Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 07 - Ghost in the Ashes

by Jonathan Moeller

  “My lord Titus,” said Tanzir, regaining some of his poise, “this is my advisor, Ibrahmus Sinan, a full brother and Alchemist of the College.”

  Sinan bowed. “An honor, my lord.” His High Nighmarian was flawless. “I hope that your wisdom shall help bring an end to this senseless war.”

  “That is my Emperor’s hope as well,” said Titus.

  Several minor Istarish nobles disembarked from the ship, and Tanzir introduced them to Lord Titus. Titus in turn introduced his advisors and minor lords, and Halfdan as Master Basil Callenius. Tanzir listened with a distracted expression, while Sinan watched with cold black eyes.

  “And this,” said Titus, “is Master Anton Kularus, a merchant of coffee, and his, ah, companion…”

  “Sonya Tornesti,” said Halfdan.

  “Yes, Sania Tornost,” said Titus.

  Tanzir had not been paying attention, but his eyes brightened at the mention of coffee. “Coffee? You have coffee in Malarae? I was under the impression that the noble drink was unknown in Istarinmul.”

  A brief flicker of irritation went over Sinan’s face.

  “It was until recently, my lord emir,” said Corvalis with a bow, “but I completed a journey into the lands beyond Anshan and did a favor for Lord Titus, and obtained exclusive license to import coffee into Malarae.”

  “Splendid!” said Tanzir. “I wish to visit your establishment, Master Anton. I thought I would have to make this miserable trip without any coffee. And do you have bookshops in Malarae? I am a bit of a collector, you see, and…”

  “My lord emir,” said Sinan with a tight smile, “we have duties.”

  “What?” said Tanzir. “Yes, yes, of course. Until later, Master Anton.” He looked at Caina once, opened his mouth, closed it, and turned back to Titus. The lord and the emir turned from the quay and began the long walk to the Imperial Citadel and the Lord Ambassador’s residence, trailed by their followers. On the ship men in gray tunics began to unload chests from the hold. Slaves, Caina realized, her lips pressing into a hard line. Tanzir Shahan had brought his slaves with him to Malarae.

  “Well,” murmured Halfdan, moving alongside Caina and Corvalis. “What do you think of the Padishah’s new Lord Ambassador?”

  “My heart almost stopped when he fell,” said Caina. “I thought someone had decided to assassinate him by pushing him off the damned ship.”

  Corvalis laughed. “Clumsy of him.”

  “He’s no Rezir Shahan,” said Caina, “that’s plain.”

  Halfdan shrugged. “From all reports, Rezir’s and Tanzir’s mother Ashria dominates their family. Rezir ruled while he lived, but since Rezir met an untimely end at the Balarigar’s hands,” Caina scowled, “I believe the dowager amirja rules the family.”

  “Tanzir doesn’t seem the sort to defy his mother,” said Corvalis.

  “Or anyone, really,” said Halfdan. “I suspect most of the actual negotiating will fall to one of the other nobles.”

  “Or that Alchemist,” said Caina. “Ibrahmus Sinan. Do you know anything about him?”

  Halfdan shrugged. “Little enough. The College is a like our Magisterium, in that the Alchemists renounce their previous affiliations when they join the College. In theory, anyway. Sinan is no one of particular note, but he’s apparently associated with House Shahan. Rezir relied on him as an advisor, as does Ashria, but that’s all the Ghost circle in Istarinmul knows about him.”

  “He’s not a Master Alchemist,” said Caina.

  “From what I understand,” said Halfdan, “it’s rather difficult to become a Master Alchemist. The Masters of the College can live decades, even centuries, longer than most men. You remember Callatas? He was at least two hundred years old. The Master Alchemists have some method of staving off aging and death…and as far as we know, that method itself is the test. If an Alchemist learns the method, he becomes a Master Alchemist.”

  “And if he fails, he dies of old age,” said Corvalis. “Efficient, I suppose.”

  “Or the method kills him outright,” said Caina. “Sorcery is rarely kind to an incompetent wielder.”

  “True,” said Halfdan. He glanced at the procession making its way from the docks. “We should follow the emir to the Lord Ambassador’s residence. It would be a bold assassin indeed who would strike Tanzir down in front of so many eyes…”

  “And bold assassins are usually dead assassins,” said Corvalis.

  “Unless, of course, the assassin is smarter than we are,” said Halfdan, “and has some clever plan we have been unable to foresee. Keep your eyes open.”

  Caina nodded, and followed Halfdan from the quay, her arm linked with Corvalis’s. The procession wound its way through the docks, past the maze of warehouses, and to the Via Triumphalis. The broad, wide street led from the docks to the gates of the Imperial Citadel itself, and statues of ancient commanders upon horseback stood in the median, their stone faces stern and forbidding. In ancient times, victorious Emperors had enjoyed triumphal processions along this street, riding in a ceremonial chariot with gangs of Caerish captives bound behind them.

  “A good view,” said Corvalis, looking at the Imperial Citadel upon its mountain spur. “I can see why the Emperor wants to have new ambassadors march this way.”

  “Yes, the might of the Empire and all that,” said Caina, looking at the surrounding buildings. Modest shops lined this part of the Via Triumphalis, with several levels of apartments rising above. Caina found herself scanning the rooftops, watching for any sign of movement.

  “You keep looking up,” said Corvalis.

  “Yes,” said Caina. “No one ever looks up. If I had been hired to kill Tanzir Shahan and I knew a good archer, I would split the fee with him and have …”

  Even as she spoke, she saw a flicker of movement on one of the nearby rooftops.

  Caina turned her head, trying not to make the movement obvious, and scanned the building. The shop on the first floor sold boots and sandals, while the remaining four stories of the building held apartments with balconies. She did not see anyone on the balconies or the roof. And any event it would not be unusual for someone to be on the roof. Malarae’s summers were hot, and people often slept upon their roofs to escape the day’s accumulated heat. But it was almost noon. No one would be sleeping on a roof in the middle of the day.

  “What is it?” said Corvalis.

  “Maybe nothing,” said Caina. “Maybe not.” It would look odd if she broke away from the crowd to dash into a shop. “Tell the others that a pair of sandals caught my eye, and I simply had to buy them.” It was the sort of thing that Sonya Tornesti would do. “I’ll catch up to you later.”

  “You should not go alone,” said Corvalis.

  “You’re right, but you should stay with the procession,” said Caina. “Anton Kularus cannot acquire the reputation as the kind of man who runs off after his mistress every time she decides to buy a new pair of sandals, not if he wants to keep the respect of the merchants.”

  Corvalis scowled, but nodded. “Be careful.”

  She slipped her arm from his. “I’m always careful.”

  “You,” said Corvalis, “are usually a better liar than that.”

  He turned, walked to join Halfdan, and started complaining about Sonya’s predilection for spending his money like water.

  Caina hurried towards the shop, moving as fast as her gown and her sandals allowed. She avoided the shop itself and slipped into the alley next to the building. A narrow door stood in the brick wall, recessed in an alcove, and Caina tried the handle.

  The door was unlocked.

  That did not mean anything by itself. Most of Malarae’s landlords preferred to avoid the expense of installing locks on their main doors. Yet Caina realized that this building stood in exactly the right place to command a view of the Via Triumphalis as it turned towards the Imperial Citadel itself. The rooftop would make an excellent platform for an archer who wanted to shoot someone in the procession.

  Caina entered
the hallway beyond the door. The interior was gloomy, the only illumination coming from a skylight atop the building’s central stairwell. Caina slipped off her sandals and hurried forward, her bare feet making no sound against the stairs’ worn boards. She reached the top floor and saw a ladder leading to a trapdoor.

  The trapdoor stood open, sunlight falling into the corridor. Caina drew a throwing knife from her sleeve, tucked it into her teeth, and climbed to the roof. The flat tiles of red clay felt warm beneath her bare feet, a few barrels scattered here and there to catch rainwater.

  Otherwise the rooftop was deserted.

  Then she saw a flicker of motion near one of the barrels.

  A man crouched there, clad in rough clothes and thick sandals. His clothes marked him as a common laborer, and he looked Istarish or Anshani. Yet he moved with the slow, expert stealth of a trained assassin.

  A common laborer did not generally carry a quiver of arrows and a short recurved bow.

  The weapon was Anshani, favored by Shahenshah’s nobles on their endless hunts over the plateaus and plains of Anshan. Caina watched as the man moved around the barrel to the edge of the roof. He was trying to make up his mind, she realized, about whether or not he would take a shot at Tanzir.

  Best not to give him the chance.

  Caina glided forward, throwing knife in one hand.

  And she did, the assassin apparently changed his mind and turned, bow still in hand.

  For a moment he stared at her, stunned.

  He raised the bow, in his hands a blur, and loosed an arrow.

  Caina dodged and heard the buzzing hiss as the arrow shot past her head, the resonant thud as it sank into the ladder. She caught her balance and flung the throwing knife at the assassin. The man swung his bow like a club, deflecting the weapon. Caina stepped back and drew her ghostsilver dagger from its sheath, preparing herself for the assassin’s attack.

  But instead the man stepped back, snatching an odd-looking leather cord from his belt. Why would he do that? He had left himself open to another throwing knife. He would only do that if…

  The assassin spun the cord over his head, and Caina saw the blur of lead weights at either end.

  A bola.

  If that thing hit her legs, it would entangle her long enough for the assassin to kill her. Or, if his aim was good enough, it could strike her throat, snap her neck, and kill her in the space between two heartbeats.

  The assassin flung the bola, and Caina collapsed her legs, dropping hard to the clay roof tiles. The leather cord slammed hard into her stomach, and the impact felt like a blow from a wooden rod. But the lead weights struck the roof and bounced, and the cord did not entangle her.

  The assassin lunged, raising his foot to crush her throat.

  Caina slashed her ghostsilver dagger, the shining blade ripping into the assassin’s right calf. The man hissed in pain, and Caina rolled sideways as the assassin fell. He landed hard upon his right knee, and Caina slashed her dagger.

  The blade sliced through the assassin’s throat, blood spraying from the wound. Caina stepped back and rammed the dagger between the assassin’s ribs. The man stiffened, loosed a gurgling groan, and fell as Caina wrenched the weapon free.

  She looked around, breathing hard, her stomach throbbing from the bola’s impact. No had noticed the fight, and she heard no sounds of alarm from the street.

  Nobody ever looked up.

  Caina looked at the dead man and whispered a curse. If she had taken him alive, perhaps he would have provided useful information. On the other hand, he might well have disposed of her and then turned his attention to Tanzir.

  Still, killing assassins did not trouble her.

  But Corvalis had once been an assassin…

  She pushed aside the tangle of emotions and examined the dead man. She found nothing in his pockets, save for a pair of daggers strapped to his thighs. His thick sandals were the sort favored by the Anshani. His bow and his arrows, likewise, were of Anshani make. He had no tattoos or identifying marks that Caina could see.

  She straightened up with a grunt, cleaning her bloody dagger on his shirt. Her eyes fell upon the discarded bola. Something about that weapon scratched at her mind, recalled to her thoughts something she had read long ago …

  Then it clicked.

  “Oh,” said Caina.

  With a chill she realized that she was very, very lucky to be alive.

  If she had been even a half-second slower, she might lie dead upon the roof instead of the assassin.

  Caina gathered her weapons, descended to the stairwell, retrieved her sandals, and checked her reflection in a rain barrel in the alley. She looked disheveled, but that could not be helped.

  Considering how close she had come to death.

  She went in pursuit of the procession, the bola coiled in her left hand.

  ###

  “Gardeners,” said Caina, rejoining Corvalis and Halfdan.

  Corvalis raised an eyebrow. “You interrupted some poor soul tending a garden on his roof?”

  “Something like that,” said Caina, lifting the leather bola, the lead weights swinging.

  Halfdan and Corvalis looked at the cord, and then both cursed in unison.

  “You killed a Bostaji?” said Corvalis.

  “One of the personal assassins of the Shahenshah of Anshan,” said Caina. “I would have taken him alive, but…”

  “Don’t bother,” said Halfdan, voice grim. “The man would have cut out his own tongue before betraying the Shahenshah.”

  “I am surprised you are alive at all,” said Corvalis, his voice calm, but she knew him well enough to see that he had been shaken. “The Shahenshah’s Gardeners are more dangerous than the Kindred.” He shook his head. “Do you know what the Shahenshah does to nobles who betray him? They are taken to the heart of the Shahenshah’s gardens, and left alone with one Bostaji. If the traitor can run to the gate before the Bostaji catches him, he’s allowed to live. If not…the Bostaji strangles him with a bola.”

  “You’ve dealt with the Gardeners before?” said Halfdan.

  “Aye,” said Corvalis. “In Arzaxia, years ago, before I met Claudia again. An Anshani occultist defected to the Magisterium, and the Shahenshah sent the Bostaji after him. My father dispatched me to keep the occultist alive.”

  “Did you?” said Caina, curious. She had never heard this story.

  Of course, there were things she had never told Corvalis.

  “Barely, but yes,” said Corvalis.

  “Just as well,” said Halfdan. “We’ll need your knowledge. If the Bostaji are here, the Shahenshah does indeed want to assassinate Tanzir to prevent the Empire and Istarinmul from making peace.” He glanced towards the procession. “The Emperor himself is receiving Tanzir at the Imperial Citadel tonight. I have secured an invitation from Lord Titus for myself, Anton Kularus…and Master Anton’s chosen guest.”

  Caina shook her head. “Which is a polite way of saying Master Anton’s mistress.”

  “Indeed,” said Halfdan. “We must be there to keep watch over the emir.”

  Caina nodded.

  “Out of curiosity,” said Halfdan, “what did you do with the body?”

  “I left it there,” said Caina. “Someone will find it in a few days and report it to the civic militia.”

  Corvalis snorted. “We’ve left a lot of corpses for the civic militia lately.”

  “Aye,” said Caina, looking at the procession.

  She shivered.

  There might be more corpses before this was done.

  Chapter 7 - The Alchemist

  A few hours later, Caina strode through the doors of the House of Kularus.

  The coffee house was quiet now, between the morning crowd and those who preferred to conduct business in the evening. By nightfall, Caina knew, the balconies would be filled with merchants and minor lords holding court.

  Shaizid hurried over with a bow. “Mistress Sonya! This is a pleasure. How may I be of service?”
>
  “Master Anton sent me,” said Caina, using her Szaldic accent. “He says that the emir may be visiting the House of Kularus. Everything must be made clean, yes? The floors shiny, the railings polished, the tables free of crumbs.”

  Shaizid blinked. “Master Anton already sent the message.”

  Caina stepped closer and dropped her accent.

  “I know,” she said in Anshani, voice quiet, “but I wished to see our guests.”

  “Ah. Of course,” said Shaizid. “This way, mistress.”

  He led her to the cellar and the secret armory.

  “How have they been?” said Caina.

  “As well as can be expected, given the grievous losses they have suffered,” said Shaizid. “Muravin is grim, and speaks but little. And I have heard Mahdriva weeping in the night. Yet neither one has despaired, which is good.” He sighed. “I know what it is to lose a loved one to violence.”

  “We all do, I fear,” said Caina, thinking of her father. “How is the baby?”

  “Imminent, I believe,” said Shaizid. “Mistress Tanya visited at your behest, along with a physician from the temple of Minaerys. The child could come at any time. In the name of the Living Flame, I hope it is soon. It will give Mahdriva something to consider other than her grief.”

  “Has there been any sign of Nalazar?” said Caina.

  “None,” said Shaizid. “Neither he nor any members of the Malarae Kindred known have entered the House of Kularus. Nor have the footmen seen them outside. Possibly they are watching the House at night, out of sight of the watchmen, but if so they are exceedingly cautious.”

  “The Kindred know what they are about,” said Caina. “Master Basil sent word to the other Ghost circles in Malarae. None of them have seen Nalazar, and they have reported nothing unusual from the local Kindred.”

  “Perhaps Nalazar has given up,” said Shaizid.

  “If only,” said Caina. “No, he’s Kindred. He will not stop until either he is dead or he captures Mahdriva.” Again the riddle gnawed at her. Why would anyone spend so much money to steal the unborn child of a freedman’s daughter? She had wondered if Mahdriva’s husband had been a man of standing, the kind of man with powerful enemies, but he had been a freeborn carpenter employed by the College of Alchemists, and Ardaiza’s and Ranai’s husbands had both been masons. Certainly they were not the kind of men someone would hire the Kindred to kill.