Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I’m not the Moroaica,” said Caina. “He thinks that I am, though.”

  “I was not expecting to see you here, mistress,” said Sicarion. “But perhaps I should have.”

  “What are you doing here?” said Corvalis.

  “Oh, performing a little errand for my mistress,” said Sicarion. “My mistress collects enemies the way lesser women collect jewelry, and sometimes she wishes those enemies to meet their just fate.”

  “So that’s it?” said Corvalis. “You’re here to kill me, then?”

  Sicarion laughed. “Such arrogance! You are hardly worth my mistress’s attention. No, I am here on different business. But only a fool passes up an opportunity, and I have wanted to settle with you since Artifel.”

  “And me?” said Caina. “Your mistress told you to keep me alive.”

  Sicarion’s eyes narrowed. “You heard that, hmm? I thought so. Well, the mistress wants you kept alive…but if you happen to perish in the fighting, that will hardly inconvenience her for long.”

  “Such confidence,” said Corvalis, pointing his sword. “There are two of us and one of you.”

  Sicarion laughed. “You think so? But I have the kind of face that makes it easy to win friends!”

  He snapped his figures and men erupted from the darkened doorway. Four of them, armored in chain mail, heavy shields on their left arms and broadswords in their fists. Mercenaries, veterans from the look of them.

  “Kill them!” said Sicarion. “Kill them both!”

  The mercenaries charged, and Caina shot a look to the side. There were dozens of Imperial Guards and militiamen in the Gallery. But Theodosia’s voice rang in thunderous song, and the other musicians accompanied her. The music would be enough to drown out the sounds of fighting.

  Then the mercenaries charged.

  A hulking man in chain mail came at her, and Caina backed away. His broadsword blurred past her face, and Caina sidestepped, seized the edge of his shield, and swung herself past him. He tried to line up for another attack, but Caina ripped her dagger through his neck. The mercenary stumbled in pain, and Caina hammered the heel of her boot into the back of his knee. The man collapsed, sword spinning away from his grasp.

  The other three men attacked Corvalis.

  He responded with the grace and skill of a Kindred assassin, his dagger and sword a blur of gleaming steel. The mercenaries were good, but Corvalis was better. But he couldn’t fend off three determined attackers forever, and when Sicarion entered the fray…

  Sicarion lifted his hands, muttering, and Caina felt the crawling tingle of sorcery. Once Sicarion’s spell hit Corvalis, the mercenaries would overwhelm him. And then Sicarion and his mercenaries would kill Caina.

  She snatched a throwing knife from her sleeve and flung it, her entire body snapping like a bowstring. Sicarion twisted to the side with serpentine grace, his hand still raised, but Caina’s knife dug a bloody furrow along his face. She drew another knife as Sicarion pointed at her, his voice rising to a shout.

  A heartbeat later a fist of invisible force caught Caina on the side, spun her around, and knocked her to the floor. Every bone in her body ached from the impact, but her hand still clenched the throwing knife, and she threw it with all the strength she could muster.

  The blade buried itself in the nearest mercenary’s calf. The man stumbled with a curse, and Corvalis’s dagger opened his throat. The mercenary collapsed, and now Corvalis faced two men, not three, and step by step he drove them back.

  Sicarion began another spell, and Caina scrambled to her feet, yanking her second dagger from her left boot. She raced at Sicarion and the scarred man stepped back with a curse, abandoning his spell. He drew his sword and attacked, and Caina caught the descending blade in the cross of her daggers. Her boot flew out and caught Sicarion in the knee, and he jumped back. Caina raked her daggers at him, her left blade bouncing off the studs of his armor, but her right opened a bloody line across his arm. Sicarion lunged at her and Caina barely dodged his blade.

  Behind her Corvalis dueled with the mercenaries, while Theodosia’s song rang from the Gallery. She supposed that if any of the nobles happened to look up, they would think that the fight was part of the show.

  “I thought,” said Caina, “the Moroaica told you not to kill me.”

  Sicarion grinned. “My mistress is locked inside of your head. Given enough time, she will take control of you. But I do not want to wait. And if you happen to die upon my blade…well, then the mistress will take a new vessel, and we can undertake the great work.”

  He slashed at her, his swing flowing into a vicious thrust. Caina beat aside his blows with her daggers. She stepped into his guard and landed several hits, but Sicarion simply ignored the cuts and kept coming.

  And Caina realized that she could not defeat him. He was centuries old, and had spent all that time honing his skills with a blade. Worse, he simply shrugged off wounds that would have disabled or slowed another man. Sooner or later he would wear her down and land a killing blow.

  Unless Caina did something clever first.

  Sicarion attacked with fury, and Caina backed away, using her daggers to block any thrust that got too close. She passed Corvalis and the surviving two mercenaries, their blades clanging and shuddering. Sicarion pursued, his mismatched eyes fixed on her.

  Then Caina reversed direction and drove her dagger into the armpit of the nearest mercenary. The man fell with a groan of pain, and Corvalis killed him with a quick thrust. The surviving mercenary faced Caina, perceiving the new threat, but that gave Corvalis an opening.

  The mercenary fell dead beside his fellow, and Caina and Corvalis faced Sicarion.

  “You’re going to need,” said Corvalis, “to find some more friends.”

  Sicarion sneered. “Hirelings are easily replaceable. And I’m going to enjoy killing you, Corvalis Aberon.”

  Caina suddenly remembered where she had heard that name before.

  Decius Aberon was the ruthless First Magus of the Magisterium, a man who desired to become Emperor, like the tyrannical magus-emperors of old. Was Corvalis a relative? Or was his “business” a mission from the First Magus himself?

  She could sort it out after they killed Sicarion.

  “Ghost,” said Corvalis, not taking his eyes from Sicarion. “Go.”

  “What?” said Caina.

  “Those Kindred,” said Corvalis. “They’re probably going to kill Corbould Maraeus before too much longer. I’ll finish this wretch. Go save your Empire.”

  Caina hesitated. Sicarion was dangerous, resilient, and resourceful. As good as Corvalis was with his sword, she didn’t think he could take the scarred assassin in a straight fight.

  But Sicarion wasn’t trying to kill Lord Corbould.

  And Caina had come to Cyrioch to keep Corbould Maraeus alive and prevent the Empire from sliding into civil war.

  “I will return,” said Caina, and she ran along the balcony.

  She heard the clang of steel as Corvalis and Sicarion fought, but Theodosia’s song soon swallowed the sound of the battle.

  Chapter 9 - A Clumsy Maid

  Caina ran down the stairs to the Gallery, breathing hard. Her hair was in disarray, and spots of blood marked the sleeves of her dress. It was obvious she had been in a fight, but she doubted the nobles would notice. The Kindred assassins, though, would be far more observant.

  But they were gone.

  She saw no trace of Mhadun or the disguised assassins. They must have moved off during her fight with Sicarion. She walked into the Gallery, trying to appear calm, her eyes sweeping the crowds. Most of the nobles, merchants, and magi gathered at the far end of the Gallery, listening to Theodosia and the musicians as they launched into another song. Here and there a few nobles or merchants stood beneath the colonnades, no doubt discussing private business, but the assassins had vanished…

  Wait.

  Caina spotted Mhadun. The master magus stood in the shadow of an arch, speaking to Ranarius.
They were too far away to overhear, but the preceptor looked annoyed. Mhadun scowled and pointed, and it almost looked as if he was scolding the older man. It seemed unlikely that a preceptor of the Magisterium would permit such insolence. But if Mhadun was Kindred, he had power and influence that Ranarius did not possess.

  But there was no trace of the two slave-disguised assassins.

  Caina turned in a quick circle, scanning the balconies. She no one up there, not even Sicarion and Corvalis. Perhaps they had killed each other, or perhaps one of them had triumphed and hidden the corpse of the vanquished.

  She looked at the crowd of nobles around Theodosia and the musicians, trying to think as the assassin would. It would take an archer of unusual skill to shoot into the gaps of Lord Corbould’s black armor. So the murder would have to take place up close. That meant a dagger or a sword. But the Kindred were not suicidal, and any man bold enough to put a dagger into Lord Corbould would die heartbeats later.

  Poison, then.

  The Kindred had tried a blowgun at the Amphitheatre of Asurius. Might they try a poisoned dart, or perhaps a single scratch from a poisoned knife? If one of the assassins bumped into Corbould and jabbed him with a needle, that would do the trick.

  Caina turned towards the nobles, planning to keep watch over Corbould.

  “I can smell the blood.”

  Caina froze.

  Nicasia stood behind her, head bowed, pale hair brushing over the gray silk of her slave’s tunic.

  “I’m sorry?” said Caina.

  “The blood,” said Nicasia, her voice soft and unsteady. “I smell it on you. You killed someone, just now.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Caina.

  “Yes, you do,” said the slave girl. She lifted her blindfolded eyes, as if she could see Caina through the black cloth. “You killed someone just a few moments ago. I can…hear it? The echoes of it?” She titled her head to the side, as if listening to a voice only she could hear. “Yes. Like a stone dropped into a placid pond. You killed someone and I heard the ripples.” She sighed. “Though the pond is rarely still.”

  Caina wondered if Nicasia was mad. Sometimes the mind-controlling sorcery of the magi induced insanity in its victims, and if Ranarius had used her to test his spells…

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” said Caina.

  “You are a very good liar,” said Nicasia, “but that doesn’t matter when you can hear the ripples in the pond.”

  “What do you want?” said Caina.

  “What…do I want?” said Nicasia, puzzled. As if no one had ever asked her that question before.

  “Yes,” said Caina. “What do you want? Why are you talking to me?”

  She shot another look at the crowd. Lord Corbould stood with Lord Khosrau, and Caina saw no trace of the Kindred near them. But that would not last. Sooner or later the Kindred would strike, and Caina could not waste time trading words with a mad slave girl.

  Though an unusually perceptive slave girl.

  An idea came to Caina.

  “Wait,” said Caina. “Is someone going to try to kill Lord Corbould?”

  Nicasia’s blindfolded face turned towards the crowd.

  “Yes,” said Nicasia.

  “Tell me how,” said Caina. “Quickly.” She wondered if Nicasia was in fact a spy for the Kindred. If the Kindred had bought the services of Mhadun, why not one of the preceptor’s personal slaves?

  “Lord Corbould Maraeus is going to die,” said Nicasia, her voice sing-song.

  “Yes, I know,” said Caina, looking at the nobles again. “Can you tell me how?”

  “Everyone will die,” said Nicasia. “Every noble, every slave, every merchant, every commoner. Right here, in this Gallery, everyone shall die.”

  “Everyone dies,” said Caina, “but I would prefer more concrete details on how and when.”

  “The sleeper will awaken,” said Nicasia. “The images wrought in stone are just harbingers. When the sleeper awakens, Cyrioch will die.”

  “I am sorry,” said Caina, “but I cannot help you.” She stepped back, intending to watch Lord Corbould.

  “Glass,” said Nicasia.

  Caina stopped. “What?”

  “Glass,” said Nicasia. “You asked how Lord Corbould will die, and I can feel his death approaching. Glass will slay him, and glass holds his death.”

  “Glass?” said Caina. “What does…”

  “Nicasia!”

  Ranarius stormed across the Gallery, face twisted in fury.

  “Master,” said Nicasia, “I…”

  Ranarius backhanded her, and Nicasia fell to the ground without a sound.

  “How dare you speak to someone without my permission!” said Ranarius. He kicked her in the side. “Get up. Get up!”

  “Stop that!” said Caina, anger in her voice.

  Ranarius’s furious eyes turned to her. “You dare to speak me to in that tone? I am a preceptor of the Imperial Magisterium! Keep a civil tongue your head, girl, or I will show you what torments sorcery can visit upon flesh!”

  “I’m sure,” said Caina. Her mind screamed for her to back down before Ranarius realized she was a Ghost, but she was too angry to care. “Yes, I’m sure that Lord Khosrau will very pleased that you killed the servant girl of his favorite opera singer for the impertinence of speaking to your slave.”

  Ranarius trembled with anger…but his eyes darted to Lord Khosrau nonetheless. Despite his jovial exterior, Caina suspected that Khosrau Asurius was not a man to cross.

  “Come, Nicasia,” said Ranarius. “I have business at the chapterhouse.” He waved a finger in Caina’s face. “And consider yourself lucky, foolish girl. If you show me such cheek again, I will punish you and Lord Khosrau can be damned.”

  He stalked away without another word. Nicasia got to her feet, shook her head, and turned her face towards Caina.

  “Glass,” she said, and followed her master.

  Theodosia finished her song, and vigorous applause rose from the nobles. Slaves hurried forward from the colonnades, bearing silver trays of delicacies. Caina saw stuffed dates, mushrooms fried in oil and wrapped in bacon, cheese cooked in delicate oils, and flutes of red wine.

  Glasses of wine.

  “Glass,” whispered Caina.

  The nobles had not brought their food-tasters.

  The Kindred were going to poison Corbould with the wine.

  She spotted one of the assassins. The Kindred wore the gray of a slave, black eyes downcast, just as a slave’s should be. In his arms he carried a tray of wine glasses, and he was heading for Lord Corbould.

  Caina hurried forward, her skirts gathered in her hands. She couldn’t kill the Kindred in front of all these people. Nor could she stop Corbould from drinking the wine. At best, he would think her mad, and at worst, he would forbid Theodosia from performing for Lord Khosrau again.

  She gripped her skirts tighter, wishing to be rid of the damned things so she could run faster.

  Then the answer occurred to her.

  The assassin bowed before Khosrau and Corbould, lifting the tray of wine.

  “Ah,” said Khosrau. “Splendid. Our refreshments are here. Some wine, my lord Corbould?”

  Corbould grinned. “Caerish or Disali?”

  Khosrau snorted. “Caerish, of course. I cannot abide Disali wine. Far too bitter.”

  “A man after my own heart,” said Corbould.

  The assassin lifted the tray, and Corbould reached for a glass.

  Caina brought the toe of her boot down onto the hem of her skirt and stepped forward.

  And as she expected, she lost her balance toppled into the assassin.

  The assassin fell with a startled yelp and Caina landed atop him. Glasses of wine shattered around them, red liquid pooling on the white marble. The assassin hissed and slammed his elbow in Caina’s gut, and she rolled off him as the breath exploded from her lungs. The Kindred scrambled to his feet, murderous rage filling his black eyes, and Caina saw
him reach for a hidden weapon beneath his slave’s tunic…

  “What the devil is the meaning of this?” thundered Khosrau.

  “It was his fault, my lord Khosrau!” said Caina, climbing to her feet. “I was going to attend to my mistress, and this stupid slave spilled wine all over my dress!”

  “The girl tripped into me, my lord,” said the assassin, his voice hard and cold. The voice of a Kindred assassin - how could these fools not hear it? “I came with wine for your guest, my lord, and this bitch stumbled…”

  “Watch your tongue,” said Khosrau. “A serving girl she may be, but she is a free woman and you will address her as such.”

  The assassin looked at his feet, as if suddenly remembering his disguise. “My lord. I am sorry, my lord.”

  “I did see it, father,” said Armizid, approaching with a scowl. “The opera singer’s girl lost her balance and fell onto the slave.”

  Caina looked at Armizid, at Khosrau, back at Armizid, and then started crying.

  It was a useful skill, Theodosia had told her, to be able to cry on demand. Embarrassed contempt flashed over Armizid’s face, but Khosrau’s expression became almost grandfatherly. A crying woman sometimes had that effect on a man, especially an older one.

  “Now, now, my dear,” said Khosrau. “It was a simple accident, and nothing more. No harm done.” He gestured at the white expanse of his robes. “You didn’t even splatter on me. And spilling wine on the Lord of House Asurius would indeed be a grave scandal.”

  Corbould chuckled.

  “But I got wine on my dress, my lord,” said Caina, sniffling, looking at the bloodstains on her sleeves.

  “This is unseemly, father,” said Armizid. Caina wondered how many times a day he said that. “The domestic disputes of the slaves are beneath our notice.”

  “True enough,” said Khosrau without rancor. He pointed at the assassin. “You, clean this up.” He patted Caina on the top of her head. “And you, my dear, go attend to your mistress, and we’ll speak no more of this.”

  Caina gripped her damp skirts and did a deep curtsy. “Thank you, my lord. My lord is kind.” She hurried past the lords, feeling the assassin’s stare as she passed. He was not going to forget her, and she suspected he would kill her at the first opportunity. Was he bright enough to figure out that she was a Ghost?