“This is another damned dream,” said Caina.
“Ah,” said the Moroaica. “You heard.”
Caina blinked, and then realized Jadriga had not been talking to her.
A short man emerged from the mists. The man wore leather armor and a long cloak, sword and dagger at his belt. His hairless head was hideously scarred, and looked as if it had been stitched together out of torn pieces of leather. His left eye was a brilliant green, but his right was a sulfurous orange.
“Sicarion,” spat Caina. He had lured Andromache into Scorikhon’s tomb, allowing Jadriga’s long-dead disciple to possess Andromache’s body. “You miserable wretch, you got away from me once, but…”
But like Jadriga, Sicarion did not see or hear her.
“Mistress,” said Sicarion in his rusty voice, making a short bow before the Moroaica. “For a dead woman, you are looking well.”
“I have died many times before,” said Jadriga, “and before the great work is done, I suspect I shall die a few more.”
Caina listened. Was this a dream? Or was Sicarion somehow communicating with Jadriga’s spirit?
“Indeed,” said Sicarion with another bow. “I have been there for many of your deaths, mistress. Though this time you have, shall we say…remained dead much longer than I expected.”
“It is of no concern,” said Jadriga.
“When shall you take possession of your current vessel?” said Sicarion.
“When the time is right,” said Jadriga.
Sicarion’s lips twitched. Even his lips were scarred. Which was not surprising, given that Caina had seen him cut the hand from a dead man and attach it to the bloody stump of his right arm.
“In other words,” said Sicarion, “you cannot.”
“No,” said the Moroaica. “It is…intriguing. Her mind has been…fractured, damaged.”
Sicarion laughed. “She was lucid enough when I faced her.”
“When she defeated you,” said Jadriga.
Sicarion shrugged. “And she defeated you as well. Yet I am still alive.”
“Her cognitive faculties are unimpaired,” said Jadriga, “as we both know. But her spirit is scarred, damaged. Because of that, I can possess her, but I cannot control her.”
“A simple solution presents itself,” said Sicarion. “I will find her and kill her. Then you will claim a more receptive vessel, and the great work can continue.”
“You will not,” said Jadriga.
Sicarion’s scowl made his scarred face uglier. “Why? You cannot take control of her body, you said so yourself. If I kill her, you can take possession of a new vessel at once.”
“No,” said Jadriga. Her voice grew distant, almost dreamy. “You will not. She and I are more alike than she would ever admit. She has known pain, horrible pain. I suspect even now her sleeping mind throws those memories back into her face. Yet the pain has not broken her. It has only made her stronger, and she wields it as a weapon. Just as I did, once.”
“So you think to twist her,” said Sicarion.
“Yes,” said Jadriga. “I have always dominated my vessels. Think how much stronger I shall be if she submits to me willingly. If she puts her intellect at my service. I shall speak to in her dreams. Bit by bit she will bend to my will. To see the necessity of the great work, as I do.”
“That could take years,” said Sicarion.
Jadriga shrugged. “What is time to me? A few decades are nothing.”
Sicarion’s face contorted in rage. “You promised me killing, mistress. You promised killing enough to sate me. I will find your vessel and slay her, and when you take a new body…”
“You will not kill her,” said Jadriga, icy calm. “I forbid it.”
The gray mists rippled, and Sicarion took a step back in alarm, a hint of fear in his mismatched eyes.
“As you wish, mistress,” said Sicarion. “I will not kill your vessel.”
“I never doubted it,” said Jadriga. “But fear not, my faithful hound. I have some work that should please you.”
“Someone to kill?” said Sicarion.
“Of course,” said Jadriga. “Do you remember my wayward disciple? The one we met at the Magisterium’s motherhouse in Artifel?”
Sicarion’s lip curled in a snarl.
“You do remember, I see,” said Jadriga.
“As annoying a fool as Andromache,” muttered Sicarion. He grinned. “Though I regret I didn’t get to kill her myself.”
“A pity about Scorikhon,” said Jadriga. “He remained loyal to me.”
“Because you sealed his spirit in a stone box for five hundred years,” said Sicarion.
The Moroaica’s smile was thin. “Such simple things can inspire loyalty, no? As you well know. But this is what I would have of you. My wayward disciple has settled in Cyrica Urbana.”
Caina stepped forward, both interested and alarmed. Andromache had been a loyal student of the Moroaica, and she had almost destroyed Marsis. Maglarion had once been Jadriga’s student, Caina suspected, and he had almost killed everyone in Malarae. Was there a disciple of the Moroaica in Cyrioch?
Sicarion’s grin was hideous. “I’ve been looking forward to this for twenty years.”
“Twenty years is not so long,” said Jadriga. “Even for someone only a few centuries old, like you. For I have been preparing the great work for centuries beyond count, since the Kingdom of Rising Sun collapsed into dust.”
“I bow before your superior wisdom,” said Sicarion.
“Go to Cyrica Urbana,” said Jadriga, “find my rebellious fool of a disciple, and then…”
She fell silent, a frown marring the pale beauty of her face.
Then she turned and looked directly at Caina.
“We are observed,” said Jadriga.
Caina backed away in alarm.
“I thought you said her mind was asleep,” said Sicarion.
“So I did,” said Jadriga. “But I also said she was formidable. Go, my hound. Fulfill the task I have given you in whatever way seems best.”
Sicarion bowed and vanished into nothingness, leaving Caina alone with Jadriga.
“You’re not real,” said Caina. “I killed you and you’re not real. This is a dream.”
“Oh, come now, child,” said Jadriga. “After what happened in Marsis, I think you would know better.”
“What do you want?” said Caina. “If you’re real, if you’re not just some sort of echo of Jadriga’s power, why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because,” said Jadriga, “you are going to face trials, terrible trials, soon enough.” She looked into the gray mists and nodded. “As you will soon see.”
She gestured, and blackness swallowed Caina.
###
Caina’s eyes shot open.
Dazzling sunlight filled her vision. She was on her cot in their suite’s sitting room, the sun pouring in through the opened shutters. It was well past sunrise.
“Oh, good,” said Theodosia. “You’re up.”
Caina turned her head. Theodosia sat at the table, wrapped in a silk robe, eating a piece of bread and sipping at a cup of tea.
“You were exhausted,” said Theodosia, “so it seemed best to let you sleep.”
“More exhausted than you?” muttered Caina, swinging her feet to the floor. Her head ached and throbbed, and her mouth felt as if it had been coated in dust.
“Well, a performance is tiring business,” said Theodosia. “But I think you needed your sleep.” Her gray eyes were worried. “You kept screaming and thrashing in your sleep. Nightmares?”
Caina stood, crossed to the table, and helped herself to some tea. “Aye.”
“How are you?” said Theodosia.
Caina hesitated. What could she tell Theodosia? That she would wake up in an empty bed for the rest of her life, alone but for her nightmares? That the corrupted spirit of the Moroaica, a necromancer of terrible power, might be riding around inside her skull?
“I’m fine,” s
aid Caina, sipping at the tea. Bitter and black, the way she preferred it.
“Plainly,” said Theodosia, her disbelief evident. “Well, we are to meet with Marzhod after sundown. Are you sure you’re up for it?”
“I’m fine,” said Caina again.
She could almost make herself believe it.
Chapter 6 - The Circlemaster
That afternoon, Caina helped Theodosia prepare for a different role.
Theodosia donned a robe of sand-colored cloth, the sort favored by the nomadic Sarbian tribes that lived in the deserts south of Cyrica. A white turban went on her head, complete with a thick veil to keep the desert’s winds at bay. A scimitar went on her belt, and makeup gave her the illusion of stubble and a face made leathery by the sun. The desert men, Theodosia said, had a reputation for short tempers, and few would cross them without good reason.
“How do I look?” said Theodosia, examining herself in the mirror as Caina donned her own robe.
“Dry,” said Caina, buckling on her sword belt.
“How droll,” said Theodosia. “But if we’re fortunate, no one will trouble a pair of desert men.” She offered a tight smile. “And with a little more luck, Marzhod will have some information for us.”
###
The wealthy districts surrounding the Stone fell silent at night, but Seatown grew louder.
Caina walked at Theodosia’s side, making sure to use the confident swagger the other Sarbians used. Gangs of slaves labored at the piers, unloading cargoes from the ships. Other slaves hauled endless carts loaded with sacks of rice and grain to the docks. The crops grown on Cyrica’s slave-worked plantations fed half the world. Bands of sailors headed for the taverns and brothels lining Seatown’s streets, eager to enjoy themselves while the slaves unloaded their ships.
She glimpsed dark-cloaked men waiting in the alleys. Istarish slavers, most likely. Some of those drunken sailors might wake up chained in the hold of an Istarish ship. It was illegal, of course, but Caina suspected healthy bribes persuaded the Lord Governor’s officials to look the other way.
The thought made her fist tighten against the hilt of her scimitar. Gods, she had been here only a few days, but she detested Cyrioch.
“Here we are,” said Theodosia.
They stopped at the edge of the piers. A huge, rambling tavern stood there, a ramshackle three-story pile of brick and timber. Firelight streamed through its open doors, and a steady stream of sailors and caravan guards moved in and out of the building. A sign swung over the door, showing a naked woman with a painted face.
“The Painted Whore?” said Caina, reading the script on the sign. “Charming.”
“Marzhod is a charming sort of fellow,” said Theodosia. “Let me do the talking.”
Caina nodded and followed Theodosia into the tavern.
The Painted Whore looked like the other sailors’ taverns Caina had visited - dark, smoky, and ill-smelling. Men sat at wooden benches, drinking cheap wine from clay cups. Women in slave gray hurried back and forth with trays of food and drink. Caina watched them, her anger growing. Marzhod kept slaves? What kind of Ghost was he?
Grim-faced men in Sarbian desert robes stood throughout the room, cudgels in hand.
“Sarbian mercenaries,” said Theodosia, keeping her voice low. “Marzhod hires them as enforcers. They’re not loyal to anyone in the city, so as long as he pays them, they’ll do whatever he wants.”
Theodosia approached one of the Sarbians.
“You want a drink,” said the mercenary in accented Cyrican, “then talk to one of the slave girls.”
“Why do the tyrants fear the shadows?” said Theodosia in High Nighmarian.
The mercenary blinked, once.
“For there are Ghosts in the shadows,” said the mercenary, likewise in High Nighmarian. His pronunciation was atrocious, but the words were clear enough.
“And let the tyrants beware the shadows,” responded Theodosia, still in High Nighmarian.
The Sarbian gave a single sharp nod. “The boss said he expected…visitors tonight,” he said, switching back to Cyrican. “Go upstairs. Third door on the right. Talk to Saddiq - he will take you to Marzhod.”
Theodosia nodded, crossed the common room, and climbed the stairs. Caina could not help but admire how perfectly Theodosia had disguised herself as a Sarbian nomad. Her every step extruded confidence and danger, and even the drunken sailors made sure to stay out of her way.
They climbed the stairs to the second-floor hallway. It stank of rot and mildew, and Caina heard muffled grunts and groans coming from behind some of the doors. They went through the third door on the right, and stepped into what looked like an armory. Swords hung on racks from the walls, along with crossbows, short bows, spears, and axes.
One of the largest men Caina had ever seen sat at a table in the center of the room, polishing an enormous two-handed scimitar. He was Sarbian, and wore chain mail beneath his tan robes. His dark eyes flicked to them, and a half-smile appeared on his bearded lips.
“Ah, you are here,” he said in perfect High Nighmarian, rising with a bow. “You must be Marzhod’s…guests. I am Saddiq, Marzhod’s associate.”
“And enforcer?” said Theodosia.
White teeth flashed in Saddiq’s dark face. “You are perceptive as you are lovely, mistress Theodosia.”
“Oh, you recognize me?” said Theodosia with a hint of irritation. “How did you see through my disguise?”
“I did not,” said Saddiq. “But Marzhod was most wroth when he learned the high circlemasters had sent you. So either you or the young man at your side would have to be the redoubtable Theodosia.”
Caina hid a smile at that.
Theodosia laughed. “I see what Marzhod lacks in charm he makes up for in an ability to find clever associates.”
“This way,” said Saddiq, rising from the table and returning the enormous scimitar to its sheath over his shoulder. “Though I should warn you that he is in a foul mood.”
“When is he not?” said Theodosia.
A corner of Saddiq’s mouth curled in a smile.
Saddiq opened a door on the far side of the armory. Beyond was a room that looked like a jumbled mixture of a scriptorium, an apothecary’s shop, and a locksmith’s workroom. Shelves held a variety of jars and vials, while ledgers stood heaped upon the tables. Caina saw a variety of weapons hidden around the room. Evidently Marzhod expected foes to fall upon him at any moment. Which, since he was a Ghost circlemaster, was entirely possible.
Marzhod glared at them from behind a table.
He was in his middle thirties, with thick black hair, icy blue eyes, and a gaunt, pale face. He would have been handsome, if not for the dark circles beneath his eyes and the constant sneer on his face.
“Saddiq,” he said, his voice thick with a Szaldic accent, “why have you let these vermin into my study?”
“They knew the proper countersigns,” said Saddiq, “and you wanted to be informed when the Ghosts from the capital arrived.”
Marzhod got to his feet. He wore clothes in the style of a northern lord, boots and trousers and coat, but the clothes were dusty and worn. A sword hung at his belt, and Caina noted more knives inside his coat.
“I wrote to Halfdan,” said Marzhod, “telling him that someone wanted Lord Corbould dead. I asked for capable men to ferret out the Kindred. Instead he sends me an opera singer and her pet thug.”
Theodosia smirked, and Marzhod’s venomous gaze turned towards Caina.
“No,” said Marzhod. He leaned forward, cold eyes glinting. “A second woman? The Empire is at war, the Kindred are hunting the Emperor’s strongest ally, and Halfdan sends me a pair of women?”
Caina looked at Theodosia, and Theodosia nodded.
“Perhaps,” said Caina, “if you had been able to handle things, Halfdan would not have needed to send you a pair of women to solve your problems.”
“Do not,” said Marzhod, “think to trifle with me.”
“Or what?
” said Caina. “You turn your slaves on me?” The rage in her chest coiled tighter. She knew she ought to moderate her tongue, but she was too angry to care. “The Ghosts fight slavers, and how many slaves do you own? Dozens? How many of them do you rent out to the sailors?”
“Slaves are a way of life in Cyrica,” said Marzhod. “You fools from Malarae like to think yourselves so righteous, so virtuous. So much better than us because you do not own slaves.”
“You’re Szaldic and a Ghost, not Cyrican,” said Caina. “Do you yourself Cyrican now?”
“Neither,” said Marzhod. “I was a slave, once. The raiders took me when I was five. But I escaped and made a fortune for myself. I own every tavern, every wine sink, every brothel, and every pawnshop in Cyrioch. And most of the warehouses and customs inspectors. Every smuggler on the Cyrican Sea does business with me, if they want to dock in Cyrioch. No one crosses Marzhod and lives. Lord Armizid and Lord Khosrau might rule Cyrica…but I rule Cyrioch’s underworld.”
“So now you enslave others,” said Caina, “as you were enslaved.”
“I was strong enough to survive it,” said Marzhod. He smirked. “Are you? You annoy me, girl. And perhaps I’ll have Saddiq give you to the slavers. I’ll wager you’re pretty enough under that disguise. You’ll fetch a fair price on the block. Then you’ll warm the bed of some minor satrap or emir until he tires of you. After that, you’ll toil in that satrap’s kitchen until you are a bent old crone. Maybe you’ll end your days on the streets of Istarinmul, begging for a crust of bread. That’s in my power to do to you, girl.”
“No,” said Caina, “it’s not.”
“And just why not?” said Marzhod. “Do you think the opera singer can stop me? My word is law among the Ghosts and the criminals of the Shining City. One word from me and you’ll be naked on the auction block. Or perhaps I’ll put you to work in one of my brothels.”
“You won’t,” said Caina.
“Oh?” said Marzhod. “Why not?”
“Because,” said Caina, “you should do a better job of hiding your weapons.”
Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone Page 6
