Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 09 - Ghost in the Surge (5 page)

“I see,” said Corvalis. “This is just the beginning, isn’t it?”

Caina nodded. “And all those people Ryther murdered died because of…”

“No,” said Corvalis, pointing at her. “Don’t blame yourself for those deaths. The blood is upon Ranarius’s hands, not yours. And if you hadn’t killed him twice, then far more people would have died. Myself and Claudia among them.”

Caina nodded. “Thank you. I know you’re right…but I still needed to hear that, I think.”

“How do you want to proceed?” said Corvalis.

Caina wanted to return to Malarae, to run the House of Kularus and sell coffee to the city’s nobles and merchants. She wanted to masquerade as Anton Kularus’s pretty mistress, to sleep in the same bed with Corvalis every night. She was tired of killing, of fighting, of seeing people die.

“We’ll go back to Marsis,” said Caina instead. “Halfdan is waiting for us there. He’ll need to know what happened. And we have to warn him about the Moroaica and her disciples. If they are coming for me, if Jadriga is really beginning her great work…then there are far more lives at stake than my own. We have to be ready.”

Corvalis nodded. “We’ll leave at dawn.”

Caina said nothing, unable to shake the icy dread in her heart. She had killed Ryther at the mansion, but Ranarius’s spirit would take another body soon. And, worse, she had seen no sign of Sicarion, and the scarred assassin was far more dangerous than Ranarius. 

She hoped she could stop him before he killed anyone.

Caina and Corvalis left Mornu the next morning and headed south to Marsis.

Chapter 3 - The Champion and the Gladiator

“What do you think?” said Muravin.

Ark of Caer Marist opened his mouth, closed it again.

He had borne many responsibilities in his life. He had been a soldier, a man of the Eighteenth Legion. He had become the first spear centurion of the Eighteenth. He had joined the Ghosts out of desperation, hoping to find his lost wife and son. Now he was the Champion of Marsis, an ally of Lord Corbould Maraeus, and a wealthy foundry owner, a man with responsibilities to his wife and children, his workers, the Ghosts, and the Emperor.

Odd that he had once been the penniless son of a drunken tavern keeper of Caer Marist, a boy who ran away to join the Legion. 

Life was strange.

“What do you think?” said Muravin again. 

And now, it seemed, one of his responsibilities was to help a former Istarish gladiator find a husband for his daughter.

Life was indeed strange.  

“I think,” said Ark, “you should let the girl make up her own mind.”

They walked along Malarae’s Via Triumphalis, the noon sun shining overhead. Traffic filled the street, men and women going about their business for the day. Horsemen in the colors of various lords rode back and forth, carrying messages. Here and there the coach of a wealthy merchant rattled past. In the distance Ark saw the gray shapes of the mountains, the white towers and walls of the Imperial Citadel occupying an outthrust spur. 

He remembered the first time he had come to Malarae, marching with the Eighteenth as it headed north to the Imperial Pale. The size and scale of the city had awed him, and it still did. Malarae was the largest city in the world, and men from every nation came here to buy and sell. 

Muravin made a grumbling noise. “She may make a poor choice.” He was about ten years older than Ark, with iron gray hair and weathered bronze skin. He wore chain mail beneath a jerkin of black leather, an Istarish scimitar riding at his belt, a trident slung over his shoulder. 

“She may,” said Ark, “but that seems unlikely. Mahdriva has a solid head on her shoulders. Suffering teaches wisdom.”

“Aye,” said Muravin with a sigh, “and my poor girl has known more suffering that I would wish.”

They left the Via Triumphalis and made their way to the blacksmith’s district, where massive foundries turned out an endless supply of arms and armor for the Emperor’s Legions, and pots and pans and knives to sell across the provinces. The air here smelled of smoke and coke and hot metal. The foundries were quiet now. Most of the smiths preferred to work in the evenings, after the heat of the day had faded. 

“True,” said Ark. Caina had told him about Mahdriva, how Ibrahmus Sinan had hunted her, hoping to use the blood of her unborn son to make himself immortal. That had not ended well for Sinan. 

Caina had seen to that. 

“I am an old man,” said Muravin, “and I do not know when death shall come for me. I want to make sure Mahdriva and my grandson are provided for when I am dead.”

“Quintus is the best choice, I think,” said Ark. “He’s a Legion veteran, and he’s a solid worker at my foundry. He’ll be able to provide for Mahdriva, and he’ll look after Sonyar. He had a wife and child when he was still in the Legion, but a fever took them.” 

Muravin grumbled. “I would prefer a younger man for her. And perhaps one of Istarish birth.” 

Ark laughed. “Then you should have stayed in Istarinmul. And Quintus is older, steadier, and wealthier. He can provide for her and any other children they have.”

“True,” said Muravin. 

“And from what Tanya tells me,” said Ark, “Mahdriva is fond of him. Every time he visits, she asks him to come back as soon as he can manage.”

Muravin grunted. “Did not your wife introduce Quintus to Mahdriva?”

“Aye,” said Ark.

The former gladiator laughed. “Then it is out of our hands, Master Arcion. Mahdriva shall wed Quintus. Likely your wife has arranged the entire thing from the beginning, and we are all merely puppets dancing upon her flings.”

“Strings,” said Ark. Muravin’s Caerish was improving, but he was still prone to the occasional malapropism. “And you are likely right.” Tanya was good at that kind of thing.

“Yes, strings,” said Muravin. He snorted. “If I wed again, perhaps I shall find one of these blue-eyed Szaldic women. They seem to make good wives.” 

“I agree,” said Ark.

They arrived at his foundry, a massive, fortress-like structure with thick walls to contain any fires. Fortunately, in the two years since Ark had purchased it, there had been no major disasters. A wide courtyard surrounded the building, partly to serve as a fire break, and partly to provide storage for ore awaiting processing. The double doors stood closed, and a man slumped against them, his blood pooling around him on the hard-packed earth…

Ark cursed and came to a stop, drawing his sword.

For years he had carried a Legion broadsword. This sword was lighter, thinner, and longer than the sword of the Legions, but it was far stronger. It was storm-forged steel, created by the stormsingers of New Kyre and carried into battle by a stormdancer. 

At least, the sword had been carried by a stormdancer, until Ark had killed him. 

Muravin drew his own weapons, and Ark hurried to the corpse. The dead man was Tarzain, a Saddai-born veteran of the Legion and one of Ark’s workers. Tarzain had been a robust and boisterous fellow, able to make even the grimmest veteran crack a smile at his jokes. 

Yet someone had opened his throat with a single vicious slash. 

“He died painfully,” said Murvain, scimitar in his right hand and trident in his left.

“Aye,” said Ark, gazing at the wound. He had seen quite a few cut throats in his time, but this one looked different. It was ragged, frayed, as if had been made with a serrated blade. 

A serrated blade. Why did that tug at his memory?

“Go find an officer of the civic militia,” said Ark. “We must report this.” And Ark would need to speak with the Ghost circlemasters of Malarae. Tarzain had been a Ghost, as were most of Ark’s workers, and his death might have been an attack upon the Emperor’s eyes and ears. Theodosia and Shaizid would have to warn the others. “I will check to see if the murderer is lurking within.”

He felt a surge of fear. Tanya and his children might be in their apartment at the foundry. Still, the apartment had only one entrance with a secure lock, and at this time of day Tanya would likely be at the market with Nicolai and Natasha. 

“Do not be foolish,” said Muravin. “I will go with you. Then we shall go to the civic militia together. Wandering alone around the foundry would be unwise.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Ark, rebuking himself. He had not been in a serious fight since Marsis, but that was no excuse for making foolish decisions. “This way. We’ll cross the foundry and depart through the back doors. Then we’ll check my rooms in the outer wall, and go to one of the militia towers to report the murder.”

Muravin nodded. “Lead on.”

Ark pushed open the doors and stepped into the foundry. Wide windows high overhead admitted sunlight. Massive furnaces lined the walls, glowing sullenly with their banked fires. Brick trenches lined the floor, and chains and steel buckets hung from the ceilings. Workbenches stood near the doors, holding completed pieces of arms and armor – broadswords, helmets, throwing javelins. 

Five dead men lay motionless upon the floor, blood trickling into the trenches.

Ark moved forward, raising his sword in guard. All five of the men were his workers, and all five had been Ghosts. Their throats had been cut in the same grisly manner as Tarzain, though many of the men bore sword wounds. 

“This was a fight,” said Ark. “They still have weapons. And their other wounds are in the front.” He looked at the splatters of blood. “They tried to fight as a group, but something overwhelmed them.”

“If five Legion veterans could not overcome a foe,” said Murvain, “we surely cannot. I suggest we seek the aid of the militia at once.” 

Ark nodded. “After we check on Tanya and the children. We…”

A boot clicked against the brick floor. 

Ark whirled, bringing up his sword, and Murvain raised his trident to throw. A figure moved through the gloom between two of the furnaces, throwing a dark shadow over the bloody corpses. 

“Name yourself,” said Ark.

A woman’s laugh answered him. “Why, Master Arcion, don’t you remember me?”

The figure stepped into the harsh glow from the furnaces, and Ark blinked in surprise.

Caina Amalas stood before him.

She wore a rich gown of blue that clung to her hips and torso, her black hair bound in an intricate crown. Jewels glittered on her fingers and ears, and she wore heeled boots that clicked against the floor with every step. Her makeup emphasized her cold blue eyes and the sharp lines of her cheekbones. In her right hand she carried a sword, and in her left an ugly serrated dagger.

For an instant Ark felt overwhelming relief. She would know what to do. 

Then his relief vanished into growing alarm.

There was something wrong.

Caina’s hair was black, not blond. She had dyed it blond a year past, as part of her disguise as Sonya Tornesti. She never fought with a sword, only daggers or knives. 

And she had left with Corvalis two weeks ago to attend to Halfdan’s business in the western Empire. 

“After everything we’ve been through,” said Caina with a sneer, gesturing with the serrated dagger. “You don’t know who I am, Arcion? Tragic, tragic.” 

“Mistress Sonya?” said Muravin. “What is this?”  

“The blacksmith and the gladiator,” said Caina with a laugh. “Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. I cannot believe I have allied myself with such useless fools. Little wonder the Empire is locked in war with New Kyre, if I have such wretched outcasts to serve me.” 

The words stung. 

Ark knew he had failed, so many times. Naelon Icaraeus’s slavers had taken Tanya and Nicolai, and Caina had rescued them from the Moroaica. Nicolai had fallen into the hands of the Istarish slavers at Marsis, an ordeal that still gave the boy nightmares, and Caina had rescued him, not Ark. 

But she had taught Ark well, and his mind tried to make sense of the puzzle. Caina had left two weeks ago, and she could not have returned to the capital by now. Certainly she would not don a dress and jewels and makeup to wander about the city with a sword and a dagger.

That serrated dagger…

Ark saw drops of blood clinging to its razor edges.

That weapon had killed his workers.

She had killed his workers. 

And all at once his doubt and fear vanished, replaced by cold certainty. 

“You are not the Countess,” said Ark.

She raised one eyebrow. “Oh? Then just who am I?”

“I don’t know,” said Ark. “One of her enemies. One of the enemies of the Ghosts. You’re using a spell to mask your appearance, make yourself appear like her.”

“Oh, very clever,” said Caina. “But it doesn’t matter. No one will believe you, mighty Champion of Marsis. I left too many witnesses.” She smirked, her eyes full of cruel glee. “And can you prove that I’m not really Caina Amalas?”

“When we were in Rasadda,” said Ark, “when you left the Magisterium’s chapterhouse after dining with the preceptor, what did we talk about?” 

“We discussed,” said Caina, “how you should lie down and die.”

“No,” said Ark, his certainty hardening further. “We didn’t.”

He glanced to the side, caught Muravin’s eye, and the former gladiator gave a tiny nod. 

“We didn’t?” said Caina. “Perhaps your conversation is so tedious it simply slipped my mind.”

“No,” said Ark. “I don’t know who you are or why you murdered my men, but I will not let it pass. Surrender, now.” 

Her grin was more feral than any he had ever seen from her. “Or?”

“Or I’ll kill you where you stand,” said Ark, “and I’ll see who is really behind that spell of illusion.” 

Caina threw back her head and roared with laughter. 

“This is amusing,” she said. “You little children, so brave, so bold. Do you know what the greatest pleasure is? It isn’t power, or money, or women, or wine. It’s killing. And I shall delight in killing you both. I…”

“Now!” said Ark, and Muravin flung his trident. 

But Caina moved in a blur, her sword and serrated dagger crossing as they deflected the trident. The weapon fell to the floor with a clang, and Caina jumped over one of the trenches, her skirts billowing around her.

She came at Ark in a storm of razor-edged steel.