Ghost Price (2 page)

And then the Alchemist had murdered two of Murvain’s daughters to fuel one of his spells.

Caina pushed aside the thought and strode toward the Ring of Cyrica.

It was a mid-sized arena, large enough to seat about ten thousand spectators. The merchants and craftsmen of the Cyrican Quarter came here to watch the games, along with foreign merchants visiting from Imperial Cyrica and other lands. The Ring was closed today, but the galleries bellow the arena where the slaves practiced were open. Wealthy men often came to place wagers upon the fights and to watch the gladiators train.

A scowling guard blocked the entrance to the galleries. “What is your business here?”

Caina drew herself up. She had donned the white robe and turban favored by Cyrican nobles and merchants, and procured a fake beard and mustache for her face. The beard looked ridiculous, but it was exactly the style a pompous Cyrican merchant would wear, so it worked. 

“I am Kyrazid Tomurzu,” said Caina with a Cyrican accent in a disguised voice, holding out a forged document, “a factor of Khosrau Asurius, Lord Governor of Cyrica Superior. Now that peace has been reached between our Emperor and your Padishah, his lordship wishes to purchase some of Istarinmul’s gladiators, for all men know that the fighting pits of Istarinmul produce the finest gladiators in the world.” 

“Proceed,” said the guard. “But do not cause any problems, foreigner. The Wazir of Public Games insists that the gladiatorial matches continue without interruption. All these rumors of the Balarigar, this shadow-cloaked thief…it has made the rabble restless, and they must be distracted from their folly.”

“The Balarigar?” said Caina. “Bah, a myth and nothing more. But I suppose the rabble will believe anything.” 

The guard laughed and waved her inside.

Caina descended the stairs and made her way into the galleries. He plan was simple enough. She had twice wounded one of the men in his right arm. Such an injury would be impossible to hide. She need only scan the gladiators until she found the man she sought. Then she would question him and have some answers. 

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.