Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 08 - Ghost in the Mask

by Jonathan Moeller

  “That, too, is why I am here,” said Maena. “To find some dusty old relics from a long-forgotten battle. Father is ever so keen on finding the long-lost signet ring of House Tulvius from the Third Empire. If I can find and it and bring it to him…perhaps he will find me a husband who neither fat nor impotent.” She looked at Martin and grinned. “A fit, handsome fellow like you, my lord.”

  “Ah…thank you, my lady,” said Martin, a hint of disapproval on his face. The high nobility of the Empire had more than its share of villains and scoundrels, but they valued courtesy and polite speech. Maena employed neither.

  Caina wondered if Maena was drunk. And she wondered why Maena seemed to recognize her…and hate her. Caina had never seen the young noblewoman before. Yet something about her seemed familiar.

  “You will forgive me,” said Caina, “if I ask you some questions. My duties from the First Magus require it.”

  “My all means, mistress,” said Anashir with another smooth bow. “I am at your disposal.” He smiled at her, and Caina wondered if he intended to seduce her.

  Maena sighed. “If I must.”

  “Do either of you,” said Caina, “know a man named Jurius?”

  Maena scowled. “I do. Little ragged scarecrow of a man. He used to come around my camp constantly, whining and begging for work. I sent him away.”

  “I know him,” said Anashir, “and I did business with him. I suspected he was a bit of a rogue, but he had contacts among the local merchants, and my efforts require a steady supply of workmen and tools. Jurius was able to arrange them. Though I fear he has proven unreliable. He disappeared some time ago, and I have not seen him since.”

  “Unsurprising,” said Caina, “since just a fortnight past, he arrived in Malarae and tried to assassinate the Magisterium’s preceptor in Malarae.”

  Anashir’s dark eyebrows rose, and behind him his strange bodyguard’s hands twitched towards his sword. Maena lifted a hand to her mouth in an exclamation of surprise. Caina could not tell if she was hiding her reaction or mocking Anashir.

  “Truly?” said Anashir. “I am surprised. I had marked Jurius as a thief, not a potential assassin.”

  “Did he kill the fat old bastard?” said Maena.

  Caina frowned. “You know the preceptor?”

  “Septimus Rhazion?” said Maena. “Of course I know him. I met him when I was younger.” She smirked. “Pompous, fat old bastard. Pity that Jurius didn’t kill him.”

  “Lady Maena, this is unseemly,” said Martin.

  “Do not mind her, my lord,” said Anashir, like a man indulging a spoiled daughter. “Let her speak out. Let Mistress Rania see Lady Maena for…who she really is.”

  Maena opened her mouth, and then closed it again.

  “And it is distressing, is it not,” said Anashir, “how men of prestige and power must defend themselves against assassination attempts from their inferiors?” He shook his head. “Time and time again we see it played out in history. An orderly, peaceful society is overthrown and destroyed by the rank jealousy of inferiors. A man must protect himself.”

  He beckoned, and the masked figure stepped forward. Both Corvalis and Muravin tensed, but Caina remained motionless. A crawling tingle brushed her skin.

  The active spell upon the hulking warrior was powerful.

  “Your bodyguard, I presume?” said Caina.

  “Precisely so,” said Anashir. “But of a sort. He is my seset-kadahn. The term is Maatish. Are you familiar with it?”

  “I fear not,” said Caina. “After all, Imperial law forbids the study of necromancy.”

  “And wisely so,” said Anashir. “Necromancy is too potent of a power for the hands of mere mortals to wield. But a seset-kadahn is a bodyguard bound to me by bonds stronger than blood, stronger that loyalty. So long as I live, he lives as well, and therefore he will fight to defend me to the bitter end.”

  The bronze mask turned to face Caina. She saw nothing but darkness through the mask’s eye holes.

  “A strong, strapping man,” said Maena with her little laugh. “I would like one to follow me around and do my bidding.”

  “A peculiar coincidence, is it not?” said Caina.

  “Oh?” said Anashir.

  “A cult worshipping an old Maatish god arises in the hills of Caeria Inferior,” said Caina, “and you choose to keep a bodyguard in the old Maatish fashion.”

  “Ah,” said Anashir. “And so you naturally wonder if I am a follower of Anubankh myself.” He spread his arms and struck a pose. “Or perhaps I am the high priest and the prophet of the cult myself, and will lead the hill tribes across the Empire in a trail of blood and conquest.”

  “If you intend that,” said Martin, “do let me know as soon as is convenient, Master Anashir.”

  Again white teeth flashed in Anashir’s dark beard. “Fortunately, Lord Governor, I intend no such thing. You think I follow a Maatish god, Mistress Rania? I fear you are mistaken. Among the Anshani, the Kingdom of the Rising Sun is regarded with fear and horror. For in ancient times, the great pharaohs and their necromancer-priests enslaved us, and held us as their thralls for countless generations.” He grimaced. “Only after the Bloodmaiden rose in wrath and threw down the great pharaohs, binding their spirits to scream forever upon the burning desert wind, were the Anshani people made free. Ever and always, the Anshani people will be the enemies of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun, for if old Maat were ever to arise anew…she would take her first vengeance upon Anshan.”

  “The Bloodmaiden?” said Caina. Something scratched at the back of her mind. She had heard that term before.

  “A figure of legend and myth,” said Anashir. “The stories differ. Some say she was a sorceress of power spurned by the pharaoh, and so destroyed the Kingdom of the Rising Sun in vengeance. Or that the pharaoh slew her father, and she took her revenge. She appears in the tales of other nations as well…the Bringer of Dust, the Queen of Crows, the Moroaica.”

  “In the version of the story I heard,” said Caina, trying to keep her voice calm, “the pharaoh’s men murdered her father and turned her into one of the Undying, to serve the pharaoh as a concubine for all eternity.”

  And she knew it was the true version of the story because she had seen it in the Moroaica’s memories.

  Anashir shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps like many legends, its truth is a moral one. But you may rest assured, Mistress Rania, that no true son of Anshan would follow a Maatish god. If you will excuse me.”

  He moved off, his robes rustling against the flagstones. The seset-kadahn gazed at Caina for a moment longer, and then followed the occultist. The huge man moved with eerie silence and fluid grace, and Caina wondered what kind of spells Anashir had put upon his bodyguard.

  “He’s lying, you know,” said Maena.

  “About what?” said Caina.

  “About the worship of Anubankh,” said Maena. “I’ve seen the cultists going to and from his camp. He’s planning something with them, you mark my words.”

  “And what,” said Caina, “are you lying about, Lady Maena?”

  She grinned. “Why, nothing at all. Or everything. I cannot decide which.”

  “If you lie to a sister of the Imperial Magisterium on a matter of sorcery,” said Caina, “I shall have you brought up on charges before the magistrates in Malarae.”

  “Oh, would you, now?” said Maena, her green eyes flashing. “Let me assure you, Mistress Rania,” scorn dripped from her tone, “that the wrath of the Imperial Magisterium is least among my fears. In fact, I hope you do try to arrest me. I would rather enjoy the result. I…”

  She fell silent. For a moment Caina saw a hint of chagrin on her face, as if Maena realized that she had said too much.

  “Forgive me,” said Maena. “I’m rather waspish today, am I not? It must be my time of the month.” She smirked again. “Isn’t that the excuse women use for everything?”

  She strode away without another word. Her rich, too-tight gown clung to her backside as s
he walked away.

  For a moment Caina stood in silence with Lord Martin.

  “Well,” said Caina at last. “Charming, isn’t she?”

  “I hope you will not hold her rudeness against Calvarium,” said Martin with a shake of his head. Maena had gone to speak with a middle-aged merchant, laughing and flirting, while Anashir had positioned himself against the wall, watching everything like a waiting bird of prey. “She is always abrasive, but I have never seen her so rude. Or so angry.” He looked at Caina. “Do you know her? She seems to have a considerable dislike for you.”

  “I had never met her,” said Caina, “and I never heard of House Tulvius before I arrived here.”

  “Perhaps, mistress,” said Corvalis, “she simply does not care for the magi. Such attitudes are common among the less enlightened nobles of the Empire.”

  “Perhaps,” said Caina. But what if Maena knew Rania Scorneus? If Maena had met the real Rania, she would know that Caina was an impostor. That would explain her rudeness and her boldness.

  “There is one additional piece of news,” said Martin. “A Kyracian exile is coming to Calvarium, and I have invited him to the banquet.”

  “A Kyracian exile?” said Caina. “Why here?”

  Martin shrugged. “I spoke to him this morning. He claims that his name is Milartes of House Aegios, and he is traveling to Malarae to lay his sword before the Emperor. Apparently he believes that New Kyre is doomed, and wishes to offer loyalty to the Emperor before it is too late.”

  Corvalis snorted. “A likely story, mistress. Most likely he was expelled by his enemies at home, and came to side with the Emperor in vengeance. Or he wishes to carve out large estates for himself once New Kyre falls.”

  “Or,” said Caina, “he is in fact a stormdancer or a stormsinger, and whatever drew Anashir and Maena here has drawn a Kyracian sorcerer as well.”

  “Gods,” said Martin. “Another foreign sorcerer is the last thing we need.”

  “How many men did he bring with him?” said Caina.

  “He came alone,” said Martin, “which is a small mercy. Though if he truly is a stormdancer, then he is a small army in himself. When he arrives, I shall introduce you, and you can question him.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Caina.

  “Did you learn anything from Maena and Anashir?” said Martin.

  “A little,” said Caina. “They’re both here looking for the same thing, else they wouldn’t be so violently opposed to each other. One of them has gotten into Caer Magia already and returned alive, but either they are not able to duplicate the feat, or they are looking for something in the ruins and haven’t been able to find it yet.” That was a disturbing thought, but it did explain how the Dustblade had gotten out of the ruins. “And I think that Anashir is friendlier with the cultists than he claimed.”

  Martin frowned. “Then why make that speech about how no true son of Anshan would worship a Maatish god? Simply to fool us?”

  “Oh, he was telling the truth about that,” said Caina. “But why shouldn’t a true son of Anshan use the cultists of a Maatish god against his foes? Perhaps he thinks to use them as a weapon against Maena. Or as test subjects for finding a way into Caer Magia. Oh, one other thing, my lord. Both Anashir and his seset-kadahn have active spells on them, though I could not discern the type. An Anshani occultist is dangerous enough, but I suspect that bodyguard is far more formidable than he appears.”

  “The fellow looks capable,” said Martin.

  “He is,” said Caina. “If it comes to violence, try to kill them both as quickly as possible. And I think Lady Maena may be a sorceress of some power.”

  Martin looked alarmed. “Did she have a spell on her?”

  “No,” said Caina, “but I doubt Anashir would let her stand in his way if she didn’t have some defense against his sorcery.”

  “I see,” said Martin. “We are in over our heads, aren’t we?”

  A laugh burst through Caina’s cold mask, and Martin looked at her in astonishment.

  “I have felt that way for more years than I care to recall,” said Caina.

  He smiled. “Well, we shall have to muddle through as best we can. If you will excuse me, mistress, I must greet my other guests.”

  Caina nodded, and Martin strode off, his boots clicking against the flagstones, leaving her alone with Corvalis and Muravin.

  “What do you think of them?” said Corvalis in a low voice.

  Caina looked over the hall.

  “I think,” she said, “that your sister has an admirer after all.”

  Lord Martin had gone to greet Komnene, but the majority of his attention was on Claudia. He said something, and Claudia laughed and pushed back her hair.

  “Gods,” said Corvalis. “I’m going to have to kill him, aren’t I?”

  “Please don’t,” said Caina. “He seems decent enough, and Claudia likes him.”

  “He’s looking for a mistress, I wager,” said Corvalis, “someone to comfort him while he’s stuck in a provincial backwater.” He shrugged. “Still, if it makes Claudia happy…physicians often do not wed, and the Ghosts will have a place for her. Perhaps a bastard son or daughter would make her happier.”

  “Yes,” said Caina. Her hands twitched towards the scars on her stomach, and she forced them back to her sides. “Perhaps.”

  “And I think,” said Corvalis, “that our Kyracian exile has arrived.”

  Lord Martin strode towards the doors of the magistrates’ hall, meeting a man in a blue-green Kyracian cloak halfway there. They spoke for a moment, and then turned towards Caina.

  And as they did, the Kyracian man drew back the hood of his cloak. He had close-cropped brown hair and brown eyes, a sword hanging at his belt…

  A burst of surprise went through Caina.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “You know him, mistress?” said Muravin.

  “Yes,” said Caina. “I know him.”

  She remembered running through the streets of Marsis, desperately trying to find Nicolai. She remembered the terrible battle in the Tower of Study in Catekharon, the glypharmor burning with sorcery around her as she fought against Mihaela and her Forge.

  “Rania of House Scorneus, sister of the Imperial Magisterium,” said Martin, “may I present Milartes of House Aegios, come to offer his sword to the Emperor.”

  But Caina knew him as Kylon of House Kardamnos.

  Chapter 10 - Dust and Blood

  Kylon stared at the Ghost and her lover.

  She had disguised herself well, dyeing her hair blond and laying aside her gowns and jewels for the stark black robe and severe hairstyle of a sister of the Magisterium. It would have fooled, he suspected, almost anyone else. But Caina had been there when Andromache had died. She had been there during the chaos in Catekharon, when Mihaela unleashed her suits of living armor.

  And Kylon could feel her emotional sense, like ice wrapped around a fist of burning steel.

  He would have known her anywhere.

  Corvalis stood behind her, clad in the armor of a Magisterial Guard, along with a middle-aged Istarish man that Kylon did not recognize.

  “You know each other?” said Lord Martin, his voice cutting into Kylon’s surprise. He sensed Martin’s suspicion of both of Caina and himself…though he was far more suspicious of Kylon.

  “I fear not, my lord,” said Kylon, trying to recover his wits. “I have never met Rania Scorneus before.”

  “Nor have I met Lord Milartes,” said Caina.

  “Alas,” said Kylon, “I fear I no longer have the right to that title, and you may address me simply as Milartes.”

  He was not entirely surprised to see her. Not after what the Surge had predicted about their destinies. But Kylon was a practical man, and he was more concerned about the actual reason had brought her to Calvarium.

  Especially since the Emperor’s spies were focused upon persuading the Anshani to end grain sales to New Kyre.

  So why come to Calvariu
m?

  Ephaltus had brought a Dustblade out of Caer Magia, and if he had gotten inside the city and survived, then others must have done so. If the Magisterium obtained the weapons within Caer Magia, it would use them to destroy the Ghosts and take control of the Empire.

  “I grieve to hear of your misfortune,” said Caina. “Many have suffered losses since this war began, over such little cause.”

  Martin snorted. “The surprise attack at Marsis was hardly small cause, mistress Rania.”

  “We must live with our mistakes,” said Kylon, “and suffer the consequences of them.”

  If only he had listened to Caina, and persuaded Andromache not to open that tomb. If only he had been a little faster when Ephaltus threw his dammed dagger at Thalastre…

  “I know that well,” said Caina. “I am curious, my lord. What brings you to Calvarium? Lord Martin said you wished to join the Emperor…but visiting Calvarium seems an odd way to go about it.”

  Kylon shrugged. “I had little choice.” He wondered if he could ask for Caina’s help. New Kyre and the Empire were at war, but she would wish to keep additional Dustblades from falling into the wrong hands. “I escaped from New Kyre under less than felicitous circumstances, let us say. I took passage with a smuggler ship, which let me off in a cove in the Mardonish provinces. I plan to make my way to Malarae as soon as possible.”

  “You have chosen a poor time to come to Calvarium,” said Caina. “There have been instances of illegal sorcery outside the town, and rumors of activity from Caer Magia.”

  “Have there?” said Kylon. Perhaps that was why Caina had come to Calvarium. “I wonder why anyone would tamper with that ruin upon the hill. Simply looking at it gives me an ill feeling.”

  “Then you are a wise man,” said Martin. “Any man who sets foot beyond the Henge, the boundary stones, perishes in exactly seven hundred and seventy-seven heartbeats.”

  “I will need to question you, my lord Milartes,” said Caina. “The First Magus has dispatched me to investigate these disturbances. You may know something useful.”