Ghost in the Razor Read Free

shields, while the second bore the helmets of Imperial Legionaries and fought with the massive rectangular shields and broadswords of the Legions. The gladiators had no other armor, and wore only sandals and loincloths. Some of the men were massive and heavily muscled, their blows powerful but slow, while others were leaner but quicker. The men gleamed with the sweat of battle, and a steady cheer rose from the crowds. 
    Caina watched them for a moment, admiring the play of muscles beneath their skin, the skill they showed at fighting. The gladiators knew their business, and both teams fought as a coordinated group. Likely the match would end in a draw…
    She felt a flicker of shame and looked away. Caina had learned something about herself since coming to Istarinmul, something she did not like.
    She often found gladiators attractive.
    She shouldn’t. Slavery was a blight upon the world, and she had devoted vast time and energy to terrorizing the Brotherhood of Slavers. She had done it to cut off Callatas’s supply of slaves to murder for creating wraithblood, true, but part of it had been her hatred of slavers. Istarish slavers had helped Maglarion kill her father, and while Caina’s contempt of sorcery had cooled enough that she was willing to work with and even befriend a woman like Claudia Aberon Dorius, her hatred of slavers had never wavered. Every one of those men fighting below had been sold into slavery, had been purchased by the Wazir of Games and ordered to fight. It was a hideous injustice. 
    Yet she could not deny that she enjoyed watching them.
    It shouldn’t surprise her. Corvalis had been a hard man, an assassin and a killer, trained by his father to become a remorseless weapon. He had been a good man and Caina loved him with all her heart, yet she had nonetheless been attracted to his cold strength, even excited by it. 
    She put the entire notion out of her head. There was work before her, and neither idly daydreaming about gladiators like a foolish child or reminiscing over Corvalis would accomplish it. Corvalis would have laughed at her, had she known. 
    She located the correct row of seats, and soon found Markaine of Caer Marist. 
    He was not hard to spot. 
    The painter was in his middle fifties, thin to the point of looking almost withered, with pale blue eyes and close-cropped gray hair. He was oddly pale, his skin almost translucent, and despite sitting in the open sun he showed no sign of a sunburn. His costume was peculiar as well. He wore dusty black boots, black trousers, a crisp, brilliant white shirt, and a long black coat that hung to his knees.  The coat was far too heavy for the sun, yet Markaine was not sweating. If anything, he looked slightly chilly. A black cane with a worn bronze handle rested on the stone bench next to him. Upon his right leg he held a notebook open, and Caina saw him sketching the gladiators with a small pencil, the tip rasping against the paper. There was no one near him, and his seat was further back than she would have expected. Perhaps he could not afford any better. 
    Caina stepped towards him.
    “No,” said Markaine. He had a thick Caerish accent. Caeria Ulterior, from the sounds of it, highlighting his words with a burr. 
    “I’m sorry?” said Caina. 
    “Whatever you are about to ask me,” said Markaine, not looking up from his notebook, “the answer is no. I have no interest in creating a painting, a mural, a fresco, or any other artwork for you or your employer. No sum of money shall change my mind.” 
    “I’m not here for a commission,” said Caina.
    “Of course you’re not,” said Markaine. “I’m sure instead you’re here to socialize. The civil war in the Empire might affect trade. Or it might not. Hmm, let’s all stroke our beards and nod and pretend like we can see the future.” His free hand fluttered at her. “Off you go.” 
    Suddenly Markaine’s relative poverty made a great deal more sense.
    Caina nodded, climbed