The Ghosts Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “My daughter, Anna Callenius,” said Halfdan. “A woman of considerable expertise in certain useful fields.”

  “Indeed,” said the woman. She bowed, and Caina bowed back. “You may call me Jiri. Come inside, please.”

  They followed Jiri into one of the oddest rooms Caina had ever seen.

  The room took up almost the entire top floor of the building, with windows overlooking the street below. Long tables ran the length of the room, each of them laden with gears, cogs, springs, glass tubing, half-disassembled locks, crossbows, and a variety of nasty-looking mechanical traps. Slates hung from the walls, covered in endless mathematical equations scrawled in chalk.

  “Radast!” called Jiri. “Our guests have arrived.”

  A Szaldic man shuffled to Jiri’s side, gaunt and thin, his black hair and beard wild and unkempt. His clothes and leather apron were ragged and grease-stained, and variety of tools shone in the apron’s pouches. His face kept twitching in a way that made him look both crazed and harmless. Yet there was something icy in his eyes, something detached and calculating.

  “Radast,” said Halfdan. “Good to see you again.”

  “Four hundred and sixty-seven.” Radast blinked several times, and nodded. “Four hundred and sixty-seven days since you last were here. Arlann was with you then.” His eyes widened when he saw Caina, and he stepped towards her.

  “You are sixty-eight inches tall,” he said. “Also…a hundred and thirty pounds. Less if you were naked. Or is it a hundred and thirty-four?” He scratched his head for a moment, thinking. “Oh. I see. Yes. Two daggers in your boots, and four throwing knives strapped to your forearms. That would throw off the numbers, wouldn’t it? Very well hidden. I suspect the average man would only have a one in forty-nine chance of spotting them.”

  “Ah…thank you,” said Caina.

  “Radast,” said Jiri, putting her hands on his arms, “this is inappropriate.”

  “But my numbers are correct!” said Radast.

  “This is my daughter, Anna Callenius,” said Halfdan. “Anna, this is Radast, a master of the Imperial Collegium of Locksmiths. The very best in the city, and possibly the Empire. He receives the special jobs from the Collegium, for patrons who have…unique security needs.”

  “None of the others understand,” said Radast. “They think in metal and screws and springs. Bah! Useless! It is about numbers. The equations must balance. The physical reality must reflect the mathematical reality. Only then will the lock be strong.”

  “And,” said Halfdan, “he does many useful things for the Ghosts.”

  For the first time Radast smiled. “You give me such interesting problems.” He looked at Caina, eyes wide and excited. “Did you know that, assuming proper variables, it is possible to precisely calculate the trajectory of a crossbow bolt?” He grabbed Caina’s arm. Her first instinct was to break his fingers, but she let him propel her towards one of the slates. “Here, let me show you. You start by…”

  “Enough,” said a man’s voice, deep with a Nighmarian accent. “If you get that lunatic started, he’ll rave for the rest of the day.”

  A man sat sprawled in a comfortable chair by the window, watching them. He was only a few years her senior, Caina guessed. He wore Legion armor, polished until it shone, and a broadsword at his belt. His armor had golden trim, his crimson cloak looked new, and the leather of his boots and sword belt gleamed. A tribune, Caina realized, an officer commanding a cohort of six hundred Legionaries. Ark always said that the centurions ran the Legions, while the highborn tribunes idled in spoiled indolence.

  And yet. The man rose to his feet with a single smooth motion. Heavy calluses marked the fingers of his sword hand. Caina supposed he knew how to use that broadsword.

  “Tribune Ducas,” said Halfdan, “I see you got our message.”

  “I did,” said Ducas. “It’s sad world, when a noble tribune, heir to the name of an ancient House of high lineage, has to run at the beck and call of a tradesman.”

  “Merchant,” said Halfdan.

  “There’s a difference?” said Ducas. “And still dragging around this old wreck of a retired centurion, I see.” He grinned and gripped hands with Ark in the fashion of the Legions, a sort of combined handshake and arm-wrestling match. “You ought to find yourself a woman. That’ll take that sour look off your face, centurion.”

  “I told you, tribune,” said Ark, “I’m married.”

  “Ha,” said Ducas. “It’s as if you were an Anshani monk. Women are all the same, Ark. Find one and tumble her. You’ll feel better, trust me.”

  Jiri scowled. Caina suspected that she did not care for Ducas. Or, for that matter, that Ducas and Radast liked each other very much. It might not matter; she had seen men who loathed each other work well together. Still, this might explain how Icaraeus had operated undetected out of Marsis for so long.

  Ducas’s eyes turned to Caina. “And this is your daughter, Basil?” He smirked. “She doesn’t look at all like you.”

  Caina gripped her skirts and did a curtsy.

  “Pretty little thing, though,” said Ducas, looking her up and down. “I suppose your father wants to find you a husband, eh? Why don’t you stop by my lodgings sometimes?” His smirk looked like it belonged on a shark. “We’ll see if you’ll make an appropriate wife.”

  “No reason the equation should balance a second time,” muttered Radast.

  Ducas’s eyes narrowed. “What? What was that?”

  “Enough of this!” said Jiri. “Stop bickering like children. We have work to do.” Both men subsided.

  Interesting.

  “You are of course correct,” said Halfdan. “Business first. A few days past we almost captured Lord Naelon Icaraeus at the White Road Inn, but he escaped. We think he came to Marsis.”

  “Naelon Icaraeus?” said Ducas. “Gods of the Empire, how I want to have that bastard’s head on a platter.”

  “We found his ledgers,” said Halfdan. “Some of his slaves go to Istarinmul and Anshan and New Kyre. But most of his profit comes from slaves he’s selling in Marsis for enormous sums of money. Which means he’s getting them into the city somehow.”

  “I know that,” said Ducas, irritated. “We’ve been looking. The Legion inspects every wagon that comes into the city, every ship that pulls into a dock. Nothing. Not a trace of the slaves.”

  “Soldiers can be bribed,” said Halfdan. “I used a silver piece to get past the gate without trouble. Legionary pay isn’t all that high. It wouldn’t take much money to overlook a hold full of slaves. And there are other ways. Hidden compartments. False barrels. All the old smuggler tricks.”

  “And soldiers are often blind fools,” said Jiri, earning a scowl from Ducas. “I have many informants among the dockworkers and the porters, those who actually unload the ships. None of them have seen anything suspicious. And…have you ever smelled a slave ship, Basil?”

  Halfdan nodded.

  “All those slaves chained in the hold, stewing in their own shit and sweat and terror,” said Jiri. “There is no other stink like it, thank the gods. None of the ships have that smell.”

  “So,” said Halfdan, “that means Icaraeus is careful. Smuggling slaves in small numbers, not packed head-to-toe like in an Istarish slave ship. Maybe no more than five or six to a ship. That can hide from the inspectors.” Ducas started to protest, and Halfdan cut him off. “Do your men go over every inch of the ship, from bow to stern? Or do they just glance around the hold?”

  Ducas grunted.

  “There could be another way,” said Caina.

  Jiri lifted her eyebrows, and Ducas gave her a sullen glare. Radast seemed oblivious to the conversation.

  “Icaraeus has access to some level of sorcery,” said Caina. “There were always rumors that he had a sorcerer working for him, but now I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Oh, you have, have you?” said Ducas. “And what do you know of sorcery?”

  “I’ve killed magi before,”
said Caina, voice quiet.

  “She has,” said Ark. “I’ve seen her do it.”

  Ducas frowned and said nothing. Jiri blinked a few times and took a harder look at Caina.

  “Arlann,” said Caina. “Show him the knife.”

  Ark produced the knife she had flung at Icaraeus, its blade twisted and splintered.

  “I tried to kill Icaraeus. I would have killed Icaraeus,” said Caina, “but he had some sort of enspelled bauble, probably his bracers, that deflected the blow.”

  “A broken knife,” said Ducas. “That proves nothing.”

  Radast came closer, staring at the blade with fascination. “The angles are all wrong. Metal doesn’t break that way. Not naturally.”

  “I have relied upon my daughter’s observations in the past,” said Halfdan. “If she says Icaraeus had some sort of sorcery, then he does. Which might explain how Icaraeus is getting his slaves into Marsis.”

  “So he has a sorcerer working for him,” said Jiri. “Or he is working for a sorcerer.”

  “The Imperial Magisterium,” said Caina. “They have no regard for the laws of men or gods, and view all other men as either slaves or raw materials for their arcane experiments.”

  Jiri and Ducas shared a look.

  “That…is unlikely,” said Jiri.

  “Why not?” said Caina.

  “Because,” said Ducas, “the local Magisterium is a collection of fools. Oh, don’t misunderstand me, girl. Magi are more trouble than they’re worth, and I wouldn’t mind killing the lot of them. But I doubt the Marsis chapter has anything to do with Icaraeus. I know all four of the masters, and they’re fat, craven old fools. Too cowardly to dare the First Magus’s displeasure. The junior brothers are desperate to get reassigned, and none of them will risk doing anything to jeopardize that.”

  “But Marsis is the largest city in the western Empire,” said Caina. “Why wouldn’t the Magisterium have a strong presence here?”

  Ducas looked annoyed, but Jiri answered. “The head of the local chapter displeased the First Magus in some way. I don’t know the details. Ever since then, the Marsis chapter has been neglected, a dumping ground for the Magisterium’s misfits. Which is idiocy. If the Kyracians ever attack again, we’ll need capable magi to counter the sorcery of the stormsingers and stormdancers. Not a collection of incompetent fools.”

  “Incompetent fools often feel slighted. They’d have excellent reason to betray the Empire and side with Icaraeus,” said Caina.

  Jiri shrugged. “Perhaps. I don’t know.”

  “They would,” said Halfdan, “but I doubt any of them have the power or skill necessary to hide slaves entering the city. A foreign sorcerer must be working with Icaraeus.”

  “Oh, how splendid,” said Ducas. “Our Magisterium is bad enough, but at least the Legions and Ghosts keep them in line. Foreign sorcerers are always trouble.”

  “So, who is buying Icaraeus’s slaves?” said Jiri.

  “Three of Marsis’s noble Houses,” said Halfdan. “Palaegus, Chlorus, and Heliorus.”

  “Their equations didn’t balance, either,” said Radast, still peering at the ruined knife.

  “What does that mean?” said Caina.

  Ducas scowled at Radast. “Widows. Women head all three of those Houses. Their husbands have died, some of them have lost children, and yet none of them have remarried. Young, wealthy widows.” He sighed. “I could use a wealthy wife, though they’re all a bit mouthy.”

  “So you know them?” said Halfdan.

  Ducas scratched his jaw. “Oh, aye. All three of them. I haven’t yet gotten any of them into bed, but I’m working on it.”

  “Can you see any of them buying slaves?”

  Ducas thought about it. “Maybe. None of them are terribly bright. They’re addicted to novelty and indolence, and waste a great deal of money. I could see them buying slaves just for the fun of it. Or maybe their seneschals are embezzling money.”

  “What about disappearances?” said Caina.

  Ducas snorted. “If you want to kill them, that’s easy enough. Hard to question a corpse, though.”

  “No,” said Caina. “Has anyone in the city disappeared? Even with the aid of sorcery, it’s got to be expensive to smuggle slaves into Marsis. If Icaraeus is supplying slaves to the noble Houses, it would cheaper to kidnap people in the city.”

  Ducas shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Caina gave him an incredulous look. “You don’t know?”

  “Marsis is a busy port,” said Jiri. “Thousands of people travel here every year, both by land and sea. Some stay, some don’t. Three quarters of a million people live here. Our Ghost circle has only three members - too many of our brothers and sisters were killed in the last Kyracian raid six years past, and we haven't had the chance to replace them. My informants can only do so much. There’s no possible way to keep track of that many comings and goings.”

  “Any rumors of disappearances?” said Caina.

  “Some,” said Jiri. “But nothing substantial. Like I said, people leave all the time. There are rumors that slavers are snatching people…but no proof.”

  “Counts,” muttered Radast. “The counts are wrong. That equation doesn’t balance.”

  “All this is speculation,” said Halfdan. “The one solid piece of evidence we have is that Icaraeus is selling slaves to the noble Houses. We’ll start looking there.”

  “You’re in luck, then,” said Ducas. “Agria Palaegus is holding one of her balls tonight. Since I’m a dashing military hero, I am of course invited.”

  Halfdan nodded. “I’ve arranged invitations for myself and my daughter, as well. We’ll have a look around and see if we notice anything amiss. Get a feel for the land.”

  Caina knew what that meant. He wanted her to familiarize herself with Lady Palaegus’s mansion during the party.

  That would make it easier to break into the place and have a more thorough look around.

  “All right,” said Ducas. “I’d better get going. Any longer and I’ll be missed.”

  “We’ll see you there,” said Halfdan. “Best if you pretend that we’ve never met.”

  Ducas gave him a look. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Basil.” He gave Halfdan a shallow bow and departed through the massive steel door.

  “Insufferable fool,” muttered Jiri. “A pity that his contacts among the Houses are so useful. Otherwise I’d arrange to have him assigned on the other side of the Empire.”

  “You do good work here, Jiri,” said Halfdan. “The Emperor is pleased with your service. If you hadn’t intercepted one of Icaraeus’s letters, we never would have known that he was operating out of Varia Province in the first place.”

  “That devil is clever,” said Jiri. “Good luck at the ball tonight.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” said Halfdan, and they left.

  ###

  “What did you think?” said Halfdan as he pulled shut the coach’s door.

  Caina though it over. “Jiri’s the one charge, isn’t she? Radast is too eccentric to function, and Ducas…how did he become a Ghost, anyway?”

  “His wife,” said Halfdan.

  Caina sighed. “Not this again.” Ark had hated her on sight. Later Caina learned that she resembled his lost Tanya, and her very presence caused him pain. They had gotten past that, but it had been difficult for a while.

  Halfdan chuckled. “No, not like you and Ark. Ducas’s family is old, but poor. He married the daughter of a wealthy merchant for the dowry. His new wife grew weary of him and hired assassins. Ducas came to me for help, and he’s belonged to the Ghosts ever since.”

  “What happened to his wife?” said Caina. Ark snapped the reins, and the coach rumbled into the street.

  “She escaped, unfortunately,” said Halfdan. “Last I heard, she made it to New Kyre, and is living high off Ducas’s money and entertaining an endless string of lovers.”

  Caina laughed. “Little wonder he’s bitter.”

  “What did
you think of Radast?”

  “There’s something…off about him,” said Caina. “And not because of his poor social graces. That’s common enough in scholarly men. But…he was right about my height and weight from a single glance. He’s dangerous, but I can’t see how.”

  “Very good,” said Halfdan. “He’s killed twenty-seven people. That I know of.”

  Caina blinked. “How? Poison?”

  “Crossbows,” said Halfdan. “He’s a genius with mechanical devices, and built his own crossbow. He’ll follow a target, learn his habits. Then he’ll spend a few days calculating the shot.” Halfdan waved his hand in an arc. “Radast once shot a man dead through an open window from ninety yards away. He’ll usually shoot over the rooftops, so by the time people start looking for the crossbowman, he’s long gone. The Ghosts use him from time to time to dispose of people who need killing.”

  “I can see how that would be useful.”

  “It is,” said Halfdan. “A strange man, though. He and Jiri are lovers. I don’t think he could function without her. He’d become so engrossed in a calculation that he’d forget to eat or drink or dress himself.” He shrugged. “But if turns out that Lady Palaegus has been buying slaves…well, Radast will have a new target to calculate.”

  Caina glanced out of the window. She saw Radast staring down at them. Perhaps he was calculating the precise angle to send a crossbow bolt smashing through the glass.

  She looked away, trying not to shudder.

  “Well,” said Caina, “then let’s meet Lady Agria Palaegus, shall we?”

  Chapter 6 - Agria's Ball

  Caina spent the rest of the day preparing for the ball.

  It took a lot of work. She bathed, shaved, perfumed, coiffed, and dressed. Her hair went into an elaborate piled crown, leaving her neck exposed. Since she was masquerading as the daughter of a jewel merchant, she had no shortage of jewelry. Silver pins held her hair in place, silver earrings went in her ears, and a silver chain with sapphires to match her eyes went around her neck. She chose a black-trimmed blue gown with a billowing skirt and a tight bodice. It left her shoulders bare, and dipped rather lower than she would have liked, but she was fishing for information, after all. Her daggers went into her boots, though the sleeves were too tight to conceal throwing knives.