Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone (9 page)

“My spies have been investigating a peculiar man,” said Marzhod. “Goes about cloaked and hooded an armed, spying on the magi and nobles, with black tattoos of peculiar design on his arms.”

“Tattoos,” said Caina. “I saw him at the Amphitheatre. He warned me about the Kindred assassin.” 

“He is unusual,” said Marzhod, stopping before a door at the end of the hall, “and I make it a point to find the truth behind unusual things. So I sent my men to investigate further…and this was the result.”

He unlocked the door and swung it open.

Six statues stood on the other side.

One was Barius, unchanged from when Caina had last seen him in the pawnshop. The others were men that Caina did not recognize. Some wore the ragged garb of slaves, others the rich robes of successful merchants. And like Barius and the assassin, all five statues were freakishly detailed, all displaying expressions of horror and fear. And like Barius, they were fashioned of the same white stone as the Defender and the Stone itself. 

Caina stepped forward, put a hand on each of the statues.

And every last one tingled with the faint echo of sorcery.

“All of them,” she said, voice quiet. “All turned to stone.”

“Yes,” said Marzhod. “When any of my men get too close to that tattooed man…” He gestured at the statues. “Well, you can see for yourself.” 

“I don’t think this has anything to do with Lord Corbould or Lord Khosrau,” said Caina. “Something else is going on.” 

“Perhaps we’ll have a chance to find out what it is,” said Theodosia, “at Lord Khosrau’s gathering tomorrow night.”

The next night a palanquin carried by eight burly slaves bore Caina and Theodosia to the Palace of Splendors.

And as much as Caina detested Cyrioch, she had to admit that the Palace of Splendors lived up to its name. 

No known method could cut the peculiar white rock of the Stone, so over the centuries the various lords, emirs, and satraps had built a massive platform of granite blocks atop the crest of the Stone. Upon that platform stood the Palace of Splendors, once the seat of the Anshani satraps of Cyrica, and now the stronghold of the Lord Governors. The Palace was a rambling maze, built and rebuilt by generations of rulers. Graceful Anshani domes stood next to slender Istarish towers, and delicate fountains in Anshani style stood before halls built in the Nighmarian fashion. The result should have been an ugly mess of a building. Yet the architects had merged the styles, creating a palace unlike anything Caina had ever seen, a structure that combined both beauty and strength, grace and stability. 

A beauty all the more striking contrasted against the squalor of Seatown’s slums. 

The palanquin stopped at one of the Palace’s outer courtyards, and the slaves knelt to allow Theodosia and Caina to descend. Each of the slaves wore a tunic of gray silk and a silver collar. All of Lord Khosrau’s slaves wore silken tunics and silver collars. The slaves themselves seemed almost proud to be owned by Lord Khosrau, and Caina had seen them sneering at slaves owned by lesser lords and common merchants. 

She followed Theodosia from the palanquin. Theodosia wore a splendid gown of crimson and black, slightly tighter than Cyrican decorum allowed, though she wore a red scarf over her hair. A maid should not outshine her mistress, so Caina wore the same blue dress and headscarf from the Amphitheatre of Asurius. 

An older slave hurried over and bowed. “Mistress Theodosia of the Grand Imperial Opera?” 

“I am,” said Theodosia.

“This way, mistress,” said the slave. “Lord Khosrau’s guests have gathered in the Gallery of the Well.”

The Well…Barius’s burned notes had mentioned something called the Well. Had he meant this Gallery of the Well? Of course, his notes had also mentioned the Defender, but Caina had found nothing suspicious about the Defender or the nearby Inn. 

The slave led them through the Palace’s corridors, over floors adorned with dazzling mosaics and past frescoes of stunning beauty. At last they came to a vast courtyard at the very heart of the Palace. Slabs of gleaming, polished marble paved the floor, dotted here and there with ornamental gardens. Pillars of gold-flecked marble encircled the courtyard, supporting pointed Istarish arches. Above the arches rose covered balconies, offering the Lord Governor’s guests a place to converse privately.

And, Caina noted, the perfect vantage point for an assassin with a bow. 

“The Gallery of the Well, mistress,” said the slave with a bow. “Lord Khosrau and Lord Armizid wait their guests near the Well.” 

“Thank you,” said Theodosia.

The slave seemed surprised. Caina supposed he was rarely thanked for anything. 

Theodosia crossed the Gallery, her skirts whispering against the marble floor. Cyrican nobles stood here and there in their jeweled robes, speaking with groups of magi and wealthy merchants. Musicians played among the pillars, while slaves hurried back and forth carrying trays of wine and delicacies. 

At the center of the Gallery stretched a dark hole perhaps thirty feet across. A low ring of polished marble encircled it, but Caina noticed the guests stayed well away from it.

The Well.

Lord Khosrau and Lord Armizid stood near the Well, speaking with Lord Corbould. Armizid and Khosrau both wore robes of brilliant white, jewels glittering in their turbans. Corbould wore his black armor, stark against the finery of the Cyrican nobles. At least the armor would make it that much harder for an assassin to put an arrow in his back. 

“Theodosia, my dear,” said Khosrau, his rumbling voice cutting through the surrounding conversations. “I see you received my invitation. Your girl did well to deliver it.”

“Oh, I would be simply lost without Marina,” said Theodosia, gripping her skirts and doing a deep curtsy before Khosrau. 

“It is a worthy servant,” said Khosrau, “who cares for her mistress with diligent loyalty.” 

Caina did a curtsy as well.

“Your performance was magnificent,” said Khosrau. “I have heard the story of Lord Corbould’s noble ancestor Tertius many times, but your voice truly brought the tale to life.” 

“My lord is gracious,” said Theodosia. “I am fortunate to have an audience of such refined taste. Why, if you can believe it, there were times when I have been jeered in Malarae.”

“An outrage!” said Khosrau. “Why, were such an affront to take place in Cyrioch, I would order the villains crucified on the spot, and their skulls hung over the Amphitheatre’s gates as a warning to others.”

Theodosia laughed, her hand at her throat. “That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me! Though I really wish you wouldn’t, if you will forgive the impertinence of a poor opera singer. It is dreadfully hard to remember the lyrics through the stink of a rotting corpse.” 

“Well,” said Khosrau, “perhaps I’ll simply have them flogged, then. Cheaper than crucifixion, anyway.” He turned to Lord Corbould. “Corbould, I must thank you again for bringing the Grand Imperial Opera to Cyrioch. The performance was sublime.”

Corbould nodded. “It is merely a token of the esteem in which both I and the Emperor hold your friendship, my lord Khosrau.”

“My lords, this is unseemly,” said Armizid, looking at Theodosia with tight-lipped disapproval. “For two high lords of the Empire to converse with an…an entertainer in public! And to discuss matters of state in front of her and her drudge! Cyrica is strong, and our friendship is greatly desirable…surely our friendship merits more than an opera company!”

Khosrau snorted. “Cyrica is strong…but not strong enough to stand on its own. If we were not part of the Empire, Anshan would conquer us in a matter of days. Or the Istarish would seize our lands.” He snorted. “Or even if the Empire, Anshan, and Istarinmul all chose to ignore us, the Sarbian desert men would burn our plantations and seize our slaves for themselves. No, if Cyrica is to survive…we must have friends. Strong friends.” 

“Friends,” said Corbould, “such as the Emperor of Nighmar and his Legions.” 

“Perhaps,” said Khosrau. He waved his hand at the assembled guests, his bearded face growing melancholy. “Tell me, Corbould. Do they ever reflect upon how fragile it all is? So many proud lords and wealthy merchants. Yet power can crumble and riches fade, sometimes in a heartbeat.”

“Aye,” said Corbould. “I know it well, Khosrau. I was at Marsis when the Istarish betrayed the Empire. One moment I was greeting the Lord Ambassador of Istarinmul. The next I was fighting for my life in the alleys of Marsis.” 

Caina shivered, fighting to keep her expression calm. The memories of the fighting in Marsis flashed through her mind. She remembered the dread, the fear that she had lost Nicolai to the Istarish slavers. That she would have to tell Ark and Tanya that she had lost their son. She had saved Nicolai…but that dread had never left her.

“Yes,” murmured Khosrau. “You do understand. Perhaps that is the curse of mortal men, my friend. Everything good we try to do turns to evil in the end, and no matter how we strive for peace, war comes for us.” He grunted and waved his cane. “This war with the Istarish and the Kyracians? What utter folly! The Empire cannot overthrow the Kyracian fleets to conquer New Kyre or breach the walls of Istarinmul. But likewise the Kyracians and the Istarish cannot conquer the Empire. Why fight, then? All those lives lost for nothing. It would have been better for those men to stay home and raise crops and children.”

Caina wondered how Khosrau would react if she told him the truth, that the Moroaica had engineered the war to free her disciple Scorikhon from his tomb below Marsis’s Citadel. 

“War provides the opportunity for glory,” said Armizid, “and new wealth and lands.” 

“So many have thought,” said Khosrau, “and their bones molder upon the battlefields.”

“Like Rezir Shahan,” said Corbould. “He made war upon our Emperor, and look at his fate.”

Armizid bristled. “Is that a threat, Maraeus?”

Khosrau snorted. “Don’t be absurd, boy. Lord Corbould merely states a fact. Rezir Shahan made war upon the Empire, and now he is dead. Incidentally, how did he die?”

Corbould shrugged. “I don’t really know. If you would believe the commoners, they say a myth called the Balarigar slew him.” 

“The Balarigar?” said Khosrau.

“A legend of the Szaldic peasants, I understand,” said Corbould. “A slayer of sorcerers and a liberator of slaves. The commoners claim the Balarigar appeared and slew Rezir Shahan. Myself, I think Shahan’s troops mutinied and killed him. I saw Shahan’s head upon a javelin with my own eyes.”

Caina kept her mouth from twitching. How would these proud lords react if they knew the Balarigar was actually the maid standing next to the opera singer? She was almost tempted to say it, just to see the expression on Armizid’s face. 

But some things were best kept secret.

“Enough of this talk of war and blood,” said Khosrau. “This is a ball, not a council of war. Lord Corbould has honored us with the Grand Imperial Opera, and we should make the most of the opportunity.” His dark eyes shifted to Theodosia. “My dear, would you grace us with a song?”

“It would be my honor, my lord,” said Theodosia. She glanced at Caina. “Marina, you have liberty until I have finished performing for his lordship.” 

That meant she wanted Caina to look around for anything interesting.

“Of course, mistress,” said Caina, doing a curtsy. 

Theodosia walked off with the high nobles, leaving Caina alone. She wandered through the Gallery, making sure not to make eye contact with any of the lords or merchants. They paid no attention to her whatsoever. The snatches of conversation she overheard all dealt with the war and its impact on merchant shipping. 

Her eyes swept the pillared colonnades and the elevated balconies. Both Corbould’s Imperial Guards and Armizid’s militiamen stood at regular intervals, keeping watch for assassins. That was good. But would they watch for hidden archers, or for assassins disguised as slaves? The Cyricans nobles treated their slaves like animals, and would not notice one with a weapon until…

Caina flinched.

She felt a faint, crawling tingle 

Sorcery.

She turned in alarm, and found herself standing at the edge of the Well.

The ring of polished marble encircling it came to Caina’s knee. She looked over the edge, and saw that the Well’s polished white sides went down and down until they vanished into blackness. How far down did it go? The Stone was only a few hundred feet tall, yet the Well seemed to descend for a thousand feet. For that matter, who had dug it? No one knew a way to cut the Stone’s peculiar white rock.

For a dreadful instant, it reminded Caina of the pit below Black Angel Tower, the prison that held the bound demons. She wondered if something just as terrible lurked at the bottom of the Well…

“I see,” said a cold voice, “that you have discovered the Well.” 

Caina turned.

Ranarius stood a few feet away, staring at her. Unlike the nobles, the master magus’s black robe and gray hair gave him a forbidding, ascetic air. His blind slave girl stood behind him, head bowed, eyes concealed behind the black blindfold. Her jade collar glittered in the light, as did the jade bracelet on Ranarius’s left wrist. 

“Sir?” said Caina, her mind racing. Did Ranarius know she was a Ghost? Or did he suspect that the Ghosts had spies among the opera company? 

“It is one of the great mysteries of Cyrioch,” said Ranarius. 

“It doesn’t look very mysterious, sir,” said Caina. 

A thin smile came over his gaunt face. “I suppose not. But it is a great mystery nonetheless. No one knows who dug it or for what purpose. And it has always been here, at the very crest of the Stone. It was here before the first stone of the Palace of Splendors was laid, before mortal men even came to what is now Cyrica.” 

Despite herself, Caina was curious. “What lies at the bottom?”

“No one knows,” said Ranarius. “If you drop a stone into the Well, you will not hear it hit the bottom. And throughout Cyrioch’s history, curious satraps and Lord Governors have hired adventurous men to explore the Well. None have ever returned. One managed to use a thousand feet of rope before his line snapped. Which is remarkable, considering the Stone stands five hundred feet tall at its highest point.”