Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone (8 page)

Caina walked at Theodosia’s side, making sure to use the confident swagger the other Sarbians used. Gangs of slaves labored at the piers, unloading cargoes from the ships. Other slaves hauled endless carts loaded with sacks of rice and grain to the docks. The crops grown on Cyrica’s slave-worked plantations fed half the world. Bands of sailors headed for the taverns and brothels lining Seatown’s streets, eager to enjoy themselves while the slaves unloaded their ships.

She glimpsed dark-cloaked men waiting in the alleys. Istarish slavers, most likely. Some of those drunken sailors might wake up chained in the hold of an Istarish ship. It was illegal, of course, but Caina suspected healthy bribes persuaded the Lord Governor’s officials to look the other way. 

The thought made her fist tighten against the hilt of her scimitar. Gods, she had been here only a few days, but she detested Cyrioch. 

“Here we are,” said Theodosia. 

They stopped at the edge of the piers. A huge, rambling tavern stood there, a ramshackle three-story pile of brick and timber. Firelight streamed through its open doors, and a steady stream of sailors and caravan guards moved in and out of the building. A sign swung over the door, showing a naked woman with a painted face.

“The Painted Whore?” said Caina, reading the script on the sign. “Charming.”

“Marzhod is a charming sort of fellow,” said Theodosia. “Let me do the talking.”

Caina nodded and followed Theodosia into the tavern.

The Painted Whore looked like the other sailors’ taverns Caina had visited - dark, smoky, and ill-smelling. Men sat at wooden benches, drinking cheap wine from clay cups. Women in slave gray hurried back and forth with trays of food and drink. Caina watched them, her anger growing. Marzhod kept slaves? What kind of Ghost was he?

Grim-faced men in Sarbian desert robes stood throughout the room, cudgels in hand. 

“Sarbian mercenaries,” said Theodosia, keeping her voice low. “Marzhod hires them as enforcers. They’re not loyal to anyone in the city, so as long as he pays them, they’ll do whatever he wants.” 

Theodosia approached one of the Sarbians.

“You want a drink,” said the mercenary in accented Cyrican, “then talk to one of the slave girls.”

“Why do the tyrants fear the shadows?” said Theodosia in High Nighmarian.

The mercenary blinked, once. 

“For there are Ghosts in the shadows,” said the mercenary, likewise in High Nighmarian. His pronunciation was atrocious, but the words were clear enough.

“And let the tyrants beware the shadows,” responded Theodosia, still in High Nighmarian.

The Sarbian gave a single sharp nod. “The boss said he expected…visitors tonight,” he said, switching back to Cyrican. “Go upstairs. Third door on the right. Talk to Saddiq - he will take you to Marzhod.” 

Theodosia nodded, crossed the common room, and climbed the stairs. Caina could not help but admire how perfectly Theodosia had disguised herself as a Sarbian nomad. Her every step extruded confidence and danger, and even the drunken sailors made sure to stay out of her way. 

They climbed the stairs to the second-floor hallway. It stank of rot and mildew, and Caina heard muffled grunts and groans coming from behind some of the doors. They went through the third door on the right, and stepped into what looked like an armory. Swords hung on racks from the walls, along with crossbows, short bows, spears, and axes.

One of the largest men Caina had ever seen sat at a table in the center of the room, polishing an enormous two-handed scimitar. He was Sarbian, and wore chain mail beneath his tan robes. His dark eyes flicked to them, and a half-smile appeared on his bearded lips.

“Ah, you are here,” he said in perfect High Nighmarian, rising with a bow. “You must be Marzhod’s…guests. I am Saddiq, Marzhod’s associate.”

“And enforcer?” said Theodosia.

White teeth flashed in Saddiq’s dark face. “You are perceptive as you are lovely, mistress Theodosia.”

“Oh, you recognize me?” said Theodosia with a hint of irritation. “How did you see through my disguise?”

“I did not,” said Saddiq. “But Marzhod was most wroth when he learned the high circlemasters had sent you. So either you or the young man at your side would have to be the redoubtable Theodosia.”

Caina hid a smile at that. 

Theodosia laughed. “I see what Marzhod lacks in charm he makes up for in an ability to find clever associates.”

“This way,” said Saddiq, rising from the table and returning the enormous scimitar to its sheath over his shoulder. “Though I should warn you that he is in a foul mood.” 

“When is he not?” said Theodosia.

A corner of Saddiq’s mouth curled in a smile.

Saddiq opened a door on the far side of the armory. Beyond was a room that looked like a jumbled mixture of a scriptorium, an apothecary’s shop, and a locksmith’s workroom. Shelves held a variety of jars and vials, while ledgers stood heaped upon the tables. Caina saw a variety of weapons hidden around the room. Evidently Marzhod expected foes to fall upon him at any moment. Which, since he was a Ghost circlemaster, was entirely possible.

Marzhod glared at them from behind a table.

He was in his middle thirties, with thick black hair, icy blue eyes, and a gaunt, pale face. He would have been handsome, if not for the dark circles beneath his eyes and the constant sneer on his face. 

“Saddiq,” he said, his voice thick with a Szaldic accent, “why have you let these vermin into my study?” 

“They knew the proper countersigns,” said Saddiq, “and you wanted to be informed when the Ghosts from the capital arrived.” 

Marzhod got to his feet. He wore clothes in the style of a northern lord, boots and trousers and coat, but the clothes were dusty and worn. A sword hung at his belt, and Caina noted more knives inside his coat. 

“I wrote to Halfdan,” said Marzhod, “telling him that someone wanted Lord Corbould dead. I asked for capable men to ferret out the Kindred. Instead he sends me an opera singer and her pet thug.”

Theodosia smirked, and Marzhod’s venomous gaze turned towards Caina.

“No,” said Marzhod. He leaned forward, cold eyes glinting. “A second woman? The Empire is at war, the Kindred are hunting the Emperor’s strongest ally, and Halfdan sends me a pair of women?”

Caina looked at Theodosia, and Theodosia nodded.

“Perhaps,” said Caina, “if you had been able to handle things, Halfdan would not have needed to send you a pair of women to solve your problems.” 

“Do not,” said Marzhod, “think to trifle with me.” 

“Or what?” said Caina. “You turn your slaves on me?” The rage in her chest coiled tighter. She knew she ought to moderate her tongue, but she was too angry to care. “The Ghosts fight slavers, and how many slaves do you own? Dozens? How many of them do you rent out to the sailors?” 

“Slaves are a way of life in Cyrica,” said Marzhod. “You fools from Malarae like to think yourselves so righteous, so virtuous. So much better than us because you do not own slaves.” 

“You’re Szaldic and a Ghost, not Cyrican,” said Caina. “Do you yourself Cyrican now?”

“Neither,” said Marzhod. “I was a slave, once. The raiders took me when I was five. But I escaped and made a fortune for myself. I own every tavern, every wine sink, every brothel, and every pawnshop in Cyrioch. And most of the warehouses and customs inspectors. Every smuggler on the Cyrican Sea does business with me, if they want to dock in Cyrioch. No one crosses Marzhod and lives. Lord Armizid and Lord Khosrau might rule Cyrica…but I rule Cyrioch’s underworld.” 

“So now you enslave others,” said Caina, “as you were enslaved.”

“I was strong enough to survive it,” said Marzhod. He smirked. “Are you? You annoy me, girl. And perhaps I’ll have Saddiq give you to the slavers. I’ll wager you’re pretty enough under that disguise. You’ll fetch a fair price on the block. Then you’ll warm the bed of some minor satrap or emir until he tires of you. After that, you’ll toil in that satrap’s kitchen until you are a bent old crone. Maybe you’ll end your days on the streets of Istarinmul, begging for a crust of bread. That’s in my power to do to you, girl.” 

“No,” said Caina, “it’s not.” 

“And just why not?” said Marzhod. “Do you think the opera singer can stop me? My word is law among the Ghosts and the criminals of the Shining City. One word from me and you’ll be naked on the auction block. Or perhaps I’ll put you to work in one of my brothels.”

“You won’t,” said Caina. 

“Oh?” said Marzhod. “Why not?”

“Because,” said Caina, “you should do a better job of hiding your weapons.” 

She reached for one of the tables. Saddiq drew his scimitar, but Caina was faster. She grabbed the small crossbow she saw beneath a ledger and leveled the weapon at Marzhod’s face. 

And just as she suspected, the weapon was loaded and ready to fire. 

“That’s a hand crossbow,” said Marzhod, but he took a step back. “Just a dart. You’ll hurt me, but you can’t kill me.”

“Unlikely,” said Caina. “I saw those bottles on your shelf. This dart’s poisoned, isn’t it? A lethal poison? Or just a paralytic?” She gestured with the bow. “Want to find out?”

She heard a low rumbling sound, and realized that Saddiq was laughing. 

“She’s got you, Marzhod,” said Saddiq.

“Oh, shut up,” said Marzhod. 

“Marzhod,” said Theodosia, “enough. It has been amusing to watch you attempt to bully a woman fifteen years your junior only to end up with the business end of a crossbow in your face. But we have work to do. And you know what Halfdan will do if you don’t cooperate.”

A twitch of fear went over Marzhod’s face. 

“What will Halfdan do?” said Caina.

“Marzhod’s owner,” said Theodosia, “was an Anshani occultist of particular power and cruelty. Marzhod faked his death rather effectively, but if that occultist ever learns that he is still alive…well, Marzhod will regret it. For years, I expect.” 

Marzhod said nothing. 

“So,” said Theodosia. “We are going to play nicely. I trust that is understood?” 

“Very well,” said Marzhod, though a muscle near his eye trembled with rage.

Caina lowered the crossbow, but did not put it down. Marzhod sat behind his desk.

“So,” he said. “Did you figure out what happened to Barius yet?”

“No,” said Caina. “I went to his shop, but he had been turned to stone. A Kindred assassin waited for me in the street, but escaped before I could kill him. He tried to kill Lord Corbould at the Amphitheatre of Asurius. I stopped him and he got away from me…but when I found him something had turned him to stone.” 

“Pity,” said Marzhod. “I was hoping you would figure it out and spare me the trouble. Because I don’t have a single damned idea what happened to Barius.” 

“The local chapter of the Magisterium?” said Caina.

Marzhod shook his head. “I doubt it. The local magi are unpleasant, but they’re…rigid. Conservative, let us say. They approve of slaves, unlike your honorable self, but they do not approve of the forbidden arcane sciences. Ranarius has executed at least five magi for delving into forbidden sciences, and those are only the ones I know about.” 

“What about the Kindred?” said Theodosia. “Have you had any luck determining who hired them to kill Lord Corbould?” 

“Not yet,” said Marzhod. “My spies have made some progress. We’ve been able to identify some members of the local Kindred family, and have kept watch over them.”

“A dangerous business,” said Caina. 

“Of course it is dangerous,” said Marzhod. “But if any of those Kindred move against Lord Corbould, we’ll know. But we don’t know who hired them, or where their local Haven is.” 

“No shame in that,” said Theodosia. “The Ghosts have never been able to find the Kindred Haven in Malarae. I suppose the Cyrioch Haven would be hidden just as capably.”

“There are indications, though,” said Marzhod, “that the Kindred were also hired to kill Lord Khosrau.” 

“What?” said Caina. “But they’ve been trying to kill Lord Corbould. First in Malarae, and then again in Cyrioch. We thought Lord Khosrau had hired them to kill Corbould.” She thought it through. “But that makes sense, doesn’t it? If someone really wanted Cyrica to rebel against the Empire, they’d have the Kindred assassinate Lord Khosrau during Corbould’s visit. Corbould would take the blame, and the Cyrican nobles would revolt or join Istarinmul.” 

“Then why hire them to kill Lord Corbould at the same time?” said Theodosia. 

“Perhaps a foreign power hired the assassins,” said Marzhod. “The Istarish would love to claim Cyrica for themselves, and the Shahenshah of Anshan ruled Cyrica for centuries.” 

“Could Lord Khosrau have hired them?” said Caina. “He might have paid the Kindred to kill Lord Corbould and fake an attempt on his life. Then he could claim to be the wronged party.”

“Perhaps,” said Marzhod. “But I doubt it. Khosrau, from what I have observed, is…settled, shall we say. He neither wishes to lead a revolt nor to become King of Cyrica. What he wants is for tomorrow to be much the same as yesterday.” 

“Armizid, then?” said Caina. 

“Armizid is a brainless puppet,” said Marzhod. “He is incapable of wiping his own arse without getting permission from his father.” He snorted. “I asked Halfdan for capable assistance, and instead he sends an opera singer and a girl who asks moronic questions. Truly the safety of the Empire is in capable hands.” 

“Manners, Marzhod,” said Theodosia. “I think it is safe to assume the Kindred assassins are connected to these peculiar statues. Barius investigated, got too close, and was turned to stone.”

“That doesn’t explain,” said Caina, “the Kindred assassin outside the Amphitheatre.” 

Marzhod and Saddiq shared a look. 

“I don’t think,” said Marzhod, “that the statues have anything to do with the Kindred.” 

“Why not?” said Caina.

“Because,” said Marzhod, “this has been going on for a while.”

“Wait.” Caina blinked. “You mean this started happening before the war with Istarinmul and New Kyre began?” 

Again Marzhod and Saddiq shared a look. 

“Come with me,” said Marzhod, getting to his feet. 

He led them into the hallway, which somehow smelled worse than before.