There was only one way to find out.
Caina lowered her head, as if staring at the dead courier. Yet she watched the progress of the silent footprints through the corner of her eye. She did a quick calculation, guessing at where an invisible man leaving those footprints would stand.
She whirled, flinging the knife in her right hand with all her strength. It spun from her fingers with a steely gleam…and came to a sudden stop fifteen feet away, quivering in midair.
A grunt of pain came to Caina’s ears, and the knife vanished.
And then a man appeared out of nothingness, grimacing as he yanked the bloody knife from his left shoulder with his right hand.
He was tall and lean and wore only a loincloth and a leather weapons belt, his bare feet dusty with grime, a bloodstained short sword waiting in his left hand. An intricate maze of elaborate scars covered his torso and upper arms, elaborate chains of symbols that looked like writing. The largest symbol occupied the center of his chest, an arrangement of scars that looked like a stylized, winged skull.
The man glared at Caina.
“You’ll regret that,” he spat, using the High Nighmarian tongue. Either he was from the Empire, or he had learned the language from a capable tutor.
“I have seen a lot of strange things,” said Caina in the same language, “but I must confess that a naked man who can turn invisible is new.”
To say nothing of odd. Why go about the city in a loincloth and armed with only a short sword? Perhaps the man’s power had a limit. Perhaps the spell that rendered him invisible only lasted for a short time. Or maybe he could turn his body invisible, but could only extend that power to a few other objects.
“You’re a pretty little thing,” growled the scarred man, stepping forward. Caina slid another throwing knife into her hand, and the scarred man began to circle her. “Are you a Ghost, pretty thing?”
“I don’t think so,” said Caina, turning to keep him in sight. “I feel like I’m flesh and blood, not a spirit.”
The scarred man spat. “Lies. Do you know how many Ghosts I have killed? All their tricks and false words did not save them.” He slapped his free hand against his scarred chest, ignoring the blood trickling from the wound in his shoulder. “They call themselves the Ghosts, but I am the unseen killer. They cannot stop me. You cannot stop me.” He smiled. “I shall enjoy listening to you scream.”
“All those scars,” said Caina, gesturing at him with the throwing knife. “Did they hurt?”
“Like nothing you can imagine,” said the scarred man. “But the pain made me stronger. The pain gave me power.” She felt the sudden prickle of sorcery, and pale silver light flickered and gleamed over the ridged lines of the scars. “As you will soon see.”
He vanished into nothingness, and Caina heard the rasp of his feet upon the ground as he ran at her.
She ran as fast as she could for the far end of the hall. When the scarred man had been stalking her, she had been able to spot his footprints. But if he sprinted at her, there was no way she could spot him before he tackled her, and if he pinned her she was dead.
Caina ran faster, her boots scraping against the dusty floor. Damned skirts! She veered to the right, towards the supplies stacked against the wall, the planks and tools and the amphorae of lamp oil. Likely the slaves needed the lamp oil to see as they dug out the cellars. Caina snatched a half-filled amphora, ripped the seal free, and flung the lamp oil in a shining arc.
About half of it splashed into something unseen, and for a moment Caina saw the outline of a man covered in shining oil. The outline stumbled, raising a hand to wipe the oil from his face.
A moment was all Caina needed.
She yanked the dagger from the sheath at her belt and sprang at the invisible man. The dagger’s blade was a foot long, leaf-shaped and forged from a peculiar silvery metal called ghostsilver. It was stronger and lighter than steel, and could hold a sharper edge, but that was not its chief virtue. Ghostsilver was a proof against sorcery and could disrupt spells.
The gleaming outline twisted away as Caina stabbed, but not before she drove the ghostsilver blade into his right thigh. There was a harsh sizzling sound, and the dagger’s hilt grew hot beneath Caina’s fingers. A scream filled her ears, and the scarred man reappeared, his eyes wide with pain, the sigils upon his chest and arms glowing with silver light. Smoke rose from the dagger in his leg, the wound charring and blackening as the spell reacted to the ghostsilver blade. The scarred man screamed and stabbed at Caina, but his leg collapsed and she dodged his stroke. He started to rise, but Caina turned and drove a throwing knife into his throat. Blood welled up from the wound, splattering across her fingers, and she planted a boot into the small of his back and sent him sprawling. The scarred man twitched several times, tried to rise, and then went motionless with a sigh.
Caina checked to make sure that he was dead, and then retrieved and cleaned her weapons. She looked around, but no one had noticed their struggle, and she did not feel the presence of any more sorcery.
She crossed the hall, climbed the stairs to the balcony, and looked around.
Like the main hall, the balcony was raw stone and concrete. The first thing Caina saw was the corpse upon the floor, a loincloth-clad man like the one she had killed below. More of the elaborate scars covered his arms and chest, including the winged skull over his heart. A crossbow quarrel, its steel head caked with drying blood, jutted from the center of the skull.
A man slumped against the far wall, breathing hard, a loaded crossbow cradled in his arms. He wore the sand-colored robes and turban of a Sarbian tribesman, the shoulder and left sleeve of his robe dark with blood. A bushy gray beard concealed most of his lined face, and dark eyes glittered above his thin, hooked nose.
The crossbow twitched towards her.
“Whoever you are,” rasped the man in Istarish, “run. Get out of here and run. If you stay here your life is in danger.”
“You don’t recognize me?” said Caina. That didn’t surprise her. Agabyzus knew that she was a woman, but had only rarely seen her dressed as one.
He blinked and lowered the crossbow. “Circlemaster?”
“Aye,” said Caina. “What happened here?”
“Be wary,” said Agabyzus. “Another of those assassins lurks nearby, and they can turn invisible…”
“I know,” said Caina. “I killed the other one. That invisibility…it’s a spell of some kind. I could sense it, which is the only reason I’m not dead.”
“Can you sense any more of them?” said Agabyzus, getting to his feet with a wince. The crossbow bobbed alarmingly.
“No,” said Caina. “No. Just the two. Did you see any others?”
“I did not,” said Agabyzus, lowering the crossbow. He looked at his left shoulder and winced. “I met with the courier as planned…”
“The dead man below,” said Caina.
“Aye,” said Agabyzus. “We were deep in discussion, for his news was dire. Then…I do not know. Something felt wrong. I turned around to look, and so the stab intended for my heart entered my shoulder instead. The courier, alas, was not so lucky.”
“You knew him,” said Caina.
“Aye,” said Agabyzus. “He has delivered messages from the high circlemasters before. A reliable man.” He shook his head in dismay, his beard rustling against his collar. “You have traveled more than I have. Have you ever encountered these invisible assassins before?”
“I have not,” said Caina. “I’ve seen sorcerers cast potent spells of illusion, but not like this. The invisibility must have limitations, though. Else they would have worn armor. When they attacked, they became visible, did they not?”
“They did,” said Agabyzus. “If they could remain invisible when striking, then we would both be dead.”
“How did you escape?” said Caina.
“I ran for the balcony,” said Agabyzus. “I realized the assassins could turn invisible, and needed a way to find them. So I went to the balcony
where the rock dust was thickest. As soon as I saw the footprints appear, I fired. I got a lucky shot and took down the first assassin. I suspect the other was waiting for me to bleed out and planned to cut my throat when I fell unconscious. Then you arrived.”
“I told you we should have done this in a public place,” said Caina.
“Clearly,” said Agabyzus. He lifted a leather satchel. “The courier’s letters. We must discuss them at once. I…”
He winced and started to sway, and Caina grabbed his uninjured arm.
“We can discuss them,” said Caina, “after we get you stitched up.”
“But the news is dire,” said Agabyzus.
“Unless the news will decide the fate of the Empire in the next hour,” said Caina, “stopping you from bleeding out is more important. I did not go to all the trouble of rescuing you from the Widow’s Tower only for you to bleed to death here.”
Agabyzus grimaced. “You are the circlemaster. Though I am obviously wounded. How will we get across the city without drawing notice?”
“I have a safe house nearby,” said Caina. “If anyone asks, we shall say that you are my father, that you accidently fell and injured yourself while splitting wood, and I am taking you to a physician.”
Agabyzus snorted. “Your father? Do I look so aged?”
“You’re actually old enough to be my father,” said Caina.
“That is what makes it worse,” said Agabyzus. He winced, and Caina put an arm around his shoulders. “Lead on.”
A spasm went through his limbs, and Caina suspected he would not need to feign leaning upon her.
She led him from the hall and into the Old Quarter’s darkening streets. The crowds of merchants had cleared away, and Caina saw no one else, which was a relief. If anyone saw a young woman helping a wounded man, it would draw questions. Caina looked around, watching for anyone…
She froze.
“What is it?” said Agabyzus.
“I…” said Caina, frowning.
For just a moment, she had glimpsed a shadow standing on top of the half-constructed building. Had someone been watching them?
But she saw no one, and Agabyzus was bleeding.
“Let’s go,” said Caina, and she helped him along.
Chapter 2 - Voices
“The Tower Quarter?” said Agabyzus, his voice a bit unsteady.
“Yes,” said Caina.
“The Crows’ Tower is here,” said Agabyzus. “The headquarters of the city watch.”
“This is so,” said Caina.
“Also a hidden prison for the Teskilati,” said Agabyzus.
“I’d heard that,” said Caina.
“And you have a safe house here?” said Agabyzus.
“Right here, as a matter of fact,” said Caina, leading him into alley between two of the tall, blocky houses that dominated the Tower Quarter. In the distance she saw the grim battlements of the Crows’ Tower. Dozens of iron cages dangled from the walls, holding corpses in various states of decay. Hundreds of crows circled above the fortress, feasting upon the carrion.
“Why here?” said Agabyzus.
Caina stopped before the cellar door, undid the lock, and pushed it open. “A widow named Talisla owns the house. I did her a favor once, and the Tower Quarter is heavily patrolled. No one makes trouble here.”
“Including bounty hunters,” said Agabyzus.
Caina nodded and helped him into the cellar of the widow’s house. She had prepared the cellar as a refuge, stocking it with cots, weapons, medical supplies, food and drink, and other useful things. Agabyzus staggered to a cot and sat down with a sigh while Caina lit several lanterns and a brazier, placing a cup of wine over the coals to boil.
“Don’t lie down yet,” said Caina. “We need to clean and close that cut. Open your robe.”
Agabyzus snorted. “Taking off my clothes in front of a woman young enough to be my daughter. Damla would be scandalized.”
“Since you were wearing nothing but rags when I first met you,” said Caina, “I think that boundary of scandal was crossed long ago.”
“This is so,” said Agabyzus, tugging open the top of his robes and withdrawing his arms from the sleeve. His torso was thin and wasted, the ribs and belly marked with dozens of scars from the tortures of the Widows’ Tower. His back was nothing but a solid mass of whip scars. To judge from the state of the wound in his left shoulder, he would soon have another impressive scar in his collection.
Caina picked up a tray with the tools she needed, set it upon the cot, and went to work cleaning the wound. Agabyzus winced occasionally, but sat in silence otherwise. She washed out the wound with a mixture of herbs and boiling wine to prevent putrefaction, and then started stitching it closed.
“You are good at this,” said Agabyzus
“Thank you,” said Caina, working the needle through the torn skin and pulling the stitches closed. It was not that different from cutting a throat. Just a bit more precise.
“Might I ask how you learned?” said Agabyzus.
“Some practice,” said Caina. “I’ve had to stitch myself up a few times. I had a good teacher. A priestess of Minaerys, a physician.” Komnene had taught her everything she knew about poisons and medicines and treating wounds. Though Claudia Aberon had been a better student by far. Caina had a talent for observation and working mayhem, but Claudia had a gift for medicine, and she had become a capable physician. Caina wondered what had become of her. Likely she had wed Martin Dorius by now.
“You did,” said Agabyzus, closing his eyes. “I knew Halfdan. He would be proud of the work you have done in Istarinmul.”
“Thank you,” said Caina, her voice quiet. She had failed to save Halfdan, too. She tied off the stitches and scrutinized her handiwork. “Keep that uncovered tonight. I can check it tomorrow. Or, better yet, you can find an actual physician to look at it. I can give you something for the pain. It will put you to sleep, though.”
“Before you do,” said Agabyzus. “I must tell you about the message.” He lifted the satchel and handed it to her.
“Of course,” said Caina.
“The message was genuine, from Lord Aeolus himself in Malarae,” said Agabyzus. “A new Lord Ambassador is arriving in Istarinmul to represent the Emperor to the Padishah, and the Ghost circlemaster is to aid the Lord Ambassador in his task.”
“Which is?” said Caina.
“To keep Istarinmul,” said Agabyzus, “from siding with the Umbarian Order against the Empire.”
“The Umbarian Order?” said Caina, blinking. “I’ve never heard of them. The word ‘umbarian’ is just the High Nighmarian word for ‘hidden in the shadows’ or ‘beneath the shadow’.”
“Apparently,” said Agabyzus, “the rebels that now control the eastern Empire call themselves the Umbarian Order.”
“A stupid name,” said Caina. “Hard to be a ruler when you go about hidden in the shadows.”
Agabyzus looked almost amused at that. “We operate in the shadows.”
“We are not rulers. We’re the Ghosts,” said Caina. “We’re spies. We’re supposed to operate in the shadows. Did the message say anything about who or what these Umbarians are?”
“No,” said Agabyzus. He reached into the satchel with his good arm. “You can read for yourself.”
Caina scanned the letter. It contained damnably little information. It merely said that the Umbarian Order was sending an ambassador to the Padishah’s court to persuade Istarinmul to join the war against the Empire. In answer, the Emperor was sending an ambassador of his own to convince the Padishah to remain neutral, a Lord Ambassador named…
Caina blinked. “Oh.”
“You know this Lord Martin Dorius, then?” said Agabyzus.
“I know Martin Dorius,” said Caina. “He was at New Kyre, on the day of the golden dead. Though I first met him before that. When he was governor of Caeria Ulterior. There was an…incident.” She looked at Agabyzus. “He is a Ghost.”
“Truly?�
� said Agabyzus. “A nobleman in the Ghosts? I am surprised.”
“He was at the time, too,” said Caina.
“You seem displeased,” said Agabyzus.
“Do I?” said Caina. She was usually better at concealing her emotions. But as battered and scarred as Agabyzus was, he was still no fool. “No, not displeased. But we have something of an unpleasant history.”
“Ah,” said Agabyzus. “He is a former lover, then.”
“What? No,” said Caina. “Why would you think that?”
Agabyzus shrugged. “Forgive my bluntness, but as your nightkeeper it is my duty to offer you honest counsel and…”
“Yes, you’ve given me that speech before,” said Caina. “If you have something to say, just say it.”
“You are not an unattractive woman,” said Agabyzus, “and with your powers of intellect and disguise, I suspect you would find it very easy to charm, shall we say, any man who caught your eye. You looked quite sad for a moment when you read the letter.”
Caina sighed. “Lord Martin’s wife. She…was the sister of someone I knew quite well.”
“The man you lost,” said Agabyzus, voice quiet.
Caina scowled. “Damla told you?”
“Of course not,” said Agabyzus. “My sister knows how to keep secrets. Especially now that our lives depend upon them. But I have observed you for nearly a year, circlemaster, and I have seen how reckless you are with your own life. I concluded you suffered some great loss that made you heedless of your fate.”
“I should have guessed,” said Caina.
“Guessed what?”
“The danger of employing clever men,” said Caina, looking at the ceiling, “is that they uncover more secrets than you expect. You are right. There was a man. He died. I didn’t. He died saving my life, in truth. His sister blamed me for it. When I came to Istarinmul, she was betrothed to Martin Dorius. Likely they have wed by now.”
“So she will accompany Lord Martin,” said Agabyzus.
Ghost in the Hunt Page 2
