Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone

by Jonathan Moeller

  Caina circulated through the boxes, collecting wagers, her face showing no trace of the rage that simmered within her. Her loathing of Cyrioch had grown into hatred. How could they sit here and cheer at the spectacle, applaud as men were maimed and killed for their amusement? Were they any better than animals?

  Maybe, she thought blackly, maybe Cyrioch deserved to burn. If Cyrioch rebelled, the Legions could come and burn this pestilential cancer of a city to the ground…

  Caina pushed aside the dark thoughts. If Lord Corbould was assassinated, more people than the gladiators in the Ring would die. More people than the jackals and vultures hooting and cheering from the Ring’s seats.

  More wagers changed hands, and many of the lords and merchants groaned or cheered as the gladiators fell. Caina wondered how many fortunes had been made and lost today. Though no doubt Marzhod would find a way to turn a profit. She shot a glance at the upper tier of the Ring, at the covered colonnade encircling the arena. Had Saddiq been successful? Or had the assassin killed him?

  Caina turned and saw a slave walking towards Lord Khosrau’s box.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  It was the same assassin she had seen at the Gallery of the Well, the same assassin who had tried to kill Marzhod at the Painted Whore. The man had disguised himself with a fake beard, gray dye in his hair, and a perfectly convincing limp. Yet Caina recognized him at once, saw the danger in the way he carried himself.

  She knew an assassin of the Kindred when she saw one.

  Corvalis had told the truth.

  An elaborate battle raged upon the sands, a recreation of the Empire’s liberation of Cyrica. A team of gladiators dressed in stylized representations of Legion armor faced a band of fighters dressed like Anshani nobles. The fighting raged back and forth, the cheers of the crowd growing louder.

  The assassin headed towards Khosrau’s box, and Caina saw the thick brown straw in his right hand.

  She hurried forward.

  The battle below reached a crescendo, the Legionaries driving back the Anshani, the mob’s cheers rising to a frenzied scream. Many nobles surged to their feet, cheering and shouting, and the commoners followed suit.

  The assassin quickened his pace.

  Another few heartbeats and he would be within range of Lord Corbould.

  Caina reached for her belt.

  The assassin stopped a dozen paces from Lord Corbould, unnoticed in the chaos. He drew a small object from within his tunic and tucked it into the brown straw. The poisoned dart, Caina suspected.

  She yanked a cloth pad from her belt, the thick fabric moist against her fingers.

  The leader of the Anshani gladiators fell, skewered through the throat by a Legionary’s broadsword. The cheers of the crowd became a wild screaming, and the assassin took one step closer to Khosrau’s box.

  He lifted the blowgun…and then Caina stepped behind him and slammed the cloth pad over his lips and nose.

  The Kindred twisted like an eel, whirling to face her, but Caina grabbed his left arm and held on. The assassin lost his balance and fell upon the stone steps, Caina landing atop him. Her knee went into his gut, and the breath exploded from the assassin’s lungs in a loud gasp.

  Caina slammed the pad against his nose…and the assassin took a deep breath of the chemicals soaking the cloth. He shuddered once, his eyes rolling up, and slumped against the stairs.

  Caina got to her feet, breathing hard.

  She saw a man in the ornamented robe of a master merchant staring at her, eyes wide.

  “He didn’t,” she growled, “pay his wager.”

  The merchant sniffed. “This is what comes of letting slaves place wagers.”

  Caina caught the eye of a Sarbian mercenary, and men hustled to take the assassin in hand. Anyone watching would assume that Marzhod’s mercenaries had dealt with someone taking unauthorized wagers.

  The mercenaries scooped up the assassin, and Caina went in search of Saddiq.

  ###

  The pillars threw long shadows over the upper lip of the Ring.

  Caina prowled through the colonnade, hand resting on the hilt of her scimitar. The constant murmur of the crowd rose from below as another bloody spectacle played out upon the sand. She saw no sign of Saddiq …

  Wait.

  She saw two dark figures ahead, standing in the shadow of the pillars.

  Caina slid a throwing knife from her sleeve and crept forward, boots making no sound against the floor.

  She slipped around a pillar and saw that the dark figures were actually a pair of statues.

  She berated herself. Statues covered the Ring of Valor, and she had mistaken them for living men. Then she saw that one of the statues looked like a Sarbian man in robes, a two-handed scimitar in his fists.

  Saddiq.

  It was a statue of Saddiq.

  A fantastically detailed and accurate statue of Saddiq.

  Just like Barius.

  Caina whispered a curse and stepped closer. Saddiq’s stone face was slack with shock, his eyes wide. Before him crouched a statue of a lean man in the robes of a Cyrican commoner, daggers in either hand. His expression, too, was surprised.

  Caina guessed what had happened well enough. Saddiq had surprised the Kindred, but the assassin drew his daggers and prepared to fight. And then…something, some creature, some power, overtook them and turned them both to stone.

  “You lied, Corvalis,” whispered Caina. “We stayed away from you, and our men still turned to stone.”

  At least the Kindred assassin was no further threat to Lord Corbould.

  Caina gazed at the statue that had once been Saddiq and then went to find Marzhod.

  ###

  After midnight, Caina stood in the cellar of the Painted Whore, staring at the Kindred assassin she had captured.

  “Anything else?” said Marzhod, giving the man’s cheeks a gentle slap. The Kindred moaned, his read rolling to the side. The assassin lay upon a table, his wrists and ankles bound. “Anything? No?” He sighed and straightened up. “We’re not getting anything else out of him tonight.”

  Caina gave a grim nod.

  Marzhod and his Sarbian hirelings had not bothered with torture. A man under torture, Halfdan had always said, would say or do anything to make the pain stop, and Marzhod agreed with him. The Kindred were not the only ones with a thorough knowledge of poisons and drugs. One of the druggists in Marzhod’s employ had brewed a bitter elixir of certain specific mushrooms and molds and used a funnel to pour it down the assassin’s throat. A few moments later the assassin began experiencing violent hallucinations, hooting and weeping in fear.

  He also became willing to answer all of Marzhod’s questions.

  “How long until he wakes up?” said Marzhod.

  “At least a day and a night, sir,” said Marzhod’s druggist, a greasy-looking man who stank of mildew. “It will take that long for the drug to pass from his system. I fear he will first urinate quite copiously.”

  Marzhod grunted. “At least we put him down here, then. I would hate to disturb the Pained Whore’s refined ambience.” He shook his head. “A waste of time. The man knew nothing useful.”

  “He did know the Kindred had been paid an enormous sum of money to kill Lord Corbould, Lord Khosrau, and Lord Armizid,” said Caina. That tore their first theory to shreds. Caina had grown more doubtful that Khosrau had hired the Kindred and this proved it. What sort of madman would hire the Kindred to fake an assassination?

  “Yes, but he didn’t know who had hired the Kindred,” said Marzhod, “and more importantly, he didn’t know where the Kindred have hidden their Haven. All his orders came through dead drops.”

  “We know where his next dead drop is,” said Caina. “We could lie in wait and ambush the courier.”

  “Doubtful,” grunted Marzhod. “Our friend here is supposed to leave a dead drop of his own, confirming his mission failed.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose we could ambush the courier coming to take
that dead drop. But the Kindred are too clever. Each of the lower-ranking assassins only knows two others, likewise for the couriers. We could spend weeks following that chain, and by the time we come to the end, Corbould and Khosrau will be dead.”

  “Do you have any better ideas?” said Caina.

  “As it happens, I do.” Marzhod smirked. “Your friend was wrong.”

  “My friend?” said Caina. “What friend?”

  “Corvalis Aberon,” said Marzhod. “He said if we left him alone, no more Ghosts would turn to stone. Well, we left him alone, and my most reliable man is now a statue in my storeroom. Either he was wrong or he lied to us.” He snorted. “Or both. So we do things my way now.”

  “And what way is that?” said Caina.

  “These damned statues are connected to the assassins somehow,” said Marzhod, “no matter what your friend might say. So I’m going to get outside help.”

  “Outside help,” said Caina. “You mean this renegade sorceress of yours? That’s a terrible idea. Renegade sorcerers are worse than the magi.”

  “True,” said Marzhod, “but she’s harmless enough. So long as you don’t cross her. And she’s agreed to speak to us in exchange for quite a lot of gold. And one…ah, special item.”

  “What’s that?” said Caina.

  Marzhod smirked. “She wants to meet you.”

  Chapter 13 - The Occultist

  The next morning Theodosia and Caina returned to the common room of the Painted Whore, disguised as Sarbian mercenaries.

  “A simply dreadful spectacle, the gladiatorial games,” said Theodosia. “Opera is much more civilized. And the way Khosrau cheered for the bloodshed! Lord Corbould is a cold fish, but at least he comported himself with proper public dignity.”

  “You sound like Armizid,” said Caina, though she shared Theodosia’s loathing for the games. “And at least Khosrau has the good taste to appreciate opera, no?”

  “I suppose so,” conceded Theodosia.

  Marzhod emerged from the cellars, flanked by a pair of mercenaries. Caina wondered what he had done with the imprisoned Kindred assassin, and decided that she didn’t want to know. The circlemaster wore his usual ragged finery, but beneath his coat she saw a shirt of chain mail, and sword and dagger hung at his belt.

  “Is this sorceress of yours,” said Theodosia, “really that dangerous?”

  “That dangerous,” said Marzhod, “and more. No one in their right mind sees her at night, so we’re going now. Let’s get moving. You do not want to be in her house after dark.”

  ###

  Marzhod led them to Westshadow.

  Two districts lay on either side of the Stone, Westshadow and Eastshadow, and the Stone threw its shadow over Westshadow in the mornings and Eastshadow in the afternoons. The Stone’s shadow lay over Westshadow as Marzhod led them through the district’s narrow streets, and Caina found herself relieved to be out of the constant blazing sun.

  Yet the shadow disturbed her.

  As she looked at the Stone, she could not shake the impression that the hill was a slumbering beast, the mighty Palace upon its back no more than a child’s toy. Someday the beast would awaken, shattering the Palace, smashing Cyrioch into ruin…

  Caina shook off the morbid thoughts.

  “This sorceress,” said Caina. “What kind of sorceress is she?”

  Marzhod glanced at her. “An Anshani occultist, if you must know.”

  Caina frowned. “But there are no female Anshani occultists. The Anshani kill women that exhibit arcane abilities.” As much as Caina detested the Magisterium, they were not as brutal as the khadjars, the nobles of Anshan.

  “If she wants you to know,” said Marzhod, “then she will tell you.”

  They kept walking. Westshadow was a district of middling prosperity, with tall, narrow houses of three or four stories. Every wall had been covered with white plaster, no doubt to reflect the heat when the sun passed over the Stone. Minor merchants lived here, Caina suspected, and low-ranking officials in Lord Governor Armizid’s service. Women in bright robes and headscarves hurried back and forth. Caina wondered if any of them had been cheering in the Ring of Valor yesterday.

  Marzhod stopped at a narrow house and knocked. After a moment an iron plate in the door slid aside and Caina caught the gleam of eyes.

  “Who is it?” said a woman’s voice, speaking Cyrican with a heavy Anshani accent.

  “Marzhod,” said Marzhod. “We’ve come to see your mistress.”

  “The scarred one,” said the woman. “Is the scarred one with you?”

  “Aye,” said Marzhod, and he jerked his head at Caina.

  She felt a chill. Caina’s mind carried scars, but her flesh did as well. Specifically, a strip of scars, almost like a belt, below her navel, the marks from Maglarion’s sorcerous experiments. How the devil did Marzhod know about those?

  No - the Anshani sorceress had asked for the scarred one.

  How did she know?

  “Go,” said Theodosia, voice quiet. “We need answers. If you call for help, we’re right here.”

  Caina steeled herself and nodded.

  “Do try to be convincing,” said Marzhod. “Since we’ve made such excellent progress so far.”

  Caina scowled, stepped past him, and the door swung open.

  The entry hall was unadorned, the walls covered in white plaster. An Anshani serving woman stood a short distance away, eyes glittering in her dark face.

  “You,” said the serving woman. “Yes, you are the one the mistress wishes to see. This way, please.”

  She led Caina to another door. She opened it and Caina stepped into the next room. The round chamber beyond was dim, lit only by the flickering light of a dozen candles. Gleaming wooden shelves held books and scrolls, and an elaborate mosaic of the constellations and astrological signs covered the floor.

  She felt the faint tingle of sorcery.

  “Come closer, child,” said a woman’s voice, low and musical, “and let me see you.”

  When Marzhod had mentioned a renegade sorceress, Caina had expected to meet someone like Nicorus, the castrated former magus living in the slums of Marsis. Or Sicarion, a man scarred and twisted by centuries of necromancy. Perhaps some haggard crone out of legend.

  Not a woman of remarkable beauty, sitting calmly upon a chair and drinking tea. She was in her middle thirties, with smooth brown skin and black hair shot through with white, her eyes like dark amber. She wore an elaborate dress of violet silk, jewels glittering at her sleeves and throat.

  “Who are you?” said Caina.

  The woman took a sip of tea. “I am an occultist, trained in the arcane traditions of Anshan.”

  “I know,” said Caina.

  One black eyebrow rose. “Do you? How, pray? The word of Marzhod?”

  “I don’t trust Marzhod,” said Caina.

  “Wise,” said the woman. “But why do you know me to be an occultist?”

  “Because,” said Caina, easing her fingers toward the throwing knives in her belt. “Your shadow is pointing in the wrong direction.”

  The candles should have thrown the seated woman’s shadow against the wall. Instead it lay across the mosaic floor, stretching towards the candles.

  “Oh, very good,” said the woman. “What do you know about the occultists of Anshan?”

  “They claim to control the shadows,” said Caina, “and speak with spirits and the dead.”

  “They claim to?” said the woman, gesturing at her shadow.

  “That’s mummery to deceive the ignorant,” said Caina, remembering what she had read about sorcery in the Vineyard’s library. “The arcane science of the occultists controls the netherworld, the spirit realm. You conjure up spirits and speak to them. And living men and women throw a…shadow, an echo, of themselves into the netherworld. A skilled occultist can read that shadow and learn secrets from it, even control it.”

  For an instant, a hint of fear went over the woman’s face.

  “Wh
o are you?” said the woman.

  Caina decided to use that hint of fear to her advantage. “Tell me first. Who are you? There are no women among the occultists of Anshan.”

  “No,” murmured the woman. “There are not. For by ancient tradition, any women who manifest arcane power are put to death.” She lifted her chin, and Caina saw the stern pride of the Anshani nobility in her face. “I am Nadirah, eldest daughter of the great khadjar Arsakan, second only to the Shahenshah himself in nobility. I manifested the power when I was thirteen, and for years practiced it in secret. But my husband discovered that I used my power to arrange his ascent, and he turned against me. I was forced to leave Anshan, the seat of civilization and beauty, and settle here among the savage Cyricans and other barbarians of the Empire.”

  “So I see,” said Caina.

  “But who are you?” said Nadirah.

  “A Ghost,” said Caina.

  Nadirah shook her head. “I will speak plainly, then. Are you the Moroaica?”

  “What?” said Caina.

  “I sensed it the moment you set foot in Cyrioch,” said Nadirah. “To those with eyes to see into the shadows of the netherworld, you are a vortex of dark power, an inferno of black light. The Moroaica, the great sorceress of the north, the terror of the Szalds, the Queen of Burning Bronze, the ancient one. I wondered if you had come to claim me.”

  “Claim you?” said Caina, confused. “I didn’t even know you existed until a few days ago. I am not the Moroaica. I don’t care what you or Sicarion think. I am not the Moroaica.”

  “You…are not?” said Nadirah. “But your aura is that of the Moroaica, I am sure of it.”

  “No,” said Caina. “I killed her. She is dead.”

  “Many have killed the Moroaica over the centuries,” said Nadirah. “And always she has returned in a new body. Sometimes she has returned in the body of her slayer.” She stood, her skirts rustling against the floor. “When you faced the Moroaica, did she have a coven about her? A circle of apprentices, women she taught arcane arts?”