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Authors: Jonathan Moeller
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simply mistaken, and he was preparing to hand her over to the Teskilati and claim the bounty for himself.
Either way, there was no reason to trust him.
So she took her time making her away across the city, crossing back over her path and taking great care to make sure that she was not followed. At last she returned to the dry fountain behind the House of Agabyzus, unlocked the door, and descended to the Sanctuary. She discarded her sweat-sodden nightfighter garb and washed and bandaged her wounds. None of them were serious, but she had numerous small cuts upon her arms, and one long, shallow cut on her ribs where the steel plates of her jacket had broken. Bruises covered her hips and thighs from various falls, and her joints and shoulders ached from all the running and the climbing.
Still, it could have been far worse.
She wasted the better part of an hour trying to remove the twisted bronze ring. Caina tried soap, wax, grease, everything she could think of. All she managed to do was make the skin around her finger red and raw from scrubbing. The pyrikon did not budge, and the constant tingling of its faint aura remained unchanged.
That was annoying. Worse, it was dangerous. She used a dozen different disguises to move unseen through Istarinmul, and wearing a distinctive piece of jewelry with each disguise might well ruin them. Even more dangerous, it was possible Callatas or Vaysaal had embedded a tracking spell upon the ring. Her shadow-cloak protected her from divinatory sorcery, but she could not always wear it. If there was a tracking spell upon the ring, she could not elude Callatas and his hunters.
They would find her and kill her.
For a long, grim moment Caina considered cutting off the finger with the ring still on it. That would badly damage her ability to fight and climb, though she favored her right hand. It would also prove a liability when employing disguises.
And the thought made her skin crawl. Caina had done a lot of unpleasant things, but she had never had to cut off a piece of herself.
At last she discarded the notion. She had no proof there was a tracking spell upon the ring. And for all she knew, if she cut off the finger, the ring would simply attach itself to another.
Caina dressed in the clothes of a courier of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, boots and trousers and a loose shirt beneath a coat that was too warm for the harsh sun of Istarinmul. A sheathed short sword and a dagger went in a leather belt around her waist, and Caina paused before the mirror to wash away her makeup and apply a new coat. When she finished, she saw Marius, a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, staring back at her.
After a moment’s thought, she wrapped a bandage around her left hand to conceal the pyrikon.
She nodded in satisfaction, climbed out of the Sanctuary, and walked around the courtyard to the Cyrican Bazaar and the House of Agabyzus.
The Bazaar hosted a bustling maze of stalls and booths, merchants selling carpets and pans and knives and fried skewers of meat. A dozen competing smells hung heavy in the air, wood smoke and cooking meat and exotic spices and roasting coffee. Women in bright robes and headscarves bought and sold, while slaves in gray tunics went about the business of their masters.
The House of Agabyzus rose over the market, a three-story building of whitewashed stone with a flat roof. Caina pushed open the front door and strode into the common room. Dozens of low, round tables dotted the floor, ringed with cushions in the Istarish style, booths lining the walls so patrons could converse without anyone overhearing them. Anshani carpets hung from the walls between the wide windows, and a dais stood against the far wall where a poet could recite the epic poems of the Istarish people. It was midday, and merchants and their bodyguards filled the tables and booths, haggling and negotiating over lunch and coffee. So much business and plotting took place in the coffee
Either way, there was no reason to trust him.
So she took her time making her away across the city, crossing back over her path and taking great care to make sure that she was not followed. At last she returned to the dry fountain behind the House of Agabyzus, unlocked the door, and descended to the Sanctuary. She discarded her sweat-sodden nightfighter garb and washed and bandaged her wounds. None of them were serious, but she had numerous small cuts upon her arms, and one long, shallow cut on her ribs where the steel plates of her jacket had broken. Bruises covered her hips and thighs from various falls, and her joints and shoulders ached from all the running and the climbing.
Still, it could have been far worse.
She wasted the better part of an hour trying to remove the twisted bronze ring. Caina tried soap, wax, grease, everything she could think of. All she managed to do was make the skin around her finger red and raw from scrubbing. The pyrikon did not budge, and the constant tingling of its faint aura remained unchanged.
That was annoying. Worse, it was dangerous. She used a dozen different disguises to move unseen through Istarinmul, and wearing a distinctive piece of jewelry with each disguise might well ruin them. Even more dangerous, it was possible Callatas or Vaysaal had embedded a tracking spell upon the ring. Her shadow-cloak protected her from divinatory sorcery, but she could not always wear it. If there was a tracking spell upon the ring, she could not elude Callatas and his hunters.
They would find her and kill her.
For a long, grim moment Caina considered cutting off the finger with the ring still on it. That would badly damage her ability to fight and climb, though she favored her right hand. It would also prove a liability when employing disguises.
And the thought made her skin crawl. Caina had done a lot of unpleasant things, but she had never had to cut off a piece of herself.
At last she discarded the notion. She had no proof there was a tracking spell upon the ring. And for all she knew, if she cut off the finger, the ring would simply attach itself to another.
Caina dressed in the clothes of a courier of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, boots and trousers and a loose shirt beneath a coat that was too warm for the harsh sun of Istarinmul. A sheathed short sword and a dagger went in a leather belt around her waist, and Caina paused before the mirror to wash away her makeup and apply a new coat. When she finished, she saw Marius, a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, staring back at her.
After a moment’s thought, she wrapped a bandage around her left hand to conceal the pyrikon.
She nodded in satisfaction, climbed out of the Sanctuary, and walked around the courtyard to the Cyrican Bazaar and the House of Agabyzus.
The Bazaar hosted a bustling maze of stalls and booths, merchants selling carpets and pans and knives and fried skewers of meat. A dozen competing smells hung heavy in the air, wood smoke and cooking meat and exotic spices and roasting coffee. Women in bright robes and headscarves bought and sold, while slaves in gray tunics went about the business of their masters.
The House of Agabyzus rose over the market, a three-story building of whitewashed stone with a flat roof. Caina pushed open the front door and strode into the common room. Dozens of low, round tables dotted the floor, ringed with cushions in the Istarish style, booths lining the walls so patrons could converse without anyone overhearing them. Anshani carpets hung from the walls between the wide windows, and a dais stood against the far wall where a poet could recite the epic poems of the Istarish people. It was midday, and merchants and their bodyguards filled the tables and booths, haggling and negotiating over lunch and coffee. So much business and plotting took place in the coffee
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