Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone (28 page)

“Through here,” said the assassin, stopping before a door. He knocked, took a deep breath, and swung it open. 

Beyond lay a lavishly furnished study. Caina’s feet sank into a thick green carpet. Wooden shelves lined the walls, and the shelves held not books but…trophies. Grinning skulls stared at Caina, and glass jars held preserved heads floating in brine. A variety of exotic weapons hung in ornate display cases, and several paintings showed scenes of torture and death. An enormous wooden desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered with papers. A narrow door stood in the far wall.

“Remain here,” said the assassin. “If you value your life, do not go into the corridor. And if you value your sanity…do not go through the far door. Not until the Elder commands you.”

“Where am I?” said Caina, keeping her voice slurred and indistinct.

The assassin’s face crinkled in disgust. “Wretched creature. You’ll die screaming soon enough.”

The assassin left the study, and Caina heard a click as he locked the door behind him. 

She straightened up and slid out of her unwieldy sandals, trying not to shiver with the chill in the room, and considered what to do next.

Corvalis had her shadow-cloak and all her weapons. Without her help, he might have a difficult time overpowering the assassins and disabling the mechanism that controlled the portcullis. 

Or he might not. She had seen him in a fight, and he might be able to lull the assassins into complacency. And if he killed the Gatewarden and the other guards quietly enough, he might be able to disable the portcullis without alerting the other assassins. If he did, Marzhod’s mercenaries would take the Kindred by surprise.

And then Caina need only wait until all the Kindred were dead. 

Caina moved closer to the desk, examining the papers spread across its surface. Someone had hired the Kindred to kill Lord Khosrau and his son alongside Lord Corbould, and for all their efforts, the Ghosts had been unable to discovered who had paid the Kindred. It was possible that the Cyrioch family’s records lay within that desk. 

None of the papers were of interest, so she checked the desk’s drawers.

All of them were locked.

Caina hesitated and glanced at the narrow door to the Elder’s private sanctum. If he came through the door while she was trying to open the desk, he would stop her.

And then he would do worse things to her. 

She walked to one of the display cases. Inside rested a set of jeweled Anshani daggers, their tapering blades carved with elegant characters. Caina took a moment to check the case, but it was not locked, and she found no traps. 

None of the Kindred would dare to steal from their Elder.

She took one of the daggers from the case, closed it, and hid the weapon beneath the papers on the Elder’s desk. Then she slipped one of the pins from her hair, knelt before the desk, and got to work. Theodosia had chosen pins that could double as lock picks.

Which was just as well, since the desk drawers were both locked and trapped. To judge from the shape of the wooden panels on the front of the drawers, Caina guessed that poisoned blades would erupt from concealed slits if anyone tried to open the desk without using the proper key. 

Fortunately, Caina had a great deal of practice opening locks and disarming locks.

Unfortunately, the hairpin made a poor tool. She worked the locks, probing ever deeper, muscles tensed to jump if she heard one of the traps activate. But the traps remained quiet, and minutes passed as Caina kept working. 

Then she felt the sudden tingle of sorcery and stood up in alarm. Had there been wards upon the desk?

No. The Kindred Elder. Corvalis had said the Elder bore an enspelled torque, a relic that granted him supernatural strength and longevity. Such a relic would be at thing of powerful sorcery.

The tingling was coming from the door to the Elder’s private chamber.

Caina had only a few seconds to act. She snatched the hidden dagger from the desk and hurried to the farthest corner of the room. She concealed the dagger on a shelf, tucking it between two yellowing skulls. Then she crouched in the corner, spitting into her palms. She rubbed her hands over her eyes and face, smearing her makeup and making it look as if she had been crying. 

Then she huddled into a ball, hands wrapped around her shins, face buried in her legs, and waited. 

A moment later she heard the door open.

She looked up and saw the Kindred Elder standing behind the desk.

He looked like a man in his middle fifties, tall and lean, forearms corded with heavy muscle, skin leathery and seamed from years in the sun. His gray hair was close-cropped, his face clean-shaven, and he wore simple, loose clothing. His eyes were the color of steel, and just as cold and hard. He looked like a man of about fifty, save for the eyes.

Those were the eyes of an ancient killer, a predator drenched in blood. 

A silver torque rested around his neck, supporting a rough green crystal the size of a man’s thumb. It shone with an emerald glow, and Caina sensed powerful sorcery within it. 

It was a bloodcrystal, a product of necromantic science. A bloodcrystal stored the life force of a slain victim, feeding it to the crystal’s bearer. Maglarion had used bloodcrystals to extend his life for centuries. No doubt the bloodcrystal supplied the Elder’s longevity and strength.

A bloodcrystal also used its stolen life force to heal injuries, allowing its bearer to recover quickly from all but the most deadly wounds. If Caina did not kill the Elder quickly, the Kindred chieftain would recover with terrifying speed. A better option was to incapacitate him, remove the torque, and then kill him.

Assuming, of course, she could find a way to overpower the Elder. 

“Well, well,” said the Elder in Cyrican. His voice and smile were almost grandfatherly. “What do we have here?” 

“Where am I?” said Caina in High Nighmarian, keeping her voice slurred. “It’s so cold.” 

The Elder stepped around the desk. He bore no weapons that Caina could see, but he would know how to kill with his hands. 

“Ah, I see,” said the Elder, switching to flawless High Nighmarian. “A gift. Where are you from, my dear?” 

“I want to go home,” said Caina. 

“And where is home?” said the Elder, still smiling.

He was enjoying this.

“Artifel,” said Caina. “My father is a lord there. I went to my room, and there were men waiting for me…and then the next thing I knew I woke up here and all my clothes were gone. Can you send me home to my father? He will reward you.”

“I’m sure he would,” murmured the Elder. He stepped past the display cases. If he noticed the missing dagger, he gave no indication. “But I suspect I know what happened. It’s a very sad story.” 

“You do?” said Caina, putting a tremulous note of hope into her voice.

He was falling for it. He saw only a terrified young woman clad in scraps of silk, clinging to any piece of hope. The Elder seemed the sort of man who enjoyed playing with his victims. If she could lure him off his guard, she would have one chance to land a fatal blow.

Maybe.

“Yes,” said the Elder. “You see, my dear, your father made a contract with the Kindred. No doubt he wanted one of his rivals killed. Some competition over a petty local magistracy, I imagine.”

“No,” said Caina. “My father would never do that.”

If she stood up, the hidden dagger would be within reach. 

“Daughters like to believe the best about their fathers,” said the Elder, “and are always so shocked when they learn their beloved fathers have sold them into slavery.”

“No!” said Caina. “My father wouldn’t do that to me.”

“I’m sure you believe that,” said the Elder. “But I’ve seen this before. Your father made a contract with us, and he couldn’t pay. Or perhaps he offered you as payment. So you now you belong to me.”

“That’s not true!” said Caina. “I am the daughter of a noble House.”

“Once,” said the Elder, “but now you are my slave, and nothing more. Stand up!”

His voice cracked like a whip, and Caina rose. The Elder’s gaze flicked up and down her body, a faint smile passing over his lips. 

Caina backed against the wall, as if in fear, her fingers brushing the dagger’s hilt.  

“You think to please me, yes?” said the Elder, taking a step closer. “You think that if you submit to me, that if you obey me, I will make things easier for you? You are wrong. Your only purpose is to please me, and it will please me to torment you.” 

Caina shied against the shelves, her hands closing around the dagger’s hilt. “Please, sir, please, whoever you are, let me go home.”

She would have one chance to land a killing blow. One solid stab between his ribs should disable him. The bloodcrystal would repair the damage in a few seconds, but that gave Caina enough time to get the torque off his throat. Then she could inflict a mortal wound the bloodcrystal could not heal. 

“You will never leave this room again,” said the Elder. “Your father has abandoned you. Let that thought be the beginning of your torment.”

He started towards her, and Caina went slack, her eyes wide with fear.

But her hands tightened around the dagger’s hilt…

The door to the corridor banged open.

Both Caina and the Elder turned their heads.

A Kindred assassin she had not seen before staggered into the study, breathing hard. He held a sword in his hand, and Caina saw specks of blood on his face and chain mail.

“I trust,” said the Elder, “that you have a good reason for disturbing me?”

“Elder,” said the assassin. “We are under attack.”

The Elder’s eyebrows rose. “What?” 

“The tunnel to the Ring of Valor,” said the assassin. “A mob of Sarbian mercenaries. The outer guards are holding them off, but they’ll break into the Haven at any moment!” 

The Elder snarled, the expression making him look almost demonic. “Damnation. The Ghosts, I suspect. That clever wretch Marzhod captured too many of our brothers. None of them knew the location of the Haven, but he must have deduced it somehow. Or one of our inner circle betrayed us.”

“Not I, Elder!” said the assassin.

“I know that, fool,” said the Elder. “I will handle this attack for myself. Too many of our brothers have left to settle matters at the Palace of Splendors.” Were the Kindred preparing to kill Khosrau and Corbould even now? “We may have to abandon the Haven.” 

“Our Haven, Elder?” said the assassin. “The Haven is the heart of the Kindred!”

The Elder sneered. “I am the heart of the Kindred! Now, come. We have killing to do.”

The Elder took a step towards the door, stopped, and looked at Caina. Gone was the smugness, the cold mockery of a predator playing with his prey. Now his cold eyes weighed and examined her. 

Evaluating her as a threat. 

“If I may ask,” said the assassin, “who is that, Elder?”

“No one of importance,” said the Elder. “A gift from the Elder of another family. Probably Artifel, I imagine. I would have enjoyed her…but her appearance before this attack is too much of a coincidence. Kill her and then join me.”

The Elder strode into the corridor without a backward glance. 

The assassin drew his sword.

“No,” Caina whimpered, hoping to lull him into false confidence. “No, please, please, don’t kill me.”

She grasped the dagger, sliding it from the shelf.

The assassin chuckled. “What? I’m not going to kill you. The Elder has a bit of a temper, that’s all. He’ll calm down soon enough. Come with me to your room.” 

He wanted to kill her in the corridor, Caina realized. Why not just kill her in here?

She realized he didn’t want to get blood on the Elder’s fine carpet.

“Yes,” said Caina, tightening her hold in the dagger. “Will…will you take me home to my father?”

“Of course,” said the assassin. “Anything you want. Just come with me.”

Caina stepped away from the shelf, looked at the doorway, and made her eyes go wide and her mouth fall open in fear. 

The assassin looked at the door for a half-second, and that was all the time Caina needed. She whipped the Anshani dagger around and buried it to the hilt in the assassin’s neck. The Kindred staggered, clawing at Caina, but all the strength had gone out of his limbs. She slammed her heel into this back of his knee, and he collapsed in a heap, blood streaming from his neck. 

“Sorry about the carpet,” said Caina.

The assassin trembled once and went still.

Caina ripped the dagger free and wiped it clean on the carpet as she tried to decide her next move. She could not try to open the desk in the middle of a battle, and she could not stay here. Once the Sarbians forced their way into the Haven, the Elder would try to escape. But before he did, he would undoubtedly stop in his study to take any important documents. 

Once he saw the assassin dead on his expensive carpet, he would realize that Caina was more than what she appeared. 

The entire plan hinged on Corvalis jamming the portcullis. If he had succeeded, she would join forces with him. And if he had failed…she would try to jam the portcullis herself.

If she could.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Corvalis appeared in the door.

He was breathing hard, his cloak slashed and torn, his sword in his hand. Blood dried on his chain mail and boots, and he had small cuts above his left eye and jaw. 

Caina felt a wave of relief.

“Looks like you have been busy,” he said, glancing at the dead Kindred. 

He shrugged out of his backpack and tossed it to her.

Caina tugged it open and got dressed. She pulled on black pants, black boots with daggers in hidden sheaths, and a black jacket lined with thin steel plates to deflect knives. A belt of throwing knives went around her waist, the ghostsilver dagger on her right hip. A mask covered her face, and her shadow-cloak went around her shoulders. 

As she equipped herself, she heard the sounds of distant fighting echoing through the corridor. 

The Sarbians were fighting their way into the Haven.