Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 06 - Ghost in the Forge (8 page)

“You are certain of this?” said Caina, remembering the Masked One who had attacked her in Cyrioch. Had he been a full Sage? Or a renegade Seeker who had stolen a mask and a rod? 

“I am,” said Annika. “The Sages ignore lesser men unless threatened…but the Seekers do not. Many of them have burning ambition, and hope to master the secrets of the Sages, return to their homelands, and exact vengeance upon their foes. A few even think to transform themselves into gods through sorcery.”

Caina thought of Maglarion. She knew he had spent decades traveling outside the Empire. Had he studied as a Seeker at one time?

“So,” she said, pushing aside the memories of Maglarion. “You think the Seeker Mihaela is the one who convinced Zalandris to announce this weapon and sell it to the highest bidder?” 

“I am certain of it,” said Annika.

“How?” said Corvalis.

Annika sighed. “Because she is my younger sister.”

Caina blinked in surprise. 

“You see,” said Annika, “my sister and I were born in the Empire, in Varia Province. When the Istarish slavers raided the coasts, she and I were taken captive and sold to a cruel magus living in Cyrica Urbana. Eventually, the Ghost circle helped us escape, and I hoped to make my way back home. But Mihaela…Mihaela had manifested the power. She had talent for sorcery, and wished to learn. But we hated the Magisterium, the College of Alchemists of Istarinmul does not accept women, and the occultists of Anshan kill any women with arcane talent. So we made the long journey to Catekharon, and we have remained ever since.”

“You and your sister are estranged,” said Caina. “Why?”

Annika sighed. “My face. It reminds her that we were once slaves. Her pride has grown with her power. She does not like to be reminded that she was once a slave. We have not spoken in years.” 

“A cruel story,” said Caina. “I am sorry.”

Annika laughed. “Do not mourn for me, Ghost. I was born in a peasant village, and grew up a slave.” She waved her cane at the walls of the shop. “Let not my humble shop fool you. I have more money and influence than you think.” She smiled. “In Catekharon, only the Scholae would dare to cross Annika the Szald.” 

“I can believe that,” said Corvalis.

“Thank you for your help,” said Caina. “The embassy is staying at the Tower of Study. If you learn anything, can you send word at once? Ask for Anna Callenius…and say you have found the silver candlesticks I wished to purchase.” 

“It shall be done,” said Annika. “And a warning, Ghost.”

“What is it?” said Caina. 

“Beware,” said Annika. “My sister has grown ruthless. And this business with the weapon…it is very strange. The Scholae ignores the outside world. For the Scholae to invite embassies, to offer to sell an artifact of their sciences to a foreign prince…it makes no sense. It has never happened in my lifetime, or in the lifetime of anyone I have ever known. Something dangerous is happening.”

“I know,” said Caina. “And I intend to find out what it is. Thank you, Annika.”

She left without another word, Corvalis following. 

If Zalandris or Mihaela had indeed made a weapon of terrible power, Caina would see it dropped into one of the rivers of molten steel.

###

That night Caina sat alone on a wooden balcony, looking at the glow of molten metal rising from the city. Halfdan, Corvalis, and Irene had gone to attend Lord Titus, but Caina had stayed behind to rest. The constant aura of overwhelming sorcery had given her a splitting headache, so bad that white light flashed whenever she closed her eyes.

The Imperial Guard cohort had been housed in a barracks of the Redhelms, Catekharon’s gray-armored soldiers. Lord Titus and his guests had been given fine rooms in one of the strange wooden palaces upon the stone terraces. Caina had never seen anything quite like the palace. The exterior walls had been built of thick wood, but the interior walls had been fashioned of thin wood and paper. The rooms had no doors, only panels of wood and paper that slid aside at a touch. Colorful glass lanterns hung from the rafters, glowing with a sorcerous light. 

Caina rubbed her temples.

Gods, but her head hurt. The aura of sorcery was much, much stronger upon the island, and she felt something of awesome power within the Tower of Study. Caina supposed it was the greater fire elemental that the Masked Ones had bound into their service. That explained both the rivers of molten steel and why the city had never fallen. When summoned, elemental spirits either inhabited a human host or constructed a body out an appropriate substance. With the greater fire elemental, the Masked Ones could summon an army of lesser fire elementals…and the lesser spirits would manifest within the molten steel.

An army fashioned of molten metal, burning its way through foes of flesh and blood, was a terrible thought. 

And if the Masked Ones possessed such power, why would they need any additional weapons? 

She heard the rasp of a footstep against the hallway’s polished floorboards. 

“Mistress?” said a soft voice.

Caina stood, her hand going to one of the throwing knives hidden in her sleeve.

A man of about twenty stood in the doorway, clad in the orange tunic of a slave, a tray in his hands. A steaming kettle and a pair of clay cups rested on the tray. The slave looked Anshani, with dark hair and eyes and olive-colored skin.

“Yes?” said Caina, making herself relax. 

“Your honored father Master Basil has sent me to you, mistress,” said the slave. “He said you did not feel well, and bade me to bring you this.”

Caina smiled. “Tea?”

“No, mistress,” said the slave. “It is called coffee, a drink of Anshan. May I pour it for you?”

“Very well,” said Caina, watching the slave. 

Something about him seemed off. 

Most the slaves she had met had taken great care to never show their emotions around their masters, lest they earn punishment. Yet this man seemed distressed, almost grieved, his eyes red-rimmed. For a moment Caina wondered if he was an assassin, but he looked too nervous.

“If you sit, mistress, I will serve you,” said the slave.

“I will stand, thank you,” said Caina.

The man blinked in surprise. Caina wondered how often he heard someone thank him. He poured a dark, steaming liquid into the cup and handed it to her. “Please, mistress, drink. Your father will be pleased.”

Caina frowned, sniffed the coffee, and took a sip.

“That’s…” She thought it over. “That’s not bad.” 

The slave smiled. “I am glad, mistress.” 

“What is your name?” said Caina.

Again the slave looked startled. “Ah…Shaizid, mistress. I am owned by the learned Zalandris, a Sage of the Scholae, the blessings of the Living Flame be upon him.” 

Caina took another sip of coffee. “This smells like death, but it tastes better than it should.”

All the emotion drained out of Shaizid’s face.

“What?” said Caina, looking around, half-expecting to see a lurking assassin. “What is it?”

“Forgive me, mistress,” said Shaizid, “but I must return to my duties.”

The slave all but fled from the room. 

Caina gave the coffee a dubious look. Had it been poisoned? But if the Masked Ones wanted to kill anyone in the embassy, they would kill Lord Titus, not the younger daughter of a merchant. And even if the Masked Ones had figured out that the Ghosts had infiltrated the embassy, they would start by killing Halfdan.

She looked at the glow of the molten metal and shook her head. If the Masked Ones wanted her dead, they wouldn’t need anything so mundane as poison.

At least the coffee helped her headache.

###

That night Caina dreamed again of the empty plain of gray mist. 

The Moroaica awaited her, her eyes black and cold, a faint smile on her red lips.

“What is it now?” said Caina. “Why have you brought me here?”

The Moroaica shrugged. “I know not. You brought me here.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” said Caina. 

“Whether you did consciously or not,” said Jadriga, “your will summoned me.” Her smile took a mocking edge. “Tonight you did not have that assassin to share your bed and work you to exhaustion.”

Caina said nothing. She knew that Jadriga could see through her eyes and hear through her ears. The thought that Jadriga had seen everything Caina had shared with Corvalis was not something she wanted to contemplate. 

“I suspect,” said the Moroaica, “that your thoughts were upon sorcery as you slept…and so your will reached for me. For I know more about sorcery than any other living being.”

“The Masked Ones might know more,” said Caina.

Jadriga laughed. “The Scholae are fools, little more than relics of Maat. They are mere shadows of the power once wielded by the necromancers of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun.” She tilted her head to the side, considering. “But useful fools nonetheless.”

“Why?” said Caina. “Is this weapon your work?”

“Mine?” said the Moroaica. “I have had no hand in the creation of their miserable little weapon. But they will aid me nonetheless. Soon, child of the Ghosts, soon you will see my great work come to pass…and you will see this corrupt and vile world remade in a new form.” 

She gestured, and Caina sank into a black and dreamless sleep.

Chapter 7 - Sorcerers

The next afternoon Caina realized the rivers of molten steel gave the Masked Ones an important advantage.

They had no shortage of hot water for baths. 

Her room featured an enormous stone tub, large enough for two people. Caina had not taken a proper bath since leaving Cyrioch, and she scrubbed the away accumulated grime and sweat with vigor. After that, she drew a second bath, closed her eyes, and leaned against the side of the tub, enjoying the warmth that soaked into her limbs. 

It almost made her forget her headache. 

She considered inviting Corvalis to join her, but regretfully decided against it. The orange-clad slaves of the Scholae were everywhere, and no matter how unworldly Annika thought the Masked Ones, Caina was sure at least some of the slaves spied for their masters. A mercenary guard slipping into the room of his employer’s daughter might be beneath the notice of the Masked Ones…or it might not. 

And Caina had no doubt the Masked Ones’ spells could pry secrets from the minds of their victims with ease.

After her bath, she dried off before the mirror in her bedchamber and dressed herself. When she had masqueraded as Countess Marianna Nereide, she had the help of servants to dress. Anna Callenius had no such luxury, but fortunately the garb of a merchant’s daughter was less elaborate than that of a noblewoman. Over her shift she donned a blue dress with black trim upon the sleeves and hem, its neckline just high enough to remain within the bounds of propriety. Around her waist went a belt of black leather, holding a single sheathed dagger. She arranged her hair in an elaborate crown, pinned it in place, and donned silver earrings with sapphires and a silver chain around her throat. 

Beneath her sleeves she hid sheathed throwing daggers, and concealed a pair of slender daggers in the sides of her high-heeled boots. 

After she finished, Caina examined herself in the mirror. She saw no trace of a Ghost nightfighter, or of the Balarigar, or a caravan guard, or any of the other myriad disguises she had used. Instead she saw the pretty young daughter of a prosperous merchant, dressed to draw the eye of a powerful and wealthy husband. 

She looked a great deal like her mother.

Caina shuddered. Her mother had often worn blue to match her eyes, just as Caina did.

She put aside the thought and left her room, walking to join the others on the terrace outside the palace. The molten metal illuminated the city in the distance, the waters of the lake rippling in the moonlight. Halfdan and Corvalis stood at the edge of the terrace, while Claudia awaited nearby, clad in a high-collared green gown, jewels sparkling in her ears and golden hair. 

“Ah, daughter,” said Halfdan. “You look lovely. Surely I shall have two wealthy men for sons-in-law by the end of the year.”

Corvalis bowed over her hand and kissed it, a gesture which, Caina noted with amusement, let him look right down the front of her dress. “Yes. My master is indeed a fortunate man.” 

Claudia sniffed. “I would like to think I have more to offer than mere beauty.”

Caina could not decide if that was an insult or not.

“Oh, indeed,” said Halfdan. “A clever daughter is a jewel beyond price. As a jeweler, I ought to know. Now, come. Let us see what kind of weapon the Masked Ones would sell to the highest bidder.” 

###

At the invitation of the Scholae, the various ambassadors and their entourages gathered in the Hall of Assembly, on the ground level of the massive Tower of Study. Lord Titus strode inside, flanked by six of his bodyguards and six of the Imperial Guards. Halfdan followed him, stern and sober in his merchant’s robe, and Caina, Claudia, and Corvalis walked after. Lord Titus wore an expression of Imperial dignity, suitable for a lord of high Nighmarian birth. 

But even Titus Iconias’s stern expression dissolved into astonishment when he saw the Hall of Assembly. 

Caina could not blame him. 

The Hall was huge, easily the size of the Praetorian Basilica in Malarae, its walls and floor and ceiling covered in gleaming white stone. A river of molten steel flowed down the center of the hall, divided by three bridges, and Caina felt the presence of the potent warding spells that kept the heat from cooking everyone in the room. The far end of the hall opened into a vast cylindrical chamber of white stone, and Caina saw a round pool of molten steel shimmering there, covering fully half the floor.

A dozen different streams of glowing metal came from the pool and flowed into different directions, no doubt towards the aqueducts heading for the city itself. 

“Gods,” whispered Claudia. “The amount of sorcerous power it takes to maintain that…the entire Magisterium combined could not manage it.”

Caina believed her. Her skin crawled and tingled, so sharply that it sometimes felt as if she walked into a wind of needles. 

“That is interesting,” said Halfdan, “but at the moment, I more interested in who has respond to the gracious invitation of the Scholae.” 

Caina followed his gaze. A group of Anshani nobles waited near one of the bridges, clad in fine silks and gleaming armor. A large man stood at their head, his hand resting upon the hilt of his scimitar, his face cold and cruel beneath a graying beard. Caina thought the Anshani khadjar looked familiar. 

Then it clicked. 

“That’s Nadirah’s father, isn’t it?” said Caina, remembering the renegade Anshani occultist lurking in the slums of Cyrioch. “Arsakan, the Shahenshah’s brother.”

“Gods, you’re right,” said Corvalis. “I see the resemblance now.”

“If the Shahenshah sent his favorite brother,” said Halfdan, “then he indeed takes this seriously.” 

“They all did,” said Corvalis. “I see embassies from the Kyracians, the Istarish, Alqaarin, the other free cities…” 

“Come,” said Halfdan, glancing to the side. Lord Titus stood speaking with one of the Sages. “The foreign princes will have brought their own merchants and spies. It would be unseemly, of course, for us to approach men of lordly rank. But everyone expects merchants to gossip and seek advantage…and, perhaps, to gain some information?”

“And that,” said Caina, “is how we shall discover the intentions of the other embassies?”

“Did I not say,” said Halfdan, “that a clever daughter is worth more than jewels?”

He strode into the crowds, Caina and the others following.

###

Kylon looked through the Hall of Assembly, trying to keep his arcane senses under control. 

It was difficult.

Power, incredible power, radiated from the pool of molten metal in the round chamber. Kylon knew how in desperation the last Archon of Old Kyrace had broken the binding upon the greater fire elemental beneath the city, destroying both Old Kyrace and the invading Imperial army.

And most of the island upon which Old Kyrace had stood. 

“Gods of the brine,” whispered Cimon. He stood with Alcios of House Kallias, and both men gazed with consternation at the river of molten metal. “Could these Sages have truly harnessed the power of a greater fire elemental?”

“Let us hope so,” said Kylon. “Else the city will explode.”

Both men gave him an alarmed look, and he stifled a grim laugh. 

“No,” said Kylon, “it’s not the Masked Ones who are the danger here. If they wanted to conquer the world with their sorcery, they would have done so already. No, it’s whoever purchases this damnable weapon. That is the true danger. We must ensure that New Kyre obtains the weapon, my lords.”

Both Cimon and Alcios nodded, yet the words felt empty upon Kylon’s lips. The Masked Ones’ weapon, whatever it was, was too powerful for mortal hands to wield. Kylon had seen the cost of seeking such power.

He remembered Andromache dying upon the floor of Scorikhon’s tomb. 

“Come,” said Kylon. “I suppose it is only polite to greet our fellow ambassadors.”

He started across the floor, making for one of the bridges over the molten steel. An honor guard of six ashtairoi accompanied them, their cuirasses and helms polished to mirror brightness. Kylon extended his arcane senses as much as he dared, at least enough to sense the emotions of the men and women around him.

For mortal men were but water…and Kylon’s peculiar talents let him sense it.

Tension, fear, and anger washed over his senses. The various ambassadors maintained airs of polite interest, but Kylon detected their fears. He also felt the vast power gathered in the Masked Ones, and the arcane strength of some of the ambassadors. 

Sorcerers of power had gathered at the Scholae’s invitation. 

His eyes wandered over the embassy from the Empire of Nighmar. Would it come to blows between the Imperials and the Kyracians? Kylon had inflicted a grievous defeat upon the Imperial fleet, and doubtless whatever lord commanded the embassy would recognize Kylon. And if the Kyracian and Imperial embassies fought, the Masked Ones would expel them from the city.

Perhaps that would be for the best. At the least, it would keep the weapon from falling into the hands of the Empire. 

He decided to greet the Anshani embassy first. Anshan sold a great deal of grain to New Kyre, and in exchange, the Kyracian fleets did not harass Anshan’s merchant shipping. If the Shahenshah decided to push away New Kyre, it would be disastrous. 

Kylon spotted the Anshani ambassador, a tall, stern man in scale armor with a gray beard, took a step towards him…and stopped.

Something familiar brushed against his arcane senses.

“Lord thalarchon?” said Alcios.

“A moment,” said Kylon. 

The emotional presence against his senses felt like a sheet of ice covering a pit of lava. Iron self-control and discipline, a mind cold and cunning like a blade of ice. Yet a heart that burned with fury.

“Her,” said Kylon.

The Ghost was here.

###

“Master Basil,” murmured Claudia, her voice urgent. “That man? I think he is an Anshani occultist.”

“How do you know?” said Corvalis.

“Look at his shadow,” said Caina. “Or, rather, his shadows.”

The gaunt man in the elaborate black Anshani robe was seven feet tall, towering even over Arsakan and his anjars. A long gray beard hung to his belt, and his black eyes glittered like disks of stone. Every man and woman in the Hall had a shadow thrown by the molten river’s glow.

The man in the black robe had three of them. They rotated him slowly, like dogs circling around their master. The other Anshani, even Arsakan, kept well away from the shadows. If Caina concentrated, she felt the cold, dark sorcery crackling around the man.

“Gods,” said Corvalis. “Just like Nadirah.”

“That,” said Halfdan, “is not any occultist. That is Yaramzod the Black himself, brother of Arsakan and the Shahenshah, and the most powerful sorcerer in Anshan.” 

“I see why Marzhod was so frightened of him,” said Caina. There was not a hint of mercy or compassion in Yaramzod’s face, only cold contempt and arrogance. 

“Some of the most powerful sorcerers in the world have come at the Scholae’s invitation,” said Halfdan. “You see there, with the Istarish emir? That is Callatas, a master alchemist of Istarinmul’s College of Alchemists. He is at least two hundred years old.”

Callatas was short, his hair hidden beneath an elaborate turban, his white robes crisp and brilliant and glittering with jewels. And like Yaramzod, she saw no trace of mercy or kindness in that proud face. Around the alchemist and the emir stood hulking men in black plate armor, their helms wrought in the likeness of grinning skulls. A pale blue glow came from the eyes of their helmets. They were the Immortals, the elite bodyguards of the Padishah and his favorites, and alchemical elixirs enhanced their strength and speed…but also induced homicidal fury and a sadistic delight in pain.

She remembered fighting the Immortals in the streets of Marsis. For a moment the entire dreadful battle flashed before her eyes. The running and the fighting, the screams of dying men and terrified women. Sicarion’s mocking laugh. Andromache’s lightning ripping from the sky, the freezing mist dancing around Kylon’s sword as he hunted her…

Even as the memories flickered through her mind, she saw the Kyracian embassy walking towards Lord Titus.

And she saw the man leading the Kyracian embassy.

Her expression remained calm, but every muscle in her body tensed, and her hands twitched towards the throwing knives in her sleeves. Halfdan and Claudia, distracted by the embassies, did not notice, but Corvalis did.

“What is it?” he whispered.

Kylon of House Kardamnos was speaking with Lord Titus.

###

Kylon sketched a short bow before Titus Iconias. The stout Nighmarian lord watched him with a cold expression, as did his Imperial Guards.

“I am Kylon, High Seat of House Kardamnos,” said Kylon, “lord thalarchon of the seventh fleet, and Lord Ambassador of the Archons and the Assembly to the Scholae of Catekharon.”

Titus gave the exact same shallow bow, like a man saluting his opponent before a duel. “And I am Titus, Lord of House Iconias, twice Lord Governor of Caeria Majoria, three times Lord Governor of Mardonia Inferior, twice Lord Commander of the Ninth Legion, and the Emperor’s Lord Ambassador to the Scholae of Catekharon.”

“You do me honor,” said Kylon, his eyes scanning Titus’s entourage. 

Where was the Ghost hiding?

“As do you,” said Titus. “We did not expect the Assembly to send the Shipbreaker himself.”

“Some have named me such,” said Kylon. He saw Titus’s own bodyguards and the black-armored Imperial Guards in their plumed helmets. Behind them stood a middle-aged man in merchant’s robe, a pair of young women in rich gowns, and a lean man in chain mail. A Nighmarian merchant, his daughters, and their guard, Kylon surmised. 

No sign of the Ghost.

“And why should they not name you such?” said Titus. “For you have certainly broken a great many of my Emperor’s ships. And my Emperor does not forget such losses.”

“Nor should he,” said Kylon. “Many brave men died.”

His eyes fell upon the younger of the two women. She was short and slender, clad in a black-trimmed blue gown with a plunging neckline, jewels glinting in her ears and at her throat. She looked like a pretty, empty-headed woman with no more ambition than catching a powerful husband. Certainly nothing like the Ghost he had seen in Marsis.