Grave Ghost

by Tia Reed

  They spilled into the tight intersection, fanning out around the crumbling statue of Wyn deq Kaelor, checking the entrances to the roads. It was quiet. Too quiet. Rokan and Matisse drew arms at Rondel’s door. She slipped from her horse and joined them before three tardy guards could waylay her.

  “My lady, if you do not retreat, I’ll have these guards escort you not just to the palace but to your future aunt.”

  “Well?” Matisse said with a pointed look.

  “Of course, Sergeant. I am not pining for danger.” She rapped on the door before Matisse could make good on Rokan’s threat. “We don’t want to frighten the poor woman to death, now do we?”

  Rokan gestured with his head but the door was already opening on a woman with rosy cheeks and lustrous black hair that fell to her waist. Her eyes became round as she stared at the guards.

  “My dear,” said Jordayne. “You are quite well. Did Physic deq Lamont offer you a cure?”

  The woman curtsied, rubbed nervous hands upon her ragged skirt and opened her mouth without saying a word.

  “I see he has,” Jordayne said. “May I enter?”

  Stepping aside, the woman cast a shamed glance around their messy room. “Indeed he did, Lady,” she said in a voice soft as snowfall.

  Jordayne stood by the table where a few wilted carrots and soft potatoes were ready to find their way into a dented pot of water. Rondel, it seemed, had not spent her coin on necessities.

  “I needed no more than a good diet.”

  “That I can see,” Jordayne replied with an arched brow for the meagre produce. “Sit down, my dear.”

  The woman placed her hands on the back of a chair at the middle of the table. Matisse sauntered in, opening the single cupboard and poking his sword into the rags. He flicked his chin towards the pallet and Rokan beat it down, as if a rogue could squeeze between the flat layers of stuffing. Rondel’s wife looked on in confused silence.

  “We were not acquainted when last I was here,” Jordayne said, seating herself while Rokan slid the bolt across the door.

  “I’m Maya. Would you care for tea, my lady, my lord?”

  “Sit.”

  She was slow about it, and slower to speak. “Please, have you come about the job?”

  “Job?”

  “Rondel mentioned he might train as a palace guard?”

  “Did he just?” Matisse asked, coming to stand by Jordayne.

  Jordayne flashed him a disapproving look before tempering her voice to Maya’s soft tones. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I’m afraid we bear dreadful news. My dear, your husband was murdered this afternoon.”

  Maya was very still. She gave no sign she had registered the news. Jordayne reached a hand across the table. It was the cue the woman needed. Maya shook her head and pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes pleading for Jordayne to declare it all a misunderstanding.

  “Who?” she asked at last.”

  “The drug dealer. He was misinformed –”

  Maya stood, toppling the chair. “You led him here. Rondel was a good man. He never used the curse. He only bought it for me.”

  The curse and not the bliss, and so Jordayne knew the truth of it. She went around the table, arms open to comfort the woman but Maya recoiled, would have toppled over a second chair had Matisse not been there to catch her. She struck at him, one hand and then the other, but he held her fast until she collapsed into sobs, her hair falling across her face like a mourning veil.

  “He did this for me and now what is to become of me? Without him I am nothing.”

  Matisse hauled her to the pallet and made her sit. “You cannot stay here. Prahak’s men will come for you.

  “You would have me out on the street? I will not go.”

  “My dear, Prahak will not be kind. He will make you part of the warning he wishes to send his buyers,” Jordayne said.

  “I have nowhere to go save to Rondel.”

  “And Prahak will make you wish it would happen. He is not so merciful as to grant you death,” Jordayne said. “Rondel was to assume a position at the palace, and we can offer the same to you. You will be safe there.”

  Wood clattered. Jordayne stared at the bolt, which lay on the floor. “Did you not attend to your duty, Sergeant?”

  “My lady, that bolt was secure.”

  The door creaked open, scraping the heavy piece of timber across the floor. No one stood outside. Rokan strode to the door, Matisse right at his heels. The sergeant threw the door wide. It banged against the outer wall. No one was hiding there. The two men surveyed the street. In the absence of any commotion, Jordayne hurried over. Outside, the guards were spread around the intersection. To the left, a pair of them had halted, of all people, Druce and Timak. The strange little boy was staring through the open door. Staring straight through her. A prickle of cold made her rub her arms. The taint of the spirit world was lingering about this house. She cast her eyes up and down the jamb. One day she would bring that genie the boy was so fond of to account for not just herself but the antics of all djinnkind.

  Timak walked forward, to be barred by the sword of a second guard.

  “Do tell those guards to admit the mage and his apprentice,” she said to the nearest man. They were slow to stand aside but at least one winced when Drucilamere offered sarcastic thanks.

  Timak drifted forward, stopped shy of the doorway and craned his neck up.

  “Is this a coincidence or have the mages business at this house?”

  The boy jerked as though woken from a dream. Naturally, it was too much to expect him to speak.

  “Jordayne,” Drucilamere said with a confused furrow of his brow. He placed a restraining hand on Timak’s shoulder. “Is all well within this house?” He dropped his eyes in a meaningful way to the boy.

  “The lord of the house has met with an accident. The lady is understandably distressed,” she replied.

  Timak strained forward and Druce let him go. He walked to Maya who, distraught yet, appeared as oblivious to him as he was to them.

  “Has the child imbibed porrin?” Matisse asked, frowning.

  “No. The occupant of this hovel stole Timak’s quartz from inside the temple. The boy struck a deal with that djinn of his to return it. Somewhere along the way, the man must have engaged in a fatal clash with city guards because his ghost now haunts Timak. He is insisting Timak bear a message to his wife.”

  “Ah,” Jordayne said, walking inside.

  “We are not safe here,” Matisse said. “We will finish this at the palace.”

  Timak was staring at Maya with unsettling absence. “The red hibiscus blooms in celebration of our love.”

  Maya looked up in shock. “How do you know words spoken in my husband’s ear? Were you spying on us? Is this some cruel jest?”

  Drucilamere placed a protective hand on Timak’s shoulder. “This boy is apprenticed to the mages. He hears djinn and sees ghosts. It is your husband who torments him. Let him deliver his message so he can be free.”

  Timak titled his head to the ceiling, listened, and delivered his words to the air. “I promised you a better life. We left tyranny for poverty and were happy for a time. Now you must return. Flee. You are not safe here.”

  “No. Oh Rondel, no.” Closing her eyes, Maya squeezed her shoulders and shivered.

  Timak was looking to the right of her head, where the ghost might have stood if he was hugging her. “I will not have my death in vain.”

  The words sounded odd from the mouth of a child. “Timak,” Jordayne said, taking his cold hand, pulling him to the table away from Maya and Druce. She tinkled her bangles to draw his attention. “I have questions for this ghost. Will you ask who murdered him?”

  Maya stood, swayed on her feet and tottered forward. “Have you not just admitted it was deq Fraaq?”

  Timak was shivering, so tense the ghost might have been breathing at his neck. “It was a foul creature of death that slew me, though Prahak claimed the credit. You led him here, i
f not with words, by your presence. You are to blame for this and I will haunt you for the rest of your life if he harms a single hair on Maya’s head.”

  How interesting. The ghost could hear them all. She looked down her nose and tapped her fingers on the table. She flicked her eyes up to where Rondel’s ghost might be if indeed he lurked behind Timak. “Why did you steal the boy’s crystal?”

  Outside, a guard shouted an alert. Rokan and Matisse bolted for the door. Druce squatted by Timak, placing a hand on his cheek to draw him from his daze. Reaching for her dagger, Jordayne felt a hilt unfamiliar in its contour. She drew it with a silent thanks to Vae’oeldin in her sergeant’s name. More shouts collided as Matisse and Rokan lunged into the growing tumult. A guard staggered backwards into the room, three arrows sticking out of his chest. Gurgling, he fell over the table and crashed to the floor. Maya screamed. Timbers cracked. Smoke seeped through the cracks in the roof. Matisse ducked inside.

  “Out, quick, all of you.”

  A flaming arrow sailed past him and twanged into the floor. It was joined by another that lodged in the leg of the table. Jordayne pulled Timak from the line of the door an instant before the table ignited and smoke billowed through the room. Drucilamere fished a packet of porrin out of his coat and downed it, grabbing Maya and swinging her through the flames all at once. Matisse caught her and passed her to Rokan outside.

  “The boy,” Matisse said, reaching in, but he had to pull his arm back to cover his nose and mouth.

  Timak was clutching Drucilamere in terror. The flames on table and floor had met to form a wall which licked at the dying guard’s feet. The poor man opened his mouth. His scream was cut off by the blood that poured from his mouth.

  “Jordayne!” Matisse called.

  She was coughing so hard she could not answer.

  “Take the boy,” Druce rasped. “Be ready.”

  Jordayne pried Timak off him. Keeping one hand on the boy’s wrist, she grabbed a blanket off the bed and swung it at the pot on the table. It rocked and thumped over. The table snapped and collapsed. The pot clanged to the floor, spilling its contents. She threw the blanket into the evaporating water, dragged it over herself and Timak, and wrapped it around the scalding dagger. Drucilamere was mumbling a spell but by the Vae nothing seemed to be happening save that the fire was becoming more intense. Its roar had all but drowned the sounds of the fight.

  “Jordayne!” Through the smoke, she caught glimpses of Matisse trying to force his way inside. Flames barred his access. She jumped on the bed and scratched at the wall, hacking with the dagger. The crooked planks were nailed tight. The draughty house was solid, Vae help them. And Vae douse the smouldering arrow which stuck in the wall, starting another blaze.

  To stay was to die. “Druce, we have to–” she broke into a coughing fit, “risk. . . it.” She dragged Timak towards the door. Where was the boy’s genie when he needed her? She would have dealt in a second.

  The mage was deep in his spell. Had not even heard.

  “Get them out!” Matisse yelled.

  Blanket wrapped tight around Timak and herself, Jordayne braced herself. “Run,” she said to Timak. “Don’t stop.” Dear Vae’oenka, this once might the boy have his wits about him. She dashed towards the flames, searching for a break, holding the boy who was at least keeping up. She leapt through the licking flames as a sheet of water dropped over them, sparing them from the fire.

  Matisse caught her. “Might I now question your notion of fun, sis?” He rolled her against the open door, missing an arrow which flew through the doorway, and back as another clunked into wood where their heads had been.

  “You may not for I’m not fool enough to enjoy roasting on a skewer.”

  Beside her Rokan was checking Timak. She glanced up and saw Prahak deq Fraaq stand at the edge of the opposite roof. He gazed down with the assurance of one who knew the battle headed towards a foregone outcome. Before one of their archers had an arrow trained on him, he leapt out of sight.

  “Druce is still inside,” she said to Matisse. The fire was raging, the brief dousing unable to compete with the continuing volley of burning arrows.

  Matisse peered inside. “Can an intoxicated mage not take care of himself?”

  Jordayne coughed until tears streamed down her eyes. Druce was obscured by an impenetrable wall of smoke. Fire was engulfing the outer walls, hissing and spitting at cracking wood. Rokan pulled her away.

  “Stay there. I’ll get him out.” He thrust her towards a pair of guards as Matisse engaged an outlaw who had broken through the outer ranks.

  “Get the women and boy out of here.”

  Maya and Timak were cowering beneath a shield. Those guards not already engaged in the fight were running over. A volley of arrows rained down from above to quiver into the shields thrown up to protect the three of them. Two guards drove them along the wall of huts. Behind them, Rokan, hands up to shield his face, was dancing a path into the house. The mad, loyal man would risk his life for the mage.

  Their lead guard cried out and stumbled. With a yell, he snapped the shaft of an arrow which had lodged in his thigh. Blood oozed from the wound and ran down his leg, leaving a trail to mark his passing. The stalwart man limped on.

  “Keep moving,” his companion said.

  They fled into a narrow street. The wounded man was grunting with the effort, but he worked with his companion to throw his shield above their heads, blocking any shots from above.

  “Stay low,” he said, urging them on. Maya was sobbing but Timak was as silent as one of those ghosts he claimed to see. In the distance the whistles of the city guard cut through the air. Help was on its way, tardy though it might be.

  Too tardy at that. A man moved out of a doorway. Feet apart, sword in hand, he blocked their way. “A coward as well as a harlot.”

  That uncompromising voice dropped her heart into her stomach. “But not a liar,” Jordayne said to Prahak deq Fraaq from between the advancing guards. “You promised your business with me was finished.”

  “So it was, until you chose to involve yourself with the rat’s woman.” He raised his sword, feinted towards the able guard, and swung across. The wounded guard grunted as he blocked the forceful strike. Prahak used his foot to clip the man on his bad leg, knocking him down, eliminating one of his opponents so he could spar with the other. The clang of their swords rang down the street, the fiend of an outlaw lacking the grace to look either strained or worried.

  “Get ’em out of here,” the able guard, a capable, older fellow said. He manoeuvred into the centre of the narrow way, blocking Prahak. His fellow hauled himself up, and handed Jordayne his shield.

  “Cover yourself.” He limped into the lead, taking them back towards the square.

  Jordayne took Timak’s hand and followed. Thank any deity that existed Maya had the sense to stay close. The three of them started at the unexpected clamour of the fight, coughed on smoke sweeping ash and cinders over them. Through it, three shady men, two abreast and one behind, stepped into the street. They were trapped. The third man turned to watch the approach. Their guard shuffled to meet the advancing pair but prudence bid Jordayne ready her dagger. Their smart march was peculiar for men so rough around the edges, with stubble prickling their chins and eyes vacant, like Prahak’s but with nowhere near the roguish allure.

  The guard shifted his weight to his good foot, blocked one thrust but was unable to bring the sword around in time to counter the second. It sliced through his side. Jordayne swallowed as he crumpled to the ground and was skewered through the heart by the first thug, who celebrated with a malicious laugh. Sensing her gaze, the thug looked up. Blood was splattered over his leering face. She let him pull his sword free before she threw. The dagger struck true, just beneath his ribs. He looked down; dropped his sword; pulled the dagger from his chest. Blood spurted in all directions. He lurched a crooked path towards her. His long-faced companion tramped straight and true, nothing showing in those vacant eyes. H
ells, she was weaponless now. Behind her, their remaining guard was stumbling into defence as Prahak pushed stroke after stroke, wearing him down without attack. Maya pressed against the wall, dragging Timak with her.

  Sneering, the bleeding man raised the dagger. “Die, bitch.” He reached for her neck. Toppled, collapsing on her, pushing her to the ground with nothing more between them than her shield. Her dagger clattered onto the cobbles.

  A scream like an enraged banshee rang out from the square.

  Jordayne pushed with the shield, kicked and beat the felon off her, picked up the dagger and faced the remaining man. He executed three quick swipes of his sword through the air. That was one invitation she would decline. She retreated as he advanced, drawing him away from Maya, who was dragging Timak towards the square, rattling every door she passed, finding them bolted. Jordayne did the same with the door behind her. Locked. If the occupants were home, they were not about to admit trouble.

  The third lowlife at the end of the street raised his sword. Past him she caught a heartening glimpse of her mage. He shuffled forward, heart-wrenching in his sooty raggedness. Vae’oeldin grant the effects of the porrin still held. The third lowlife, engaged with an opponent, did not spare him a glance.

  “Master Prahak,” her long-faced assailant said, facing her. “You want this one alive?”

  Prahak’s cold smile did not alter his dead eyes. “She offers a bedding neither of us will forget.”

  Long Face laughed. That drove her guard to a furious attack. At last, furrows were appearing on Prahak’s forehead, beads of sweat at his temples.

  “Drop the dagger,” Long Face said. She clung to it. He tapped her wrist with the flat of the blade. “Drop it. A woman needs no hands to pleasure a man.”

  “Drop your sword. Or must you use it to compensate for your other instrument?”

  “Find out, harlot.” He had her up against the wall, wrist pinned before she could react.

  Maya screamed. In the second it distracted her, Long Face had planted a hand on her breast.

  “You will die for this,” she said, squinting to see what had upset Rondel’s wife. Prahak’s third man was fighting wild, his opponent still obscured to her. To one side, Maya was staring at whoever he sparred with, frozen to the spot. The timorous woman needed to risk it and run.