Ghost of the Wall

by Jeff Mariotte

Cheveray’s lean face was turning red as he listened. Finally, he sputtered, “Children, I am not going to allow—”

  “Donial and I have the deepest respect and love for you, Cheveray,” Alanya interrupted. “But you are not our parents, and we must make our own decisions about this. Besides, I am no child—you yourself said I was the woman of the family now.”

  Cheveray’s jaw worked for a moment, as if he weren’t finished, but finally he nodded. “I did indeed,” he admitted. “I must still make my displeasure known—you are both too young and inexperienced for something like this, even if Kral is not.”

  “I agree,” Kral said.

  “Perhaps,” Alanya agreed. “But I’m going along just the same. I will not speak for Donial, but that home is his birthright as well, and if he wants to come, I say we let him.”

  “I am coming,” Donial said. “I will not stay behind, so you’re better off letting me stay with you.”

  “He is right about that,” Alanya pointed out. “If he tries to get in by himself, he’s likely to raise an alarm that will get us all caught.”

  Kral had apparently made up his mind. “You can both come with me,” he said. “But you follow my instructions. You go where I say, do what I say, immediately and without argument. Can you agree to that?”

  “Of course,” Alanya said.

  Donial’s reply took a moment longer, but he agreed as well.

  “Good,” Kral said, when both had promised to obey him. He suggested they take twenty minutes to prepare, then be ready to leave. As Alanya went to her room to get ready, she felt a knot of anxiety in her stomach. But it was leavened with excitement, and even a little relief. They would get the Teeth, and the mirror, tonight, or die in the effort.

  LUPINIUS WAITED IN the den of his brother’s home, with the crown in its box on a wide, finely carved table. He had received a message from a man named Declariat, who had expressed an interest in the barbaric curiosity. Lupinius had let a select few people know he had something of that nature available for sale, and one of them—a man who dealt in stolen goods, often as not—had told this Declariat, a well-known collector of such things, about it. Lupinius had inquired about Declariat and learned that he was a wealthy man who enjoyed mystical objects, with little concern about how they had been acquired.

  Hoping for a healthy profit for his efforts, Lupinius put great effort into looking as if he was casual about trying to unload the crown, without actually needing the money he might receive. So he had put on some of his brother’s finest clothing, and he waited in the well-appointed den with only a single Ranger, Rufio, on guard in the outer room. A butterlamp burned on the table near the box, as Declariat had insisted on meeting at night. Lupinius waited, sipping Hyrkanian wine and trying to be patient, until finally he heard a sound from the outer room.

  He had arrived, then. Good.

  Lupinius cleared his throat, and at a soft tapping on the door, said, “Enter.”

  He kept his seat behind the table as Declariat came in. The man was younger than he had expected, but dressed in a noble’s finery: loose blue silks with fine gold filigree, matching tights, and a feathered cap that drooped over his left eye. He was lean and tall, almost sticklike. Lupinius felt he had made the right move by keeping only one Ranger standing guard—this man wouldn’t frighten a child.

  “You are Declariat?” he asked.

  “Indeed,” the man said. He touched his hat in salute. “Greetings.”

  “Some wine?” Lupinius offered, waving toward the cask that stood beside him.

  “Thanks, but I prefer to get right to business,” Declariat said. “You have an interesting object, I’m told.”

  “A curiosity,” Lupinius agreed. He played a curious kind of juggling game, talking down the crown’s attributes to Kanilla Rey, and enhancing them to this potential buyer. “Very rare, they say, and possessing incredible powers. One of a kind.”

  “So I hear,” Declariat said. He jingled a purse hidden beneath the folds of his tunic. “Just the kind of thing I am interested in. May I see it?”

  Encouraged by the sound of gold coins, Lupinius stood and opened the box for the visitor. He took the crown from the box and set it gingerly on the table. If this worked, his brother owned many other art objects he might be able to sell, to keep income flowing his way for some time. “Here it is,” he said. “A true Pictish treasure.”

  Declariat’s voice was hushed when he spoke again. “Very nice,” he said. “Condition is very good. And you’re right, it is a rarity. I have never seen one quite like it. Do you know its age or origin?”

  “I have not been able to find out,” Lupinius replied. “That’s how rare it is.”

  Declariat lifted it carefully and turned it under the light of the lamp. “I am impressed,” he said. “Very.”

  “If you would like to add it to your collection,” Lupinius said, “just state your offer.”

  Declariat grinned wolfishly. “How about if I just help myself to it?”

  Lupinius’s hand dropped to the knife at his belt. “You wouldn’t dare! Surely you saw the guard outside this door.”

  “He will not interfere,” Declariat said simply.

  Lupinius felt his gut tighten. He slipped out from behind the table, drawing his knife and, giving Declariat a wide berth, crossed to the door. Flinging it open, he saw that Rufio was slumped to the floor, blood pooling around him.

  This twig of a man had murdered one of his sturdiest Rangers, while Lupinius sat only a few feet away!

  “There are plenty more—” he began.

  “Drinking, in your dining hall. Over their merriment, they will hear nothing. Just save yourself any trouble and let me leave with it.”

  “Never!” Lupinius charged the little man, but his opponent was as quick as he was slender. Before Lupinius reached him, he had dodged to one side and drawn a sliver-thin rapier from some hiding place. Lupinius halted his charge and backed away, knowing that with his sword, Declariat’s reach was much greater than his own.

  “You are not Declariat at all, are you?” he asked, suddenly realizing how he had been tricked. His contact had no doubt simply told one of his regular criminal suppliers to impersonate the collector in order to get his own hands on the crown.

  “No,” the imposter answered. He feinted right with the rapier, and Lupinius raised his knife, dodging left at the same time. Another feint, another dodge. Sweat broke out on Lupinius’s temples, his upper lip. The man was playing him.

  “Guards!” he screamed. The man had been bluffing about so much else, maybe he was about that as well.

  Barely had the word escaped his lips than the false Declariat lunged at him, though, the rapier’s blade whipping the air toward him. Lupinius lurched backward but the blade’s tip caught the loose fabric of his robe and tore it. He took another step back, and felt solid wall behind him.

  The man’s blade whistled as he sliced the air with it, weaving a shimmering pattern in the lamplight. Lupinius realized he had one decent chance to survive: If he could get into the outer room, and get his hands on Rufio’s sword, he could beat this opponent.

  One chance. He reached behind himself and tugged down a velvet wall hanging, which he hurled toward the other man. As soon as he had thrown it, he dashed for the door.

  But the imposter was faster.

  Avoiding the tapestry, he raced toward the door and turned, sword extended. Lupinius saw its narrow length too late to dodge. His feet slid on the marble floor as he tried to backpedal. The blade bit into his chest, and he felt a hot, piercing pain. He let out a gurgling cry and dropped to his knees, and the man who had called himself Declariat withdrew his blade.

  He looked almost sadly at Lupinius. “I offered you the choice,” he said sympathetically.

  Lupinius tried to respond, but his voice no longer obeyed him. He suddenly felt cold. His legs gave way completely, dumping him to the floor. He clawed at the marble with one hand, still hoping to summon aid, or to stop the thief one way
or another. But the floor was growing dark, and everything was suddenly so quiet.

  So quiet . . .

  24

  KRAL WAS FRUSTRATED.

  The city was so vast—block after block of buildings, all surrounded by walls, and outside those, cultivated fields—that it seemed there was no forest left in the world.

  Without forest, he couldn’t find the berries he needed to crush to make his blue war paint. He didn’t need the paint to fight, he was sure—just as he had learned he didn’t need the presence of his clansmen, or the wild war cries, or to let the battle frenzy sweep him up. But he knew it helped to disguise him, helped him blend into the shadows of night.

  Traditions, he believed, had their origins in utility. Certainly that one did.

  Without the right berries, he resorted to going out into the streets and finding mud he could smear on his body. He would go into battle as he always did, naked but for his loincloth. With the mud streaking his face, torso, and limbs, he would be nearly invisible in the dark.

  He had suggested to Alanya and Donial that they do the same. Neither was comfortable fighting nearly naked, however. They settled on dark tunics and leggings. Each carried a knife and a short sword, provided by Cheveray. He wasn’t sure Alanya would know what to do with one, and Donial’s expertise seemed to exist mostly in his own mind. With luck they wouldn’t need them at all. But if it came to trouble, better they be armed than not.

  Both showed up in front of Cheveray’s house, in less time than the twenty minutes he had allowed. Both were quiet, almost solemn. Nervous, he guessed. He had infiltrated the wall at Koronaka enough times to become accustomed to it. While it wasn’t a casual thing, at least he knew what to expect. Neither Alanya or Donial had ever done anything like this.

  One good thing about the city was that its warren of buildings offered plenty of shadow. Light spilled from occasional windows and doors, but those could generally be avoided, and even when not, they were not so large that it took much time to pass through them. They went on foot, rather than mounted, as it was easier to stay out of sight.

  He thought all was lost at one point. Ahead, a large group of people clotted a street corner they needed to cross. With a wave, Kral halted their progress, and they pressed back against the dark buildings. He nodded them back the way they had come. They went around the far corner, down to the next cross street.

  But it was the same there—a large clutch of people standing on the corner, looking at something in the street. “What is it, a parade?” Donial whispered.

  “I know not,” Kral said quietly. “But they block our path.”

  “Let’s have a closer look,” Alanya suggested. “Maybe we can tell how long it will take.”

  Kral wasn’t happy about that idea, but it was her city. If she thought the street might clear momentarily, that would be better than having to detour around whatever this was. Cautiously, they approached the corner. The fact that everyone there was looking into the street made it easier to remain unobserved.

  It took only a minute to see that the people weren’t gathered to watch a parade, but a king.

  It must have been hard, Kral thought, for the king to travel anywhere within his city without attracting a mob of spectators. For him, the option of simply stepping away from his throne didn’t exist. There were always people around him—advisors, servants, people who wanted to draw his attention to one issue or another. Even in the Bear Clan village, the chief found it hard to achieve solitude, and there were thousands more people in the city than there.

  And if that had not been a problem, there was still another. Kral had never seen a king before, much less one as important and exalted as King Conan of Aquilonia. But the sight almost took his breath away. He knew, looking upon King Conan, what the word “majestic” meant, though he didn’t know how to say it in Aquilonian.

  The king was tall in the saddle. His armor was golden, shining even in the dim light of the street, with a scarlet cloak draped behind him. His arms were massive, as were the thighs that gripped his saddle. His hair was black as night, cut squarely across his forehead. His eyes were as blue as clear water, and shone with evident intelligence. His mouth turned up in a slight smile as he regarded his subjects—now waving to women in a tavern’s doorway, now calling out to a man by name, now nodding to the crowd on a corner.

  “King Conan!” voices shouted. Kral had the sensation that people just wanted to be noticed by him, just to feel that he had acknowledged their existence. “King Conan!”

  Almost caught up in the moment, Kral had to fight down the urge to add his own shout to the din. He glanced back at Alanya and Donial. Both beamed up at the king as he rode past them. Alanya had a nearly beatific smile on her face, her eyes wide and moist. Donial’s jaw had dropped open, and his right fist was tight on the grip of his sword, as if ready to fight for his king at the Cimmerian’s slightest request.

  The three of them stood there, silently, as the king receded from view down the street. When he was past, the knots of people on the corners broke up. People wandered away, most chatting excitedly about what they had just seen. Conan seemed universally popular, at least among these people—working people, Kral could tell, not nobility.

  It only took a matter of minutes before the streets were clear, once the king and his retinue had passed. Kral, Alanya, and Donial simply waited until most people had gone about their own business, then they crossed over and made their way toward Lupinius and the Teeth.

  GORIAN HAD SERVED Kanilla Rey many times over the years. He never remembered what he did for the magician, but he was always paid for his services—extra if he had been wounded in the doing of whatever task Kanilla Rey had set out for him. He knew that sometimes he was sent to do dangerous things, and he was usually partnered with men he had never seen before and would never see again. These were some of the ways Kanilla Rey protected his own interests. That was fine with Gorian. He always knew what he was about when the job needed to be done. It was only after that his memory was altered in some way.

  Tonight he and three others had been sent to a house with which he was vaguely familiar—that of Invictus, an ambassador of the king. He had been assured that Invictus was dead and that someone else was staying in the house. That someone else, a man named Lupinius, had an object, a crown of bones and teeth, that Kanilla Rey wanted. There would be soldiers guarding it, but Gorian and his fellows were ready for that.

  Gorian glanced around at the men he was to work with—tough men, warriors who carried the scars of combat upon their flesh. None of them knew one another’s name. Gorian knew only from appearances and accents that he walked with a Turanian, a Gunderman, and a Zamoran. He knew nothing beyond that about them and didn’t want to. From time to time he had thought it might prove worthwhile to write down what he knew of the missions Kanilla Rey sent him on, while he still remembered. But Gorian could neither read nor write. At any rate, to cross Kanilla Rey probably meant to invite certain death.

  Approaching the house of Invictus, Gorian saw that soldiers did indeed guard the house. There were only two at the gate, however. From their flushed faces and unsteady legs, he suspected that they had been drinking.

  “Easy,” the Zamoran said. He was a blocky man with a thick shock of dark hair and eyes like a bottomless well. “I’ll take them.”

  Gorian, nominally in charge of the group, nodded his assent. The Zamoran affected a drunken stagger. As he neared the guards, they laughed at him instead of attempting an alert response. When they came toward him, either to help him or to mock him further, he straightened suddenly. With practiced efficiency, he drove his knife into one’s breast, then across the other’s throat. With barely a sound and only seconds lost, both guards fell to the ground.

  Gorian and the other two hurried across to the gate, which the Zamoran was already opening for them. Inside the compound were several buildings. The main house was two stories tall, stately columns and sturdy walls gleaming whitely in the moonlight. Nea
rby, a lower building likely served as servants’ quarters and possibly barracks for guards. Fragrant woodsmoke and loud laughter drifted from another, which Gorian took to be a dining and drinking hall. A couple were obviously storage buildings, yet another a stable. The buildings were arranged around a large central square, flagstoned and planted with trees and flower beds. It might have been a pleasant environment, a refuge from busy city streets, a place for relaxation and meditation, but the flowers had been trampled, and trash littered the open square.

  Gorian had no interest in any of these things. The faster he and his comrades found the crown and delivered it into the hands of Kanilla Rey, the faster he would be paid. Kanilla Rey would perform whatever magic it was that made him forget his task—he couldn’t even remember how the wizard did that—but he would have gold in his purse.

  All these separate buildings could make the search more complicated, but Kanilla Rey had insisted that the crown would be close to Lupinius. And Lupinius, as the new master of the property, would be in the main house.

  The grounds were quiet, except for the noise coming from the presumed dining hall. Gorian pointed to it, so that his fellows would understand to keep away from it, then he pointed his head toward the main house. “In there,” he muttered. The others nodded their agreement. Keeping an eye on that building in case anyone ventured forth, Gorian and the others hurried across the open square toward the main house. Lamps burned through some of the windows, but no one appeared to be present.

  The front door was ajar. Gorian opened it slowly, peering inside. He saw no one. The front room was marble-floored, with a couple of tables bearing statuary and tapestries decorating the walls. Doors led away from the room in both directions. Gorian slipped inside, his sword drawn.

  At the door to the next room, he looked inside and saw a corpse.

  Silently, he gestured for the others to join him. Pointing toward the body, slumped in a pool of blood, he whispered, “Stay alert!”