Ghost in the Pact (11 page)

A flicker of old pain went through Kylon at the sight of the child. Thalastre had been carrying his child when Kalgri had stabbed her through the stomach. Once he had wondered what it would be like to carry his child in his arms, and then the Red Huntress had come. 

Now he knew how much more vulnerable it made Martin and Claudia. He also knew what kind of men the Immortals were, and he knew they would kill the baby while Martin and Claudia watched. Nothing, he had learned, enraged Caina like someone threatening the children of someone she liked, and Kylon found that he didn’t care for it either. 

“Lord Kylon,” said Martin. “Something is happening, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” said Kylon. 

“Where’s Caina?” said Claudia, frowning as she turned towards him. She spoke with the cool, precise accent of a Nighmarian noblewoman. “Did she send you?”

“In a way,” said Kylon. “You have to flee the city. Callatas has the Staff and Seal, and Caina went after him. He also sent Erghulan Amirasku to crush Tanzir and the rebels, and on their way out of the city, they’re going to kill you.” 

“But that is madness,” said Martin. “If he murders the Emperor’s ambassador, it will provoke war with the Empire. The Umbarians are already hostile after Cassander’s failure, and Istarinmul will find itself caught between two foes…”

“I doubt Callatas cares,” said Kylon. “I will tell you the entire story once we are clear, but we must go. The Immortals will arrive at any moment.” 

“There are no ships in any of the harbors,” said Claudia. “We cannot leave the city…”

“You must come south and join Tanzir,” said Kylon. “We found the Padishah’s last son…”

“What?” said Martin, his eyes widening. 

“Lord Kylon is right, husband,” said Claudia. “If Callatas has gone berserk and decided to kill all his enemies, we are not safe here.” 

“Agreed,” said Martin. “We’ll take the money and the documents, and as much food as every man and woman can carry. I will see to the Imperial Guards. Wife, take charge of Dromio and the household. We should leave as soon as possible.”

“Aye,” said Claudia, turning towards the door to the entry hall. 

“I will await you at the gate, Lord Martin,” said Kylon. “Nasser and the prince should arrive shortly.”

“Nasser’s here?” said Martin. “Splendid. The man is clever, and I hope he’ll have a quick way out of the city for us.” He strode around the desk, calling for Tylas, and clapped Kylon on the shoulder. “Well, it seems we must go into battle together again. Rhames and Caer Magia, the day of the golden dead, Cassander’s madness with the ifriti – perhaps someday we shall meet without a dire battle awaiting us.”

Despite his grim mood, Kylon laughed. “Someday. Not this day, though.” 

“Aye, and we’ll get properly drunk together, as comrades ought,” said Martin. “Perhaps it is a fitting end to my time as a Lord Ambassador that I get chased from the city.” 

“Hardly. You were successful as Lord Ambassador,” said Kylon, walking with him into the entry hall. He saw Claudia hastening up the stairs, accompanied by an Istarish serving woman in a tan dress and headscarf. Kirzi, that was her name – the Huntress had threatened to kill her in the Alqaarin Bazaar. “You kept Istarinmul from allying with the Umbarians. And if you save the prince’s life by getting him out of the city, he will likely become an ally of your Emperor when he ascends to the throne of the Padishah.”

He said it with more optimism than he felt. 

“Gods of strife and battle, but I hope you’re right,” said Martin. “Tylas! My armor!”  

“I will await you outside,” said Kylon, and he strode from the mansion, hurrying back across the grounds to the wall and the gate. As Kylon approached, Nasser, Laertes, Sulaman, and Mazyan came into sight, breathing hard from their run across the city. 

“What news?” said Nasser as Kylon joined them. 

“I’ve warned Lord Martin,” said Kylon. “He acted at once, and is preparing to flee the city with us.”

“Good,” said Nasser. “Lord Martin always struck me as a sensible man. I am glad we did not need to waste time convincing him of the obvious.” 

“No,” said Kylon, looking up and down the broad street outside the mansion. “No, he has survived far too many battles for that. Lady Claudia, as well.” She had been with them at Caer Magia, and then in New Kyre on the day of the golden dead. She had also given birth to her first child in a ruined shop as Cassander prepared to destroy the city. No, both Lord Martin and Lady Claudia were too experienced to prevaricate in the face of obvious danger. 

So far the street outside was deserted, but Kylon doubted that would last. The sound of the distant drums still boomed out from the Golden Palace, accompanied by the moan of the Great Horn. The embassy might have stood at the edge of the Emirs’ Quarter, but it was still too close to the Golden Palace. Kylon expected the Immortals to arrive at any second.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, black-armored forms came marching around the distant corner. 

“The enemy is here,” said Laertes. 

It was a troop of at least fifty Immortals, maybe more. Kylon cursed under his breath and drew the valikon from its shoulder sheath, the silvery metal rasping against the leather of the scabbard. 

“We should withdraw into the mansion,” said Tylas. Kylon glanced over his shoulder. The centurion had arrived with a dozen more Imperial Guards. Servants spilled from the mansion, carrying bundles of food and clothing, while the grooms brought horses out from the mansion’s stables. 

“I suggest we make our stand here, centurion,” said Nasser. “If we retreat within the mansion, the Immortals can easily blockade us and summon more reinforcements than we can defeat.”

“Or they could simply lob amphorae of Hellfire onto our heads,” said Laertes. 

“Aye, that’s what I would do in the enemy’s place,” said Tylas. “All right. We’ll fight our way out.” He pointed to one of the Guards. “Go find Lord Martin and stay with him. Once we’re ready to depart, I think we’ll need to move quickly.” 

“I suspect Erghulan plans to take you unawares,” said Nasser. “If we can repulse this first attack, we shall have a window to escape before he sends additional forces.” 

“Nasser is correct,” said Sulaman, his voice distant as he gazed as the approaching Immortals. “If we defeat this group, we can escape. If we linger, we shall die.” 

“So sure of that, are you?” said Tylas. 

Mazyan bristled a little, but Sulaman only nodded. “I am certain.”

Tylas grunted. “Well, let’s get to the killing. Guards! Prepare to greet our guests.” 

Nasser drew his scimitar, and Mazyan gestured, the blade of smokeless flame appearing in his grasp once more. The sight did not startle the Imperial Guards. They had seen stranger things. Kylon shifted the valikon to his right hand, drawing a dagger from his belt with his left. He summoned his power, and white mist started to swirl around the blade, a chill radiating from the weapon. 

“Must be useful,” said Laertes.

“Eh?” said Kylon. 

“You can always have a cold drink on a hot day,” said Laertes. 

“If we live through this madness,” said Kylon, “perhaps I’ll hang up my sword and go into business selling iced wine on hot days.” He could just imagine the reaction of the Assembly and its magistrates if they ever learned that a former High Seat and Archon was selling wine in the Istarish bazaars like any other common merchant, and the thought made him want to laugh. 

The Immortals stopped perhaps a dozen yards from the gate. Only fifty Immortals seemed insufficient to storm the Imperial Embassy. Perhaps Erghulan had thought fifty Immortals, with their savagery and inhuman strength, would be sufficient to overpower the Imperial Guards. Kylon had fought alongside Imperial Guards, and he knew better. Or maybe these fifty Immortals would pin the Imperial embassy in place while reinforcements arrived. Kylon had seen nothing to indicate that the Grand Wazir was that clever, but perhaps the Master Alchemist Rhataban who was advising him was smart enough to think of it. 

One of the Immortals stepped forward, his skull-masked helmet adorned with a khalmir’s sign of rank. “We desire to speak with Lord Martin…”

“No, don’t bother,” said Tylas. “We know why you’re here. Turn around and head back to your master. If you attack the Lord Ambassador’s residence, then we will show you how the Empire makes war upon its enemies.” 

The Immortal shrugged. “Have it your way.”

He made a sharp gesture, and the Immortals charged for the gate, scimitars and chain whips ready.

Kylon was already moving, shooting forward with the speed of air sorcery. He headed towards the leftmost Immortal, who drew back his chain whip to strike. Kylon flung his dagger, the blade leaving a misty trail as it spun from his fingers. The Immortal raised his arm to block, and the frozen blade shattered against the black armor, glittering splinters falling to the street. Yet the cold power around the weapon flowed into the Immortal, sheathing his arm in a layer of frost. For an instant the Immortal could not move his arm, the plates of his armor fused by the frost, and that instant was all that Kylon needed. He struck at once, swinging the valikon with both hands, and buried the blade in the Immortal’s neck.

Nasser and Mazyan attacked next, driving into the Immortals on Kylon’s right. Nasser struck with his gloved fist, smashing an Immortal’s helmet, his scimitar darting left and right to pick off any attacks aimed his way. Mazyan blurred into the battle, slowing as the scimitar of smokeless flame erupted from his hand once more. One of the Immortals raised his scimitar to parry, and Mazyan flicked his wrist, the blade of fire slicing through both the scimitar and the Immortal’s head without resistance. Kylon killed another Immortal, and then another, the sorcery of air giving him the speed to stay ahead of their attacks. Yet the Immortals began to drive them back, forcing their way forward through sheer weight of numbers. Kylon had never thought he would miss Morgant, but the assassin’s aid would have been welcome.

Then the Imperial Guards attacked. 

A volley of javelins rose overhead in a high arc, and then fell like a steel-tipped rain. The heavy javelins had been designed to render shields useless, but they still had enough weight and momentum to punch through armor. A dozen Immortals rocked, wounded by the javelins, and the Imperial Guards advanced at a quick trot, shields interlocked, broadswords drawn back to strike. Kylon hastened out of the way, as did Nasser and Mazyan, and the Guards crashed into the Immortals, swords rising and falling. For a moment the two sides wavered, locked in battle with each other.

Kylon sprinted forward and jumped, the sorcery of water fueling his leap. He soared over the heads of the combatants, white mist swirling around his left fist once more, and landed behind the Immortals. As he did, the mist around his fist solidified, and he brought the sphere of glacial ice down upon the helmet of the nearest Immortal. The black steel crumpled like a cooking pot beneath a wagon’s wheel, and the Immortal fell, the ice around Kylon’s hand shattering. He seized the valikon’s hilt with both hands and went on the attack, striking and stabbing and dodging. The drums booming from the Golden Palace seemed to thunder in time to his pulse, and Kylon killed and killed, red blood sliding down the valikon’s ghostsilver blade. 

“Lord Kylon!” Nasser’s voice thundered over the battle.

Kylon whirled and saw a flash of white further down the street. It was a middle-aged Istarish man wearing armor that had been enameled white, a brilliant white cloak flowing from his shoulders like a fall of snow upon a mountain’s slope. For an instant Kylon squinted at the man, his armor dazzling in the noon sun, and then an old memory stirred in his mind.

The Alchemists of the College wore armor like that when they went to battle, transmuted through their spells to be as light as paper and as hard as diamond. The man was gesturing, golden fire flaring around his white gauntlet. 

Kylon raced towards him, and then a blast of golden fire erupted from the Alchemist’s hand, moving faster than an arrow. He had no time to dodge or duck, and he reacted on instinct, snapping the valikon up in a block, his muscles aided by the speed of air sorcery. The blast of golden fire struck the ghostsilver blade and shattered in a spray of brilliant sparks, a keening howl going through the air as the valikon unraveled the spell. The street beneath him shuddered, portions of the stone becoming a peculiar blue crystalline substance.

The spell would have transmuted Kylon into one of the crystalline statues standing upon the walls of the College of Alchemists. He had heard that Callatas liked to do that to his victims. Apparently some of the lesser Alchemists imitated their Grand Master’s taste. 

Kylon started forward, but the Alchemist flung something small and glittering. It was likely a vial holding an alchemical elixir of some kind, and Kylon didn’t want to touch it. He dodged to the side, and the vial exploded against one of the crystalline patches in the street, erupting an instant later in a man-sized flare of snarling crimson fire. 

Hellfire. The Alchemist was throwing Hellfire at him, the secret weapon of the College of Alchemists. In ancient days the fleet of New Kyre had assailed Istarinmul, and the Alchemists’ Hellfire burned the entire Kyracian fleet to embers. Kylon had seen Hellfire devour the Inferno, the ancient stronghold of the Immortals. 

A few drops of Hellfire would be enough to set him ablaze.

Again the Alchemist flung a vial of Hellfire, and again Kylon had to dodge as a second pillar of howling crimson flame erupted from the street. The fire did not last long, but it was as hot as a blacksmith’s forge, so hot the street cracked from the flames. As Kylon turned, the Alchemist reached for a third vial, but suddenly staggered back, grunting as if something unseen had struck him across the chest. The Alchemist looked towards the gate, and Kylon saw Claudia standing there, left hand outstretched, her right hand gesturing as she gathered power for another spell. The Alchemist gestured at her, a bolt of golden fire leaping from his hand. Claudia crossed her arms across her chest, a haze of grayish-blue light shimmering around her, and the Alchemist’s transmutation spell shattered against her wards. Her level of arcane power was unremarkable, but she had always been quite capable at wards.