Subtlety had failed, and now the Kindred would use brute force to kill Lord Corbould and Lord Khosrau.
She looked through the hall, but saw no sign of the nobles or of Theodosia.
“Stop them!” shouted Marzhod. “Stop the assassins! Attack!”
The Sarbian mercenaries loosed their wailing battle cries and charged, scimitars whirling. Corvalis charged into the fray, his sword and dagger a blur, while Marzhod hung back, loading his crossbow. Caina found herself carried along in the press. She drew daggers from her boots, joining the fight alongside the mercenaries. She took a surprised assassin in the throat with a quick slash, wheeled, and stabbed another in the leg. The man stumbled, and a Sarbian mercenary cut off his head with a sharp blow of his scimitar.
Caught between the beleaguered Imperial Guards and the howling Sarbians, the Kindred attack collapsed. Some Sarbians and Guards fell, but far more assassins perished. Caina fought alongside the Sarbians, and the assassins shied away from her. They did not see her as a lone young woman. Thanks to her cloak, they saw a hooded shadow, face concealed in darkness, daggers glittering in either hand.
Then Caina spotted Theodosia and the nobles.
They had been backed into a corner. Dents marred Lord Corbould’s black armor, and blood streamed from a cut on his temple. Yet he wielded his sword with vigor, keeping the Kindred at bay. Lord Khosrau stood next to him, his white robes stained with sweat and blood, his ceremonial scimitar in hand. The old lord’s face had gone purple with the strain of fighting, yet he did not flinch from the battle.
Theodosia stood behind him, flinging knives whenever an opening appeared.
Armizid sat slumped against the window, the side of his robe red with blood, left hand clutched to his right shoulder. Yet Caina saw how his eyes followed every movement of the battle. Once his father and Corbould were dead, he could claim that Corbould had murdered Khosrau and then been slain in the fighting. He could then rebel against the Empire and declare himself King of Cyrica.
And the war against Istarinmul and New Kyre would grow that much bloodier.
A pair of Kindred charged at Corbould. A sword hammered across his black cuirass, and the old lord fell on his back with a clatter of armor. One of the assassins loomed over Corbould, raising his sword back for the killing blow, while the second man sprang at Khosrau. Khosrau grabbed Theodosia and shoved her behind him, raising his scimitar to meet the onslaught.
Caina’s opinion of him rose.
Caina reached into her belt and flung one of the glass vials she had taken from the Elder. The vial shattered in a spray of stinking black smoke at the feet of the assassin menacing Khosrau. Khosrau and Theodosia doubled over, hacking and wheezing, and Caina heard Corbould fly into a coughing fit.
But so did both of the assassins.
Caina charged the assassin facing Khosrau, daggers in both hands. She plunged the blades into either side of his exposed neck, blood washing over his chain mail. The man staggered, and Caina kicked him off her daggers and spun just in time to meet the attack of the second assassin. He had been at the edge of the cloud of smoke and had recovered from it faster. Caina caught his slash on the crossed blades of her daggers, disengaged, and stabbed at him. The assassin danced to the side, avoiding her blow, and drove her back. If he pushed her back far enough, he could strike down Lord Khosrau before Caina could stop him…
Then the assassin stiffened as Corvalis’s sword plunged into his back. An instant later his dagger slid across the assassin’s throat, and the man toppled dead at Caina’s feet.
Corvalis nodded at her, and Caina sought out new foes to fight.
But the battle was over.
Dead Kindred in the armor of militiamen carpeted the floor. Marzhod’s Sarbians had triumphed, and began to loot the slain. Caina caught Theodosia’s eyes, saw her nod in relief.
Khosrau helped Corbould to his feet. “Are you hurt?”
“A bit bruised, I fear,” said Corbould. “But the chief wound is to my pride. Gods! I am getting old. Those young fools would never have gotten the best of me twenty years ago.”
“And you, Armizid?” said Khosrau.
“I am wounded, Father,” said Armizid, staggering to his feet. “But it is a minor scratch.” He looked at the Sarbians, his eyes hard and flat. “Truly, our survival is a miracle.”
“Yes,” said Khosrau. “It seems traitors within the civic militia wanted us dead.” He looked at the Sarbians, at Corvalis and Marzhod in their masks. “I am grateful for your aid, lads. But I would like to know just what the bloody hell is going on.”
The silence stretched on and on. Neither Marzhod nor Corvalis could reveal themselves. Marzhod was the Ghost circlemaster of Cyrioch, and needed some degree of secrecy to carry out his work. And if Corvalis revealed himself, Ranarius would probably find out and kill him. Could Theodosia tell the nobles what had happened? She could – but she did not know that Armizid was behind everything.
Caina looked at Theodosia, and the other woman mouthed a single word.
Balarigar.
And all at once Caina knew what she needed to do.
Marzhod had been wrong about opera singers. It would come down to a theatrical performance after all.
“My lords!” Caina roared, using every trick Theodosia had taught her to amplify and disguise her voice.
“Who the devil are you?” said Corbould, lifting his sword.
“I have been called the Balarigar,” said Caina.
Disbelief flashed over Corbould’s face, but the Imperial Guards took a step back. Those Guards had accompanied Corbould from Marsis, and they knew the stories. They had heard how the Balarigar had defeated the Istarish emir Rezir Shahan, how the hooded shadow had liberated the thousands of slaves filling the Great Market of Marsis.
They looked at Caina in fear and a little awe.
“My lord,” said one of the Guards, “I was a prisoner in the Great Market, I saw the Balarigar strike down Rezir Shahan! He danced through their ranks like a shadow, and the Istarish melted at his approach. My lord, this is the Balarigar, I swear it!”
The “Balarigar” was just a trick and a legend…but it seemed to be working.
“So you’re the famous Balarigar?” said Khosrau, voice light, but Caina heard the skepticism. “Or you could be a man in a Ghost shadow-cloak. But whoever you are, it seems we owe you our lives. For that, I thank you.”
“The threat is not ended,” said Caina. “For you were betrayed, Lord Khosrau of House Asurius. Someone hired the Kindred to slay you and your guest Lord Corbould. This villain desired to raise Cyrica in revolt against the Emperor, using your bloody robe as a banner.”
“Folly,” said Khosrau. “Cyrica is not powerful enough to stand on her own. We need a strong protector. And the Shahenshah of Anshan and the Padishah of Istarinmul would make crueler masters than the Emperor in Malarae.”
“The traitor desired to make himself King in Cyrica,” said Caina. She flung out her arm and pointed. “Lord Khosrau, your son Armizid hired the Kindred to slay you.”
Khosrau burst out laughing. “Armizid? Oh, that is a poor jest!”
Armizid’s face darkened with rage. “Lies! I will not stand for this calumny!”
“For years, Armizid has plotted against you,” said Caina. “He hired the Kindred to slay your eldest son Yergizid and the previous two Lord Governors.”
“Yergizid drowned in his bath,” said Khosrau, “and the previous Lord Governors were old men who died in office.”
“Or the Kindred killed Yergizid with such skill it looked like an accident,” said Caina. “Would you have made Armizid the Lord Governor if Yergizid lived? Would you have given him the office if the previous two Lord Governors had not died?”
Khosrau said nothing, but his eyes narrowed.
“You are listening to this slander, Father?” said Armizid. He stalked closer and pointed at Caina. “This masked renegade appears, hiding his face behind a cloak, and you will listen to him over your fir
stborn son? I cannot believe this!”
“Yergizid was my firstborn son,” said Khosrau, his voice almost absent.
“Yergizid is dead!” shouted Armizid. “I have taken his place all this years. Have I not faithfully done everything you asked of me? Have I not fulfilled every task you placed upon me?” He always scowled, but this time his face almost vibrated with it, like a dam starting to break beneath the weight of the water. “And you question me in front of these mercenaries and thugs? It is…it is…”
“Unseemly?” Caina suggested.
Armizid faced her, and she saw her death in his eyes. There was a faint, peculiar smell coming off him, like tomatoes and…
“Armizid,” said Khosrau. “I am not accusing you of anything. This fellow is obviously a Ghost nightfighter, and perhaps you have offended the Ghosts in some way. But the assassins are dead, and we will speak no more on the matter.”
And then Caina recognized that smell, and she knew how to undo Armizid.
“That’s not blood,” said Caina.
“What?” said Khosrau.
“The stain on the Lord Governor’s robe,” said Caina. “That’s not blood, and he wasn’t wounded in the fighting.”
Armizid looked at his father, at Caina, and that back at Khosrau.
“If it’s not blood,” said Khosrau, “then what is it?”
“Stage blood,” said Caina. “Red Caerish wine mixed with a bit of tomato juice. Opera singers and actors use it when somebody gets stabbed on stage. He tore his robes and poured it over his shoulder. It would look like he was wounded in the fighting, and only chance saved him when the Kindred slew you and Lord Corbould. But if you get close enough, you can smell it on him.”
Khosrau looked baffled. “But…why? Why?”
“Lies!” said Armizid.
“Because if the Kindred killed everyone but him,” said Caina, “Armizid could claim that Lord Corbould hired the Kindred to kill you, and then was slain in the fighting. Armizid could then rebel against the Empire to avenge you, and proclaim himself King of Cyrica. He has been working towards this for years, first by killing off his brother, and then disposing of the previous Lord Governors. The war with New Kyre and Istarinmul was the opportunity he needed, especially when the Emperor sent Lord Corbould to act as ambassador.”
“Lies,” hissed Armizid, “vile calumnies, a slander, Father, surely you cannot…”
Khosrau roared with laughter.
“That,” he said, “is the stupidest tale I have ever heard.”
Armizid flinched as if he had been slapped.
“Surely you could spin a better story for my old ears, Ghost!” said Khosrau. “King of Cyrica? Only an idiot would try to make himself King of Cyrica! For Cyrica has always been a province, never its own nation. Any fool stupid enough to make himself King of Cyrica will find his head atop the Shahenshah’s spear, or hanging from the wall of the Emperor’s…”
“Shut up!” screamed Armizid.
Silence fell, every eye on Lord Governor Armizid Asurius. Khosrau gazed at his son in shock. Armizid trembled like a maddened animal, his hands balled into fists.
“I am tired of listening to you,” he said, “you fat, stupid old man! For years I did everything you asked of me! Everything! I spent years hoping to gain favor in your eyes. And instead you gorged yourself at banquets! Instead you went to the opera and the gladiatorial games and cheered like any churlish slave! Instead you lay with whores and slave girls and…and opera singers!” He chopped at the air, the cords in his thin neck bulging. “I spent years trying to gain the approval of a gluttonous sluggard!”
“Armizid,” said Khosrau, “this…this is madness. I made you Lord Governor of Cyrica. What more honor could any man possibly want?”
“I will do more than you could ever dream of doing!” said Armizid. “I will make Cyrica into its own kingdom, first among the nations. I will raise House Asurius to honor you could never conceive. I will be the first of a dynasty, and my sons will rule over Cyrica for centuries! Perhaps they will even conquer an Empire of their own. A Cyrican Empire, stretching from Marsis to Istarinmul! I will do it, Father. I will be remembered as the founder of a Cyrican kingdom, while no one will remember the glutton of Cyrica Urbana at all!”
The rage at last choked off Armizid’s words, his chest heaving beneath his stained white robe. Khosrau stared at his son without expression. Caina expected the old lord to fly into a rage, to demand that the Imperial Guard arrest Armizid for his crimes.
Instead he shook his head and sighed.
“My son,” he said, “you are overwrought, and are not thinking clearly. Sit down, and I will talk some sense into your head…”
And that final bit of condescension pushed Armizid over the edge.
He howled like a madman and snatched a broadsword from the slain Imperial Guards. He flung himself at Lord Khosrau, still screaming, the sword drawn back to kill. Caina cursed and hurried forward, hoping to intercept the maddened Lord Governor…
But the Imperial Guards were faster.
Four broadswords plunged into Armizid’s chest and stomach, staining his white robes with real blood. Armizid staggered to a stop, the sword dropping from his fingers. The Guards ripped their swords free, and the Lord Governor of Cyrioch fell to the floor, his blood pooling around him.
For a long time no one moved.
“Gods,” said Corbould at last. “Khosrau, I’m sorry.”
“My son,” said Khosrau, his face deathly gray. “My own son was plotting to kill me for all these years. I gave him everything. Anything he wanted, I would have given him. And…and this.”
Theodosia touched his arm, and the stricken old lord did not pull away.
Caina took a deep breath, trying to decide what to do next. Best to withdraw, and leave Lord Khosrau to Theodosia and Lord Corbould. The gods only knew how Khosrau might react when the shock of Armizid’s treachery wore off. Better to get Marzhod and his men well away from the Palace of Splendors…
She caught a flicker of movement through the Hall’s door. A pale slave girl, clad in a long gray tunic, the glitter of a jade collar at her throat.
Nicasia.
Caina frowned.
Ranarius was here?
Corvalis hurried past the Sarbian mercenaries and made for the doors. Caina cursed and slipped after him. All eyes were on Khosrau and Armizid’s corpse, and no one saw her leave. Nicasia disappeared through the doors, and Corvalis picked up his pace.
Caina went after them.
Corvalis turned right and disappeared into one of the Palace’s elaborate colonnade-lined corridors. Caina broke into a run, her boots clicking against the marble floor. If Nicasia was here, that meant Ranarius was nearby. Perhaps Khosrau had invited him to the disastrous ball at the Hall of Glass, and he had retreated from the Kindred attack.
She rounded a corner and froze.
Corvalis stood a dozen paces away, sword and dagger ready.
Thirty feet further down, Nicasia stood motionless.
A Kindred assassin in the armor of the civic militia stood behind her, his sword resting at Nicasia’s throat. The slave girl showed no sign of fear, though Caina saw the motion as her eyes darted back and forth behind her blindfold.
“Back off!” shouted the Kindred. “Or I’ll open her throat!”
“What makes you think I care?” said Corvalis.
“I’ve heard of you,” said the assassin. “The mask can’t fool me. I know you’re Corvalis Aberon. You were too soft to stay in the Artifel family. If I slay this girl in front of you, you’ll weep like a woman.” His eyes darted to Caina. “And you! Stay back!”
Nicasia began to giggle.
“Quiet,” snapped the assassin.
Caina eased to the left, hoping to hit the assassin with a throwing knife. But the assassin jerked Nicasia around, keeping his dagger at her throat.
“I said to stay back!” roared the assassin. “Or I will kill her.”
Nicasia burst into f
ull-throated laughter, her high voice ringing off the ceiling.
“Shut up!” said the assassin. “I’ll…”
Then Caina heard the voice.
It was a deep rumble, like slabs of granite scraping together. The voice made Caina’s bones tremble, made the metal of her knives vibrate. No human had a voice like that.
And it was coming from Nicasia’s lips.
“Foolish little mortal,” said Nicasia in that rumbling voice. “You think you have captured me? Then look at me. Look at me and see what you have captured.”
The assassin stepped back, and Nicasia reached for her blindfold. She tugged it aside in a single smooth motion as she faced the assassin, and Caina caught a brief glimpse of her eyes.
They blazed with golden light, like sunlight reflecting upon polished disks of gold.
“Look at me!” roared the thunderous voice coming from Nicasia’s lips.
The assassin looked at her and screamed, golden light pouring over his face.
And then he turned to stone.
One moment he was a man of flesh and blood, his face twisted with sudden fear. A heartbeat later he became a statue of white stone, the same white rock as the Stone itself, the same stone that Saddiq and Barius had become.
The deep voice rumbled laughter, and Nicasia wound the blindfold back around her head.
The golden light vanished.
Caina stepped to Corvalis’s side.
“You,” said Corvalis. “It was you all along.”
Nicasia shuddered. “I…I don’t know your voice.” Her voice had regained its reedy, birdlike quality. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you know who I am?” said Corvalis, his voice rising in anger. “You turned my sister to stone!”
“Did I?” said Nicasia. “There were so many. I can’t remember them all.”
“Can you turn her back?” said Corvalis. “You will turn her back! I…”
“Well,” said a cold voice. “Corvalis Aberon. How long has it been?”
Ranarius appeared at the far end of the corridor, the hem of his black robe whispering against the floor. A half-smile was on his face, but it vanished when he saw Caina.
Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone Page 25