Ghost Aria (2 page)

“No,” said Caina. “He didn’t ask for any wine. I went up the aisle, asked if Murdock would take some wine to Tollard as a favor to Lucinda, and then walked back down. The guard saw me, took the wine…and, well, you know the rest.” 

“So the poison couldn’t have been intended for Lord Arcus,” said Theodosia. 

“It seems unlikely,” said Caina. “But who else could have been the target? Harlot’s kiss is not cheap. For the cost of one dose you could pay the wages of the workmen at the Grand Imperial Opera for a year. I could see someone spending that kind of coin to kill Lord Arcus, yes. But no one else in the audience was powerful enough to merit that kind of death. Cheaper to pay a dockside thug to jam a knife into their ribs and have done with it.”

“There are more motives to kill a man,” said Theodosia, “than politics and power. Perhaps a woman wanted her husband dead, but did not want to hang for purchasing his death. Widows of men who died unexpectedly are rather more respected than murderesses who poured poison into their husbands’ cups.” 

“Isn’t that the plot of an opera?” said Caina.

“Three of them, actually,” said Theodosia, “but you grasp my point? Perhaps someone wanted a common man dead badly enough to pay for a death that looked natural. Bah, I’m out of water. Hand me the pitcher, will you?”

Caina crossed the room, picked up the pitcher, and refilled Theodosia’s bowl. She regarded her reflection as she poured, blue-eyed and pale, with long dark hair and a gold-trimmed black dress that fit her well. Little wonder neither Murdock nor the dead guard had taken her seriously. That was the point of a disguise.

Though if they looked too long into her blue eyes, they might see the coldness there.

Caina shook aside the thought. “Then the poison was not intended for Lord Arcus, and the guard had the ill fortune to pick up the glass.”

Theodosia wiped away the last of her stage makeup. “Serves him right for such poor manners. But I want you to look into it. It may have nothing to do with the business of the Ghosts, but I’d like to unravel this little enigma anyway.”

“It might not be possible,” said Caina.

“I know,” said Theodosia. “But we can’t have people murdering one another at the opera. It’s bad for business.”

“That sounds like the plot of another opera,” said Caina.

“Actually, yes,” said Theodosia. “A classic from the later days of the Third Empire. I’ve sung the lead twice. Perhaps I can persuade the Seneschal to stage it next season. But for now we have other business. Discovering who purchased our poison will be tricky, but I know where to start. There are only three apothecaries in Malarae that sell herbs and drugs from Anshan, and all three are quite disreputable. Pay them a visit tomorrow, and see what you can find.”

Caina nodded.

“In the meantime,” said Theodosia, “do fetch me some wine, my dear. Preferably not poisoned. I’m parched.”

###

The next morning Caina woke up early and made her way to the costume room. The workshop below the stage was deserted. The stagehands, carpenters, and singers tended to get smashing drunk after a performance, and Caina doubted any of them would rise before noon.

Which gave her ample time to disguise herself. 

Instead of a maid’s dress, she donned rough trousers, dusty leather boots, a ragged wool shirt, and leather armor studded with steel rivets. A belt with a sheathed short sword and a dagger went around her waist. She slung a worn brown cloak over her shoulders, and raked her black hair forward to fall in greasy curtains over her jaw and face. A hint of Theodosia’s makeup gave her the illusion of stubble, and Caina scrutinized her reflection in the mirror. She looked like an unemployed mercenary, if a bit shorter than most.

A perfect disguise for moving unnoticed through Malarae’s teeming streets. She left the costume room and made her way across the workshop.

“You!” 

Lucinda headed towards her at a brisk waddle. Her husband Tollard accompanied her, a club in his hand and a scowl on his bearded face. He was a big man, strong and vigorous if not overly bright, and did whatever Lucinda told him. Perhaps that was the attraction.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” said Lucinda. “If you’re a thief, you should know the urban praetor patronizes the Grand Imperial Opera, and takes a dim view of theft upon its property.” 

Caina stifled a laugh. If her masquerade fooled Lucinda, then it would work for the commoners of Malarae.

“Begging your pardon, mistress,” said Caina, feigning the voice of a man as Theodosia had taught her. “My name’s Maric. Do you know my sister Marina? She works for the leading lady. I visit whenever I’m in the city to make sure she’s well.”

“Oh,” said Lucinda, squinting at her. “Yes, you do look a bit like Marina.”

“Wife,” said Tollard, putting a hand on her shoulder, “we should leave the poor man in peace. And you should get to bed.”

Her irritated expression drained away as she looked at him. Tollard had a knack for calming his wife. 

“Husband,” said Lucinda with a roll of her eyes. “I’m pregnant, not dying.” She looked at Caina. “He thinks I ought to spend my time resting.”

“You did stay up all night,” said Tollard. “And your father was asking questions after you again.”

Lucinda scowled. “He ought to know better. We are wed and that is that.” She yawned. “Well, perhaps you are right about bed. A pleasure meeting you, Maric. Do tell Marina not to work so hard.”

Caina nodded. “I promise that she will hear it.”

Lucinda walked away, Tollard hovering over like a protective bear.

Caina left for the city. 

###

Malarae, the Nighmarian Empire’s capital, was the largest city in the world, and home to over a million people. The massive white bulk of the Imperial Citadel, the stronghold of the Emperor, rose on a mountain spur overlooking the city. Around the base of the mountain stood the mansions of the lords, the temples of the gods, the towers of the high magi, the broad dome of the Grand Imperial Opera, and the palatial townhouses of the wealthier merchants. 

Caina’s path took her to less fashionable districts.

She strode through the dockside streets, past the barge docks lining the River Megaros and the quays opening into the harbor and the Bay of Empire. Men and women from every nation under the sun filled the narrow streets, buying and selling and arguing and sometimes fighting. The web of the world’s commerce centered upon Malarae, and you could buy and sell almost anything in its shops.

Including, perhaps, the harlot’s kiss. 

She found nothing of interest in the first two shops. The first specialized in selling aphrodisiacs and various drugs for enhancing both prowess and stamina. While Caina had no doubt the apothecary had poisoned at least some of his customers, it hadn’t been on purpose. The second shop sold abortifacients of various degrees of effectiveness and illegality. Some were quite poisonous, but displayed more obvious symptoms than the harlot’s kiss. 

There was something wrong with the third shop.

Caina was in the worst part of the docks, a maze of brothels and wine sinks and warehouses, and from time to time disguised Istarish slavers set up dens here and kidnapped drunken men from the street. She waited in an alley across the street from the apothecary’s shop. The narrow shop was deserted, its door locked, its shutters closed. 

That seemed odd. Perhaps the apothecary did business at night to avoid interference from the militia. Yet even if the apothecary made his living selling poisons, he needed to maintain at least a front of legitimacy to keep from getting hauled before the urban praetor on charges. 

And legitimate businesses operated during the day. 

Caina walked back into the street, circled the block, and slipped into the alley behind the apothecary’s shop. The dim, narrow alley stank of refuse and rotting fish, but it was deserted. Caina headed to the shop’s back door, keeping an eye out for any guards. 

The door was locked, but a bit of work with a pick had it open in a few moments. 

She stepped into a storeroom lined with wooden shelves. Dried herbs, glass jars of powders, and bottles of elixirs and unguents filled the shelves. Caina recognized many of them from her time with Komnene.

The man sitting in the corner, bound and gagged, occupied her attention. He was Anshani, his wispy black beard distorted by the gag wrapped around his head. Dried blood caked his right temple, and his black eyes rolled back and forth in fear.

He saw Caina, and started to struggle against his ropes.

She glided forward, clamped one hand over his mouth, and lifted one finger to her lips. 

The man – the apothecary, she assumed – went rigid. But his eyes kept jerking towards the door in the far wall, the door that led into the shop proper. 

Which meant whoever had done this was still waiting in the shop’s main room. 

Caina nodded and lifted her hand. The apothecary, thankfully, had the wit to remain silent. Caina drew her dagger in her right hand and pushed the door with her left hand, moving it inch by inch until she could see into the shop.

The shop was gloomy, with only a few dim rays of light leaking through the shutters. She saw gleaming glass jars upon the shelves and a counter laden with a mortar and pestle and the other tools of the apothecary’s trade. 

She also saw a man peering through the cracks in the shutters. He wore chain mail and leather, a sword at his belt and a dagger in his hand. Caina stared at him as he rolled the dagger over and over his fingers. She recognized the grip, his stance, his posture. Only one organization taught its members to hold a dagger like that. 

The man was a Kindred assassin. 

So why was a Kindred assassin waiting in the shop of a disreputable apothecary?

This was a trap. The Kindred assassin must have realized that someone would come seeking the harlot’s kiss, and so had lain in wait to dispatch any pursuers. 

But why bother? The Kindred must have realized that someone would investigate the guard’s peculiar death. But why go to all this trouble to cover their tracks?

The assassin would have the answers Caina needed. If she could overpower him and interrogate him, perhaps he could offer up some useful information.

She glided into the shop, her boots making no sound against the splintered floorboards. The assassin’s attention remained fixed on the shutters, the dagger spinning around his right hand. He had seen her watching from the alley, Caina realized, and was on his guard. 

She reversed her grip on the dagger, preparing to bring its handle down upon the assassin’s temple. 

And as she did, the assassin lifted his left hand to scratch at the stubble on his jaw, turning his head, and saw Caina.

It was sheer bad luck, but the assassin recovered from his shock in an instant. His right hand sent the dagger hurtling for her face. Caina ducked, and the blade shot past her head to smash against the glass jars on the shelves. She hit the floor and rolled to her feet as the assassin lunged at her, his sword slithering from its scabbard.

Caina snatched one of the broken jars from the shelf and flung it at the assassin. His blade snapped up in a block, the jar bouncing away, but the red powder within the jar sprayed over his face. The assassin began coughing, his eyes streaming with tears. Caina darted forward, hoping to land a stunning blow, but the assassin grabbed her wrist.

Her blade tore through the side of his neck. The assassin fell to his knees, blood gushing into his chain mail, and toppled onto his face.

“Damn it,” muttered Caina. The assassin’s twitching stopped, and a sick sensation spread through her. She had killed people in the past, starting with her own mother. But the horror of it never quite left her. 

Yet killing had gotten easier, and she did not like that.

She pushed aside the thought. A search of the dead man’s pockets revealed nothing useful. Caina wiped clean her dagger, walked into the back room, and cut the gag from the apothecary’s face. 

“Whoever you are,” said the apothecary in Caerish with a strong Anshani accent, “please, I have money, I can pay you more than…”

“What is your name?” said Caina, keeping her voice disguised. 

“Ah…Halaam,” said the apothecary. He squinted at her. “You…are not with the others?”

“No,” said Caina. “The man in your shop is dead.”

Halaam flinched away from her. “You killed him?”

“I suggest you dispose of the corpse,” said Caina. “He was a Kindred assassin, but even so, if the militia finds him in your shop there will be…inconvenient questions.” 

“Kindred assassins?” said Halaam. “Oh, by the Living Flame, what have I gotten myself into?”

“You sell poisons,” said Caina. “Did you think your customers were respectable citizens?”

“Well, no,” said Halaam. “But the Kindred…no one in their right mind deals with the Kindred.”

“And yet,” said Caina, “you sold them the harlot’s kiss anyway.”

“I don’t know what that is,” said Halaam.

Caina sighed. “There’s a dead man in your shop. I suggest you answer my questions, unless you want me to fetch the civic militia.” 

“No!” said Halaam. “No, there’s no need to trouble the militiamen. Or the urban praetor’s magistrates. What do you want to know?”

“Who bought the harlot’s kiss?” said Caina.

“Two men,” said Halaam. “They came in together a week ago. I didn’t know they were Kindred, I swear it! But they offered me a great deal of gold. They wished to buy certain drugs quietly, and all men know that Halaam does not betray his customers’ secrets.” He swallowed. “Until now, anyway.”

“If it eases your conscience,” said Caina, “the man in your shop would have killed you. He knew the planned assassination had failed, and he knew that I would come after him. So he lay in wait to ambush me, and once I were slain, he would have killed you to eliminate the sole remaining witness. Therefore feel free to share their secrets. Tell me about the two men.”

“One of them is the man who took me captive,” said Halaam. “You…ah, dealt with him.”

Caina nodded. “And the other?”

“A tall man,” said Halaam, “the sort who finds favor easily with women. He wore fancy clothing, too, a fine black coat. Like a nobleman’s servant.”