Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7)

by Jonathan Moeller

“I am glad you are well,” said Martin. “Tylas said there had been another attack.”

  Claudia nodded. “Just one, this time. The Silent Hunter wasn’t terribly competent. Tylas and the Guard made short work of him.”

  “We have killed so many Silent Hunters,” said Martin. “You would think the Order would run out of them sooner or later.”

  “It appears the necromantic spell to create them is rather simple,” said Claudia, “and can be worked by even a magus of mediocre skill. I fear as many of the Silent Hunters as we kill, the Umbarians can simply create more of them.”

  “Did he know anything useful?” said Martin.

  Claudia sighed. “Only things we already suspected. Cassander had indeed set a trap for Caina in the Alqaarin harbor. She must have escaped it, because Cassander left the city in pursuit of her.” Claudia hesitated. “The Silent Hunter claimed there was a woman in red armor with Cassander, advising him.”

  Martin frowned. “Red armor?”

  Claudia nodded. “Like the Huntress.”

  “We shot her with a ballista bolt and she fell off the side of a mountain,” said Martin. “It is hard to see how she could recover from that.”

  “The Huntress’s nagataaru could rebuild her,” said Claudia. “Caina thought it could, anyway.”

  “She thought it would take several years,” said Martin.

  “Apparently, she was wrong,” said Claudia. “Did she tell you why she was leaving Istarinmul?”

  Martin shook his head. “She told me the same thing she told you. She had found something that would disrupt Callatas’s Apotheosis, and had gone to find it. If the Huntress has been advising Cassander, she must have sent him after her. I suppose there is nothing we can do to aid the circlemaster. It is out of our hands, and we have our own problems.”

  “How was the day with Erghulan?” said Claudia.

  Martin’s mouth twisted with disgust. “Gladiatorial games. The realm of Istarinmul totters upon the brink of ruin, and the Grand Wazir decided to spend the day at the games.”

  “Likely he sponsored them to appease the populace, to keep them from rioting,” said Claudia.

  “Likely,” said Martin, “but Tanzir and his allies are marching for Istarinmul. If Erghulan is not careful he shall find himself deposed as Grand Wazir and his head upon the executioner’s block. He ought to be gathering troops and allies. Instead he spent the day at the games with all the ambassadors and wazirs, telling his interminable hunting stories over and over again. The man is a fool.”

  “A fool, perhaps, but a confident one,” said Claudia. “He will not act because he believes Callatas’s sorcery will destroy the rebels utterly.”

  “He may be right,” said Martin. “If he is, then we are the fools, not Erghulan.” He sighed. “Yet perhaps that will aid our mission.”

  “How?” said Claudia.

  “With Erghulan and Callatas focused upon the rebels,” said Martin, “they have paid no heed to the civil war within the Empire. The Starfall Straits have remained closed to the Order. Cassander has been gone for nearly two months now. Without Cassander whispering in the Grand Wazir’s ear every day, I doubt Erghulan has spared the Umbarians more than a thought since the destruction of the Inferno. Our task was to make sure that the Padishah did not ally with the Order.” He shrugged. “If Cassander gets killed chasing Caina, we may succeed through Erghulan’s sheer laziness.”

  “Unless Cassander slays Caina,” said Claudia, “and Callatas keeps his promise to open the Straits in exchange for her death. Or Callatas finishes his Apotheosis and destroys us all.”

  “Sorcerous catastrophes are beyond my authority,” said Martin with a flicker of humor. “Let us hope that Caina kills Cassander, or that he chokes upon his dinner.”

  Claudia laughed, harder than she expected. The image of Cassander Nilas, the grim lord and magus of the Umbarian Order, choking to death on a piece of fruit was more absurd that she would have expected. “We are not that fortunate, husband. If we were, then…”

  A spasm went through her back muscles, and she grimaced, grabbing at the edge of the table for support.

  Martin was at her side in an instant. “Is it time?”

  Claudia blinked. “What? No, no. The baby’s not coming. Not yet, anyway. My back seized up a little, that’s all.” She sighed. “I wish the baby would come already. Gods, but I want to get this over with.”

  “I wish you were safe back in Malarae,” said Martin. “I wish I had not brought you here.”

  “No,” said Claudia. “If you hadn’t brought me, the Silent Hunters would have killed you months ago. No, we shall see this through to the end. Together.”

  Martin nodded and took her hand, and she squeezed his fingers.

  She left unspoken the very real possibility that they might die together.

  Chapter 4: Victorious

  Cassander Nilas felt…off. As if he had been shattered and put back together incorrectly.

  That should have troubled him. He knew it ought to have troubled him.

  Instead he found the sensation fascinating.

  He walked across the arid plains of the Trabazon steppes, the grass crunching beneath his boots, his long black coat rippling around his legs in the dry wind. He had not seen anyone else today, whether travelers or nomads or bandits, which was a pity because he really wanted to kill someone.

  That was new.

  Cassander had been in the Umbarian Order for most of his adult life, rising to high rank, and an Umbarian did not reach high rank without a great deal of ruthlessness. Cassander had killed enemies, repeatedly and without hesitation, and had no qualms about killing people if it was the most efficient way of achieving his goals. True, he had enjoyed killing his enemies, but the killing itself had simply been another chore to be done, like lacing his boots or maintaining his defensive wards.

  Now, though…he enjoyed killing on the visceral level that some men enjoyed drink or drugs or sharing a bed with a woman.

  It was possible that he had done something to himself.

  He smiled at the thought.

  The motion hurt. The explosion at the Corsair’s Rest had cost Cassander his left arm and most of the left side of his face. A reservoir of life force in one of his bloodcrystals had kept him alive and lucid. He had stumbled away from Rumarah and into a band of Istarish nomads.

  Cassander had killed them all…and from their corpses he rebuilt himself.

  He smiled again, flexing the fingers of his new left hand. It was a little bigger than his original hand, and his balance was off. Yet it functioned without any problems. Using necromancy, he had taken the arm from a dead Istarish nomad and grafted it to his charred shoulder, the necromantic power weaving together flesh and bone. He had done the same for the damaged side of his face, grafting skin over the charred flesh.

  It hurt quite a lot. Yet the pain seemed…abstracted. Almost as if it was happening to someone else. He found the pain fascinating now, the same way death fascinated him.

  It was possible, Cassander supposed, that the necromancy had warped something within him, had given him a lust for violence and death that he had not previously possessed.

  It was just as well.

  Unless Cassander missed his guess, he was going to have to kill a lot of people soon.

  “You keep smiling,” said a woman’s voice, low and sardonic and amused.

  Cassander looked at his companion. She was a young woman with a pretty face, her eyes bright and blue and her hair long and blond. The woman wore armor the color of blood, and a Ghost shadow-cloak hung from her shoulders, rippling and snapping in the wind like a haze of shadow.

  She looked young and harmless, but Kalgri the Red Huntress was neither.

  “And why should I not?” said Cassander. He knew Kalgri was dangerous, that he should not trifle with her, but for some reason he could not make himself care. “It is a fine and lovely day, and I am walking through the countryside with a beautiful woman at my side.” His voice had
changed as well, becoming a hard rasp. Likely some of the silver fire had damaged his throat.

  Kalgri smiled. “Flattery was more effective before you burned half of your face away.”

  “I didn’t burn it,” said Cassander. “Caina Amalas did that.” Rage stirred within him. “And you failed to warn me.”

  She offered an indifferent shrug. “If you failed to notice the obvious, that is not my fault. Perhaps you should have realized something was amiss when I ran out the door.”

  His fury subsided. She did have a point. “Perhaps.”

  In hindsight, he realized what had happened. Caina must have stolen a vial of Elixir Restorata from an Alchemist. Yet Cassander had spent a great deal of time studying Caina Amalas, and knew that her mother Laeria Scorneus had sold Caina to one of the disciples of the Moroaica. Obviously Caina had survived the experience, but her time with the necromancer must have damaged her aura. Alchemical Elixirs often reacted badly when ingested by those with damaged auras. Mortally wounded by the Huntress, Caina must have realized that her death was at hand, and had decided to perish in a blaze of silver flame.

  Taking her enemies with her.

  It had almost worked. All of Cassander’s Adamant Guards and Silent Hunters had been killed in the explosion. He assumed that Nasser Glasshand and Kylon of House Kardamnos had escaped in the chaos, taking the Staff and Seal of Iramis. That could prove a problem. Kylon had sworn vengeance upon Cassander for the death of his wife, and he had an Iramisian valikon that could penetrate any defensive ward. For that matter, Cassander still wanted to get his hands on the Staff and Seal of Iramis.

  With their power, he could humble many, many enemies.

  The smile spread over his scarred, aching face again, and he laughed, drawing a cautious look from Kalgri.

  He could deal with those problems later. Far more enjoyable work awaited him now.

  For Caina Amalas was dead.

  It had not happened as Cassander would have wished, true, but the woman who had terrorized the Brotherhood of Slavers, who had burned the Widow’s Tower and the Craven’s Tower, who had destroyed the Inferno, was dead. Kalgri carried the dead Ghost’s shadow-cloak and ghostsilver dagger as proof. When Cassander presented them to Grand Master Callatas, the Master Alchemist would open the Starfall Straits to the Umbarian fleet, and the Order would seize Malarae, kill the Emperor, and bring the entire Empire under their control.

  Or Callatas would renege upon their deal, as Cassander had always suspected he might.

  He laughed and felt Kalgri’s wary glance.

  Cassander had always suspected that Callatas would betray him, and he had made preparations.

  He almost hoped the old Grand Master would betray him.

  He wanted to see the look on the pompous old fool’s face once he realized the truth.

  “What,” said Kalgri, “is so funny?”

  “I was thinking about history,” said Cassander.

  “History,” said Kalgri in a flat voice.

  “Yes,” said Cassander. “Iramis had such a long history, did it not? Stretching back for all those centuries to the very dawn of ages. So many centuries, so many names, loremasters and Princes and valikarion, all them written into the pages of that history. And yet Grand Master Callatas became the last name in Iramisian history on the day he held the Star of Iramis aloft and watched the city burn.”

  “I know,” said Kalgri. “I was there. Long before you were born.”

  Cassander smiled at her. “Perhaps I shall be the last name in Istarinmul’s history.”

  Kalgri said nothing, yet something like shadow and purple fire shivered through her blue eyes. Cassander had her attention, and he had the attention of the malevolent spirit that lurked behind her eyes.

  “What are you saying?” she hissed. For a moment he heard something else in her words, a snarling, alien hunger beyond anything human as the presence of her nagataaru bled into her voice.

  “Callatas promised to open the Starfall Straits if I slew Caina Amalas,” said Cassander.

  “Yes, I know,” said Kalgri. “I was there.”

  “Now Caina Amalas is dead by my hand,” said Cassander.

  Kalgri said nothing, but touched the ghostsilver dagger at her belt, the dagger Caina had carried in life. Likely the Huntress kept that and Caina’s shadow-cloak as trophies.

  “So Callatas will keep his word and order his dog Erghulan to open the Straits,” said Cassander. “Yet you have known the illustrious Grand Master for far longer than I have, my dear Huntress. Do you really think he will keep his word?”

  Kalgri let out a scornful laugh. “He will betray you the instant he thinks it advantageous. Surely you have realized that by now.”

  “Of course I did,” said Cassander. “From the moment I met the man. And do you think I have not made preparations? If Callatas betrays me…what do you think I will do?”

  “Nothing,” said Kalgri. “Callatas is your superior in sorcery. Challenge him and he will crush you.”

  Cassander laughed. “Are you so certain of that, Huntress? For I promise you that the Umbarian fleet will sail through the Starfall Straits before the year is out.”

  “And if Callatas reneges on his promise to you?” said Kalgri.

  “Then you will see death on a scale that even you cannot imagine,” said Cassander.

  “Indeed?” said Kalgri, and again her eyes flashed. “For I can imagine a great deal of death. What are you…”

  She went motionless, as motionless as a spider in its web.

  “You’re going to destroy Istarinmul,” she said. “Not conquer it. Not kill Callatas and the Grand Wazir. You are going to destroy the city.”

  “Death,” said Cassander, “beyond imagination.”

  “How?” said Kalgri. “You don’t have the power to work something on that scale.”

  “I don’t,” said Cassander, “but I know where to get it. But there is a more important question we must answer first.”

  “Which is?” said Kalgri.

  Cassander lifted his right hand and pointed it at her. A gauntlet of black steel covered his right hand, a crimson bloodcrystal pulsing on its back. Powerful spells crackled around the gauntlet, and it gave him the ability to use pyromancy without the sorcery of fire burning away his sanity.

  Kalgri went very still again.

  “Are you going to warn Callatas?” said Cassander.

  “No,” said the Huntress.

  Fire snarled to life around the gauntlet, harsh and bright, and a strange mad smile went over Kalgri’s features.

  “You know,” said the Huntress, “I think I like you better now.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question,” said Cassander.

  “I don’t care about Callatas,” said Kalgri. “I don’t care about the Apotheosis. I don’t care about the Umbarian Order and your war with the Empire.”

  “What do you care about?” said Cassander, though he knew the answer.

  “Death,” said Kalgri. She grinned. “Death on a scale I cannot imagine.”

  “Follow me,” said Cassander, “and you will have all the death you want and more.”

  She was silent for a moment, and then looked to the north.

  “You might have the chance to start now,” said Kalgri.

  Cassander frowned, wondered if she intended a trick of some kind, and then saw the dark shape of horsemen upon the horizon.

  “Ah,” he said, dismissing the fire around his gauntlet. “I see. Well. We have had a long journey from Rumarah. Would you care for a little refreshment?”

  “Be sure to leave some of the horses alive,” said Kalgri. “I would prefer not to walk the rest of the way to Istarinmul.”

  “Quite sensible,” said Cassander.

  The horsemen drew closer, about twenty strong. As they approached, Cassander took the opportunity to cast a few defensive spells around himself. Kalgri simply stood and waited, her arms crossed over her chest, that disturbing smile on her face. The horsemen dre
w into a circle around them and reined up. They wore chain mail and carried swords and whips and chains. Every man wore a vest of black leather adorned with a bronze badge shaped like a hand holding a curled whip. The men were Collectors, the lowest rank of the Slavers’ Brotherhood, scavengers who spent their time looking for captives to sell upon the auction block. Between the thousands of slaves Callatas had murdered to create his wraithblood and the terror the late Balarigar had inspired in the cowled masters of the Brotherhood, the price of slaves had exploded, and the Collectors had grown desperate for new inventory.

  This group had grown desperate enough to make the final mistake of their lives.

  “You seem lost,” said the lead Collector, a thin, hatchet-faced man.

  “Certainly not, good sir,” said Cassander. “I know exactly where I am.”

  “Ugly fellow, aren’t you?” said another Collector.

  Cassander smiled. “You should have seen my opponent.”

  A nervous laugh went up from the other Collectors. The smarter ones would have realized that something was amiss by now. The others were staring with open lust at Kalgri. Likely it had been weeks since they had seen a woman. Kalgri looked right back at them, that unsettling, anticipatory smile still on her face.

  “Boss,” said one of the warier Collectors, “maybe we should…”

  “Take them,” said the lead Collector. “The ugly one is strong enough, so we’ll get a good price for him. The woman…well, she’s likely not a virgin, but she’s pretty enough to get some coin. You can each have a go with her, but don’t leave any bruises.”

  “Can I beg for my life?” said Cassander.

  The lead Collector sneered. “Say whatever you like. It won’t make a difference.”

  “A spell, perhaps?” said Callatas, lifting his armored gauntlet.

  “A spell?” said the Collector. “What are you talking about?”

  He never found out.

  Cassander’s blast of pyromantic sorcery turned the Collector’s skull and most of his neck into smoking charcoal. The headless corpse slumped to the ground, smoke rising from the charred stump between his shoulders. For a moment the Collectors gaped in astonishment at their dead leader, and Kalgri exploded into motion. The Huntress leaped into the air, her ghostsilver short sword in her right hand and Caina’s dagger in her left. In three heartbeats as many Collectors fell dead, their throats slashed.