Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9) (15 page)

“Now, lads,” said Tomazain. That friendly smile never wavered, and Damla had a sudden mental image of him as a veteran Legionary, beating sense into an impudent recruit. “Let’s part ways, shall we? It’s too damn early for fighting, and I never like to do my killing until I’ve had some breakfast.” He gestured with the broadsword. “Well?”

The two remaining thugs looked at each other and fled into the alley. The one Tomazain had punched in the throat staggered to his feet and limped away, clutching at his neck. The man whose jaw he had broken lay on the ground, blood leaking from his nose and mouth. 

“Gods,” muttered Tomazain, shaking his hand and flexing his thick fingers. “Those idiots had hard heads.” 

“Whatever you are paying him,” said Damla to Agabyzus, “it is worth it.”

Tomazain flashed her a surprised smile, more genuine than the hard-edged grin he had turned towards the thugs. 

“Don’t kill him,” said Agabyzus, nodding at the unconscious man. “No sense in provoking a blood feud with an Anshani clan.”

“No,” said Tomazain. He shook his head. “Well, we won’t kill him. He’ll wake up with a hell of a headache and will need to eat his dinner through a straw for a while, but he’ll get off easy. Maybe that will teach him not to trouble pretty widows on the street.” 

Damla smiled back at him. 

“Come along,” said Agabyzus. “Best not to linger here, lest our thieves return with friends.” 

They continued south and came to the Bazaar of the Southern Road without further trouble. Like the Cyrican Bazaar, the Bazaar of the Southern Road was deserted, the rows of booths and stalls closed and covered with tarps. Even at night, Damla knew, the Bazaar of the Southern Road was often busy, but the war had driven away commerce and left the square deserted.

She saw that many of the stalls and booths had been shoved to the side, leaving a clear path for soldiers and horsemen to make for the southern gate. Bonfires burned before the gate, and even from across the vast space of the Bazaar, Damla saw the men standing guard in the massive watch towers on either side of the gate. 

Fortunately, the maze of booths made for ample cover, and they made their way undetected to the far side of the Bazaar. A half-built tavern and inn stood there, the common room open for business despite its uncompleted state. The tavern was called the Shahenshah’s Seat, and according to Agabyzus, Caina and Kylon had once burned it down in an incident he had never quite explained. Since there was always a need for a tavern near the caravanserai, the rebuilding had begun at once, and the new Shahenshah’s Seat had opened for business even before the roof had been finished. As they headed towards the doors, Damla saw a large crowd within the common room. 

She supposed that if the world was about to end, drinking oneself to incoherence was a rational reaction. The Living Flame knew that she had considered it herself several times. 

Agabyzus led them around the side of the tavern to a narrow door of iron-bound planks. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a key, opening the door.

“Where the devil did you get that?” said Tomazain. 

“The circlemaster owns part of the building,” said Agabyzus, “and instructed that secret rooms be built within for our use.”

“Clever of her,” said Damla.

“And from here,” said Agabyzus, gesturing to the narrow stairs beyond the door, “we shall have a place to observe the gate without being observed in turn.”

They went single-file up the narrow stairs, the steps gritty with brick dust beneath Damla’s sandals. The stairs ended in another door that opened onto the flat roof of the half-built tavern, the Bazaar of the Southern Road spread out beneath them. So long as they did not display any lights, no one would be able to see them, and they had a clear view of the gate.

What Damla saw did not fill her with confidence. 

The gate was wide enough that several horsemen could ride through it abreast, and the massive doors of wood and iron bars had been locked in place. Worse, a portcullis had fallen behind the gate, giving an additional layer of protection if the attackers charged the doors with a ram. Two massive round towers rose on either side of the gate, their windows shining with torchlight, their tops crowned with catapults. Black-armored Immortals guarded the rampart between the towers. Damla was no soldier, but from what she could see the guards looked vigilant and well-prepared. 

She could think of no way of seizing the gate and opening it. 

“Hiring me to punch Anshani robbers is one thing, Agabyzus,” said Tomazain. “Storming that gate by myself is something else entirely.”

“I don’t disagree,” said Agabyzus, staring at the gate. 

“What are we going to do?” said Damla. 

“I don’t know,” said Agabyzus. “We do not have much time. If Grand Master Callatas is working the Apotheosis, we might only have a few days. If we had a few weeks, I would study the routines of the guards and their patrols and find a way to infiltrate them.” He shrugged. “Opening the gate itself is easy enough. There is a mechanism within the gatehouse that opens and closes the gate and raises and lowers the portcullis. Getting to it is the challenge.”

“Maybe…” started Damla.

She never finished the thought.

The rasp of leather against the roof came to her ears, and she whirled, the crossbow coming up as Agabyzus and Tomazain drew their swords. A man walked towards them, his hands raised. 

“Identify yourself, please,” said Agabyzus. 

The man stopped, and he was close enough that Damla made out his features, his brown eyes and hair, his slightly weary expression, the sheathed sword on his back.

A surge of relief went through her. “Kylon.” 

“Master Agabyzus, mistress Damla,” said Kylon. “We should talk.”

Chapter 9: Miracles

Kylon settled into the booth as Agabyzus and Tomazain sat on the other side. Damla retreated into the kitchen. He wasn’t hungry, but he wouldn’t mind some coffee, and Damla seemed incapable of letting a guest into the House of Agabyzus without offering food and drink, and Kylon had no wish to offend her. Bahad stayed on guard by the door, while Bayram rolled himself in a blanket and went to sleep in another booth. 

“I fear,” said Agabyzus, “that we have much to discuss.”

“We do,” said Kylon, glancing at Tomazain. He had never seen the Saddaic mercenary before, but Agabyzus seemed to trust him, and Caina trusted Agabyzus, so that was good enough for Kylon. 

“The circlemaster is not with you?” said Agabyzus.

“No,” said Kylon. “I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her since Callatas attacked the Desert Maiden.” 

“So the clever Nighmarian girl,” said Tomazain. He spoke Istarish with a thick Saddaic accent. “You know her as well?”

“Yes,” said Kylon.

“How did you meet?” said Tomazain. 

Kylon considered ignoring the question but answered anyway. “She tried to kill me the day we met. Then some sorcerers tried to kill us, she helped save my wife from an assassination attempt, I was banished from my homeland, and she saved my life when I ended up here.”

Tomazain blinked. “Hell. How did I get mixed up in all of this? I should have opened up an inn when I left the Legion.” 

There was a flicker of old grief in his emotional sense. Kylon suspected that whatever had driven Tomazain into the life of a mercenary had not been pleasant. 

“Don’t most Legion veterans open up inns that go out of business?” said Kylon. 

“Bankruptcy’s still better than fighting mad sorcerers,” said Tomazain. 

“Having experienced both, I cannot disagree,” said Kylon. 

Tomazain snorted once and nodded his approval. 

Damla returned with a tray of coffee and cakes, and Kylon took a cup of the steaming black liquid with gratitude. She sat next to him, and her emotional aura brushed over his arcane senses. She was desperately afraid, mostly for her sons and her brother, but also for herself, for her business, for her friends and her city. Yet there was hope in her aura now, and Kylon realized it had come from his return. 

“Thank you,” he said to her, taking a sip of the coffee. “First, news.”

As quickly as he could, he told them what had happened on the day of Callatas’s attack, how Caina had gone after Callatas. After that, he sketched in what had happened – Prince Sulaman, the rebel army, the Emissary, and the battle between the Grand Wazir and the Prince’s army on the steppes south of Istarinmul. 

They stared at him, stunned.

“Gods of the Empire,” said Tomazain. “You killed Master Rhataban?” 

“Yes,” said Kylon. “Barely.” 

Tomazain shook his head. “He was a devil of a fighter. I talked to some of the veterans who fought his forces during the war. They said he could face a dozen Legionaries in a fight and take them all without a scratch.” “Then the poet Sulaman,” said Damla, incredulous, “was really the Padishah’s son and heir?”

“Yes,” said Kylon. “If he takes the city, he will become the new Padishah.”

“Oh, by the Living Flame,” said Damla, rubbing her face. “The son of the Padishah recited poems in my coffee house! By the Living Flame! To think I always charged him for coffee!” 

“If it makes you feel better,” said Kylon, “he was keeping a low profile. Charging him for his coffee helped the disguise.”

Damla let out a long sigh. 

“Then Grand Wazir Erghulan was indeed defeated?” said Agabyzus.

“Decisively,” said Kylon. “If we had caught him before he fled, the war might be over now. Instead, he retreated to the city and fortified himself here, preparing to defend against the rebels.” Kylon shook his head. “If Callatas was not here, Erghulan might have been persuaded to flee into the exile.”

“What of the circlemaster?” said Agabyzus. “There has been no word from her?”

Kylon felt the hope in Agabyzus’s emotional sense. In his own cold, calculating way, Agabyzus loved Caina, the way a loyal magistrate might love his queen. Why should he not? Caina had saved his life, the life of his sister, and the life of his nephews. 

“I don’t know,” said Kylon. “I fear she is likely dead.” The admission cost him, but he tried to keep the anger and pain from his face. “She would not have let Callatas take the Staff and the Seal, not while she still drew breath. Either she is dead, or she is trapped on Pyramid Isle.”

He felt Damla’s eyes on him. She knew how he felt about Caina, and she sympathized. Agabyzus knew, but to his mind, that was simply a reason to trust Kylon. Tomazain wouldn’t care. 

“Let us not jump to conclusions,” said Agabyzus. “Twice before I had assumed that she was dead, first during the destruction of the Inferno and again when Cassander Nilas proclaimed her death and presented her dagger and cloak to the Grand Wazir. Both times I was mistaken.” 

“Pyramid Isle,” said Kylon, “was more dangerous than both the Inferno and Cassander Nilas.” 

“Still,” said Agabyzus, “if Callatas escaped Pyramid Isle, logically that means the Great Necromancer Kharnaces was destroyed or neutralized. It is well within the realm of possibility that Callatas overcame Kharnaces and fled with the relics to Istarinmul rather than confront the circlemaster.”

“Yes,” said Kylon. It was within the realm of possibility, but it was more likely that Callatas and the Red Huntress had simply killed her. But Kylon would cling to that hope as long as he could. “But if she is not here, she is not here, and we must continue in her stead.”

“This is so,” said Agabyzus. “We were correcting in assuming that Callatas began working the spells of the Apotheosis at once?”

“You are,” said Kylon. “He’s casting them right now. I can feel them.” 

Damla shivered a little. 

“How long will it take him to complete the spells?” said Agabyzus. 

“I don’t know,” said Kylon. “My knowledge of sorcery on this scale is limited. I don’t think it will take him more than a few days. At the most, we have three or four days until he’s ready.” 

“Then we have that long to find a way to open the gate,” said Agabyzus.

“Could you…attack the gate by yourself?” said Tomazain. “I’ve seen battle magi fight, and I assume Kyracian stormdancers are at least as skilled.”

“Better,” said Kylon in a dry tone. 

“So could you fight your way inside by yourself?” said Tomazain. 

“No,” said Kylon. “Not alone. If I had help, maybe. I might be able to fight my way inside and open the gate long enough for Tanzir’s horsemen to get into the Bazaar. But Erghulan put his remaining Immortals there, and likely his most skilled and loyal. One mistake, one blow to the head, and I’m dead.” He took another sip of coffee. “Could we find other men willing to attack the gate?”

“Given enough time, yes,” said Agabyzus. “As you can imagine, the Grand Wazir’s defeats have cost him much of his standing, and it would not be hard to convince others to fight against him. However, we do not have sufficient time.” 

“Then our best approach,” said Kylon, “is to find a way to sneak into the gatehouse and open the gate.” 

“That will be difficult,” said Agabyzus. 

“No more difficult than trying to take the gate by force,” said Kylon.

“True,” said Agabyzus. “It could be done.” He scratched at this gray beard. “We could barricade ourselves within the gatehouse, if we claimed control of it, and hold out until the emir’s army storms the city and takes the walls.” 

“It would also be an excellent way to get killed,” said Tomazain. “If you seize the gatehouse, the rebel army will charge, yes, but every single soldier in the city will try to retake the gate. Whoever holds the gatehouse will be slaughtered.”

“Not unless they hold the gatehouse until the rebels get into the Bazaar,” said Kylon. 

“It is a risk either way,” said Agabyzus, “but if we do not take some risks now, Callatas will finish the Apotheosis, and Istarinmul will be destroyed. So we may be gambling with our lives, but if we do not, we shall all die anyway.” 

“Right,” said Tomazain. “So. The four of us. How are we going to sneak into the gatehouse?” 

“We’ll need help,” said Kylon, thinking of the other Ghosts of Caina’s circle. “There are others who can assist us. One of the other Ghosts in the circle is a locksmith, the best locksmith in Istarinmul, and her husband…”