Ghost in the Maze by Jonathan Moeller

guards, and watched as Sulaman and his bodyguard Mazyan made their way to the poet’s dais. Sulaman was tall and thin, clad in a simple brown robe, with a close-cropped black beard shot through with gray and an ascetic, scholarly look to his face. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five, and Caina had never been able to pin down his age. Mazyan had the look of a killer and the build of a boulder, a perpetual scowl on his face as his hard eyes swept the crowd. 
    “Tonight, my guests,” said Damla, and the crowds filling the tables and booths fell silent, “tonight we are honored by the presence of the poet Sulaman, and he shall recite for us the great epic of the Padishah’s seven wars against the Shahenshah of Anshan, and how…”
    “Forgive me, mistress Damla,” said Sulaman, his voice quiet and deep. “By your pleasure, I shall recite a different epic, the tale of the fall of Iramis and the creation of the Desert of Candles.”
    He glanced at Caina as he spoke, just for a moment.
    “Of course, master poet,” said Damla. “As you think best.”
    Sulaman nodded, and Mazyan seated himself on the edge of the dais, tucking a small drum between his knees. He beat a steady rhythm upon the drum, slow and solemn, like the tramp of an army upon the march. 
    Or a funeral dirge.
    Sulaman began to speak, reciting verses in the formal structure of Istarish poetry. He spoke of the city of Iramis, ruled by its benevolent Prince, its fields the most fertile and prosperous in all the world. Slavery was not permitted in Iramis by decree of its Prince, and yet Iramis’s fields fed all of Istarinmul and half the world, and the city’s loremasters used their sorcerous powers for the benefit of mankind, defending humanity from the dark powers of the netherworld.
    And then Callatas had come. 
    From Iramis he had demanded a single child from every family as a slave. The Prince refused and raised his armies to march against Istarinmul. And in response Callatas used his sorcery to destroy Iramis and her armies, to burn the magnificent city and its people to ashes in the space of a single heartbeat. In Sulaman’s words Caina could glimpse the towers of golden stone, could see the flames devouring flesh and stone and hear the people screaming.
    But she did not need to imagine it. She had seen it in her dreams, a vision summoned by the strange spirit with eyes of smokeless flame. 
    The wrath of Callatas’s sorcery burned the farmlands of Iramis as well, transforming them into the barren Desert of Candles. From that day forward not a single drop of rain had fallen upon the lands of Istarinmul, perhaps a punishment from the Living Flame for Callatas’s great crime. The Slavers’ Brotherhood had grown more and more powerful, kidnapping thousands of slaves to work the fields and feed the city. And Callatas grew stronger, ruling Istarinmul with a fist of iron as his influence grew ever wider. 
    At last Sulaman finished his poem, and silence fell over the House of Agabyzus, the crowd staring at him.
    And then to Caina’s surprise, they started to applaud, rising to their feet. 
    The Istarish enjoyed their epic poems, even the grim ones.
    Many merchants made their way to the dais, dropping gold and silver coins in a bowl Mazyan produced. Caina rose to her feet and waited until the crowds had thinned, and then made her way to the dais. Mazyan scowled at her, and Sulaman looked at her with his deep brown eyes.
    “Master poet,” said Caina.
    “Master courier,” said Sulaman. She dropped a gold coin in his bowl. “Thank you for your largess.” 
    “Thank you for the poem,” said Caina. 
    “I am pleased it did not trouble you,” said Sulaman, “as did the poem of Istarr and the seven Demon Princes of old.” 
    “I have more things to trouble me,” said Caina, “than merely poems. Though I suspect the poem will trouble you.”
    “Oh?” said Sulaman, raising an eyebrow, while Mazyan scowled and reached for