Ghost Price Read Free

“a factor of Khosrau Asurius, Lord Governor of Cyrica Superior. Now that peace has been reached between our Emperor and your Padishah, his lordship wishes to purchase some of Istarinmul’s gladiators, for all men know that the fighting pits of Istarinmul produce the finest gladiators in the world.” 
    “Proceed,” said the guard. “But do not cause any problems, foreigner. The Wazir of Public Games insists that the gladiatorial matches continue without interruption. All these rumors of the Balarigar, this shadow-cloaked thief…it has made the rabble restless, and they must be distracted from their folly.”
    “The Balarigar?” said Caina. “Bah, a myth and nothing more. But I suppose the rabble will believe anything.” 
    The guard laughed and waved her inside.
    Caina descended the stairs and made her way into the galleries. He plan was simple enough. She had twice wounded one of the men in his right arm. Such an injury would be impossible to hide. She need only scan the gladiators until she found the man she sought. Then she would question him and have some answers. 
    The galleries were better lit than she would have expected, thanks to a clever system of mirrors that reflected sunlight from the Ring above. She came to a large room floored in sand, benches pressed against the wall. Wealthy merchants and minor nobles sat upon the benches or stood in groups, watching the gladiators. Twenty-four men stood on the sand, drilling with wooden weapons while a sour-faced old man shouted threats and instructions at them. The gladiators wore leather breechclouts and hobnailed sandals, their hair and beards close-cropped. Some of the gladiators were giants, towering slabs of muscle. Others were leaner but no less muscular, and stalked across the sand like hunting cats, their weapons loose in their hands. 
    She had to admit it made for an attractive sight.
    A flash of appalled guilt went through her. Slavery was a blight upon the world, and the games fought within the Ring were barbaric. The man she loved had died a hero’s death in New Kyre, and any other would be but a poor imitation of him. Yet here she stood ogling half-dressed gladiators like some merchant’s witless daughter. What was wrong with her? 
    Fortunately, a slave in a gray tunic approached, and she pushed the thought from her mind.
    “Your business here, sir?” said the slave. He had the weedy, bent look of a man who spent much time bent over a ledger. 
    I am Kyrazid Tomurzu,” said Caina. “My master Lord Khosrau wishes to purchase some gladiators. Additionally, I might like to put some wagers on tomorrow’s matches.” 
    “Of course, sir,” said the slave. “A bribe is traditional for such consideration.”
    Caina nodded, paid the slave, and made her way along the edge of the wall, watching the drills. Specifically, she examined their right arms, keeping her expression aloof. Many of the gladiators bore scars, but none had recent wounds. Caina stopped near a trio of merchants discussing Anshani silk prices, stroking the point of her ridiculous fake beard. More gladiators sat nearby, resting between bouts. Their discussion centered on the quality of the food and a comparison of various sexual conquests. Caina let her eyes wander idly over them…
    There.
    Two gladiators sat the end of the bench, speaking in low voices. And one of them had a pair of bandages on his right arm. 
    Caina edged closer, trying to make it look as if she was getting a better view of the training. Both gladiators were Istarish men in their middle thirties, strong and fit. The man with bandages upon his arm was the shorter of the two, and his nose had been broken often. The taller gladiator had the thick knuckles and mashed ears of a man who had both dealt and received many blows, and while none of the gladiators looked particularly cheerful, this man looked downright grim.
    She took a step closer, keeping her eyes fixed the training, but her ears strained to hear the