Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 08 - Ghost in the Mask

by Jonathan Moeller

  A moment later she joined him as Corvalis and Muravin hastened down the rope. Something silvery gleamed in her right hand, and Kylon saw the ghostsilver dagger she had used with potent effect against Sicarion, a throwing knife ready in her left hand. Corvalis reached the street and joined them, while Muravin grunted and dropped the last four feet with a clatter of armor.

  “The rope, mistress,” said Muravin. “Will that not tell them we went through the window?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Caina, turning towards the magistrates’ hall. Kylon heard the sound of breaking wood from the opened window. “As soon as they cut down the door, they’ll realize we fled. Surprised they didn’t leave a lookout in case…”

  And as she spoke, Kylon saw the man standing in the doorway of the Inn. He wore a hooded black cloak over leather armor, a sword in his right hand and a peculiar silvery rod in his left. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to shout an alarm.

  Kylon moved first, the sorcery of air lending him speed.

  But the cloaked man leveled his rod, its length flaring with silver light.

  And the spells upon Kylon broke. The sudden loss of momentum upset his balance, and he tripped and fell to one knee before the cloaked man.

  The man raised his sword to kill.

  ###

  It happened so fast that Caina could barely follow it. Kylon moved, the cloaked man leveled his rod, silver light flashed, and Kylon stumbled to one knee. The cloaked figure’s sword glittered as it rose to kill.

  Caina flung the throwing knife in her left hand. She did not have time to aim properly, yet her knife clipped the cloaked man’s sword arm. He stumbled with a hiss of pain, and Kylon surged to his feet, his sword blurring in a slash. The cloaked man parried and leveled his silver rod again, stumbling into the Inn.

  “Brothers!” he shouted. “She is in the street. Brothers!”

  Two men appeared in the window of her sitting room. Both held odd silvery rods leveled at her.

  The rods pulsed, the silvery light fell over her…and nothing happened.

  She felt the sharp, crawling tingle of potent sorcery, but nothing else.

  Somehow the silver light had broken Kylon’s spells, slowing him to the speed of a normal man, but it had not touched her. If these fools thought her the Moroaica, then no doubt they believed her ringed in wards of power. The silver light was intended to shatter her wards, make her vulnerable to weapons of steel…

  Caina threw herself sideways, and an instant later a crossbow quarrel skipped off the cobblestones of the street.

  “Run!” she shouted.

  She sprinted down the street, and the others followed, swords in hand. The sound of clanking armor and shouting voices came from the Inn as Harkus’s men pursued. Caina ran as fast as she could manage, skidding around a corner and sprinting down a street lined with taverns and shops. A little further, and she could reach Calvarium’s central square and the magistrates’ hall…and the militia barracks. Harkus’s men might think her the Moroaica, but the militiamen knew her as the Magisterium’s emissary, and if she commanded them they would fight.

  And perhaps she could determine why Harkus and his men thought her the Moroaica. Had Maena sent them? Or Anashir?

  “Mistress!” Muravin shouted.

  A half-dozen men in black cloaks erupted from an alley ahead, silver rods glimmering in their hands.

  ###

  Kylon saw Caina skid to a stop, and the metallic rods flared. A half-dozen pulses of silver light struck her, but did nothing. The rods looked similar to the ones the Sages had wielded in Catekharon, and he suspected they had the power to break active spells.

  Harmless to Caina, of course.

  But devastating to him.

  With his sorcery, he could likely have killed every last attacker at the Inn of the Seven Skulls. Without it, he could kill three or four of them before the rest overwhelmed him.

  “I am not the Moroaica!” shouted Caina. She brandished the ghostsilver dagger in her right hand, but Kylon saw her hand dip into her sash. “If I were the Moroaica, would you not already be dead?”

  “The Order,” said one of the cloaked men, “has slain the Moroaica before. And we shall slay you again and again until your evil is at last defeated.”

  “If I am the Moroaica,” said Caina, “then why am I running from you? Why am I trying to fight you with a dagger instead of unleashing deadly sorcery?”

  “The Sage said you might resort to trickery,” said another of the cloaked men, “and the Order is prepared to fight you. We have struggled against you for generations, and we are prepared to give our lives…”

  “Shut up,” said the first man, “and shoot her.”

  The cloaked men leveled their crossbows. Kylon drew on the sorcery of water and air, filling his limbs with strength and speed. He might be able to cut down two or three before the rest fired their weapons…

  Caina flung her left hand, and glass glittered in the moonlight. Light flashed, and a sputtering pool of green flame appeared before the cloaked men, spewing venomous-looking yellow smoke.

  “Sorcery!” shouted one of the men. “Dispel it!”

  They leveled their rods, flinging pulses of silver light at Caina. But she was already sprinting for a door further down the street, and Kylon followed with the others.

  ###

  Caina kicked open the door and found herself in a tavern’s common room.

  Unlike the Inn of the Seven Skulls, this place looked cheap. A sullen light came from a sooty hearth in one corner, and rough-looking men sat at benches and tables. Bits and pieces of corroded bronze armor decorated the wall, and Caina suspected tomb robbers were the tavern’s favored customers.

  The landlord glared at her from behind the bar. “Bitch! Look what you did to my door, I…”

  Then he saw her black robes, the robes of a sister of the Magisterium, and his face went the color of old cheese. “Mistress…I…”

  “Silence!” roared Caina, running into the room. The patrons gazed at her, wide-eyed. “In the name of the Imperial Magisterium, I require use of this building. Leave at once! All of you!”

  The men stampeded for the exits, and Caina ran for the stairs on the far side of the common room. With any luck, the fleeing rogues would slow down her pursuers. From the things Harkus and the other cloaked hunters had said, they did not seem the sort to cut down innocent men who just happened to get in their way.

  They just wanted her dead.

  “A plan?” shouted Corvalis as Caina scrambled up the stairs.

  “The roof!” she said. Like most towns in the Empire, the buildings of Calvarium were packed tightly together, with only narrow spaces between them, and most of the roofs in this part of town had been built from clay tiles. If Caina and the others reached the rooftops, they could escape. Then Caina could go to Lord Martin and have him rouse the militia against the Order.

  Whatever the Order was.

  She reached the tavern’s fourth floor, and spotted a narrow ladder leading to a trapdoor in the ceiling. Caina climbed the ladder and shoved open the trapdoor. The roof was angled, but her boots gripped the heavy clay tiles well enough. Corvalis, Kylon, and Muravin hurried after, and Muravin slammed the trapdoor in place behind them. It would not hold for long, but it would hold long enough for them to escape.

  “Which way?” said Kylon.

  “The magistrates’ hall,” said Caina. She ran across the roof, came to an alley, and jumped over it, Corvalis and the others behind her. There was no sign of Harkus or any of the other men of the Order.

  Then she felt a surge of sorcerous power against her skin.

  Powerful sorcery.

  She skidded to a stop, the men lifting their swords.

  “Kylon,” said Caina. “Do you recognize that?”

  He grimaced. “I think…it feels like the sorcery of a Sage of Catekharon, but…”

  The wind blew, and a figure floated up from the street and landed upon the roof a few paces awa
y. The man wore the finery of a Nighmarian noble, though his black coat and boots and trousers were ragged, the clothes hanging loose around his gaunt body. He held the silver rod of a Sage of Catekharon in his right hand.

  A mask of jade covered his features, encircled by a ring of Maatish hieroglyphics.

  “The Moroaica,” said the masked man in flawless High Nighmarian, his voice rough. “Once again we meet, but this time I have the advantage.”

  Caina recognized that voice…and she recognized that mask, as well.

  “Talekhris?” she said.

  He was a Sage of the Scholae of Catekharon, and over nine hundred years old. Long ago, he had unwittingly taught Jadriga. In penance, he had bound his soul to a mighty spell and set off in pursuit. Every time Talekhris died, the spell returned his soul to his body, though at the cost of great pain…and some of his memories.

  Talekhris had tried to kill her once before, believing her to be the Moroaica, and he knew that Mihaela’s attack had expelled Jadriga’s spirit from Caina’s body.

  Unless his most recent death had wiped that knowledge from his memory.

  “You recall me?” said Talekhris. “Good. I have hunted you across the centuries, and you…”

  “You idiot,” said Caina. “Do you not remember me?”

  “I remember you well enough,” said Talekhris. “The Moroaica, the Bloodmaiden, the Bringer of Dust and…”

  “I am not,” said Caina.

  The Sage made an impatient gesture with his rod. “You are. My divinations have revealed that the Moroaica is here in this place of death. I tracked you to Cyrioch, and you eluded me there, but…”

  “I killed you in Cyrioch,” said Corvalis. “Don’t you remember? She distracted you, and I stabbed you in the back.”

  “You killed me,” said Talekhris, “but as ever I returned, and I…”

  “And I would wager,” said Caina, “that you don’t remember anything that happened in the last year, do you?” Talekhris had been an ally once…but he had immense power, and he was perfectly capable of killing her with little more than a thought.

  “No,” said Talekhris.

  She took a step closer, dagger angled low, the rod pointed at her chest. “But you do know that there was a disturbance at the Tower of Study?”

  “Zalandris was most wroth,” said Talekhris, “when I spoke with him last.”

  “I know what happened,” said Caina. “The Seeker Mihaela joined forces with Sicarion, and she created the Forge, a necromantic instrument to transform wielders of sorcery into suits of living armor. We stopped her, but you were killed in the process. Sicarion stabbed you in the back. Do you not remember?”

  “There are… images,” said Talekhris. “A chamber full of molten metal. A sarcophagus of gleaming steel…”

  “And I was possessed by the Moroaica’s spirit,” said Caina. She heard Kylon’s sharp inhalation of breath. She would have to explain that to him later. “Possessed, but she couldn’t control me. Not with the injuries I suffered from necromantic sorcery in my youth. And when Mihaela tried to kill me, she expelled the Moroaica’s spirit from my flesh.”

  “And where,” said Talekhris, “did the Moroaica’s spirit go? I would have known if she had been permanently destroyed.”

  Caina shrugged. “I don’t know.” She had spoken to Jadriga a few months past, when the Alchemist Ibrahmus Sinan had forced Caina to enter the netherworld in search of phoenix ashes. But Caina had no idea where the Moroaica was in the mortal world. “But she is not within me.”

  “You could be lying,” said Talekhris.

  “I could,” said Caina, taking another step closer. “But there is a way to prove it, isn’t there? A spell you can use to probe my aura, to see if the Moroaica’s spirit is inside my flesh. You used it in Catekharon, after Mihaela’s defeat.”

  “There will be pain,” said Talekhris, “if I use the spell on you.”

  “I’m used to pain,” said Caina. She reversed the ghostsilver dagger and slid it into its sheath. Corvalis started forward, but she urged him back.

  “But if I cast the spell,” said Talekhris, “I will be vulnerable to any sorcery you might attempt.”

  Caina shrugged. “It is a risk. But if I were truly the Moroaica, I would have made it much harder for you to find me, would I not? I haven’t killed a single one of your men…”

  “The Order of the Venatorii,” said Talekhris, “are prepared to give their lives.”

  “They said as much,” said Caina. Venatorii? That was an archaic Nighmarian word for “hunters”. Just what did Talekhris’s Venatorii hunt? “But I didn’t kill them. The Moroaica would have done so.”

  “Very well,” said Talekhris. “Brace yourself.”

  He stepped forward, rested the point of his rod upon her forehead, and cast a spell.

  Caina felt the surge of arcane power…and then agony erupted through her. It felt as if she had been dipped in oil and set aflame. A strangled gasp of pain came from her lips, and then she gritted her teeth and forced herself to silence. If it looked like she was in too much pain, Corvalis might take lethal action.

  And that could get them all killed.

  But at last the pain ended, and Talekhris stepped back. He lowered his rod and removed his mask. The face beneath it was lean and scored by deep lines, faded blue eyes glittering beneath a shock of ragged brown-gray hair.

  “You,” he said, “are not the Moroaica.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Another innocent life was almost upon my hands. The Moroaica has killed so many with the knowledge I gave her. You would have been one more.”

  “I have a few ideas on how you can make it up to me,” said Caina, drawing a ragged breath, “if you are open to suggestions.”

  Chapter 12 - A Mask of Jade

  The tavern, as it happened, was called the Opened Tomb.

  The landlord waited in a nearby alley, no doubt fearful that the conflict would burn his tavern to the ground. Caina found him, apologized for the disturbance, and bought food and drink for all of Harkus’s men. As the men of the Order ate, Caina withdrew into one of the tavern’s private dining rooms with Talekhris. Caina sat at one side of the table, Talekhris at the other. Corvalis, Muravin, and Kylon loomed behind her, hands resting on their sword hilts.

  Harkus stood at the other side, calm and relaxed.

  “I would prefer to speak freely,” said Caina, looking at Harkus. “How much does he know?”

  Harkus smiled. He had drawn back his cowl to reveal a middle-aged face, his black hair graying. “I know a great deal about you, Mistress Rania. In certain circles you have great renown as the Ghost who slew Maglarion. He threatened our Order for centuries. But the Moroaica claimed your flesh, so I grieved that it was necessary to kill you.” He shrugged. “But it since the Sage was in error… my heart is gladdened that I need not kill you.”

  “My heart is gladdened, too,” said Caina. “Also, still beating.”

  Harkus chuckled.

  “Do not mince words, Harkus,” said Talekhris with a sour expression. “I was badly mistaken. My divinations revealed that the Moroaica was in Calvarium.” He shook his head. “I was certain you were the Moroaica, but I was wrong. I can only offer my apologies.”

  “I understand,” said Caina. “An unreliable memory must be a dreadful thing.”

  “It is,” said Talekhris. “But that is the price I must pay for my errors in judgment. Or part of the price, at any rate.” He tapped his fingers against his jade mask, which sat upon the table. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to fill the gaps in my memory.”

  So Caina told him what had happened. She described Mihaela’s plot and the terrible battle at the heart of the Tower of Study, ending only when Caina shoved Mihaela’s sorcerous Forge into the pool of molten steel. She did not bother dissembling. Talekhris had been there for all of it, and if he died again and a different portion of his memory returned, he would recall it all anyway.

  “I see,” said Talekhris again. “That expl
ains a great deal.”

  “You must have died again,” said Caina, “after Sicarion stabbed you in Mihaela’s workshop. Otherwise you wouldn’t have forgotten.”

  “I did,” said Talekhris. “In New Kyre, about three months ago.”

  “What,” said Kylon, “where you doing in New Kyre?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Talekhris. “I woke up floating face-down in one your city’s canals. I had been stabbed in the back, again, but beyond that I can recall no other details.”

  “Given your frequent lapses in memory,” said Corvalis, “perhaps you should try writing things down.”

  Muravin snickered.

  Talekhris gave them an irritated look. “I have, frequently. Sometimes my records survive, and sometimes the Moroaica destroys them.” He waved a hand at Harkus. “The Order is an effort to keep records, and they have often saved me from myself.”

  “You do seem…different,” said Caina.

  “How so?” said Talekhris.

  “Harder,” said Caina. “More assertive.”

  He shrugged. “A man’s memories shape his life. And sometimes when I return to life, I lose some of my memories…and therefore I am a different man.”

  “Truly,” said Harkus. “Our Order’s records go back centuries, and the Sage’s personality often changes drastically between deaths.”

  “This Order of yours,” said Caina, “the Venatorii. What is it? I’ve never heard of the Venatorii.”

  “Few have,” said Harkus. “We are as secretive as the Ghosts. Your circlemasters know of us, but few others among your brotherhood do.”

  “I founded the Order,” said Talekhris, “eight centuries ago, when it became clear that I could not combat the Moroaica and her disciples on my own, and that I was losing a portion of my memories with every death. The purpose of the Order is to hunt the Moroaica and her servants.”

  “But since the Sage was often absent for long spans of time, even decades,” said Harkus, “the Order of the Venatorii took on additional roles. We hunt creatures from the netherworld, spirits and elementals that possess living bodies and terrorize the innocent, and stop the sorcerers that summon them. The Empire and Anshan and Istarinmul are relatively peaceful lands…but there are places where such dark spirits lurk everywhere. And even in the Empire, the creatures of the netherworld can be found in the dark and wild places, or lurking the alleys of the great cities.”