Ghost in the Blood (The Ghosts)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  A hot bath, and she felt much better. Nightmares she had, but exercise and a hot bath did much to drive them from her mind. She put on a simple dress and cloak and went to the common room in search of food.

  Zorgi bustled over, smiling beneath his huge mustache. “Ah, fair maiden. You rise from your sleep at last, like the Queen of Cinders herself.”

  “The Queen of Cinders?” said Caina. “I hope that isn’t a commentary on my complexion, master innkeeper.”

  “Of course not. It’s an old Szaldic story,” said Zorgi. “The Queen of Cinders offended a powerful Solmonari, and he trapped her behind a wall of living flame. Only the love of a truehearted champion could break the spell.” He winked. “Perhaps you found your own truehearted champion last night, eh?”

  “Perhaps,” said Caina. The story reminded her too much of Kalastus and his pyromancy. "But for now, I would settle for finding some lunch.”

  “Of course,” said Zorgi. “I shall fetch you something at once.” He smiled again and hurried to the kitchens. Caina watched him go. Men never smiled that much unless they had something to hide.

  Pain, perhaps.

  Ark sat at a table, drinking a mug of Zorgi’s famed beer, and she sat down across from him.

  “I thought,” said Ark, “that you would sleep the day away.” A smile flickered across his hard face. “A merchant’s spoiled daughter, indeed.”

  “It is all part of the masquerade,” said Caina. “Besides, it was a long night.”

  Ark grunted an acknowledgment. “And dreams, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Caina, her voice low. “And you?”

  Ark shook his head. “I have not slept well since we came to Marsis.” He drew a dagger and examined the edge. “Too many memories. Most of them bad.”

  Caina hesitated. “My father’s friend. The locksmith. What do you think of him?”

  Ark shrugged. “He’s a madman, that’s plain, but skilled at his craft, otherwise he’d be starving in the streets. Your father says he’s reliable. That’s good enough for me.”

  “He counts the number of children who go past his window,” said Caina. “He says the numbers have gone down, and thinks that they’ve been taken.”

  “He told you that?” said Ark. “He counts everything, obsessively. When I first met him, he tried to count the links in my mail shirt.”

  “What about beggars?” said Caina. “Have you seen any in Marsis?”

  Ark frowned. “Now that I think about it, no.”

  “What about five years ago?” said Caina.

  “There were beggars everywhere,” said Ark. “At the gates, in the markets, at the docks…but now, I haven’t seen a single one.” He leaned towards her. “You think…ah, your father’s enemy has taken them?”

  “I don’t know,” said Caina. “The locksmith thinks so. But beggars? Surely they would make poor merchandise. Why go to the bother?”

  Zorgi returned, bearing a plate of food. “Some bread and cheese, my fair maiden. And some mixed wine, since your father says you have little head for spirits.”

  “Thank you,” said Caina. “Master innkeeper, where are all the beggars?”

  Zorgi blinked. “Your pardon?”

  “Beggars,” said Caina, giving an airy wave of her hand. “My father has taken me all over the Empire, and every city that I have ever seen has had beggars. I always give them a coin at the gate. It’s what I do whenever I come to a new city.”

  “It grieves me that I cannot answer your question,” said Zorgi. “In years past Marsis had many beggars. They would gather at my back door after sunset, and I would give them the day’s leftovers, anything I could not use for tomorrow’s meals.” He shrugged, and Caina saw something like unease in his dark eyes. “Yet in recent years fewer have come, and no beggars now come at all. I cannot say why. Perhaps they have all found work.”

  “Yes, I am sure that is it,” said Caina. “Thank you.”

  She ate, thinking over what Zorgi had said, while Ark drank his beer and sharpened his daggers.

  “Speaking of my father,” said Caina, “where is he?”

  Ark shrugged. “He went to speak with the sources he mentioned last night.”

  Sources who knew something about sorcery. Caina suppressed a shiver. She had known several experts of arcane science, and none of them had been good men. Several had been insane, murderously so.

  She thought of the scar on her belly, and tried to push the memory away.

  The Inn’s door swung open, and Halfdan entered, resplendent in his master merchant’s robe. He crossed the room and stood over their table.

  “Ah, daughter, you’re up,” said Halfdan. “Sleeping until noon. A sure sign that you require a husband. But, never fear, I have good news for you.”

  Caina lifted her eyebrows. “What’s that?”

  “Tomorrow night, I have secured invitations to the house of Lady Messana Heliorus. Like Lady Agria, she is holding a grand ball.” Halfdan smiled, his eyes glinting. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.”

  “Oh, I shall,” said Caina. “I have heard ever so much about Lady Messana, and I am looking forward to meeting her. And touring her magnificent home.”

  Ark snorted and took another drink of beer.

  “That leaves tonight free,” said Caina. “What shall we do? A quiet dinner at the Inn?”

  “I have something a little more exciting in mind,” said Halfdan. “Do you still have that gown you wore, when we visited the Ragman’s Inn?”

  Halfdan meant the ragged armor and clothes of a mercenary. “I most certainly do. You taught me not to be wasteful, after all.”

  “Good, good,” said Halfdan. “I think we’ll pay a visit to an old friend of mine. One who can shed light upon certain business concerns.”

  A source who knew something about arcane sciences.

  Caina forced a smile. “How wonderful.”

  ###

  After dark, she changed.

  Caina donned the studded leather armor, the sword and dagger, the grimy clothes, and the ragged cloak of a poor mercenary, the same clothes she had worn at the Ragman’s Inn. She hooked a grapnel into the bedroom window, and went down the rope and into the darkened gardens. She paused only long enough to rake her hair over her face and to rub some dirt across her jaw and cheeks.

  Then she vanished into the night.

  Ark and Halfdan waited a short distance away, lurking in the mouth of a shadowed alley. Ark looked as he always did, though he had traded his chain mail for a leather jerkin and a cloak that looked as if it had been used as a horse blanket. Halfdan had abandoned the rich robe of a master merchant for the leather and wool of a mercenary, weapons hanging at his belt.

  “Who comes?” said Ark. “Name yourself.”

  “Aye, damn and blast you,” said Caina in thick Caerish, “I’ll walk where I please.”

  Ark stepped forward, drawing his broadsword, until Halfdan’s hand settled on his wrist.

  “Glad you could join us,” said Halfdan, in the same accented Caerish.

  Ark looked at her, blinked, and let go of his sword. “I shall never get used to how you can simply cast off one persona and take up another.”

  “Practice,” said Caina. “Shall we go?”

  Halfdan nodded and led them away from the Citadel and the mansions of the rich and into the docks. The homes of the lords and wealthy merchants had a silent dignity after dark. Not so the docks. Firelight and noise poured from every tavern and every public house, voices and laughter and music and the occasional scream blending together. Guards stood before the warehouses, weapons in hand, watching the streets with cold eyes. Gangs of youths prowled through the lanes, looking for trouble. The slender shadow of Black Angel Tower jutted over the rooftops, visible even at night.

  A dangerous neighborhood. The sort of place a press-gang might operate with impunity. Or, perhaps, a gang of well-organized slavers.

  Halfdan turned down a narrow lane. The houses here looked decrepit, their wall
s crumbling, their doors and windows gaping black holes. The docks stank of salt and tar and dead fish, but the air here smelled different. Like rotting meat, perhaps, mingled with a chemical stench.

  Caina shared a look with Ark.

  “These houses are abandoned,” said Caina.

  “Aye,” said Halfdan. “No one comes here. Save the most desperate.”

  “This source of yours,” said Caina. “Who is he?”

  “A former brother of the Magisterium,” said Halfdan.

  Caina’s breath hissed through her teeth.

  “He was an influential master within the Magisterium, until he made the mistaken of using his sorcery to force a woman into his bed. As it happens, the woman was the favorite mistress of the First Magus. The First Magus took a…rather fearful revenge, and expelled the man from the Magisterium. Now he lives here, eking out an existence by selling his skills to the highest bidder.”

  “And you trust this man?” said Caina.

  “Not in the least,” said Halfdan. “He’s quite dangerous.”

  “A rogue magus?” said Caina. “How do we know he isn’t working with Icaraeus?”

  “For the same reason that we can extract useful information from him,” said Halfdan.

  “And that is?”

  “He’s a coward,” said Halfdan. “He’s only alive because the First Magus wanted him to suffer, and he knows it. He won’t dare do anything to draw the displeasure of the Magisterium. Or the magistrates, or the Ghosts, for that matter. And here we are.”

  The lane ended in a sagging wooden house. It loomed over the street like a dead tree, the chemical stench stronger here. Caina felt a constant faint tingle against her skin, and realized that this former brother of the Magisterium had laid protective spells over his home. Halfdan strode up to the door and pounded, the echoes ringing.

  A little iron plate in the door slid aside. “Leave me, dog!” The voice bubbled and rasped, as if choked with phlegm. “Return on the morrow, and I might deign to see you. If you are worthy of receiving my assistance.”

  “Nicorus,” said Halfdan, switching to High Nighmarian. “So good to see you.”

  A horrified gasp came from within the door. “You!”

  “No need for fear,” said Halfdan. “I only wish to talk.”

  “Leave me at once! I dare not speak with you, I dare not. The Magisterium and the Ghosts are mortal enemies. If the First Magus learned that I aided you, he would kill me. Leave me!”

  “You’ve aided me before,” said Halfdan, “and you’re still alive, aren’t you? But refuse me, and you shall earn the displeasure of the Ghosts. And that might be harder to survive.”

  “Very well,” said Nicorus. “But your pet thugs stay outside.” The door rattled open.

  “No,” said Halfdan.

  Caina followed Halfdan and Ark into a cavernous, dimly lit room. Wooden shelves lined the walls, laden with jars, vials, books, scrolls, and bones. Various preserved organs and dead animals floated in jars of brine. The only light came from dying coals in a pair of corroded bronze braziers. The air in here stank of chemicals, rotted meat, and mildew. Nicorus himself was a squat man in a greasy brown robe, his skin the color and texture of kneaded dough.

  His eyebrows were missing, and he had neither beard nor hair.

  Caina suddenly grasped the nature of the First Magus’s vengeance and shuddered.

  “What do you wish of me, Halfdan?” said Nicorus, white hands brushing against the side of his filthy robe. “Be quick about it.”

  “I wish only the answers to a few simple questions,” said Halfdan.

  “Questions, questions,” said Nicorus. “You Ghosts are forever asking questions.” His glittering eyes settled upon Caina and narrowed for an instant. “Do you ever like the answers you find?”

  “That would depend upon the answers you give me,” said Halfdan. “I need to know about the local chapter of the Magisterium.”

  “No,” said Nicorus, taking a step back. “No. I dare not anger the Magisterium further. Their anger has already cost me too much.”

  “And their anger may cost you more, if you don’t answer my questions,” said Halfdan.

  Nicorus bared his yellowed teeth and lifted his hand in the beginning of a spell. Caina reached for her weapons. “Is that a threat?”

  Halfdan remained unruffled. “Merely a promise. Out of curiosity, have you heard of a man named Naelon Icaraeus?”

  “Lord Naelon Icaraeus, you mean?” Nicorus tilted his head to the side. “The eldest son of the disgraced Haeron Icaraeus, as I recall. Like his father, he wants to be Emperor, and he now commands the slaver gangs of the western sea.”

  “And now he is using sorcery, as well,” said Halfdan.

  Nicorus sneered. “What is that to me? Do you think I am fool enough to aid him? You Ghosts have been seeking him for years, and sooner or later you will catch him. I have nothing to do with him.”

  “No,” said Halfdan. “But suppose the Magisterium starts to investigate tales of sorcery-wielding slavers. And they know a former master of their order resides in Marsis. Who do you think they will blame?”

  Nicorus said nothing, but Caina saw the sweat bead on his pallid forehead.

  “So, I’m not threatening you, Nicorus,” said Halfdan. “I merely offer you a chance to escape the Magisterium’s wrath.” He gave a lazy shrug and turned towards the door. “But if you don’t want my help…”

  Caina stifled a grin.

  “Damn you,” hissed Nicorus. “Very well. Ask your questions.”

  “Icaraeus is using sorcery. I want him, and I want his sorcerer,” said Halfdan. “Do you think someone from the local chapter could be aiding him?”

  “Perhaps,” said Nicorus. “Describe this sorcery to me.”

  “My associate saw it,” said Halfdan, nodding at Caina. “He will describe it to you.”

  “He?” said Nicorus. “Do not lie to me, Halfdan.” His eyes fixed upon Caina. “A woman Ghost? A harlot, no doubt. Seducing unwitting fools, and opening her legs for them so that she might devour their secrets whole.”

  “As if you would know,” said Caina.

  Nicorus shivered, his snarl returning, and Caina felt a spike of sorcerous power against her skin.

  “Enough,” said Halfdan. “Tell him.”

  Caina did. She described the bracers that Tigrane and Icaraeus had worn, and told Nicorus how her knife had twisted and shattered when it struck Icaraeus’s skin. She said nothing about Lady Agria’s set of bracers. If Nicorus was involved in this business, she did not want to tip him off.

  “Indeed,” said Nicorus. “Well, Halfdan, you needn’t fear. No brother of the local Magisterium created these bracers.”

  “And why not?” said Caina. “I’ve seen magi use their spells to block steel weapons before. And the Magisterium commonly produces enspelled items for sale.”

  “Yes,” said Nicorus, “and no. We…that is, my former brethren do employ novices to create enspelled items for sale. The glass spheres, for instance. But they would not make any device that could potentially be used against us. The First Magus has forbidden it.” His thick, pale lips twisted. “Besides, the local chapter was tainted by my downfall. All of them wish assignment elsewhere, and none of them would dare to aggravate the First Magus by producing illicit items.”

  “So if the magi didn’t create these bracers, who did?” said Caina.

  Nicorus gave a lazy shrug. “Who can say? The brothers of the Magisterium are not the only practitioners of the arcane sciences in the world. But I’m sure I don’t know who could have created those bracers.”

  “You’re lying,” said Caina.

  “A pushy harlot you have brought me, Halfdan,” said Nicorus. “Demanding answers and offering nothing in exchange. I may know more about the sorcery that created those bracers. But answers are not free.”

  “You may want to reconsider that,” said Halfdan. “If the Magisterium learns of…”

  “Bah,” said Nicoru
s. “Let them. You want Icaraeus’s head upon a platter so that you can present it to your beloved Emperor. But if I withhold my answers from you, he might escape the city before you catch him. I fear the Magisterium, yes…but you want Icaraeus even more.”

  Caina blinked. Halfdan had been right. This fat, wheezing wreck of a man was far more dangerous than he looked.

  “So,” said Halfdan. “What do you want?”

  “You want an answer…and I want an answer,” said Nicorus. “A question, answered to my satisfaction. You may refuse it, if you wish…but then I shall tell you nothing.”

  “Very well,” said Halfdan. “What do you want to know?”

  “Oh, no, not you,” said Nicorus. He pointed. “Her.”

  “You want to ask me a question?” said Caina. “Why?”

  “That is my own business.”

  Caina glanced at Ark, and at Halfdan, and nodded. “Very well. Ask.”

  Nicorus stepped closer, his rank smell, a mixture of mildew and sweat, flooding her nostrils. “Tell me. What happened to you?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Caina. Her hands wanted to go to her weapons, and she forced them to remain still.

  “I could feel you coming,” hissed Nicorus. “Your presence crackled against my wards, yet you are no magus. I could not figure out why. Then I realized it. You’ve been marked. Scarred. Someone once worked powerful sorcery on you, and left you altered forever. Probably for the worse.”

  Caina said nothing.

  “So. That’s what I want to know. What they did to you, and who did it.”

  Caina stared at him for a moment. “Maglarion."

  Nicorus blinked. "Maglarion? The great necromancer?"

  "When I was a child, he carved out my womb and used it to fuel some sort of spell.” The memories of lying upon that cold metal table, screaming as the knives cut through skin and muscle, screaming until her voice had broken, filled her mind in a rush. But she would not show any weakness to this contemptible creature, and she kept her expression cold and hard. “That’s what happened, and that’s who did it. So. Your information?”