by David Hair
‘The Ghost Road has been closed to all-comers for decades,’ Raythe reminded them. ‘No one’s supposed to be out here, and in any case, it’s not fertile land.’ He considered the way they’d come. ‘We’ll have to navigate a few stairs and there are some narrow places, but I think with a bit of effort, we can get our people through, wagons and all.’
‘As long as they’re not too superstitious to try,’ Varahana said. ‘They’ll need reassurance.’
‘I’m sure you’ll convince them, Vara. And well done for finding this path.’
‘Deo will always light our way,’ Varahana quoted, ‘even in the darkest cavern.’ Then her face brightened. ‘Isn’t this the most wonderful place? I can die happy now.’
*
‘Governor, your people have vanished. What are you doing about it?’
Toran Zorne’s voice seldom varied, Larch Hawkstone noticed. Whether he was questioning a peasant with the help of a heated knife or dealing with the governor of the province, that same inflexible monotone prevailed. There was an almost childlike simplicity to it, as if he didn’t have the emotional range to support his vocabulary.
The man has no soul, he thought yet again.
Governor Milek Veterkoi seemed to feel the same way. The empire’s chief local bureaucrat, a fat, greasy-looking man, was slouched in his seat of office, flanked by grey-haired functionaries who were taking turns to murmur in his ear. The Governor’s Manor was in Sommaport
Town, fifteen miles from the mysteriously abandoned village of Teshveld.
‘I don’t care where they’ve gone, Master Zorne,’ Veterkoi repeated. ‘Keeping order in Teshveld costs more than we take in tax. The empire is better off without them.’
‘They are imperial subjects and may not depart our borders without your leave.’
‘They have it,’ the governor snapped. ‘I didn’t want those bastards and their whore-wives anyway. They can journey to the Pit for all I care.’
‘The Ramkiseri does not approve of fugitives,’ Zorne said firmly. ‘And I have reason to believe that numbered among them are several wanted men and women.’
The governor sniffed. ‘They’re all petty criminals and scum, Zorne.’
‘There are Otravian rebels among them who are wanted by the Lictor. He has offered a substantial reward for their recapture. One in particular, known here as Dash Cowley, carries a price on his head of one hundred thousand argents.’
The governor’s eyes bulged, and so did Hawkstone’s.
Gerda’s Tits, that’s enough to retire on thrice over, thought the Borderer captain.
‘I, uh—’ Governor Veterkoi stammered, then managed, ‘Who is this man?’
Bloody good question, Hawkstone thought. And what’d he do, to whom?
‘His real name is Raythe Vyre,’ Zorne responded flatly.
‘Colfar’s right-hand man?’ Veterkoi exclaimed. Then he asked, ‘Who gets the reward?’
‘Any rewards will accrue to those key to the successful conclusion. We of the agency do not profit from our work; our reward is the maintenance of the imperial peace.’
The Ramkiseri are as corrupt as any other ministry and the only peace they offer is the grave, Hawkstone thought, but he had to admit that Toran Zorne did appear to be something of an exception: a man who lived up to the ideal, accepting no bribes and cutting no corners. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been knifed yet.
‘Key to that success will be the official who takes responsibility for resourcing my investigation,’ Zorne added, looking meaningfully at the governor. ‘That person will also have to take responsibility for distributing the reward.’
Veterkoi leaned forward, determined that he would be that man. ‘So if I give you soldiers and you find this miscreant, I get the reward – to distribute to those deserving of a share, of course.’
‘Correct,’ Zorne said stiffly.
‘Then I think we have an understanding, Under-Komizar Zorne. Make free with my province. Just find the fugitives and collect that reward for me.’
Zorne’s expression didn’t change. ‘I need a ship – or better, two – readied for me, with a detachment of marines.’
‘Two ships?’ Veterkoi raised his brows.
‘Vyre’s people haven’t gone east, back into imperial lands: it’s too well-populated for concealment. We would also have known if they had taken ship. That means they have either gone south into Shadra, or fled northwest into the coastal forests. There are fleets between here and Shadra and the imperial governor there is vigilant.’ Unlike you, his tone implied.
‘Therefore,’ Zorne went on, ‘I conclude that Vyre has taken the Ghost Road north, and if that is the case, I will need ships to overtake him.’
‘But where are they going?’ Veterkoi asked, bemused.
‘Verdessa,’ Zorne replied. ‘That is where Lord Gospodoi returned from, only to be murdered by Vyre, and from that incident I must infer that Lord Gospodoi found something of value in Verdessa.’
‘Then you will have your ships,’ Veterkoi said, his voice grudging. ‘It will take me a week to recall them from the south. They’ll need to be refitted – and then you’ll be battling northerlies all the way. You might be better off riding after them,’ he concluded hopefully.
Zorne considered, then shook his head. ‘No, I will take your ships, despite the delay. If I’m wrong, they will enable me to correct my course without leaving us stranded in the wilds. And I wish to retain Captain Hawkstone’s men as scouts. We will depart tomorrow.’
Hawkstone remembered the lethal violence Vyre and his friends had unleashed on his men. He had no desire to take them on again. He glanced at Veterkoi, shaking his head faintly, but the Governor completely ignored him and instead waved his hand airily.
‘Of course, Komizar. Hawkstone and his men are yours,’ he said, making Hawkstone’s heart sink. ‘I myself will select your men and requisition ships. And thank you, Komizar.’
‘Under-Komizar,’ Zorne corrected.
With a silent sigh, Hawkstone saluted his old and new commanders, but Zorne was already striding away with barely a nod to Veterkoi.
Hawkstone scurried to catch up. ‘This Vyre must be an evil bastard,’ he ventured, as they descended a flight of steps.
‘Evil?’ Zorne looked puzzled. ‘I do not acknowledge the concept. Men of base types are ruled by animal urges and self-interest. Only higher men act according to principles. Like most, Vyre is of the base type.’
As are you, Hawkstone, his blank grey eyes seemed to add.
As they left the governor’s mansion, Hawkstone couldn’t help thinking that Zorne was likely going to be the death of him – and that he’d be better off putting his dagger in the man’s back before that happened.
Although perhaps that’s just my animal urges and self-interest . . .
5
Through the rath
The journey through the Aldar rath wasn’t difficult, but their guttering torches were a paltry ward against the dark and the sheer menace of the passages seemed to suck the air from the travellers’ lungs. The Aldar’s legacy of desolation crushed hope like an avalanche. The travellers whispered, crept and prayed their way through the maze.
Kemara Solus didn’t enjoy having to cajole Beca through the gloom, both of them sweating from claustrophobia. She wasn’t superstitious or scared of the dark, but confined spaces always triggered her worst memories.
But she had more to worry about than some ancient ghosts. A month ago Osvard Rhamp had put his hand on her breast in Gravis’ tavern, trying to feel her up, so she’d broken his nose. The matter was supposed to be done, but she knew Osvard wasn’t the sort to let things go and of late he’d begun to hang around her again. Mater Varahana had warned Sir Elgus for her, but she was pretty sure the old knight had just ignored her.
He’ll try something again, I know it. Her mother had taught her that an unmarried woman must face the world boldly, presenting a mask of fearlessness, or men would trample her into the muck. You ha
ve to fight for yourself, because no one else will. Her mother had died alone, though, because she’d not learned the other lesson Kemara had taken to heart: in unity is strength. Kemara had always made sure to befriend other women, for mutual protection.
Men didn’t understand that to be a woman – especially a solitary one – was to be always on watch, to be always guarding yourself. It was oppressive, all that fear, but she tried not to succumb to it, taking pleasure in company and music and dance, the things she loved, refusing to live with one eye always glancing over her shoulder, watching the shadows.
Some men could be trusted for a night or two, but only a woman could be a friend. And the only person she’d ever truly loved had died horribly, and she’d done nothing but watch.
‘Solace . . .’
She started at the darksome voice that whispered in her ear as she entered a larger chamber where a great fountain lay in dry, dusty ruins at the feet of a headless statue. An arched opening on the far side showed the way forward. Beca quivered nervously and the cart rumbled to a halt. She saw a torch in a wall-holder, marking the exit to take, but that whisper had seemed to come from the direction of the fountain.
Solace – or Solus?
A moment later there was a sharp cracking sound to her right and amid a great puff of dust, a concealed passageway was revealed. For a moment she feared the whole tunnel would collapse.
Then a shadowy shape formed in the new opening and a woman’s voice whispered, ‘Kemara.’
The voice tugged at her heart, reminding her that there were worse things than Osvard Rhamp in the darkness after all.
‘Ionia?’ she whispered, then she shook her head, thinking, Ionia’s dead. She’s ash.
But the cowled shape beckoned, then turned and vanished into the darkness. She stared after it, unexpectedly stricken by grief and dread.
Then the next wagon caught up and Relf Turner shouted, ‘Move your kraggin’ beast, Healer!’
She threw him a caustic look, drew Beca to the side, tethered her and waved the Turners past. Relf peered at her curiously, until his wife slapped his arm and told him to stop gawping.
Once they’d gone, Kemara took the torch from the front of her cart and darted to the new opening – but it wasn’t normal. There was a translucent film hanging in the air that distorted the opening, but she could see right through it to a passage beyond.
It’s an illusion, she realised. Someone had placed a veil over this section of the wall and she’d have driven right past it had not she heard that voice. And seen Ionia . . .
She hesitated and glanced back, but the next wagon wasn’t yet in sight, so holding her torch aloft, she stepped through. Within, she found a dusty hall with debris strewn across the floor and decayed murals everywhere of ancient gods and people at war and play. She paused to look, then that voice whispered from the next doorway, ‘Kemara . . .’
She spun round and glimpsing a wispy shape, she hurried after it, but it kept flitting ahead, always just out of sight. She followed recklessly, until she found herself descending steps to a small room, guarded by two skeletons and dominated by a glass-topped sarcophagus. There was no sign of the ghostly woman any more, and the voice had become androgynous, with a distinctly alien lilt.
‘Koni’ka, Kemara,’ it said. ‘Toru gigaku ka.’
She knew the language: it was Aldar, just as Ionia had taught her, and the voice had said, Greetings, Kemara. Take the mask. Her heart thudded at the thought that she had been recognised, and knowing by what. Years of dread welled up, freezing her in place, for this was what she’d been running from, ever since she’d fled Ferrea.
No, she corrected herself, I ran from the empire. This is what I’ve been running to . . .
She looked into the shadows, hoping to glimpse her former mentor, though there was no one there. But then the ancient ash encrusted on the roof sparkled and shifted to a woman’s face – to Ionia, gazing out at her with reassurance and want.
‘Kemara, dear heart, take it,’ she whispered. ‘It’s been waiting for you.’
Kemara went to reply, but the face vanished and her words died stillborn. With her heart thudding painfully, she examined the sarcophagus. A desiccated old skeleton lay there, stripped of rings or other jewels, but in any case, they would not have been the real prize, which was still there.
A gigaku: an Aldar spirit mask.
It was a fearsome thing, lacquered in deep scarlet, its features neither male nor female, with a maw that was all teeth, a wrinkled nose, big eye sockets and goat horns. It was undoubtedly a historical treasure, if you didn’t know exactly what it was – but she did. Gigaku were used for channelling spirits: wearing the mask created a bond similar to those shared by praxis-sorcerers with their familiars.
I should leave this well alone . . .
But Ionia wanted her to take it, and it wanted to be out in the world again. It was also intrinsically valuable, especially to certain people – it was probably worth more than she could ever hope to make from this journey, even if Vyre’s promises came close to reality.
I don’t have to wear it, she told herself. I could sell it and have a life of my own choosing . . . There was a thriving black market in such artefacts, and she knew people . . .
I won’t wear it, she told herself. I’ll just sell it.
Greed was ruling her, she knew that, but she was more troubled by the knowledge that she wasn’t entirely sure what it was exactly that she was greedy for. But she lifted the lid and plucked the thing up, and for a moment she had to really fight not to fit it to her face. From somewhere she found the strength to bundle it into her mantle.
She closed the sarcophagus, bowed her head and hurried away.
‘Solace,’ the voice whispered.
Solus meant ‘Sun Child’, nothing to do with consolation or mercy, but this felt like some consolation for all she’d been through. I won’t use it, she told herself. I’ll just sell it and move on.
She refused to look back as she left the chamber, even though she knew she’d see Ionia standing there with that look on her face. Blinking away tears, she took to the stairs and fled.
A few more wagons had passed Kemara’s as she explored, but no one seemed at all suspicious and nor did anyone appear to notice when she slipped out of the concealed passage, untethered Beca and re-joined the column on its dark passage through the rath.
Twice she had to get out and lend her shoulder to the wheel to help Beca up flights of stairs, each step a battle. None of Rhamp’s men offered help as they passed. They all blamed her for Osvald’s actions. She and the mule were both perspiring heavily as they reached the entrance hall above.
As she led her mule through the broken doors and into the light again she glanced at the sun, shocked to discover they’d been only a few hours underground – it had felt like for ever.
Raythe Vyre’s boyish daughter, standing near the doors, gave her a shy wave – then Banno Rhamp strutted by and Zar’s attention went entirely to him.
Kemara snorted in gentle derision; Raythe had better stop that fast, if he didn’t want to be a grandfather before his time.
She guided Beca into the press of milling wagons, to hear the travellers loudly marvelling over the old Aldar ruins and their own daring in traversing them. The idiots had clearly expected boghuls and nashreks to assail them at any moment. She suspected she’d been the only one to see a real ghost.
It was a cold, clear day, made colder by the wind blowing off the snow-covered peaks to the north. Her eyes were drawn to their jagged edge, the southern border of the Iceheart, the vast untracked wastes where nothing and no one had lived since the Mizra Wars. They really were approaching the edge of the map, the edge of where humans could live.
Then like a hot cattle-prod to the back of her head, she felt eyes on her and when she looked back, she saw Osvard Rhamp a dozen yards away, leaning on a spear and chewing redleaf, staring at her. When their eyes met, the pig made a stroking gesture along the shaft of his s
pear and grinned, licking his lips.
Her whole skin prickled and her perspiration went cold, making her damp clothes clammy.
She turned away and hurried Beca to a clear spot surrounded by people she knew well, and made a point of calling greetings to her neighbours, to make sure they all knew she was there.
He’ll try something again, and soon, she worried. He doesn’t care about the consequences.
But right now there were her patients to see to, dinner to prepare and a camp to ready. She rubbed down Beca and fed her, then walked her to a nearby stream, where she found herself alongside the heavily pregnant Regan Morfitt, who was due in a month or two.
Even though it was only midday, they wouldn’t be moving on today, not when more than half the wagons were still making the slow underground journey through the hill. Several of the larger carts had had to be broken down to fit through; they needed to be reassembled before they could move on.
When she returned to camp, it was immediately clear that someone had rifled through her possessions – no, more than that: they’d slashed the bodice strings on her other two dresses, and hacked the word ‘slut’ into the front panels with a knife.
She checked her secret cache and found the mask still there, along with her paltry stock of jewels, her tarnished silver earrings and bracelets. She’d not been robbed, but she felt violated.
No matter what I do, he’s not going to leave me alone . . .
*
‘What now?’ Raythe yawned, as yet another person loomed over him with yet more problems to unload.
‘Hey, Grumpy,’ Zar said, crouching beside the embers of their fire and prodding it into life.
He jolted up. ‘Zar! Sorry, darling, didn’t realise it was you. I thought it was Gravis again. By Deo, he can complain when the mood takes him.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Huh. You didn’t even notice I wasn’t here.’
Too true. ‘I’m sorry, Zar. I’ve had people coming to me constantly, like I can solve everything.’
