“Then why not just have the Immortals kill Tanzir?” said Corvalis.
“Because,” said Caina, thinking it over, “because that would defeat the purpose. The point is to kill Tanzir and cast the blame upon the Emperor. If Tanzir’s own Immortals cut him down, well…that cannot be used as an excuse to continue the war.”
“It’s just as well that Tanzir is going to the Grand Imperial Opera tonight,” said Halfdan. “Many of the Opera’s workers are Ghosts, and Theodosia has eyes and ears everywhere. It will be harder for the Bostaji to move against him at the Opera.”
“We’ll need to get him away from the Immortals,” said Caina. “I suspect the dowager amirja put Sinan in charge of seeing Tanzir dead. If he gets desperate, he might have the Immortals kill Tanzir without any witnesses and hope to lay the blame upon the Emperor.”
“Harder to do without any witnesses,” said Corvalis.
“Harder,” said Halfdan, “but not impossible. I will speak with Tylas and have extra Imperial Guards assigned to the Lord Ambassador’s residence. Once he has concluded the treaty of peace and left the city, the danger against his life will subside.”
“Not entirely,” said Caina. Tanzir’s mother seemed like the sort of woman who could keep a grudge.
“His life is his own concern then,” said Halfdan. “Meanwhile, we need to keep him alive long enough to conclude peace with Istarinmul. Which means you get to prepare for a night at the opera.”
Chapter 10 - The Grand Imperial Opera
Caina prepared for the opera.
She exchanged her teal gown for one of dark green with black scrollwork. Again she chose golden jewelry, intended to clash with the color of her dyed hair and the gown. Tanzir might suspect that there was more to her than met the eye, but the rest of Malarae knew her as Sonya Tornesti, Anton Kularus’s flighty and temperamental mistress, and she wanted to keep it that way.
The looser sleeves allowed her to carry more throwing knives, and she strapped two to each of her forearms. She chose high-heeled boots with concealed sheaths for long daggers, and kept her curved ghostsilver dagger at her belt.
She did not think the Bostaji would try anything at the Grand Imperial Opera…but it never hurt to be prepared.
Caina joined Corvalis, and they took his coach to the opera.
###
The Grand Imperial Opera’s massive domed edifice loomed overhead, its polished marble façade gleaming in the light of the enspelled lamps lining the square. A mass of coaches stopped before the Opera, footmen helping lords and ladies descend from their conveyances. Men and women of all classes came to the House of Kularus, though most of the House’s patrons were merchants and minor nobles. But the opera was the high lords’ and powerful merchants’ favorite. The Grand Imperial Opera’s company was the most prestigious in the Empire.
“You’re smiling,” said Corvalis, offering her a hand as she descended from the coach.
“I suppose I am,” said Caina, looping her arm through his. “I have…pleasant memories of this place.”
She had trained here, working under Theodosia, the Grand Imperial Opera’s leading lady…and also the circlemaster of a Ghost circle. Caina owed her skill at accents to Theodosia’s training, along with her abilities in disguise. Theodosia had taught her to disguise herself as anything from a highborn countess to a common mercenary guard.
“And Theodosia approves of you,” said Caina, “which is a point in your favor.”
“Frightening woman,” said Corvalis. “I suspect she could order a man’s death in the morning and then sing upon the stage in the evening.”
“Probably,” said Caina, who had seen Theodosia do just that.
A short time later Lord Titus’s splendid coach arrived. A screen of Imperial Guards and Immortals surrounded the coach, and the nobles cast wary eyes at the Immortals. Lord Titus descended from the coach, and Tanzir followed. His Istarish robes and turban drew even more eyes.
“My lord emir,” said Corvalis in High Nighmarian, bowing as Caina gripped her skirts in a curtsy, “we are pleased and honored to accept your invitation.”
“Ah!” said Tanzir. “Master Anton and Mistress Sonya. I am pleased you could come.” He looked at Caina, and looked away again. “Yes. Very pleased.”
“I take it,” said Caina, “that the learned Sinan will not be joining us?”
“No,” said Tanzir. “Um. He said that opera was not a fit entertainment for a noble of Istarinmul and…ah, he said many other things as well. But I’ve come all this way, and I should really see an opera. And in…in reliable company as well.”
“Come,” said Titus, gesturing to the Imperial Guards. “If you wish to see an opera, my lord emir, let us take our seats.”
He strode towards the great doors, Caina, Corvalis, and Tanzir following, flanked by Immortals and Imperial Guards. The lesser nobles hastened to get out of Titus’s way, though a few of the noblemen cast venomous stares at Caina and Corvalis. The Grand Imperial Opera was for the nobility, not for an impudent coffee merchant and his mistress.
Caina hid her smile.
A page led them to Lord Titus’s private box. The main theatre was a vast space, the acoustics perfectly pitched to hear the singers upon the stage. Those commoners who obtained admittance sat on the benches before the stage, while wealthy merchants took seats in the highest balcony. The wealthy lords kept their boxes in the middle balcony, close enough to have a view of the action upon the stage, yet far enough away to converse quietly.
Merchants went to the House of Kularus to haggle…but lords visited the Grand Imperial Opera to scheme.
Lord Titus took his seat, the Imperial Guards and Immortals standing in the aisle. Caina sat next to Corvalis, and a maid in the black and gold livery of the Grand Imperial Opera stepped forward with a tray of wine glasses. Caina took a glass for the sake of appearances, though she had no intention of drinking and muddling her wits. She had once worn that same livery herself, working as a maid in the opera and listening to the nobles speak their secrets, heedless of the nearby servants.
Idly, she wondered how Tanzir and Titus would react if they knew.
Tanzir drained his wine glass in two gulps and gestured for another. “What opera shall we see tonight?”
“The story of the founder of House Maraeus,” said Titus. “He was a knight in the First Empire who ventured into the mountains to save his lady love from barbarians, and wed her upon his return. A good opera needs two elements. A tale of valor and martial boldness, to remind us of the virtues of our Empire.” He chuckled. “And a tale of romance to please the ladies.”
“We do enjoy romance, my lord,” said Caina. “But we appreciate valor and courage as well. For who will admire a man who is craven? Or a woman, for that matter?”
“True enough,” said Titus. “What say you, my lord emir? Should an opera have more romance, or more tales of valor?”
Tanzir opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I…confess, my lord, I have given the matter no thought. In Istarinmul there is no opera. The nobles amuse themselves by hunting or playing chess or…attending the gladiatorial games. Mostly the gladiatorial games. The most popular games are to the death, with wagers laid upon the outcome.” He shuddered. “I have never cared for it. I have seen men die, yes…but I found no joy in it, and I would not seek it out for entertainment.” He sighed. “The other nobles call me weak…but I have no taste for blood sport.”
“I think that speaks well of you, my lord emir,” said Caina, “and more poorly of your fellow Istarish nobles.”
Tanzir blinked. “Thank you.” He looked almost absurdly pleased. She suspected he had not received many compliments in his life.
The lights dimmed, pulleys creaked as the stagehands raised the curtains, and the opera began.
Caina sat motionless in the darkness, listening to the opera with one ear, scanning the nearby crowds with her eyes. Theodosia herself stood upon the stage, singing the opening aria. She was a tall woman
in her forties with long blond hair, and wore the antique costume of an ancient Nighmarian noblewoman, singing forlornly of her long-lost love, the distant ancestor of House Maraeus. Her voice was rich and strong, and she filled the aria with power, the words ringing off the roof and walls of the theatre. Theodosia was a gifted singer, perhaps the best Caina had ever heard.
She was so good that the nobles stopped plotting long enough to listen to her. Tanzir stared at her, open-mouthed.
Theodosia finished her aria to ringing applause, and the leading tenor of the opera took the stage, surrounded by chorus singers wearing ancient Nighmarian armor. Marcellus was stunningly handsome, with a rich voice that like thunder, and had absolutely no brain whatsoever. Still, he sang well and looked good in his costume, which Theodosia had said were the chief skills of an opera’s leading man.
Caina watched the nearby boxes as the maids carried food and drink for the nobles and their guests, the footmen hurrying back and forth as they carried messages for the lords. The nobles came to the opera to plot, and Caina supposed the messages contained the details for any number of schemes. But for the moment, that was not her concern.
Would the Bostaji make an attempt on Tanzir here? Caina watched as Tanzir ate the refreshments the maids brought, his eyes fixed on the stage. She doubted the Bostaji would use poison – too much risk that it would look like a sudden illness. Violence, then? But violence at the Opera seemed like an even greater risk. Dozens of nobles filled the boxes, and all of them had bodyguards. A Bostaji who drew a sword might not make it three steps.
Perhaps the Bostaji would try nothing here, and wait for a more opportune moment.
Nonetheless Caina did not relax.
An hour later the chorus finished a song, and the lights came back on as the intermission began. Caina saw hundreds of men and women rise and make their way to the theatre’s latrines, and she was grateful that she had not consumed any wine.
“I have to say,” said Tanzir, “that is rather more impressive than I expected.”
“Yes,” said Lord Titus. “Theodosia is quite renowned for her voice. Though she does have a bit of a scandalous reputation for luring noblemen into her bed. Old Lord Macrinius, for one…and his downfall came soon after. Of course, he was kidnapping Imperial citizens and selling them into slavery, so he brought his fate upon his own head.”
A maid stopped at their box and bowed. “A message for you.”
“Leave it here,” said Titus with a wave of his hand.
“Pardon, my lord,” said the maid, “but it is for Sonya Tornesti.”
Caina frowned. “What is it?”
“The leading lady wishes to speak with you,” said the maid.
Titus grunted. “You know Theodosia?”
“I do not,” said Caina. She had known Theodosia for years, but Sonya Tornesti and Theodosia had never met. “She wishes to meet me after the opera?” Perhaps Theodosia had learned something about the Bostaji, and perhaps Nalazar and the Kindred.
“Pardon,” said the maid, “but Mistress Theodosia would like to speak with you now, if it is convenient.”
Caina hesitated, glanced at Corvalis.
“Go,” said Corvalis. “Perhaps Theodosia wishes to purchase some coffee from the House of Kularus.” He grinned. “I hear she is a stern taskmistress, and runs her maids ragged with unreasonable demands. I can keep the emir company while you are gone.”
Which meant he would keep the Bostaji from killing Tanzir.
“Of course, Anton,” said Caina. She rose and followed the maid through the aisles, down the stairs, and into the cavernous workshop below the main stage. It looked much as she remembered. Stagehands and carpenters swarmed over the scenery, preparing for the next act. The chorus singers stood in one corner, while the costumers cursed ferociously at them. Caina recognized many of them from her time at the Grand Imperial Opera, but none of them recognized her. She had been Marina, Theodosia’s black-haired, quiet maid. Marina was nothing like Sonya Tornesti, Anton Kularus’s blond, haughty mistress.
She felt a brief twinge of satisfaction at that.
Theodosia had her own dressing room off the workshop, and stood before her mirror and table of cosmetics, scrutinizing her reflection.
“Mistress,” said the maid. “This is Sonya Tornesti.”
“You wished to speak with me?” said Caina in Caerish, keeping her Szaldic accent in place. “Though your singing, mistress, it was most lovely. Even Anton listened, and Anton is not the sort of man to listening to singing.”
“Thank you,” said Theodosia to the maid. “You may go.”
The girl scurried away, and Caina stepped into the dressing room and shut the door behind her.
Theodosia grinned and hugged Caina. “You can drop the accent, if you want. Though you do it quite well, my dear, especially since you don’t even speak Szaldic.”
“I’ve had some lessons,” said Caina. “The opera is lovely.”
“Of course it is. I am singing it, after all,” said Theodosia with a laugh. “And I must say you look very fine sitting next to that strapping young coffee lord of yours. Not at all like Marina…who was the most competent maid I ever had.” She gave a very unladylike snort. “This new girl…ah, I ask for the rouge, and she brings me the face powder.”
“Be gentle on her,” said Caina. “You have fifteen different kinds of rouge.”
“Well, everyone must start somewhere, I suppose,” said Theodosia. Her smile faded. “There is something you should know.”
“What?” said Caina. “You know something about the Bostaji or the Kindred?”
“Perhaps,” said Theodosia. “Someone broke into the opera this morning and ransacked the carpenters’ shop.”
Caina frowned. “The shop? Why? There’s nothing valuable in there. The carpenters’ tools, maybe. Some of the elixirs used to make smoke or flashes. A lot of paint. Unless.” She thought it through. “Unless someone wanted to look around the theatre, to find the ideal spot for an assassination…and make it look like a common theft.”
Theodosia nodded. “You see my fear.”
“Was anything taken?” said Caina.
Theodosia scowled. “We don’t actually know. The carpenters are not terribly good about keeping an accurate inventory. The seneschal was most distressed.”
“The best place to kill someone here,” said Caina, “would be in one of the workshops.” She ought to know, given that she had once lured a Kindred assassin into the workshops and tricked him into consuming his own poison. “The trick would be luring the emir into the workshop. I can’t think of any reason he would come down here.”
“Nor I,” said Theodosia. “The best I can tell you is to be on your guard, and since you are always on your guard, it is pointless to repeat it.”
Caina laughed. “But I appreciate the thought.” She took Theodosia’s hands. “Once this is all over, you ought to come to the House of Kularus. I’ll see to it that you have the best table in the House.”
Theodosia smiled. “A kind thought. But, really, you should call it the House of Amalas. It is yours, and I’ve never understood why you play this shell game with Corvalis.”
Caina shrugged. “I am a nightfighter of the Ghosts, and I need to keep my anonymity. Opening Malarae’s first coffee house in my own name is hardly the way to do that.”
“But you won’t be a Ghost nightfighter forever,” said Theodosia. “You could return to the city in your own name, as Countess Caina Amalas, and run a Ghost circle centered out of the House of Kularus.”
Caina said nothing.
It was…a compelling thought She was twenty-two years old, but she could not remain a Ghost nightfighter forever. Sooner or later she would slow down, or take an injury severe enough to keep her from fighting. Yet that did not mean she had to leave the Ghosts. She could run the House of Kularus, turning it into the center for a network of Ghost circles.
She could wed Corvalis, with her own name.
And that thought was
compelling.
Caina had thought she would never marry, both because of her inability to bear children and her place among the Ghosts. But Corvalis did not care about children, and she loved him.
“That is,” said Caina at last, “that is a very interesting idea.”
“Oh, child,” said Theodosia. “After all you have suffered, all the people you have saved, I think you deserve a little joy in your life. Why…”
The door swung open, and Marcellus stepped inside, blinking.
“Marcellus,” said Theodosia, “what have we discussed about knocking?”
“Oh,” said Marcellus. “Is this your daughter?”
“I have two sons, Marcellus,” said Theodosia. “No daughters.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Marcellus. He frowned for a moment. “Which opera are we singing tonight?”
“Look at your costume,” said Theodosia.
Marcellus looked at his elaborate armor, and then nodded. “Oh, yes, of course. The origins of House Maraeus. Ah. I think intermission is almost over.” He looked alarmed. “We should return to the stage!”
“Indeed we should,” said Theodosia. “I will join you shortly.”
“Good,” said Marcellus. “It was nice meeting your daughter.”
He left the dressing room.
“A dear man,” said Theodosia, “but I swear if the city burned down around our ears, he wouldn’t notice until the maids failed to bring his wine. And why does he think you were my daughter? We looking nothing alike.”
Caina touched her hair. “I suspect the dye has something to do with that.”
Theodosia laughed. “You miss your proper color, don’t you? Well, consider this. If you declare yourself openly, you can go back to it. And speaking of that, you ought to get back to your assassin and that great hulk of an emir.” She paused. “Be careful.”
“You, too,” said Caina.
“I’ll send a maid to escort you back to Lord Titus’s box.”
Caina grinned. “No need. I think I know the way.”
Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 07 - Ghost in the Ashes Page 11
