The Ghosts Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Cornelia sounded so like her mother that Caina felt again that furious, choking wrath, and she found her hand twitching towards the knives hidden in her sleeves. She hid the gesture by smoothing her skirts. “Yes. An innocent.”

  The coach jolted to a stop.

  “You there!” shouted Lasko, his voice furious. “Get out of the way!”

  Ark’s colder voice rang out. “Clear the way at once!”

  Caina twisted around in her seat and looked out the window.

  The coach filled most of a narrow alley between the windowless backs of two sagging, grim houses. This looked like a bad part of town; the houses were not built of basalt but black-painted brick. A dozen men blocked the street. They looked like beggars, but they had weapons. Some of them had clubs, others had swords, and one hefted an enormous steel warhammer.

  “Move,” said Ark, voice deadly cold, “or get run down. Your choice.”

  The man with the hammer spat and began speaking in Saddaic. “Aye? Well, this is our street. You want to pass, you’ll deal with us. You’ll pay our toll.”

  “How much?” said Ark, drawing his broadsword a foot from its scabbard.

  “Bah!” said the man, spitting again. “We don’t want your gold. You high-and-mighty Imperial scum, strutting about our streets as if you own them.”

  “We do,” said Ark.

  The beggar’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “What we want is blood, fool. You give us the highborn bitch in the coach, and we’ll let you go. Otherwise we’ll kill you all.”

  Caina’s heart beat faster.

  “Dear gods,” said Cornelia, horrified, “those men are criminals, they’re…”

  “Shut up,” said Caina. Cornelia fell into a shocked silence.

  “No,” said Ark. “Out of my way, now.”

  The beggar with the warhammer laughed. “Aye? Or what? You took the wrong street today, you Empire-worshipping fool.” The other men raised their weapons.

  Ark’s sword blurred from its scabbard so fast Caina could scare follow the movement. “Move. Last chance.”

  The beggar laughed again and lifted his hammer. “I think not. Kill him and take the…”

  In the next instant the beggar was on his knees, the hammer ringing against the street, blood pouring from the ghastly wound in his neck. Then Lasko slammed back into his seat, shrieking in pain, a crossbow bolt buried in his chest. Men were bellowing and shouting, and Julia and Anya were screaming in fear. Ark had somehow gotten his shield onto his left arm, and his broadsword sent a spray of bloody drops into the air.

  More men burst from the nearby house, bearing clubs, and rushed for the coach.

  Caina cursed under her breath and looked up. There was a little trapdoor in the ceiling, opening onto the roof. She pushed open the trapdoor, gripped the edges, and lifted herself up.

  The first man stuck his head through the coach’s door. “Well, what have we…”

  Caina swung down, shoving with her arms, and her heeled boots slammed hard into the man’s face. Bones cracked, the man’s head snapping back, and he toppled onto the street. Caina fell to one knee, her right hand dipping into her left sleeve.

  Another man reached into the coach, seized her arm, and began to yank her out. Caina gave no resistance, so it was the easiest thing in the world to slam her hidden knife into his throat as he pulled her close. The man stumbled backwards with a gurgling scream, wrenching the knife out of Caina’s hand. She fell out of the coach, tucked her shoulder, and rolled into the street.

  “Marsaidan?” said one of the men, looking down at the man choking on his own blood. “Marsaidan? What the hell…”

  Caina disliked her boots, but they added a useful weight to her foot as she whipped her leg around, driving a kick into the nearest thug’s knee with all the strength she could manage. Again she heard the snapping crackle of damaged bone. The thug fell with a howl of pain, club rolling from his fingers. Caina scrambled back to her feet, reaching for the knife hidden in her other sleeve.

  A hand seized her hair, yanking her back, another arm coming up to reach for her throat. Again Caina offered no resistance, adding the momentum to her own as she spun around. Her palm strike smashed into a man’s unshaven face, and he stumbled back with a grunt. But his fist lashed out and plunged into her stomach, knocking the breath from her. Caina struggled to keep her balance, and the man kicked her legs out from beneath her. She hit the street with a painful grunt, a jolt of pain shooting through her limbs. The thug took a step towards her, snarling curses as he reached for a dagger at his belt.

  Then his head seemed to collapse on itself as Ark’s broadsword swept past in a spray of blood and brains. The thug’s face twisted weirdly, and he fell into a twitching heap on the basalt-paved street.

  Silence fell. Caina heard nothing but the rasp of her breath and the pounding of her heart.

  “Excellent timing,” she managed to say at last.

  Ark grunted and held out his hand. Caina took it, and Ark pulled her to her feet. She looked around and saw the bodies carpeting the street. Ark had killed four or five men, at least. The man she had kicked in the face lay dead. He must have broken his neck against the street. The man she had stabbed in the throat also lay still, his mouth forever open it a final, futile attempt to draw breath. Caina watched the blood pooling across the basalt flagstones, and again she saw the men lying motionless on the floor of her father’s library, her mother’s face twisted with insane fury. Nausea stabbed into her aching belly, and it was all she could do to keep her breakfast down.

  She looked at Ark, and for a brief moment glimpsed the same sort of thing in his face. It was more desolate, more despairing, yet she saw the same pain in his eyes. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Ark shook his head and turned to the side.

  “Look,” he said, pointing with his sword. Blood slid from the tip of the blade.

  Caina frowned. The man she had kicked in the knee lay against the black house, dead of a sword thrust through the chest. He looked like an average Saddai of unremarkable birth; pale, gaunt, black eyes now glassy and empty.

  “My lady!” Anya peered through the coach’s windows, wide-eyed with fright. “My lady, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” said Caina. “Stay there and don’t move.” Anya vanished back into the coach.

  “Look,” said Ark, again. “What do you see?”

  Caina stared at the dead man, but saw nothing remarkable. “What of it?”

  “We’ve seen him before,” said Ark. “Remember the horseman outside the city? This is him, I would swear to it.”

  “Then they were waiting for us,” said Caina.

  “Robbers, most likely,” said Ark. He knelt beside the corpse, ripped open its tunic, and began to clean his sword on the torn cloth. “This fellow was the lookout. When he saw us, he rode back to the city, to let his fellows know that an Imperial noblewoman was traveling with only one guard.”

  “Wait,” said Caina, frowning. “Wait. Tear his tunic open the rest of the way.”

  Ark looked at her, then shrugged and tore open the red cloth. The dead man had a tattoo on his chest, a stylized image of a flame done in swirling reds and yellows. Blood dripped across the image, but it remained bright and clear against his pallid skin.

  “Have you ever seen this before?” said Caina.

  “No,” said Ark. He shook his head. “I’ve seen this symbol before, though. It’s the Living Flame, the sigil of the Saddai god. But I’ve never seen it worn as a tattoo.”

  Caina crossed to the man she had stabbed in the throat and wrenched the knife free. There was quite a lot of blood. She cleaned the blade on the dead man’s clothes and then cut open his tunic.

  The tattoo of a flame marked his chest.

  “Check the others,” said Caina.

  Without exception, the dead men had the tattoo of the Living Flame upon their chests.

  “What do you think?” said Caina.

  “I don’t know,” said A
rk.

  “You wear the tattoo of the Eighteenth Legion upon your arm,” said Caina. “Perhaps this tattoo is a similar mark. The sign of membership in a secret society, maybe.”

  Ark snorted. “A secret society of fools, then, if they all wear identifying marks.”

  Caina finished cleaning her knife and stood. “To our benefit, then.” She stared hard at the dead men. A man found burned to death in his bed. Eternal sorcerous fires crowning the pyramids. And now thugs with flame tattoos upon their chests.

  Gods, she detested coincidences.

  She walked around the coach. Lasko sat slumped in the driver’s seat, eyes wide and empty, blood trickling down his legs. The horses stamped and whinnied at the smell of blood, but they hadn’t bolted.

  “Damn it,” said Caina, looking at the corpse. The deaths of the tattooed thugs troubled her, but they had tried to kill her. Lasko had only been a tired old man looking for work.

  Ark stared at her, expression unreadable.

  “We should go,” said Caina.

  Ark nodded, and Caina heard the sound of running footsteps. She saw men in leather jerkins hurrying towards them, spears in hand.

  “City militia,” said Ark, his lip curling in contempt. “Local Saddai auxiliaries. Not a single veteran of the legions among them. No doubt they hid when they heard the sound of fighting, and only now crawl out of their holes.”

  Caina nodded. “Let me do that talking.”

  The militiamen stopped, looking at the carnage with wide eyes. One of them stepped forward, an officer’s crest upon his helmet.

  “You there,” he said, pointing at Caina, “what happened here? Speak quickly, woman.” He spoke Saddaic with the same thick Caerish accent as Ark.

  “Woman?” said Caina, her voice cracking like a whip. “Do you not know who I am, fool?”

  “Ah,” said the officer, his eyes skittering over the crest on the coach, and Caina’s own disheveled but expensive clothing. “I…fear I do not, my lady.”

  “I am the Countess Marianna Nereide,” said Caina, “recently arrived from the Imperial capital, and no sooner do I set foot upon your streets than I am set upon by robbers and brigands! Did you not hear our cries for help?” She turned a furious glare over him. “Well?”

  The officer seemed at a sudden loss for words.

  “My captain of guard was forced take up arms in my defense!” said Caina.

  The officer blinked. “He…killed them all? By himself?”

  Ark gave him a chilly smile.

  “I am an Imperial countess, a noblewoman of Nighmarian descent,” said Caina in her most affronted tone. “Do you expect me to lift a sword in my own defense? Of course he killed them all! He had no choice.” She pointed at Lasko’s body. “These murderous villains slew my coachman, a retainer long in loyal service to my family! Your Lord Governor shall hear all about his valiant militia. Oh, yes, he shall hear all about them.”

  “My lady,” said the officer, “it was only ill fortune that we came upon the scene too late. These…insurgents infest the streets of our city, and the militia has only so many men. We cannot be everywhere at once. Please, permit us to escort you.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Ah…Valgorix, my lady, Decurion of the city militia.”

  “Very well,” said Caina, voice cold. “We were making for the Inn of Mirrors. I assume you know the way?

  “Of course, my lady,” said Valgorix. “We…ah, shall see to the body of your retainer, with your permission.” Caina nodded, and two of the militiamen took Lasko’s body down. Ark clambered up into the seat, laid his broadsword across his knees, and took the reins. Caina brushed off her skirts as best she could and climbed into the coach.

  Anya, Julia, and Cornelia all stared at her with expressions caught halfway between fascination and horror.

  “You are all well, I trust?” said Caina. “What is it?”

  “You…you killed him,” whispered Anya. “That man who grabbed you.”

  “Of course I did,” said Caina. “He was trying to kill me, after all.”

  “But…you killed him,” repeated Anya, half in shock.

  This could be a problem. Caina doubted that any of them had realized Countess Marianna Nereide was only a fiction, but best to leave nothing to chance.

  “Listen to me,” said Caina. They looked at her. “My…mother came to an evil death, when I was a child.” That was not a lie, at least. “So my father made certain that I knew how to fight, should I, too, ever face dire peril. It…he said that in Old Nighmar, in the first days of the Empire, it was said that it was better for a man to die on his feet, with his blade in hand, then upon his knees. Why should the same not be true for us women, as well?”

  “It is good that you knew how to fight, my lady,” said Julia. “They would have killed us all, otherwise.” All three of them nodded.

  “I would prefer that this remain secret,” said Caina. “It…well, if I am to find a worthy husband, it would certainly help if he didn’t know.”

  They nodded again. Caina sighed and sat back as the coach rattled and bounced through the streets of Rasadda, past the grim black buildings and the lines of beggars.

  Cornelia did not make a single snide remark, not one.

  Chapter 5 - A Priestess of the Living Flame

  The coach came to the plaza below the Great Pyramid of Corazain.

  The Inn of Mirrors stood on one side of the plaza, a tall building with three wings overlooking a paved courtyard and a bubbling fountain. Inn and courtyard had been covered in gleaming black marble, and it shimmered like a dark mirror in the sunlight. Rich merchants of both Saddai and Nighmarian birth stood in the courtyard, drinking wine, while armed guards kept away the beggars.

  The Imperial Basilica stood on the far side of the square. It had been faced with white marble, a stark contrast to the rest of Rasadda. The purple banners of the Emperor hung from the walls, adorned with a golden eagle. It was one of the larger basilicas Caina had seen, a monument to the might of the Empire.

  But the Pyramid of Corazain dwarfed both Inn and Basilica.

  The great black pile reared against the sky, terraces and ramps and stairs climbing ever higher. Caina looked up, and up, and saw the flames crackling at the Pyramid’s distant crest. It was like looking at a mountain. And mere men had raised this thing?

  Or, Caina amended, mere men equipped with sorcery.

  The coach halted before the Inn, and Caina got out, holding her skirts in one hand. Valgorix approached her and made a polite bow. “Lady. The Inn of Mirrors, as you asked. Have you lodgings here?”

  “Yes,” said Caina. “A man in my service named Narmer arrived in advance a few days past. He will have made arrangements.”

  Valgorix hesitated. “I would suggest that you stay off the streets, my lady.”

  “What do you mean?” said Caina.

  “Forgive my bluntness,” said Valgorix, “but you are a noblewoman of high Nighmarian blood, and the mob will detest you on sight. If you stray too far into the city you may be attacked again. The Empire is not very popular in Rasadda, because of the…” He frowned. “At least, keep your guardsman with you at all times.”

  “What were you going to say?” said Caina. “Because of what?”

  “The murders, my lady,” said Valgorix. “Among other things.”

  “Those brigands in the street?” said Caina, glancing at Ark.

  “Yes. That…and people have been found burned to death,” said Valgorix. “Twenty-six total, with the most recent found yesterday.” He scratched his jaw. “A horrid way to die. And it’s got the city in an uproar.” He glanced fearfully at the beggars wandering around the plaza. “There’s a rumor going around that sorcery was used in the murders. Ridiculous notion. The Magisterium killed off all the Ashbringers long ago. Some charlatan is playing tricks to make the Saddai rabble think an Ashbringer has returned. Still, the murders are inflaming the populace, and it is not safe to travel the streets alone.”
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  Caina had never considered that. “I see. Well, your counsel seems sound, and I shall leave the city when convenient. I thank you for your service, and you are dismissed.”

  Valgorix bowed and returned to his men.

  “What do you think?” murmured Caina, when Valgorix was out of earshot.

  “I don’t know,” said Ark. “I left Rasadda six weeks ago to seek out Halfdan in Mors Crisius. Things were bad then, but now the city seems on the edge of a revolt. And six more murders?”

  Caina nodded. “Then let us find Narmer. Perhaps he shall have more information for us.”

  She turned to the coach, calling for her maids, and stopped. They still sat hunched inside the coach, staring at everything with wide and fearful eyes. The fight in the streets had terrified them. Caina’s training and experiences as a Ghost had inured her to violence. The maids had no such luxury.

  That troubled her. Had her heart become so cold, so hard? Could she kill two men and walk away without it affecting her in the least? She remembered the savage emptiness in Ark’s eyes as he had butchered the thugs. Was that what she had become?

  So be it. Someone had burned nearly thirty people to death. And when Caina found this killer, he would not face a frightened girl but a Ghost of the Empire with cold steel in hand.

  Caina walked to the coach and touched Anya’s sleeve. “See that the horses get stabled and my things unpacked. Then get something to eat and take some rest. You’ve had a dreadful shock, all of you. I’ll send for you when I need you.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Anya. Caina gave the girl a quick smile, and then followed Ark into the Inn.

  They walked into a high common room, the wall ringed with a balcony. Volcanic glass covered the walls, smooth and black, and Caina saw her image reflected dozens of times in the dark panels. A pool ran through the center of the room, three statues of nude women standing on pedestals in the rippling waters. Sunlight poured down through an elaborate skylight in the roof, reflecting off the walls and the water. The combined effect was ethereal, both beautiful and disturbing.