The Ghosts Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Slaves were better than free servants. Easier to kill, when necessary.

  Maglarion looked over the nobles, Ikhana trailing behind him. Most of the prominent Restorationist nobility in the Empire had come. There was Lord Haeron, the center of attention, a dozen lesser nobles nodding at his every word. There was Lord Macrinius, handsome and dashing. There was Lady Aureon, vain and primped, flirting with sour-faced old Lord Corthios. Even some Militarist nobility had come, to his surprise, but he knew them all.

  He had known their ancestors.

  In some cases, he had killed their ancestors.

  Haeron Icaraeus crossed the room, the lesser nobles trailing after him. "Ah, Master Maglarion. So good of you to..."

  He stopped, frowning, and looked hard at Maglarion's face.

  "So good of you to come," he said, as if he had not noticed anything amiss. He lifted his voice, addressing the nobles. "My friends! You might have wondered why I invited you here tonight with such secrecy. Well, you are men and women of vision, every one. You wish to see our Empire returned to economic and social order, to see slavery reestablished in every province and in Malarae itself. You wish to see the arcane sciences used for the benefit of the Empire and the nobility. And you wish to see that upstart fool of an Emperor brought to heel. Tonight, I wish to introduce you to a worthy ally of our noble mission - Maglarion, once a Master of the Magisterium of the Fourth Empire."

  A surprised murmur went through the assembled nobles.

  Maglarion's reputation proceeded him.

  "My lords and ladies," said Maglarion. "How would you like to live forever?"

  Silence answered this pronouncement. Haeron frowned, and Lord Macrinius looked skeptical, as did a few of the other lords.

  "You know that during the Fourth Empire," said Maglarion, "the necromantic sciences had not yet been banned. That the magi used these sciences to extend their lifespan for centuries. I am the heir to their secrets, and I can pass them on to you, if you support my work. Think of the possibilities - a society of immortal nobles, ruling forever over a powerful and vigorous Empire, an Empire where the lower classes know their place."

  One of the nobles laughed. "Do you seriously expect us to believe that?" A young man, with close-cropped blond hair and bright blue eyes, his arms heavy with muscle. Lord Alastair Corus, Maglarion recognized, Militarist lord and tribune in the Eighteenth Legion. "Immortal nobles, indeed. Lord Haeron, thank you for the hospitality, but I'm afraid I've wasted quite enough time with a one-eyed charlatan today."

  He bowed in Haeron's direction and left.

  "I assure you," said Maglarion, "that every word I am speaking is the truth."

  That was a lie, of course, but they didn't need to know that.

  "Doubtful," said Lord Macrinius, brushing some dust from the sleeve of his coat. "Lord Haeron has a fondness for collecting rogue sorcerers, and I'm sure you can perform an impressive trick or two. But we are hardly ignorant peasants to be impressed by a conjurer's showmanship. We know our history, 'Master' Maglarion. Even the most powerful necromancers of the Fourth Empire could not extend their lives beyond two and a half centuries, and they could only bestow a few additional decades upon their followers."

  "And I have surpassed them," said Maglarion. "I have lived for almost four centuries."

  Some of the nobles laughed at that.

  "Indeed?" said Macrinius. "Do you truly expect us to believe that without proof? Undoubtedly you will say that you can brew an elixir of immortality, provided you have just enough of our gold. And then you'll disappear to make the same pitch to the satraps of Anshan, or perhaps the emirs of Istarinmul. Haeron, you ought to hang this scoundrel from his heels as a warning to others who would cheat the Lords of the Nighmarian Empire."

  "Proof, you want?" said Maglarion, his voice soft. "Then proof you shall have."

  He walked to a table, shoved aside silver plates of delicacies, and climbed upon it.

  "What are you doing?" said Haeron, scowling. Even Ikhana appeared surprised.

  "Do you want proof, my lords and ladies?" said Maglarion. "Then behold! I have mastered death, and the power of life itself is my plaything." He undid his black coat and ripped open his white shirt, exposing his chest.

  "What is the meaning of this?" said Haeron, his face darkening. Undoubtedly he did not like to look the fool in front of his sycophants.

  "Watch," said Maglarion.

  He drew the dagger from his belt and slammed it home in his chest, between his ribs.

  That...rather hurt.

  The nobles stared at him, shocked. One woman screamed. Blood gushed over Maglarion's hands, and he twisted the dagger, driving it deeper into his heart. Then he ripped it free, the blade glistening.

  His heart stopped beating. His vision darkened, and Maglarion toppled off the table.

  He felt himself hit the marble floor, and everything went black.

  Then power surged through him, burning and potent, drawing him back from the darkness. His eye of flesh swam back into focus, staring up at the ballroom's ceiling. A furious argument filled his ears. Some of the nobles stood over him, gesturing and shouting. Ikhana waited nearby, a hungry expression on her face. No doubt she thought herself rid of him, and wanted to kill everyone in the room.

  "What sort of foolishness was this, Haeron?" said Lord Macrinius. He sounded affronted. "Did you invite us here to watch some madman kill himself?"

  "How was I to have known?" said Haeron. "The man had skill with the necromantic sciences, I saw that with my own eyes." He snorted. "Undoubtedly it deranged his mind, gave him delusions of grandeur. Well, better to learn that a tool is flawed sooner rather than later, no?"

  "And how much trust did you place in this man?" said Lord Macrinius. "We cannot afford any missteps, not with the Ghosts snapping at our heels."

  "Ghosts!" said Lady Aureon. "There are no such thing as the Ghosts."

  Haeron's voice hardened. "Do not think to..."

  Maglarion drew in a deep breath and started to laugh.

  The effect on the nobles was...gratifying.

  Haeron flinched, all the color draining out of his thick face. Macrinius fell silent, shocked. Aureon shrieked, perfumed hands flying to her painted face. Some of the others swore, while others just stared in shock. Every man and woman among them knew what death looked like, and Maglarion had just killed himself in front of them.

  And then returned.

  He climbed to his feet, the bloodcrystal's power surging through him. He spread his arms, letting them see his blood-soaked shirt, the wound on his chest closing itself. Ikhana stared at him, her mouth working. Twice in one day, now, he had managed to shock her.

  "I believe, my lord Macrinius," said Maglarion, smiling, "that you wished to see proof?"

  "How?" said Macrinius at last.

  "The necromancers of old lived for two centuries," said Maglarion. "But I have surpassed them, I have delved deeper into the necromantic sciences than they ever did. And I have mastered death itself - as you can see with your own eyes."

  The wound on his chest finished closing.

  "My dear Lord Macrinius," rumbled Haeron, "did you really think that I would associate myself with a charlatan?"

  "Aid me, my lords and ladies," said Maglarion. "Give me the materials I need to continue my research. The gods may promise life eternal to their followers - but only I can give it to you. Aid me, and I shall give you the Empire. Aid me, and you shall rule over the Empire forever - forever young, forever strong, and forever immortal."

  Maglarion watched their faces. They were convinced. They were his.

  He would make good use of these men and women.

  Before he killed them all, of course.

  Chapter 17 - Masquerades

  Caina soon settled into a routine at the Grand Imperial Opera.

  The singers and the musicians and the stagehands tended to sleep late, so she awoke before dawn. While they slept, she went to the deserted workshop and practiced her unarme
d forms for an hour, until her breathing came hard and fast. After that, she bathed, and ate a breakfast of bread and cheese, sometimes an egg or two.

  And then she helped Theodosia.

  The Imperial Opera, Caina soon learned, was the most prestigious opera company in the Empire. Every major city had one, and Malarae had a dozen - but the Emperor himself patronized the Grand Imperial Opera, and only the finest singers performed upon its stage. Theodosia usually sang to rapturous applause three or four nights a week.

  "Makeup, my dear, is an art," said Theodosia one night, as Caina helped her prepare. "Too little is ineffective. Too much, and you look like a painted whore." She paused. "Unless, of course, you want to look like a painted whore. In which case too much is exactly the right amount. But the right amount can make you look twenty years older, or ten years younger - looking younger is always harder for women. It can even make you look like a different woman entirely, or even a man. Watch."

  Caina applied the makeup to Theodosia's face, following the woman's precise directions. It was difficult, but not that different from disarming Halfdan's practice traps. At least no needles erupted from Theodosia's face.

  "Do you see?" said Theodosia, gesturing at the mirror. She did, indeed, look ten years younger.

  "Yes," said Caina. She was beginning to see how a nightfighter might find makeup useful.

  "For the rest of the night," said Theodosia, adjusting her hair one last time, "you'll run errands for the Seneschal. Also, you'll speak only Caerish. Use a...Saddaic accent, I think. You see, makeup is only part of it. If you want to fool people into thinking that you are a servant, you must act the part. Your stance, your gestures, your expression, your accent...all of them must say 'I am a servant' or 'I am a washerwoman' or whatever disguise you choose to take. Do you understand?"

  Caina thought it over. "No."

  "Good," said Theodosia. "For understanding comes only with practice." She got to her feet. "And now my audience awaits."

  ###

  For the rest of the night, Caina obeyed the theater's Seneschal, a nervous, sweating man who nonetheless ruled the Grand Imperial Opera with an iron fist. The various nobles and merchants attending the opera wanted wine, or refreshments, or messages delivered, and Caina did their errands. She did her best to act like a servant, keeping her eyes downcast, her accent Saddaic, and her stance and posture diffident and respectful.

  Quickly she realized why Theodosia wanted her to do this.

  The nobles paid no attention to servants. None whatsoever. They regarded the servants as something like furniture, or perhaps horses - something used when needed, but otherwise ignored. They spoke freely in front of her, too freely. She soon learned that one lord slept with the wife of another. That another nobleman contracted with smugglers to bring Cyrican spices into the city, avoiding the Emperor's tariffs.

  From time to time she had a moment to stop, to listen to the opera.

  Theodosia could indeed sing. Her voice filled the theater, one moment softer than silk, the like the blast of a proud trumpet.

  The nobles even stopped plotting to listen to her.

  Caina delivered a tray of breaded shrimp to the private box of Lord Haeron Icaraeus, and she took her first look at the man who had allied himself with Maglarion. Lord Haeron was stout and bearded, his expression and posture accustomed to command. Five hard-eyed men lounged about Lord Haeron, hands resting near their sword hilts, and another man first tasted everything Haeron ate and drank.

  For a single terrified moment, Caina wondered if she would see Maglarion himself among Haeron's entourage, but there was no sign of him.

  She supposed the sort of man who lurked in abandoned ruins, draining blood from virgin girls, was not the sort of man to come hear Theodosia sing.

  Then Theodosia finished her aria, and the entire theater rose in thunderous applause.

  Even Lord Haeron clapped a few times.

  ###

  After the opera finished, Caina returned to the chaos of the workshop. The stagehands hauled the sets back into the place, and the singers and the chorus departed to get drunk. She fetched tools and wine, running back and forth at the Seneschal's bidding.

  One of the singers stopped in her path. A man named Lucien, about twenty or so, handsome with dark hair and bright eyes. He was a bass, and had sung alongside Theodosia in the opera's final duet.

  "Ah," said Lucien in Caerish, "you have some wine for me, yes?"

  "Of course," said Caina, lifting the tray.

  He took a long drink. "Singing, it is such thirsty work. I have seen you - you are Theodosia's new assistant, no? But I do not know your name."

  "My name is Marina," said Caina, using the alias she had chosen.

  "Marina," said Lucien, rolling the name around his tongue. "I am very pleased to meet you." He touched her arm, briefly. "My name is Lucien. You may have seen me on stage."

  "I did," said Caina. "You sing very well."

  His smile widened, and he touched her hand for just a moment. "You do me too much honor. Too much honor, indeed. I wish you could have been on stage with us. You would have looked very fine."

  "Thank you," said Caina, wondering what he wanted. She looked around for Theodosia, or the Seneschal, hoping for an excuse to get away.

  And as she looked away, Lucien glanced at her breasts, just for a moment.

  Oh. Right.

  He was very handsome, she had to admit, and she did like his eyes, and the way his smile flashed across his face. And he could indeed sing well, almost as well as Theodosia. For a moment Caina wondered what it would feel like if he kissed her.

  To her great annoyance, she felt her cheeks grow warm.

  But he had soft hands. What did he know of pain, of suffering, of hardship? A man like Riogan could break Lucien in the space of three heartbeats.

  Caina saw Theodosia crossing the workshop, still in the elaborate jeweled gown and diadem worn by the "Queen of Anshan."

  "Ah," she said. "Theodosia needs me. Excuse me."

  She hurried away before Lucien could respond.

  Theodosia stood before her mirror, examining herself.

  "Well?" she said. "What did you think?"

  Caina thought for a moment. "You sounded good."

  "Good?" said Theodosia. She took a glass of wine and drained it in one gulp. "Good? I sounded good? Is that all you have to say?"

  "I don't know very much about music," said Caina. "But I still think you sounded good." She frowned. "Even Lord Haeron clapped a few times."

  Theodosia gave an indelicate snort. "Ah! Now there is high praise." A glint came into her eye. "So you see why I had you run the Seneschal's errands?"

  Caina nodded. "The nobles, they're...they're so," she searched for a word, "stupid." Theodosia laughed. "They talk about illegal things in front of the servants. They don't even see servants. It's like..."

  "Furniture," said Theodosia. "They think of servants as furniture."

  Caina nodded. "I hope I wasn't like that with my father's servants."

  "Oh, you probably were," said Theodosia. "Of course, you were just a child, so you didn't know any better. But now you do. Be warned, however, not all the nobles are fools. Some of them are halfway clever. Lord Haeron, for instance, probably assumed that all the servants were spying on him. He didn't say anything incriminating, did he?"

  Caina shook her head.

  "Exactly," said Theodosia. "You can learn a great deal about a man by talking to his servants. They say the best measure of a man is how he treats those in his power, after all, and servants see everything. And if they hate their master, they will be more than happy to share all his secrets with you." She smiled. "The next show, I think we shall have you mingle among the lords' servants. You can tell them what a cruel mistress I am, how I beat you and insult you at every turn. Then they will share their masters' secrets with you."

  "You don't mind me spreading lies about you?" said Caina.

  "Well. One does have a certain reputatio
n to maintain," said Theodosia, "and opera singers are supposed to be ever so difficult. I never saw the point, myself. Too much work. Now help me out of this costume."

  Caina obeyed, helping Theodosia to wash the intricate makeup from her face.

  "You know," said Theodosia, "Lucien seems rather taken with you."

  Caina laughed. "He's too old for me."

  "He's only twenty. And you're...what, sixteen?"

  Caina nodded.

  "Many girls are married by the time they're fifteen," said Theodosia. "I was married at seventeen myself."

  "Are you trying to find me a husband?" said Caina, undoing the elaborate laces on the back of Theodosia's costume.

  "Oh, certainly not," said Theodosia. "It would be unwise of you to take a husband, I think. Not unless you no longer wished to be a Ghost nightfighter. Still, Lucien is very handsome, is he not? Not terribly bright, I'm afraid, but no one man can possess every virtue...and he is very handsome."

  "He is," said Caina, helping Theodosia out of her coat.

  "You are quite capable of taking care of yourself, I'm sure," said Theodosia. "Halfdan would have seen to that. Still, if you want to...ah, enjoy yourself with Lucien, or anyone else, for that matter, feel free to do so. Halfdan told me a bit about you. Most girls your age have to worry about getting pregnant if they enjoy themselves, but you wouldn't."

  "No," said Caina, blinking. "No...I suppose I wouldn't, at that."

  Her voice caught a little on the last word.

  Theodosia looked at her, and her face fell.

  "Oh," she said. "Oh, Caina. I'm sorry. I've rather made a fool of myself, haven't I? I forgot how painful this must be for you." She reached out, took Caina's hand. "You wanted children very badly, didn't you?"

  "Yes," said Caina.

  Theodosia smiled. "I didn't. I didn't even think about it, but it sort of...happened. Ah, my sons have been a trial to me...but, still, I would not trade them for anything. Forgive me for being so thoughtless."