Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 09 - Ghost in the Surge (23 page)

That was just as well. As much as Caina detested the magi, she would not turn away their help if Sicarion tried to attack. Though she did not know how much use the magi would be against someone like Sicarion. 

They pushed their way through the spectators. She and Corvalis made a circuit of the Agora’s outer edge, seeking for any sign of sorcery. So far Caina had sensed nothing, save for the spells upon the magi. Yet even as she looked, her mind turned over the puzzle, seeking a different angle of attack.

If she was Sicarion, how would she go about killing the Emperor?

The actual deed itself would not be hard. Alexius Naerius, for all his power, was only an old man in a ceremonial robe. Likely he wore a chain mail shirt beneath the robe, but that would be no obstacle to someone like Sicarion. 

But getting close enough to kill the Emperor would be an obstacle.

Hundreds of Imperial Guards and a score of powerful magi surrounded the Emperor. Most of the nobles knew how to use their swords. Even if Sicarion got close enough to kill the Emperor, he wouldn’t make it two steps before a dozen swords met his flesh and a dozen spells ripped him to bloody pieces. And Sicarion was not a fanatic. The man served the Moroaica for the love of killing, not out of any sense of duty. He would not sacrifice his life in her service.

No, he would find a way to kill the Emperor and preserve his own life.

But how? If he got close enough to kill the Emperor, the Imperial Guard would…

Caina stopped, her eyes widening with the realization.

Sicarion would not get close enough to stab the Emperor. He would find a way to kill the Emperor from a distance.

Corvalis stopped, stepping around a scowling old woman in a slave’s gray tunic, and looked back at her.

“What is it?” he said. “You feel something?”

“No,” said Caina. “I have an idea. Nobody ever looks up.”

They ducked into a doorway off the main street, away from the press of the crowd.

“He’s going to shoot the Emperor,” said Caina. “A bow, probably. Or maybe a spell, something like that lance of shadow and green flame he used against us in the past.”

Corvalis frowned. “Are you sure? I’ve never seen him use a bow.”

“I’m not,” said Caina, “but it’s the only thing that makes sense. He can’t get close enough to use a sword or a dagger, not without the Imperial Guard and the battle magi tearing him to pieces.” 

“I can’t think of anything better,” said Corvalis. “You may be right.”

“And that means,” said Caina, “we don’t have to find him. We just have to find the best place for an archer to hide.”

She stepped back into the street and looked around, seeking for a vantage point an archer might use to fire into the Agora. The buildings overlooking the Agora itself were a logical choice, but an archer waiting there would be visible. That left…

Caina nodded, her suspicion hardening into certainty. 

A tenement stood a few blocks away, a sagging nine-story tower that looked in danger of falling over. It likely offered cheap rooms to workers and mercenaries staying in New Kyre, the sort of place where the landlord preferred not to ask too many questions of his tenants. The tenement’s roof was flat, and would command an excellent view of the Agora.

And a skilled archer, if he concealed himself carefully, could put a shaft or a crossbow bolt into almost anyone in the Agora. 

“There,” said Caina, pointing at the tenement.

Corvalis frowned. “It would be a devil of a shot.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Sicarion,” said Caina. “And he would find a spell easier to aim than an arrow, I think. Let’s see if I’m right or not.”

They made their way through the narrow alleys, pushing their way past the gawking crowds and the vendors selling cheap food. They reached the base of the tenement, and Caina saw that it overlooked a wide canal that led to the harbor proper. Dozens of people leaned out of the tenement’s narrow windows, looking at the spectacle in the Agora.

“Crowded place,” said Corvalis. 

“Doesn’t matter,” said Caina. “With that mask, he can look like anyone he wants. A peasant, a noble, a slave. Me. So witnesses don’t matter.”

“The roof?” said Corvalis.

Caina headed for the door. A gang of young men waited near the entrance, but one look at Corvalis and their attention turned elsewhere. Caina stepped through the front hall and climbed the rickety stairs, the wooden boards creaking beneath her boots. It made he remember fleeing from Kylon in Marsis, hiding in an abandoned tenement to avoid the stormdancer.

She wished that Kylon was here now. She needed all the help she could get against Sicarion, and if she had guessed right, the scarred assassin awaited her at the top of the tower. 

They reached the top floor. A short search found a ladder leading up to the roof, the entrance sealed by a trap door. Caina looked at Corvalis, and he nodded, drawing his dagger with his right hand and loosening the ghostsilver spear in its wrap. Caina slipped a throwing knife into her hand and started up the ladder, and froze when she reached the top rung.

“What is it?” said Corvalis in a low voice. 

“Sorcery,” said Caina. “A powerful spell. Nearby.”

“Sicarion,” said Corvalis.

Caina nodded.

“We should strike the instant we see him,” said Corvalis.

“No,” said Caina. “He might be disguised as anyone. Not until we’re sure.”

Corvalis nodded, and Caina took a deep breath and pushed open the trapdoor. 

Sunlight flashed into her eyes, and she pulled herself onto the roof. It was flat, with barrels here and there to catch rainwater. A row of wooden posts ran down the center of the roof, no doubt allowing the residents to hang their wash to dry. To the left Caina saw the gleaming ribbon of the canal making its way to the harbor. The roof was deserted, save for a woman in a blue gown who stood at the edge, gazing down at the Agora.

Caina gripped her knife, and the woman turned to face her.

And Caina looked at herself.

Or, rather, a woman who was her exact duplicate. 

The duplicate’s blue gown was close-fitting around the torso and arms, the skirts hanging loose around her legs. Her black hair had been arranged in an elaborate braid, and jewels glittered on her fingers and ears. The duplicate looked at them and grinned.

Caina hoped she really did not look like that when she smirked. 

“Well,” said the false Caina. “You found your way here. I was hoping you might. We can conclude our little game before the festivities begin.” Her blue eyes shifted to Corvalis. “Can you tell us apart? You…”

“Enough, Sicarion,” said Caina, pointing with her throwing knife. “We know who you really are.”

The false Caina grinned and rubbed a hand over her face. The golden mask that had once belonged to the Great Necromancer Rhames appeared, and the impostor pulled it away. 

Her form rippled and wavered…and then Sicarion stood in her place. 

“You got out of Marsis alive, I see,” said Sicarion. “I thought you might. All the work Ranarius did to pin Aiodan Maraeus’s murder upon you wasted. No matter. You can die here just as easily as you could in Marsis.”

“I didn’t die easily in Marsis, did I?” said Caina. 

“No.” Sicarion said. “But Halfdan did. Which is why you’re here, I suppose. To avenge one confused old man, an old man whose final thought was that his favored protégé had just killed him.”

A wave of fury rolled through Caina, and she almost threw the knife at him. But a flicker of unease stayed her hand. Sicarion seemed to have been expecting them. Had he laid a trap?

She saw no sign that he had a bow or a crossbow.

“How are you going to do it?” she said. She stepped to the right, and Corvalis moved to the left, putting space between them in case Sicarion worked a spell. “An arrow, I assume?”

Sicarion laughed. “An arrow? From this distance? Don’t be absurd. Arrows are not an enjoyable method of killing. Too…remote.”

“A spell, then?” said Caina. Corvalis drew his sword and dagger, the wrapped ghostsilver spear still strapped to his back.

“Of a sort,” said Sicarion. “I’m going to stroll up to the Emperor and cut his throat.”

“Using the mask?” said Caina. “It won’t work. There are too many sorcerers in the Agora. They’ll sense it before you get within a hundred yards.”

“Oh, the mask is just the beginning of the fun,” said Sicarion. “Simply so any surviving witnesses will think you did it. Assuming there are any.”

Her unease grew. He was planning something that would kill everyone in the Agora? 

“The Imperial Guard won’t stop me,” said Sicarion. “The stormsingers and the stormdancers will run away from me. The Emperor will be on his knees before me, screaming and sobbing like a child. And then, only then, will I kill him.”

“No, you won’t,” said Caina. “You’re not leaving this rooftop alive.”

“Do you want to know how I’m going to do it?” said Sicarion. “You were always so clever, Ghost. Call this a parting gift. The answer to one final riddle before you die.”

He reached into his dark cloak and drew out a golden chain. A crystal vial swung at the end, filled with something like rippling dark smoke. Caina felt powerful sorcery radiating from the thing.

Sorcery that felt almost familiar.

“What is that?” said Caina.

“Do you know what a phobomorphic spirit is?” said Sicarion.

“A creature of the netherworld,” said Caina. “It takes the form of whatever its victim fears the most.”

“You’ve met them before, I see,” said Sicarion. “The mistress made me this little gift, a phobomorphic spirit bound within the amulet.”

“So that’s it,” said Caina. “You’re going to unleash a phobomorphic spirit into the Agora and exploit the chaos? That won’t work. The magi will banish the spirit, and the Imperial Guard will kill you before you reach the Emperor.” 

“You’re right,” said Sicarion. “That would be a terrible plan. Fortunately, I have a better one. Would you like to know what it is?”

“Enlighten me,” said Caina. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” said Sicarion. “I know how your mind works, and I knew you would come for me. I’ve been looking forward to killing both of you for a long time, but I’m going to enjoy killing the Emperor more. Just think…killing that one old man will trigger a war that will kill uncounted hundreds of thousands.” Glee filled his mismatched eyes. “All those deaths from my hand, just by killing one old man.”

“Yes, how very efficient,” said Corvalis. 

“Precisely,” said Sicarion. “But I’m going to get you out of the way first. And test my little toy all at the same time.”

“No, you’re not,” said Caina, and she drew back her arm to throw the knife, while Corvalis raised his sword and dagger.

Sicarion grinned and dropped the amulet over his head, the crystal vial coming to rest against the leather armor covering his chest.

He rippled and changed, and for an instant Caina wondered if the phobomorphic spirit had possessed him.

And then he vanished, and in his place stood…

All the moisture drained from Caina’s mouth, and her hands trembled.

In his place stood Halfdan. 

He still wore a furred merchant’s robe and cap. Yet the tip of a bloody sword jutted from his chest, and his eyes blazed with hatred as they looked at Caina.

“Your fault!” he screamed.

“What?” said Caina.

“Sister?” said Corvalis, his voice shaking, but Caina barely heard him. 

“Your fault,” hissed Halfdan. “You killed me. You killed me!” 

“No!” said Caina. “Sicarion killed you. I tried to save you, I…”

Some part of her mind realized that this was wrong, that Halfdan couldn’t possibly be standing here before her. Yet grief and shame filled her heart in overpowering waves. She wanted nothing more than to run to him, to beg his forgiveness.

“This…no,” said Corvalis, his eyes wide, his voice hoarse. “Sister, no, I did…I did everything I could, I got you away from Ranarius, I…”

“Silence!” bellowed Halfdan, stepping closer. He had a sword in his right hand and an ugly, serrated dagger in his left. “What a miserable disappointment you are. I took you in, I turned you from a weeping orphan brat to a 

Ghost nightfighter. And you killed me!” His face turned red with fury as he lifted his sword and dagger. “You left me to die! You let Sicarion kill me!”

“It’s not true!” said Corvalis. “I didn’t abandon you. I tried to save you, Claudia. I swear it, I…”

“I tried,” said Caina. “I tried so hard. I’m sorry, Halfdan. Please, forgive me, forgive me…”

The small part of her mind screamed at the wrongness before her eyes. Halfdan was dead. He could not be here! Yet she felt the tears sliding down her face, the grief striking her in terrible waves.

“Claudia,” said Corvalis, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, forgive me…”

“You deserve to die,” said Halfdan, grinning, “for what you did to me.”

“Yes,” whispered Caina. 

Claudia. Why was Corvalis talking about Claudia? She was in the Agora with Lord Martin.  Yet he was saying Claudia’s name as he looked at Halfdan.

Like he saw Claudia standing there, accusing him, instead of Halfdan.

A spell. Sicarion’s amulet. This had to be a spell of some kind, some trick of sorcery digging into her mind and twisting her emotions. 

But it was too strong. 

Every time Caina looked at Halfdan, the grief and pain struck her anew, so strong and so sharp that it took every shred of strength she possessed to keep from falling to her knees and weeping. 

If it was a trick of sorcery, it was too strong for her to overcome.

She grabbed at the hood of her ragged cloak. Her shadow-cloak was hidden beneath it, and she yanked the cowl over her head, hoping to shield her mind from the effects.

Nothing happened.

“You think I am not real?” screamed Halfdan. “You think to hide from your crimes beneath a shadow-cloak? Then die! Die!” 

He drew back his weapons to stab, and Caina stumbled back.

Corvalis made no move to defend himself, but only slid his weapons into their sheaths and spread his arms, as if awaiting death.