Free Ghost in the Cowl by Jonathan Moeller Page A

loved them.
    Some cages held exotic beasts – Anshani grass lions, hulking tusked pigs, and an enormous six-legged lizard that gazed truculently at the clowns, perhaps considering them as a meal. A pair of men jumped through a giant ring, and Caina realized that it would be set aflame during the actual performance. An acrobat performed a roll before the lizard’s cage and got to his feet with a dramatic flourish, only to look disappointed when no one noticed. 
    She did not see anyone with throwing knives. That was a good sign. 
    “This is indecent,” muttered Damla.
    “What, the circus?” said Caina. Damla might have a point – the circus masters liked to dress their more attractive female performers in very little, and the gods knew the performers often stole anything that wasn’t nailed down.
    “This,” said Damla, gesturing at the yellow robe and headscarf that she wore. “I am a widow, and I have only been widowed two years. It…it is not decent. It does not…it does not honor my husband’s memory.”
    Caina opened her mouth to answer, and then closed it as she thought of Corvalis. 
    “I understand,” said Caina. “Better than you can imagine. But the best way to honor your husband’s memory is to keep his sons from growing up in chains.”
    “Yes, you are right,” said Damla. She took a deep breath. “What do you need me to do?”
    “Let me do the talking,” said Caina. “Follow my lead. Our story is that we are sisters. Your name is Nuri, and mine shall be,” she thought for a moment, “Ciara.”
    “Sisters?” said Damla. “We look nothing alike.”
    Caina made herself smile. “We’ll say Father developed a taste for Istarish women.”
    Damla snorted. “Amusing enough. Well, I have no other choice, so let us see this madness through to its end. I hope you know what you are doing.”
    “As do I,” said Caina, and headed for the courtyard gate.
    Damla froze, going rigid, and Caina saw a pair of men heading towards them. Both looked worn and ragged, their clothing in tatters, their unshaven faces marked with dirt and grime.
    And both had the pale, eerie blue eyes of wraithblood addicts.
    She felt the faint tingle of the sorcerous aura around them. 
    “A few coins,” wheezed the man on the left. “Just a few coins, pretty ladies, so I can see the dreams again, the sweet dreams of the past…”
    “I can see them,” rasped the man on the right “The dead children, I can see them again. Coins, coins, so we can buy the blood and drink…”
    Damla took a step back. “I don’t have any money.”
    “Be off,” said Caina, “before the watch finds you. They don’t like beggars in the Cyrican Quarter.” 
    Both beggars stared at her.
    And their eyes grew wide with fear.
    “The shadows,” one whispered, and the second bobbed his head in agreement. “The shadows, the shadows.”
    “So many shadows,” said the second beggar.
    “They are following you,” whispered the first, his eyes wide with terror. “Spinning around you like a storm, like dancers in masks and cloaks.”
    “To you,” said the second beggar. “All the shadows are pointing to you.”
    “I don’t understand,” said Damla. “What do they mean?”
    “Nothing,” said Caina. “They’re raving. Pay them no mind.”
    Yet their words chilled her nonetheless. The old man at the docks had said almost the same thing. What did they see when they looked at her? Wraithblood was clearly sorcerous in nature, and if she survived the next few days, Caina resolved to learn more about it. Perhaps it altered the sight of its users somehow, permitted them to see sorcerous auras. Caina idly wondered what her own aura looked like – scarred by Maglarion’s spells, marked by her yearlong possession by Jadriga’s spirit and her twin journeys into the netherworld. 
    Or perhaps the two beggars were simply raving. 
    “Here, now! Be off with you!” Two footmen in the ornate red and blue robes of the Inn of the Crescent Moon