Ghost in the Cowl by Jonathan Moeller

pair of scissors, leaving only a few ragged, uneven inches.
    Which, she supposed, was exactly what had happened. 
    Vaguely she wondered what Corvalis would say if he could see her. Or Halfdan. 
    Again she felt that wave of shame. 
    No more. She would not destroy herself through drink. She owed that to Corvalis and Halfdan. She had to continue living, if only to honor their memory.
    And she could always get herself killed doing something useful. 
    Caina retrieved a razor from the table and trimmed her hair, leaving only a half-inch of black stubble. It was not an attractive look on her, made her look gaunt and wasted. But at least her head would be cooler under the damnable Istarish sun. And it would make it easier to wear wigs to disguise herself, if necessary…
    She blinked at the thought, and let out a long breath. 
    If she was thinking about wigs, that meant she was thinking about disguises…which meant she could do what she had come to Istarinmul to do. 
    It seemed she was not ready to die yet after all. 
    She wanted to curl upon the floor and weep, but she knew that if she started that again it would end badly. And there was work to be done in Istarinmul. True, she could hardly expect to change the city. But there were things she could do. The slaves, for one – perhaps she could help escaped slaves to freedom. Or she could discomfort the Slavers’ Brotherhood – they kidnapped slaves from across the world, and Caina had no qualms about making their lives miserable. 
    Besides, the floor in the Sanctuary was damned uncomfortable. If she wanted to lie down and cry, she could at least find a proper bed. 
    Caina cleaned up the various messes she had made, located fresh clothing, and dressed herself. With her close-cropped hair, she did indeed look like a ragged (if short) Caerish mercenary. She had always resisted cutting her hair short, even though it would have made disguise easier. How Corvalis would have laughed…
    Caina closed her eyes for a moment and waited for the pain to pass. 
    Some coffee would be welcome, and the House of Agabyzus could provide that. And perhaps Damla knew the location of a reputable bathhouse. Caina could hardly use a public bath, not if she wanted to maintain her disguise. She could worry about it later. Right now it felt as if a war drum hammered away inside of her skull, and to her astonishment she was hungry. The solution to both problems waited in the House of Agabyzus. Caina would have to apologize to Damla for her behavior. She could pass it off by claiming that she was sick from the ship’s food. 
    That at least would have a kernel of truth to it. 
    She wrapped a sword belt around her waist, tucked throwing knives into hidden sheaths beneath the sleeves of her coat, and climbed the ladder to the square. The brilliant glare of the sun sent another stab of pain into her skull, and Caina squinted until her eyes adjusted and the pain settled to a tolerable level. After a moment she realized that it was almost noon. She had been unconscious for the better part of sixteen hours, if not longer. 
    Whisky was not her drink. 
    Caina walked through the alley to the Cyrican Bazaar, turned towards the House of Agabyzus, and froze in shock.
    Something was wrong. 
    The coffeehouse’s shutters stood open, and within Caina saw destruction. The tables had been tipped over, the cushions shredded, the coffee cups and plates smashed. The door had been ripped off its hinges and lay upon the ground. Men and women went about their business in the Bazaar, but they gave the House of Agabyzus a wide berth, as if it held some deadly plague.
    Caina saw no sign of Damla or her sons or her slaves.
    Had they been robbed? Did Damla have enemies? Caina supposed a coffeehouse owner could acquire violent enemies, though it seemed unlikely.
    But Caina had enemies.
    If the Teskilati had learned she was here, they might have attacked the coffeehouse. And Caina would not put it past Lord Corbould to send