The Ghosts Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  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 g
rapnel’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.

  They would learn otherwise in short order.

  The only light came from a pair of lanterns, one on the card table, the other on the floor next to the barrel of wine. And the lanterns threw plenty of dark and tangled shadows over the stalls, which meant that Caina found it easy to glide from shadow to shadow, remaining unseen and unheard. She passed within three paces of some of the collared slaves, and they did not notice her.

  The barrel stood open, two-thirds full of blood-colored wine. Caina reached into her belt, drew out a small pouch of powder Komnene had taught her to prepare, and dumped it into the barrel. The wine bubbled for a bit, and then went still. Caina slid into the shadows as one of the Istarish slavers pushed from the table, walked to the barrel, and filled his cup. Nerina’s death had wracked her with guilt, but she had no qualms about killing these men, these slave traders who sold their victims to Maglarion's dark sciences.

  Of course, the powder wouldn’t kill them, but merely knock them out.

  Halfdan wanted information.

  She saw one of the guards walk down an aisle of stalls, hand on his sword hilt, and she glided after him, reaching into her belt. She did not draw a dagger or a knife. That would make too much noise, and the smell of blood might give her away. Instead she lifted a heavy cloth pad, soaked with another concoction that Komnene had taught her to mix.

  The guard paused at the end of the aisle, stretched, and started to turn.

  Caina jumped up behind him, wrapping her left arm around his neck, her right hand slamming the cloth pad over his mouth and nose. He flailed, drew breath to scream...and Caina felt him relax as the pad's fumes filled his lungs. She sidestepped, and let him fall into the dirty straw of an empty stall.

  She looked around. Still no one had noticed.

  She drugged two more of the guards before the elixir mixed into the cloth pad lost its potency. Circling to the next aisle of stalls, she saw more unconscious guards lying on the floor. Riogan had been busy.

  She settled in the shadows to wait.

  The drug she had mixed into the wine would not take effect right away. But one by one the Istarish slavers sitting at the table began to nod off. One fell backwards and toppled to the floor.

  The final slaver rocketed to his feet, eyes wide.

  “Casim?” he said, staring at the fallen man. “Casim?”

  Caina stepped from the shadows, a dagger in hand.

  The slaver flinched and reached for his sword.

  “Casim isn’t getting up,” she said, using the rasping voice that Theodosia had taught her. “Neither are the others.”

  Riogan stepped out of the darkness, masked face hidden beneath his shadow-cloak's cowl, daggers gleaming in either hand. The slaver backed away, sweat pouring down his face.

  “I suggest,” said Caina, “that you throw down your sword, give us your keys, and surrender. Otherwise you can join your friends on the floor.”

  Gulping, the slaver threw down his sword and raised his hands.

  “Smart man,” said Riogan.

  ###

  In short order, Caina and Riogan had the slavers tied up and the prisoners freed.

  Tomard’s company of Civic Militia arrived to take terrified slaves in hand. As militiamen swarmed over the warehouse, Tomard stepped into the darkened corner where Caina and Riogan waited, wrapped in their shadow-cloaks.

  “Mother told me that I’d find something interesting here,” he murmured, taking off his crested helmet and running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Though she didn’t tell me how interesting. A hundred slaves and nine slavers!”

  “We’ll want to speak with the slavers before you hang them,” said Caina.

  “Aye, that can be arranged,” said Tomard, putting his helmet back on. “Bah! This stinks of politics. A wise militiaman keeps his nose away from the games of the lords and the magi. You Ghosts bring me too much trouble.”

  “There are no Ghosts,” said Caina, “only…”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said Tomard. “The Ghosts are a rumor concocted by fools to explain their failures.” He snorted. “Though isn’t the first time I’ve seen a rumor bring down slavers.”

  ###

  The next morning Caina disguised herself as a common serving woman and walked to the Grand Imperial Opera.

  The workshop below the great stage looked much as she remembered it. The same wooden sets, the same tools, the same stage hands sleeping off last night’s wine on cots and blankets. The door to Theodosia’s room stood open, and Caina saw Theodosia herself sitting before the mirror, adjusting her makeup.

  Theodosia turned and smiled.

  “There you are,” she said. “Halfdan said you would be along shortly. Hand me that brush, will you?” Caina crossed to the table, picked up the brush, and handed it over. “I’ve had just devil of a time replacing you, you know. The girls I have now don’t know the difference between rouge and face powder! My life is an unceasing parade of tribulations.”

  “That must be dreadful,” said Caina, trying not to laugh. “How you ever find the strength to bear up under such trials, I’ll never understand.”

  “Insolent girl,” said Theodosia, and then she laughed and caught Caina in a hug. “It is good to see you again. Halfdan tells me you've been making all sorts of trouble for Lord Haeron.”

  “I made Maglarion blow up Lord Haeron's ballroom,” said Caina.

  Theodosia smile widened. “I saw Haeron at the opera the following week. I’ve never seen a man scowl so fiercely for so long.” The smile faded. “I…also heard what happened with Lord Alastair. I’m sorry it turned out that way.”

  “So am I,” said Caina.

  “Nerina Corus was a dreadful harpy,” said Theodosia. She sniffed. “Why, the woman once talked entirely through ‘The Queen of Anshan!' And while I was singing the lead, no less! Lord Alastair should have divorced her years ago and never looked back.”

  Caina looked away. “He doesn’t have to worry about that now, does he?”

  Theodosia studied her for a moment. “Are you in love with him?”

  “No,” said Caina.

  “You’re sure?” said Theodosia.

  “I…liked him,” said Caina. “A lot. He was charming and witty and…he was…”

  “A good lover?” said Theodosia.

  Caina felt herself flush, but nodded. “He was. But…I couldn’t respect him. He was weak. Too weak to stand up to his wife, too weak to do anything but take the path of least resistance.” Her expression hardened. “And he was a slave trader. That stinking warehouse full of slaves? He did things like that because it was easier than confronting Nerina. I didn’t respect him…and I respect myself less, for seducing him.”

  Theodosia nodded. “I think you may have been seduced yourself, my dear.”

  “You did tell me I should find a lover,” said Caina.

  “True,” said Theodosia, picking up a small jar of makeup. “But I didn’t tell you to seduce a married man and terrorize his wife to suicide, did I?”

  Caina sighed, closed her eyes. “No. That was my mistake.”

  Theodosia nodded. “Just so long as you know it. Mistakes are unpleasant, of course…but they become
so much worse when you refuse to learn from them.”

  “I don’t want to do it that way again,” said Caina. “Learn a man's secrets by seducing him.”

  “Perhaps that’s just as well,” said Theodosia. “You’re a lovely young lady, my dear…but you’re smarter than I am, and vastly more dangerous in a fight. Halfdan sharpened that mind of yours into a knife; you might as well use it to stab somebody. Hand me that bottle, will you?”

  “Why are you putting on makeup now?” said Caina, handing over the bottle. “It’s barely past dawn. Are you doing performances during the day now?”

  “Of course not,” said Theodosia, dabbing around her eyes with a brush. “But Halfdan and Lady Julia will be arriving shortly so we can decide what to do about Lord Haeron and his pet necromancer. And I am not going to look slovenly in front of Lady Julia. That woman already thinks far too much of herself as it is. Now help me pick a dress.”

  Caina laughed, and did as she was told.

  ###

  Halfdan arrived a short time later, dressed in the furred robe and cap of Basil Callenius, master merchant of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers. Lady Julia walked on his arm, elegant in a gray gown with black trim upon the sleeves and hem. Riogan followed, wearing the chain mail and livery of a bodyguard, sword and dagger ready at his belt.

  Something strange rested in his left hand.

  It was a staff, about seven feet high, but wrapped in tight strips of leather. The staff's top bulged beneath the leather wrappings, and Caina wondered if it was a spear of some kind.

  Rekan followed them, wearing the black robe and red sash of a magus. Caina's lips thinned as she saw him, and she remembered their practice sessions in the Vineyard, his repeated failures to break into her mind.

  He scowled. Evidently, he remembered her too.

  Halfdan and Julia walked to join Theodosia, but Riogan stopped before Caina, his cold eyes on her face.

  "You did well, last night," said Riogan, "killing that guard."

  Caina shrugged. "Just like slaughtering goats."