Besides, to watch these petty mortals break, to see them shatter, was something of a thrill.
He took a moment to refresh his memory with one of the scroll’s spells, and then picked up a dagger and a bloodcrystal, the one made from the blood of the man’s wife. The prisoner thrashed and cursed as Maglarion approached, his eyes filled with grief and madness.
Maglarion gestured, summoning power. The man went rigid as the spell held him in place, his rage no match for Maglarion’s arcane power.
Then Maglarion lifted the dagger and began to cut.
He severed the tendons in the man's wrist, making sure to leave the veins intact. He worked the dagger over the prisoner's arms and chest, cutting deep furrows, poking the blade into the nerves below the skin. The man could not scream, not with Maglarion's spell holding him, but sweat poured down his face, and his eyes bulged in agony.
Which reminded Maglarion to put them out.
Some time later, Maglarion stepped back, wiping blood from his forehead. The prisoner was still alive, but reduced to a crippled husk of a man. If he survived his injuries, he would be helpless for the rest of his life, his body ruined by Maglarion's blade.
A perfect test.
Maglarion pressed the bloodcrystal into the prisoner's ragged wounds and whispered another spell.
Green light flared in the crystal's black depths. The bloodcrystal shivered in Maglarion's grasp and shrank, the green glow spilling over the man's torn flesh.
And then the prisoner's wounds began to heal.
The hideous cuts vanished, the skin knitting itself shut, the wounds closing as if they had never been. Maglarion released his spell, and the man's arms and legs shook as the tendons repaired themselves. White fluid filled his eye sockets, and a moment later his eyes returned, wide and terrified. The regeneration continued as the life energy from the bloodcrystal poured into the man's flesh, restoring him.
And then the bloodcrystal vanished into nothingness, and the prisoner was healed.
In fact, he had gotten younger.
Maglarion gripped the prisoner's chin, turning his face back and forth. The man had been in his early forties. Now he looked no more than twenty, his body lean and muscled, his face bright with the energy of youth.
Interesting. He hadn't anticipated that, not at all.
"What," whispered the prisoner, "what did you do to me?"
"It healed you," said Maglarion. "The stolen life force of your wife, stored in the bloodcrystal. It even rejuvenated you." He smiled. "So in a way, I killed your wife...and forced you to eat her. Ironic, really, if you think about it."
The prisoner started to scream and rave again, thrashing at his chains. It was rather annoying.
Fortunately, Maglarion had no further use for him, and cut the prisoner's throat. The man thrashed for a few moments, drowning in his own blood, and then died.
Maglarion felt it. His left eye, the eye that was not flesh, saw the power released by the man's death, the dark energy crackling free. It also saw the power...captured, sucked down towards a small wooden table in the corner of the cellar.
He smiled, retrieved his cane, and crossed the room.
His own bloodcrystal, the one he had made from the blood of Laeria Amalas's virgin daughter, sat on the corner table. It was perhaps half again the size of a large man's fist, grown potent with the lives of his victims over the last two years. Even as he watched, the thing seemed to swell a little larger as it drank the life of the man hanging in chains from the wall.
And it would continue to grow, until at last he was ready.
Time for another test.
Maglarion slashed his left palm with the dagger, his own blood welling forth. It hurt, but physical pain had long ago ceased to mean anything to him. He put his right hand on the jagged bloodcrystal and whispered a spell. Arcane power surged through him, and he tapped a portion of the bloodcrystal's strength, the tiniest part of its stored energy.
The wound on his hand sealed, the skin smooth and unmarked.
His smiled widened.
He was close now, very close. A few more years of work, and then he would at last ascend to true immortality. He would leave the flesh behind forever, stand above the world of common mortals like a god towering over insects.
But first, he had more work to do.
Best to get on with it.
Maglarion left the cellar, leaving the dead man hanging in his chains.
###
He washed the blood away and put on better clothes, covering his left eye with the patch once more.
No sense in terrifying the poor fool before it was necessary.
Ikhana waited for him in the common room, cold as ever. Besides her stood a stout figure wrapped in a heavy cloak. No doubt the cloak was meant for anonymity, but the richness of the material rather gave it away.
A lord of the Empire.
Maglarion hid his smile and approached, making sure to lean on his came.
"He came, Master," said Ikhana.
"So I see," said Maglarion. "May I welcome you, my lord?"
The stout figure drew back his hood. The nobility of the Empire divided into petty factions, and Maglarion never bothered to keep them straight. But one of those factions, the Restorationists, desired to restore slavery and see the magi returned to power. They often worked with the magi...and with outlaw sorcerers like Maglarion.
And the stout man, Lord Haeron Icaraeus, was one of the most powerful Restorationists lords in the Empire.
Where he led, others would follow.
"So," said Haeron Icaraeus. He had a thick, corpulent face, and a receding hairline, but eyes that glittered with deep cunning. "You are the famous Maglarion. I have heard so much about you. I believe the Ghosts offer fifty thousand denarii for your head, and the Magisterium thirty-five thousand."
Maglarion bowed. "The Ghosts are fools, my lord, as you well know. And the Magisterium...let us say that many brothers and sisters of the Magisterium recognize that the ban on necromancy is foolish."
"Perhaps," said Lord Haeron. "But I shall be blunt. How can you be of use to me?"
Maglarion smiled. "How would you like to live forever?"
Lord Haeron remained impassive, but Maglarion saw the lustful glitter in his eye.
Yes, he would put this fool to very good use, indeed.
Chapter 13 - Assassins
A few days after her fifteenth birthday, Caina blinked in astonishment, her heart hammering, sweat pouring down her face.
It was a cool morning in the Vineyard, the terrace chill beneath her bare feet. A breeze blew down from the hills, and she saw the sun just beginning to peek over the eastern hills.
She also saw Akragas lying sprawled at her feet, breathing hard, eyes wide with surprise.
It had been so...easy. She had seen the hole in his defenses, assumed it had been a trap. But he had tried to compensate, tried to change his stance. So Caina attacked with all her strength and speed, throwing everything she had into the opening, expecting any moment for Akragas’s trap to close around her.
But there had been no trap. He had simply been too slow to stop her.
Akragas grunted, sat up.
“Did I hurt you?” said Caina. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Akragas barked out a laugh. “I have been teaching you to hurt people, yes? So if you did hurt me, it would be my own fault.” He got to his feet, shaking his head. “I thought I would have ample time to work around that opening. But I am getting too old, too slow. And you are getting too fast.” He sighed. “And now I will have no time for breakfast. Or a nap afterward.”
Caina blinked. For over three years, she had sparred with Akragas almost every day.
She had never expected to beat him.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last.
Akragas snorted. “Since you are so fast, why do you not run to the kitchens and fetch an old man his breakfast? Getting beaten by a fifteen-year-old girl works up quite an appetite, no?”
/> Caina smiled, and ran for the kitchens.
###
Later Halfdan summoned her to the library.
He sat at one of the tables, frowning at a stack of letters. Rekan waited nearby, his expression souring as Caina approached. She had spent a great deal of time with the magus, learning how to defend from sorcery, and their mutual dislike had only deepened.
And much to Caina’s satisfaction, he still had failed to learn her name.
Riogan leaned against a shelf, sharpening a dagger.
“Ah, child,” said Halfdan. He always called her "child" in front of Rekan. “It's time you left the Vineyard.”
“Why?” said Caina.
“Because we need you,” said Halfdan. “There’s trouble. What can you tell me about the Empire’s nobility?”
Rekan frowned. “This is a waste of time…”
Halfdan raised his hand, and Rekan scowled, but stopped talking.
“They have three factions,” said Caina. “The Loyalists support the Emperor, oppose the return of slavery, and,” she glanced at Rekan, “sensibly oppose letting the Magisterium rule the Empire once more.”
Rekan's scowl deepened.
“The Militarists,” said Caina, “want the Lord Commanders of the Legion to elect the Emperor, not the nobles. And the Restorationists want to restore slavery, and restore the magi to control of the Empire. The Loyalists are friendly to the Ghosts, the Militarists indifferent, and the Restorationists hostile.”
“Very good,” said Halfdan. “And what can you tell me about Lord Haeron Icaraeus?”
“The fat bastard,” muttered Riogan. It was the first time he had spoken.
“He’s a Lord from the Cyrican provinces,” said Caina. “One of the most powerful and influential of the Restorationists.”
“And why is that significant?” said Halfdan.
“Because,” said Caina, “the Cyrican provinces are the only ones in the Empire that allow slavery. Cyrica broke away from Istarinmul, during the War of the Fourth Empire, and offered to join our Empire. But only on the condition that the Cyrican lords would get to keep their slaves.”
Riogan snorted. “Quite the little scholar you’ve trained there, Halfdan.”
Halfdan smiled. “Perhaps that explains why Rekan has yet to break into her mind.”
Riogan’s eyes narrowed, and Rekan's scowl deepened further, but neither man said anything.
"Anyway, you're right," said Halfdan. "The Cyrican lords kept their slaves, and they want to expand slaveholding into the rest of the Empire. The most powerful Restorationist lords are from Cyrica, and of them, Haeron Icaraeus is by far the most influential."
"So Lord Icaraeus is an enemy of the Ghosts," said Caina.
"Of the Ghosts, the Emperor, and the commoners of the Empire," said Halfdan. "He has contracts with the assassin brotherhoods of Istarinmul and Anub-Kha, the Kindred and the Red Hands, and sends them after his enemies. He frequently hires outlaw magi and foreign sorcerers, and uses their sciences against his opponents. The slavers' brotherhood of Istarinmul is allied with him, and he permits them to raid inside the Empire for captives. And he kills any Ghost informant or agent within his reach."
Caina remembered the Istarish slavers descending upon her father's villa and shuddered.
"And he's gotten worse lately, much worse," said Halfdan. "A gang of Istarish slavers have been kidnapping people from the streets of Malarae, smuggling them to the slave markets in Istarinmul and Cyrica. They've even infiltrated the Disali hills, and have been kidnapping Disali peasants and travelers."
Riogan scoffed. "That's foolish. There are too many miles of road between Disalia and the sea. Easier to snatch slaves from the coasts and escape to a ship."
"Not if the profits are worth the risk," said Rekan. "Disali slaves can fetch a high price."
"Why?" said Riogan.
"In some parts of the world, the Disali are an exotic curiosity. Disali men are tough and strong, and valued in the mines," said Rekan. "And the Disali women...well, some Anshani satraps have a taste for Disali women."
"That's contemptible," said Caina.
Rekan shrugged. "It is merely the way of the world." Caina suspected he would enjoy a an enslaved Disali woman in his bed.
"So we're going to shut them down," said Halfdan, "and you're going to help."
"How?" said Caina.
"I will disguise myself as Marcus Antali, an independent merchant," said Halfdan. "Riogan will be Raccard, a mercenary guard in my employ. And you, I think...we shall disguise you as my daughter Talia. Marcus Antali will bring you along in hopes that your beauty would ensnare a noble-born husband, or at least a wealthy one."
Caina nodded. "As you say...father."
It felt strange, saying that. Almost four years now, Sebastian Amalas had been dead, and Caina thought of him often. But Halfdan and the Ghosts had taken his place. If she had to masquerade as Halfdan's daughter to stop men like Maglarion and women like her mother, then so be it.
###
They left at dawn.
Caina dressed in a gown of blue wool, with boots and belt of soft black leather. Komnene helped her wash and style her hair. Caina felt odd, wearing a gown again, but she supposed she would get used to it.
"She'll stick out like a thief in a satrap's harem," said Riogan. He dressed as he always did, black leather over chain mail, daggers at his belt and spear in hand.
Halfdan shrugged, clad in the robe and cap of a prosperous merchant. "That's the point. How many fifteen-year-old girls look comfortable when their fathers try to sell them off like a side of meat? She'll learn social graces soon enough."
Caina wondered what he meant by that.
She kept a dagger in her belt and a pair of throwing knives hidden beneath each sleeve. After so many hours training with Akragas and Sandros, she would feel naked if she went anywhere without a weapon.
They left the Vineyard by pack mule, the beasts making their way along the narrow roads. Caina watched the Vineyard recede behind them and felt a pang. It had been her home for almost four years, a refuge from the terrible things that Maglarion had done to her.
But it was time to move on.
It was time to start fighting against those things.
And it was good to travel again. She had seen so little of the Empire, of the world.
"We're going east," said Caina.
"Aye," said Halfdan.
"I thought we were going west," said Caina.
"Why's that?" said Halfdan.
"If the slavers are taking their victims to the sea," said Caina, "then they would go west, towards the Megaros River and the Bay of Empire...no. They're taking their captives east, towards the Narrow Sea, aren't they?"
"They might be," said Halfdan. "All shipping coming out of the Narrow Sea has to travel through Arzaxia, and thousands of ships pass through Arzaxia every year. A clever slaver could easily smuggle his captives through the city. And the northwestern coast of the Narrow Sea is lightly populated, nothing but fens and swamps. Plenty of places for slave ships to come and go unobserved."
###
A few days later, they reached the Vytaagi swamps.
The Vytaagi had once been a nation of barbarians, following the other tribes during the great invasions of the Second Empire. After the Legions and the warrior-Emperors of the Second Empire had been victorious, the remnants of the Vytaagi had accepted the Emperor's authority and settled in the swamps along the northwestern coast of the Narrow Sea. Now the province of Vytaagia was a quiet backwater, with no major cities or towns, the Vytaagi themselves making a living from fishing, farming, and hunting their swamps.
The perfect place, Caina supposed, for slave traders to operate undetected.
"We may have made a mistake, father," said Caina as they reached the first village.
"Oh?" said Halfdan.
"You couldn't possibly find a wealthy husband for your daughter here," said Caina.
Riogan laughed at that.
&nbs
p; The Vytaagi villages all looked alike. Built upon grassy islands, the houses stood on high beams, no doubt to keep flooding at bay. Or perhaps the Vytaagi built their houses upon stilts to keep out the vicious crocodiles that wallowed in the swamps. Wooden planks covered the streets, and rickety stairs led up to the houses. Men and women alike wore clothes of loose linen, though some men wore vests and belts of crocodile leather.
"Hunters," said Riogan, pointing with the butt of his spear. "Among the Vytaagi, only a man who slew a crocodile can wear leather made from its hide."
Every village had its own tavern, a roomy hall standing upon thick logs. Inside the Vytaagi men sat around peat fires, telling stories and drinking a vile beer brewed from the swamp plants. And Halfdan visited every tavern, Caina and Riogan trailing behind them.
Marcus Antali was well-known among the Vytaagi.
She watched Halfdan with amazement.
He held the Vytaagi enthralled, buying, selling, and telling stories. He had a remarkable gift for stories, and could hold an audience rapt. The Vytaagi roared with laughter and clapped at all the right places, and more than once Caina found herself laughing with them.
Even Riogan smiled, once or twice.
And in return, the Vytaagi told Halfdan things. Most of it was trivial - grumblings about taxes, complaints about the weather and the crocodiles, but some of it was not. Istarish ships had been sighted in the Narrow Sea, and had sent canoes into the swamps. The Vytaagi hated the Istarish, had nothing to do with them, but the Istarish were smart enough to avoid the Vytaagi villages. But the Vytaagi hunters spied on them, and saw the Istarish canoes carrying cargo to Kaunauth.
"Where's that?" murmured Caina to Riogan.
"Village a few miles from here," answered Riogan, his eyes roving over the tavern. "Smugglers' nest. You can buy or sell anything there, including people. Big lagoon, room for a lot of ships. Every smuggler, slaver, pirate, and corsair on the Narrow Sea weighs anchor in Kaunauth, sooner or later."
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