Free Ghost in the Cowl by Jonathan Moeller Page B

strode towards them. “Leave honest women alone, you rats!”
    The beggars turned and fled.
    “Thank you, sirs,” said Caina. “I feared they might turn violent.”
    The older of the two footmen scowled. “The wraithblood drinkers? Aye, best to take care around them. Most are harmless, just babble nonsense all day. But sometimes they go berserk and try to kill everyone they can see.” He started to spit, looked at Damla, and thought better of it. “You shouldn’t be out without your husband or your father. It’s not safe, not these days.”
    “Actually, we shall be safe enough, since we have you to guard us,” said Caina. “My sister and I have business at the Inn with Master Cronmer.”
    The footman scowled. He had the look of a veteran, and Caina suspected he did not approve of circuses. “Aye, madam, he is in the Inn. Somewhere.”
    “Thank you,” said Caina, and she led the way across the street and into the courtyard. Around them the chaos of the Circus reigned. A juggler and an acrobat bellowed at each other, using curses and insults from at least three languages. 
    “I wonder how the Circus could afford to stay here,” muttered Caina. 
    “Likely Ulvan paid for it,” said Damla. “When a slaver ascends to the ranks of the cowled masters, it is a great affair. No expense is spared in the celebration and the festivities. Otherwise the new-made cowled master shall be thought cheap.”
    “Yes, wouldn’t that be a tragedy,” said Caina. 
    The footmen at the doors bowed and pulled them open, and Caina stepped into the Inn’s common room, Damla following. It looked a great deal like the common room of the House of Agabyzus, though more ornate. Each table had its own gleaming brass lantern, with more hanging from the high ceiling. A balcony of polished wood encircled the room, and the floor had been worked in an elaborate mosaic showing a pair of Istarish noblemen hunting tigers in the Kaltari Highlands. A dozen foreign merchants sat throughout the room, eating their lunches while scowling bodyguards stood watch. 
    A pale, Nighmarian-looking man walked past, clad in a bright red coat. He was handsome in a gaunt sort of way, and mumbled to himself as he walked.
    “Pardon,” said Caina. “We are looking for Master Cronmer. Do…”
    “Master Cronmer?” said the red-coated man. “Master Cronmer? You call that conniving scoundrel a master?” He thumped his chest. “He does not deserve the title! I, Vardo, am the master of all beasts!”
    “Indeed?” said Caina, raising her eyebrows.
    “Truly!” proclaimed Vardo. “Why, the fiercest lion turns to a purring kitten beneath my ministrations. The wild pigs follow me with devotion, like puppies trailing after a child. Vardo is the lord of the animals, and if he wished it, he could raise an army of lions to conquer Anshan itself.” He spread his arms and struck a pose. “Can you not see Vardo as the Shahenshah of all Anshan?”
    “No,” said Damla. 
    “How did Master Cronmer wrong you?” said Caina.
    “He would not buy Vardo the elephant.”
    “An elephant?” said Damla.
    Her incredulity made no impact on Vardo’s enthusiasm. “Yes! Yes! Precisely! You, too, my beautiful Istarish rose, you see this most grievous injustice! We perform to honor some emir or slave trader or another. Imagine his wonder, his delight, when Vardo rides into his courtyard on the back of an elephant. And the tricks Vardo would teach to that elephant! Ah, have you ever seen an elephant balance upon two legs with a ball spinning upon his trunk?”
    “I confess that I have not,” said Caina. For that matter, she had never seen an elephant. 
    “Then your life is deprived,” said Vardo. He stooped over Caina’s hand and planted a dry kiss upon her knuckles. “You are…Szaldic, yes? Vardo can always tell. There are many lovely women in Istarinmul, but you pale women of the north are fair as well. Come with Vardo, and though you may not see the elephant, you