Ghost Nails Read Free

the House’s business had grown.
Rows of coffee presses stood upon counters and ovens lined the
walls, and a half-dozen of my maids worked here, preparing coffees
and baking cakes and flatbread.
    They were all free workers. Once they had been
slaves. I had owned slaves, as Agabyzus had, as my father had
before me. Most Istarish men and women of even modest means owned
slaves and thought nothing of it. After what had happened to my
sons, I could not look at a slave without remembering the sickening
dread that I had felt.
    I had freed all my slaves as soon as I could afford
to do so. Some went their own way. Most chose to keep working for
me. I had been surprised by that, but it made sense. Working in the
House of Agabyzus was better than toiling in the fields or the
workshops or in a brothel.
    I pushed away the thought and looked for Novaya.
    She stood at the counter near the ovens, humming to
herself as she mixed a bowl of batter. She was a Szaldic woman in
her middle twenties with long dark hair and blue eyes, short and
plump but nonetheless pretty. I suspected she would find herself a
husband soon. In fact, I had seen her talking to a man a few times
recently.
    “Mistress Damla,” she said with a smile, her Istarish
colored with a thick Szaldic accent. “All is well, yes? The Hakim,
he likes his cake?”
    There was not a trace of alarm in her face.
    “He hasn’t had a chance to try it yet,” said
Caina.
    Novaya blinked and looked at Caina. “Mistress, who is
this?”
    I hesitated, and then realized that Novaya would not
recognize Caina’s current disguise.
    Caina offered Novaya a courtly bow. “Kyrazid Tomurzu,
factor to the lords of Imperial Cyrica. I happened to look at your
cake when Mistress Damla served it to the Hakim. There is a problem
with it.”
    Novaya scowled, but Caina lifted the broken halves of
the cake. The nails glinted in the fiery light coming from the
ovens. Novaya looked at Caina with puzzlement.
    “Why did you put nails in it?” she said. “You ruined
a perfectly good cake.”
    “The nails were already in the cake, Novaya,” said
Caina.
    Novaya frowned, and I saw the dawning realization
come over her face, followed shortly by fear and horror.
    “I don’t…I don’t know how those got there,” she said.
“I didn’t put them there, I swear I didn’t. Oh, by the Living
Flame. Does the Hakim think I tried to murder him? I didn’t, I
swear I didn’t…”
    “He doesn’t know,” I said. “Master Kyrazid spotted
the nails and stopped the Hakim from eating the cake, thank the
Living Flame. We are the only ones who know about it.”
    “I didn’t do it,” said Novaya. “I didn’t…will you put
me out, mistress Damla? What shall I do?” She shuddered. “I have
nowhere else to go. I shall have to whore for my bread. I…I…”
    Her face crumpled, and she started crying.
    I glanced at Caina, and she shook her head. She
didn’t think that Novaya had done it. Of course, it was possible
Novaya was a very good actress. Caina was, certainly. A few of the
other maids and cooks glanced at Novaya, but no one seemed alarmed.
While working in the House of Agabyzus was more pleasant than
toiling in a field, dealing with the public was often vexing, and
sometimes the maids retreated to the kitchens for a good cry. I
have no daughters, but nonetheless I have acquired a great deal of
practice calming down weeping young women.
    “Novaya, Novaya,” I said, taking her shoulders, “you
do not understand. I do not believe you did this awful thing.”
    She sniffled, her eyes already bloodshot. “You do
not?”
    “Of course you did not do it,” I said. I glanced at
Caina again, saw her gave a faint nod. “But I must talk to you,
yes? Someone tried to murder a magistrate under our roof, and it is
only by the mercy of the Living Flame and the keen eye of Master
Kyrazid that the Hakim is still alive. If Korim was killed here, I
would be arrested, the House of Agabyzus closed, and all the