Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone

by Jonathan Moeller

  Glass tanks filled with acid.

  Caina staggered to her feet, wheezing and coughing. The Elder deflected a thrust, and the blow knocked Corvalis’s sword against one of the glass tanks. For a terrible moment Caina thought the tank would shatter, that Corvalis would disappear beneath gallons of hissing acid.

  But the tank only chimed. The glass was far too thick for a single sword blow to shatter.

  The glass pipes connecting the tanks, though…

  A mad idea came to Caina.

  She drew a throwing knife and took several deep breaths, trying to ignore the throbbing ache in her chest. The Elder drove Corvalis back, pushing him towards a gap between the machines and the wall. Corvalis would be trapped, and the fight would be over.

  A glass pipe ran over the Elder’s head, connecting two of the acid tanks.

  Caina took one final breath, drew herself up, and flung the knife.

  The blade slammed into the pipe and tore a chunk of glass from its underside. A jet of green acid burst from the pipe, spraying the floor.

  And the Elder’s shoulders and neck and head.

  His face and clothing went up in snarling white flames, and a horrible scream came from his throat. The Elder spun and staggered into the corridor, hissing yellow smoke rising from his face and chest. She glimpsed his glaring gray eyes even as the flesh of his face dissolved around them. He lurched towards her, and Caina found herself too horrified by the ghastly spectacle to move.

  Corvalis appeared behind him, sword in both hands.

  The Elder’s burning head jerked off his shoulders and rolled across the floor, still smoking. His body crumpled as his clothing burned, revealing horrid acid burns across his shoulders and chest.

  The smell was dreadful.

  “Gods,” said Corvalis, wiping the sweat from his brow. “We killed a Kindred Elder. Gods. I wasn’t sure they could be killed.”

  “Any man can be killed,” said Caina, her voice weak, “if you stab him a dozen times, pour a tank of acid over him, and then cut off his head.”

  “He’s…not going to come back, is he?” said Corvalis. “That bloodcrystal thing can’t heal this, can it?”

  “I doubt it,” said Caina, stepping around the smoking lump of the Elder’s head. She picked up her shadow-cloak and slung it over her shoulders, pulling up the cowl. “But just to make sure…” The Elder’s torque lay a few inches from his body, the green crystal glowing dimly.

  Caina plunged her ghostsilver dagger into the bloodcrystal.

  It shivered like a dying thing, the green light flaring, and crumbled into smoking black ash.

  “He’s not coming back,” said Caina. She braced herself against the stench and pushed aside his ruined shirt, examining his belt.

  Corvalis snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re looting his corpse.”

  “That’s exactly what I am doing,” said Caina. A number of small pouches hung on his belt, and she searched them. She found several more of those glass vials and claimed them for herself. “The records of the Cyrioch family are locked up in his desk. If we can get our hands on those records…ah, here we are.”

  She tugged an elaborate steel key from one of his pouches.

  Caina’s fingers tightened around it. At last she held the answers she sought.

  “What the devil is that smell?”

  A dozen Sarbian mercenaries strode down the corridor, their sand-colored robes speckled in blood, scimitars in hand. Marzhod walked at their head, a loaded crossbow in his arms. He looked pleased with himself. The attack through the tunnel must have gone well.

  Of course, the fact that he was still alive was proof that the attack had gone well.

  “The Elder,” said Corvalis, pointing with his sword.

  “Aberon. You’re still alive,” said Marzhod. He looked at what remained of the Elder and winced. “Gods. What did you do to him?”

  “Acid,” said Caina, keeping her voice disguised with a snarling rasp. The Sarbian mercenaries looked at her and her shadow-cloak in sudden fear. No reason for them to know who she really was. “That trap would have flooded in the corridor with acid. The Elder stood under one of the pipes. He shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Plainly,” said Marzhod. “Where did they get all that acid?”

  Corvalis shrugged. “The College of Alchemists in Istarinmul, I expect. The Alchemists brew deadly elixirs, and they often hire the Kindred to kill their foes.”

  “Are any of the Kindred left alive?” said Caina.

  Marzhod scowled. “None. The mad bastards fought to the last man. A few of the ones we cornered even cut their own throats. I’d hoped to take a least one of them alive for questioning.”

  Caina lifted up the steel key. “It might not matter. I took this off the Elder. We can get to his records.”

  Marzhod stared at the key for a moment. Then he turned and barked a string of orders in Sarbian. The mercenaries hurried off, moving deeper into the Haven.

  “They’ll stay out of our way until we’re done,” said Marzhod. “Come. You too, Aberon. I suppose you’ve earned the right to be here.”

  “Very gracious,” said Corvalis with a smirk.

  “And,” said Caina, “he might be useful in explaining anything we don’t understand.”

  Marzhod grunted, and Caina led the way back to the Elder’s study. The assassin she had killed still lay dead upon the floor, his blood drying on the carpet. Otherwise the room was undisturbed.

  “Delightful,” murmured Marzhod, looking around the room. “I am going to make a fortune selling some of these items.” He looked at the dead assassin and sighed. “A pity about the carpet, though.”

  Caina ignored him and crossed to the desk. The Elder’s steel key slid into the first lock with the tiniest hint of resistance. She turned the key, heard the click of the traps disarming, and then opened the drawer.

  The first drawer held dozens of tiny glass vials. The Elder’s personal stock of poisons and antidotes, Caina suspected. The second drawer held small knives and other tools, along with several pouches of gold coins and jewels.

  The third and largest drawer held an enormous book, easily six inches thick. Caina heaved it unto the desk. The book’s cover was worn black leather, the front adorned with an elaborate sigil of two hands pinned together by a narrow dagger.

  “That’s it,” said Corvalis, voice hoarse. “That’s the Book of Blood and Gold.”

  “Overly poetical,” muttered Marzhod. “What is it?”

  “A list of all the blood spilled by the Kindred and the gold they received in payment,” said Corvalis. “Every Kindred family has one. These are the records of the Kindred of Cyrioch. A listing of every assassination, every payment, every plot and stratagem. It will even have records of every member of the Cyrioch family.” He shook his head. “You can utterly crush the Kindred of Cyrioch with this, and it will take the other Kindred Elders years to rebuild the Cyrioch family.”

  “My cup runneth over,” said Marzhod, smiling. “Just as I prefer it.”

  “And more importantly,” said Caina, opening the massive book, “it will tell us who hired the Kindred to kill the nobles.”

  She began turning the pages, both Marzhod and Corvalis watching over her shoulders. The first pages of the book were written in High Nighmarian, and she saw Anshani names upon the pages. Which meant that the first recorded assassinations were from the time Anshan still ruled over Cyrioch.

  The book was over a thousand years old.

  Caina turned more pages, trying not to shiver. There were pages of names, so many names. How many hundreds had the Kindred of Cyrioch slaughtered over the centuries? How many thousands? Caina often felt guilt over those she had killed, but the destruction of this den of murderers would not trouble her in the slightest.

  In the middle the book switched from High Nighmarian to Istarish, and then to Cyrican for the remainder. Caina reached the final written page and scanned it. The dates on the final set of pages were from the last fifteen
years or so, and she began to read.

  “I’ll be damned,” muttered Marzhod.

  “What?” said Caina.

  “Lord Khosrau’s eldest son Yergizid,” said Marzhod, pointing at a line of text. “Died ten years ago. I always thought he got drunk, passed out, and drowned in his bath. Looks like someone paid the Kindred to make it look like a suicide.”

  Something began to stir in Caina’s mind.

  “Just like the previous two Lord Governors of Cyrica,” said Corvalis.

  Marzhod snorted. “They both died of old age.”

  Corvalis pointed at a page. “According to this book, they both died of a specific poison the Elder personally mixed for them. One to feign the effects of a natural death.”

  A yawning pit opened in Caina’s stomach.

  “Oh, damn,” she said. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  She flipped to the last page.

  “What?” said Corvalis, looking around for enemies.

  “Armizid,” said Caina, scanning the page. “I am a blind fool.”

  She remembered Lord Governor Armizid Asurius scowling in disapproval at Theodosia.

  At his father.

  “Armizid?” said Marzhod. “That spineless twit? He’s never had a thought Lord Khosrau didn’t have first. Besides, the Kindred were hired to kill him, too. That assassin we captured said so.”

  “Look,” said Caina, stabbing a finger at the page. “Just stop talking and read. Who paid for Yergizid’s death? Armizid. Who paid to have those Lord Governors killed? Armizid.”

  Marzhod blinked in bafflement. “Why would Armizid hire the Kindred to kill himself? If he wants to die, there are cheaper ways to get it done.”

  “He didn’t,” said Corvalis. “He only hired the Kindred to wound him. For enough gold the Kindred will do it. A man hires the Kindred to kill his brother, but pays them extra to deal a minor wound to him. That way no suspicion falls upon him.”

  “Armizid has been working on this for years,” said Caina, reading more lines in the massive book. “Getting rid of his brothers, killing the Lord Governors until his father bothered to give him the office. The war with New Kyre and Istarinmul gave him the chance he needed.”

  “To do what?” said Corvalis.

  “To kill Lord Khosrau and the Emperor’s emissary,” said Marzhod, his voice grim, “and declare himself King of Cyrica. The fool must think he can play the Empire and Anshan and Istarinmul off against each other, and turn Cyrica into his own little kingdom.”

  “He might do it, too,” said Caina. “Read here. The Kindred have infiltrated Cyrioch’s civic militia. Several of the assassins have become centurions, and have been quietly hiring mercenaries for the militia. That’s why there were so few assassins here tonight. They’re all out in the civic militia. And they’re…”

  “They’re going to kill Khosrau and Corbould tonight,” said Marzhod.

  “Unless we stop them,” said Caina.

  Marzhod spat out a curse and ran for the door, bellowing for his mercenaries.

  Caina and Corvalis ran after him.

  Chapter 22 - A Dance at Lord Khosrau’s Ball

  “Faster!” bellowed Marzhod, breathing hard.

  Corvalis had done his work too well. The portcullis had been irreparably jammed, leaving them with no choice but to take the tunnel to the Ring of Valor. Unfortunately, the Ring of Valor was outside of the city, nearly a mile and a half away from the Stone and the Palace of Splendors.

  A mile and a half they had to cover on foot.

  Fortunately, it was almost midnight, and the streets of Cyrioch were deserted. And those few people out on business made way for a hundred angry Sarbian mercenaries with swords in their hands.

  Caina ran alongside Marzhod and Corvalis, her shadow-cloak snapping behind her.

  “How are we getting inside the Palace?” said Corvalis.

  “We’ll ask nicely,” snarled Marzhod, his face shiny with sweat. “The Ghosts have friends among the Palace’s slaves.”

  “And if the guards refuse to let us in?” said Caina.

  Marzhod glared at her. “We’ll just have to fight our way in, won’t we?”

  That was a bad plan. But the Kindred could be kill Lord Khosrau and Lord Corbould at any moment, and there was no time to wait.

  The Palace’s main gates faced the Plaza of Majesty, north of the Stone itself, but a second gate stood in the Palace’s south wall, a ramp leading to the streets below. The Sarbians hurried up the ramp, the gleaming white wall of the Palace rising overhead. An elaborate gate stood atop the ramp, an ornate arch lined with carvings of Anshani lions and Cyrican gazelles…

  “Wait!” said Caina.

  Marzhod shouted to his mercenaries, and the Sarbians went still. Their chieftain said something to his followers, and the men drew their swords.

  They, too, sensed something amiss.

  Caina crept forward, a throwing knife in hand, and saw the corpses in gate’s shadow.

  Four of them, wearing the armor and colors of the civic militia, their eyes bulging, faces dark, tongues swelling over their teeth. They had been quite expertly garroted.

  The Kindred had already been here.

  “What is it?” said Marzhod.

  Caina gestured at the bodies.

  “Damn it,” hissed Marzhod.

  “We might be too late,” said Corvalis.

  “No,” said Marzhod. “I’m not giving up on this now.”

  “The Gallery of the Well?” said Caina. “Would Lord Khosrau hold another ball in there?”

  “No,” said Marzhod. “He wouldn’t hold a second ball for Lord Corbould in the same room. But there are a dozen other places suitable for a ball in the Palace. The Lord Governor’s Gallery, the Hall of Glass, the Walk of Captains, the…”

  “The slaves,” said Caina. “You said you have informants among the slaves. One of them will…”

  Marzhod hurried through the arch. Caina and Corvalis followed, the Sarbian mercenaries running after them. The elaborate courtyard on the other side of the gate stood deserted. Ornate columns ringed the courtyard, balconies and windows rising above them. Caina saw three more dead men upon ground, their blood drying on the polished marble tiles.

  For a moment she wondered why the Kindred had killed the guards. Khosrau and Corbould were the targets. But Armizid wanted to make himself King of Cyrica, and the more corpses, the stronger his story. He could argue that Corbould had brought men to kill him. Both Corbould and Khosrau had fallen in the fighting, and to repay the Empire’s treachery, Armizid would make Cyrica into an independent kingdom.

  It was devilishly brilliant.

  And Armizid might already have succeeded.

  Marzhod darted down a narrow corridor, opening every door he saw. At the fifth door a woman’s shriek rang out.

  “Get out!” said the woman in Cyrican. “I will use this!”

  Caina looked over Marzhod’s shoulder. Beyond was a slave’s narrow room, and a young woman in the gray tunic of a slave stood against the far wall, a meat cleaver in her hand.

  “Oh, put that down, Tiria,” said Marzhod.

  The slave woman blinked. “Circlemaster? Oh, thank the gods! The militia has gone berserk. They burst into the Palace, killing everyone in sight, and…”

  “I know,” said Marzhod. “They’re here on the Lord Governor’s orders to kill Lord Khosrau and Lord Corbould and start a war with the Empire.”

  Tiria sniffed. “The Lord Governor? I am not surprised. A stingy man. Lord Khosrau is both generous and stern, as a proper master should be.”

  “Where are they?” said Marzhod. “Cyrioch will burn if we can’t keep the nobles alive.”

  “The Hall of Glass,” said Tiria. “But you may be too late, circlemaster. The civic militia killed the guards at the gate at least fifteen minutes past.”

  Caina’s hands closed into fists. The Kindred needed far less than fifteen minutes to kill two men.

  And Theodosia was with them.

 
“No matter,” said Marzhod, his voice cold. “If we’re too late, we’ll just kill Armizid ourselves. Then the Emperor will send a new Lord Governor while the Cyrican nobles fight for dominance.” He pointed at Tiria. “Stay hidden here until I send a man for you. I will need eyes and ears in the Palace once the fighting is over.”

  Tiria laughed. “I shall hide under the bed. Wild dogs could not chase me into the corridors just now.”

  Marzhod nodded and closed the door.

  “The Hall of Glass is this way,” he said. “All of you, follow me!”

  They ran down the corridor.

  “What will you tell Khosrau?” said Corvalis. “We can hardly say that the circlemaster of Cyrioch and a renegade Kindred assassin arrived to save him at the last minute.”

  Assuming, of course, that Khosrau Asurius had not already fallen.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Marzhod. “If Khosrau is still alive, we’ll figure it out then.”

  Marzhod led them into a wide corridor, the walls lined with slender columns. Here and there Caina saw more corpses. Dead civic militiamen in their chain mail and cloaks. A minor noble in his white robe. Three slaves in gray. They must have gotten in the way of the Kindred. She saw one of Corbould’s Imperial Guards in black armor, his helmet crushed. That gave her a brief flicker of hope. The Kindred had infiltrated the civic militia, but not the Imperial Guard. Perhaps the Guards could hold off the assassins until help arrived.

  Marzhod charged up an elaborate spiral staircase, pulling on a mask as he ran. Corvalis did the same, and then Marzhod’s men kicked through a set of double doors.

  The Hall of Glass opened before them.

  It stood at the highest point of the Palace, its walls filled with enormous glass windows in lead frameworks. They offered a stunning view of the city, the harbor, and the sea beyond. Crystalline chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminated by thousands of tiny glass globes. The polished floor of white marble gleamed, and the Hall looked as if it had been constructed out of light and glass.

  Save where blood pooled upon the floor.

  A melee raged through the hall. Twenty Imperial Guards stood against the Hall’s far wall, struggling to hold off nearly four times as many men in the colors of the civic militia. The remaining Kindred of Cyrioch, Caina realized, along with the mercenaries and thugs they had smuggled into the militia.