Ghost Mimic Read online

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Emir Turlagon is planning to travel south to join Tanzir Shahan and the rebels,” said Caina.

  I almost dropped my keys.

  “Oh,” I said at last. “That’s very bad, isn’t it?”

  “Probably,” said Caina. “The Grand Wazir offended Turlagon in some way, and so Turlagon is planning to join the rebels out of spite.”

  “Then all this,” I said, “is a way to have Turlagon assassinated under my roof.”

  Caina nodded. “Most probably. I think we should see what’s in Master Sankar’s box.”

  I opened the lock and swung open the door.

  The room beyond was the finest one of the House of Agabyzus. It was nicer than my own room. It had a double bed and windows overlooking the dusty courtyard, which was far quieter than the Cyrican Bazaar on the other side of the building. A wooden wardrobe occupied one wall, along with a writing desk and a pair of chairs.

  The iron box rested at the foot of the double bed.

  Caina came to such an abrupt halt that I almost walked into her.

  “What is it?” I said. She was staring at the metal box. “You’ve seen it before?”

  “Not this box,” said Caina, “but I know what kind it is. It’s a Strigosti trapbox.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” I said. “The…Strigosti?”

  “Strigost is a city-state west of Anshan,” said Caina. “Not far from Catekharon, come to think of it.” She frowned a little, as if she had a painful memory associated with Catekharon. “The Strigosti are masters of mechanics and machinery. No one else has their engineering skill, not even close, and everyone who has ever tried to besiege Strigost has been destroyed by their siege engines. The Strigosti don’t like visitors, but they do sell their trapboxes.”

  “Trapbox? That is an ominous name,” I said. “I presume it has a trap?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Caina. “Those slits? If you try to force the lid, or unlock the box without disarming the trap, those slits shoot out poisoned blades. The kind of poison the Strigosti use lasts for centuries, and even a scratch is lethal.”

  “By the Living Flame,” I muttered. “And this thing is sitting in my best room?”

  “I wonder where Turlagon got it,” said Caina, stepping forward and studying the box. “These things cost a small fortune. Or a large fortune, really. It might have taken all of Turlagon’s yearly income to buy it. I…”

  She froze again, her eyes widening, and she extended a hand towards the box, holding it a few inches above the lid.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “I think,” said Caina, “I think there is an enspelled object in the box. Several enspelled objects, probably.”

  “By the Living Flame,” I said again. Caina wasn’t a sorceress, but somehow she had the ability to sense sorcerous auras. Right now, I wasn’t curious about that. I was much more concerned about the lethal trapbox holding sorcerous relics in my best room. “Do…you know what kind of relics?”

  Caina closed her eyes for a moment, her fingers twitching as if she was feeling something unseen. Maybe she was. “I think…”

  Her eyes opened wide, and she took a quick step back.

  “What?” I said.

  “Hellfire,” Caina.

  “What?” I said, my voice going up an octave.

  “I think there is Hellfire in that box,” said Caina.

  I stared at her, appalled. Everyone in Istarinmul knew of the Alchemists’ Hellfire. It burned with a terrible flame that neither water nor sand could quench. It was the reason that no army had ever taken Istarinmul’s walls, why no fleet had ever blockaded the harbors or forced its way through the Starfall Straits. Two fortresses of Istarinmul had been destroyed in the last two years, the Widow’s Tower and the Craven’s Tower, and both explosions had been caused by the fortresses’ arsenal of Hellfire. The destruction of the Inferno a few weeks past had likely been caused by the Hellfire stored within its armories.

  Caina had been responsible, or at least partially responsible, for all three explosions. She would know Hellfire when she saw it. Or sensed it.

  “Why is there a trapped box of Hellfire inside my best room?” I said.

  “A very good question,” said Caina. “One I would like to ask Master Sankar, should we be able to locate him.” She considered the box. “I would like to have a look inside it.”

  “Could you pick the lock?” I said.

  “Maybe,” said Caina. She considered for another moment. “But probably not. I’ve opened Strigosti trapboxes before, but I nearly got killed in the process every single time.” She smiled a little. “A woman has to know her limitations.”

  “So what should we do?” I said. “A trapped box full of Hellfire?” A disturbing thought occurred to me. “Maybe that is the trap. The emir opens the box and Hellfire sprays out the sides.”

  “It’s possible,” said Caina. “The Strigosti usually use acid or poison gas in their traps, but maybe they built a trap with Hellfire. And that amount of Hellfire would almost certainly kill the emir and burn down the House of Agabyzus.” She thought for a moment. “Whatever happens, the emir cannot open the box in here.”

  “I agree completely!” I said.

  “But I need to look inside,” said Caina. “How long until Turlagon is supposed to arrive?”

  “Two days,” I said.”

  Caina nodded. “That should be enough. I can’t open the box, but I know someone who can. We’ll need to rent a cart to move the thing.”

  Chapter 3: Mathematics

  A short time later we left the House of Agabyzus, Caina driving a rented cart pulled by a pair of sullen-looking donkeys.

  “I don’t see why I had to change clothes,” I said, tugging at my skirt. Every day for years I had worn the black dress and black headscarf of a widow. Now, at Caina’s insistence, I had changed to a blue dress and headscarf.

  “Because,” said Caina with unruffled calm, “everyone in the Cyrican Quarter knows that Damla of the House of Agabyzus is a widow who always wears black.” She, too, had changed her clothes to the robe and turban of magistrate scribe, complete with a false beard. Just like her previous disguise, it was effective. “Everyone who sees us will think we are simply a scribe and his wife going about their business.”

  I sighed. “I suppose you have a point.”

  Caina grinned behind the fake beard. “At least this time you’re not wearing a skimpy costume while I throw knives at you.”

  I shuddered. “Do not remind me of that.”

  “You didn’t have to come, you know,” said Caina.

  I shook my head. “It is my responsibility. The House of Agabyzus is my roof, and I will not have anyone murdered under my roof.”

  Caina cursed under her breath. At first I thought she had taken umbrage at what I had said, but then she snapped the reins, trying to steer the surly donkeys.

  “I understand that,” she said, once she had gotten the donkeys back on course. “The people in the circle are under my protection. I cannot allow any attacks upon them.”

  I nodded. “And the House is my livelihood. I hope to leave it my sons. I will not understand burned down because of some stupid emir’s plot.”

  “That part,” said Caina, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  I said nothing. I wasn’t certain, but I suspected that she could not bear children. When I talked about Bayram and Bahad with her, sometimes her eyes became less glacial, and she looked…wistful. I suspected that if she could have children, she would have left the life of the Ghosts behind long ago to live quietly with a family in some remote place.

  Yet if she had, my sons and brother would have been killed. I would be dead myself. I knew that pointing out that fact would likely not comfort her.

  “Thank you for helping me,” I said instead.

  Caina grinned. I wondered how many of my thoughts she could guess. She had a knack for that kind of thing. “Like I said, you’re one o
f my circle. And…here we are.”

  She brought the cart to a stop in front of a three-story house with whitewashed walls. We were on the street of the Cyrican Quarter’s metalworkers, and the air smelled of coal smoke. The house looked little different than the others lining the street, save for its door. It was a massive slab of reinforced steel, and it looked as if it could withstand a battering ram for weeks.

  “We are seeing a locksmith?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Caina, swinging down from the seat with fluid grace. I followed suit a little more carefully. “The best locksmith in Istarinmul.” She hesitated. “She and her husband are a little…odd.”

  “Odd?” I said.

  “She’ll probably calculate your height and weight at a glance,” said Caina, “and her husband is literally incapable of telling a lie. So he can be somewhat blunt.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Are we talking about Nerina Strake?”

  “Oh, you’ve met,” said Caina, walking to the door and knocking. “That’s good.”

  “No,” I said. “But I’ve heard of her. Isn’t she a wraithblood addict?”

  “Yes,” said Caina.

  “And you trust her?” I said.

  She hesitated for a moment. “We’ve…seen some things together.”

  Before I could answer, the door opened, and a huge man appeared. He was Sarbian, with leathery, dusky skin and a graying black beard, and wore the sand-colored robe and turban favored by the nomads of the Sarbian deserts. The hilt of a huge two-handed scimitar rose over his shoulder, and his eyes were hard and flat. Yet he smiled a little when he saw Caina, and by the way he gripped the doorframe, I suspected that he had been wounded recently.

  “Azaces,” said Caina.

  The big Sarbian inclined his head.

  “Are Nerina and Malcom in?” said Caina. “I have a question for them.”

  Again Azaces nodded.

  “Specifically, I want to know if they can open that,” said Caina, pointing at the trapbox in the bed of the wagon.

  Azaces nodded once more, and I wondered if he was mute. Perhaps he had once been a slave. It was an appallingly common practice for masters to cut out the tongues of their slaves to keep their secrets safe. Even as a girl, when I had accepted the practice of slavery without question, I had thought that brutal. Now, after a year and a half of associating with Caina Amalas, I found it downright barbaric, and I understood why she had so terrorized the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood.

  Having Bayram and Bahad kidnapped as slaves had changed my perspective.

  Azaces strolled towards the wagon.

  “I’ll help you with that,” said Caina. “It’s…”

  Azaces hefted the box onto his shoulder without undue effort. The man had to be tremendously strong.

  “Or not,” said Caina. “Don’t shake it. I think there’s Hellfire inside.”

  Azaces gave her a flat look.

  “I take it he has seen Hellfire before,” I said.

  The hard black eyes turned towards me, as if assessing me as a threat.

  “She’s with me,” said Caina.

  That was good enough for Azaces, and without further complaint he led us into the house and up the stairs, the dusty floorboards creaking beneath his weight and the weight of the Strigosti trapbox. He opened a door on the third floor, and I stepped into the single most cluttered room I had ever seen. Three long wooden tables ran the length of the room, each one sagging beneath the weight of tools, half-assembled locks, various baffling mechanical contraptions, and scrawled notes. One wall held slates covered with equations written in chalk, while shelves adorned another. A wooden cabinet, the door open, held papers secured in leather folders, and high windows looked down upon the courtyard behind the shop. Iron shavings and sawdust gritted beneath my sandals as I looked around.

  A short woman with unruly red hair stood at one of the tables, humming to herself as she worked. She wore heavy boots, trousers, a loose white shirt, and a thick leather apron, a set of goggles with magnifying lenses pushed onto her lank hair. The woman was thin to the point of gauntness, and a strange sort of manic energy suffused her as she worked at assembling a locking mechanism.

  She looked up at us, and I flinched. She had the pale, ghostly blue eyes of a wraithblood addict, eyes the color of a flame licking the bottom of a copper pot. I never let wraithblood addicts into the House of Agabyzus, because the more desperate ones turned to theft to fund their habit. After I had learned what wraithblood really was, that Grand Master Callatas manufactured it from the blood of murdered slaves, I had been even more uneasy around them.

  Yet the woman seemed delighted to see Caina.

  “Nerina,” said Caina.

  “Ciara!” said Nerina, smiling. I remembered that “Ciara” was a false name that Caina used from time to time. “It is good to see you.” She frowned. “You have lost one and one third pounds since our last meeting. The laws of mathematics dictate that energy in must equal or exceed energy out, and probability suggests that you have not been taking in enough energy.”

  Azaces stepped to one of the tables and set down the lockbox on a clear spot.

  “I’ve been busy,” said Caina.

  Nerina looked at me for a moment. “And you are…no, no, that’s not right.”

  “I’m sorry?” I said, puzzled.

  “Social mores,” said Nerina. “I have trouble remembering social customs because they do not precisely map to mathematics. I was going to tell you your exact height and weight as a means of initiating conversation, but I forgot it was appallingly rude to do so.”

  “No, go ahead,” I said, fascinated.

  Nerina sighed in relief. “You are exactly sixty-seven inches tall and weight one hundred and thirty-five pounds.”

  Azaces took up position behind Nerina, as if fearing that I would attack her.

  “I did warn you,” said Caina.

  “No, it’s all right,” I said, trying to think of a way to lessen Nerina’s discomfort. She looked both eager and frustrated at the same time, as if she wanted to be friendly but didn’t quite know how. “My mother was quite plump by my age, so that comes as something of a relief, frankly.”

  “Oh, good,” said Nerina. “I often thought it would be more efficient if we could discard the impediments of imprecise language entirely and communicate entirely through mathematics. I have devised several different systems for doing so, and…”

  “Nerina,” said Caina, “this is Damla, the proprietor of the House of Agabyzus. Damla, this is Nerina Strake, the best locksmith in Istarinmul.”

  “A pleasure,” I said.

  “Really?” said Nerina. “That is a relief. It doesn’t happen very often.” She tilted her head as she considered me. “There is a high probability that I have met you somewhere before…”

  “I fear I cannot recall it,” I said.

  “You are all Ghosts,” said Caina, “and you can speak freely in front of each other.” Caina gestured towards the trapbox. “Nerina, if…”

  I heard boots upon the stairs, and the workshop door swung open.

  A short, heavily muscled man with the look of a blacksmith stepped into the workshop. He had brown hair and a thick beard, both of them shot through with gray, as if something had happened to age him prematurely.

  “Wife,” he said, speaking with a thick Caerish burr. “I’ve spoken to the hakim’s scribes, and we can buy the building next door. It would make…”

  He fell silent, looking us over.

  “Balarigar,” he said. “It’s good to see you again, but damned if I don’t expect trouble when you cross our path.”

  Despite myself, I laughed. “That means you have a good eye for patterns, sir.”

  The man snorted. “Indeed I do. You’re clever as well as pretty, so it’s just as well for you that I’m a married man.”

  “Husband,” said Nerina with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. He grinned, crossed the room, and kissed her.

 
“This is Malcolm,” said Caina.

  “The most honest man in Istarinmul,” said Malcolm, “and the best armorer, as well.” He considered. “A decent swordsmith, but I prefer working with armor.” He looked at Caina. “I’ve assume you’ve brought trouble.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Caina pointed at the trapbox. “I was wondering if Nerina could get into this.”

  An expression of delight spread over Nerina’s face, and she took several steps forward. “Oh! A Strigosti trapbox! I have not seen one of these in seven years, ten months, and nineteen days.”

  “You’re familiar with them, then?” said Caina.

  “Father had several,” said Nerina. “He calculated a near-certainty that someone would attempt to steal his secrets.”

  Malcolm snorted. “It didn’t save his sorry hide, did it?”

  I expected Nerina to take umbrage, but her eyes remained fixed on the box. Evidently she shared her husband’s opinion of her late father.

  “Can you open it?” said Caina.

  “I calculate a high probability of success,” said Nerina. She dropped the goggles over her eyes and peered into the keyholes for a moment, fiddling with the magnification lenses. “The easiest way will be to fabricate keys of my own based on the measurements of the tumblers.”

  “You should be careful working on it,” said Caina.

  Nerina nodded, still squinting at the box. “The traps are dangerous, but once their range of probability is mapped, I can work around them.”

  “Also, I suspect there are some vials of Hellfire inside the box,” said Caina, “and…”

  Both Nerina and Malcolm stared at her.

  “More Hellfire?” said Malcolm. “You’d think the explosion at the Inferno would have burned it all.”

  “This is a significant variable,” said Nerina.

  “Why is that?” said Caina.

  “Because this kind of Strigosti trapbox has a counterweight attached to the lid,” said Nerina. “When the lid is lifted, the counterweight descends to crush something beneath it…”