Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 06 - Ghost in the Forge

by Jonathan Moeller

  She gestured, and Caina sank into a black and dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 7 - Sorcerers

  The next afternoon Caina realized the rivers of molten steel gave the Masked Ones an important advantage.

  They had no shortage of hot water for baths.

  Her room featured an enormous stone tub, large enough for two people. Caina had not taken a proper bath since leaving Cyrioch, and she scrubbed the away accumulated grime and sweat with vigor. After that, she drew a second bath, closed her eyes, and leaned against the side of the tub, enjoying the warmth that soaked into her limbs.

  It almost made her forget her headache.

  She considered inviting Corvalis to join her, but regretfully decided against it. The orange-clad slaves of the Scholae were everywhere, and no matter how unworldly Annika thought the Masked Ones, Caina was sure at least some of the slaves spied for their masters. A mercenary guard slipping into the room of his employer’s daughter might be beneath the notice of the Masked Ones…or it might not.

  And Caina had no doubt the Masked Ones’ spells could pry secrets from the minds of their victims with ease.

  After her bath, she dried off before the mirror in her bedchamber and dressed herself. When she had masqueraded as Countess Marianna Nereide, she had the help of servants to dress. Anna Callenius had no such luxury, but fortunately the garb of a merchant’s daughter was less elaborate than that of a noblewoman. Over her shift she donned a blue dress with black trim upon the sleeves and hem, its neckline just high enough to remain within the bounds of propriety. Around her waist went a belt of black leather, holding a single sheathed dagger. She arranged her hair in an elaborate crown, pinned it in place, and donned silver earrings with sapphires and a silver chain around her throat.

  Beneath her sleeves she hid sheathed throwing daggers, and concealed a pair of slender daggers in the sides of her high-heeled boots.

  After she finished, Caina examined herself in the mirror. She saw no trace of a Ghost nightfighter, or of the Balarigar, or a caravan guard, or any of the other myriad disguises she had used. Instead she saw the pretty young daughter of a prosperous merchant, dressed to draw the eye of a powerful and wealthy husband.

  She looked a great deal like her mother.

  Caina shuddered. Her mother had often worn blue to match her eyes, just as Caina did.

  She put aside the thought and left her room, walking to join the others on the terrace outside the palace. The molten metal illuminated the city in the distance, the waters of the lake rippling in the moonlight. Halfdan and Corvalis stood at the edge of the terrace, while Claudia awaited nearby, clad in a high-collared green gown, jewels sparkling in her ears and golden hair.

  “Ah, daughter,” said Halfdan. “You look lovely. Surely I shall have two wealthy men for sons-in-law by the end of the year.”

  Corvalis bowed over her hand and kissed it, a gesture which, Caina noted with amusement, let him look right down the front of her dress. “Yes. My master is indeed a fortunate man.”

  Claudia sniffed. “I would like to think I have more to offer than mere beauty.”

  Caina could not decide if that was an insult or not.

  “Oh, indeed,” said Halfdan. “A clever daughter is a jewel beyond price. As a jeweler, I ought to know. Now, come. Let us see what kind of weapon the Masked Ones would sell to the highest bidder.”

  ###

  At the invitation of the Scholae, the various ambassadors and their entourages gathered in the Hall of Assembly, on the ground level of the massive Tower of Study. Lord Titus strode inside, flanked by six of his bodyguards and six of the Imperial Guards. Halfdan followed him, stern and sober in his merchant’s robe, and Caina, Claudia, and Corvalis walked after. Lord Titus wore an expression of Imperial dignity, suitable for a lord of high Nighmarian birth.

  But even Titus Iconias’s stern expression dissolved into astonishment when he saw the Hall of Assembly.

  Caina could not blame him.

  The Hall was huge, easily the size of the Praetorian Basilica in Malarae, its walls and floor and ceiling covered in gleaming white stone. A river of molten steel flowed down the center of the hall, divided by three bridges, and Caina felt the presence of the potent warding spells that kept the heat from cooking everyone in the room. The far end of the hall opened into a vast cylindrical chamber of white stone, and Caina saw a round pool of molten steel shimmering there, covering fully half the floor.

  A dozen different streams of glowing metal came from the pool and flowed into different directions, no doubt towards the aqueducts heading for the city itself.

  “Gods,” whispered Claudia. “The amount of sorcerous power it takes to maintain that…the entire Magisterium combined could not manage it.”

  Caina believed her. Her skin crawled and tingled, so sharply that it sometimes felt as if she walked into a wind of needles.

  “That is interesting,” said Halfdan, “but at the moment, I more interested in who has respond to the gracious invitation of the Scholae.”

  Caina followed his gaze. A group of Anshani nobles waited near one of the bridges, clad in fine silks and gleaming armor. A large man stood at their head, his hand resting upon the hilt of his scimitar, his face cold and cruel beneath a graying beard. Caina thought the Anshani khadjar looked familiar.

  Then it clicked.

  “That’s Nadirah’s father, isn’t it?” said Caina, remembering the renegade Anshani occultist lurking in the slums of Cyrioch. “Arsakan, the Shahenshah’s brother.”

  “Gods, you’re right,” said Corvalis. “I see the resemblance now.”

  “If the Shahenshah sent his favorite brother,” said Halfdan, “then he indeed takes this seriously.”

  “They all did,” said Corvalis. “I see embassies from the Kyracians, the Istarish, Alqaarin, the other free cities…”

  “Come,” said Halfdan, glancing to the side. Lord Titus stood speaking with one of the Sages. “The foreign princes will have brought their own merchants and spies. It would be unseemly, of course, for us to approach men of lordly rank. But everyone expects merchants to gossip and seek advantage…and, perhaps, to gain some information?”

  “And that,” said Caina, “is how we shall discover the intentions of the other embassies?”

  “Did I not say,” said Halfdan, “that a clever daughter is worth more than jewels?”

  He strode into the crowds, Caina and the others following.

  ###

  Kylon looked through the Hall of Assembly, trying to keep his arcane senses under control.

  It was difficult.

  Power, incredible power, radiated from the pool of molten metal in the round chamber. Kylon knew how in desperation the last Archon of Old Kyrace had broken the binding upon the greater fire elemental beneath the city, destroying both Old Kyrace and the invading Imperial army.

  And most of the island upon which Old Kyrace had stood.

  “Gods of the brine,” whispered Cimon. He stood with Alcios of House Kallias, and both men gazed with consternation at the river of molten metal. “Could these Sages have truly harnessed the power of a greater fire elemental?”

  “Let us hope so,” said Kylon. “Else the city will explode.”

  Both men gave him an alarmed look, and he stifled a grim laugh.

  “No,” said Kylon, “it’s not the Masked Ones who are the danger here. If they wanted to conquer the world with their sorcery, they would have done so already. No, it’s whoever purchases this damnable weapon. That is the true danger. We must ensure that New Kyre obtains the weapon, my lords.”

  Both Cimon and Alcios nodded, yet the words felt empty upon Kylon’s lips. The Masked Ones’ weapon, whatever it was, was too powerful for mortal hands to wield. Kylon had seen the cost of seeking such power.

  He remembered Andromache dying upon the floor of Scorikhon’s tomb.

  “Come,” said Kylon. “I suppose it is only polite to greet our fellow ambassadors.”

  He started across the f
loor, making for one of the bridges over the molten steel. An honor guard of six ashtairoi accompanied them, their cuirasses and helms polished to mirror brightness. Kylon extended his arcane senses as much as he dared, at least enough to sense the emotions of the men and women around him.

  For mortal men were but water…and Kylon’s peculiar talents let him sense it.

  Tension, fear, and anger washed over his senses. The various ambassadors maintained airs of polite interest, but Kylon detected their fears. He also felt the vast power gathered in the Masked Ones, and the arcane strength of some of the ambassadors.

  Sorcerers of power had gathered at the Scholae’s invitation.

  His eyes wandered over the embassy from the Empire of Nighmar. Would it come to blows between the Imperials and the Kyracians? Kylon had inflicted a grievous defeat upon the Imperial fleet, and doubtless whatever lord commanded the embassy would recognize Kylon. And if the Kyracian and Imperial embassies fought, the Masked Ones would expel them from the city.

  Perhaps that would be for the best. At the least, it would keep the weapon from falling into the hands of the Empire.

  He decided to greet the Anshani embassy first. Anshan sold a great deal of grain to New Kyre, and in exchange, the Kyracian fleets did not harass Anshan’s merchant shipping. If the Shahenshah decided to push away New Kyre, it would be disastrous.

  Kylon spotted the Anshani ambassador, a tall, stern man in scale armor with a gray beard, took a step towards him…and stopped.

  Something familiar brushed against his arcane senses.

  “Lord thalarchon?” said Alcios.

  “A moment,” said Kylon.

  The emotional presence against his senses felt like a sheet of ice covering a pit of lava. Iron self-control and discipline, a mind cold and cunning like a blade of ice. Yet a heart that burned with fury.

  “Her,” said Kylon.

  The Ghost was here.

  ###

  “Master Basil,” murmured Claudia, her voice urgent. “That man? I think he is an Anshani occultist.”

  “How do you know?” said Corvalis.

  “Look at his shadow,” said Caina. “Or, rather, his shadows.”

  The gaunt man in the elaborate black Anshani robe was seven feet tall, towering even over Arsakan and his anjars. A long gray beard hung to his belt, and his black eyes glittered like disks of stone. Every man and woman in the Hall had a shadow thrown by the molten river’s glow.

  The man in the black robe had three of them. They rotated him slowly, like dogs circling around their master. The other Anshani, even Arsakan, kept well away from the shadows. If Caina concentrated, she felt the cold, dark sorcery crackling around the man.

  “Gods,” said Corvalis. “Just like Nadirah.”

  “That,” said Halfdan, “is not any occultist. That is Yaramzod the Black himself, brother of Arsakan and the Shahenshah, and the most powerful sorcerer in Anshan.”

  “I see why Marzhod was so frightened of him,” said Caina. There was not a hint of mercy or compassion in Yaramzod’s face, only cold contempt and arrogance.

  “Some of the most powerful sorcerers in the world have come at the Scholae’s invitation,” said Halfdan. “You see there, with the Istarish emir? That is Callatas, a master alchemist of Istarinmul’s College of Alchemists. He is at least two hundred years old.”

  Callatas was short, his hair hidden beneath an elaborate turban, his white robes crisp and brilliant and glittering with jewels. And like Yaramzod, she saw no trace of mercy or kindness in that proud face. Around the alchemist and the emir stood hulking men in black plate armor, their helms wrought in the likeness of grinning skulls. A pale blue glow came from the eyes of their helmets. They were the Immortals, the elite bodyguards of the Padishah and his favorites, and alchemical elixirs enhanced their strength and speed…but also induced homicidal fury and a sadistic delight in pain.

  She remembered fighting the Immortals in the streets of Marsis. For a moment the entire dreadful battle flashed before her eyes. The running and the fighting, the screams of dying men and terrified women. Sicarion’s mocking laugh. Andromache’s lightning ripping from the sky, the freezing mist dancing around Kylon’s sword as he hunted her…

  Even as the memories flickered through her mind, she saw the Kyracian embassy walking towards Lord Titus.

  And she saw the man leading the Kyracian embassy.

  Her expression remained calm, but every muscle in her body tensed, and her hands twitched towards the throwing knives in her sleeves. Halfdan and Claudia, distracted by the embassies, did not notice, but Corvalis did.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  Kylon of House Kardamnos was speaking with Lord Titus.

  ###

  Kylon sketched a short bow before Titus Iconias. The stout Nighmarian lord watched him with a cold expression, as did his Imperial Guards.

  “I am Kylon, High Seat of House Kardamnos,” said Kylon, “lord thalarchon of the seventh fleet, and Lord Ambassador of the Archons and the Assembly to the Scholae of Catekharon.”

  Titus gave the exact same shallow bow, like a man saluting his opponent before a duel. “And I am Titus, Lord of House Iconias, twice Lord Governor of Caeria Majoria, three times Lord Governor of Mardonia Inferior, twice Lord Commander of the Ninth Legion, and the Emperor’s Lord Ambassador to the Scholae of Catekharon.”

  “You do me honor,” said Kylon, his eyes scanning Titus’s entourage.

  Where was the Ghost hiding?

  “As do you,” said Titus. “We did not expect the Assembly to send the Shipbreaker himself.”

  “Some have named me such,” said Kylon. He saw Titus’s own bodyguards and the black-armored Imperial Guards in their plumed helmets. Behind them stood a middle-aged man in merchant’s robe, a pair of young women in rich gowns, and a lean man in chain mail. A Nighmarian merchant, his daughters, and their guard, Kylon surmised.

  No sign of the Ghost.

  “And why should they not name you such?” said Titus. “For you have certainly broken a great many of my Emperor’s ships. And my Emperor does not forget such losses.”

  “Nor should he,” said Kylon. “Many brave men died.”

  His eyes fell upon the younger of the two women. She was short and slender, clad in a black-trimmed blue gown with a plunging neckline, jewels glinting in her ears and at her throat. She looked like a pretty, empty-headed woman with no more ambition than catching a powerful husband. Certainly nothing like the Ghost he had seen in Marsis.

  But he felt the woman’s icy emotions.

  “And many more men died,” said Titus, “when your city and the Padishah of Istarinmul betrayed our treaties and attacked Marsis. Many men, and many women and children, as well.”

  “Yes,” said Kylon, still looking at the merchant’s black-haired daughter. “I was there. The plan was my sister’s, for both she and Rezir Shahan sought to seize Marsis in one bold stroke. Yet they failed and are dead. And now the rest of us are left to fight the war they began.”

  “You sound almost as if you disapprove,” said Titus, glancing over his shoulder to see what Kylon was staring at. A brief smirk crossed his face. No doubt he thought Kylon infatuated.

  “May I be blunt, my lord?” said Kylon, not waiting for a reply. “This war benefits neither of us.”

  Alcios scowled and cleared his throat.

  “A curious thing to say,” said Titus, “given that you have won most of the victories.”

  Kylon shrugged. “To what avail? The Empire is vast. We cannot conquer it. And New Kyre is far from the Empire, and your fleets cannot reach us. We bleed each other to little gain.”

  For a moment Titus appeared surprised. “I had not expected to hear that, Kylon of House Kardamnos. You speak more wisdom than I expected. Perhaps I shall have glad tidings to bring back to my Emperor.” He scowled. “Unless the weapon of the Masked Ones destroys us all.”

  “Yes,” said Kylon. “That.”

  The black-haired woman looked at hi
m.

  It was her. She looked nothing like the exhausted, sweaty, bloody, black-clad figure he had seen in Marsis. But he recognized those cold blue eyes.

  She was the Ghost.

  “If you will forgive me, my lord,” said Kylon, “may I speak to one of your followers? The merchant and I have had dealings in the past.”

  “What?” said Titus. “Yes, of course.”

  “My lord High Seat, my lord stormdancer,” said Kylon, “please keep Lord Titus company while I am gone.”

  They blinked at him in astonishment, but nodded.

  Kylon stepped before the merchant, who made a deep bow. The Ghost watched him without expression, and the lean man in chain mail glared at him.

  “My lord High Seat,” said the merchant, “you do me honor. I am Basil Callenius, a master merchant of the Imperial Collegium of jewelers. Once peace returns to our two nations, I would be most honored to offer you my wares.” He gestured at the women. “These are my daughters, Irene and Anna.”

  “Thank you,” said Kylon. Undoubtedly the merchant was a Ghost himself. “I wish to speak with your daughter Anna for a moment.” He hesitated. “She…knew my late sister.”

  Basil looked at the Ghost.

  “Of course, Father,” she said, her expression calm. “It would be my honor.”

  “Please,” said Kylon. “Walk with me.”

  ###

  Caina said nothing as she walked with Kylon along the far wall of the Hall of Assembly. Some of the other ambassadors shot them amused looks. No doubt they thought Kylon infatuated or seeking an easy romantic conquest.

  She knew better.

  He looked different. It had been only a year since the attack on Marsis, but Kylon looked older, his expression grimmer.

  Would he try to kill her for what had happened to Andromache?

  “Did you find him?” said Kylon at last in Kyracian.