her voice. “On the opposite side of the battle, I suppose.” She shuddered. “I remember watching the Balarigar throw Rezir Shahan’s head into his soldiers.”

  “I was there,” said Kuyat. “I saw it happen.” His voice grew quiet. “The attack upon Marsis was folly. Utter madness.” He rubbed a hand over the black stubble of his hair. “Some of my friends and I escaped the wreck of the battle and tried to make our way back to Istarinmul. The Slavers’ Brotherhood captured us and sold us as gladiators. They said we were cowards and deserters, that if we had fought more valiantly Marsis would belong to the Padishah now.”

  “That is not just,” said Caina.

  “When has the world ever been just?” said Kuyat.

  “Infrequently,” said Caina.

  “This is so,” said Kuyat. “Still, I could have ended up in the mines or pulling an oar on a galley.” Or he could have ended up in one of Grand Master Callatas’s wraithblood laboratories. “There are worse lives than that of a gladiator.”

  “True,” said Caina. She decided to take a gamble. “Tell me, do you know a man named Turkaar?”

  Kuyat’s face went still. “He’s dead. He was a soldier with us in Marsis. We made it out. He didn’t. He fell when the Legions attacked from the northern gate. Along with so many others.”

  “I met his mother,” said Caina. “Impoverished old widow. No family left in the world.”

  Kuyat’s blank face did not waver. “Did she send you, then?”

  “She doesn’t even know who Kyrazid Tomurzu is,” said Caina, truthfully.

  “Then why are you talking to me?” said Kuyat.

  “I am a curious sort of man,” said Caina, which was only half a lie. She shrugged. “You’re perfectly safe telling me anything you want. I have no authority
over you. Even if I did complain about you, I have no proof. Your owner would merely laugh me off.” She thought for a moment. “Was Tulkaar a friend of yours?”

  “Aye,” said Kuyat.

  “There are inheritance taxes on his mother’s house,” said Caina. “His mother can’t afford to pay them. She’ll be put out on the street unless she finds the money.” Her suspicion began to solidify. “I think you know where she can find that kind of money.”

  Kuyat sighed. “You seem very clever for a lord’s factor, Master Kyrazid.”

  “My lord employs only clever men,” said Caina.

  “You’re right,” said Kuyat. “You have no authority over me. Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Because,” said Caina. “I have no need of money. I have no wish to see an old woman put out onto the street to beg. And because I suspect you are a man with a conscience.”

  “Supposing that was true,” said Kuyat, “let me tell you a story. Before the attack on Marsis, Turkaar got drunk and told us a story of his own. The day after he was conscripted into the Padishah’s army, he bet on the games. He won money. Serious money. But he knew the army was leaving, and the money could be stolen before he returned. So he got clever, and didn’t tell anyone about it. He hid the coin, buried it in his mother’s cellar, and planned to dig it up in secret once he returned. But he never left Marsis.”

  “So why did he tell you?” said Caina.

  “Like I said. He was drunk. Steady man in a fight, but he had no head for wine.”

  “So,” said Caina, remembering the knife wounds upon Ismet’s arm. “If a man wanted to get an old woman out of the house, he could set the house on fire and drive her out. Then he could search the cellar at leisure.”

  Guilt flickered over Kuyat’s face. “You have the right of it.” He shrugged again. “Assuming the fanciful tale I have just told you has any truth to it, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Caina.

  “And if the tale turns out to be true,” said Kuyat, lowering his voice, “see to it that the money goes to Turkaar’s mother.” His smile was brittle. “It would buy my freedom, yes…but I will not win my freedom upon the back of a starving old woman.”

  “You are a noble man, Kuyat,” said Caina.

  “I am a slave,” he said.

  “And some slaves have more nobility than the Grand Wazir himself,” said Caina.

  She left the galleries without another word.

  ###

  Night was falling by the time Caina returned to Talisla’s house.

  She had discarded the guise of Kyrazid Tomurzu for that of the mercenary courier Koraz. Talisla did not know Kyrazid, and would be suspicious if he turned up at her door. Now Caina needed a distraction that would allow her to search the house’s cellar. Though come to think of it, a distraction would be unnecessary. She need only wait until the old woman fell asleep, and then she could pick the lock to the cellar and search for Turkaar’s hidden hoard. Then she could contrive an excuse to get the money to Talisla.

  Caina reached the house and stopped.

  The door stood open.

  Talisla would not have left the door open, not for any reason. Especially not after last night’s attempted arson. And Caina saw that the door had been splintered, the lock forced.

  It seemed that Ismet had not returned to his cell after leaving Kuyat.

  Caina whispered a curse and drew her weapons, a dagger in her right hand and a throwing knife in her left. Ismet was undoubtedly a skilled fighter, but he was only one man, and Caina could move without sound. If she took him unawares, she could kill him in a heartbeat. And the watch and the hakims could hardly blame her for killing a thief menacing an old woman.

  Caina glided through the door, weapons ready, boots making no sound against the floor. She saw speckles of blood across the whitewashed wall. They were still wet. That was not a good sign, but hopefully Talisla was still alive.

  She heard the rumble of a man’s voice, followed by the sound of a fist striking flesh and a woman’s shriek of pain.

  It came from the kitchen. Caina crept forward, hand tight around her throwing knife’s handle. She reversed her grip on the dagger, preparing to stab. She would creep up behind Ismet and kill him before he knew what had happened.

  Then Caina looked through the kitchen door and froze.

  Four men, not one, stood in the kitchen.

  Talisla sat slumped in a chair, arms tied behind her back. Ismet paced back and forth before the chair, a club in his hand, his hobnailed sandals leaving scratches in the floorboards. Three other men stood scattered around the kitchen, their expressions vacant, their clothes dirty and smelling of the street. They looked like beggars.

  Caina got a look at their eyes.

  Istarish men tended to have black eyes or brown eyes, but these beggars had eyes of pale, eerie blue, the color of flames dancing beneath a copper kettle. And as Caina looked at them, she started to feel the faint aura of sorcery surrounding them, a mark of the arcane substances they had ingested.

  The men were wraithblood addicts, and they looked like they were in the final throes of the addiction. Ismet must have convinced them to follow him, to fight off any attempts to steal Turkaar’s hidden gold. Likely the addicts were broke and desperate for more wraithblood. And while wraithblood addicts did not often become violent, when they did, they were hideously dangerous.

  Three of them would be a challenge for Caina to overpower.

  An idea came to her.

  She might not have to overpower them at all.

  “I’ll ask one more time,” snarled Ismet, turning to face Talisla. “Where is the key to the cellar?”

  Talisla spat out a mouthful of blood. “Go to hell.”

  Ismet growled and raised the club to strike.

  “Stop!” said Caina, stepping into the kitchen.

  Ismet glared at her, and the wraithblood addicts turned, drunken smiles on their faces.

  “Who are you?” said Ismet. “Wait…the fellow with the throwing knives. I thought you might turn up again.” He waved his club at the wraithblood addicts. “Kill him! Whoever kills him will get a greater share of the profits. Think of all the wraithblood you’ll be able to buy.”

  The wraithblood addicts moved forward, and Caina remained motionless.

  They froze, their eerie eyes growing wide with fear.

  “What is it?” said Ismet. “Kill him!”

  But they did not move, their blue eyes fixed on Caina…and one of them started to scream.

  She did not know what caused it. Wraithblood was sorcerous in nature, and when a wraithblood addict looked at Caina, they saw…things. A haze of shadow wrapping around her like a cloak, perhaps, and sometimes visions. She did not know why. Perhaps the sorcerous scars left upon her aura by first Maglarion and then the Moroaica, or maybe a side effect of her two journeys into the netherworld. Whatever the reason, the things the wraithblood addicts saw when they looked at her filled them with terror.

  “Kill him!” shouted Ismet again. “He’s only one man!”

  “The shadows!” shrieked one of the wraithblood addicts. “I can see the shadows. I can see the shadows! They see me back, and they hunger!”

  “The knight of air!” screamed another. “He cannot stop what is coming!”

  “The shadows,” whispered the third man. “The shadows are masked and dancing, and they are all pointing at you.”

  “What nonsense is this?” said Ismet. “For the last time, kill him!”

  But the wraithblood addicts fled, terrified by whatever vision of horror they had seen swirling around Caina. One ran out the back door, and the second crawled through the burned window. The third actually ran right past Caina, screaming the entire time.

  Soon she was alone in the kitchen with Ismet and Talisla.

  “If you’re going to hire thugs,” said Caina, “best to find men other than wraithblood addicts.”

  Talisla let out a wheezing laugh.

  “Shu
t up,” said Ismet. His hard eyes turned back to Caina. “This is none of your affair. Leave now, and you won’t be hurt.”

  “I will not leave a widow to be murdered,” said Caina.

  “I’m not going to murder her, you idiot,” said Ismet. “Only beat her until she cooperates.”

  “And then?” said Caina. “Once you have what you want? She’s seen your face. You’ll just let her live?”

  Ismet’s eyes narrowed.

  “Or you could walk away now,” said Caina. “I know why you’re here. If you want your freedom, there is a better way to do it. You haven’t killed anyone yet.”

  “Did Kuyat send you?” said Ismet. “You speak his counsels of weakness.”

  “I came on my own,” said Caina. “Is this the kind of man you want to be? The sort who murders an old woman for his freedom?”

  And to her surprise, Ismet laughed.

  “I killed Turkaar, fool,” said Ismet.

  Talisla’s bloodshot eyes widened. “What?”

  “He told us about the money he had won at the games, how he was going to take care of his mother and find a pretty wife once he got back to Istarinmul,” said Ismet. “So when the Legions attacked at Marsis, I stabbed him in the back and left his corpse in the street. What was one more body among thousands?”

  “Dog!” said Talisla, her eyes ablaze with wrath. “Murderer! Traitor! I shall cut your throat and watch you choke on your blood!”

  “You won’t,” said Ismet. “I would have killed you and taken the money years ago, but those damned slavers got in the way.” He grinned at Caina. “A pity you came along. Seems some wraithblood addicts broke into the house and killed you both.” He spun the club in his right hand. “A genuine tragedy.”

  “Try,” said Caina, lifting her dagger.

  Ismet sprang at her, club a blur, and Caina dodged. She wheeled around him, trying to line up her dagger for a stab, but Ismet danced away. They began to turn in circles around each other, feinting and retreating, and Caina realized that she was at a disadvantage. Ismet stood a head taller, and his club gave him a longer reach. Additionally, he was far stronger, and if he got his hands on her she was dead. Caina was faster, but not fast enough to get past his guard and bury her blade into his flesh.