Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 08 - Ghost in the Mask

by Jonathan Moeller

  But Andromache had been a disciple of the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend, and had launched the invasion to seize the power of a tomb below Marsis. The tomb’s power devoured her, the invasion failed, and Kylon barely escaped with the Kyracian fleet, his mind heavy with the knowledge that he was now the High Seat of House Kardamnos.

  And in the two years since, New Kyre had fought the Empire in a war that Andromache had started for her own aggrandizement.

  Most of New Kyre thought House Kardamnos would fall into disgrace after Andromache’s defeat, but Kylon had reversed that. He had won victory after victory against the Emperor’s fleets. At last the Assembly had appointed him thalarchon of the Seventh Fleet, and he had utterly crushed the Empire’s western fleet.

  The prestige of House Kardamnos had been restored.

  Yet Kylon still needed to wed. His parents had been murdered when he was a child, and his only sister had died in Marsis. He was the last legitimate scion of House Kardamnos, and his cousins could not inherit the title if he died.

  He needed a legitimate heir.

  So he planned to wed, to find a bride from among the nobles of New Kyre. His victories raised his prestige among the citizens of the Assembly, and he had expected no trouble finding a suitable wife among them.

  He had not, however, expected to fall in love.

  And so Kylon found himself on the balcony of his chambers in the Tower of Kardamnos with Thalastre of House Ixionos.

  Her father was the Exarch of Kyrant, one of the Kyracian colonies on the islands of the western sea. The Exarch was a stern and pitiless man, and House Ixionos was rich in prestige but poor in wealth. When the Exarch offered his daughter, Kylon had expected either a humorless spinster with the Exarch’s disposition and features, or a wild-haired island savage.

  He had certainly not expected someone like Thalastre.

  “More wine, my lord?” said Thalastre.

  “Please,” said Kylon, lost in his thoughts.

  One of the middle-aged female slaves Thalastre had brought from Kyrant stepped onto the balcony, a carafe of wine in her hands. The balcony had a fine view of the central distracts of New Kyre, the ziggurats of the noble houses, the canals gleaming like ribbons of steel between their bases. Beyond rose the massive Pyramid of the Storm, where the Assembly met to govern the Kyracian people. Past the Pyramid he saw the vast expanse of New Kyre’s harbor, the finest in the world, its entrance guarded by two massive statues of ashtairoi that doubled as both lighthouses and fortresses.

  The wealthiest city in the world…and in danger of falling to the Empire without a single drop of blood.

  Kylon’s power with the sorcery of water gave him the ability to sense emotions, and the emotions rising from the city were…strained. Men feared the future, feared war and famine…

  The slave poured the wine.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The slave blinked in surprise, smiled, and lowered her eyes. Kylon had grown up around slaves, had been served by them all his life. Then he had met that cold-eyed Ghost woman in Marsis. To save her friend’s son from the life of a slave, she had killed Rezir Shahan and thrown the attack upon Marsis into disarray.

  She had changed the fate of nations, all to save her friend’s son from a slave’s collar.

  Ever since then, Kylon could not be comfortable around slaves.

  “You seem grim, my lord,” said Thalastre. “Does the wine displease you?”

  “It does not,” said Kylon, taking a sip. “I have already drunk far too much of it, given that I must address the Assembly tomorrow. But it is excellent wine.”

  “Caerish,” said Thalastre, “from the vineyards near Caer Marist, I understand. My father obtained a stock of it before the war began.” She laughed. “For all that he detests the Empire, he enjoys his Caerish wine.”

  “A surprising man, the Exarch,” said Kylon. “Perhaps he passed it on to you.”

  She smiled. “You found me surprising, my lord thalarchon?”

  “Constantly,” said Kylon.

  He looked at her for a moment. She was twenty-three, five years younger than him, with curly black hair that hung in waves to her hips. She was fit and trim, which had surprised him in an Exarch’s daughter, until he learned she enjoyed hunting the truculent seals that swam the seas near Kyrant.

  And she was a stormsinger, a powerful one. Not as skilled or as powerful as Andromache, but Kylon’s sister had been unique among her generation. When the Empire’s western fleet had launched a raid upon Kyrant, Thalastre had turned the winds against them, smashing their vessels against the rocks as lightning sundered their masts and set their sails aflame, and the Empire’s battle magi had not been strong enough to stop her. Kylon had expected Thalastre to be plump and spoiled, yet she was confident and capable.

  And she was beautiful, too.

  “I am pleased,” said Thalastre, her dark eyes gleaming, “that you do not find me dull and predictable.”

  Kylon took another drink. “I could say that, but I am afraid you would call the lightning to chastise me. A woman’s temper is ever volatile…but not all women can summon the storm to show their displeasure.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You have a bold tongue, my lord Kylon. It amuses me.”

  “After some of the things I have seen, my lady,” said Kylon, the wine tingling on his lips, “the fear has been burned out of me. Or I have come to fear too much, and grown numb to it. I am uncertain of the difference.”

  He remembered Andromache shrieking as Scorikhon’s spirit possessed her.

  The Empire’s western fleet burning, the sailors screaming as the sharks swarmed over them.

  The Forge that Mihaela had built in the molten heart of Catekharon, a vile machine of necromancy to enslave living souls to steel.

  “You are so grim, my lord,” said Thalastre. “The war?”

  “Aye,” said Kylon. “The war does not go well.”

  “We have won every battle at sea,” said Thalastre. “You have won many of them.”

  “But those will not bring us victory,” said Kylon. “The Emperor has convinced the Padishah of Istarinmul to close the Starfall Straits to our trade. Soon the treasury of the Assembly will run bare. And worse, he is trying to bribe the Shahenshah of Anshan to cease selling grain to the Assembly. A half million people live in the city, my lady. We cannot feed them all. If the grain shipments end, if we even run out of coin to buy grain…the people will starve. If they starve, they will revolt and overthrow the Assembly, and New Kyre will become another province of the Empire of Nighmar.”

  For long centuries, the Kyracian people had waged their struggle against the Empire of Nighmar. Old Kyrace had perished at the end of the Third Empire, burning in the wrath of an unleashed fire elemental. But New Kyre had remained free, defying the might of the Magisterium during the Fourth Empire, and the Emperor’s fleets and armies during the Fifth.

  It seemed Kylon had lived to see the end of the Kyracian people.

  “Perhaps not,” said Thalastre. “For if the Empire forces us to become desperate, we shall fight as desperate men. The combined might of our stormsingers could alter the patterns of wind and rain over the Empire, and the Magisterium is not skilled enough with the sorcery of wind and rain to defy us. If they cut off our food, we shall bring such a famine upon their heads that men a thousand years from now will hear of it and quake.”

  “And that,” said Kylon, “would trigger a war to drench the world in blood.” Mihaela had almost unleashed such a war from Catekharon.

  “The Emperor must know this,” said Thalastre. “Both the Empire and New Kyre have the power to lay each other waste. Perhaps that can force a peace.”

  “Yes,” said Kylon, his voice heavy. “A peace would be best.” Andromache was remembered as an ambitious failure, an Archon whose reach had exceeded her grasp. But if the Assembly knew the truth, that she had started this ruinous war simply to increase her personal power, she would be reviled as one of the b
lackest traitors in the history of the Kyracian people.

  “Come, my lord,” said Thalastre with a smile, “let us turn our minds from such dark places. It grows chill, and we should withdraw inside.”

  Kylon nodded and got to his feet unsteadily. He had indeed drunk too much wine. Once he would have chastised himself for his lack of self-control, his lapse in discipline. But despite his betrothal, his mood had grown darker lately. He had trusted in Andromache all his life, and she had started the war that he could not win, a war that might destroy New Kyre.

  Why should he not get drunk?

  And Thalastre did have an eye for finding good wine.

  She clapped her hands twice, and the half-dozen slaves who had accompanied her to the Tower of Kardamnos moved into motion with efficiency. They cleaned away the wine cups and retreated into the bedchamber. Four of the women left the room, while two retreated to the corners, one holding a pitcher of water, the other a pair of towels.

  He turned to ask Thalastre why she had sent some of her slaves away, and she slipped out of her garments and stood naked before him.

  Through the sorcery of water, he could sense her emotions, and he felt her lust…and found that it matched his own.

  “Come to me,” she said, “and I will take your mind from your troubles.”

  He was no stranger to women. He had been fifteen when Andromache had purchased a slave woman and sent her to his bed, with the explanation that he would soon be a man of New Kyre, and that he could hardly live with the abstinence of an Anshani monk. He had found the experience a pleasant release, but since the war started, there had been little time for such things.

  But looking at Thalastre, he found that he wanted her as he had wanted little else in his life.

  Kylon cast aside his clothing, picked her up, and carried her to his bed.

  After they had finished, Kylon rolled onto his back, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face. Thalastre sighed in contentment, pushed some loose hair from her face, and levered herself upon on one elbow, the fingers of her other hand tracing the muscles of his chest.

  “I confess,” said Thalastre, “that you were something of a surprise to me as well, my lord. When my father decided to offer my hand in marriage, I thought he would pick some fat old merchant or a grim Archon of the Assembly.”

  “I believe Alcios of House Kallias is unwed again,” said Kylon. “Your father could always betroth you to him.”

  Thalastre laughed. “Gods, no! I would much rather wed you, my lord Kylon. Lord Alcios is a noble man, but utterly humorless, and I doubt he has your…stamina, shall we say.” Her smile was almost shy, which was odd, given what they had spent the last hour doing. “I always thought affection had no place in marriage between nobles. A lord and lady contract a marriage for reasons of political advantage, and the lord takes comfort in his mistresses, and the lady takes joy in her children. Yet…I find I take affection in you, my lord Kylon, and I have come to love you.”

  Kylon blinked. For all her confidence, for all the self-control and poise she had shown in the battle against the Imperials, Thalastre looked like a vulnerable young woman at that moment, her heart in her eyes. It was entirely possible that he was the first man she had ever loved, and almost certainly he was her first lover.

  She would make a fine wife. Assuming that New Kyre did not first fall to the Empire.

  “And I,” said Kylon, “love you, too.”

  Her smile was radiant. “Since we are to be wed, that is just as well.” She kissed him, and then sat up. “Are you thirsty? I am parched.”

  She clapped her hands, and the slaves waiting in the corners stepped forward with a pitcher of water. In the heat of the moment, Kylon had forgotten about them, but he felt a sudden urge to cover himself. Thalastre seemed utterly unconcerned about her nudity, and accepted two clay cups from one of the women.

  “It does not trouble you,” said Kylon, taking the other cup, “to have slaves in the room during the…act?”

  “Well, if they were men, certainly,” said Thalastre. “But a lady must have attendants. And you do not mind, Clymene, do you?”

  “Indeed not, my lady,” said Clymene. “Why, I have six sons myself, so I am no blushing maid. And we are proud to serve the Lord Exarch. He made two of my sons his freedmen, and part of his personal bodyguard.”

  “You see?” said Thalastre.

  Kylon took a sip. “The water isn’t chilled, though.”

  She grinned. “That is my lord’s own fault, for taking so long. But it is easily rectified.”

  Thalastre murmured a song under her breath, and Kylon felt the stirring of her sorcerous strength. The water shivered in its cup, and Kylon felt it grow cold beneath his fingers.

  “A useful little trick,” said Thalastre. “Not as useful as sheathing a sword in frost and wielding against the foes of the city, but still useful.”

  Kylon smiled at her. “Indeed.”

  His smile faded. He sat in luxury, a beautiful woman in his bed, slaves waiting, even eager, to obey his commands.

  What would the Ghost woman think, he wondered, if she saw him like this? Would she kill him for all the slaves House Kardamnos and House Ixionos owned?

  Thalastre’s expression cooled. “You are thinking about her again, aren’t you?”

  He had forgotten that she also had the sorcery of water and could sense his emotions.

  “Yes,” he admitted. Sometimes he regretted having told Thalastre about Caina.

  “I should be offended,” said Thalastre, “that you would think about another woman after what we just did.”

  “Not like that,” he said. Oh, Caina was lovely enough, when dressed as a woman, though only an idiot would admit that to his betrothed. Of course, there were flowers that were lovely, too…and the slightest touch of their poisoned thorns brought agonizing death. “I do not desire her. I fear her.”

  Thalastre titled her head to the side. “Kylon Shipbreaker fears a woman?”

  “This woman, yes, and I admit that without shame,” said Kylon. “You do not understand, my lady. She is not a warrior or a sorceress. But she looks at you and all your secrets are laid bare. She would know what streets you walked by the dust upon your sandals, what merchants you favored by the jewels in your ears, what you had eaten by the crumbs upon your sleeve…and from those secrets she would somehow fashion weapons. She slew Rezir Shahan before his soldiers, and the Szaldic peasants proclaimed her the Balarigar, the slayer of demons, the breaker of chains.”

  The story of the Balarigar was well-known in New Kyre, for the ashtairoi returning from Marsis had whispered tales of the emir’s shadow-cloaked slayer. But House Kardamnos had its own spies, and Kylon had put them to work. They brought him other tales about the Balarigar. How the Balarigar had freed the Szaldic slaves below Marsis, bringing them out of the darkness. How the Balarigar had stopped a revolt in Cyrioch, keeping the Cyrican provinces in the Empire. A mad Alchemist in Malarae, slain by the Balarigar, frightening the Padishah into making peace with the Empire and turning against the Kyracian people. All exaggerated, Kylon was sure.

  But all holding a kernel of truth.

  “Why do you fear her?” said Thalastre.

  “I fear she is an instrument of the wrath of the gods,” said Kylon, “sent to punish the proud for their hubris. Perhaps that is the fate of New Kyre. We have held too many slaves, and the Balarigar will come to free them and throw us down.”

  “You…you would not free us, would you?” said Clymene, alarmed. “My lord, we have nowhere else to go, I would be put out on the street, I…”

  Thalastre raised a hand. “Do not speak out of turn, Clymene. And do not fear. How could I possibly manage without you?” The older woman sighed in relief. “And I think I know, my lord, why this woman disturbs you.”

  Kylon raised his eyebrows.

  “Because you were certain of yourself, as young men are, before going to Marsis,” said Thalastre. “I thought you seemed much older than your ye
ars. Watching your sister’s defeat and nearly losing your life to this Ghost aged you. Before you saw the world in black and white, but now everything is gray. All paths lead to ruin, and you do not know which to choose.”

  “You are,” said Kylon, “wiser than I expected.”

  Thalastre smiled. “Because I am young and fair, I am to have an empty head as well?”

  “Plainly not,” said Kylon.

  “Come, my lord,” she said, reaching for him. “Let tomorrow worry about itself.”

  He let her lower him back to the bed.

  He would worry about tomorrow when it came.

  For he feared it would have evil enough.

  ###

  The next morning Kylon strode into the Agora of the Archons, the massive tiered bulk of the Pyramid of Storm rising a thousand feet over his head. He wore his gray leather armor, his sword of storm-forged steel at his side, a sea-colored cloak hanging from his shoulders. Thalastre walked at his side, clad in a sleeveless stola of blue-green silk, her expression serene.

  The Assembly of New Kyre awaited them, seated upon the tiers of the Pyramid, every citizen with a sufficient amount of property to vote. The nine Archons stood at the base of the Pyramid, solemn in their crimson robes of office. Kylon took his seat among the other thalarchons of the fleet, while Thalastre went to join her father, the grim-faced Exarch of Kyrant.

  Below the Archons’ dais, the priestesses of the Surge completed the ritual sacrifices, imploring the gods of sea and storm to guide the Assembly with wisdom. Once they finished, the Archon in the center, an old man with a silver beard, stepped forward. In theory the Archons were a college of equals. In practice one Archon was elected Speaker of the Assembly, and Tiraedes of House Cyrsalos had been elected Speaker every year since Andromache’s fall.

  “Citizens and magistrates of New Kyre!” said Tiraedes, a stormsinger’s spell amplifying his voice to boom over the Agora. “By my authority as Archon of the city, I have summoned the Assembly to discuss the war against the Empire of Nighmar. The arms of our ashtairoi and the skill of our sailors have won victory after victory against the Empire, yet we are still in danger of defeat.”