Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone (39 page)

Caina laughed. “Indeed.”

“I’ll leave a note for Claudia and Theodosia,” said Corvalis. “After one of Lord Khosrau’s dinners, they’ll likely sleep until noon anyway.” 

He pulled on his clothes and left as Caina dressed herself. A mirror stood on the table, and she examined herself. Her black hair was a mess, and she needed a bath, but she looked like any other commoner walking the streets of Cyrioch. Dark circles ringed her blue eyes. The last few days had been exhausting…and she hadn’t gotten very much sleep last night.

Her reflection smiled back at her. 

She strapped throwing knives to her forearms beneath her sleeves, checked the daggers in her boots, and tied a blue headcloth over her hair, lest the Cyricans take offense. Corvalis returned, turned her from the mirror, and kissed her.

“They’re both asleep,” said Corvalis. “Shall we?”

Caina nodded and took a rope and grapnel from the tablet. “Out the window?”

“Why?” said Corvalis. 

“So we can slip away unnoticed,” said Caina. She lifted an eyebrow. “Unless you think you can’t keep up?”

“Watch me.”

###

They walked through the Plaza of the Defender, Caina’s arm resting in Corvalis’s. The morning sun reflected off the whitewashed walls of the shops, and crowds hurried through the Plaza, men going about their business, women visiting the shops, slaves in orange attending to their masters. The sight of the slaves angered Caina. With Lord Governor Armizid Asurius’s plot defeated, Cyrica would remain in the Empire, yet Cyrioch’s slaves would remain in their chains.

Still, it was pleasant to walk arm-in-arm with Corvalis through the crowds. 

“Fisherman,” said Caina, looking at a man in salt-stained clothing.

Corvalis snorted. “A guess. He could be a porter or a shipwright.” He wore chain mail and leather, and looked like a caravan guard or perhaps a mercenary soldier.

“Neither,” said Caina. “He walks like a sailor. A porter or a shipwright would be at work this time of day.”

“So would a fisherman at this hour,” said Corvalis. “They wouldn’t have yet come in with the catch.”

“They wouldn’t have,” said Caina, “because the tides are wrong for fishing at this time of the month. The fishermen won’t put out for another day. That fellow has the day off, and he’s on his way to the Ring of Valor or the hippodrome to enjoy the games.” 

Corvalis opened his mouth to argue…and then the man in the salt-stained clothing turned in the direction of the Ring of Valor, revealing the sheathed scaling knife at his belt. 

“Very clever,” said Corvalis with a laugh. “How about that slave?” He looked at a stout middle-aged man in a slave’s orange robe hurrying across the plaza. 

“A seneschal,” said Caina. “Probably for a wealthy merchant. He doesn’t belong to a noble house, since his robe has no sigil. And he’s a seneschal, since he’s too fat to have done manual labor for years. He’s going to one of the shops to…yes, complain about a late order. You see that paper under his arm? That’s the invoice. His master made an order and it hasn’t been fulfilled. So his master sent the seneschal to sort it out.”

“Perhaps he’s simply going to pick up his master’s order,” said Corvalis.

“No,” said Caina. “See how he gets angrier the closer he gets to that jewelers’ shop? He’s going to throw a fit. Slaves don’t get to show anger often, and I think the poor man is going to enjoy having a fit of righteous indignation on his master’s behalf.” 

Corvalis shook his head. “You have a mind like a razor. To think I once thought to keep my business in Cyrioch secret from you.” He squeezed her hand. “Just as well that I failed.” 

Caina smiled, and they kept walking.

He led them to a deserted side street lined with less prosperous shops, and stopped at a wooden cart. A brazier topped with a metal grill stood atop the cart, its interior filled with smoldering coals. An old man puttered at the grill, humming to himself as he arranged sausages. Corvalis cleared his throat, and the old man looked up with a smile. 

“Ah, young master!” said the old man in Cyrican. “It is good to see you again!” He lowered his voice. “Have you heard the news?”

“What news is that, Barimaz?” said Corvalis.

“Both Lord Governor Armizid and the preceptor Ranarius plotted to murder old Lord Khosrau,” said Barimaz, “and claim Cyrica for themselves.”

“Truly?” said Corvalis, feigning astonishment. “Alas for Lord Khosrau!”

Barimaz shook his head. “Aye! Lord Khosrau kept the Cyrican provinces in order for thirty years, and his ungrateful son tries to murder him. Alas for the ingratitude of children!”

“I had heard,” said Caina in Cyrican, giving her voice a singsong lilt, “that the Balarigar descended upon the Palace of Splendors and slew Lord Armizid with his own hands.”

“The Balarigar!” said Barimaz with a wheezing laugh. “Just a legend of those Szaldic barbarians, my dear.”

“I heard,” said Corvalis, “that the Ghosts assassinated Armizid.” 

“The Ghosts!” said Barimaz with another laugh. “You young folk and your fanciful tales. The Ghosts are a story.” 

Corvalis kept his face calm, but she felt the twitch in his arm as he stifled a laugh.  

“Two rolls,” he said, handing over some coins, “if you have them.”

“I do, young master, I do,” said Barimaz, making the coins disappear. He worked for a moment, and then handed Corvalis two rolls of flaky brown bread. Corvalis kept one and handed the other to Caina.

She gave it a dubious look.

“Fear not, dear lady,” said Barimaz. “Barimaz uses only the finest ingredients, and if I lie, may the gods of the desert send their vultures to feast upon my entrails.”

“Charming thought,” said Caina, and she took a bite. “That’s…a lot better than I thought it would be!”

“Aye,” said Corvalis. He was already halfway through his roll. “When I went about my business in the city, I needed food to carry with me.” He finished the roll and brushed the crumbs from his fingers. “Certainly better than jerky and hard biscuits.”

Caina swallowed another bite, opened her mouth to answer…and saw the man staring at her from across the street.

He was about fifty, gaunt and lean, his face unshaven, his brown hair streaked with gray. His clothes looked as if they had once been expensive, but were dusty and tattered. He leaned heavily upon a cane in his right hand.

Caina glanced at him, but his eyes never wavered.

She turned, looked at Corvalis, and saw his faint nod. 

The man with the cane limped across the street, his cane tapping against the cobblestones. He stopped at Barimaz’s cart, and Caina stepped to Corvalis’s side, reaching for the knives hidden in her sleeve. For a moment she wondered if the man would simply buy a sausage roll.

But his blue eyes focused upon her.

“You were speaking,” he said in flawless Cyrican, “of the Balarigar?”

Caina smiled at him. “But, sir, I don’t know what to say. It’s just a story I heard. They say there are djinni in the Sarbian desert and serpents in the deeps of Cyrican Sea. But I don’t know if that’s true or not.”

The man frowned. “That word. Balarigar. Do you know it? It is from the Szaldic tongue. It means…the slayer of demons, the hunter of darkness.”

“I am sorry, sir,” said Caina, “but I was born in Malarae, and came to Cyrica Urbana with my father as a child. The only Szalds I’ve ever seen have been a few slaves. I don’t know anything about Szaldic legends.”

Perhaps he was just a lonely scholar, eager to lecture an unwilling audience. But his eyes did not waver, and Caina had the sudden feeling that the man was much older than he appeared.

Suddenly he reminded her of Jadriga, and she felt a tingle of alarm. 

“They’re real, you know,” said the man. “All the Szaldic legends. All their tales of blood and horror. They’re all real.”

Caina knew that very well. She had seen the black pit below Marsis. She had seen Jadriga’s mighty sorcery.

And she knew what had become of Jadriga’s spirit.

“Be off with you,” said Corvalis. “There’s no need to frighten her with Szaldic ghost stories.” 

“They’re not,” whispered the man with the cane, “stories.”

Corvalis’s smile showed teeth. “Come now, fellow. No need for this to get unpleasant.” His hand dropped to his sword hilt. “Be. Off.”

Barimaz looked back and forth, blinking. 

“Very well,” said the man with the cane.

He limped away. 

“Peculiar,” murmured Corvalis. “Do you recognize him?”

“No,” said Caina, “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Forgive me, young sir,” said Barimaz, “but if this man is an enemy of yours, I ask that you kill him away from my cart. Killing draws the attention of the militia, which would be most unwelcome.” 

“No fear, Barimaz,” said Corvalis. “We’ll…”

The man with the cane reached into his coat, drew something out, and lifted it to his face. 

“Look,” hissed Caina. 

A jade mask covered the features of the man with the cane. The mask had been carved with a face of inhuman beauty, its features serene. A ring of peculiar glyphs encircled the mask, stylized images of animals and birds and men, symbols that tugged at Caina’s memory.

She had seen those symbols somewhere before.

“What the devil?” said Corvalis.

The man in the jade mask lifted his cane, and it broke in half, the wood clattering on the street. He was left holding a rod of a peculiar silvery metal, about two feet long, its length carved with more of those odd symbols. 

“Yes,” said the masked man, his voice distorted behind the jade lips. “You are her. I should have known.” 

“Enough,” said Corvalis, starting to draw his sword. “Identify…”

The man flicked his wrist, and Caina felt the crawling tingle of sorcery. She had been scarred by a necromancer of terrible power in her youth, and ever since she had been able to sense the presence of arcane force. The sensitivity had sharpened as she grew older, and now she could distinguish between the kind and magnitude of spells.

The silver rod in the masked man’s hand radiated tremendous power. 

White light flared around the rod, and both Barimaz and Corvalis fell limp to the ground. Caina shot a look at them, keeping her eyes on the masked man. Both Corvalis and Barimaz were both still alive, but unconscious. Yet in Corvalis’s sleeve she glimpsed a glimmer of white light.

His tattoos. Would they have resisted the masked man’s spell?

“You killed them!” shouted Caina, hoping to distract his attention from Corvalis.

“I did not,” said the masked man, stepping towards her. His right leg twitched and trembled. Apparently he had needed that cane. “I don’t know what vile use you had in mind for that Kindred assassin, but it matters not. Whatever design you planned for Cyrioch will not come to pass.”

“Design?” said Caina. “What are you talking about?”

She snatched a frying pan from Barimaz’s cart and stepped to the side. 

“Enough,” said the masked man, pivoting to follow her. “We have played this game too many times before, but this time, I have the better of you.”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” said Caina, talking another step to the side. 

The masked man turned to follow her, keeping the rod pointed at her chest…and turned his back on Corvalis.

She saw his eyes open. 

“Your latest death will not undo the harm you have caused,” said the masked man, “but it least it will stop you from wreaking future harm. For a time.” 

Corvalis rolled to a crouch and drew his sword. 

“For the gods’ sake,” said Caina. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Could you at least tell me what this is all about before you kill me?” 

“A likely trick,” said the man. His rod flared with white light, and Caina felt the surge of sorcerous power.

Corvalis jumped to his feet, and the masked man turned to face him, leveling the silver rod at his chest.

Caina gripped the frying pan like a discus and flung it with all her strength. It slammed into the masked man’s bad leg. The masked man dropped him to one knee, a pale pulse of white light spitting from his rod, but the blast missed Corvalis to splash against the side of Barimaz’s wagon.

Corvalis lunged forward and buried his sword in the masked man’s chest. The man toppled backwards without a sound, the rod and mask falling away. Corvalis released his sword and stepped back, and Caina hurried to his side, shooting a quick look around the street.

No one had noticed the fight. 

“Damn it,” said Corvalis, looking at the dying man. “I should have taken him alive.” He reached for the silvery rod. 

“No!” said Caina. “Don’t touch it! There’s a spell on it. I don’t know what it will do to you.”

Corvalis stepped away from the rod. All at once Caina remembered where she had seen the symbols before. They were Maatish hieroglyphs, the same kind that adorned the ancient scroll her father had found. 

The ancient scroll that had led to his death, that Maglarion had almost used to destroy Malarae.

Caina looked at the dying man. Blood bubbled at his lips, and his skin had turned gray.

“Who are you?” she said.

The man glared at her, his blue eyes full of pain and fear.

“Moroaica!” he spat, and then died.

Follow this link to continue reading GHOST IN THE FORGE.

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER’S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

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