Child of the Ghosts

by Jonathan Moeller

  Caina nodded.

  "In the meantime," said Halfdan, tapping the bundle, "Lord Haeron is bringing a huge shipment of slaves into Malarae, at least a hundred of them. The letters you've found confirm it."

  "What are we going to do?" said Caina.

  Halfdan smiled. "We're going to free the slaves, bring down Lord Haeron, and kill Maglarion. Come along."

  He left the tavern, and Caina followed him.

  ***

  Chapter 26 - Plagueblood

  The great bloodcrystal pulsed, sickly green light spilling out from the edges of the concealing trap.

  Every pulse resonated in Maglarion's blood and bones.

  And every pulse made him stronger.

  He walked to the tower chamber's rain-beaded windows, gazing at the city of Malarae spread out beneath him. Night had fallen, yet still he saw light; the glow surrounding the nobility's mansions, the fiery light of foundries and bakeries, the light from the taverns and the inns. The Grand Kyracian Games would soon begin, and thousands more people had flooded into the city, filling the inns.

  More death.

  Maglarion shivered as he felt the energy from another death drain into the bloodcrystal. A mugging, he thought. Some fool killed for the few coins in his pocket. The fresh power flowing into the bloodcrystal pleased him, but it was insignificant.

  Very soon now, he would pour more power into the bloodcrystal.

  So much more.

  He gazed at the darkened sky, watching the rain fall into the city.

  "Tell me," he said at last, "have you ever thought about the rain?"

  Ikhana crossed to his side, her face expressionless. Save for the ugly glitter in her eyes, of course.

  "Master?"

  "The rain," he said, gesturing at the window.

  Ikhana shrugged. "It falls. It makes it easier to move unseen at night. What of it?"

  "Have you ever considered," said Maglarion, "how it touches everyone in the city?"

  She stared at him in puzzlement.

  "Rich and poor, young and old, the rain falls upon them all," said Maglarion. "Is that not what the poets say? One rainfall can cover an entire city, even one the size of Malarae."

  Ikhana remained indifferent.

  "Tell me something else, then," said Maglarion. "If you wanted to kill everyone in Malarae, how would you do it?"

  Ikhana blinked. "There are a million people in Malarae, Master. Perhaps a million and a quarter, once the Grand Kyracian Games begin."

  Maglarion sighed, whispered a spell, and clenched his fist.

  Invisible force seized Ikhana, flung her to the floor. For a moment his sorcery held her in its crushing grip, and she trembled like a dying rabbit. Then he gestured again, releasing her from the spell.

  "That is not what I asked," said Maglarion, as Ikhana climbed to her knees. "How would you kill everyone in the city?"

  Ikhana licked her lips. "My dagger." She touched the black blade at her belt. "I would go into the street, kill the first man, woman, or child I saw. And I would kill, and kill, and kill, until they were all dead, until their life energies filled me."

  "Eloquent as ever," said Maglarion. "But what if you wanted to kill them all at once? Every last man, woman, and child in the city, all dying in the same moment. How would you do it?"

  For a moment confusion touched her empty face. "It...is not possible, Master."

  "Is it?" said Maglarion. "What if one were to, let us say, poison the rain itself? The rain that falls upon rich and poor and young alike? What would happen then?"

  "Such a thing is impossible." said Ikhana. "Not without the aid of great sorcery..."

  Her voice trailed off, her dark eyes glancing at the bloodcrystal beneath its tarp.

  Then a smile, like a corpse's rictus, covered her face.

  "You're going to kill them all," she breathed.

  "Bring me a goblet," said Maglarion.

  Ikhana hastened to do his bidding.

  She did not know, of course, that she would die with the rest of them. Maglarion hoped to see her expression once she realized it. She had been an excellent servant, after he had broken her will. But once he finished, once he cast the final spell upon the Maatish scroll and left the flesh behind...he would have no further need of servants.

  Ikhana returned with a pewter goblet. Maglarion took it, crossed to the great bloodcrystal, and threw back the tarp. Green flames writhed in the crystal's depths, and he saw faces, countless faces, swimming in the darkness. The faces of all those whose life energies had drained into the bloodcrystal.

  He drew a dagger, scraped it across the bloodcrystal's side, and held out the goblet.

  Black blood oozed and bubbled from the gash, and spilled into the goblet. The gash soon closed, repaired by the bloodcrystal's vast reservoir of power, but not before the black blood filled the goblet. It lay in the cup like liquid darkness, darker than the night, darker than the bloodcrystal.

  The pewter corroded at its touch.

  "What is it, Master?" said Ikhana.

  "Death," said Maglarion. He smiled and lifted the goblet towards her. "Pestilence. Would you to care to drink?"

  She shied away from it, hand twitching towards her dagger. As well she should. The black blood could not harm Maglarion. His link with the great bloodcrystal protected him. But if Ikhana drank it, if even the smallest drop touched her skin, she would die. Neither the dagger nor stolen life energy could save her from the substance in the goblet.

  "You're certain, my dear?" said Maglarion, stirring the black blood with a finger. She had acquired a sensitivity to arcane energies decades ago, and no doubt she felt the dark power within the goblet. "You don't wish to drink? Truly?"

  "No," whispered Ikhana, and the hint of fear he saw upon her face pleased him.

  "Wise of you," murmured Maglarion, setting the goblet upon a table.

  Ikhana glanced at the doorway. "Lord Haeron is coming."

  "I know," said Maglarion.

  She looked at him, nostrils flaring. "You will kill him?"

  He would. And soon.

  "Not quite yet," said Maglarion.

  The door opened, and Haeron Icaraeus strode into the tower chamber, proud and confident in his finery...and his newfound vigor and youth.

  How Maglarion looked forward to watching the pompous fool die.

  "My lord Haeron," said Maglarion, sweeping into a grand bow. "I was hoping to speak with you soon."

  "Oh?" said Haeron. "Why is that?"

  "Because," said Maglarion, "I have devised the means by which I shall kill the Emperor for you."

  That was true, at least. The Emperor would die.

  Along with many other people.

  "How?" said Haeron, rubbing his hands together.

  "The Emperor is guarded, as you know, night and day by the Imperial Guard," said Maglarion. "And his regalia of office was created by the magus-emperors of the Fourth Empire, and protects him from almost all forms of sorcery." He gestured at the goblet. "But it will not protect him from this."

  Maglarion knew that one of the Emperor's rings protected him from sorcery, and another from most poisons.

  But his rings could not stop a plague.

  "What is it?" said Haeron, reaching for the goblet.

  Ikhana grinned.

  That alone made Haeron freeze in place.

  "I would not touch that, my lord," said Maglarion, "if I were you."

  "Is it...poison?" said Haeron, peering at the blackness in the goblet. "The Emperor's regalia shields him from poison."

  "But not from this," said Maglarion. "It is not a poison. Think of it as a...plague, my lord, for lack of a better word. Anyone who drinks a single drop of this...plagueblood, or has a single drop touch his skin, will die. And there is no defense, no cure, no medicine that will stop it."

  Haeron scowled. "But will it not be obvious that someone poisoned the Emperor?"

  "Not at all," said Maglarion. "The Emperor is in his sixties. An old man." Maglarion
, who had lived for four centuries, smiled at the thought. "It will look as if some pestilence claimed him."

  A pestilence unlike any ever seen before.

  "Yes," murmured Haeron, stroking his beard. "It could be done. It could indeed be done. He does not even have to drink it, you say? It need only come in contact with his skin? That would simple to arrange. One of the Kindred could do it, certainly."

  "And then Emperor Alexius would die," said Maglarion, watching the lust burn in Haeron's eyes. "The lords of the Empire would gather to elect his successor. And your path to the Imperial throne would be clear."

  "We should wait until the Grand Kyracian Games," said Haeron. "Most of the nobles will have gathered in the city for the Games anyway. I can take the throne in short order, then."

  "My thought exactly," said Maglarion, keeping his smile hidden.

  "Good," said Haeron. "Think of the great works I shall perform as Emperor! The magi shall return to a position of respect. Slavery will once again bring prosperity and order. And an immortal Emperor and a council of immortal nobles shall rule over the Empire forever. With your help, of course. When I sit upon the Imperial throne, you shall have whatever reward you wish."

  Maglarion bowed again. "The gratitude of the Emperor, and the opportunity to practice the arcane sciences, is all the reward I require."

  Even that was true, as well.

  "Though I should like to test it, first," said Haeron, "before we risk it upon the Emperor himself."

  "As you wish, my lord," said Maglarion. He had no objection. Death only made him stronger, after all. "One of the slaves in the next shipment."

  "No," said Haeron, smiling. "I have better idea. Someone has failed me, and I wish to make an example of him."

  Maglarion listened, intrigued, and laughed aloud when Haeron finished.

  Haeron was a fool...but even a fool sometimes spoke wisdom.

  ###

  A few hours later Lord Alastair Corus walked into Haeron's study.

  His eyes were bloodshot, his face unshaven, his clothes rumpled. He looked, Maglarion thought, like a defeated man.

  "Ah," said Haeron, turning from the rain-streaked windows. "Alastair. Do come in, my friend."

  Haeron's study was larger than the houses of many commoners, with a massive oak desk, a thick carpet, and polished shelves filled with books. Maglarion doubted that Haeron had read a single one of them. Flames danced in an enormous marble fireplace, and two overstuffed chairs sat before the fire, a gleaming end table between them.

  A pitcher of wine sat on the table.

  "My lord Haeron," said Alastair, his voice tired. "You wished to see me."

  Maglarion watched from the corner, his presence masked by a simple spell.

  "I did, I did," said Haeron, putting a hand on Alastair's shoulder and guiding the taller man to the chairs. "I understand that you've suffered some...reversals, Alastair. I should like to hear about them."

  Alastair sat down, rubbing his face, and Haeron sat across from him. "You do, do you? Well, here it is. I met a woman."

  "Who?" asked Haeron.

  "Countess Marianna Nereide," said Alastair. "A minor House, from the Saddaic provinces."

  Maglarion had a dim recollection of the name. There had been a House Nereide during the Fourth Empire, though he assumed they had all been killed. No doubt some cousin or another had survived in the provinces to carry on the family name.

  "She was...unlike anyone I had ever met," said Alastair. "I fell for her." He rubbed his face again. "And then Nerina found us...and Marianna stood up to her. I thought...I thought for a moment I could do the same. And then Nerina hung herself. Marianna...Marianna must have been so frightened that she fled. Someone knocked over a candle and my townhouse burned."

  He lapsed into silence.

  "The...papers describing our business dealings?" said Haeron.

  "Gone," said Alastair. His mouth twisted in a bitter grin. "You needn't fear exposure. They were in my desk, and there's nothing left of my desk but ashes."

  "Good," said Haeron. "If those papers had been lost, I would have been forced to see to your ruin, my friend, just as I did for poor Macrinius."

  Alastair nodded, indifferent.

  "But this is still a very grave scandal," said Haeron. "Nerina's father is furious, and demanded that I bring you to ruin. Let me be blunt, Alastair. It is in your own best interest that you leave the capital, and return to the field with the Eighteenth Legion. I'm afraid you will be unable to return to Malarae for some time."

  "I know," said Alastair.

  "But who knows what the future may hold?" said Haeron. "Any man may rise high in the Legions. Perhaps one day you shall return as Lord Commander of the Eighteenth, fresh from a victory over the northern barbarians."

  It was all Maglarion could do not to laugh.

  "Perhaps," said Alastair.

  "I suggest you leave tomorrow," said Haeron. "And a with a drink, of course, to see you off."

  Maglarion released his spell and stepped forward, holding a goblet. He filled the goblet from the pitcher, the red wine sparkling in the fire's light.

  Strange, considering the drop of plagueblood he had mixed with the wine.

  "Very well," said Alastair, taking the goblet. "I wish...I just wish I knew where Marianna had gone. That I could explain things to her." He took a long drink of the tainted wine.

  "Of course," said Haeron, leaning forward.

  "Could you find her?" said Alastair. "I could write her a letter, and..."

  His eyes fell on Maglarion, and his voice trailed off.

  "You," he whispered. "You're that sorcerer..."

  All at once his hands began to shake. The goblet fell from his hands, the wine spilling into the thick carpet. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his skin turning splotchy.

  Alastair began to scream, and Maglarion laughed.

  ***

  Chapter 27 - The Bait

  The warehouse had weathered brick walls and a roof of red clay tiles, like thousands of others crowding the docks of Malarae.

  But most warehouses did not have a pair of Istarish guards pacing back and forth before the locked doors, hands resting on the hilts of their swords, their eyes scanning the night.

  Caina crouched in the shadows across the street, watching the guards from behind a stack of empty barrels.

  She wore the black clothes she had received at the Vineyard, a black mask covering her face, and her shadow-woven cloak around her shoulders, the cowl up. Knives rested in her belt, and her daggers in their boot sheaths.

  Her father's ring hung from its cord around her neck, hidden beneath her shirt. Riogan had laughed at that, but she did not care.

  She remained motionless, watching the guards. They looked very much like the Istarish slavers who had held her captive seven years past; the same sort of leather armor, the same style of swords, the same merciless eyes. Perhaps they had even come from the same group of slave traders. Hard men, she knew, men who knew how to use their weapons.

  But clearly they did not expect any trouble. They barely walked twenty paces from the warehouse's entrance, and did not bother to circle the building. Sometimes they stopped and talked for few moments in quiet voices.

  Caina waited.

  One of the guards strolled towards the pile of barrels, gazing down the street at the harbor, and Caina saw her chance. She glided forward, dagger low in her hand, boots making no noise against the ground. Four quick steps, and she was behind the guard, the shadow-cloak flowing around her like living darkness.

  She slapped a gloved hand over his mouth and cut his throat.

  Blood splashed over his leather armor, and Caina’s hand absorbed his scream. He tried to fight back, but Caina kicked out, tangling her leg in his, and the guard lost his balance.

  He did not get up again.

  Caina straightened up just in time to see Riogan finish the second guard. Like Caina, he wore all black. He also wore a shadow-cloak, and it blurred the edges of
his form, making him merge and vanish into the darkness. Sometimes she had a hard time even seeing him.

  “Hide the bodies,” said Riogan, his voice a quiet rasp.

  Caina nodded, dragged her dead guard to one of the empty barrels, and stuffed him inside. Riogan paused long enough to pluck a ring of keys from his dead guard’s belt, and then hid the corpse in the alley alongside the warehouse.

  Then he beckoned, and she followed.

  They did not go through the warehouse’s front doors, circling instead to the back. Riogan produced a rope and grapnel and flung it. The grapnel caught on the roof tiles, and Riogan scrambled up the rope, Caina following. Four square holes stretched in a line down the center of the roof. Light wells, no doubt, to spare the warehouse’s owners the expense of illumination.

  They crept to the edge of the nearest well and looked down.

  Right away the stink hit Caina’s nostrils.

  The interior of the warehouse looked like a cattle pen, but instead of cows and mules, the wooden stalls held people. Each stall contained five or six naked men and women, chained together by collars around their necks. Utter despair crushed their features, and some wept quietly. A dozen Istarish slavers stood guard. Some wandered back and forth in the aisles between the stalls, while seven of them sat at a table, drinking and playing cards.

  Just as they had done in the cellar below Macrinius’s mansion.

  Neither the guards nor the slaves saw them. They didn’t look up. No one ever looked up.

  Riogan pointed, and Caina followed him.

  They stopped at the light well by the warehouse’s far wall. There were more stalls below, Caina saw, but this end of the warehouse was otherwise deserted. She unhooked her own rope and grapnel from her belt, drove the grapnel’s claws into the clay tiles, and let the rope fall.

  Still no one noticed.

  She slithered down the rope, dropped into a crouch behind some empty crates, and waited. No sounds of alarm came from the guards. Caina counted to a hundred, and then beckoned to Riogan. He came down the rope in a controlled fall, his boots making no sound when they struck the floor, and crouched besides her.

  “They’re drinking from a barrel next to the lantern,” hissed Riogan into her ear. “Poison it.”

  “And the others?” whispered Caina.

  “Take them one by one. Hide the bodies in the empty stalls.”

  That would be difficult. But half the slavers were already drunk, and the other half looked careless. No doubt they thought that Lord Haeron Icaraeus’s influence would shield them from interference.