The Ghosts Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  "Theodosia, my dear," said Halfdan. "You're looking well."

  "Flatterer," said Theodosia, planting a kiss upon Halfdan's cheek. "I look old and used up, a withered crone, and cannot get even the most desperate of men to look at me."

  "You are many things," said Halfdan, "but used up is not one of them." He sighed. "A pity we are not alone. I could prove you wrong most effectively."

  Caina blinked. This was a side of Halfdan she had not seen before.

  "Easily accomplished," purred Theodosia. She leveled a finger at Riogan. "You. Wait outside. Try not to kill anyone." She paused for a moment. "Unless it's really necessary, of course."

  Riogan gave a sardonic little bow, something almost like a smile flickering over his lips. "Your discretion fills me with pride, great lady."

  "Bah. I am not a lady, and you know it," said Theodosia, but she smiled as she said it.

  Caina turned to follow Riogan.

  "No," said Theodosia. "You stay."

  Caina stopped, and Riogan shut the door behind him.

  "So," said Theodosia, turning to the mirror once more. The table before the mirror held a truly astonishing array of cosmetics and wigs. "How bad is it?"

  "Bad enough," said Halfdan. "You remember what I told you about Maglarion, I trust?"

  Theodosia's eyes flicked to Caina, just for a moment. "Aye, I do."

  "He's apparently started working with Haeron Icaraeus," said Halfdan.

  Theodosia swore, several times.

  "Undoubtedly Lord Haeron thinks that Maglarion is working for him," said Halfdan, "but I suspect Maglarion has his own ideas."

  "No doubt," said Theodosia. "What does he want?" She scoffed. "Lord Haeron, he is a rich fool, and like all rich fools, he wants to be Emperor. But what does Maglarion want?"

  "That is one of the things I would like you to discover," said Halfdan.

  Theodosia sighed. "I shall try. My eyes and ears watch Lord Haeron night and day. But, oh, a fat fool he may be, but he is as clever as a snake. Very cautious, very careful. He has left no evidence we can use against him."

  "Then perhaps we should simply kill him," said Halfdan.

  "Easier said than done," said Theodosia. "He guards himself most carefully, and is clever enough to hire competent guards."

  "Well," said Halfdan, "we'll just have to be cleverer, won't we?"

  Caina blinked. "You're the circlemaster of Malarae."

  Both Halfdan and Theodosia looked at her.

  "I told you she was clever," said Halfdan.

  "Indeed you did," said Theodosia. She smiled and tapped one finger against her lips. "Halfdan also said you were most observant. Tell me what you see about me."

  Caina shrugged, looked at Theodosia for a moment, and then at the room.

  "Well?" said Theodosia.

  "You're a widow," said Caina, "and you have at least two children, both sons. They probably went into the Legion or the Civic Militia."

  "The scar from the ring," said Theodosia, tapping her finger, "and the candles?"

  "Yes," said Caina. It was common for mothers with children in the Legions or the militias to light votive candles to Markoin, god of soldiers.

  "What else?" said Theodosia.

  "You're carrying at least three knives," said Caina, "two in your boots, one in your belt, and I would wager that you have more that I haven't been able to find. You've had a bad cold, and only just got over it. And you dye your hair."

  Halfdan burst out laughing.

  "I most certainly do not!" said Theodosia, touching her hair.

  Caina shrugged. "But you have all those bottles of dye on the table, and I can see the stains where your hair brushed the walls while still wet."

  Theodosia sniffed. "How did you know about the cold?"

  "The spots on the mirror, from sneezes," said Caina. "You haven't cleaned them off."

  "So I see," said Theodosia, tapping her finger against her lips again. "Well, Halfdan said you were clever, and I see he was right. No doubt he had Riogan teach you to kill, hmm? There is more to being a Ghost than killing and fighting. You must know how to disguise yourself. How to blend in, whether you are dancing at a noble ball or strolling the slums. You must know how to mask yourself so well that your best friend and dearest lover could not recognize you."

  "How?" said Caina.

  "Why, I shall teach you," said Theodosia, spreading her arms. "For I am Theodosia of Malarae! I first strode upon the stage of the Imperial Opera as a girl of fourteen, and I have played every part and sung every aria from the 'Queen of Anshan' to the 'Slave of Istarinmul'. First, let us see what you can already do. Can you sing?"

  "Sing?" said Caina, nonplussed.

  "Yes. Can you sing? It is a simple question," said Theodosia.

  "I don't know," said Caina. "I've never really tried."

  "Well, then, sing this," said Theodosia, and she sang a phrase in her rich, rolling voice.

  Caina hesitated, took a deep breath, and sang the phrase. Or tried to, anyway.

  Theodosia winced. "Ah, so you cannot sing. Well, I simply won't use you on the stage, that is all. Halfdan tells me you can speak many languages, yes?"

  Caina nodded.

  "Though I sing best," said Theodosia, switching to Caerish, "in High Nighmarian, since all the greatest arias are written in High Nighmarian."

  Caina answered in Caerish. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know. I have never been to Malarae, before today."

  "Is that so?" said Theodosia, switching to Kyracian. "It must have been an impressive sight, coming into the city for the first time. I was born here, and Malarae is the queen of cities."

  "There are very many beautiful buildings," said Caina in the same language, "and all those statues. It must have been dreadfully expensive.

  Theodosia laughed, and started speaking in Anshani. "There have been Emperors for thousands of years, and each one wants to be remembered as a great ruler. So every Emperor throws up a new theater, or a new tower, and names it after himself, in hopes that he will be remembered as a great Emperor. The construction makes a dreadful lot of noise, but we do get many fine buildings out of it."

  "And this theater?" said Caina in Anshani. "It's called the Grand Imperial Opera. Why isn't it named for an Emperor?"

  "Actually," said Theodosia, switching to Cyrican, "it is technically named the Theater of Iconias, for the Emperor who ordered it built during the early years of the Third Empire. But it is the most prestigious theater in the Empire, and 'The Theater of Iconias' is quite a mouthful, so it is mostly called the Grand Imperial Opera."

  "A nickname, then," said Caina in Cyrican. "So I see."

  Theodosia clapped her hands. "Delightful!" she said in High Nighmarian once more, speaking to Halfdan. "How many other languages can she speak?"

  "I don't know," said Halfdan. "Caina, how many languages do you know?"

  "High Nighmarian," said Caina, "Caerish, Saddaic, Disali, Kagarish, Cyrican, and Anshani. Oh, I learned Kyracian at the Vineyard, and I think I picked up a few of the curse words in Vytaagi."

  "How did you learn all those tongues?" said Theodosia.

  "My father," said Caina, blinking as she remembered. "He taught me. When...he still could."

  "Ah," said Theodosia. "Now, then. Can you do accents?"

  Caina frowned. "Accents?"

  "You speak fluently," said Theodosia, "in whatever language. The trouble is, you sound like a proper young noblewoman, no matter what tongue you use. It will do no good if I teach you to disguise yourself as a lowborn girl, or as a mercenary soldier, and you sound like a Nighmarian noblewoman."

  A mercenary? Caina wondered how she could possibly disguise herself as a man. "So...you mean I should speak with an accent? Like Saddaic or Anshani was my first language, and I learned High Nighmarian later?"

  "Exactly," said Theodosia. "Try High Nighmarian with a Caerish accent, first. Everyone speaks Caerish, so that should be easiest."

  Caina thought for a moment. Halfdan spoke with a Ca
erish accent. Most of the time.

  "Aye?" she said at last, trying to speak as Halfdan did. "How's this, then? Talking this way makes my teeth hurt."

  Theodosia and Halfdan shared a look.

  “Passable,” said Halfdan.

  “But not good enough,” said Theodosia. “We shall practice. Yes, you may not be able to sing, but you definitely have potential. When I am finished with you, you shall be able to disguise yourself as anything from a starving beggar to a highborn lady, and no one shall look twice.”

  “You’re going to stay with Theodosia for a time,” said Halfdan. “You’ll masquerade as her assistant, just as Theodosia masquerades as an opera singer.”

  “Masquerade?” said Theodosia. “Masquerade? I am the finest soprano to sing the Imperial capital for a hundred years! I masquerade as nothing.”

  Halfdan smirked, and made a little bow. “My apologies, madam. You are indeed the finest soprano in the city, and nobles and merchants come from across the Empire to bask in the wonder of your voice. The fact that you deign to act as circlemaster of Malarae in your spare time is a wondrous blessing for the Ghosts, and we regularly fall to our knees and thank the gods for sending you to us.”

  “That’s better,” said Theodosia.

  “I want you to keep an eye on Haeron Icaraeus,” said Halfdan. “Find out what he intends. If you can find a way to bring him down, good, but do not put yourself or your people at unnecessary risk. He is too careful and too dangerous to confront directly, for now.”

  “What about Maglarion?” said Theodosia.

  “If you can find out what he wants, or what he hopes to gain by working with Lord Haeron, then do so,” said Halfdan. “But do not confront him directly.” He looked at Caina, and then back at Theodosia. “Haeron Icaraeus is dangerous, but next to Maglarion, he’s little more than a petulant child. Maglarion has exterminated entire Ghost circles before, and if he thinks you are a threat to him, he will take action.”

  “We shall be as shadows,” said Theodosia. “He will never even know that we are here.” Her smile returned. “I do hope you shall stay for dinner. I have found the most delightful Anshani chef.”

  “Alas,” said Halfdan, “I need to be on ship for Cyrica by the evening tide.” He took Theodosia’s hands. “Take care of yourself, and look after Caina. She’s very clever, and will be a great help to you.” He looked at Caina, put his hard hand on her shoulder. “And do as Theodosia bids you. She knows what she’s about.”

  Caina nodded, biting her lip. Halfdan had looked after her for almost four years now.

  On impulse, she slipped out of his grasp and hugged him, hard.

  “You be careful, too,” she said.

  Halfdan smiled.

  “My dear child,” he said. “I’m always careful.”

  He bowed once more and left.

  Caina stood in silence for a moment.

  “Well,” said Theodosia. “Halfdan is a marvelous fellow, but he always gives me a great deal of work to do. Shall we get to it?”

  Chapter 16 - The Price of Immortality

  Maglarion stood in the darkness below Malarae, gazing upon his bloodcrystal.

  It had grown.

  A few years ago, it had been the size of his fist. But Lord Haeron had kept him well-supplied with slaves, and Maglarion killed them all, feeding their life forces into the bloodcrystal. Bloated with the stored energy from hundreds of deaths, it had swelled to the size of a small child. Its power had increased, as well. When he had created it, it could absorb the energy from any death within thirty or forty yards.

  Now it could absorb the power from any death within a half mile.

  Which meant that it grew constantly, even without Maglarion’s attention. A million men, women, and children lived in Malarae, and some of them died every day. A few days ago, a woman had been raped and knifed within a few blocks of the Grey Fish Inn. The bloodcrystal captured the energy of her death, storing the power within itself. An inattentive child had been crushed beneath the wheels of a wagon. His life force, too, drained into the bloodcrystal.

  Every death made the bloodcrystal a little larger, a little stronger. Soon it would have the power to capture the energy from any death within the entire city.

  And then Maglarion’s real work could begin.

  He smiled, running a hand over the bloodcrystal’s rough side. It shone constantly now, pale green flames flickering in its depths. Sometimes faces formed in the flames, images of those deaths captured by the bloodcrystal. That pleased Maglarion. The lives of his victims, after all, had no purpose – save to be harvested by him.

  Now, to begin.

  A wooden podium stood before the bloodcrystal, holding the dagger and the Maatish scroll he had taken from Sebastian Amalas’s library. Maglarion raised the dagger and slashed his palm. Blood welled from the cut, and he extended his hand over the bloodcrystal.

  The blood sizzled and hissed when it struck the dark surface.

  Maglarion began to chant, reading the ancient spell from the scroll, gesturing with the bloodied dagger. Power built in the air, his fingertips crackling with emerald flame. The bloodcrystal pulsed and throbbed in answer.

  Maglarion waved his bleeding hand, spraying more droplets over the bloodcrystal, and released the power.

  The crystal blazed with green light, and Maglarion felt the stored power in the crystal pressing against his mind and soul, joined by the Maatish spell's link.

  And then the power erupted through him.

  Maglarion shuddered and fell to his knees, breathing hard, eyes wide. The power raged through him like a molten river. The Maatish spell had joined him to the bloodcrystal, linking its stolen life force to his own, and now that vast reservoir of power enhanced his strength.

  He lifted his hands, watching the cut upon his palm vanish, the skin repairing itself. And still stolen strength and vitality surged through him. The liver spots vanished from his hands, the skin tightening.

  Amazed, he climbed to his feet without the use of his cane. Years ago, one of the Ghosts’ interminable attempts on his life had almost succeeded, leaving him with a bad limp that even his necromantic prowess could not quite heal. Yet now the limp was gone, and his left leg worked without the slightest hitch.

  His left eye, of course, did not heal.

  But he had plucked it out himself, after all.

  He strode across the cellar to the mirror upon his worktable and gazed at his reflection. For centuries, now, he had looked like a white-haired man in his late sixties, face lined and worn. Now he looked like a man in the vigor of his early forties, his hair more black than gray.

  His laughter rang over the cellar.

  He would transcend the flesh, in the end. He would leave his body behind, and live as pure power, immortal and invincible for all time. This renewed vitality, this rejuvenation, was just the first step.

  He had indeed put the harvested lives of his victims to good use.

  And even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt someone die within reach the bloodcrystal.

  For the briefest moment he had contact with the flickering life force. An old man, dying of sickness, alone in his room. And then the energy released by the death drained into the bloodcrystal. The crystal shivered as it grew slightly larger, and Maglarion closed his eyes with the pleasure of it. The old man had been weak, his life force little more than a flickering ember, and yet its consumption had filled Maglarion with ecstasy.

  What would it be like, he wondered, when he devoured all of Malarae?

  An image of the old man's face flickered in the bloodcrystal, and then vanished in green flame.

  He turned, saw Ikhana descending the cellar stairs.

  “Master,” she said, stopping before him. “Lord Icaraeus has gathered the Restorationist nobles. They would…”

  She stopped, staring at him, and he had the distinct pleasure of seeing shock cross her cold face, for the first time in over a century.

  “My dear Ikhana,” said
Maglarion, spreading his hands. “You seem surprised.”

  “You are…younger,” said Ikhana, her face returning to its usual empty expression.

  “Do you remember what I told you?” said Maglarion, stepping closer to her. “That first day, when you tried to kill me?”

  There were, he realized, other advantages to a rejuvenated body. Ikhana’s face was cold, and her eyes empty, but she was really very beautiful.

  A hint of fear showed in those cold eyes.

  “You said you were the master of death,” said Ikhana, “that life and death themselves were yours to command.”

  “Yes,” said Maglarion, shoving her to the floor, “and I still am.”

  He took her, then and there, upon the cellar floor, the first time he had lain with a woman in centuries. She did not resist. She did not even try. And why should she? The black dagger had enslaved her to him, body and soul, and he owned her more thoroughly than a fool like Haeron Icaraeus could ever own his slaves.

  But her eyes glittered by the time he was done, shining with the same icy lust he saw when he gave prisoners to her and the dagger.

  Ikhana only respected power…and Maglarion had power.

  “Come,” he said, rising to his feet. “Let us see what our good friend Lord Haeron has found for us.”

  ###

  Like most nobles, Lord Haeron maintained a townhouse in Malarae, to use when the business of the court called him to the Imperial capital. Of course, Lord Haeron of House Icaraeus was one of the most powerful men in the Empire, and his townhouse was a sprawling ten-story pile of marble, ringed with gardens and fountains, with a massive tower rising four hundred feet above the mansion. Lord Haeron's guards, hard-faced, cold-eyed men, prowled the grounds, laden with arms and armor. Lord Haeron had many enemies, the Ghosts among them, and did not neglect his personal security.

  Some of the guards escorted Maglarion and Ikhana into the mansion. He enjoyed their caution in his presence, the way they checked their weapons and never let their eyes leave him for long.

  Little good it would do them.

  The nobles awaited him in one of the mansion's smaller ballrooms, sipping from flutes of wine. Haeron had had the wit, at least, to banish the servants from the ballroom, posting guards at the doors. Servants were often friendly with the Ghosts.