Ghost Relics by Jonathan Moeller Page B

women of such loveliness in this benighted city.” 
    “No, we’re not sisters,” said Caina. 
    “Friends, then?” said Khamil. “Perhaps you can make her see wisdom, yes? Great rewards will come if she but opens my chest.”
    “Your chest, sir?” said Caina. “Are you offering your heart so readily?” Azaces snorted. “I am told that is unwise.”
    Khamil laughed. “Clever. No, I merely have a jammed lock, and I wish for Mistress Strake to open it.”
    “No,” said Nerina, still scribbling her equations. 
    “Very well,” said Khamil, bowing. “Until next time.”
    He left without another word. 
    “Friendly fellow,” said Caina, crossing to the window and peering through the shutters. She saw Khamil pacing back and forth in the street below. At first she thought he was working up the nerve to come back, but she saw him looking at the windows and the doors, marking their positions.
    As if he planned to break in later. 
    He saw her looking, grinned, and walked away.
    “He is not,” said Nerina. She turned away from the slate, wincing a bit as she put the weight on her left leg. “He talks too much. He’s boring. Additionally, his beard is not evenly trimmed, with creates a displeasing mathematical disharmony in his appearance.”
    Caina looked at Azaces, who rolled his eyes.
    “Additionally,” said Nerina, adjusting one of the instruments on her table, “he used to work with my father.”
    “Did he, now?” said Caina, her amusement vanishing. Nerina’s father Niall Strake had been one of the most successful slave traders in Istarinmul until his enemies had assassinated him. He had also forcibly addicted Nerina to wraithblood in order to keep his brilliant daughter under control. Any associate of Niall Strake’s would be dangerous.
    “He didn’t mention it,” said Nerina. “Likely he thought I do not remember him, but I do. Khamil is a mercenary and a petty thief…hardly a daring master thief like the Balarigar.” Again Azaces snorted. “He used to do Father’s dirty work for him – intimidating people, minor robbery, forgeries, and so forth. After Father was assassinated, Khamil fled for Anshan, lest Father’s enemies come for him. I am frankly surprised he returned to Istarinmul. It seemed most improbable.” 
    “What did he want?” said Caina.
    “For me to pick a lock,” said Nerina. “Apparently he has a Strigosti trapbox with a jammed lock.”
    “That’s a peculiar thing for a common thief to have,” said Caina. “They are hideously expensive.” “The balance of probability indicates that he stole it,” said Nerina. “He claims he joined an occultist’s expedition outside of Anshan, one that raided the ruins of Old Maat. Supposedly the box is full of ancient Maatish artifacts that…”
    “What?” said Caina.
    Nerina trailed off, and Azaces looked at her. 
    “The last time you looked like that,” said Nerina, “I was almost killed.”
    “Maatish artifacts,” said Caina. “You’re sure he said that?” Nerina nodded. “That’s not good.”
    “Why not?” said Nerina. “Surely some dusty old statues and tablets are no threat to anyone.”
    “Maat was ruled by necromancer-priests of great power, so powerful they tried to turn some of their pharaohs into living gods,” said Caina. “They left some of their relics behind, scrolls of potent sorcery and weapons of great arcane strength. They’re extremely dangerous.”
    “How dangerous?” said Nerina.
    “One scroll,” said Caina. “The spell upon one scroll almost killed everyone in Malarae.” She remembered Maglarion’s voice, remembered the sickly green light of his massive bloodcrystal. “The day of the golden dead? All those corpses rising in golden fire to kill?” Nerina and Azaces both looked grim at the memory. No one who had lived through the day of the golden dead would ever forget it. “That was based upon spells of Maatish necromancy.” The Moroaica herself, the woman who had burned