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

efforts at oration, Master Markaine,” said Nasser, his voice dry as the Desert of Candles, “then I suggest you turn your attention to the task at hand.” 
    “I’m an assassin, not a thief,” said Morgant. 
    “Theft is similar to kidnapping, and I thought you said that kidnapping was only a lesser subset of assassination,” said Kylon. 
    “It is,” said Morgant. “You’ll recall that when we kidnapped the emir Kuldan Cimak, I did most of the work.”
    “When did you kidnap an emir?” said Annarah, blinking. 
    “Oh, after we set fire to his inn,” said Morgant. “It was a very busy day. But I suppose it wasn’t kidnapping, since I convinced him to follow us willingly. The inn was also a whorehouse, which by a roundabout route, returns us to my main point. Lord Kylon is in need a woman. Wouldn’t you agree, Master Ciaran?”
    Morgant smiled at Caina. Once again she felt the urge to punch him. He always poked, always prodded, seeking for a weak point, and with unfailing accuracy he had found one of hers. Was it that obvious? 
    “I think that Lord Kylon is entirely capable of making up his own mind,” said Caina. 
    Kylon looked at her, and something in his eyes sent a shiver down her back. If they had been alone…
    “Capital,” said Nasser. “I’m so glad we can agree on this important matter. If you can refrain from amusing yourself for a few moments, Morgant, perhaps we can attend to business.”
    “Yes,” said Annarah. “The lives of uncounted millions hang in the balance.” 
    “Please, be seated,” said Nasser, gesturing at the cushions. Caina and Annarah sat, Annarah folding her legs beneath her with prim grace. Caina might have preferred a skirt herself, but trousers did mean she could sit cross-legged without difficulty. Kylon remained standing by the door, and Laertes produced a tray holding dates and cups of coffee. Morgant popped a date into his mouth and took a cup of coffee.
    “I thought you said you don’t drink coffee,” said Kylon.
    “I don’t,” said Morgant, taking a sip. “Makes you too jittery. But there are times when it is advantageous to be jittery. Such as when visiting the tomb of a Great Necromancer of Maat.” 
    “Aye,” said Caina. “This island. Where exactly is it?”
    “In the Alqaarin Sea, about three or four days’ east of Rumarah,” said Annarah. “I do not believe it has a name.”
    “It has acquired one in the century and a half since the fall of Iramis,” said Nasser. “The island is commonly called Pyramid Isle.”
    “Pyramid?” said Caina. “There’s an actual pyramid on the island?” From what she had learned of Maatish history, the pharaohs and Great Necromancers had usually buried themselves in vast underground complexes, but sometimes they had built colossal stone pyramids over their tombs. 
    “No,” said Nasser. “A barren hill in the center of the island looks a great deal like a pyramid. The island is not large, no more than a day’s march from one side to another. The hill stands in the center with a ring of jungle around it.”
    “Not at the base of the hill, though,” said Annarah, her green eyes distant. “Nothing grows there. Nothing grows at the entrance of the Tomb. Like a line drawn upon a map. There are…creatures in the jungle as well. Undead things. Created by either Kharnaces or the ancient Maatish to serve as guardians.” She gazed into the coffee, remembering. “A ring of wardstones stands around the jungle. The ancient loremasters raised the stones and inscribed them with the Words of Lore to keep the undead things trapped within the jungle.” 
    “Sometimes bolder smugglers use the beach to conduct deals or to store hidden caches of goods,” said Nasser.
    Annarah looked aghast. “Truly? Men go to the island?”
    “In ancient days, the authority of the Prince of Iramis was enough to keep ships from Pyramid Isle,” said Nasser. 
    “Your authority has diminished just a touch,” said