She wore nothing else.
“This,” said Caina, “is going to get chilly.”
“Aye,” said Theodosia around a mouthful of pins as she arranged Caina’s hair.
What Caina lacked in clothing, Theodosia made up for in jewels and makeup. She piled Caina’s black hair in an elaborate crown. A golden chain went around her throat, glittering with jewels, and ornate golden torques in the shape of twining serpents around her arms. Intricate bracelets adorned her wrists and ankles. Theodosia painted her face, lining Caina’s blue eyes in black, reddening her lips, and perfuming her wrists and throat.
“What do you think?” said Theodosia at last.
Caina examined herself in the mirror. She looked nothing like Marina the serving girl or Countess Marianna Nereide, and certainly nothing like the Ghost nightfighter that had inspired the legend of the Balarigar among the Szaldic peasants of Marsis.
“I look,” said Caina, “like I should be in the harem of some Anshani khadjar.”
Theodosia grinned. “That was exactly what I was trying to achieve.” Her smile faded. “You have no place to conceal weapons.”
“I know,” said Caina. She took a deep breath. In the mirror she saw the muscles in her stomach clench, saw her ribs press against her skin. Yet going without a weapon made her feel even more naked than this ridiculous costume.
“The pins in your hair are quite sharp,” said Theodosia, tapping her hair. “You could kill a man with those, if necessary. But only if you caught him off guard.”
Caina nodded. “Corvalis will have the rest of my weapons.”
“Let’s hope you don’t need them,” said Theodosia. She glanced out the bedroom window. “It’s time to go.”
Caina nodded and followed Theodosia in the sitting room.
Corvalis waited by the table, clad in his chain mail and dark cloak, sword and dagger at his belt. A backpack rested over his cloak. He turned as they approached, and stared at Caina without expression.
“Well?” said Theodosia.
Caina did not flinch, did not try to cover herself. She would not show weakness in front of him.
And part of her wanted him to see her like this.
He stared back, his green eyes unblinking.
“Yes,” said Corvalis at last. “That will work.”
He took a light cloak from the table and swirled it over Caina’s shoulders. She closed it and pulled up the cowl. She could not walk barely dressed through the streets of Cyrioch, after all.
“Remember,” said Theodosia, “Marzhod and his Sarbians will attack one hour after you arrive.”
Corvalis nodded.
“If you get into trouble before Marzhod arrives,” said Theodosia, “you’ll have…”
“We’ll have to improvise,” said Corvalis, adjusting his sword.
“That’s all right,” said Caina. “I’m good at improvising.”
Corvalis snorted. “Yes, I’ve seen that firsthand. Let’s go.”
###
A short time later Caina and Corvalis stood at the base of the hidden stairwell below the Temple of the Living Flame.
“We’re just going to walk up to the portcullis?” said Caina.
“Aye,” said Corvalis. “We’re guests, remember? An emissary from the Artifel family bearing a gift for the Elder of Cyrioch. We’ll walk up, knock, and introduce ourselves.”
“And if they decide to trigger the trap?” said Caina.
“Then we’ll die,” said Corvalis.
“Simple enough,” said Caina.
“Remember,” said Corvalis. “Act like you’re drugged. The Kindred see everyone as a threat…but after a moment they’ll dismiss you as a danger. That will give you a chance to strike, if necessary, but only one chance. We might be able to fool these men, but they are extremely dangerous.”
“I’ve dealt with the Kindred before,” said Caina.
“And hopefully you’ll live to talk about it once more,” said Corvalis. “Let’s go.”
Caina nodded, tugged off her cloak, and dropped it on the floor.
She felt Corvalis’s eyes upon her, and suddenly she was aware of how close he stood to her. He was, as Theodosia had said, handsome in an austere sort of way, and it had been years since Caina had felt such an attraction. All at once she wanted to touch him. Or she wanted him to touch her. She wanted to know how his mouth felt against hers.
What an absurd thing to think about on the doorstep of a Kindred Haven.
Corvalis cleared his throat. “Let’s go.”
Caina swallowed, nodded, and they walked into the black corridor,. Corvalis made no effort to conceal his footfalls. Caina walked behind him, the heels of her sandals clicking against the floor, her head bowed, her movements slow and languorous.
The portcullis was a massive slab of iron, thick metal bars bolted to steel struts. Caina glimpsed three men standing behind the portcullis, clad in chain mail and armed to the teeth. She felt their eyes upon her, but she knew her appearance would not put them at ease.
They would regard her and Corvalis as threats.
“You seem lost, brother,” said one of the men, lean and hawk-faced with close-cropped black hair. The other two guards moved closer, crossbows in their arms. At this range, they could scarcely miss, even with the bars of the portcullis in the way.
“I’m exactly where I want to be,” said Corvalis. “I am a fellow brother, and I seek leave to speak with the Gatewarden.”
The Kindred assassins behind the portcullis shared a look. Outsiders were not supposed to know about the ranks and titles of the Kindred.
“You’re in luck, traveler,” said the hawk-faced man, “for I am the Gatewarden. Though I am not yet certain you are my brother.”
“I have sworn the oaths of brotherhood,” said Corvalis. “For we are a family, joined in bonds of death. We are the predators in the night. We are the wolves in the shadows. We are the blades in the darkness. Just as the wolves rid the herd of the slow, so does our brotherhood purge mankind of the weak. We are the Kindred, and we are the wolves that cull mankind.”
His voice grew colder and darker as he spoke the oath of the Kindred, the oath he had renounced. Caina shivered as she imagined him speaking it as a child.
She knew pain…but he survived just as much pain as she had. Perhaps much more.
“You know the words, brother,” said the Gatewarden. His icy eyes flicked to Caina. “Does she?”
“Her?” said Corvalis. “No. She’s…a gift, and nothing more.”
“And does this relate to your business in visiting our Haven?” said the Gatewarden.
“It does,” said Corvalis. “I am a brother of the family of Artifel. This,” he gestured at Caina, “is the daughter of a minor noble of that city. He made a contract for the herd to be culled, and then reneged on payment. And since our Elder wished to show his respects to the Elder of Cyrica Urbana, it seemed only just to take the faithless noble’s daughter and present her to your Elder as a…token of our Elder’s esteem.”
The Kindred stared at Caina like wolves contemplating prey. She kept her eyes heavy-lidded, swaying on her feet as if drugged.
“A good choice,” said the Gatewarden. “The Elder has a taste for women with black hair.” He scrutinized Caina for a moment longer. “Though I hope you don’t want her back. The Elder kills his toys once he grows bored with them.”
“She is a gift from the Elder of Artifel,” said Corvalis. “Your Elder can do as he pleases with her.”
“Very well,” said the Gatewarden. “Let them in.”
One of the other assassins went to the wall. A massive metal cabinet stood there, filled with an intricate maze of gears and cogs. The assassin pulled an iron lever, and the portcullis shuddered into motion, its halves sliding to the right and to the left. The assassin pulled the lever again, and the portcullis stopped, leaving an opening three feet wide.
“Inside,” said the Gatewarden.
Corvalis walked inside, Caina followed
him, and the assassin gave the lever a final tug. The portcullis clanged shut behind Caina, and the Kindred leveled their crossbows.
“Weapons off,” said the Gatewarden, his tone still amicable.
“What is this?” said Corvalis.
“You haven’t done this before, I see,” said the Gatewarden. “You say you’re from the Artifel family…but you could be a clever impostor. So we’ll just have to take your weapons until we’re sure of you.”
“Fair enough,” said Corvalis, unbuckling his sword belt.
“The backpack, too,” said the Gatewarden.
Corvalis shrugged out of the backpack. “What about her?”
The Gatewarden snorted. “If she’s hiding a weapon in that outfit, she’s going to hemorrhage to death any moment. She’s no threat.”
Caina kept her expression vacant, but she smiled inwardly. The Kindred had failed to see her as a threat.
One of the assassins went through Corvalis’s weapons belt, while another searched his backpack. Inside was a belt of throwing knives, a curved dagger in a sheath, rolled-up black clothes, and…
“What’s this?” said the assassin, drawing out Caina’s shadow-cloak.
“A Ghost shadow-cloak,” said Corvalis. “It’s rather useful. A pity we don’t know how to make them.”
“A fine trophy,” said the Gatewarden as the other assassin returned the cloak to the backpack. “I want one myself.”
Corvalis grinned. “Find a Ghost nightfighter and kill one.”
“Easier said than done,” said the Gatewarden.
The Gatewarden looked at the backpack, nodded to himself, and looked back at Corvalis.
“I bid you welcome, brother,” said the Gatewarden. He turned to one of the other guards. “Take the Artifel family’s gift to the Elder’s study.” He looked at Corvalis. “The Elder is meditating now, but he will want to speak with you. After he has finished with your gift, most likely. In the meantime, you shall enjoy our hospitality.”
“I thank you, Gatewarden,” said Corvalis.
“I fear our hospitality will be thin,” said the Gatewarden. “We have a substantial contract to fulfill, and many of the brothers will be occupied tonight…”
Caina kept her head down, but her ears perked up. Corbould, Khosrau, and Armizid were all at the Palace of Splendors. Were the Kindred mounting a major effort to kill all three of them? If they…
“Woman,” said one of the assassins. “Come with me. Now.”
He did not touch her.
She belonged to the Elder of Cyrioch, after all.
Caina followed the assassin deeper into the Haven. Doors opened on either side of the wide stone corridor, and through one Caina saw rows of bunk beds and storage chests. Barracks for the assassins, she supposed. Beyond another door she saw a room full of strange machinery. Dozens of enormous glass tanks rested among the machines, connected by glass pipes. Caina wondered if it was a distillery of some kind.
Then she realized the tanks held acid. The glass pipes led to the dark slits in the outer corridor. If one of the Kindred assassins flipped a lever, the outer corridor would flood with acid.
Just as well Marzhod and the Sarbians would not attack from that direction.
“Through here,” said the assassin, stopping before a door. He knocked, took a deep breath, and swung it open.
Beyond lay a lavishly furnished study. Caina’s feet sank into a thick green carpet. Wooden shelves lined the walls, and the shelves held not books but…trophies. Grinning skulls stared at Caina, and glass jars held preserved heads floating in brine. A variety of exotic weapons hung in ornate display cases, and several paintings showed scenes of torture and death. An enormous wooden desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered with papers. A narrow door stood in the far wall.
“Remain here,” said the assassin. “If you value your life, do not go into the corridor. And if you value your sanity…do not go through the far door. Not until the Elder commands you.”
“Where am I?” said Caina, keeping her voice slurred and indistinct.
The assassin’s face crinkled in disgust. “Wretched creature. You’ll die screaming soon enough.”
The assassin left the study, and Caina heard a click as he locked the door behind him.
She straightened up and slid out of her unwieldy sandals, trying not to shiver with the chill in the room, and considered what to do next.
Corvalis had her shadow-cloak and all her weapons. Without her help, he might have a difficult time overpowering the assassins and disabling the mechanism that controlled the portcullis.
Or he might not. She had seen him in a fight, and he might be able to lull the assassins into complacency. And if he killed the Gatewarden and the other guards quietly enough, he might be able to disable the portcullis without alerting the other assassins. If he did, Marzhod’s mercenaries would take the Kindred by surprise.
And then Caina need only wait until all the Kindred were dead.
Caina moved closer to the desk, examining the papers spread across its surface. Someone had hired the Kindred to kill Lord Khosrau and his son alongside Lord Corbould, and for all their efforts, the Ghosts had been unable to discovered who had paid the Kindred. It was possible that the Cyrioch family’s records lay within that desk.
None of the papers were of interest, so she checked the desk’s drawers.
All of them were locked.
Caina hesitated and glanced at the narrow door to the Elder’s private sanctum. If he came through the door while she was trying to open the desk, he would stop her.
And then he would do worse things to her.
She walked to one of the display cases. Inside rested a set of jeweled Anshani daggers, their tapering blades carved with elegant characters. Caina took a moment to check the case, but it was not locked, and she found no traps.
None of the Kindred would dare to steal from their Elder.
She took one of the daggers from the case, closed it, and hid the weapon beneath the papers on the Elder’s desk. Then she slipped one of the pins from her hair, knelt before the desk, and got to work. Theodosia had chosen pins that could double as lock picks.
Which was just as well, since the desk drawers were both locked and trapped. To judge from the shape of the wooden panels on the front of the drawers, Caina guessed that poisoned blades would erupt from concealed slits if anyone tried to open the desk without using the proper key.
Fortunately, Caina had a great deal of practice opening locks and disarming locks.
Unfortunately, the hairpin made a poor tool. She worked the locks, probing ever deeper, muscles tensed to jump if she heard one of the traps activate. But the traps remained quiet, and minutes passed as Caina kept working.
Then she felt the sudden tingle of sorcery and stood up in alarm. Had there been wards upon the desk?
No. The Kindred Elder. Corvalis had said the Elder bore an enspelled torque, a relic that granted him supernatural strength and longevity. Such a relic would be at thing of powerful sorcery.
The tingling was coming from the door to the Elder’s private chamber.
Caina had only a few seconds to act. She snatched the hidden dagger from the desk and hurried to the farthest corner of the room. She concealed the dagger on a shelf, tucking it between two yellowing skulls. Then she crouched in the corner, spitting into her palms. She rubbed her hands over her eyes and face, smearing her makeup and making it look as if she had been crying.
Then she huddled into a ball, hands wrapped around her shins, face buried in her legs, and waited.
A moment later she heard the door open.
She looked up and saw the Kindred Elder standing behind the desk.
He looked like a man in his middle fifties, tall and lean, forearms corded with heavy muscle, skin leathery and seamed from years in the sun. His gray hair was close-cropped, his face clean-shaven, and he wore simple, loose clothing. His eyes were the color of steel, and just as cold and hard. He looked like
a man of about fifty, save for the eyes.
Those were the eyes of an ancient killer, a predator drenched in blood.
A silver torque rested around his neck, supporting a rough green crystal the size of a man’s thumb. It shone with an emerald glow, and Caina sensed powerful sorcery within it.
It was a bloodcrystal, a product of necromantic science. A bloodcrystal stored the life force of a slain victim, feeding it to the crystal’s bearer. Maglarion had used bloodcrystals to extend his life for centuries. No doubt the bloodcrystal supplied the Elder’s longevity and strength.
A bloodcrystal also used its stolen life force to heal injuries, allowing its bearer to recover quickly from all but the most deadly wounds. If Caina did not kill the Elder quickly, the Kindred chieftain would recover with terrifying speed. A better option was to incapacitate him, remove the torque, and then kill him.
Assuming, of course, she could find a way to overpower the Elder.
“Well, well,” said the Elder in Cyrican. His voice and smile were almost grandfatherly. “What do we have here?”
“Where am I?” said Caina in High Nighmarian, keeping her voice slurred. “It’s so cold.”
The Elder stepped around the desk. He bore no weapons that Caina could see, but he would know how to kill with his hands.
“Ah, I see,” said the Elder, switching to flawless High Nighmarian. “A gift. Where are you from, my dear?”
“I want to go home,” said Caina.
“And where is home?” said the Elder, still smiling.
He was enjoying this.
“Artifel,” said Caina. “My father is a lord there. I went to my room, and there were men waiting for me…and then the next thing I knew I woke up here and all my clothes were gone. Can you send me home to my father? He will reward you.”
“I’m sure he would,” murmured the Elder. He stepped past the display cases. If he noticed the missing dagger, he gave no indication. “But I suspect I know what happened. It’s a very sad story.”
“You do?” said Caina, putting a tremulous note of hope into her voice.
Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone Page 22
