Ghost Nails, Page 2

  I pushed away the thought and looked for Novaya.

  She stood at the counter near the ovens, humming to herself as she mixed a bowl of batter. She was a Szaldic woman in her middle twenties with long dark hair and blue eyes, short and plump but nonetheless pretty. I suspected she would find herself a husband soon. In fact, I had seen her talking to a man a few times recently.

  “Mistress Damla,” she said with a smile, her Istarish colored with a thick Szaldic accent. “All is well, yes? The Hakim, he likes his cake?”

  There was not a trace of alarm in her face.

  “He hasn’t had a chance to try it yet,” said Caina.

  Novaya blinked and looked at Caina. “Mistress, who is this?”

  I hesitated, and then realized that Novaya would not recognize Caina’s current disguise.

  Caina offered Novaya a courtly bow. “Kyrazid Tomurzu, factor to the lords of Imperial Cyrica. I happened to look at your cake when Mistress Damla served it to the Hakim. There is a problem with it.”

  Novaya scowled, but Caina lifted the broken halves of the cake. The nails glinted in the fiery light coming from the ovens. Novaya looked at Caina with puzzlement.

  “Why did you put nails in it?” she said. “You ruined a perfectly good cake.”

  “The nails were already in the cake, Novaya,” said Caina.

  Novaya frowned, and I saw the dawning realization come over her face, followed shortly by fear and horror.

  “I don’t…I don’t know how those got there,” she said. “I didn’t put them there, I swear I didn’t. Oh, by the Living Flame. Does the Hakim think I tried to murder him? I didn’t, I swear I didn’t…”

  “He doesn’t know,” I said. “Master Kyrazid spotted the nails and stopped the Hakim from eating the cake, thank the Living Flame. We are the only ones who know about it.”

  “I didn’t do it,” said Novaya. “I didn’t…will you put me out, mistress Damla? What shall I do?” She shuddered. “I have nowhere else to go. I shall have to whore for my bread. I…I…”

  Her face crumpled, and she started crying.

  I glanced at Caina, and she shook her head. She didn’t think that Novaya had done it. Of course, it was possible Novaya was a very good actress. Caina was, certainly. A few of the other maids and cooks glanced at Novaya, but no one seemed alarmed. While working in the House of Agabyzus was more pleasant than toiling in a field, dealing with the public was often vexing, and sometimes the maids retreated to the kitchens for a good cry. I have no daughters, but nonetheless I have acquired a great deal of practice calming down weeping young women.

  “Novaya, Novaya,” I said, taking her shoulders, “you do not understand. I do not believe you did this awful thing.”

  She sniffled, her eyes already bloodshot. “You do not?”

  “Of course you did not do it,” I said. I glanced at Caina again, saw her gave a faint nod. “But I must talk to you, yes? Someone tried to murder a magistrate under our roof, and it is only by the mercy of the Living Flame and the keen eye of Master Kyrazid that the Hakim is still alive. If Korim was killed here, I would be arrested, the House of Agabyzus closed, and all the cooks and maids would be out on the street. So we need to figure out who did this and find proof before we go to the magistrates.”

  Yet I suspected that if we did find out who had tried to kill Korim, the would-be murderer would never make it to the magistrates. Caina would see to it that he disappeared quietly. Five years ago that would have horrified me. But five years ago my husband had been alive, and no one had ever tried to enslave my sons. Five years ago, I think, I had been a better woman. Now I would do what was necessary to protect my sons without hesitation.

  Besides, someone had tried to murder a guest under my roof. I would hardly mourn the death of such a man. As difficult as my work was, I enjoyed giving food and drink to the hungry and the thirsty. I thought it despicable that someone would corrupt that and turn it into a weapon. The poisoner is the most reviled of all men.

  “Yes, yes, you’re right,” said Novaya, wiping at her nose. “But…but I don’t know who could have done this.”

  “When did you make the cake?” said Caina.

  “This morning, sir,” said Novaya. “I arrived before dawn, as I usually do, and started work upon the tarts and the biscuits. I knew the Hakim was coming, so I mixed the batter for his cake early. Then I finished the tarts, poured the cake into the pan, and…”

  “After you poured the cake into the pan,” said Caina, “how much of a pause was there? Did you do something else and come back, or did you put the cake into the oven immediately?” I saw her reasoning. The nails had been baked into the cake. Whoever put them in the batter would have done so before the cake went into the oven.

  “Immediately,” said Novaya. “I didn’t want it to dry out. No, wait. I…ah, well…”

  “What happened?” I said.

  “Before I put the cake into the oven,” said Novaya, “I talked to a…a man.”

  “A suitor?” I said. “I’ve seen you with a man recently.”

  “He’s only been seeing me for a few weeks,” said Novaya. “His name is Kamal. He is a carpenter’s journeyman, works for Master Hagal in the Cyrican Quarter.”

  A carpenter. Those small nails had been the sort of a carpenter might use to construct a set of shelves.

  “He stopped by to see you, then?” said Caina. “How long did you talk?”

  “A few minutes,” said Novaya. “Then he left for Master Hagal’s workshop.”

  “Did anyone disturb the batter while you spoke with him?” said Caina.

  “I don’t think so,” said Novaya with a shrug. “I didn’t notice anything wrong with the batter, I mean.”

  “Thank you,” said Caina. “One last question. Where does Kamal live?”

  Novaya frowned. “He didn’t do this! He’s a good man!”

  “I don’t think he did it,” said Caina, “but I think someone used him as a distraction to slip the nails into the batter while you were not looking. I would like to ask Kamal if he saw anything unusual.”

  “Oh,” said Novaya. “He lives on the third floor of a boardinghouse, behind the Street of Carpenters.” Her cheeks turned red. “Not that…not that I’ve ever been there alone, of course. That would be improper.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “Thank you, Novaya. Start making a new cake for the Hakim at once. I must go and make my apologies to him.” I looked around. “Send him that tray of tarts and some coffee with sugar and a double portion of cream. That will mollify him until the new cake is ready.”

  “Can one man truly eat so much, mistress?” said Novaya, incredulous.

  “I think the Hakim would consider that an appetizer,” said Caina. “Thank you, Novaya.”

  I followed Caina to the corner, where we could speak in relative quiet.

  “What do you think?” I said.

  “It has to be Kamal,” said Caina. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Or at least it’s a place to start looking.”

  “Who would want to kill Korim?” I said.

  She shrugged. “Who wouldn’t? He’s a magistrate of the Padishah’s government, and they are not universally beloved. But why nails?”

  “It would kill him in a painful fashion,” I said.

  “It might kill him in a painful fashion,” said Caina, “but it might not have killed him at all. He might have noticed something was wrong on the first bite. All he has then is a bloody mouth. If his enemies wanted to kill him with a cake, there are better ways to do it. Ground glass mixed with the batter. An allergen in the frosting. Any number of poisons.” She knew a disturbing number of ways to kill people with food. “Perhaps it was to send a message.”

  “With nails?” I said.

  “Or maybe the point wasn’t to kill Korim but to ruin your reputation,” said Caina. “Do you have any enemies that might want to do this?”

  I shrugged. “I do not believe so. Ulvan, perhaps. But I doubt he even remembers me.�
��

  Her smile had a hard edge. “Ulvan has bigger problems at the moment.”

  “I suppose someone could want the building or the land,” I said, “but I have heard no rumors.”

  “Kamal is our only lead,” said Caina. She stared into space for a moment. “I will have a look around his rooms, and tell you what I find.”

  “I should come with you,” I said.

  She blinked. “Really? Why?”

  “Because it is my coffee house that is under attack,” I said. “My livelihood and my sons’ inheritance, to say nothing of the livelihood of my workers. I must do something. And I have helped you with this sort of thing before.”

  “True,” said Caina, “though as I recall, you spent most of the time complaining.”

  “You did make me wear that ridiculous costume,” I said.

  “We were disguised as circus performers.”

  “They showed far, far too much skin.”

  “Normally I would agree with you,” said Caina, “but a disguise must match its environment, and it…never mind, we have more important things to do. If you offer help, I shall happily take it.”

  “Let me attend to Korim and change clothes,” I said.

  ***

  Chapter 3: The Carpenter's Room

  A few moments later we left the House of Agabyzus and headed for the Street of Carpenters. I had traded my usual widow’s black dress and headscarf for a blue dress with black trim and a matching headscarf, a leather belt with a dagger around my waist, sturdy sandals upon my feet. It felt very odd not to be wearing widow’s black. It almost felt like a betrayal of Bahlar. But it was well known that Damla of the House of Agabyzus was a widow, and if I wanted to do this, I needed a disguise.

  Caina walked at my side, still wearing the robes and turban of the disguise she called Kyrazid Tomurzu, Cyrican factor. She even walked with the stiff arrogance I had seen in the factors and seneschals of high noblemen.

  “You could have made an effective actress,” I said.

  She smiled a little. “I spent some time with an opera singer when I was younger. She taught me a trick or two.”

  “I suppose anyone who looks at us,” I said, “will think a son is taking his aged mother for a walk.”

  She laughed. “You are not nearly old enough to be my mother. And you’re nothing like her, thank all the gods.”

  “I am old enough to be your mother,” I said.

  “No, you’re not,” said Caina.

  “I’m almost forty.”

  “You’re thirty-five,” said Caina. “I’m twenty-four. Anyone who sees us will think that I am going for a walk with my wife.” She considered for a moment as we went around a corner. “At the very least, you’re old enough to be my…elder sister, let’s say.”

  “Does that mean I must offer you counsel?” I said.

  “If you like,” said Caina. “There’s no guarantee I will listen, though.”

  “Ah, then you would be just like a younger sister,” I said. “Or my sons.” I laughed. “It feels inappropriate to wear something other than black…but it is pleasant. Cooler, too.”

  “I understand,” said Caina. “I disguise myself as a man most of the time. Wearing actual women’s clothing is pleasant after that.”

  We came to the Street of Carpenters. A dozen different workshops lined the street, selling cabinets and chairs and wardrobes and doors and a score of other things. The sound of saws and hammering and curses came to my ears, and a faint drift of sawdust blew across the paving stones.

  “Do you ever think about remarrying?” said Caina.

  I hesitated. “Why do you ask? Surely you do not have someone in mind.”

  “No, nothing like that,” she said. “You act like an old matron…but you’re young enough not to be. Young enough to remarry and have more children, if you wished.” She sounded almost wistful at that.

  “I…have thought about it,” I said. “I was married when I was eighteen, and had Bayram the next year. I thought I would be married until my husband died and I was an old widow with grandchildren. Instead the war came, and everything changed.”

  “It changed a lot of things,” said Caina.

  “I miss my husband,” I said, my voice soft. “I miss…having someone else to carry the load. I miss having him guide my sons. It would be nice to have a husband again. I miss having someone to warm my bed at night.”

  “And everything that goes with that,” said Caina.

  “Well,” I said, my cheeks warming a bit, “yes.” I had only gotten pregnant four times, but it had not been through lack of trying. “But I don’t want to be married. I want to be married to my husband, and he is dead. No one can replace him. And if I did remarry, there would be consequences.” I shrugged. “A new husband would control the House of Agabyzus. He would not care for my sons as I do. What if he wished to sell the coffee house and leave my sons destitute? I could not allow that. I can trust no one that much.”

  “Perhaps that is wise,” said Caina.

  “Why do you ask?” I said. “Not that I mind the question, but we have never spoken of it before.”

  “One of the other Ghosts in the city,” said Caina, “a woman I’ve known for a few years…she thinks I should move on. That it’s not good for me to be alone.”

  “It isn’t,” I said.

  “But I have many of the same objections that you do,” said Caina. “And my life does not lend itself to companionship. Breaking into a boarding house, for instance, is no way to be introduced to a suitor.”

  I blinked as she came to a stop. We stood near a four-story house of whitewashed adobe. Caina circled to the alley, and I followed her, looking around. A flight of wooden stairs ran up the side of the building. We climbed the stairs, the boards creaking beneath us, my heart hammering against my ribs in fear. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. Maybe I should have stayed at the coffee house and let Caina handle this.

  “No need to worry,” murmured Caina. “For all anyone knows, we actually live here.” She reached the top of the stairs and tried the door. It was locked, and she produced a slender steel pick and went to work.

  “We’re committing burglary,” I said. “That is illegal.”

  “You’re also sheltering the most wanted outlaw in Istarinmul,” said Caina, twisting the pick back and forth. “Next to that, what’s a little burglary? We…ah.” The lock clicked. Caina nodded, reached into a pocket, and handed me a length of cloth. I wondered why until I saw her produce a second cloth and wrap it around her face.

  A mask, in case anyone saw us.

  I hurriedly wrapped the cloth around my face and followed her inside.

  We entered a small, dusty, unfurnished room, utter silence meeting our ears. Caina’s eyes roved back and forth over the floor, and I saw that she was noting footprints in the dust. She crossed the room and opened a door in the fall wall. Beyond was a small, dark bedroom. A narrow cot rested against one wall, and a wooden rack and a small table stood against the other. The rack held weapons, a lot of weapons – swords, daggers, knives, crossbows, brass knuckles, and other tools of violence.

  “I don’t think,” I said, “that Kamal is a carpenter.”

  “Probably not,” said Caina. She stepped into the empty bedroom, looking around. “On balance, I think he is likely a Kindred assassin.”

  “A Kindred?” I said with a shudder. “In my coffee house?” I had never met a Kindred assassin, at least knowingly, but I had heard tales about them all my life. The Kindred assassin families, it was said, purchased slave children from the Brotherhood of Slavers and raised them into merciless fighters, their brutal training transforming the children into killers without conscience or scruple. The thought that such a man had been under my roof was disturbing.

  “I fear so.” Caina crossed to the table and looked at the papers upon it. “Letters. Look. This is Korim’s official seal.”

  I blinked and moved closer, realized I was blocking the light from the door, and st
epped to the side. “Then…Korim hired Kamal to kill himself? That makes no sense.”

  “It doesn’t,” said Caina, examining one of the papers. “More likely someone from Korim’s household. Someone not all that bright, apparently, if they’re using his own seal. Listen.” She lifted one of the papers and read. “You have the payment. Do what I have asked of you. Make him suffer a thousand times over, rip him apart from the inside out, and we can be together. I shall be yours, and his money shall be mine.”

  “That sounds vengeful,” I said.

  “Is Korim married?” said Caina. “Do you know if he has any children?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think he married a few years ago. Likely he has some concubines. Most nobles and magistrates do. Or it could have been written by one of his slaves. Like you said, a magistrate has many enemies.”

  “But within his own household?” said Caina. “I don’t think…”

  I was standing with my back to the wall, looking into the outer room, so I saw the flicker of movement in the doorway.

  “Look out!” I said, throwing myself to the side.

  Caina was already moving before the first word was out of my mouth. Something shiny shot past my face and struck the wall with a thump, and I saw a quivering knife embedded in the wall. Caina’s right arm and shoulder moved in a blur, her entire body seeming to snap like a bowstring, and a knife spun from her fingers. The man at the door dodged, trying to avoid the blade. In that instant he seemed frozen, my alarmed mind making note of his lean, wolfish features, his dark hair and beard, the workman’s clothing he wore. I had seen him before, talking to Novaya, though I had not known his name. It was Kamal…and apparently he had poured nails into the Hakim’s cake.

  Caina’s knife clipped his shoulder, and Kamal staggered back. She moved forward, drawing another knife, but Kamal had apparently had enough. He sprinted away down the stairs, and I heard a thump as he vaulted the railing and jumped the rest of the way to the alley below. Caina hurried onto the landing, and I followed her. I saw Kamal sprinting down the alley, limping a bit. He must have turned an ankle in the landing.