The Ghosts Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  She tried to twist away as he stabbed, but a line of hot pain erupted along her left hip. Her assailant grunted and tried to recover his balance, and Caina hit him in the face. He stumbled back, sputtering, which gave Caina just enough time to slide another knife free of the belt and bury it in his neck. He fell, blood pouring from his wound, and tumbled back into the sitting room.

  Caina picked up a fallen short sword and walked towards the last man.

  “You can fight?” he mumbled, his words muffled by the necessity of holding his ruined cheek together. “But…but you’re a woman, and you can…”

  “Yes,” said Caina, cutting his throat, “surprising, isn’t it?”

  She stepped into the sitting room, looked at the dead bodies, doubled over, and threw up her breakfast. Caina gripped a chair for support, shuddering, the wounds on her shoulder and hip aching. Her robe, wet with both her blood and the blood of the dead men, hung limp and sodden around her. That had been close. If those men hadn’t been so stupid and incompetent. So close. Another inch, and she would lie dead on the carpet.

  The carpet. It was ruined. Caina wondered if Sairzan would charge extra, and laughed. Lightheaded. She really ought to sit down. No. Work to do first. She retrieved her knives from the dead men, cleaning the blades on their clothes.

  “My lady?”

  Julia and Anya approached, supporting Cornelia between them. Caina had forgotten all about them.

  “Cornelia,” said Caina, “you’re hurt.”

  “I’ll live,” said the older woman, hand pressed to her side. “You’re…you’re hurt worse, my lady. Gods, all that blood…”

  “It’s not mine,” said Caina. She winced as the cut in her hip throbbed, and she wadded the skirt of the ruined robe against it. “Mostly.”

  They stared at her in horrified amazement, and again Caina felt the absurd urge to laugh.

  “What…what should we do now?” said Anya.

  “Now?” said Caina. “Now we hide in the bedroom and wait for someone to rescue us.”

  ###

  It did not take long.

  Sairzan had sent his servants running for help, and Valgorix himself arrived in short order with a troop of militia. He looked angry, and frustrated, and very tired.

  “What happened?” he demanded as his men dragged the bodies out.

  “I don’t…I don’t really know,” said Caina, wrapped in a blanket, makeshift bandages pressed against her cuts. “I was eating breakfast, and…and those men burst into my room, and screamed that they were going to kill me in the name of Corazain, and, oh, gods, they cut me…and I ran and locked myself in the bedroom, and there was all this screaming…” Caina made her voice quaver, her lip trembling. She didn’t have to try very hard.

  Valgorix raked a hand through his sweaty hair. “Do you know who killed these men? Did you see anything?”

  Caina gave a timid shake of her head. “I didn’t…I didn’t see anything. All I heard was fighting, and screaming. I was so sure that they would break down the door and kill us all.”

  “Damn it,” said Valgorix. He paced around the room for a while. “Countess, it is inappropriate for someone of my rank to speak bluntly to a woman of your rank. But speak bluntly I must. I told you to leave Rasadda. I told you that the Sons of Corazain were going to target you. Was I not right?”

  Caina gave him a tremulous nod.

  Valgorix sighed. “Countess. You must leave Rasadda, immediately. Matters are bad, and I fear that they are going to get much worse.” He dropped his voice. “I expect a revolt any day now. And the Lord Governor is no help at all. Every night when I go to bed I expect to be slaughtered in my sleep. This city is going to drown in blood. You can escape it, Countess, but only if you leave at once.”

  “You were right, Decurion,” said Caina. “I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “I will leave for the Imperial capital on the morrow. I have had enough of this miserable city.”

  “Good,” said Valgorix. “What happened to your captain of guard, anyway? Where is he?”

  “I sent him to buy some food,” said Caina.

  “That was extremely foolish,” said Valgorix. “Keep him with you at all times now, understand?” Caina nodded again. “I’ll keep a few of my men on guard at the Inn’s door, until tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you,” said Caina. Valgorix bowed and stalked out of the ruined sitting room. Caina stared after him, worried. In the excitement she had forgotten all about Ark. Suppose the Sons of Corazain had ambushed him on the streets? Ark could handle himself in a fight, better than Caina could. But suppose some mishap had happened?

  Or suppose the pyromancer had found him?

  Sairzan hurried into the room, bowing with every step. Before Caina could interrupt him a profuse stream of apologizes erupted from his lips. He had failed in his duties as an innkeeper and a host, and begged her forgiveness for his many misdeeds.

  “It’s not your fault. No one was killed,” she remembered the blood on her fingers and shuddered, “at least no one of mine, and if you’d tried to fight them they’d have killed you.”

  “Please,” said Sairzan, “I beg of you, though, to accept my second-finest suite of rooms while these chambers are cleaned. Only in this way may I expunge my grievous shame.”

  And keep his good name, no doubt. “Very well,” said Caina.

  She looked up, and saw Ark in the doorway. His sword was in hand, and he looked over the bloodstained room with cold eyes.

  “What the hell happened?” said Ark.

  “We need to talk,” said Caina.

  ###

  “Get on with it, already,” said Caina.

  She sat naked on the bed in her new rooms, a blanket wrapped around her legs and clutched to her chest. Ark sat beside her, cleaning the wound on her shoulder with boiling wine.

  “Shallow,” muttered Ark. “Didn’t reach the bone. It ought to heal well. Should be stitched up, though.”

  Caina nodded.

  “This will be a lot easier for both of us if you lie down,” said Ark.

  Caina grimaced, but nodded and lay face-down on the bed, shifting the blanket to keep her modesty preserved. She felt deeply uncomfortable, exposing so much of herself, but she supposed that dying from an infected cut would be even more uncomfortable. Besides, she’d stitched up Ark’s wounds, so fair was fair.

  A moment later she felt the stab as the heated needle entered her skin. Caina gritted her teeth against the pain, and Ark began stitching. It hurt, but she’d felt worse. Much worse.

  “Are you truly planning to leave Rasadda?” said Ark.

  “Yes,” said Caina, her voice tight, grateful for the distraction. “Or, at least, Countess Marianna Nereide is. This false identity has become a liability. The Sons of Corazain want to kill the Countess, and they won’t stop until they do.” She took a deep breath. “We’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll hire some trustworthy servant from Sairzan to serve as coachman. Once we’re out of the city, we’ll send them to Halfdan at Mors Crisius and double back to the city. I’ll have to think of a suitable disguise, but it should work.”

  “And what then?” said Ark.

  “First,” said Caina, “tell me what you saw at the Sign of the Anchor.”

  Ark was silent for a moment. Caina endured the needle jabbing in and out of her flesh. Then he said, “Something’s happening there.”

  “Such as?”

  “There are three dozen ships in port right now,” said Ark. “Usually the crews mingle and get drunk and brawl together. From what I gathered, there’s only one crew at the Sign of the Anchor right now. They drive off anyone else who tries to drink there.”

  “Is that odd?” said Caina. “Maybe they don’t like company.”

  “It’s very odd,” said Ark. “Sailors usually hate landsmen, not each other.”

  “So there’s something at the Sign that they don’t want anyone else to see,” said Caina.

  “I asked around,” sai
d Ark. “Apparently they come from a ship called the Lynx, which has been in port for the last three months.”

  “Three months?” said Caina. She thought for a moment. “They must be trying to sell something, and haven’t had any luck. Which means they’re smugglers.”

  “Or pirates.”

  “Or pirates,” agreed Caina. “I don’t see why Sister Tadaia thinks the pyromancer might be hiding there.”

  “I looked around,” said Ark. “The building stinks of burned pork.”

  “Or flesh,” said Caina. This time her grimace had nothing to do with the damned needle stabbing into her shoulder.

  “In the alley behind the Sign, there are char marks on the flagstones,” said Ark. “And grease stains, as well. As if a burned corpse was dragged into the alley.”

  “Just like the man Valgorix found outside the Inn,” said Caina. “I’ll bet we’ll find his killers inside the Sign of the Anchor.” She sighed. “But probably not our pyromancer.”

  “Done,” said Ark, straightening up. “We ought to do the one on your hip.”

  Caina nodded, adjusted the blanket, and rolled to a sitting position. She hiked up the blanket far enough to expose her left leg and wounded hip, and managed to keep the rest of herself covered.

  Ark stared at her leg, his face expressionless. He stared for so long that Caina felt the blood begin to burn in her cheeks. What was he seeing? His dead wife, perhaps? For a stunned instant Caina thought he was going to lean over and kiss her. This had been a mistake, she should have found a woman capable of treating her wounds…

  Or had it been a mistake? If he kissed her now, should she stop him? Did she even want to?

  And then Caina realized what he was staring at.

  A rope of twisted, pinkish-white scars wound its way around her hip and across her belly. It almost looked like a belt. They thickened as they sloped downward across her stomach. It had been almost eight years, and sometimes Caina could still feel the scalpel blades digging through skin and muscle.

  “Those are cruel scars,” said Ark quietly.

  “They started on the hips,” said Caina, “drawing blood, bit by bit.” Her voice seemed to come from very far away. “But from what I understand, blood drawn from the womb of a virgin girl has the greatest utility for necromancy. So they moved there. I thought I was going to die. I hoped I would die.” She blinked a few times. “Have you…have you ever screamed for so long that you couldn’t remember ever doing anything else?”

  “No,” said Ark. “Gods.”

  Caina looked away. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Ark nodded and stood up. He knelt beside the bed and started cleaning the gash on her hip. Caina gritted her teeth as the hot wine splashed into the wound. “It’s longer than the other, but shallower. It should heal even quicker than the other.”

  “Good,” said Caina. “I want to go to the Sign of the Anchor tonight.”

  “It won’t heal that quickly,” said Ark.

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Caina. Despite herself, she winced as Ark began stitching the wound. “We’ve got to act now. If the pyromancer starts killing the magi one by one, and consuming their strength…he’ll be too strong for us to stop. He might be too strong for us to kill now. And something has to be done. Tadaia and Valgorix are right. Rasadda’s going to revolt, and the Legions will come and slaughter the Saddai, unless something is done.”

  Ark said nothing for a while, concentrating on the work. Then he said, “Do you really think the revolt can be stopped?”

  “I don’t know,” said Caina, “but we have to try.”

  “If the Sign of the Anchor turns out to be a dead end,” said Ark, “what are we going to do then?”

  “Then we’re going after Gaidan,” said Caina.

  Ark froze for a moment. “I thought you said it would be too risky.”

  “It is too risky,” said Caina. “But we’re running out of time. I saw him last night, when Tadaia and I had our little chat. He was weeping. Begging the Living Flame for forgiveness.”

  Ark snorted.

  “He knows the truth,” said Caina, “and if we have to, we’ll tear it out of him. And if not him, we’ll find Romarion. He knows more than he said, too. One way or another, we’re finding the man who killed the Rasadda Ghost circle.”

  Ark finished and stood up. Caina glanced at her hip, brushing the stitches with a fingertip. “That looks good.”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice,” said Ark. “You should get some rest.”

  “And so should you,” said Caina. “We’re going to need it.”

  Chapter 22 - Dead Men and Alleys

  Fortunately, Sairzan’s second best suite of rooms had a balcony as well, one that looked towards Corazain’s pyramid. After night fell, Caina and Ark went over the balcony and down the rope, into Rasadda’s pyre-lit nights. Caina’s shoulder ached, forcing her to take extra care, but Ark’s stitches held. She dropped into the street, cloak blurring around her.

  “Which way?” murmured Caina.

  “We’ll go around the west side of Arzaidanir’s pyramid,” said Ark. “The longer way around, but we’ll avoid most of the slums that way.”

  “And hopefully the Sons of Corazain,” said Caina.

  “Yes,” said Ark. He beckoned, and they went into the night. Ark had a solid knowledge of Rasadda’s layout, and he led Caina through a maze of alleys and back streets. More than once they saw groups of men prowling the streets, swords and torches in hand, and Caina and Ark lurked in the shadows until they had passed.

  The air began to smell of salt and tar, and they came to Rasadda’s docks. They lacked the unrelieved black of the rest of Rasadda, and Caina supposed that foreigners had built most of the structures here. She saw dozens of ships floating in the harbor, dimly illuminated in the pyramids’ fiery glows. They passed warehouses, and taverns filled with the sound of laughter and carousing.

  “Here,” said Ark.

  The Sign of the Anchor was a three story building of timber and mortared stone, a board painted with a gray anchor swinging over the door. No lights shone in the windows. Very faintly, just over the smell of salt and tar, Caina caught the stench of burnt meat. She stared at the tavern, thinking.

  “What is it?”

  “Hear that?”

  Ark frowned. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly. Are sailors’ taverns usually quiet places?”

  Ark shook his head.

  “We’ll go through the back,” said Caina. They crossed to the alley behind the tavern. Empty crates and barrels leaned up against the walls, worn and splintered. The burnt smell was stronger back here, the air almost greasy with it. Caina saw a dark door in the wall, and reached into her belt for her lockpicks.

  Then the door swung open. Caina froze, and light flooded into the alley. Two men backed out, carrying one end of a wrapped bundle about the size of a corpse. Both had the rough, tanned looks of sailors. Or pirates, more probably. Two more men came out, holding the front end of the bundle, followed by a fifth man.

  “Damn it, lift,” said one of the men. “My back is killing me. Lift, damn your hide.”

  “I am lifting,” said another man, “maybe you ought to…”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the fifth man, leaning against the door. His voice was smooth and cultured, and his clothes looked finer. “If you keep opening your mouths to whine, I am going to have to hit you, and that will be unpleasant for us all.”

  “Why don’t you carry these bastards?”

  “Because I am the captain, and I don’t carry things,” said the fifth man. He took a quick sip from a flask, which vanished into a pocket of his coat. “The cart’s just around the…”

  He saw Caina and Ark right about then. He snarled a curse, yanking a cutlass from the scabbard at his belt, while his men yelled and drew their weapons. Ark’s broadsword flew from its scabbard, but Caina was faster. She yanked a knife from her belt, threw back her arm, and flung.


  The blade buried itself in the wood of the door, quivering a half-inch from the captain’s ear.

  “If I had wanted to kill you,” said Caina, disguising her voice, “that would have been in your throat.”

  No one said anything for a few moments.

  “Indeed it would have,” said the captain, stepping away from the door. “And since I remain among the world of the living, I can only assume that you and your hulking friend desire something else. I do hope that you’re not selling anything. I detest merchants. Only scoundrels become merchants. Honest men become thieves.”

  The captain both looked and sounded Nighmarian. He reminded her, oddly, of Septimus Romarion.

  “A Ghost,” said one of the pirates, voice strangled. “That short fellow. He’s one of the Emperor’s Ghosts.”

  “He?” said the captain, frowning. He squinted. “No. That’s a woman.”

  Caina blinked. “I…”

  “A gentleman can always discern a lady, and I am nothing if not a gentleman,” said the captain. He yanked the knife from the door, swaggered to Caina, and presented it to her handle-first with a sweeping bow. “Maltaer, captain of the Lynx, at your service.”

  Caina took the knife and slid it back into her belt. To her surprise, Maltaer took her hand and planted a kiss upon the gloved fingers.

  “I suppose you’ll be unable to reveal your name?” said Maltaer. “Alas.” He straightened and took step back. “And since you have not come to kill me, nor are you trying to sell me shoddy merchandise of questionable provenance, I can only conclude that you have come to talk.”

  “I have questions for you,” said Caina, trying not to let his unusual talent for observation rattle her.