Ghost Arts Read online

  They walked together into the courtyard. He did not offer to take her arm, which did not surprise her. She had observed him as he had observed her, and she had come to suspect that he hated to have anyone touch him for any reason. The slaves at the entrance to the House recognized Morgant, and they bowed and opened the doors.

  Inside was a long, wide hall, the floor done in an elaborate mosaic of charioteers hunting gazelles, slender columns supporting the ceiling. Statues stood on pedestals, and paintings hung in niches along the walls. Crowds of Istarish nobles and merchants stood here and there, examining the paintings, but the largest crowd stood at the far end of the hall, listening to someone lecture.

  A middle-aged Istarish man in a fine robe and jeweled turban hurried over. “Master Markaine, welcome, welcome! It has been too long. Have you more paintings for us? You know I shall be glad to take them.”

  “You’re not that fortunate, Iskandar,” said Morgant.

  “You have…brought a companion?” said Iskandar, blinking at Caina and doing his very best to conceal his astonishment.

  “Yes,” said Morgant. “Her name is Ruxandra. She was curious about this new painter that has stirred up the city, so to shut her up I brought her.”

  “Markaine, he is so sweet, yes?” said Caina in her Szaldic accent. “He is a genius, and yet he is so kind to me.” Just to annoy him, she leaned over and gave him quick kiss on the cheek. He actually shuddered a little.

  “Um…I see,” said Iskandar.

  “This new painter,” said Caina while Morgant wiped his cheek with the sleeve of his coat, “this man named Helioran. What is he like?”

  “Well,” said Iskandar, “he claims his full name is Crisius Cormarus Helioran. Bit of an odd fellow, but foreigners have strange ways. Still, he is a talented painter. His scenes of death…why, they are among the best I have seen. You can speak to him now, if you wish. He just delivered some new paintings, and is lecturing on them at the other end of the hall.”

  “Thank you,” said Morgant, and Iskandar bowed and wandered away.

  “His name,” said Caina in a low voice.

  “Don’t kiss me again,” said Morgant. “The Living Flame only knows where your lips have been.”

  “Don’t invite me to pose nude again and we’ll call it even,” said Caina. “But his name. Crisius Cormarus Helioran? It’s a nonsense name.”

  “Why?” said Morgant. “It sounds Nighmarian.”

  “Because it’s the name of three Emperors strung together,” said Caina. “Crisius defeated the Ashbringers at the end of the Second Empire. Cormarus brought the Ghosts into the Empire, and Helioran made peace with the magi at the start of the Third Empire. It’s like I wanted to pretend to be Istarish, so I named myself after three of the most famous Padishahs.”

  “If it’s a disguise, it’s a bad one,” said Morgant.

  “So,” said Caina. “Why would a man disguise himself as a Nighmarian artist, murder slaves, and then paint pictures of their deaths?”

  “People do stupid things for stupid reasons every day,” said Morgant.

  “True,” said Caina. “Let’s go see if we can find out what Helioran’s stupid reason is.”

  They walked across the hall and joined the crowd at the other end. The emirs and merchants had gathered to hear a man speaking next to a dozen paintings of a murdered slaves, and Caina head his voice as they approached. He spoke Istarish with a heavy Nighmarian accent…a remarkably bad Nighmarian accent. As Caina and Morgant moved closer, she saw the speaker himself, a tall man standing next to a portrait of a slave with a spear in his chest.

  If an actor wanted to dress himself as a parody of an Imperial lord, he could do worse than to emulate the man speaking to the crowd. He wore a long black coat of the cut and style favored by Nighmarian lords, though it was threadbare and worn. Beneath the coat he wore the gleaming cuirass of the Lord Commander of an Imperial Legion, or at least a decent imitation of one. He also wore the hobnailed boots of an Imperial Legionary, and the helmet of a tribune of the Legion, complete with a crest. The crest was the wrong color and pointing in the wrong direction.

  Beneath the helm he had blue eyes in a stark, pale face, a few strands of black hair hanging beneath the helmet’s edge. He looked Szaldic, but that didn’t mean anything. Many Szalds had intermarried into the Imperial nobility over the centuries, and Caina was fairly certain that she had some Szaldic blood from her mother’s side of the family. Not that she had ever asked. Caina had killed her mother before the topic had come up in conversation.

  “Behold my latest masterwork,” said the man with his bad Nighmarian accent, gesturing at a painting of a murdered slave. “I, Crisius Cormarus Helioran, have created this painting, this totality of emotion fused into color and given material form. Look!” He gestured at the painting again, letting his coat billow around him dramatically as he turned. “I have captured the mortality of mankind in the medium of paint and canvas, by skewing the perspective and coloring in the spaces left by sudden death! My artwork invites the viewer to contemplate death through the use of pigment and cloth, and through it, to transcend the flesh to achieve a form of shared immortality through the framework of my vision.”

  The emirs and merchants murmured, making thoughtful noises.

  “I understand you know nothing about art,” said Morgant, “but I trust you realize that he’s speaking total nonsense?”

  “I had a suspicion,” said Caina. “Effective nonsense, though. They’re lining up to buy those paintings. The Istarish have a taste for morbid art. Morbid games, too. Look at how they fill up the seats of the gladiatorial rings.”

  “That was a thought,” said Morgant, “that verged on the profound, but couldn’t quite get there.”

  “Here’s one for you,” said Caina. “Helioran didn’t paint those himself.”

  “How did you come to that brilliant conclusion?” said Morgant.

  “Show me your fingernails,” said Caina.

  Morgant raised an eyebrow as Crisius Cormarus Helioran continued droning on about the emotionality of color.

  “Show me your fingernails,” said Caina, “or I’ll have to take your hand and look for myself.”

  Morgant grunted in distaste, but lifted his right hand.

  “See?” Caina said, pointing. “All the paint under your fingernails.”

  “Devil of a job cleaning it out,” said Morgant. “Which is…ah. Our new friend Helioran doesn’t have that.”

  “He has the hands,” said Caina, “of a man who has gone to great lengths to avoid doing any work in his life. No calluses, either.”

  “You noticed all that from one glance, did you?” said Morgant. She could not tell if he was impressed or not.

  “And that means,” said Caina, “if Crisius Cormarus Helioran did not paint those paintings…he stole them from somewhere. Or someone is giving them to him.”

  “And he spouts nonsense and sells the paintings to idiots,” said Morgant. “Not a bad scheme.”

  “We’re going to follow him,” said Caina, “and have a little talk when we’re alone.”

  ###

  “If he doesn’t take off that helmet,” said Morgant, “he’s going to get robbed in a few blocks.”

  Caina and Morgant had followed Helioran from the House of Contemplation. The eccentric artist had sold a half-dozen of his paintings for handsome sums, and then celebrated by consuming a substantial quantity of the House’s wine. He wasn’t drunk yet, but he was getting there. After leaving the House of Contemplation, Helioran had headed south from the Emirs’ Quarter, walking through the Tower Quarter and then the Old Quarter. His eccentric costume drew stares, but the streets of the Tower Quarter and the Old Quarter were well-patrolled with watchmen, and no one stopped him. That would change if he managed to reach the Anshani Quarter, where the groups of thugs that lurked in the alleys and back courtyards would kill him in short order.

  But he turned before he reached the Anshani Quarter, vanishing into one of
the seedier inns of the Old Quarter, a place called the Merchant’s Mistress. Like most Istarish inns, it was a five-story building in a paved courtyard. Like Morgant’s house, it was in poor repair, and while the Merchant’s Mistress still had a veneer of respectability, Caina knew many illegal transactions took place under its roof.

  Helioran vanished through the front door.

  “Take my arm,” said Caina, holding out her arm.

  Morgant frowned. “Why?”

  “Because this isn’t the sort of place a woman goes alone,” said Caina.

  “You should have dressed like a man,” said Morgant. “You certainly have the hips for it.”

  “I would have dressed like a man,” said Caina, “but you insisted I dress as a woman. So.” She held out her right arm.

  “I don’t know why I listen to you,” said Morgant, taking her arm with an annoyed sigh. “You’re a madwoman.”

  “It’s my charm and poise, I’m sure,” said Caina.

  “No, that’s definitely not it.”

  “It’s because you made promises a hundred and fifty years ago,” said Caina, “and Morgant the Razor keeps his promises…but you can’t keep some of those promises without my help.”

  “True,” muttered Morgant. “You are a very dangerous woman.”

  They crossed the courtyard and entered the inn. It looked like a typical Istarish inn, with low round tables surrounded by cushions. Merchants sat at the tables, eating and drinking, their clothes shabbier than those of the merchants who had frequented the House of Contemplation. Caina drew a few stares as she crossed the common room with Morgant, which was flattering in its way, but right now more of a problem. If anyone troubled them, Morgant would likely respond with lethal violence, and that would draw more attention than she wanted.

  But no one stopped them as they crossed the room. Caina saw Helioran vanishing up the stairs, and she and Morgant followed him. The artist reached the fifth floor, weaving a little as he made his way down the corridor, and vanished into a room, closing the door behind him.

  Caina suspected that he was alone.

  She glanced at Morgant, who nodded. They moved without sound to the door. Caina heard Helioran moving around in the room beyond. She knelt to open the lock, withdrawing a lockpick from her sleeve, and froze in surprise.

  Helioran had not bothered to lock the door.

  She looked at Morgant, who rolled his eyes. He reached into his coat and produced a black dagger, a red gem set upon its pommel. Morgant nodded, and Caina opened the door in silence. The room beyond looked comfortable, with a large bed, a thick carpet, and a desk against the wall. Crisius Cormarus Helioran stood by the desk, holding a cup of wine in one hand. He looked up, blinking, as Caina came into the room.

  “What is this?” he said in his ridiculous Nighmarian accent. “This is my room, where I withdraw to contemplate the mysteries of art! I shall not suffer intrusions…” His voice trailed off as he looked Caina up and down, and a smile spread over his face. “But for you, my dear, I might make an exception. You were at the House of Contemplation? Ah, you followed me here. That dress looks so hot and uncomfortable. Why don’t you take it off and join me on…”

  Morgant stepped around Caina, the black dagger in hand. Helioran had time to blink once, and then Morgant had the dagger resting at his throat. Caina felt the aura of arcane power around the black weapon. She had seen Morgant use that blade to slice through stone and steel. Helioran’s throat would offer no obstacle.

  Helioran stared at her with shock. “You brought your father?” Morgant rolled his eyes. “But I haven’t touched you. So…oh, I understand. This is a robbery? Well, take what you want. I’m not stupid enough to keep my money here.”

  “Actually,” said Caina, “we want to ask you a few questions.”

  “Questions?” said Helioran. He looked baffled. “About what?”

  “Who really paints your paintings, for one,” said Morgant.

  Helioran stiffened. “You deny my artistic prowess, sir? That is an insult! I am…”

  “I know you didn’t paint them,” said Caina. “I assume you’re stealing them from someone, or selling them on behalf of someone who wishes to remain anonymous. Normally, I wouldn’t care. But one of the dead men was an acquaintance of mine, and I want to know who killed him.”

  Helioran looked baffled again. “Dead men? What dead men?”

  Caina blinked. “The dead slaves in the paintings.”

  “That’s just the usual Istarish nonsense,” said Helioran. His accent was starting to slip. “They like gladiators and violence and such.”

  “Do you recall a painting you sold to the Slaver’s Lash in the Masters’ Quarter?” said Caina.

  Helioran blinked. “Aye. Ugly thing. I…mean it was a masterwork of light and shadow, of the transience of mortality overlaid upon…”

  “I know the slave in the picture,” said Caina. “His name was Tradek, and I found his corpse in the alley, exactly the way the painting showed. So. I want to know who killed Tradek? Did you?”

  Helioran stared at her…and suddenly horrified comprehension went over his face.

  “You mean…you mean the people in the paintings are real?” he said. His bad Nighmarian accent had vanished, and now he spoke Istarish with a strong Szaldic accent. “I mean, they’re paintings of real people? Real murders?”

  “Just now realizing that, are you?” said Morgant.

  “Don’t kill me,” said Helioran. “I…I didn’t know. I swear! I didn’t even paint those pictures.”

  “Why don’t you tell us everything?” said Caina.

  “Then you’ll let me go?” said Helioran.

  Caina shrugged. “Depends on what you tell us.”

  “My name isn’t really Crisius Cormarus Helioran,” said Helioran.

  “It isn’t?” said Morgant. “I’m shocked.”

  “My name is Sergei,” he said. “I am…well, let us say I am a collector of antiquities and other small, valuable objects.”

  “In other words,” said Caina, “you’re a thief.”

  “Er. Well, yes,” said Sergei, “but it’s best not to call yourself that. Anyway. I used to practice my trade in Arzaxia, but after the city fell to the Umbarian Order it became too dangerous. So I escaped and wound up in Istarinmul. There is a vast demand for slaves in the city, and I thought I would defraud the cowled masters by taking a contract to purchase slaves from Anshan and then absconding with the funds.”

  “Dangerous,” said Morgant. “The cowled masters don’t like being cheated. Why, I heard they put an enormous bounty on the head of a man who has been robbing them for the last two years.” Caina resisted the urge to glare at him.

  “Truly,” said Sergei, “but they have bigger problems, and I thought I could get away clean. Then I met Karzad.”

  “Karzad?” said Caina. “The man who paints the pictures?”

  “Aye,” said Sergei. “I was sleeping in an abandoned warehouse in the Saddaic Quarter due to…ah, a temporary shortfall of funds, and Karzad found me.” He shivered a little. “Thought he was going to kill me at first. See, I had been sleeping in his warehouse. But instead of killing me, he showed me his paintings, and we struck a deal. I would pretend to have painted them…”

  “And you would split the money,” said Caina.

  “He didn’t want any money,” said Sergei.

  “What?” said Morgant. “You’re lying.”

  “No,” stammered Sergei. He started to turn his head to look at Morgant, remembered the black dagger, and changed his mind. “No, I’m telling the truth.”

  “I’ve met painters and sculptors from Istarinmul and Malarae and Anshan and New Kyre, from every nation under the sun,” said Morgant, “and they all have one thing in common. They want to get paid.”

  “But Karzad didn’t want any money,” said Sergei. “He told me to buy him more canvases and paint and some food, but he didn’t care what I did with the rest of the money. Maybe he just wanted the…the
attention? I’ve met some artists who couldn’t shut up about their work.”

  “A shocking thought,” said Caina, looking at Morgant. He snorted a little.

  “But…but I didn’t know that Karzad was really killing people,” said Sergei, a little whine in his voice. “I swear I didn’t. You two…you must be with the Kindred or the Slavers’ Brotherhood, yes? You’re coming after Karzad because he killed one of yours? I can help you. I didn’t know he was killing anyone.”

  “Perhaps,” said Morgant. “It depends on how helpful you can be.”

  “I am very helpful,” said Sergei, “I am extremely helpful, I am…”

  “Karzad,” said Caina, cutting him off. “What’s he like?”

  “Old man,” said Sergei. “Istarish. I think he used to be a prospector, looking for gold in the Kaltari Highlands. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, he rambles a lot. And…I think he’s insane.”

  “Obviously,” said Caina, “if he kills people and then paints pictures of it.”

  “It’s worse than that,” said Sergei. “I think he hears voices.”

  That caught Caina’s attention, and she shared another look with Morgant.

  “Voices?” she said at last.

  “I’ve heard him talking to himself,” said Sergei. “And sometimes he’ll stop talking in the middle of a sentence and listen, like someone is talking to him.” He shrugged. “He must be crazy. Why else would he hear voices?”

  “Why else indeed?” said Caina. “Unless, of course, the voice in his head is real.”

  “That’s not possible,” said Sergei, but then he saw Caina’s expression. “That’s…not possible?”

  “He could just be a murderous old man,” said Caina. “But he wouldn’t be the first man I encountered who heard real voices in his head. You want to cooperate? Then take us to his warehouse.”

  “He might kill me for helping you,” said Sergei.

  “He might kill you for helping him,” said Morgant. “Think it through, boy. Men who kill for sport aren’t the most reliable business partners. Might as well try to trade with a scorpion.”