Ghost in the Razor Read Free Page B

Markaine. 
    “The mural is so detailed it almost seems like an eyewitness account,” said Caina.
    Markaine raised his gray eyebrows in surprise, and a voice boomed over the arena.
    “Citizens of Istarinmul!” said the speaker, a herald standing in the magistrate’s box overlooking the pit. “For your entertainment, our most noble Grand Wazir, Erghulan Amirasku, has commanded that gladiatorial games be held in the Ring of Cyrica. A seasoned champion has been brought to try his valor and his steel against an upstart! Behold the Red Fisherman, winner of a hundred duels and a champion of the Arena of Padishahs!”
    The crowds roared their approval, and a man with his face concealed behind a red helmet strode upon the sands. He wore a leather kilt and a gleaming steel cuirass, and in his right hand he carried a crimson trident, its barbed points gleaming, and a weighted net in his left hand. The straps of a pair of baldrics formed an X across his cuirass, and a pair of short swords waited in scabbards upon his back. 
    “To challenge him,” thundered the herald, “a new man, a rising fighter among the ranks of Istarinmul’s gladiators! A freeborn man, who in a display of valor has voluntarily entered the games. A man of mystery, known only as the Exile!” 
    A second man strode into the oval, and Caina felt her eye drawn toward him. He was shorter than the towering Red Fisherman, but well-muscled nonetheless. The Exile walked with the precise, steady grace and economical movements of a master swordsman. He wore a simple masked helm, a loincloth, sandals, and nothing else. In his right hand he carried a broadsword, and bore no other weapons. The Red Fisherman was larger and likely stronger, and better armed and armored to boot, but the Exile looked dangerous. Caina was not sure who would win.
    The fighters saluted each other, and then the magistrate’s box.
    “Begin!” roared the herald, and the crowds shouted their approval as the Exile and the Red Fisherman began to circle each other. 
    “Now,” said Markaine, once the crowds had quieted and they could hear each other again, “you were saying?”
    Caina turned her eyes from the duel below. “The Fall of Iramis. The painting is so detailed that my lord wondered if you were an eyewitness to the disaster.”
    “I was,” said Markaine.
    Caina blinked in surprise.
    “I stood on the hills west of Iramis and watched as Grand Master Callatas raised the Star of Iramis,” said Markaine, taking a stentorian tone. “I watched as he called upon its power. I heard the screams as Iramis died, and the stench of its burning filled my nostrils. The sky itself writhed in the power Callatas unleashed, and I watched as the fields of Iramis turned into the Desert of Candles.”
    “Truly?” said Caina. 
    “Of course not, you idiot,” said Markaine. “That was a hundred and fifty years ago.”
    “One hundred and fifty one,” said Caina.
    “Yes, the extra year makes such a difference,” said Markaine. The Red Fisherman and the Exile exchanged a flurry of blows. The bigger man caught the blows of the Exile’s sword upon the tines of his trident, but the Exile was fast enough to avoid the Fisherman’s net. “Your lord wants to know how I made the mural accurate? I read books about Iramis. People do that sometimes, you know. I also talked to Callatas repeatedly. He was very keen that the painting be accurate. Apparently he enjoys frightening people.” 
    “I’ve heard that,” said Caina. She had also seen it firsthand.
    The Red Fisherman drove his trident forward, and the Exile’s sword whipped around in a two-handed block, catching it an inch from his chest. Had he not blocked it, the blow would have speared him like a potato upon a fork. Gladiators rarely fought to the death, but accidents happened…and a slave like the Red Fisherman would show no hesitation about killing a freeborn man like the Exile. 
    “An eyewitness, though?” said Markaine. “Does Lord