Ghost Dagger

by Jonathan Moeller

  They crossed one of the rope bridges, the guards urging the balky mules along, and Caina made sure not to look down. Then they reached the western side of Riata, and climbed the stairs to Reorn’s hall. Caina looked at the glistening chunks of black stone as they passed. Here and there she saw the broken bases of the strange, twisted statues the Ashbringers had made by encasing their victims in liquid stone.

  A strong citadel had once stood here, no doubt the private sanctuary of a powerful Ashbringer. Kalastus’s book of pyromantic lore had come from such a long-abandoned sanctuary.

  Were any ancient horrors buried beneath this crag?

  Two men with swords stood before the doors to the hall. Local militia, Caina supposed, but the men wore the tunics and trousers of Disali clansmen beneath their leather armor. Probably some of Reorn’s distant relatives.

  “Aye, strangers?” said one of the guards in Disali. “What’s your business here?”

  “The name’s Marcus Antali,” said Halfdan, speaking Disali instead of his usual Caerish. “I am a duly licensed merchant of the Imperial Collegium of Merchants,” he produced a paper, no doubt forged, “and I’m friends with the donnarch. Old Reorn will want to see me, don’t you doubt.”

  One of the guards grunted, vanished through the hall’s double doors, and returned a few moments later to say they could enter.

  The hall was cavernous and dim, the air smelling of wood smoke and cooked meat. Elaborate carvings adorned the thick wooden pillars, and Caina’s boots clicked against the polished flagstones. An ornate wooden chair sat atop a dais, and long tables rang the length of the hall. No doubt the hall could hold hundreds of Reorn’s kinfolk when he feasted them.

  “Marcus!” boomed a deep voice.

  A giant of a man strode from a side door, his red hair shot through with gray. His clothes were the same as any other Disali townsman, though he had nicer boots, and a bronze diadem rested atop his head. Behind him hurried a pretty woman in a green gown that matched her eyes, her long wheat-colored hair brushing her shoulders.

  Halfdan bowed. “My lord donnarch.”

  “Bah!” said Reorn. “Spare me that rot!” He thumped Halfdan on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again, my friend. Did you bring some of that Caerish whiskey?”

  Halfdan grinned. “As many as my mules could carry.”

  “You’ll turn a profit on this trip, then,” said Reorn. He lowered his voice, just a tad. “And you got my…message, I trust?”

  “I did,” said Halfdan. “Never fear, my lord donnarch, we’ll clear away your problems soon enough.” He put his hand on Caina’s back and guided her forward. “This is my daughter Talia. A clever young lady, as you’ll soon see.”

  Reorn gave her a puzzled glance. Caina didn’t blame him. After all, he only saw a short girl of nineteen, with black hair and blue eyes. He didn’t know the things that she had seen.

  The things she done.

  Reorn bowed over her hand and planted a kiss on her knuckles, the hair of his mustache brushing her fingers like wire bristles.

  “Well, my dear,” he said, “if you are as clever as you are lovely, then you should be clever indeed.”

  “And who is this?” said Halfdan, looking at the woman in the green gown, who was now giving Caina a suspicious glance. “I didn’t see her the last time I came through Riata.”

  Reorn cleared his throat. “This is Maelana, the chief of my servants.”

  Caina noticed the way his pupils dilated when he looked at her, the way he held himself straighter. The chief of his servants, and probably his lover. Well, Reorn wouldn’t be the first rich man to take a servant to bed.

  “Might there be a place,” said Halfdan, “where we can speak in private?"

  “I trust Maelana completely,” said Reorn. “And she also…”

  “Husband?” said a second woman’s voice, cold and imperious. “We have guests and I was not informed?”

  A tall woman swept into the hall with regal grace, the elaborate hem of her blue gown sweeping against the flagstones. She was five or six years older than Caina, with clear skin, large gray eyes, and black hair secured in an net of delicate silver chains. She looked at Reorn, and Caina saw the sheer loathing in her face.

  Reorn sighed. “You remember my wife, Helena.”

  “That is the Lady Helena,” said the woman in High Nighmarian, “of House Tyrikon.” She cast a disdainful glance at Halfdan and Caina. “And does it befit a man of noble blood to personally greet a wandering peddler and his doxy?”

  Reorn scowled. “I have told you before, woman. This is Disalia, not Malarae. We do not stand upon the pompous ceremonies of the Nighmarian lords here. And it befits a man of noble blood to greet guests beneath his roof with courtesy, not to have his wife insult them like a screeching barmaid.”

  “Oh?” said Helena with mock sweetness. “I am so sorry, my lord husband. When you came to greet guests with your whore, I thought we had settled upon a different level of acceptable behavior.” She gave a sneering look to Caina. “I assume this peddler brought the girl for your pleasure? Truly the hall of Reorn must have a reputation as a pit of debauchery and fornication.”

  “Wife,” said Reorn, voice hard. “Excuse yourself, now.”

  Helena sniffed. “You will not always be able to speak so rudely to me, Reorn. Not once Tormalus finishes his work. Then I’ll see you beg, Reorn. You will get down your knees and beg.”

  Reorn snorted. “Unlikely.”

  “We’ll see,” said Helena, and she walked away without another word.

  “I apologize, Marcus,” said Reorn.

  “Unpleasant woman,” said Halfdan.

  Perhaps she would be more pleasant, thought Caina, if her husband wasn’t carrying on an affair with a servant. Or perhaps Helena had always been so unpleasant, and had driven Reorn away.

  “You think me a great lecher?” said Reorn to Caina, as if he had read her thoughts. “Well, perhaps I am. I married Helena six years past. Her father negotiated access to the mines of my clan, and offered his sixth daughter to seal the bargain. I was smitten with her beauty…but I fear she thought to wed a man like her father, a proud lord of high Nighmarian blood. Not a Disali clan chief.”

  Maelana sniffed. “A donnarch should be honor enough for any woman.”

  “She invited Tormalus here,” said Halfdan, “didn’t she?”

  “Aye,” said Reorn. He spat. “The damned magi are more trouble than they’re worth. Yet Lord Tyrikon is friendly to them, and Helena knows many. I ordered a new cellar dug below the southern wall. As soon as the workmen found those Saddai burial chambers, Helena called them off and sent for to the magi. Now that Tormalus villain has taken over my home, and sends servants digging through my cellars every day.”

  “We should not speak of these things here,” said Halfdan.

  “Of course,” said Reorn. “We can speak in my study. This way.”

  He led them to a narrow wooden door on the far side of the hall, while Maelana went in the opposite direction. Reorn took them into a wide hallway lined with doors, no doubt leading to the guest rooms and living quarters. The door at the end of the hall opened to a large room dominated by a desk and thick tapestries that depicted blue-painted warriors struggling against Ashbringers in black robes. The windows had a fine view of the waterfall and the churning river below.

  Maelana returned, leading a pair of servants bearing trays of wine and refreshments. She bowed and departed with the servants, leaving Caina alone with Halfdan and Reorn.

  “A good woman,” Reorn rumbled, lifting a flute of wine. “I should return Helena to her father and wed Maelana instead.”

  “Divorcing a Nightmarian noblewoman,” said Halfdan, taking a sip of the wine and nodding in approval, “will not make you any friends in the capital.”

  Caina looked at the wine in her flute. She detested wine, and preferred tea, though she doubted a Disali clan chief would serve tea to his guests, no matter how much he wished to fulfill the d
uties of a good host. The wine rippled in the light coming through the windows, looking like blood.

  Blood…

  Caina frowned, wondering why that bothered her so much.

  "To hell with them," said Reorn. "I should never have wed Helena." He snorted. "I thought by marrying a noblewoman of Nighmarian birth I would elevate myself and my clan. Well, it has brought me nothing but trouble - and now it has brought me the damned magi." He leaned forward. "I know whom you really work for, Marcus. Your daughter too, I would guess. What will the Ghosts do about the magi in Riata?"

  Halfdan took another sip of wine. "We might not need to do anything. The magi may not find anything but dust in those old Saddai chambers. Then they'll leave without any trouble. And if they find anything, some old relic of pyromantic sorcery, Tormalus could destroy it. There are honest magi."

  Caina snorted.

  But her mind remained distant, trying to unravel what troubled her.

  Reorn grunted. "Tormalus might destroy anything he finds to gain favor with the First Magus. But what if he doesn't? What if he finds some forbidden relic and tries to use it?"

  Remembering Maglarion and Kalastus, Caina knew that was a likely possibility.

  "Then," said Halfdan, "it will come down to blood."

  Caina blinked.

  "Blood," she said aloud.

  Both Halfdan and Reorn looked at her.

  "Tormalus, the master magus," she said. "Is he staying here, in your hall?"

  "Aye," said Reorn, frowning. "Four doors down, in my finest guest chamber."

  Caina shot to her feet and hurried into the corridor.

  "What is she doing?" said Reorn.

  "I've learned to trust her wits," said Halfdan.

  "I thought it was a shadow," said Caina, walking to the fourth door down from the study. "That someone was standing behind the door, listening. But it wasn't."

  She pointed at the crack between the door and the floor. A dark shadow was there, filling most of the crack. But it wasn't a shadow, but a puddle.

  A puddle that was spreading into the corridor.

  "Gods!" roared Reorn. "That's blood!"

  He pushed open the door.

  Inside Caina saw a rich bedroom, dominated by a four-poster bed with thick green blankets. A number of chests and a desk stood against one wall, covered with papers and clothes, while an open window looked out at the steep valley bellow.

  But the dead man upon the floor drew her attention.

  The corpse wore the robes of a master magus, black with a purple sash around the waist. The dead man was young for a master magus, his features stern and handsome.

  Or they would have been, had they not been contorted with sheer terror.

  An enormous pool of half-dried blood surrounded the master magus's head and neck. Caina saw red streaks where it had oozed from his nose and ears and mouth.

  "That's Tormalus," she said, voice quiet.

  "Aye," said Halfdan. "And he's been murdered under Reorn's roof."

  Chapter 3 - A Murder Of Sorcery

  "Guards!" roared Reorn. "To me! Murder!" He stalked off, face as red as his beard. "Find the villain! Find him!"

  Halfdan looked at Caina, and she nodded.

  He hurried after Reorn, leaving her alone with the dead master magus.

  She gazed at the corpse. Most women, she knew, would have felt horror and disgust upon finding a murdered man. Most men, for that matter. But Caina felt only cold.

  She had seen too many murdered men, too many bodies rent by violence.

  But her mind kept working, and she looked over Tormalus and the room. She had a gift for observation, and Halfdan wanted her to use it.

  One detail caught her attention at once.

  All that blood around Tormalus's head. Most of the blood from his body, if she guessed right. With that much blood, his torso should have been opened from throat to navel, or his head should have been gone.

  Yet she didn't seen a single mark upon him.

  There wasn't even any blood on his robes, save where they had touched the pool upon the floor.

  Caina circled around the blood, taking care to keep her boots and the hem of her skirt away from the sticky mess.

  No wounds upon him at all.

  Yet his face was twisted into a grimace, his hands hooked into claws, and Caina was certain he had died in agony.

  She looked at his feet, saw the corner of a blanket pinned beneath him. He must have been in bed, then, when it had happened. He had risen from the bed, clutching the blankets, and managed to make it three steps before he collapsed, trapping the blanket beneath him.

  So what happened to him?

  A stroke? Sometimes strokes or head injuries resulted in bleeding from the ears and nose. But that much blood? She doubted Tormalus had more than a few drops left in him. Some poisons caused massive blood loss, but certainly not that much.

  She peered at Tormalus's head, ignoring the coppery smell of blood. A grayish mush, shot through with red streaks, lay beneath his head and matted in his hair.

  Tormalus's brain had poured out his ears and nose.

  No stroke or poison did that.

  That left sorcery.

  But Caina knew more about sorcery than she wished, and she knew of no spell that killed in such a fashion. Maglarion had not killed in this manner, and neither had Kalastus. Nor had any of the other magi Caina had faced.

  So what had killed Tormalus? Had one of his own spells backfired?

  She heard noise from the hall, the tramp of boots and the shouts of men. Reorn and Halfdan were returning with the militia. Caina had only a few moments left.

  She took a quick look around the room, hoping to find some other trace of what had killed Tormalus.

  Two wooden chests and a desk stood against the far wall. To judge from the scratches below the chests, Tormalus had brought them with him from Dizalis. Both chests had been opened, and stacks of paper rested atop the desk. Someone had rifled through them. Tormalus? But why would Tormalus have gone through his own possessions in a hurry?

  And why would he have done so before going to bed? To judge from the blanket pinned beneath him, he had died seconds after rising this morning. Had someone broken into the room and searched through Tormalus's possessions?

  "Yes," muttered Caina. "That makes perfect sense. Someone broke into a master magus's room while he slept, stole something from him, and then made his brains leak out his ears."

  She heard footsteps and realized that she was out of time. Caina stepped over Tormalus's corpse and into the hall, covering her mouth with her hands. A moment later Reorn and a troop of militiamen hurried into sight, followed by Halfdan.

  "Daughter," said Halfdan. "There you are. Why didn't you follow me?"

  Caina buried her face in his shoulder. "Oh, father! That poor man. I just...I just couldn't look away, father. I couldn't look away."

  Halfdan patted her shoulder. "Well, Reorn has things well in hand. Let's go to the hall and you can tell me all about it."

  "In a moment, father," said Caina, slipping from his arms. "I want to speak to the servants first."

  ###

  An hour later she found Halfdan sitting before one of the hall's hearths, sipping at a glass of wine.

  "I do not care," said Halfdan as she sat next to him, "for Disali wine. Entirely too bitter. Reorn stocks a nice cellar, but Caerish wine is far superior." He took another sip. "What did the servants say?"

  "They heard Tormalus screaming in the night," said Caina.

  "As if he was being murdered?" said Halfdan.

  Caina shook his head. "Like he was having a nightmare. That's what the servants thought."

  "So what do you think?" said Halfdan.

  "Some sort of sorcery killed him," said Caina. "Something that made all the blood and brains pour out of his ears and nose. I've never seen anything like it. And someone broke into his room and took something while he slept. I'm not sure what, though."

  She gazed into th
e flames, thinking hard.

  "One of the other magi?" said Halfdan.

  "I doubt it," said Caina. "Tormalus brought a dozen servants with him, but no other magi. Probably wanted to claim all the glory for himself."

  "So," said Halfdan, "no poison would have killed Tormalus like that, and no form of sorcery with which I am familiar. What does that leave?"

  "It means," said Caina, "that he did find something in those Saddai ruins. Some weapon or relic of old sorcery. And it killed him, and someone took it."

  "Or someone took it and used it to kill him," said Halfdan.

  “That seems more likely,” said Caina. “If he really did find a sorcerous weapon in the ruins, half the magi of the Magisterium would be willing to kill each other over it. And anyone else who got in their way. Or perhaps he tried to use the thing and accidentally killed himself, and someone took the opportunity and seized the weapon after he perished.” She shook her head. “But it doesn’t make sense. The Ashbringers were pyromancers. They used fire sorcery to kill their victims.” She had seen it firsthand, watched as sorcerous fires devoured the flesh of screaming men. “Whatever happened to Tormalus…all the blood and brains pouring out of his ears, whatever it is, it’s not pyromancy. Something else.” She shook her head. “But who else could have done it? Tormalus didn’t bring any magi with him, and it’s not as if…”

  Angry voices reached her ears, and Caina fell silent.

  Reorn strode into the hall, his face thunderous, and a moment later Helena stalked after him.

  “Be silent,” said Reorn. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Doesn’t concern me?” said Helena, her voice rising with every word. “Doesn’t concern me? A master magus of the Magisterium is murdered under our roof, and you have the temerity to think that it doesn’t concern me?”

  “The matter will be settled,” said Reorn.

  “By who? You?” said Helena. “I think not. Murder is a capital crime, and a petty donnarch cannot judge it. The Lord Governor in Dizalis shall have to be notified. And Tormalus was a master magus. The Magisterium’s Motherhouse in Artifel shall receive word, and they will send out their own investigator.”