Ghost Relics by Jonathan Moeller

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