they often kidnap foreigners and
forge the papers of servitude. If you are not careful, you might
end up in the mines or pulling oars upon one of the Padishah’s
galleys. And the Teskilati, the secret police, have eyes and ears
everywhere. If they think you are a spy for the Emperor, they will
make you disappear.”
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
forge the papers of servitude. If you are not careful, you might
end up in the mines or pulling oars upon one of the Padishah’s
galleys. And the Teskilati, the secret police, have eyes and ears
everywhere. If they think you are a spy for the Emperor, they will
make you disappear.”
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
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