Ghost Arts Read online

  “Can you take us to his warehouse?” said Caina.

  “I can,” said Sergei.

  “Go there with my associate,” said Caina. “I’ll meet you in about half an hour.”

  “And where will you be?” said Morgant.

  “Changing clothes,” said Caina, gesturing at herself. “I’m not dressed for the occasion, am I?”

  ###

  Caina had safe houses scattered throughout the city of Istarinmul, houses bought under false names and rooms rented under aliases, and she had stocked them with supplies and clothing. She visited one in the Tower Quarter, stripping off her dress and changing back to her caravan guard disguise, leather armor and ragged clothes. Her ghostsilver dagger went at her belt, and she concealed throwing knives up her sleeves and daggers in her boot.

  Her shadow-cloak she rolled up in her satchel. The cloak was lighter than normal cloth, and blended and merged with the shadows, allowing her to move unseen. It also shielded her from divinatory spells and protected her mind from intrusive sorcery when she used it. The cloak had the additional useful property of rendering her invisible to spirits of the netherworld. Maybe that wouldn’t matter. Maybe Karzad was just a crazy old man with a taste for violence and a flair with a paintbrush. But if Caina’s fears were accurate, if the voice in his head was real, then she would need the shadow-cloak.

  In her time as a Ghost, she had regretted insufficient preparation, but she had never regretted over-preparing.

  A short time later, she reached the Saddaic Quarter, walking past rows of abandoned warehouses. Once the Saddaic Quarter had been part of the Alqaarin Harbor, but an ambitious Padishah had expanded and moved the harbor, and the warehouses of the Saddaic Quarter had been abandoned. After the Umbarian Order began its rampages in the eastern Empire and the Saddaic provinces, many of the Saddai had resettled here, and the Quarter had taken its new name. The Saddai hated the Umbarians and supported the Emperor, and Caina had recruited many allies and informants here.

  All the more reason to stop Karzad, then, if he was preying upon the people of the Saddaic Quarter.

  Morgant and Sergei awaited her outside an unremarkable brick warehouse. Sergei still wore his ridiculous costume, though at least he had discarded that ludicrous helmet. Morgant had buttoned up his black coat in anticipation of trouble, and a scimitar hung from a sword belt wrapped around his waist. Sergei shifted back and forth, clearly nervous. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Caina.

  “Who the devil are you?” he said. “This isn’t any of your business. Be off with you.”

  Morgant snorted. “Clearly you aren’t a painter. Look closer, boy.”

  Sergei frowned, blinked, and then his eyes went wide.

  “You?” said Sergei. “The woman from the inn? You look…different. How did you do that? Are you a sorceress? Did you cast a spell to change your appearance?”

  “Gods, no,” said Caina. “A costume, some makeup, a different posture. Just some tricks.” She nodded towards the warehouse. “Let’s see if your friend Karzad is a trick, or if he’s something worse.”

  She crossed to the warehouse doors. The building had a pair of double doors to allow cargo in and out. A rusted chain hung over the handles, secured by a heavy iron lock, which sported its own coat of rust. Caina was sure she could pick the lock with ease, but she gave the hinges a dubious look.

  “Hard to get that open quietly,” said Morgant.

  “No,” said Caina, stepping back to look at the warehouse’s roof. It was about twenty feet up. “Lamp oil is expensive, so most warehouse owners have skylights built into their rooftops. Can you climb a rope?”

  Sergei nodded, and Caina produced a rope and grapnel. She threw the grapnel, its hooks catching on the roof, and hauled herself up. Sergei followed, and then Morgant, and Caina pulled the rope up after them. A dozen skylights dotted the roof, square holes with wooden shutters that could be closed at night. Caina crossed to the nearest one and peered down. Below she saw old crates and splintered barrels, the detritus of an abandoned warehouse.

  She hooked the grapnel to the edge of the skylight, tossed the rope down, and descended into the warehouse, Morgant and Sergei following suit. Caina looked around as she waited for the others. The shafts of light shining from the ceiling filled the warehouse with gloomy, dim light. Stacks of empty crates and barrels stood in random heaps. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and a layer of dust lay over everything.

  The faint smell of rotting meat colored the air, and Caina heard the buzzing of flies.

  She grimaced and slipped a throwing knife into her hand. Morgant drew his black dagger and his crimson scimitar, while Sergei watched with wide eyes. Caina beckoned, and they moved forward in silence past the stacks of crates, the rotting smell growing stronger. She walked past a stack of barrels and came to an empty space that had been converted into a painter’s workshop. A table held brushes and jars of paint, and a canvas had been pinned to an easel, its surface covered by a half-finished painting of a dead slave, a middle-aged man in a gray tunic.

  The subject of the painting lay sprawled on the dirt before the easel, the flies buzzing around him.

  Sergei made a gagging noise. Caina really hoped he didn’t throw up.

  “Do you like my work?” rasped a voice

  Caina spun, raising her throwing knife.

  An old Istarish man limped into sight, clad in rough clothes, his hair and beard a tangled mass of gray locks. His eyes glittered beneath his heavy brow like dark pits, and his arms were thick and knotted with muscle. He was not armed, not that Caina could see, but he looked strong enough to be dangerous.

  “Karzad,” stammered Sergei, “I don’t think…”

  “You will be silent,” rasped Karzad, his dark eyes fixed upon Caina. “You have served your purpose, boy. The paintings served their purpose. You have brought her here.”

  “Me?” said Caina. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “We have not,” said Karzad, “but I have seen you in my dreams.”

  “That’s very flattering,” said Caina, “but I’m not interested.”

  “The lords of the night have spoken of you,” said Karzad. “The princes of the void have told me of your deeds.”

  “I see,” said Caina, alarm shooting through her. There were secret cults in the Kaltari Highlands, she knew, that worshipped neither the Living Flame nor the gods of the Empire, but something far darker. They worshipped the nagataaru, the dark spirits of the netherworld, the malevolent creatures with whom Grand Master Callatas had made a pact. “Do they often speak to you?”

  “For many years,” murmured Karzad. “When I was young, I wandered the hills seeking wealth. Then one night I slept near a circle of ancient standing stones, and a lord of the void came to me in my dreams. He made me strong, and he whispered his wisdom into my thoughts. The lords of the night have shown you to me, demonslayer. You are the woman who would be the liberator.”

  “What is he talking about?” said Sergei.

  “Run,” said Caina. He would just get in the way when the fighting started. “Turn around and run right now. Don’t come back.”

  Sergei hesitated.

  “Do as she says,” said Morgant, not taking his eyes from Karzad.

  Sergei turned and fled for the doors.

  “So,” said Caina. “What do you want with me?”

  “The lords of the void have decreed your death,” said Karzad. “I shall be rewarded greatly when I slay you. Long I sought you, but you were too cunning, too clever, and I could not pierce your disguises. So instead I hunted those who served you, knowing that would draw you to me. Now you have come, and your life is mine.”

  “You have yet to take it,” said Caina, adjusting her grip on the throwing knife.

  “Easily accomplished,” said Karzad, and his eyes swirled with purple fire and writhing shadow.

  It was as Caina feared. He was possessed by a nagataaru. The malevolent spirit fed on death and pain, and Karzad had slain man
y victims. The nagataaru would have channeled some of that stolen strength to its host.

  As Karzad lifted his hand, his fingers burning with purple fire, Caina flung her throwing knife. Her aim was perfect, and the blade sank into Karzad’s throat. The old man staggered back with a gurgle, blood spraying into his beard, his eyes wide. For a moment Caina thought that she had ended the fight before it could begin.

  Then Karzad ripped the knife free, the wound healing as his nagataaru repaired the damage. He raked his fingers through the air, and a sword of purple fire and shadow appeared in his grasp. Caina had seen nagataaru-possessed men summon such weapons before. The blade of force could cut through nearly anything. Her pyrikon, the ghostsilver bracelet upon her left wrist, would protect her from the sword, but it would not stop Karzad from simply tearing her head off.

  “Scatter!” shouted Caina, and Morgant whirled and vanished into the shadows as Karzad charged. The possessed man ignored Morgant but ran after Caina, moving with the inhuman speed granted by the malevolent spirit within him. Caina dashed through the tottering stacks of crates, dodging from shadow to shadow, knowing that it was useless. Karzad might not have been able to see Caina, but his nagataaru would be able to sense her presence.

  Which, of course, she was counting on.

  Caina yanked the shadow-cloak from her satchel, flung it over her shoulders, and pulled the cowl up. She kept moving, ducking past a stack of barrels, and went motionless.

  A moment later Karzad stalked forward, the sword of force blazing in his fist. He looked back and forth, his dark eyes narrowed. He moved closer, and Caina circled around the back of the barrels, slipping her ghostsilver dagger from its sheath.

  “Come out, demonslayer,” rasped Karzad. “Come out to die! It will be easier this way. The princes of the void have great torments stored up for you. Surrender now, and you can avoid them. If…”

  Morgant burst from the shadows, black dagger and crimson scimitar flashing. Karzad snarled and whirled to meet him, swinging the sword of dark energy in wide arcs. Morgant backed away, staying well away from the blade, making no effort to close with Karzad.

  He made for an excellent distraction.

  Caina darted around the stack of barrels, jumped upon Karzad’s back, and stabbed with the ghostsilver dagger. She aimed for his neck, but at the last minute Karzad twisted with a snarl, and her blade skidded down his right shoulder. The wound hissed and sizzled, charring as the ghostsilver reacted to the dark power of the nagataaru. Karzad bellowed in fury, his left elbow slamming into Caina’s stomach. She fell backwards and landed hard, stunned for a moment. Morgant lunged at Karzad, but the nagataaru-possessed man whipped around with terrible speed, and Morgant barely avoided the edge of the dark blade.

  Caina started to stand, and Karzad lunged at her. She couldn’t dodge in time…

  A jar of paint flew over Caina’s head and smashed into Karzad’s face. The nagataaru-possessed man staggered with a grunt as red paint dripped down his face and into his eyes, and Caina sprang forward, driving her dagger into his throat. The wound sizzled and hissed, and Karzad started to raise his sword to strike. Morgant slashed with his black dagger, and the blade sliced through Karzad’s right wrist, the weapon’s sorcery cauterizing the wound. The sword of purple fire winked out of existence, and Karzad collapsed at Caina’s feet.

  He shuddered once, sighed, and stopped breathing.

  Caina glanced back and saw Sergei hovering a few yards away, clutching another jar of paint.

  “Good throw,” said Caina.

  Sergei nodded, staring at Karzad’s corpse. “What…what was he? That purple fire…”

  “A nagataaru,” said Caina. “A dark spirit from the netherworld. He would have turned on you eventually. Speaking of which, we need to cut off his head. Otherwise the nagataaru will take control of his corpse.” Morgant nodded and went about the grisly work with his dagger.

  “Gods,” said Sergei. “I had no idea.”

  Morgant straightened up. “What next?”

  “We’ll have to burn the building down,” said Caina. “Destroy the evidence of what happened here.”

  Morgant snorted. “You have an unwholesome love of burning buildings.”

  “It’s an effective tactic.” She gestured at the stacked crates. “And we shouldn’t let all this dry wood go to waste.”

  ###

  A few moments later Caina watched as fires danced through the skylights in the warehouse’s roof. The brick walls would keep the fire from spreading to the rest of the city, but the interior would be utterly gutted, along with all of Karzad’s grisly work.

  “Your little scam is going up in smoke,” said Morgant. “What are you going to do now?”

  Sergei shrugged. “Damned if I know.”

  “Why did you come back?” said Caina. “You knew Karzad might kill you. You could have kept running and never returned.”

  “I...don’t know why,” said Sergei. “I was going to run out the city gate and not stop until I got to Imperial Cyrica. But…I couldn’t. It wasn’t my fault. I had no idea what Karzad was really doing. But I still felt like it would be my fault if you died, so I came back.”

  “Perhaps you can come work for me,” said Caina. “I might have a use for a man of your skills.”

  For there were worse things than Karzad loose in Istarinmul, and they would commit far bloodier deeds unless Caina stopped them. She would use whatever tools came her way, even an old assassin like Morgant and a young swindler like Sergei.

  “I never like it when you smile like that,” said Morgant. “Means trouble is ahead.”

  “In our line of work, there’s always trouble,” said Caina. “Let’s go before the watchmen arrive.”

  They left the burning warehouse behind, leaving Karzad and his grim work to crumble into ashes.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading GHOST ARTS. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on my Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189). Turn the page to read the first chapter of GHOST IN THE COWL, Caina Amalas's first adventure in Istarinmul.

  ***

  GHOST IN THE COWL Chapter 1 - Istarinmul

  Two weeks after she lost everything, Caina Amalas stood on the ship’s deck and threw knives at the mast.

  It was a way to pass the time and keep herself from thinking too much. To distract herself from the memories that flooded her mind if she was idle for too long. Sometimes she locked herself in her cabin for hours and performed the exercises of open-handed combat she had learned at the Vineyard long ago, working through the unarmed forms over and over again until every muscle in her body throbbed and spots danced before her eyes.

  But if she stayed alone too long, her thoughts went to the dark places. To New Kyre and the blaze of golden fire above the Pyramid of Storm. To Sicarion laughing as he drove his dagger into the back of the man who had raised Caina. To the Moroaica, weeping as the white fire blazed behind her.

  To Corvalis, lying dead upon the ground of the netherworld.

  And when her thoughts went there, Caina found herself gazing at the veins in her arm, thinking of the knives she carried.

  She retained enough of her right mind to realize that she was not thinking clearly, that her mood was dangerous.

  So when that mood came, she went to the deck and threw knives at the mast.

  At first the sailors were alarmed, but they soon grew accustomed to it. They had been told that she was a mercenary named Marius, a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, delivering contracts now that trade between Istarinmul and the Empire had opened up again. An important passenger could be forgiven an eccentricity or two.

  That, and she never missed the mast.

  Soon the sailors ignored her, even without Captain Qalim’s orders. Caina suspected
that the sailors would have reacted rather differently if they knew that beneath the disguise “Marius” was actually a twenty-two year old woman, but she did not care.

  She could not bring herself to care about very much.

  So she threw knives at the mast, the blades sinking into the wood. Compensating for the motion of the waves and the wind kept her mind busy. Pulling the knives out of the mast and sharpening the blades anew kept her hands occupied.

  The sailors ignored her, but Caina nonetheless attracted an audience.

  When the Emperor had sent her on a ship from New Kyre’s harbor, she had expected to share the vessel with cargo. Kyracian olive oil, most likely, or perhaps Anshani silk. The Starfall Straits had been closed to trade for nearly a year, and cargoes had piled up in New Kyre’s warehouses.

  She had not, however, expected to share the ship with a circus.

  More specifically, Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of Wonders And Marvels.

  Caina flung another knife, the blade sinking into the mast, and Master Cronmer himself approached.

  Cronmer was huge, nearly seven feet tall, with the shoulders and chest of a titan. He was bald, with a graying mustache cut in Caerish style, and wore a brilliant red coat. She saw the dust on his sleeves, and knew he had eaten bread and cheese for breakfast, along with the vile mixed wine the ship carried.

  “Master Marius,” boomed Cronmer in the Caerish tongue. “You should come work for me.”

  Caina shook her head. “I am already employed.” She made sure to keep her Caerish accent in place, her voice gruff and raspy, as Theodosia had taught her to do.

  “Bah,” said Cronmer. “Fetching papers for those dusty old merchants? You should join my Circus. We’ll use your talent to create a stupendous knife-throwing show, my boy.” He grinned behind his bushy mustache. “Aye, you’ll throw knives at some lusty Istarish lass, your blades will land a half-inch from her skin, and she’ll melt into your arms in the end…”