“You saved me from the stone and from Mihaela,” said Claudia, “and you outwitted Rhames. I will listen to whatever you say.”
“Aye,” said Martin, and Talekhris and Harkus echoed it.
Corvalis barked his harsh laugh. “I already do whatever you tell me anyway. Why stop now?”
Caina blinked, her eyes stinging. They trusted her. She did not deserve it.
Halfdan had trusted in her, and that had not saved him.
The distant blast of a trumpet cut into her thoughts.
“The ceremony will begin soon,” said Ark. “Lord Martin and I need to assemble with the other nobles. If we don’t, Lord Aeolus will get suspicious.”
Caina nodded. “We had best go.”
“May the gods of war and battle be with us,” said Martin.
“I hope they are,” said Caina. “We shall need all the help we can get.”
Chapter 15 - A Mask of Gold
Kylon walked across the Agora of Archons, Thalastre on his side.
He wore his stormdancer’s gray leather, sword ready at his side, his sea-colored cloak hanging from his shoulders. Thalastre wore a new stola of green silk, her hair arranged in an elaborate crown, her jewelry glittering.
The chief nobility of the Kyracian people assembled below the Pyramid of Storm. Kylon took his place with the other Archons behind Tiraedes, the senior Archon and Speaker of the Assembly. The thalarchons and officers of the fleets gathered nearby, along with the stormsingers and stormdancers. Alcios stood with Thalastre’s father, speaking in a low voice, while Cimon waited with the grim silence of a soldier preparing to face battle.
In a way, Kylon supposed, it was like a battle, but with words and courtesies instead of swords and spears. The Empire and New Kyre were like two tavern brawlers unable to overcome each other, finally agreeing to an uneasy truce rather than waiting until they bled to death. Yet it was still a battle.
Still, Kylon supposed, it was harder to kill a man with words than with blades.
But if anything went wrong, if Sicarion arrived and killed the Emperor or one of the Archons, the swords and spears would come out.
He shook his head. His arcane senses detected the tension around him, the fear and the grim determination, and it was affecting his mood.
“You are wary, husband,” said Thalastre in a low voice, her calm mask unwavering as she looked around them.
There was no use trying to hide his mood from her. “I am. The Ghosts we met in Malarae are not fools. If they say there is a threat, then there is.”
Thalastre nodded. “We shall be on our guard.”
“Sicarion would kill you,” said Kylon, “if he gets the chance.”
Thalastre blinked. “Oh? Have I wronged him?”
“I fought him in Marsis, the day the war started, and again in Catekharon,” said Kylon, “and he got away from me both times. He is the kind of man to hold a grudge. If he gets a chance, he will kill you. And he will kill you just to spite me. The way he killed those Ghosts in Malarae to spite Caina.”
“I shall be cautious, husband,” said Thalastre. She sniffed. “And if this Sicarion fool thinks to lift his hand against me, we shall see he likes the taste of a stormsinger’s lightning.”
“If he shows himself, do not underestimate him,” said Kylon. “I did, at first, and he almost slew me.”
“We will be careful,” said Thalastre, “but for all his power and cunning, he is only one man. We are surrounded by hundreds of ashtairoi and the most powerful stormsingers of New Kyre. The Emperor has his Imperial Guards and his magi. If Sicarion tries anything, if he kills anyone, he will not make it three steps before he is cut down.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Kylon.
Yet the unease would not leave him, and not all of it came from the emotions of the men and women around him.
The same feeling had come to him before entering Catekharon, the certainty that the Sages’ offer was a trick in some way he could not see. The same feeling came to him every time he entered a battle he wasn’t certain he could win, a battle where he was sure he had overlooked some vital detail about the enemy.
Something important.
But what?
He glanced at the Pyramid of Storm. There had been no word from the Surge or her priestesses for weeks. That was odd – the Surge usually sent one priestess to witness significant events in the history of the Kyracian people. But she was inscrutable, and followed no laws but the will of the mysterious future she served.
If she chose not to send an emissary, that was her own affair.
The trumpets rang out.
“Time to go, husband,” Thalastre said, squeezing his arm.
Kylon nodded, and they joined the other Archons as they marched to escort the Emperor of the Nighmarian Empire to the Agora of Archons.
###
Ark stood motionless, trying not to drop his hand to his sword hilt.
If he did, and someone took it the wrong way, he could start another war.
Lord Martin and Claudia waited nearby. Martin wore the ceremonial armor of a Lord Governor of the Empire, gleaming steel plate and a crimson cloak. Claudia wore a green gown that matched her eyes, and looked like the young, noble-born betrothed of the Lord Governor, not a former sister of the Imperial Magisterium. Yet Ark noted the tension around her eyes, the faint movement of her lips as she cast the spell to sense the presence of sorcery over again.
So far, it seemed, she had sensed nothing.
Fortunately, no one noticed her spells. Dozens of nobles surrounded the Emperor of Nighmar, and Imperial Guards ringed them all. Battle magi of the Magisterium stood ready, clad in black armor of their own, swords and maces waiting at their belts. A ring of ashtairoi blocked off the streets leading to the Agora of Nations, holding back the crowds. Thousands had come out to gawk at the foreign nobles, to see the war end.
And Sicarion could hide among them so easily.
It reminded Ark of standing in the front lines of the Legions as they waged war against the barbarian nations of the north, of standing and waiting as the enemy ran screaming at them.
He looked at the main avenue leading to the Agora of the Archons, and saw the Assembly of New Kyre marching towards them, escorted by ashtairoi.
Ark rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, and waited.
###
Caina shouldered her way through the crowd, not bothering to apologize.
Corvalis helped with that. He was a big man, and could put on a terrifying scowl. The Kyracian commoners and slaves took one look at his face and the weapons at his belt and hastened to get out his way.
“Anything?” murmured Corvalis.
“No, nothing,” said Caina, biting back a curse of frustration.
She had sensed the presence of sorcery, faint but powerful, as they passed the edge of the Agora. But those spells radiated from the high magi and the battle magi who had escorted the Emperor from Malarae. Wards and spells to detect the presence of sorcery, no doubt in case the Kyracians attempted any treachery.
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. Mo
st 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.
Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 09 - Ghost in the Surge Page 18