She turned in alarm, and found herself standing at the edge of the Well.
The ring of polished marble encircling it came to Caina’s knee. She looked over the edge, and saw that the Well’s polished white sides went down and down until they vanished into blackness. How far down did it go? The Stone was only a few hundred feet tall, yet the Well seemed to descend for a thousand feet. For that matter, who had dug it? No one knew a way to cut the Stone’s peculiar white rock.
For a dreadful instant, it reminded Caina of the pit below Black Angel Tower, the prison that held the bound demons. She wondered if something just as terrible lurked at the bottom of the Well…
“I see,” said a cold voice, “that you have discovered the Well.”
Caina turned.
Ranarius stood a few feet away, staring at her. Unlike the nobles, the master magus’s black robe and gray hair gave him a forbidding, ascetic air. His blind slave girl stood behind him, head bowed, eyes concealed behind the black blindfold. Her jade collar glittered in the light, as did the jade bracelet on Ranarius’s left wrist.
“Sir?” said Caina, her mind racing. Did Ranarius know she was a Ghost? Or did he suspect that the Ghosts had spies among the opera company?
“It is one of the great mysteries of Cyrioch,” said Ranarius.
“It doesn’t look very mysterious, sir,” said Caina.
A thin smile came over his gaunt face. “I suppose not. But it is a great mystery nonetheless. No one knows who dug it or for what purpose. And it has always been here, at the very crest of the Stone. It was here before the first stone of the Palace of Splendors was laid, before mortal men even came to what is now Cyrica.”
Despite herself, Caina was curious. “What lies at the bottom?”
“No one knows,” said Ranarius. “If you drop a stone into the Well, you will not hear it hit the bottom. And throughout Cyrioch’s history, curious satraps and Lord Governors have hired adventurous men to explore the Well. None have ever returned. One managed to use a thousand feet of rope before his line snapped. Which is remarkable, considering the Stone stands five hundred feet tall at its highest point.”
“No one knows what is at the bottom?” said Caina, keeping her eyes wide and her tone breathless. Perhaps Ranarius did not think she was a Ghost, and was only trying to overawe an ignorant servant girl to feed his vanity.
“No one living, certainly,” said Ranarius. “In ancient times, the Anshani satraps threw condemned prisoners into the Well. But some of those satraps died under mysterious circumstances, and now it is considered ill luck to throw anything into the Well, let alone a living man.”
“That is a very strange tale, sir,” said Caina. “It is kind of you to share it with a poor servant girl.”
Again that thin smile flickered over Ranarius’s lips. “It is the duty of the magi to educate the people of the Empire about sorcery. And I am convinced that sorcery was used to create the Well. One day I shall discover how.”
“Well,” said Caina, “so long as you don’t climb down on a rope.”
She glanced at Well, and Ranarius barked a short laugh. And as he did, Caina felt his eyes climb over her body, like a wolf examining a sheep.
Ah. So that was why he was talking to her. It seemed peculiar for a master magus to seduce a servant girl at the Lord Governor’s ball, but sometimes when a powerful man decided upon a particular woman, nothing could talk him out of it.
“Come with me,” said Ranarius, “and I shall be happy to tell you more of the Well.”
“I am sorry, sir,” said Caina, and as she did, Theodosia’s song rolled over the Gallery of the Well. “But my mistress sings for Lord Khosrau, and I must be ready to attend her once she is finished.”
“Your devotion does you credit,” said Ranarius, and she saw the fingers of his right hand move in a brief gesture. The tingling sensation of a spell washed over her. Caina recognized the spell - it was mind sorcery, meant to make her more suggestible. “But Nicasia can look after your mistress. Can’t you, Nicasia?”
“Yes, master,” said the slave girl, not lifting her face. Her voice was soft and high, and reminded Caina of an injured bird’s call.
“Come with me,” said Ranarius, “and we shall discuss all manner of things.”
The tingling of his spell intensified, and Caina felt the sudden impulse to go with him. But Kalastus had tried to cast the same spell upon her, and Caina knew how to resist it. She filled her mind with rage, with her hatred of the magi, and the impulse to please Ranarius vanished.
“I am sorry, sir,” said Caina, keeping her voice calm. She did a quick curtsy. “But I must attend my mistress at once…”
“I think,” said Ranarius, voice low and urgent, “that you would really rather come with me.”
Caina tried to think of an excuse. “I…”
“Seducing the serving girls again, preceptor?”
Ranarius scowled.
Another master magus approached them. He was Cyrican, with dusky skin and a close-cropped black beard. He regarded Ranarius with a mixture of amusement and contempt, and paid no attention to Caina whatsoever.
“Mhadun,” said Ranarius. “This is not a good time.”
“Pity,” said Mhadun, “because we have business to discuss. The chapter requires a firm hand, and if you are too busy with your little…amusements,” he cast a disdainful glance at both Caina and Nicasia, “then perhaps the First Magus could be persuaded to appoint another as the preceptor of the Cyrioch chapter.”
Ranarius’s mouth twisted. “Like you, Mhadun?”
Mhadun smirked. “I would never presume to be so ambitious, preceptor.”
“Excuse me, sirs,” said Caina with a quick curtsy. “I must return to my duties.”
She walked away, but not before she had the satisfaction of seeing the irritation on Ranarius’s gaunt face.
She wondered why Mhadun had been so insolent. The Magisterium had a rigid hierarchy, and the preceptors and the high magi did not tolerate disobedience. Perhaps Mhadun had some hold over Ranarius.
Caina walked to the far end of the Gallery, where a crowd of nobles and merchants gathered around Theodosia. The acoustics in the Gallery were terrible, with far too many echoes, but Theodosia used them to good effect. She had the full attention of Lord Khosrau, and the others nobles followed suit. It was, Caina mused, the perfect time for someone to sneak unnoticed into the Gallery.
She looked at the entrances and saw no one but the militiamen and the Imperial Guards standing watch. She looked at the balconies, saw the slaves hurrying about their…
Wait.
Caina made herself look down.
In the corner of a balcony, besides a pillar, stood the cloaked man who had warned her about the Kindred at the Amphitheatre.
The cloaked man who had been waiting outside of Barius’s shop.
The cloaked man who could have arranged the entire incident with the assassin at the Amphitheatre in order to kill Lord Corbould later.
She shot a quick glance over the Gallery. Theodosia held the attention of most of the guests with her song. Ranarius and Mhadun had retreated into the shadow of the pillars, obviously arguing.
No one was paying any attention to her.
Caina turned and made her way to the stairs.
Chapter 8 - A Mask of Scars
Caina slipped into the upper balcony, Theodosia’s song echoing in her ears.
The enclosed balcony stood a hundred feet over the Gallery of the Well, the stone railing stretching between pillars of pale granite. Statues of long-dead Lord Governors stood in deep niches, providing dozens of places for an assassin to hide.
Caina reached into her left boot and drew out a dagger. She crept along, scanning every shadow for the cloaked man, just as she had when hunting that Kindred assassin through the Praetorian Basilica in Malarae. If the cloaked man had come to kill Lord Corbould from the balcony, he would need to put an arrow through the lord’s neck. Corbould stood facing Theodosia as she sang, and the ass
assin would need to get close enough to shoot over the other nobles and merchants.
Then Caina spotted the cloaked man.
He knelt by the stone railing. His cloak hung open, and Caina saw that he wore chain mail, a sword and a quiver of arrows at his belt, his forearms marked by the black lines of his strange tattoo.
A short bow waited in his hand.
Caina sprang forward, dagger drawn back to strike.
But the cloaked man spun, dropped his bow, and yanked his sword from its scabbard. Caina’s blade clanged off the sword and she stumbled. The cloaked swung the flat of his blade for her face, and she jumped back, the steel whipping past her.
For a moment they stared at each other. The cloaked man’s hood had fallen back, revealing a lean face with pale green eyes and close-cropped blond hair. He looked about thirty, and he did not blink as he stared at Caina.
“Do you usually,” said the cloaked man in High Nighmarian, “stab your foes in the back?”
“It’s easier than a fair fight,” said Caina. From the way he held that sword, he knew how to use it, and a dagger against a sword was not a winning strategy. If she drew back far enough, she might be able to use a throwing knife, but he would expect that.
“Very sensible,” said the cloaked man. “Though why did you want to stab me in the back?”
“That was clever,” said Caina. “Warning me about the Kindred with the blowgun? Was he a rival of yours, perhaps? I’m surprised you didn’t take your shot at Lord Corbould then.”
The cloaked man made an irritated noise. “I have my own business. I care nothing for Corbould Maraeus.”
“Your own business,” said Caina, “that requires you to skulk about balconies with a bow?”
“Yes,” said the cloaked man.
“Mind telling me what that business is?” said Caina.
“It is,” said the cloaked man, “no concern of yours.”
“Oh?” said Caina. “You were skulking outside of Barius’s pawnshop after something turned him to stone. That is no business of the Ghosts? Or that assassin you pointed out to me? Something turned him to stone, as well.”
A hint of surprise flickered over the cloaked man’s face. He hadn’t known about the assassin. Or he was a very good actor.
“You claim to be a former Kindred assassin,” said Caina, “yet you keep shadowing Lord Corbould, and anyone who comes too close to you turns to stone. Any particular reason why you aren’t a concern of the Ghosts?”
The cloaked man’s lip twitched. “When you put it like that, no. But I assure you that Lord Corbould is in no danger from me. “
“Why should I believe you?” said Caina. “A half-dozen Ghosts have been turned to stone around you.”
The cloaked man’s face tightened. “I warned those fools to leave me alone and stay out of my business. They failed to heed me and suffered the consequences.” His eyes drilled into her. “I admit you would make a far lovelier statue than that fat fool Barius. But you will suffer his fate if you keep interfering in my business.”
“So you turned them to stone, then?” said Caina.
“I did nothing of the sort,” said the cloaked man.
“I don’t believe you,” said Caina. “There’s more going on here than you’re telling me. Assassins do not simply leave the Kindred. And you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”
He smirked. “You can’t force me, Ghost.”
“Maybe not,” said Caina. “But I just have to scream, don’t I? All those nobles and fat merchants will see a serving girl terrorized by an armed man. An armed man with a bow, incidentally. Think you can outrun every last Imperial Guard and militiaman in the Palace of Splendors?”
“It would be an amusing challenge,” said the cloaked man, but she saw the wariness in his eyes. “Perhaps I can prove my good faith?”
“How?” said Caina.
The cloaked man slid his sword into its scabbard, but Caina kept her dagger in hand.
“There are Kindred assassins here, right now,” said the cloaked man, “and I will show them to you.”
“How do you know?” said Caina.
“You have a knack for spotting my former brothers,” said the cloaked man, “but I was Kindred. I trained with them for years, and I know them when I see them. Come closer and look.”
Caina hesitated, but made sure to keep the dagger between her and the cloaked man. He seemed amused by the precaution, but pointed over the railing.
“Look,” he said. “On the far side of the Well.”
On the far colonnade, beneath the pillars, she spotted the master magus Mhadun. He spoke with a pair of young men in gray slave tunics. Both had the diffident postures of slaves, but Caina saw the concealed tension in their limbs. Like lions ready to spring upon a wounded animal.
“Kindred assassins,” said Caina, “both of them.”
“Very good,” said the cloaked man. “The Cyrican lords are idiots. They see the slaves as cattle, not men. And no one expects a domestic animal to carry a dagger.”
Caina’s opinion of the cloaked man went up a notch.
“What about Mhadun?” said Caina. “Is he Kindred?”
“Yes,” said the cloaked man. “The Kindred prefer to buy their assassins as children and raise them to know nothing but death and killing.” He sneered. “But it is difficult to train capable sorcerers that way. So the Kindred recruit trained brothers of the Magisterium or Anshani occultists when they need sorcerers. “
“Lovely,” said Caina. Two Kindred assassins and a Kindred sorcerer? Caina didn’t know what they had in mind, but Lord Corbould was in deadly danger.
“Indeed,” said the cloaked man. “I wonder how much Lord Khosrau paid for Lord Corbould’s death. Sorcerers do not come cheaply.”
Caina gave him a hard look. “So Lord Khosrau hired the Kindred? You know this for certain?”
Theodosia finished her song and a round of applause rose from the nobles and merchants. Even Mhadun paused from his discussion with the assassins to clap a few times.
The cloaked man shrugged. “No. But it makes sense. I cannot think of who else might have hired the Kindred.” He pointed again. “But I trust I have made my point? I have revealed three Kindred assassins to you. Would I do that if I intended to kill Corbould Maraeus myself?”
“No,” said Caina. “But there is a way you can prove yourself to me beyond a doubt.”
The cloaked man grimaced. “What further proof do you require? Shall I fall to my knees and swear upon every god that ever was?”
“That will do me little good,” said Caina. “Help me stop the Kindred.”
Theodosia began another song, and Caina shot a glance over the railing. Mhadun and the disguised assassins were still talking. How much longer before they struck?
“That would put my business at risk,” said the cloaked man.
“And if the Kindred kill Corbould?” said Caina. “If Cyrica revolts against the Empire? Will that not put your business at risk?”
“Damn it,” said the cloaked man. He looked away for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth in calculation. “You drive a hard bargain. Very well. If I assist you against the Kindred, you will leave me in peace?”
“I will,” said Caina. “Unless you have been lying to me, or try to kill Lord Corbould or Lord Khosrau yourself.”
“I haven’t told you the whole truth,” said the cloaked man, “but I have not lied to you. Let us get this over with.” He turned towards the stairs, raising his hood once more.
“Wait,” said Caina. “We should circle the balcony and take the stairs on the far side of the Gallery. It will look suspicious if we cross the Gallery together.”
“A sound plan,” said the cloaked man. Without another word he started down the balcony, Caina following.
She kept a wary eye on him.
If he helped her stop the Kindred, she would know that he had told the truth. And perhaps she could coax more information out of him, something to help her
discover what had happened to Barius and the other Ghosts…
The cloaked man stopped, hand falling to his sword hilt.
“What is it?” said Caina, lifting her dagger.
“Someone’s watching us,” said the cloaked man.
Caina took a quick look around. To her right, she saw the railing, and the gathered nobles listening to Theodosia’s song. To her left, a series of darkened doorways leading into the Palace of Splendors. No one in the Gallery had noticed them, and Caina saw no one lurking in the darkened doorways.
She braced herself. Was this a trick? Some ruse the cloaked man would use to kill her and make his escape?
Then she heard a footstep in one of the darkened doorways.
“I never expected to find you here, Corvalis Aberon.”
The voice was a harsh rasp, and it made the hair on the back of Caina’s neck stand up.
The cloaked man yanked his sword from its scabbard and drew a dagger in his left hand.
Evidently he recognized the voice, too.
A short man in a hooded cloak stepped from a doorway. He wore studded leather armor beneath the cloak, and a sword and dagger on his belt. A pair of baldrics crossed over his chest, holding an array of daggers and throwing knives. Inside the hood Caina saw a hairless head covered in ragged scars, as if his face had been stitched together from scraps of old leather. His left eye was brilliant green, but his right was harsh orange, like a pit of molten sulfur.
Sicarion, Jadriga’s pet assassin.
“You,” said the cloaked man, voice thick with loathing.
“Corvalis, Corvalis,” said Sicarion, his scarred lips stretching in a smile. “What a delightful surprise this is. I haven’t seen you since that business in Artifel.”
“And I haven’t see you,” said Caina, “since I took off your right hand in Scorikhon’s tomb.”
Corvalis looked at her and blinked.
“You found a new one, I see,” said Caina.
Sicarion flexed the fingers of his right hand. “And a strong grip it has, mistress.”
“Mistress?” said Corvalis, looking at her in sudden alarm. “You’re the Moroaica? What sort of game is this?”
Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone Page 8