Ghost Arts Read Online Free

at
the House of Contemplation? Ah, you followed me here. That dress
looks so hot and uncomfortable. Why don’t you take it off and join
me on…”
    Morgant stepped around Caina, the black dagger in
hand. Helioran had time to blink once, and then Morgant had the
dagger resting at his throat. Caina felt the aura of arcane power
around the black weapon. She had seen Morgant use that blade to
slice through stone and steel. Helioran’s throat would offer no
obstacle.
    Helioran stared at her with shock. “You brought your
father?” Morgant rolled his eyes. “But I haven’t touched you.
So…oh, I understand. This is a robbery? Well, take what you want.
I’m not stupid enough to keep my money here.”
    “Actually,” said Caina, “we want to ask you a few
questions.”
    “Questions?” said Helioran. He looked baffled. “About
what?”
    “Who really paints your paintings, for one,” said
Morgant.
    Helioran stiffened. “You deny my artistic prowess,
sir? That is an insult! I am…”
    “I know you didn’t paint them,” said Caina. “I assume
you’re stealing them from someone, or selling them on behalf of
someone who wishes to remain anonymous. Normally, I wouldn’t care.
But one of the dead men was an acquaintance of mine, and I want to
know who killed him.”
    Helioran looked baffled again. “Dead men? What dead
men?”
    Caina blinked. “The dead slaves in the
paintings.”
    “That’s just the usual Istarish nonsense,” said
Helioran. His accent was starting to slip. “They like gladiators
and violence and such.”
    “Do you recall a painting you sold to the Slaver’s
Lash in the Masters’ Quarter?” said Caina.
    Helioran blinked. “Aye. Ugly thing. I…mean it was a
masterwork of light and shadow, of the transience of mortality
overlaid upon…”
    “I know the slave in the picture,” said Caina. “His
name was Tradek, and I found his corpse in the alley, exactly the
way the painting showed. So. I want to know who killed Tradek? Did
you?”
    Helioran stared at her…and suddenly horrified
comprehension went over his face.
    “You mean…you mean the people in the paintings are
real?” he said. His bad Nighmarian accent had vanished, and now he
spoke Istarish with a strong Szaldic accent. “I mean, they’re
paintings of real people? Real murders?”
    “Just now realizing that, are you?” said Morgant.
    “Don’t kill me,” said Helioran. “I…I didn’t know. I
swear! I didn’t even paint those pictures.”
    “Why don’t you tell us everything?” said Caina.
    “Then you’ll let me go?” said Helioran.
    Caina shrugged. “Depends on what you tell us.”
    “My name isn’t really Crisius Cormarus Helioran,”
said Helioran.
    “It isn’t?” said Morgant. “I’m shocked.”
    “My name is Sergei,” he said. “I am…well, let us say
I am a collector of antiquities and other small, valuable
objects.”
    “In other words,” said Caina, “you’re a thief.”
    “Er. Well, yes,” said Sergei, “but it’s best not to
call yourself that. Anyway. I used to practice my trade in Arzaxia,
but after the city fell to the Umbarian Order it became too
dangerous. So I escaped and wound up in Istarinmul. There is a vast
demand for slaves in the city, and I thought I would defraud the
cowled masters by taking a contract to purchase slaves from Anshan
and then absconding with the funds.”
    “Dangerous,” said Morgant. “The cowled masters don’t
like being cheated. Why, I heard they put an enormous bounty on the
head of a man who has been robbing them for the last two years.”
Caina resisted the urge to glare at him.
    “Truly,” said Sergei, “but they have bigger problems,
and I thought I could get away clean. Then I met Karzad.”
    “Karzad?” said Caina. “The man who paints the
pictures?”
    “Aye,” said Sergei. “I was sleeping in an abandoned
warehouse in the Saddaic Quarter due to…ah, a temporary shortfall
of funds, and Karzad found me.” He shivered a little.