Ghost Relics by Jonathan Moeller Page A

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 them 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