Tanya laughed. “Your accent is flawless. Which is astonishing, since you don’t even speak a word of Szaldic.”
Caina shrugged. “More than I used to. I learned most of the profanities from Ark.”
“Arcion should watch his tongue around the children,” said Tanya.
“It is funny,” said Mahdriva, “how you can change your voice so completely.”
“I had a good teacher,” said Caina. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” said Mahdriva. She yawned. “And sleepy.” She smiled. “I think I stayed up too late last night.”
“We all did,” said Caina.
“I am frightened, too,” said Mahdriva.
“We will deal with Nalazar and the Kindred,” said Caina. “We know where they are now, and…”
“Well, I am frightened of that, too,” said Mahdriva, “but right now I am mostly frightened of…the baby. Not the baby, not really, but…”
“Of what is about to happen,” said Tanya. “The pain, the blood. Your life will never be the same again.”
“No,” said Mahdriva. “I suppose not. I just wish that my husband was here.”
“He should have been,” said Muravin. “But he died bravely, saving you from the Kindred.”
“I know,” said Mahdriva. “I still wish that he were here, though. Along with my sisters.”
“As do I,” said Muravin. “But we are still alive, daughter, and we must carry on.” He looked at Caina. “And it is thanks to this Ghost.”
Caina shrugged. “I was in the right place at the right time.”
“You are falsely modest,” said Muravin. “If not for your aid, Nalazar would have killed us in the streets of Malarae. He would have slain us in the cellar of your coffee house.” He raised his chin. “I told Master Basil I would serve the Ghosts in exchange for our lives. I assumed it would be no different than serving any other master, whether the masters of the fighting pits or the seneschal of the College. But you, Ghost…your wits and kindness have saved us. And I will serve the Ghosts gladly.”
“Nor is it the first time she has done such deeds,” said Tanya. “She saved my husband while I was still a captive of a wicked sorceress. She rescued my son from the sorceress’s knife, and saved me and hundreds of others from the chains of slavers. When Rezir Shahan and the Istarish attacked Marsis, she snatched my son back from the slavers and slew Rezir Shahan himself. She is the Balarigar…”
“That…” said Caina.
“She is the Balarigar,” said Tanya, “whether she believes it or not. The solmonari of the Szalds once taught that every generation, the gods in their mercy send one to oppose wicked sorcery and cruel lords. The breaker of chains, the slayer of demons, the Balarigar. And the woman who calls herself Sonya Tornesti is the Balarigar, whether she knows it or not.”
“I could call myself the Queen of Anshan as well,” said Caina, “but that would not make it so.”
But they would not believe it. She had employed Theodosia’s lessons in theatrics entirely too well. They believed in the legend of the Balarigar, and that was that.
And she had saved their lives.
She did not feel she could take credit for the things she had done, the lives she had saved. Sometimes she had gotten lucky. Other times she had managed to outwit her foes by barely half a second. But she had saved those lives. If she had not acted, Maglarion would have killed everyone in Malarae. Kalastus would have burned the people of Rasadda to ashes. Cyrioch would have drowned beneath the waves.
All those people dead, if not for the choices she had made.
She had become a nightfighter in rage and pain, seeking revenge for her father’s death…but she had, indeed, kept so many people from suffering the same pain she had endured.
So many people.
And looking at three of the people she had saved, Caina found that she was not ready to stop being a nightfighter. Not yet.
“I am glad,” said Caina, “that you are all safe. Even if you give me too much credit for it.”
“Ghost,” said Muravin. “A word with you.”
Caina nodded and stepped into the hallway, leaving Tanya to discuss the mechanics of childbirth with Mahdriva.
“You are moving against the Kindred tonight?” said Muravin.
Caina frowned. “How did you know that?” If the Kindred and the Bostaji got word of what Halfdan planned, they might well flee.
“Master Basil told me,” said Muravin. “You have tracked the assassin scum to a tavern near the docks, and they are lurking there like rats in their nest.”
“Or snakes,” said Caina.
“Or snakes,” said Muravin. “I wish to join your attack upon them.”
Caina frowned. “Mahdriva needs you here. Her child could be born any moment.”
Muravin nodded. “I know. But I am a warrior, Sonya Tornesti. I am a killer, not a physician or a priest. A man like me has no place in the birthing room.” He sighed, his dark eyes heavy with pain. “She needs her husband at her side. Or her sisters. But her husband is dead, and Ardaiza and Ranai are dead with them. Mahdriva has Tanya and the priestesses of Minaerys, and that must be enough.”
Caina nodded.
“But my place is with you, for this,” said Muravin. “Those assassins slew my daughters and my grandchildren before they were born. I will see that blood repaid.”
“The assassins were only the tools of another man, you know,” said Caina. “They killed your daughters because they were paid to do so. Some other man hired them. A renegade sorcerer, I think, a necromancer of some kind.”
“And I would see him dead,” said Muravin.
“It won’t bring your daughters back,” said Caina. “Vengeance never does. I know that well.”
Muravin snorted. “Do you think me a child? Or is this some singer’s tale, where I slay the evil sorcerer and live happily ever after? No, it is too late for that. But I will find this man, this sorcerer who slew my daughters, and I will kill him. To repay him for the blood of Ardaiza and Ranai, and to stop him from shedding any more blood.”
Caina stared at him for a moment.
“That is as good a reason as any,” said Caina, “and better than most. I will speak to Master Basil, but I don’t think he will disagree.” She pointed at him. “But you will do as I and Anton and Basil command, is that understood? No rushing off to die in glorious battle. Mahdriva needs you to live, and by the gods you’re going to live.”
For a moment Muravin looked almost amused. “For such a short woman, you are…fierce.”
“Ask the Kindred,” said Caina, “just how fierce I can be.”
“Very well,” said Muravin. “I will do as you command. If I am to be a Ghost, I suppose I should start accustoming myself to following your orders.”
“Wise man,” said Caina. “Arm yourself, and be ready to depart at sundown.”
Muravin nodded and went to rejoin his daughter.
Caina watched him go. He might die tonight, she knew. Or she might die, or Corvalis.
But they would stop the Kindred and the Bostaji tonight, one way or another.
Chapter 17 - Blood and Steel
Corvalis returned with their gear, and Caina prepared herself.
She donned her nightfighter garb, the black boots, trousers, gloves, and jacket lined with thin steel plates to deflect knife blades. A belt of throwing knives and other useful tools went around her waist, and daggers into the hidden sheaths in her boots. Her curved ghostsilver dagger went into its scabbard at her belt. A black mask hid everything but her eyes, and her shadow-cloak went around her shoulders.
Her father’s worn gold signet ring, the only heirloom she had of his, hung on a leather cord around her neck.
She squeezed the ring once and then tucked it beneath the black jacket.
Then Caina tugged on a brown cloak and cowl, disguising the shadow-cloak, and slipped through the back door of the mansion, unseen by the Imperial Guards patrolling the corridors.
Arm
ed men waited outside, hundreds of them, clad in chain mail and the red tabards of Malarae’s civic militia, the city’s guards and constables. Corvalis waited at their head, a dark shadow in his leather jerkin and shadow-cloak. At his side stood a man in his late twenties clad in the cuirass and plumed helmet of a militia tribune. The tribune grunted as Caina approached, pulling off his helmet to reveal a strong face beneath close-cropped blond hair.
Theodosia looked a great deal like her eldest son.
“Well,” said Tomard, “here we are again, Ghost.”
“Tribune,” said Caina, using her disguised voice. “You’ve come up in the world since we last met.”
“So I have,” said Tomard, “though I’m still hunting scum in the docks. Such is the fate of a militiaman, I suppose.”
“You shall do as we ask?” said Caina.
Tomard shrugged. “Don’t I always? Mother would be disappointed if I did not. Do you have a plan?”
“Aye,” said Corvalis, stepping forward. Like Caina, he used a disguised voice. “We will need to surround the Serpents’ Nest. The street can be blocked in two places. The Kindred and the Bostaji will try to flee, and we cannot allow any of them to escape.”
“Shall we try to force them to surrender?” said Tomard.
“That would be best,” said Caina, “but we doubt it. The Bostaji and the Kindred are not the sort to surrender. If any of them give up, bind them at once and take their weapons. But if they do not, kill them.”
“What about sentries?” said Tomard. “I know the Serpents’ Rest – I have men there every other week trying to arrest thieves. The tavern has a good view of the surrounding streets, and clever men would post at least one sentry on the roofs of the nearby buildings. There’s no way I could sneak that many armed men past a sentry.”
“Leave the sentry,” said Caina, “to us.”
She told Tomard the rest of the plan.
###
A short time later Caina and Corvalis stood in the shadows of the Serpents’ Rest, looking up at the tavern. Light and the sound of carousing came from the tavern’s common room, but most of the windows of the upper floors were dark.
Yet even in the darkened window, she glimpsed the shape of the sentry on the top floor.
“He’s still watching the street,” said Corvalis.
“Aye,” said Caina, keeping her voice low. “And the man on the warehouse roof is still there.”
“Sloppy,” said Corvalis. “He should have moved.” He shook his head. “Well, he’ll pay for it now.”
Caina nodded, discarded her brown cloak, beckoned Corvalis forward, and they moved silently into the alley behind the warehouse. She scrutinized the wall for a moment, then stepped back and unhooked a coil of slender, strong rope from her belt, one end tied around a collapsible steel grapnel. She tossed the rope, felt it catch on the clay tiles of the warehouse’s roof, and gave it a few tugs.
The rope was secure.
Corvalis went up first, crouched at the edge of the roof, and beckoned for her to follow. Caina went up hand over hand, pressing her boots against the wall for traction. And as she did, a memory flashed through her mind. She remembered climbing onto the roof of Khaltep Irzaris’s warehouse in Catekharon in hopes of discovering where Mihaela had built her secret Forge. But that had been a trap. Corvalis’s half-brother, the battle magus Torius Aberon, had been waiting for them, and they had barely escaped with their lives.
Both Torius Aberon and Khaltep Irzaris had been dead for ten months, but the memory lingered in Caina’s mind.
She crouched next to Corvalis and saw the dark shape of the sentry watching the street. Caina gripped Corvalis’s shoulder, leaned close, and whispered Torius’s name into his ear. She felt him tense, and then saw him nod as he understood.
Corvalis glided forward, drawing his sword from its scabbard without a whisper of sound. Still the sentry did not notice them. Corvalis made his way across the clay tiles of the roof, weaving his way around the skylights. Caina followed, a throwing knife ready in her hands, her gloved fingers wrapped around the blade to hide its gleam.
Corvalis reached the sentry, drawing back his sword for a stab.
And as he did, a dark shadow rose from one the skylights. Another Kindred had been lying there, keeping watch, and Caina saw the man’s mouth open to raise the alarm.
She slammed into him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her left hand slapping over his mouth, and her right hand ripping the throwing knife across his throat. The man went rigid, clawing at her, and then his legs collapsed just as Corvalis stepped forward to stab.
The sentry whirled, drawn by the noise of the collapsing assassin, and yanked his sword from its scabbard. Corvalis thrust his blade, but the sentry caught the attack on his own weapon. Caina kicked free of the dead assassin and threw her bloodstained knife. It hit the sentry in the leg, and the man staggered.
Corvalis wheeled, his sword a steely blur, and drove his blade through the assassin’s gut. The sentry folded with a groan, and Corvalis yanked a dagger from his belt and plunged it into the assassin’s neck.
The man collapsed upon the clay tiles.
“So much for doing this quietly,” said Corvalis, tugging his sword free.
Caina pulled a flask from her belt, stepped to the edge of the roof, and flung it into the street. The flask shattered with a dazzling flash, bright enough to throw stark shadows in the nearby alleys and streets.
And bright enough to be visible from a distance.
The blast of trumpets rang out, and Caina heard the shout as the men of the civic militia charged towards the Serpents’ Nest.
The sounds of carousing from the tavern ceased.
“Let’s go,” said Caina. “Nalazar isn’t going to sit still after that.”
They hurried down the rope and into the alley, and returned to the street just as a century of the civic militia marched to the Serpents’ Nest, Tomard at their head. Muravin walked with him, wearing chain mail, a pair of scimitars at his belt and his faithful trident in his left hand. A masked steel helmet concealed his face.
If he was to be a Ghost, he would need to keep his identity secret.
“Ghosts,” said Tomard. “We’ve got them surrounded.”
“And the sewers?” said Caina.
Tomard nodded. “I sent some men down there. Doesn’t look like Cornan Bascaii has a bolt hole, which is odd. But if he does, I’ve got steady lads watching the tunnels. If the Kindred get desperate enough, they might try to crawl down the latrines.” He snorted. “I might owe my men some extra pay after that.”
“Unless they heard us coming and fled,” said Muravin, glaring at the tavern.
“No,” said Corvalis. “They had two men watching the street from the roof of that warehouse. The Kindred would not waste men guarding an empty tavern, not after the losses they have already taken.”
“Then we go in and kill them?” said Muravin.
“Most likely,” said Tomard. “First we do things properly, give these fools a chance to surrender themselves.”
He took several steps towards the tavern, and Caina followed him, looking at the windows overhead.
“In the name of the civic militia of Malarae,” boomed Tomard, his voice echoing off the walls, “and by the authority of the Lord Prefect of the city and the Emperor of Nighmar, I command the assassins of the Kindred and the Bostaji to lay down their arms and come forth at once! Surrender, and I…”
Caina saw a flicker of motion in an upper window.
“Down!” she yelled, and shoved Tomard to the side. A heartbeat later an arrow hissed down and bounced off the cobblestones. Two more arrows shot down in quick succession, shattering against the street. The civic militiamen shouted and hurried forward, shields raised to protect the tribune.
“Those rats!” said Tomard. “Well, you can’t expect anything better from assassins. Centurion!” He turned to the waiting militiamen. “Begin the attack. Break down the door, spare anyone who surrenders,
and kill anyone who resists.”
The centurion bawled commands to the militiamen. A half-dozen men raced for the front door, carrying an iron-topped ram. More militiamen screened them, shields raised to ward off any archers. The ram met the door, again and again. Bascaii had a thick, solid door on his tavern, but the wood splintered beneath the ram’s iron head. Behind the door another century of militiamen braced themselves, shields raised as they prepared to storm into the tavern.
“Shall we stand here and watch other men do our fighting?” growled Muravin.
“No,” said Caina. “Wait until the militia breaks into the common room. Then we’ll circle around back and head upstairs. The Kindred might have something useful. Documents or papers they’ll try to destroy before we come. Something that might tell us who hired the Kindred to come after your children.”
The crack of splintered wood filled her ears, and the tavern’s door collapsed.
“Forward!” shouted the centurion. “In the name of the Emperor!”
The militiamen yelled and charged for the broken door, and Caina heard the hiss of arrows and the clang of swords and spears.
“Go!” said Caina. “Now, while they’re distracted!”
She raced for the alley, Muravin and Corvalis at her heels. Caina circled to the back of the building, where another squad of militiamen waited, ready to catch any Kindred or Bostaji who escaped through the back door.
“Ghosts,” said the centurion in command. “The tribune said we were to do whatever you commanded.”
“Stay here,” said Caina in her disguised voice. “If anyone other than us comes through that door, give them one chance to surrender. If they don’t, kill them.”
The centurion nodded.
“Muravin,” said Caina.
Muravin growled, raised his leg, and put his armored boot to the door. Four hard kicks later, the wood near the lock shattered, and the door swung open with a groan. The sounds of fighting came from the common room, screams and shouts and the moans of dying men.
No sound at all came from the tavern’s upper floors.
Caina glided forward, dagger in her left hand, throwing knife in her right. Corvalis followed, sword in hand, Muravin at his side, trident raised to throw like a Legionary’s javelin. Caina climbed the stairs, her boots making no sound against the splintered wood. Muravin made rather more noise than she would have liked, but she hoped the cacophony from the common room would mask their footfalls.
Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 07 - Ghost in the Ashes Page 18
