Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXII

by Cirone, Patricia B.

  She turned, and a red woman stood before her.

  Caina's hand blurred, snatching a knife from her belt, but the other woman didn't move. At first Caina thought the woman wore a crimson gown, but that wasn't so. Blood soaked the woman's clothes, and glistened on her face and bare arms.

  And as it happened, she was also translucent.

  Caina tensed, but the specter made no move to attack her. Instead the woman raised her arms, as if in warning. Her mouth moved, shouting, but no sound came forth.

  Then she vanished.

  Caina let out a long breath, frowning. She knew better than to doubt her senses, and she knew ghosts existed, even if she had never seen one. According to her teachers, wraiths and other revenants had once been common, until the Empire had all but exterminated the practice of necromancy.

  But where had this red ghost come from? Why did she haunt Druzen's mansion? Had she been a victim of the slavers? Caina's mouth tightened into a grim line.

  If the slavers had murdered the red woman, she would be avenged soon enough.

  * * * *

  A short time later, Caina scaled the wall, opened a window, and found herself in an empty bedroom. She opened a door, glanced into the corridor, and saw nothing but expensive rugs and shadows. Across the hall stood Druzen's study, the door closed and locked. An expensive lock, but Caina's skill and tools made short work of it.

  Druzen's study shared the mansion's opulence. A massive desk gleamed in the moonlight, and a marble bust of the Emperor gazed down from the wall. Caina's eyes swept over the desk, the shelves, the overstuffed chairs, the fireplace...and stopped on the huge iron box beside the wall. Strange, solemn designs covered its dark sides and bulging lid. Even in the darkness, Caina saw the dark slits on the box's sides, slits that might hide any number of unpleasant things.

  A Strigosti trapbox.

  Caina hissed through her clenched teeth. Strigosti-made chests commanded enormous prices due to their nearly tamper-proof locks. Even worse, the Strigosti always built fiendish mechanical traps into their chests. Try to pick the lock, and poisoned spikes might spray from the sides, or burning oil, or even deadly gas.

  The perfect place for Druzen to hide his records.

  Caina hesitated, considering. The simplest course was to find the keys. Most likely Druzen kept the keys with him at all times, and if she stole them, he might well know someone had looked into his affairs. And no hints of the Ghosts' involvement could become public. Besides, Caina had disarmed Strigosti trapboxes before, though it had almost cost her life.

  Caina knelt, produced her tools, and set to work. Three keyholes stood just beneath the box's lid. Two for the traps, she knew, and one for the lock. She ran a finger below the locks, seeking for a hidden seam, and found it. A moment's work pried open the plate, revealing a bewildering maze of gears, cogs, and tight-wound springs. Caina allowed herself a tight smile. Countless thieves had tried to disarm Strigosti trapboxes by smashing the mechanical innards, and countless thieves had died soon after. Breaking the gears would release all the traps at once.

  Instead, she set to work on the labyrinth of gears. Two traps, she guessed; to judge from the tiny iron bottles, one involved poison gas, and the other would launch spring-loaded blades from the slits on the box's flanks. A gear here, a spring there, a cog there, and Caina started to feel more confident.

  Then she heard a click. The gears started to spin, faster and faster, and the cogs became a silvery blur. Caina flung herself backwards.

  An instant later foot-long blades erupted from the box's sides. Greenish-yellow slime glistened on their razor edges. Caina recognized the poison. It caused paralysis, followed by a slow and agonizing death. She felt her face and hands anxiously, but found no cuts.

  By all the gods, she hated Strigosti trapboxes.

  After a moment, the gears began spinning again, pulling the blades back into their slots. Caina waited until her pounding heart slowed, and started to work once more. This time she knew what gears to avoid, and soon had both the traps immobilized. Or, at least, she hoped so.

  Only one way to find out for certain.

  The lock was the most complex she had ever seen, and it took a long time to crack. But at last it clicked, and Caina leapt back, prepared to flee if either poisoned blades or foul gas issued from the box. But nothing happened, and Caina threw open the lid. Some men kept jewels in their Strigosti trapboxes, some gold, and others rare magical treasures.

  Druzen kept papers in his.

  She leafed through the papers, her mood darkening. There were letters from the slavers, addressed to Druzen. There were orders to move ships and troops, signed in Druzen's own hand, sealed with his own seal. In one corner lay a thick leather-bound ledger. Caina flipped through the pages, scowling. The ledger recorded Druzen's inventory of slaves, listing them by sex, weight, height, and age, along with the expected sale price, all written in his own hand.

  So the villain had condemned himself by his own words. Caina stood, her mind resolved. Druzen's life would end this very night, within the hour.

  She turned, and the red woman was waiting.

  The specter hovered between the door and Druzen's desk, her face twisted with fright and panic. The blood-soaked gown hung limp and sodden from her skinny frame. Her hands worked in frantic gestures, and her mouth moved in silent screams.

  "Gods," whispered Caina. "What did they do to you? What are you trying to tell me?"

  The red woman's face screwed up in concentration, and she seemed to speak slowly and clearly. And then, to Caina's astonishment, she heard faint words echoing inside her mind.

  They're going to kill you!

  All at once, Caina realized that the specter was gesturing for her to move.

  And through the ghost's translucent form, she saw the glint of metal.

  Caina ducked an instant before the crossbow bolt would have plunged through her throat. She sprang back to her feet, knives in either hand, as the cold-eyed man and the man with the scarred lip rushed into the study. The cold-eyed man tossed aside the crossbow and drew his shortsword and dagger.

  "Well, well," he said, "it seems our clever little countess was a bit more curious than we thought."

  "And here she is, going through the Governor's private papers," said the man with the scarred lip. "Scandalous, it is." He held two daggers, one of them by the blade in preparation for a throw.

  Caina considered throwing a knife, but from the expert way the men held their weapons, she knew they could block it.

  "Now we'll have to kill her," said the cold-eyed man, "and get blood all over this fine carpet. The Governor will be wroth."

  "Better yet, have out her tongue and send her with the next shipment," said the man with the scarred lip, stepping to her right. Caina stepped back and swiveled, trying to keep both of them in sight. "A pretty little slip of a thing like her, why, there're Carthian emirs who'll pay a fortune for such a bed slave."

  They were trying to distract her, she knew, lull her or scare her with their words. Dangerous men, then, and used to fighting as a team. She would have to startle them, do something to break their coordination.

  "Girls with tongues fetch higher prices," said the cold-eyed man.

  The man with the scarred lip barked laughter. "Bah! You've met my wife." He glanced to the side. "I'd pay a fortune in good gold for a woman who doesn't carp from dawn till dusk."

  His hand whipped around, the dagger blurring for Caina's face. But she had seen through his feint, and snapped her left knife up, deflecting the blade. The scar-faced man lunged at her, stabbing with his remaining dagger, and Caina leapt aside, slashing at his face. The cold-eyed man came at her, and the scar-faced man circled to the side, trying to get past her guard.

  Caina wrenched her cloak free and flung it at the cold-eyed man.

  He slashed at it, no doubt believing it nothing more than normal cloth. But the mundane steel only passed through the shadow-woven fabric, and the dark folds fell over his face
, blinding him. The man with the scarred lip snatched up his fallen dagger and attacked, his blades a dizzying whirl of steel. Caina let him drive her towards the Strigosti chest.

  When they stood besides the trapbox, Caina smashed her foot into the trapbox's exposed workings. She threw herself to the side, and the scar-faced man's daggers ripped open her sleeve and slashed a cut along her jaw. She hit the ground hard, and the man turned for the kill.

  Then the poisoned blades erupted from the trapbox.

  Two of them plunged into his right thigh, a third catching in his left calf. His scarred lips dropped open in shock, and his eyes bulged in sudden pain. Caina sprang to her feet just in time to meet the cold-eyed man's furious attack. She caught his dagger on her left knife, slipped inside his guard, and drove her right knife hard into his throat. He gagged and toppled backwards, his blood pumping across the floor.

  The Governor's fine carpet would be ruined after all.

  Caina retrieved her cloak and turned to the man with the scarred lip. His eyes still bulged, every muscle rigid, and yellowish foam dribbled down his chin. He was already dead; apparently the poison killed quickly. A small mercy, that.

  The red ghost had vanished.

  Caina took the ledger from the trapbox, shut the study door, and went out the window.

  * * * *

  The guests had departed, and Governor Druzen had gone to bed. No one had discovered the corpses in the study yet. That was good. Caina would leave the ledger besides Druzen's corpse. Between that, and the letters in the study, the truth about the slavers would come out, and the Emperor would send a new Governor to Varia Province. Druzen's death would remain a bit of a mystery, no doubt, but people would likely blame the slavers. No one would suspect the Emperor's Ghosts.

  Caina opened the window and slipped into Druzen's bedroom.

  The Governor lay sprawled in his bed. Caina glided across the room, knife in hand, the razor edge glittering in the moonlight. One quick slash across the throat, and the corrupt swine would bleed to death. She stopped, lowering her blade to his throat.

  The Governor stared up at her.

  Caina hesitated, stunned. Druzen had been asleep, she had been certain of it. She snapped back her arm, hoping to land a killing blow before Druzen called his guards.

  Yet the Governor did not scream. He did not move.

  He didn't even blink.

  Caina frowned. Was Druzen dead? No; his chest still rose and fell. Caina waved a gloved hand in front of his face. The Governor blinked, once, but seemed unaware of her presence. She poked his chin a few times, but received no response. At last she scratched his jaw with the knife's point, drawing blood, but Druzen never flinched.

  Had he been drugged? Or poisoned? Her fingers brushed his brow, but felt no fever, no sweat. She sniffed his breath, but smelled nothing but wine and garlic. As she leaned forward, the drape of her cloak fell across Druzen's legs.

  The shadow-woven fabric billowed up, as if caught in a wind, and then fell limp. Caina stepped back in sudden alarm, her eyes sweeping the room. Only one thing could make that cloak dance so.

  It had come into contact with a magical spell.

  Caina looked back at Druzen, and the truth struck her like a blow. The stupor. The glassy eyes. Her circlemaster had described these symptoms to her, but Caina had never seen them before.

  Druzen's mind had been enslaved by a magical spell.

  That blasted magus Ryther had lied to her. His was a cunning plot, to be sure. Everything was done by Druzen's orders, the letters written in Druzen's hand, and when things fell apart, Druzen would take the fall. And when the Emperor sent a new governor to Varia Province, Ryther need only enslave a new mind to begin his operation anew. But why? The brothers of the Magisterium were haughty, to be sure, but why would a magi turn to treason and slaving?

  Caina looked up, and saw the red woman on the other side of Druzen's bed. The bloodstained gown hung sodden from her shoulders, the blood glistening on her arms and face. Through the tattered fabric, Caina glimpsed ugly gashes in the woman's chest and torso.

  "Ryther killed you," said Caina. "You were one of his slaves, weren't you?"

  The woman's mouth moved in soundless screams.

  "Wait." Caina held out her hand. "Don't try to talk. Just nod. Can you understand that?"

  The red ghost hesitated, then nodded.

  "You were one of the slaves, and Ryther killed you," said Caina.

  The red woman nodded again.

  "Why? Why is Ryther trafficking in slaves? Do you know?"

  The ghost shook her head.

  "Do you know where Ryther is?"

  The ghost nodded.

  "Can you show me?"

  The red woman drifted through the wall. Caina pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor. The red woman waited for her, and beckoned. Caina followed the red woman as she glided down the corridor. They went down a flight of stairs, into the gloomy cellars below the mansion's north wing. Casks of wine stood in dank alcoves, and furniture lay piled beneath dusty sheets. The red woman stopped before a stone wall and pointed.

  Then she vanished.

  Caina blinked, frowning. Why lead her to a blank wall? Had the ghost been mistaken? She laid a hand against the stonework, and felt the faint breeze blowing through the cracks.

  A hidden door, then.

  A short search revealed the trigger. Caina pushed it, and part of the wall swung open, revealing a narrow stairway spiraling down into darkness. Caina took the stairs, walking through the blackness, until she saw the glow of torchlight.

  The stair twisted once more, and Caina stepped into a scene from a nightmare.

  Torches lit the cavernous vault, and a score of metal tables stood on the stone floor. Corpses and parts of corpses occupied the metal tables, and the stench of rotting flesh choked the air. Wooden shelves held jars, and in those jars floated hands, eyes, hearts, and even entire heads, their mouths open in silent screams. Caina saw the corpse of the red woman lying on a nearby table, limbs caked with dried blood.

  And across the vault, near a table piled with books and scrolls, stood Ryther.

  "Well," said the magus, "for one of the Emperor's pet fools, it seems you're unusually clever." He took a step towards her. "Tell me. What betrayed me?"

  "No secret can be hidden from the Emperor's Ghosts," said Caina. She dropped one hand to her belt. "Before you die for your crimes, you will tell me why."

  Ryther laughed. "Then perhaps the Ghosts are not all-knowing after all. But crimes? What crimes? The Empire is a pale shadow of its former self. Once the Magisterium ruled the Empire, and it can be so again. Only the Magisterium can bring order to the Empire, not the foolish Emperor, not the corrupt lords, and certainly not skulking spies such as you."

  "Oh, indeed," said Caina, fingers curling about a knife's handle. "A brilliant plan, I see that now. Kidnap innocent men and women and," her eyes glanced over a nearby table, and her voice hardened further, "and children, and butcher them like pigs. Surely that will bring down the Emperor's throne."

  "This is not butchery, but science." Ryther gestured at the books behind him. "Necromancy is the only true magical science. With these corpses and my experiments, I will soon discover immortality itself. Think of it! A council of immortal magi, ruling the Empire for the good of all...think of the golden age we can create. What are the lives of a few peasants, weighed against that?"

  "I had thought you a fool," said Caina, "but now I see that you're both a fool and a madman."

  Ryther shrugged. "The same thing has always been said of great men. Fear not. You too will contribute to the new age. Your blood will fuel my sorcery. Are you a virgin, I hope? A virgin's heart can be used in mighty necromancy..."

  Caina's hand snapped up, and back, and sent a knife spinning at him. It struck Ryther square in the throat, but bounced away to the floor. Again her hand blurred down to her belt, and again she sent a knife flying for his face. The blade struck him square in the eye, an
d this time Caina saw the faint silver flash that deflected the knife.

  A wardspell.

  This was bad.

  Ryther smiled, lifted his hand, and gestured.

  Caina whirled to flee, but an unseen force seized her and threw her hard against the wall. She tried to squirm away, but the force of Ryther's magic kept her pinned against the cold stone. It felt as if an enormous hand pinned her against the wall, crushing her bit by bit.

  "When the Ghosts trained you," said Ryther, "didn't they mention the fate of spies? No? Pity. Well, you're about to learn firsthand." He muttered under his breath, face drawn tight with concentration. "Spies, you see, always die at their own hand."

  Then his will hammered into her mind. Caina felt his thoughts inside of her skull, like a wet groping hand, and shuddered. Her left hand moved jerkily of its own volition, pawing at the knives in her belt. She watched in horrified fascination as her hand drew a knife free, reversed the blade to point at her face.

  "The left eye first, or the right?" said Ryther. Caina struggled to regain control of her arm, but her hand still inched towards her face. "Or perhaps the tongue? A Ghost can't report to her precious Emperor without a tongue, can she?"

  Caina tried to fight, tried to move, but the grip of Ryther's magic held her fast, and his will filled her left arm. Dread choked her, and the knife moved faster.

  Then the red woman appeared, screaming silent words.

  Ryther's thin brows tugged into a frown. "What this, then?" For a moment his attention wavered, and the knife stopped three inches from Caina's left eye.

  Through her dread, Caina remembered. Her circlemaster had taught her how to fight off mind-controlling magic. Rage was the key. Only through fury could she throw off Ryther's will. She looked at the red woman's garish wounds, and fed her anger. She thought of all the people Ryther had murdered. And if she did not stop him, he would escape punishment for his hideous crimes, and that thought made her anger explode into molten fury.