Free Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6) by Jonathan Moeller

to a narrow door. Beyond the stairs descended to the Seat’s cellar, the brick walls still scorched and blackened from the fire. A new doorway had been built in the corner, and Laertes crossed to it and knocked a few times. The door swung open, lantern light spilling out, and Caina stepped into the secret room. She had stocked it with weapons and supplies and other useful things a Ghost might need. As a concession to her guests, she had included a low round table ringed with cushions. Kylon leaned against the wall near the door, wearing the leather armor and rough clothes of a caravan guard, his muscled arms folded over his chest. He smiled at Caina, and she smiled back at him.
    Nasser Glasshand, once the last prince of Iramis, rose from his cushion and smiled.
    “Ah,” he said in his deep voice, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. “Our friends have arrived. Ciaran, loremaster, welcome.” He wore dark, simple clothing, a scimitar belted at his waist, a glove and bracer of black leather covering his left hand. Given that his left hand was fashioned of some sort of peculiar living crystal, a side effect of the spell that had destroyed Iramis, Caina understood the need for the glove. Nasser’s hand was even more distinctive and unusual than Annarah’s hair. 
    “My lord Prince,” said Annarah with a bow. 
    “No greeting for me?” said Morgant.
    Nasser’s white smile flashed like a knife. “Laertes did not throw you into the street.” 
    In answer Morgant snorted, sat upon one of the cushions, and propped his boots on the table. He reached into his coat and drew out a scarab made of jade, wrapped in a short, thick golden chain, and began tossing it to himself. Caina sensed the faint sorcerous aura around the torque, the power worked into it by the long-dead necromancer-priests of ancient Maat. 
    Though death did little more than inconvenience the Great Necromancers of Maat. 
    Laertes snorted. “You’re still carrying that stupid thing around?” 
    “It’s important,” said Morgant.
    “It’s damaged,” said Kylon.
    “Aye,” said Morgant, “but it’s still important. Not sure why.” He tossed it to himself again. “Unless the Knight of Wind and Air decided to play a joke on me.” 
    “No,” said Annarah. “The djinn of the Court of Azure Flame have never been hostile to mankind or the mortal world. Powerful and alien to our understanding, but not malicious. If the Knight told you to take a damaged wedjet-dahn, he had a reason for it.”
    Kylon frowned. “But it’s damaged. A wedjet-dahn was designed to absorb and divert hostile spells, correct?” Annarah nodded. “What use could a djinni possibly have for it? If a hostile spell strikes it, it will amplify the effect and divert it into its bearer?” Annarah nodded again. “Then one might as well carry a cracked shield or wear a cuirass with a hole over the heart.” 
    “You’re awfully picky, Kyracian,” said Morgant, still tossing the jade scarab and its chain to himself. 
    “I’m not the one who risked my life to carry it out of the Inferno,” said Kylon. 
    “That,” said Morgant, pointing at Kylon. He hesitated. “That is actually a good argument. Better than usual for you, anyway. Have you taken a woman into your bed recently?” 
    “What?” said Caina. 
    Both Kylon and Annarah looked at her. 
    “You understand, Master Ciaran,” said Morgant, looking at Caina. “Young men like you and the Kyracian. You see a pretty face on a shapely woman, and you can think of nothing else. I’m sure you know exactly what I mean.” He glanced at Nasser. “That’s why the young men need our guidance, you know. The benefit of our age and wisdom.” 
    “Do you ever stop talking?” said Laertes, loading a tray with food from one of the shelves. 
    Annarah laughed. “Given the taunts you told me that he shouted at Rolukhan in the Inferno, I doubt any us could silence him.”
    “If you feel the need to dazzle us with your