Ghost Nails by Jonathan Moeller Page B

and
certainly I had more money than most of the citizens of Istarinmul.
Yet wealth could turn to poverty in an instant, and good fortune
could crumble to ashes in but a moment.
    The death of my husband and the near loss of my sons
had proven that.
    I bade one of my maids to fetch coffee for Caina, and
then my eyes turned to the windows. “Ah. He is here.”
    “Good luck,” said Caina.
    I smiled at her, took a deep breath to compose
myself, and started towards the door.
    It opened before I arrived, and a slave clad in a
fine gray robe strode inside, a silver collar around his neck. A
portable writing desk hung from a strap across his shoulders. After
him came two watchmen, armored in leather and armed with short
swords and cudgels.
    Korim Murasku, noble of Istarinmul and Hakim of the
Cyrican Bazaar, came after him.
    He was an enormous man, at least three times my
weight, and his ornamented robes made him look rather like an
ambulatory golden ball. In his right hand he carried his ceremonial
rod of office, and in his left hand he leaned upon a heavy cane. A
bushy black beard failed to mask his triple chin, and his
bronze-colored skin gleamed with sweat, a steady wheeze coming from
his lips. If the Hakim did not start taking better care of himself,
in a few more years he would not be able to walk at all.
    I bowed deeply and kissed his rod of office. “My lord
Hakim. You honor my humble establishment with your presence.”
    “Mistress Damla,” he said, his voice a watery rumble.
“You look lovelier every time I see you.” Thankfully, he had never
tried to seduce me, most likely because his vices lay in the
direction of gluttony and avarice, not lechery. “You are still
wearing widow’s black. You remain unwed, yes?”
    “I fear so, my lord,” I said. “Alas, I am an old
widow, and no men turn their eyes in my direction.”
    Korim rumbled a laugh. “And you wish for your sons to
receive their inheritance, yes?”
    “I can conceal nothing from your insight, my lord,” I
said.
    “See that you do not forget it,” said Korim, half in
jest, half in earnest. I lifted the leather pouch containing my
yearly bribe, and at once Korim’s scribe collected it. “I should
like to sample your wares, mistress Damla. I cannot have anyone
selling shoddy merchandise in the Cyrican Bazaar.”
    “I should think not, my lord,” I said. “This way, if
you please.”
    I led Korim and his party across the floor to the
booth I had reserved for him. It was my largest booth, one that
would allow the Hakim to slide his bulk behind its table without
undue difficulty. Caina sat cross-legged upon one of the low
cushions nearby, sipping coffee and watching Korim over her cup.
The Hakim took no notice of her and heaved himself into the booth
with a sigh.
    I clapped my hands twice, and one of my maids, a
young Istarish woman named Ismala, came forth from the kitchen,
holding the tray that we had prepared. It held a large cup of
coffee and a double-sized cake, spiced with cinnamon and glazed
with sugar. Korim’s eyes positively lit up when he saw it. I
suppose I could have dispensed with the bribe and simply sent him
cakes every week.
    I smiled and stepped to the side to let Ismala past,
and I saw Caina look from the cake to Korim and back again, her
eyes narrowing. I looked at the cake myself. It seemed perfectly
fine to me, the sugary glaze glittering in the sunlight coming
through the windows.
    Caina stood up, took a quick step forward, and went
right into Ismala’s path.
    “Wait,” I said. “You’re…”
    They both went down in a tangled heap, the cake
bouncing away, coffee spilling across the floor. Ismala let out a
surprised squawk. Caina rolled to her side and went to one knee,
looking around.
    “What is this, then?” said Korim, scowling. “Are all
your maids so clumsy, Damla?”
    Ismala looked at me in dismay. “Forgive me, mistress.
I was clumsy, I…”
    “No,” said Caina in her disguised voice, rising to
her feet. She