Ghost in the Razor Read Free Page A

over the stone seat, and stepped into the row behind Markaine. She made sure to stand so her shadow fell upon Markaine’s notebook, blocking his light. The painter looked up, blinking, and scowled at her.
    “Really,” he said. “That’s very petty.” 
    “As I said, I’m not here to commission a portrait,” said Caina. “I would like to discuss another one of your works.” 
    Markaine sighed and then stared at her. Caina met his pale gaze without blinking, though the sensation made her uncomfortable. His eyes had a heaviness to them, a strange weight, and she suddenly felt as if her disguise was inadequate. For a moment she was sure that Markaine recognized her, yet she had never seen him before. Had he somehow realized that she was the Balarigar? That seemed most improbable, and yet…
    “On the other hand,” said Markaine, sliding to the side, “I’m told socializing is good for the digestion. And you seem like a very interesting young fellow. Have a seat. What did you say your name was?”
    “I didn’t,” said Caina, sitting next to him.
    “Oh, of course not. It must have slipped my mind,” said Markaine. “I’m getting older, you know. Anyway. Who the hell are you?” 
    “Duncan of Caer Marist, a factor for Lord Quintus of House Camwallen, a noble house of Caeria Ulterior,” said Caina. Lord Quintus was in fact a minor noble with lands in Caeria Ulterior, though she had never met him, and she doubted that he had ever left Caeria Ulterior. 
    For some reason that answer amused him. “I’m sure you are. So.” He clapped his notebook shut, tucked it into a pocket of his roomy coat, and stared at her. “Why does a factor for a minor Caerish lord wish to speak with me?”
    “My lord is a student of Istarish history,” said Caina.
    “Poor fool. Is life really that boring in Caeria Ulterior?”
    “He heard rumor of your work, and since I had business in Istarinmul anyway, he commanded me to seek you out and ask questions,” said Caina. “I can pay for your time, if you will…”
    A roar from the crowd drowned out her words. The gladiators dressed as Istarish soldiers had prevailed over their opponents. None of the gladiators had been killed – for all the barbarity of the games, gladiators were expensive, and matches to the death were uncommon. Several of the Legionary gladiators had taken wounds, and gray-clad slaves hurried onto the sands, helping the wounded men into the galleries below the Ring while the victors raised their scimitars in triumph. 
    “You were saying?” said Markaine. 
    “I can pay you for your time,” said Caina. “My lord Quintus has provided a purse for that purpose.”
    “What interests his lordship?” said Markaine. “I imagine Istarish art is quite the rage among Caerish lords. It’s probably all they ever discuss.” There was a hint of mockery in his tone. 
    “Specifically, he is interested in the great mural in the Tarshahzon Gardens,” said Caina. “The Fall of Iramis.” Slaves with rakes ran across the sand of the fighting pit, sweeping it clean for the next combatants. 
    Again Markaine seemed amused. 
    “Ah,” he said. “That would explain it, wouldn’t it? The Fall of Iramis. Such a tragic tale. The sort of tale that inspires bad poetry and worse paintings.”
    “Then you do not like your own mural?” said Caina.
    Markaine laughed. “I like it just fine. Callatas never finished paying me for it, you know, the cheap bastard.” He made a chopping gesture. “No doubt he can use his power to transmute lead into gold, but he could never be bothered to finish paying me. I certainly cannot bring a lawsuit against him. What hakim or wazir would rule against the Grand Master of the Alchemists?” 
    “Given the topic of the mural,” said Caina, “I can see why the magistrates would be weary of challenging a man who killed a quarter of a million people in a day.”
    “All that power, and he still can’t pay me on time,” muttered