Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone (5 page)

Then a low, raspy voice rang out in laughter. 

Lord Khosrau hobbled towards Corbould and Armizid, his ivory cane tapping against the flagstones. 

“Armizid,” he said, coming to a stop between the two lords. “You are badgering our guest! What sort of hospitality is this?”

Armizid’s face went tight with annoyance. “We have grave matters of state to discuss.”

“Bah!” said Khosrau, waving his cane. “The grave matters of state never end. When you get to my age - and to Lord Corbould’s age - you will learn that it is best to take matters in stride. Wars come and wars go, and today’s bitter foe may become tomorrow’s ally.”

“Honored father,” said Armizid, and to Caina’s astonishment the Lord Governor of Cyrica almost looked like a petulant child. “War threatens to devour the western half of the Empire! We must discuss these matters, now, before…”

Khosrau laughed. “If that is so, a few days either way will not make much difference, will it? Besides, I have told you time and time again, a lord acts with patience, not with rashness.”

Armizid’s face went dark with fury, but he said nothing else.

“Now, my lord Corbould,” said Khosrau, turning to face his son’s guest. “I have one very important question for you.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Corbould. “We can discuss anything you wish.”

“Did you bring the opera singers?” said Khosrau. 

A knowing smile crossed Corbould’s face. “It is a poor guest who does not bring gifts to his host.”

“Splendid!” said Khosrau. “Are they here?” 

Lord Corbould beckoned, and one of the Imperial Guards turned and marched towards the opera company.

“Ah,” breathed Theodosia, arranging her dress. “Get ready. And take a good look at our friends, will you?”

Caina nodded.

The Imperial Guard approached them. “Singer. Lord Corbould requires your presence. You will stand before high nobility, so mind your tongue.”

Theodosia drew herself up, her bosom swelling against the red fabric of her gown. “My dear fellow, I am the very soul of courtesy, and I have brought men weeping to their knees with the beauty of my song.”

The Guard blinked, nonplussed. “This way.”

The black-armored soldier led Theodosia across the Plaza. Caina followed, making sure to keep her hands well away from her weapons. Theodosia was entitled to her bodyguard, but she had no doubt that the Imperial Guards would cut her down without hesitation if she looked even the slightest bit threatening.

“Well, now,” rumbled Khosrau, while Armizid looked on with flat disapproval. “Who is this lovely creature?”

Theodosia gripped her skirts and did an elaborate curtsy. “Theodosia of Malarae, my lord. I shall have the honor of singing for you.”

Khosrau’s white teeth flashed in his sun-weathered face. “I shall look forward to it. Very much. For if your voice is as lovely as your face, then your song shall be splendid indeed.”

Theodosia favored him with her sunniest smile.

“Father,” said Armizid. “This is unseemly. Fawning over a…a singer in public? This is behavior unbecoming of the Lord of House Asurius.”

Khosrau did not look at his son. “I am the Lord of House Asurius, and I shall decide what is seemly, my son. Besides, we Cyricans have been civilized for centuries, have we not? And what is the point of civilization, if not to enjoy the ornaments of culture?” 

Armizid’s cold eyes shifted to Caina. “And who is this ragged dog that trails after the singer? Shall we allow armed renegades into our presence now?”

“Oh, my lord, don’t mind poor Maric,” said Theodosia. “His sister Marina looks after me, and Maric keeps me safe. Surely you would not expect a woman to visit a strange city without her bodyguard, my lord?”

Armizid’s expression darkened. “This impudence is…”

“Armizid,” said Khosrau.

Armizid fell silent, a vein twitching in his temple. 

Khosrau looked at Caina. “You will watch over our lovely singer, will you not?”

Caina bowed deep. “Of course, my lord,” she said, keeping her voice rough and disguised.

“Splendid fellow,” said Khosrau.

“I commissioned the Grand Imperial Opera to visit Cyrioch,” said Lord Corbould, stepping into the gap, “in your honor, my lords Armizid and Khosrau, because I know how much you enjoy Nighmarian opera. And chariot races, as well, in Cyrioch’s hippodrome.”

“You are courteous, my lord Corbould,” said Khosrau. “And I have arranged gladiatorial games and feasts in your honor, though these poor amusements are no match for the splendor of the Grand Imperial Opera. But it is my hope that they will provide a civilized venue for…discussions.”

Corbould offered a smooth smile. “That is my hope as well.”

The two men walked away, Theodosia forgotten. Armizid stared after them, then shook his head and followed. Caina watched them go, thinking. Khosrau seemed like a genial, flirtatious old man, hardly the sort to hire Kindred assassins to start a war. Yet she had learned again and again that a smiling face could hide a murderous heart. Armizid certainly seemed capable of hiring the Kindred to kill Corbould, but Caina doubted that Armizid had the willpower to defy his father. If someone in Cyrioch had hired the Kindred, it had to be Khosrau. 

Unless some other power had hired the Kindred, someone about whom the Ghosts knew nothing.

The same power that had turned Barius to stone, perhaps?

That seemed too much of a coincidence, and Caina hated coincidences. They usually indicated some underlying pattern she could not yet see.

“Well,” murmured Theodosia, once the nobles and their attendants began climbing the ramp to the Palace of Splendors, “what did you think?” 

“Armizid is proud,” said Caina, “and I think he would like to break away from the Empire and join Istarinmul. Or to have Cyrica become independent.” She shook her head. “Khosrau…it is hard to tell. He knows how to hide what he’s really thinking.”

“A smooth one, isn’t he?” said Theodosia. “And with excellent taste in opera, I might add. What did you think of the preceptor?”

“Ranarius?” said Caina, and her lip crinkled in disgust. “He just watched the discussion. Stood there with that blind slave of his and listened.” She wondered if the girl had been born blind, or if Ranarius had blinded her for some infraction. “Which means he’s dangerous. He’ll watch, and wait, and act when he thinks it’s in his best interests.” 

“Oh, yes,” murmured Theodosia. “He’s a dangerous one. The Ghosts tried to kill him twice, you know. And both times he killed everyone we sent after him.”

“Why did we try to kill him?” said Caina. 

“He killed too many Ghosts,” said Theodosia. “The Cyrioch chapter of the Magisterium has close ties with the Istarish slavers’ brotherhood, and Ranarius had been helping them kidnap common farmers. He used the profits to fund his experiments into various forms of battle sorcery. Whenever the Ghosts tried to stop the slavers, Ranarius would kill them. And when we sent nightfighters to stop him, he killed them, too.”  

Caina loathed the magi, and Ranarius represented everything she hated about them. Yet it did seem unlikely that he had hired the Kindred to kill Lord Corbould. Ranarius made his money from the slave trade, and a revolt would disrupt that slave trade for years. 

“What should we do now?” said Caina. 

“I must send word to the local Ghost circle,” said Theodosia. “They need to know what happened to Barius. And we’ll need another contact.” She sighed. “I liked Barius. I hope we don’t have to deal with Cyrioch’s circlemaster. Vicious bastard, but effective. We should have word from him in a few days.”

“And until then?” said Caina.

Theodosia grinned. “Why, we prepare for a performance, my dear.”

The nobility of Cyrioch filled the Amphitheatre of Asurius.

One or another of Lord Khosrau’s ancestors had built the massive Amphitheatre. Rows of seats climbed the Stone’s slope, rising in a wide half circle. The broad stage rested at the foot of the hill, surrounded by private boxes for the Lord Governor and his honored guests. The ancient engineer who had built the Amphitheatre had been an architect of genius – the acoustics were so perfect that a man sitting in the top row could hear a pin drop upon the stage. Furthermore, the sound reflected upon the city. Half of Cyrioch could hear the Grand Imperial Opera. 

Caina stood in the tents besides the stage. She wore a pale blue dress with black trim, a scarf of a similar color covering her hair. She had thought the scarf would prove intolerable in the heat, but it reflected the sun’s rays and kept sweat from trickling down her face.

Though now the sun had gone down, and the nobles and wealthy merchants of Cyrioch had gathered to listen to the opera. 

Hundreds of the Magisterium’s glowing glass globes filled with Amphitheatre with light. Arrays of mirrors, also designed by that long-dead engineer, focused the light upon the stage. She watched the chorus sing one of the songs from the epic opera of Tertius Maraeus, one of Corbould Maraeus’s distant ancestors. It was a solemn, majestic opera, describing how Tertius, at the urging of his Cyrican bride, invaded Cyrica and freed Cyrioch from the control of the Shahenshah of Anshan. 

Of course, Caina thought sourly, the first thing the Cyricans had done with their new freedom was buy slaves from the slavers of Istarinmul. 

But that part didn’t make it into the opera. 

“Marina!” Theodosia’s voice rang out. “Marina, I need you!”

In the enormous Grand Imperial Opera in Malarae, the stagehands and the singers used the vast workshops and network of tunnels below the theater for their workspace. Here, in the Amphitheatre, there was no need for the elaborate scenery required in Malarae, so the tents served as makeshift replacements for the workshops. Caina passed tables laden with tools, one holding the jars of stage blood - mixed Caerish wine and tomato juice - that would be used in the climatic final act.

She found Theodosia at a wooden table, gazing at her portable mirror. She wore the elaborate dress and makeup of Severa, Tertius Maraeus’s great Cyrican love. 

“Marina!” said Theodosia. “You simply must help me with my hair! I shall have to go on as soon as Marcellus finishes his aria, and my hair is a disaster!”

Caina knelt beside her and began arranging the intricate hairstyle that the role of Severa required.

“Anything?” murmured Theodosia.

“Corbould, Armizid, and Khosrau are all sitting together,” said Caina. “There’s a guard of militiamen and Imperial Guards around them.”

“That’s good,” said Theodosia. “Hand me that brush, will you?”

Caina handed over the brush. “Unless the Kindred have infiltrated the Guard or the militia. Or an assassin disguised himself as a slave. Gods, but there are so many of them.” The anger flickered inside of her. “And the nobles and the merchants don’t even see them. I thought the nobles in Malarae treated their servants badly, but this is worse. They cannot even be bothered the brush the flies from their sleeves, but allow the slaves to do it for them.”

“Keep an eye on them,” said Theodosia. “All of them. If anyone asks, say that you are carrying messages for me. We’ve been assuming that Lord Khosrau wants Lord Corbould dead, but perhaps one of Cyrica’s lesser nobles would profit in a revolt.” She stood up, scrutinizing herself in the mirror. “Well, I suppose that shall have to do.”

“Theodosia!” Marcellus, the tenor singing the role of Tertius Maraeus, wandered to her side, clad in a costume resembling antique Nighmarian armor. He had a handsome face, a voice like rolling thunder, and a mind like a lump of lead. “Am I going on?”

“Yes, dear,” said Theodosia, taking the befuddled tenor’s arm. “Come along. We sing our duet after your first aria.”

“Oh,” said Marcellus. “That’s good.”

Theodosia guided him towards the stage, and Caina slipped out the back of the tent. 

She scanned the crowd. She would know a Kindred assassin when she saw one. Caina had trained under Riogan, a ruthless assassin who had left the Kindred to join the Ghosts, and he had taught her all their tricks. The Kindred preferred to buy child slaves from the Istarish markets, and used years of brutal training to shape them into remorseless assassins. Her eyes wandered over the endless gray-clad slaves waiting by their white-robed noble masters. Had the assassin she had killed in the Praetorian Basilica once been a slave child, terrified and weeping on the auction block?

She pushed aside the thought. 

She could not afford distractions. Instead she watched the spectators on the ascending rows of seats, thinking of ways the Kindred might try to kill Lord Corbould. An archer in the higher seats? No, unlikely - the enspelled glass globes would dazzle an archer’s vision. A dagger thrust or a sword blow? Even less likely - guards surrounded Corbould, and the Kindred preferred not to sacrifice themselves in their assassinations. A poisoned glass of wine? Khosrau would provide a food taster to Corbould out of courtesy. Though if Khosrau had hired the Kindred to kill Corbould, it would not be hard to slip Corbould poisoned food…

“Mistress?”

A male slave in his late thirties stood before her, eyes downcast, a silver collar around his neck. Like the others, he wore a gray tunic, but his was of finer material than most. A noble’s slave, then - Caina had noticed the nobles like to dress their slaves in finer materials. 

Like a man putting a fine collar on a favored pet.

The thought filled her with such rage that it was all she could do to keep her face smooth.

“Aye?” said Caina. 

“Are you Marina, the servant of the singer Theodosia?” said the slave.

“I am,” said Caina. 

“Then my master Lord Khosrau bids you to come speak with him,” said the slave. “Please, mistress, follow me.” 

Why would Khosrau want to speak with her? Did he know that she was a Ghost? No, that seemed unlikely. But he would know that Marina, brother of Maric, was Theodosia’s servant. Perhaps that was it.

“Of course,” said Caina.

The slave bowed and led the way. Caina walked past the stage, and the man led her to the largest box, where the slaves attended the chief nobles of Cyrica. Lord Governor Armizid, stern and grim, occupied the center of the box. Lord Khosrau sat at his right, eating grapes fed to him by a waiting slave. Lord Corbould sat at his side, watching the opera with polite interest. Ranarius stood in the corner, stark and forbidding in his black robes, the blind slave girl sitting at his feet.