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  Caina felt a twinge of annoyance, but pushed it aside. Tiri was only trying to warn her. And Istarinmul was a very dangerous place.

  “I will take care,” said Caina. “The Collegium has rented a room for me, and I have no intention of going out after dark or alone anywhere. The sooner I am gone from Istarinmul, the better.” That was a lie, but there was no need to burden Tiri with the truth.

  “May the Living Flame watch over you,” said Tiri. She hesitated. “And those you have lost.”

  The pain rolled through Caina, hot and sharp.

  “Thank you,” she said, and Tiri joined her husband.

  Caina watched as the ship moved closer to the quays in the crowded harbor. The districts near the docks and the seawall did not look nearly as opulent as the neighborhoods near the Golden Palace and the College. The western harbor smelled as harbors did the world over, of salt and rotting fish and exotic cargo. Yet the harbor of Istarinmul had an extra odor, the vile smell of men lying in their own filth for days on end.

  The smell of the slave ships.

  An Istarish war galley guarded the harbor’s entrance. Banks of oars jutted into the water, and armed Istarish soldiers in their spiked helms and chain mail stood ready with crossbows. A strange metal device jutted from the ship’s flank, a steel spout wrought in the shape of a snarling lion, connected to an apparatus of pumps and tubes.

  A spigot for Hellfire.

  Caina had read of the strange elixir the Alchemists of Istarinmul brewed in secret, the potion that once set ablaze could not be quenched by water. The Master Alchemist Callatas had devised the formula centuries past, and one ship equipped with a Hellfire spigot could turn an entire fleet into an inferno. The Kyracians had tried to conquer Istarinmul once, centuries ago, and the Alchemists had turned their fleet to ashes. Istarinmul stood between the Empire and Anshan, yet Hellfire insured that the Padishah’s capital had never fallen its stronger neighbors.

  And fed the rumors that the Master Alchemists ruled Istarinmul in truth, with the Padishah as their puppet.

  But the galleys remained motionless, and Captain Qalim’s ship docked at a stone quay.

  Caina went to her cabin, retrieved her heavy pack, and set foot in Istarinmul for the first time.

  The docks were chaos, but ordered chaos. Rows upon rows of stone quays lined the harbor, lined with ships loading and unloading goods. Everywhere Caina saw carts rumbling back and forth, saw heaped crates and barrels. Men in gray tunics labored to move barrels and crates, and she realized they were slaves, likely owned by whatever magistrate oversaw the harbor.

  She saw hundreds of the slave porters. Thousands of them.

  So many slaves.

  The anger burned through her again, struggling against her apathy. For a moment Caina stood motionless, caught in the grip of rage and pain. She had lost the man she loved, she had lost her teacher, and she had been banished from her home. Now she was in this miserable city built upon the backs of suffering slaves, and there was nothing she could do for them. She had been sent to rebuild Istarinmul’s Ghost circle, the eyes and ears of the Emperor in the city, but what use would that be?

  Gods, what use would any of it be?

  For a moment Caina thought of veins, the weight of the throwing knives in her belt…

  No.

  She started forward, walking further into Istarinmul’s docks.

  She wore a man’s clothing, boots, trousers, and a heavy leather jerkin, sword and dagger at her belt, her pack slung over her shoulders. Her hope was that the disguise would let her pass unnoticed, but she saw that was a false hope.

  The beggars saw to that.

  Hundreds of them lined the street. Some were missing arms and legs, veterans of the fighting in the Argamaz Desert. Some had the look of peasants driven from their lands to seek their fortunes in the city. Others were old, their faces marked with brands. Slaves who had grown too old to work, put out by their masters to die in the streets. She wanted to help them, but she dared not. If she gave a beggar a single coin, the rest would swarm her, and she might well be robbed and killed.

  So she kept walking, trying to ignore their pleas. Fortunately, there was a great deal of traffic upon the street, and she was just one more face in the crowd, another ragged Caerish mercenary dusty from travel.

  And then she felt the faint tingle of sorcery.

  Caina stopped, surprised. A cart nearly ran her over, and she sidestepped, ignoring the driver’s outraged curses. At the age of eleven, half her life ago, a necromancer had murdered Caina’s father and wounded her with sorcery. Ever since then, Caina had been able to sense the presence and intensity of arcane forces.

  And she felt sorcerous power now. Faint, but it was there.

  She turned, and saw one of the beggars staring at her.

  He was an old man of Istarish birth, his hair white and wispy, his bronze-colored skin scored with a thousand lines. A steady tremor went through his limbs, and the muscles of his neck twitched and danced. He looked sick, and Caina doubted the poor man would last another week.

  Yet the faint aura of sorcery came from him.

  And his eyes were…wrong.

  They were blue. Most men of Anshani and Istarish descent had brown or black eyes, but there were always exceptions. Yet this man’s eyes were a pale, ghostly, blue. The color of flames licking at the bottom of an iron pan.

  No one had eyes that color.

  The old beggar looked at Caina, his eyes widening.

  “Who are you?” said Caina in Istarish, remembering to keep her Caerish accent in place.

  “Wraithblood,” he whispered.

  “Wraithblood,” said Caina. “That is your name?”

  “Wraithblood,” said the old man. “Coins. Give me coins. I will buy the black blood again. And then I shall see my wife and sons and my daughters. They all died so long ago. I can…I can tell them I am sorry. I can…coins.” He raised his wasted hands, as if to paw at Caina’s legs, but they dropped into his lap. “Coins. I will buy wraithblood. Buy the black blood.”

  “What happened to you?” said Caina.

  “I…I do not remember,” said the old beggar. “The blood…the blood takes away the pain. I…I think…”

  His strange eyes grew huge, and he shied against the wall.

  “I can see you,” he whispered.

  “Of course you can,” said Caina. “I am right here.”

  “The shadows,” said the beggar. “I can…I can see all the shadows. So many shadows! They are following you! All the shadows!” He began to weep. “Don’t let them hurt me, please, don’t let them…”

  “I won’t hurt you,” said Caina. “I…”

  “Here, now,” said a gruff voice. “What is this? Begging is illegal.”

  Caina turned, and saw a stout man approaching. He was about twenty-five, and unlike the slaves and the beggars, he looked well-fed. He wore gleaming chain mail beneath a jerkin of black leather, and a scimitar rested at his belt. A steel badge pinned to his jerkin showed a hand holding a coiled, thorn-studded whip.

  The sigil of the Slavers’ Brotherhood of Istarinmul.

  This man was a Collector, one of the Brotherhood’s lowest ranks, a hunter who ranged about seeking new slaves for the Brotherhood’s markets.

  Or one who kidnapped solitary foreigners from the docks.

  Such as Caina.

  “His eyes,” said Caina.

  “Eh?” said the Collector, surprised. “What about them?”

  “Is he sick?” said Caina.

  “What?” said the Collector. “No, he’s addicted to wraithblood.”

  “What is wraithblood?” said Caina, watching for the Collector’s associates.

  “A drug,” said the Collector. “The poor and other such vermin prefer it. Apparently it gives visions of dead loved ones and other such rot. Eventually it drives its users insane and turns their eyes blue.” He swept a thick arm over the street. “You’ll see hundreds of them here. The Padishah ought to have the
m killed and spare honest men the stench.”

  “Indeed,” said Caina. The Collector was looking at her with barely concealed greed. A plan, hard and cold, came together in her mind. “Which way to the Cyrican Quarter? I’ve messages to deliver.”

  “Why, right that way,” said the Collector. “Head up the street with the warehouses and take a right turn at the public fountain. You will come to the Cyrican Bazaar shortly.”

  In between her frenetic exercise sessions and throwing knives at the mast, Caina had taken the time to memorize a map of Istarinmul. The Collector’s directions were wrong.

  Likely leading her into a trap.

  “Thank you,” said Caina, and she left without another word.

  She counted to twenty, and then glanced over her shoulder to see the Collector hastening away, no doubt to warn his friends.

  The old beggar stared at her, his strange eyes full of terror.

  Caina looked over the other beggars and saw many like the old man, their eyes transformed to that pale blue color.

  And from every one of them she felt the faint hint of a sorcerous aura.

  Strange. Very strange. But Caina had more immediate concerns at the moment.

  She turned the corner and walked down the street lined with warehouses. It was deserted at the moment.

  The perfect place to make a foreigner disappear into a slaver’s inventory.

  Caina considered for a moment, then went to one of the warehouses. The masonry was rough, and she found ample handholds and footholds. A moment later she climbed to the roof, and jumped from warehouse to warehouse, taking care to avoid the skylights.

  No one ever looked up.

  She jumped to the last warehouse, dropped down, and crawled to the edge of the roof. The street ended in a square surrounded by three towering, rickety tenements of whitewashed brick. A small fountain occupied the center of the square, and the place looked deserted.

  Save for the four men in black leather jerkins waiting there. One of them carried a net, and another a set of iron shackles. Their plans for Caina were clear enough. Likely they planned to sell her to the mines, or perhaps to the fighting pits.

  She felt a flicker of grim amusement as she imagined their reaction once they learned they had kidnapped a woman. Caina was not unattractive, and she knew how to dress and carry herself to appear pleasing to the eyes of men, but the massive scar across her belly would keep them from selling her to some nobleman’s harem. Likely they would sell her as a kitchen drudge or a domestic servant, and such slaves commanded far lower prices than strong backs for the mines.

  Well, she would inflict far more serious disappointments upon them before the day was done.

  Caina crawled back along the roof and peered through one of the skylights. The warehouse below was deserted, and stored massive heaps of bulging sacks, lashed in place by rope nets. After a moment’s examination, Caina realized that the sacks held rice. The plantations of Istarinmul grew coffee and fruit and olives and many other things, but the Istarish themselves ate a great deal of rice.

  Enough rice to pile it in sacks twenty feet high.

  Caina dropped through the skylight and landed on one of the piles, a puff of dust rising from her boots. She scrambled down the net to the floor, and examined the knots for a moment. Then she drew her short sword and went to work, cutting ropes here and there. She stepped back, nodded in satisfaction, and after a moment’s thought hid her heavy pack behind another one of the piles.

  She was going to have to run very quickly, and she did not want it slowing her down.

  Then she went out the front door, making sure to leave it open behind her.

  Caina walked the remainder of the street and into the square. She ought to feel frightened, she knew, but she felt nothing but an icy indifference. Though she did feel anger.

  Quite a lot of it, now that she thought about it.

  She took on more step into the square as the Collectors moved toward her.

  “Welcome,” said the Collector she had spoken with earlier, smiling as he raised a club. “You’re going to come with us. Put down your weapons and come quietly. If not, well…you’ll fetch just as high of a price with a few bruises.”

  Caina made an expression of terror come over her face, and then spun and ran for the rice warehouse.

  “Take him!” roared the lead Collector, and the men sprang after her.

  They were fast. Which made sense, since they kidnapped people for a living. Caina head the crack of leather as two of the Collectors unfurled whips, no doubt to entangle her legs and pull her down.

  But she had a head start, and she dashed back into the warehouse.

  And as she did, she yanked a dagger from its sheath and slashed through the remaining rope holding the massive stack of rice sacks in place.

  The Collectors ran through the door after her.

  “You’re just making it harder on yourself,” said the leader, grinning. “I am going to…”

  Right about then the twenty-foot stack of sacks collapsed, and two or three tons of dry rice fell upon the Collectors.

  The sheer force of the impact drove one man to the ground with such force that his head cracked against the hard floor. The other three men disappeared as dozens of forty-pound rice sacks fell upon them with bone-cracking force. Caina heard limbs snap, heard the Collectors scream. One man clawed his way free, and Caina cut his throat before he regained his feet. Another was trapped beneath three sacks, screaming in pain, and Caina put him out of his misery.

  The lead Collector staggered to his feet, his left arm hanging at an odd angle. He turned towards Caina with a furious curse, but she seized his left arm and twisted. The Collector fell with a scream of agony, and she kicked him in the gut and sent him sprawling. He tried to stand, but she put her boot on his broken arm and he went rigid.

  “Who are you?” whispered the Collector.

  “Why did you try to take me?” said Caina.

  “The…the Brotherhood,” said the Collector, “they’re buying slaves right and left.” His words tumbled out in a terrified rush. “It…it ought to flood the market, but the prices keep going up and up. I’ve never seen anything like it. It…it wasn’t personal, I just need the money…”

  She looked into his eyes and saw the fear there. And for some reason she remembered the final words of Horemb the scribe before he passed to the next world, the words he had claimed would one day aid her.

  “The star is the key to the crystal,” she said. “Do you know what that means?”

  “I…I don’t know, I swear,” said the Collector. “A poem? I don’t know. Let me go. I’ll do whatever you want. What do you want?”

  The question cut into her like a knife.

  She remembered Corvalis, remembered his strong arms around her. His dark wit, and the way his green eyes flashed when he found something funny. The aplomb with which he had masqueraded as Anton Kularus, merchant of coffee. His mouth against hers, his body against hers…

  She did not know what might have passed over her expression, but dread flooded the Collector’s face.

  “I want Corvalis back,” she told him, “but I will settle for one less slave trader in the world.”

  He started to scream, but her dagger cut the cry short.

  Caina cleaned her weapons and her hands and stepped over the mess to the door. Whoever found the dead Collectors would likely assume they had fallen to fighting and accidentally knocked over the sacks. So long as Caina departed quickly, she need not worry about vengeance from the Brotherhood or the dead men’s families.

  Odd, that. She had just killed four men…and she felt nothing at all. Once she would have felt guilty over it. But now, it seemed, she felt nothing but grief.

  And rage.

  Still, the Collectors had deserved it. How many innocent men and women and children had they sold into slavery?

  Again Caina felt the overwhelming sense of futility, but shoved it aside with some effort.

  She lef
t the warehouse, made sure she was unobserved, and set off for the Cyrican Quarter and the House of Agabyzus.

  Click on this link to continue reading Ghost in the Cowl (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4903).

  ***

  Other books by the author

  The Demonsouled Saga

  MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.

  Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.

  But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.

  The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.

  The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael’s power can hope to defeat them.

  The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.

  To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.

  Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.

  For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.

  Unless Mazael can stop him.

  Read Demonsouled (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=880) for free. Mazael's adventures continue in Soul of Tyrants (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=911), Soul of Serpents (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1287), Soul of Dragons (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1727), Soul of Sorcery (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1845), Soul of Skulls (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2808), and Soul of Swords (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3599), along with the short stories The Wandering Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3073), The Tournament Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3677), and The Dragon's Shadow (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2635). Get the first three books bundled together in Demonsouled Omnibus One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4442).