Ghost in the Pact (3 page)

Laertes grunted. “Don’t eat the food, though.”

“High praise,” said Kylon, sitting next to Caina on the bench. 

“Since that is one of the two most valuable things in Istarinmul,” said Morgant, glancing towards the Staff, “is it really a good idea to leave it there?”

Nasser shrugged. “It would not be any more secure in my hand. If you can think of a safer place, I shall gladly entertain suggestions. Often the best place to hide something is in plain sight.” 

Morgant made a sour grunt but said nothing. 

“That is the dilemma,” said Caina. “There is no place safe in the city. Not in Istarinmul, and not in the Empire or Anshan. It has to be Catekharon…”

“Concerning that,” said Nasser, “I have some good news.”

Caina leaned forward. “You found a ship.” 

“Yes,” said Nasser. “One came into the Alqaarin Harbor early this morning. One we’ve used before.”

“The
Eastern Fire
?” said Caina.

“No,” said Nasser. “Captain Murat and the
Sandstorm
.”

Kylon scowled. He remembered the Alqaarin corsair and his motley crew quite well. After Kharnaces had poisoned Caina, Murat threated to leave Caina on Pyramid Isle, believing that she had contracted some kind of plague. Caina had talked her way back onto the
Sandstorm
, but if she had not, Kylon might have wound up killing most of the corsair captain’s crew. 

“What is he doing here?” said Kylon. “He has a massive price upon his head.”

“It seems our intrepid captain noticed all the ships fleeing Istarinmul and decided to investigate,” said Nasser. “Likely he expected to find Istarinmul in the grips of civil war, and hoped to indulge in some looting. He is at no risk of being captured, I expect. Anyone in a position of authority who is still alive is facing substantially larger problems.”

“He’s willing to sail for Catekharon?” said Caina. “Has he ever been there?”

“Yes,” said Nasser, “but he has never been to Catekharon. Nevertheless, he is willing, and he has a fast ship. I suspect Captain Murat has made himself unwelcome in most of the ports of the Alqaarin Sea, and therefore finds the thought of sailing to the Cyrican Sea and the western ocean most appealing.” 

Kylon snorted. “If he tries to turn to piracy in the western ocean, he will regret it sorely the first time he attacks a Kyracian ship.”

“We need to get to Catekharon,” said Caina. “If Murat is willing to sail for Catekharon, then we should take his ship. The gods know we have delayed here too long already.” 

“I agree,” said Annarah. 

Kylon sighed. “So be it. Though I think you promised Murat that you would tell him where you obtained your throwing knives.”

Caina smiled. “If he gets us to Catekharon in one piece, I’ll buy him an entire set from Nerina. We should go at once.” She tapped her pack. Kylon knew that the pack held everything she need to leave the city in a hurry if necessary, including her shadow-cloak and her remaining eight vials of Elixir Restorata. 

“Alas,” said Nasser. “Murat refused to depart the city until tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?” said Caina. “That’s too long. Give him more money.”

“No sum would change his mind,” said Nasser. “He wishes to take on supplies, and to allow his crew some liberty. I fear Murat is the best we shall find, unless we are willing to wait longer.”

Caina shook her head. “We’ve waited too long already. If not for Cassander, we might be halfway to Catekharon by now.” She gripped the edge of the table, and then at last shook her head. “No. You are right. This is the best we will do. We’ll sail out with Murat tomorrow.” 

“Capital,” said Nasser. “We may as well wait here. I have secured rooms for us on the top floor. We can leave before dawn and join the
Sandstorm
.” 

“Agreed,” said Caina. “I don’t like waiting here with the relics. But they would be no safer anywhere else in Istarinmul.”

“Yes,” said Morgant.

Kylon looked at the old assassin. He had been uncharacteristically quiet since entering the Desert Maiden. Usually he would have taunted Nasser once or twice by now, or made a ribald joke about Kylon or Caina, or generally made an annoyance of himself. Yet he had been quiet, and even as Kylon looked, Morgant rose. 

“Where are you going?” said Annarah.

“I’ll be right back,” said Morgant, and he crossed the common room and went into the street. 

Chapter 2: One Last Time

Morgant strolled into the street, but as soon as he stepped away from Desert Maiden’s door, he burst into a run. Caina would almost certainly be following him, and he didn’t want to talk about this with her just yet. Morgant had secrets, and he kept his word.

No matter what he had to do in order to keep it. 

Running would have been useless. Caina sometimes let her heart do her thinking, but despite that flaw she was as clever as anyone he had ever met, and Morgant had met a lot of clever people. She knew all the tricks and subterfuges, and no matter what Morgant did, he would leave a trail for her to follow, or some tiny clue she could use to work out his whereabouts. 

She knew all the tricks, but so did he, and he had been doing this kind of thing since before she had been born. 

Morgant ran at the Desert Maiden’s wall as fast as he could. He jumped, kicking off the wall, and propelled himself upward. Like most of the buildings in the Alqaarin Quarter, the Desert Maiden had been constructed of whitewashed brick, which offered plenty of handholds and footholds. Morgant scrambled up the wall, his arms and legs screaming with the strain, and heaved himself through the open second-floor window he had spotted from the street.

He landed in a small, malodorous bedroom, the floorboards warped with age. A narrow bed rested against one wall, currently holding a drunken man in the rough clothes of a teamster. The teamster blinked at Morgant, his bloodshot eyes trying to come into focus.

“My wife’s brother,” said Morgant. “I owe him money. Needed to get away. Sorry about coming in through your window.”

“Eh?” said the drunk. “My wife’s brother was the same way, damn him. Always going on about how I need to make more money.”

Morgant offered a sage nod. “Then you understand.” He got to his knees and took a quick look over the edge of the window. Caina stood in the center of the street, looking back and forth to see where he had gone. If she happened to turn around, it was possible the vision of the valikarion would allow her to see the sorcerous aura of his weapons. Best to be gone by then. “Thank you for your discretion.” He edged along the wall, dropping a coin onto the bed. “Have a drink or three on me.”

The drunk managed a nod, scooping up the coin. “I’ll do that. I’ll do that! Good man. Good man.”

Morgant nodded, slipped out the door, and headed towards the stairs leading down to the common room.

Mazyan awaited him there.

Morgant had known Mazyan for seven years, since before Rezir Shahan had launched his ill-advised war upon the Empire, since before Callatas had first started manufacturing wraithblood from the corpses of murdered slaves in his secret laboratories. In those seven years, Mazyan had not changed. He was still squat with the musculature of an experienced blacksmith, his face locked in a perpetual scowl behind his bushy black beard. He still wore chain mail and carried a scimitar at his belt. 

Of course, given what Mazyan really was, it didn’t surprise Morgant that the man had aged very little. 

“Assassin,” said Mazyan.

“Oath Shadow,” said Morgant. It was the man’s proper title, though the word in Istarish was long and convoluted and difficult to get past his teeth. 

“You yet live,” said Mazyan. 

“Well,” said Morgant. “You know me. I just keep going and going and going…”

“Certainly you must be referring to your oratory,” said Mazyan. 

“I know a few people who would agree with you,” said Morgant, thinking of Caina and Kylon. He wondered what they would make of his sudden disappearance. Perhaps he could make his way back before too long. He had promised to help Annarah, and Morgant the Razor kept his word.

Yet he knew that Mazyan, bodyguard of the poet Sulaman, would not be here unless something had gone very wrong. 

Of course, calling Sulaman a “poet” was a bit like calling Morgant a “painter”. Both statements, while technically true, rather overlooked the entirety of the truth. 

“Your longevity,” said Mazyan, “was a plot of the Knight of Wind and Air.” 

“He likes plots,” said Morgant. “There was this one time, he told me to take this broken torque out of a ruined fortress filled with undead. I thought it was stupid, but as it turns out, if I hadn’t taken that torque, Cassander would have killed everyone in Istarinmul.” 

Samnirdamnus, djinni of the Court of the Azure Sovereign, did indeed like his plots. He had offered Morgant a choice to kill the world or to let the world live. At the time, Morgant had thought it riddling nonsense. But he knew know that if he hadn’t taken that torque from the Inferno, then Caina would have died in Rumarah…and Cassander would have destroyed Istarinmul. Or Callatas would have killed Cassander, taken the Staff and the Seal, and then unleashed his Apotheosis. 

Odd to think that the lives of so many had depended upon such a small thing. 

Samnirdamnus might have liked his little plots…but he was good of them.

“Your longevity was bestowed because the Knight thought you might be of use one day,” said Mazyan. “Clearly he was correct. For my master is in danger, and he bade me to summon you and ask you to keep your word to his father.” 

“Danger?” said Morgant. “Do elaborate.” 

“Callatas has found him,” said Mazyan. 

“Has he?” said Morgant. “Then how are you still alive?”

“I did not speak accurately enough,” said Mazyan. From another man that would have been a tacit admission of a lie. From Mazyan…well, the Oath Shadow lacked sufficient imagination to lie. “Callatas knows that my master is in the city, and is moving to capture him. Evidently the Grand Master thinks his plans are sufficiently threatened and has decided to capture my master.” 

“I see,” said Morgant. Perhaps that was why Callatas had not yet moved to seize the Staff and the Seal. Maybe the Grand Master wanted to deal with Mazyan’s master first. Or maybe Callatas thought he could claim the Staff and the Seal whenever he wished, which was a disturbing thought. 

“Then you will act?” said Mazyan. “You will keep your word?” 

“What does your master want me to do?” said Morgant.

Mazyan blinked, and Morgant realized that the bodyguard didn’t actually know. Truly, Mazyan didn’t have much imagination. 

Morgant still wouldn’t want to fight the Oath Shadow, though. 

“To fulfill your word,” said Mazyan.

“You’ll need to be more specific,” said Morgant.

Mazyan said nothing, his scowl unwavering.

Morgant sighed. “Perhaps I ought to speak with him.”

“He is not far,” said Mazyan. “This way.”

###

“You have no idea where he might have gone?” said Caina. 

“I fear not,” said Annarah. 

Caina let out an exasperated sigh, trying to keep her irritation under control. “Since he promised to protect you, I would think he would refrain from wandering off at random.” 

“He promised,” said Annarah, “to rescue me and help me.” She shrugged. “If he wandered off, I’m sure he has a reason. He never does anything without a reason.”

“Given how much danger we are in and how high the stakes are,” said Caina, glancing towards the disguised Staff and Seal, “he had better have a pretty damned good reason.” 

“He talks without any reason,” said Kylon. 

“He doesn’t even do that,” said Annarah with a faint smile. 

“All that rambling?” said Kylon. 

“All those anecdotes and stories,” said Annarah. “He does it to see how people react to them…”

“Mostly with immense irritation, I presume,” said Nasser. The last Prince of Iramis was not particularly fond of Morgant the Razor, though they had survived considerable dangers together.

“But the irritation tells him something,” said Annarah. “Caina spars with him because she is clever enough to do so and enjoys games. Lord Kylon ignores him and keeps going, just as he treats all pain and discomfort. The Prince likewise engages him in a game of words, and Laertes treats him as an eccentric noble whose oddities simply must be tolerated.” 

They stared at her in silence for a moment.

Laertes grunted. “She’s got us figured, doesn’t she?” 

Nasser laughed. “Let us not underestimate the Razor’s cleverness. Or that of Mistress Annarah. I suppose if Morgant has seen fit to wander off on some errand of his own, there is no stopping him. It is not as if he acknowledges any authority save his own word. If he returns by the time we depart for Catekharon, well and good. If not, we shall simply go without him.” 

“He’ll be back,” said Annarah. 

“I’ll head up to the roof and keep watch,” said Laertes. “Both for Morgant and for any trouble.”

“If Kalgri comes for us,” said Caina, “we might not have much warning.”

“Aye,” said Laertes, “but if a riot breaks out in the Alqaarin Bazaar, we’ll have much more warning.” 

“Very true,” said Nasser. “I shall go with you. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

“I shall accompany you as well, lord Prince,” said Annarah, rising. The bronze of the pyrikon bracelet around her wrist glinted in the dull light from the hearth. Of course, it wasn’t really made of bronze. The blaze of white fire Caina saw within the metal proved that. 

“And I’ll…wait here, I suppose,” said Caina. She could think of nothing else to do. The inactivity gnawed at her, and every instinct she possessed screamed for her to take the Staff and Seal and run for Catekharon as fast as her legs could carry her. But that, she knew, was a fool’s course. With Tanzir’s army marching from the south, the Istarish countryside was in turmoil, and the odds of surviving a journey on foot or even on horseback were slim. For that matter, it would be easy for Callatas and Kalgri to hunt them down. Kalgri could slaughter a small army on her own, to say nothing of the havoc Callatas’s sorcery could unleash.