Ghost of the Wall

by Jeff Mariotte

  They walked through a room that seemed to be a sitting room, barely disturbing the fat flies gorging themselves on fresh gore. The man looked like a soldier, armored and armed, but nearly decapitated by a savage attack. Light flickered through the open doorway on the other side of the room. Gorian headed for that, taking in sharp, shallow breaths of air. The shifting shadows in there made him more on edge than ever, lest he be taken by surprise by the presence of someone more alive than the fallen soldier.

  He looked around once more at his companions, reassuring himself that they were all ready for whatever might come. When he had done so, he cautiously approached the doorway to the next room. He risked a glance inside.

  Another corpse met his gaze there.

  Otherwise, the room was deserted. He went in, blowing out the breath he had been holding, and looked at this body. Another man, this one clad in the garb of a wealthy man. He had fallen forward into a wide pool of blood.

  On a table, a lamp burned next to a cask of wine and a wooden box. Gorian went to the box and looked into its shadowed depths. Empty.

  Just in case, he reached in and felt around the box’s interior. His hand brushed something hard and dry and jagged, closed on it. He brought it out, into the lamplight.

  A single tooth. Larger than any he had ever seen, but still unmistakable.

  Gorian was uneducated and of questionable morals, but he was not a stupid man. It only took him a second to figure out what had happened. He had been sent to fetch a crown made of bones and teeth. Two dead bodies—one a guard, one a wealthy man, a landowner—and an empty box containing a single tooth, added up to one thing. Someone had stolen the crown before he and his fellows had a chance to do the same.

  “Damn!” he swore. “We’ve been beaten to the prize, men.”

  “Are you sure?” the Gunderman asked.

  “Sure enough,” Gorian answered. He pointed toward the body on the ground. “That’s Lupinius, master of the house, I’d wager. And this tooth shows that the crown had been kept in this box. It’s empty now, and the man’s dead, as is the guard outside. If we don’t want to be accused of these crimes, we’d best get on our way now.”

  “Agreed,” the Turanian put in.

  “Let’s go,” added the Zamoran.

  Just as carefully as they had entered, they left the house and grounds. Gorian did not look forward to confessing their failure to Kanilla Rey. Better to get it over with, though. If he knew of it before they arrived, he would be twice as angry as if they told him themselves.

  25

  DONIAL WAS STILL reeling a little from the glimpse of King Conan, looking powerful and practically godlike in his armor and his majesty. He was the kind of ruler that a man could happily follow into battle, even into the very gates of hell if need be.

  That was all put out of his mind as he watched strangers exit his father’s property, passing the bodies of guards who either slept or had been killed. “Who are—?” he began.

  Kral stifled his outburst. “Silence! Something is amiss. We need to figure out what.”

  “I have never seen those men,” Alanya said. They stood in the shadows across the street from their childhood home. “But those guards look dead.”

  “I would suspect robbery,” Kral added. “Except if they have taken anything, it is only something small enough to hide on their persons. None of them carries anything large enough to be the crown.”

  “How do we get in, then?” Donial asked. He had wanted to turn Kral over to Aquilonian authorities, when they started their journey. But along the way, that had changed. He would never forgive the Picts for the death of his father—but he was no longer certain that they carried the blame. He mistrusted them on principle, but Kral seemed trustworthy. Donial was confused, and frightened. If he called out now, would he be treated any better than the Pict? “If someone sees those dead guards, then the alarm will be raised.”

  Kral led Donial and Alanya away from the gates, around the corner toward a section of the wall that stood unguarded. Here the three huddled together, away from the sounds of conversation. “Are there any other ways in?” Kral asked. “Or must we climb over the wall?”

  “There is a smaller gate at the rear of the property, behind the stables,” Alanya said. “No telling if it’s guarded as well, but it was not, in my father’s time. He had not as much to fear as Lupinius.”

  “We shall check that back gate, then,” he said. “While darkness remains on our side.”

  “But . . . even if we get in the gate,” Donial pointed out, “the place will be crawling with Rangers and the city guard. Someone besides us will see those bodies soon.”

  “I slipped in and out of Koronaka, and across the wall, while it was guarded by some of those same Rangers, and more,” Kral said. “Why should this be any more difficult?”

  “Besides,” Alanya added, “we know the grounds better than anyone, Donial. Come, this needs doing, and now is the time.”

  Donial nodded, reluctant but unwilling to abandon his sister. That mirror meant more to Alanya than it did to him, but his sister’s happiness was important, so he would go wherever she led. The three of them rounded the next corner, which took them into an alley behind the compound.

  Across the alley, blank walls marked off the property of another noble, one wealthier by far than their father. The front gate of that complex was on the opposite wall, so it was unlikely that anyone would see them as they approached their own back gate.

  As it turned out, the back gate was indeed unguarded. In fact, it hung open. “Hardly anyone ever used this entrance,” Alanya explained. “I used to, sometimes, if I wanted to get away from the house without Father knowing.”

  The gate was narrow, just wide enough for one person at a time. Normally, it would have been closed and latched. Kral went through first, paused just inside, then motioned the others in after him. They were behind the stables here, and Donial could smell the horses inside, could hear them whickering nervously at the commotion elsewhere on the property. Raised voices and running footsteps drifted back from the front square.

  At Kral’s urging, they skirted the edge of the stables and headed toward the main house. Donial could see, near the corner, the window of the room that had been his bedroom for most of his life. The window was dark now, open to the elements, the glass broken from it. He felt a pang of regret, as if he had somehow been responsible for leaving the place unprotected.

  Between the stable and the house was a short stretch of open ground, paved with flagstones, a continuation of the square in front. Garbage was strewn on the stones here: bottles, broken jars, and other refuse such as a group of military men might leave behind. There was a back door to the main house on that side, which Donial pointed out to Kral.

  “If there are guards about they will be able to see the front door,” Donial said. “So we should use this one.”

  Kral started for it, then suddenly took a step back, arms flung out, catching both Donial and Alanya and shoving them to the ground.

  “Someone’s coming!” he whispered hoarsely.

  ALANYA BREATHED IN the scent of Kral—his anxious sweat, the mud he had smeared on his body—while he pressed her and Donial down against the flagstones. Pebbles ground into her back and hip, and Kral’s weight, while not unpleasant, added to her immediate discomfort.

  But he had been right. Though she had not heard them, two Rangers, one carrying a glowing lantern, came around the corner of the main house. Both had spears clutched in their free hands. “. . . good is being in the city if we spend all our time behind these walls?” one of them was saying. His words were slurred with drink.

  The two Rangers didn’t even glance into the shadows by the stable. As quickly as they had come, they were gone, around the far corner of the house. As their voices receded, Kral got up off Alanya and Donial.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “I didn’t even hear them coming,” Alanya admitted. “I’m glad you did.”

  “
Living in this noisy city has no doubt ruined your ears,” Kral speculated. “A Pict has to be able to hear the flap of a wing, the snap of a twig, the falling of a leaf. It’s a matter of survival in the wilderness.”

  “We know all about your magnificent savage senses,” Donial said, an edge of anger in his voice. “It’s all you ever talk about.”

  “Donial!” Alanya scolded.

  “Well, practically,” Donial said.

  “If it had not been for his senses, you would be in the hands of the Rangers right now,” she pointed out.

  Donial looked away and kicked at a loose stone. It clattered across the flagstones. Donial’s hand went to his mouth, as if he had said something out loud. He looked up again, shamefaced. “I’m sorry.”

  “Just be careful,” Alanya snapped. There must have been something little brothers were good for, she thought, but she couldn’t imagine what right at the moment.

  They stayed in the shadows a minute longer, waiting and listening. Her heart was still hammering from the close call, but at least no one came to investigate the stone Donial had kicked.

  When it seemed safe again, they crossed to the back door of the house. It was up several marble stairs, which they climbed quickly. This was an entrance used only by servants, and Alanya knew that it opened onto a small room that could be used as a staging area for dinners held in the home. Official functions, diplomatic affairs. Usually, she and Donial and Father ate in a small dining room here in the house, or even in the dining hall with the rest of the staff. But there was a grand ballroom in the house reserved for larger functions. This small room was where food was brought in to be served up for those gatherings.

  It was dark when they went in, quiet. Only one other door led away from the room, into the grand ballroom. Alanya showed Kral where the door was. He opened it silently, just a crack. Enough to see through. Satisfied, he pulled it wider and stepped through.

  Following, Alanya was mortified to see how the place had been mistreated. The huge, polished dining table was scarred, one of the chairs smashed to bits and others overturned. Lupinius and his Rangers had only been living in the house for a few days, and yet it looked like a herd of oxen had trampled through. She stifled a gasp of shock.

  Kral touched her arm, reminding her to remain silent. This room was empty, and it was evident at a glance that the mirror was not here. Alanya guessed that Lupinius would have kept it in his own bedroom, which would probably be the same one that Father had used, upstairs. It was the largest and nicest of the bedrooms, with a view across the city and windows that could be opened on three sides to catch comforting breezes.

  Several doors opened onto this room, and Kral looked at Alanya. “Which way?” he asked quietly.

  Alanya shook her head, confused. Her uncle would probably be using Father’s room as his own. But what was the meaning of the men they had seen leaving the property and the dead guards at the door?

  There was no way to be sure without looking around. “Let’s try upstairs,” she whispered.

  She proceeded to the door that would take them to the inner staircase. As Kral had done, she opened it only a little and held her eye close to the gap. She almost opened the door more, but then a flash of motion caught her eye, and she stopped herself. Arigan, a gray-haired woman in her fifties, and one of Father’s most loyal retainers, rushed down the hallway carrying a bundle of something that Alanya couldn’t make out. Alanya had always loved Arigan—the woman had been like a grandmother to her—and was tempted to call out to her.

  But she held her tongue. There was no telling where Arigan’s loyalties might lie now. Father no longer paid her. Since she had stayed on after Lupinius took over the property, she couldn’t be trusted. Alanya waited until Arigan was well clear before venturing out into the hall and toward the stairs.

  She climbed them, Kral and Donial both close at her heels. By the time she reached the top, she was out of breath. She knew it was because she was fighting back powerful emotions, here in her family’s home.

  They had almost gained the second floor when a door banged below them and a gruff voice shouted to someone outside. Alanya caught her breath and raced silently up the last two steps, then around a corner into the hallway. She didn’t have time to check to make sure the hall was clear, but just wanted to get away from whoever was down below. Kral and Donial came right behind. Downstairs, the man continued down the hall they had just crossed and swept through another door.

  “That was close,” Donial breathed, after the man was gone.

  “Too close,” Kral agreed. “We must find the Teeth fast and get out of here.”

  “I thought you were the one who could do this easily,” Donial said.

  “Would you rather I started killing them?” Kral asked. “That would make it easier.”

  “No!” Alanya replied sharply. “That is not why we came.”

  “Not why you came,” Kral said. “I would not hesitate.”

  “Kral . . .”

  “I know, Alanya. Let’s find your uncle.”

  Alanya nodded and led the way, passing by the door to her own room. She resisted the impulse to open it. If the Rangers had destroyed her things, she wasn’t sure she could stand it. Maybe sometime later she would have the courage to look inside, but not just now.

  Two rooms later, the door to her father’s room was wide-open. She didn’t hesitate but walked right in, ahead of Kral and Donial. Her sword was in her hand, though she hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.

  The room was vacant, but she could see at a glance that she was right about Lupinius having taken it as his own. Her father would never have left it in this condition, but Lupinius had never been as neat as he was. His clothing—and some of Father’s, she recognized—was strewn across the bed and floor. Weapons lay in a messy tangle. Father had a chest in which he had kept those things most precious to him, and it was to it that Alanya went first. Scattered across the top of it were rings, bracelets, medallions and other pieces of jewelry that she recognized as belonging to Lupinius.

  But mixed in with those things—half-buried under a coil of silver chain—she saw the handle of her mother’s mirror!

  She snatched it up, causing the coil of chain to slide and begin to snake toward the edge of the chest. She caught it and pressed it to the chest so it didn’t fall, but the metal clanked when she did so. She, Kral, and Donial froze in place. After a moment, hearing no response to the sound, she allowed herself to breathe again.

  “My mirror,” she said happily.

  “Yes,” Kral said. He tossed her a quick smile. “That is one of the things we seek. Have you any idea where the crown might be?”

  “In Koronaka, he kept it in his own room,” Donial answered. “So it should be here, I would expect.”

  But a more intense search revealed nothing. After a few minutes, Kral sighed in frustration. “It is not here.”

  “Somewhere else in the house, then,” Alanya said.

  “But time grows short,” Kral reminded her. “Those bodies at the gate—once they are discovered, an alarm will surely be raised.”

  “Father’s office, then,” Alanya guessed. “We should try there.”

  “Lead the way,” Kral said.

  Alanya took the front again. Out of her father’s room, with a glance down the empty corridor, then quietly back down the stairs. Every minute they were in the house she was more frightened. What would happen if they were discovered? Would Uncle Lupinius have them arrested? Killed? By leaving them behind in Koronaka and by stealing from them, he had already demonstrated that he wanted no part of his brother’s offspring.

  But when she opened the door to the anteroom outside Father’s office, the dull fear she felt grew to outright terror.

  “Rufio,” Donial breathed behind her.

  He was right. She recognized the Ranger, even though his face was contorted in death.

  But worse still was what she saw at the doorway of the inner office.

  Lupiniu
s, facedown on the floor. Trailing behind him, a long streak of blood showed how far he had dragged himself.

  “Is he . . . ?” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  Kral shoved past her, went to her uncle’s side, and knelt there. He touched two fingers to the side of Lupinius’s neck. “He lives.”

  As if spurred by the human contact, Lupinius let out a weak moan.

  Alanya rushed to him. “He needs help,” she said desperately. “A physician!”

  Kral took the man’s chin in his fingers and tilted his head up slightly. Alanya saw her uncle’s eyes flutter open. “Where is my people’s crown?” Kral demanded.

  Lupinius blinked again. His lips twitched, and blood showed at the corners of his mouth. Alanya put a hand on Kral’s arm. Her uncle was near death, and she did not want him injured any more. “Go easy,” she whispered.

  Kral met her gaze, then looked away. In his hard eyes she saw unspoken questions. Why should she be concerned for her uncle now? Hadn’t he deserted her? Hadn’t he most likely killed her father? Hadn’t he stolen her most precious possession? She understood these things, and knew that Kral would as soon snap his neck as offer him aid.

  Part of her felt the same way. Most of her, she thought. But something held her back. He was still her uncle.

  Family.

  Blood.

  She had cared for him, once. When she was little, before he moved to the Westermarck. He had not come around often, but from time to time he did. He had been funny then, laughing and teasing her. Her parents seemed to enjoy his company, and so had she.

  Even after Father had taken her and Donial to Koronaka, Lupinius had not been all bad. Until he had found out about Kral, he had at least made an attempt to be nice to her. It was after that, once he became consumed with the idea of attacking the Bear Clan, that he seemed to lose any memory of his blood ties to her and Donial.

  She hated him now, especially for his role in her father’s death. Looking at him brought back the full fury she felt when she remembered his corpse, slung over the back of a horse, or lifted reverently onto a flaming pyre. But rage battled in her heart with sorrow.