Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone (12 page)

“I’m sure,” said Caina. Her mind screamed for her to back down before Ranarius realized she was a Ghost, but she was too angry to care. “Yes, I’m sure that Lord Khosrau will very pleased that you killed the servant girl of his favorite opera singer for the impertinence of speaking to your slave.” 

Ranarius trembled with anger…but his eyes darted to Lord Khosrau nonetheless. Despite his jovial exterior, Caina suspected that Khosrau Asurius was not a man to cross. 

“Come, Nicasia,” said Ranarius. “I have business at the chapterhouse.” He waved a finger in Caina’s face. “And consider yourself lucky, foolish girl. If you show me such cheek again, I will punish you and Lord Khosrau can be damned.” 

He stalked away without another word. Nicasia got to her feet, shook her head, and turned her face towards Caina.

“Glass,” she said, and followed her master. 

Theodosia finished her song, and vigorous applause rose from the nobles. Slaves hurried forward from the colonnades, bearing silver trays of delicacies. Caina saw stuffed dates, mushrooms fried in oil and wrapped in bacon, cheese cooked in delicate oils, and flutes of red wine. 

Glasses of wine.

“Glass,” whispered Caina. 

The nobles had not brought their food-tasters. 

The Kindred were going to poison Corbould with the wine.

She spotted one of the assassins. The Kindred wore the gray of a slave, black eyes downcast, just as a slave’s should be. In his arms he carried a tray of wine glasses, and he was heading for Lord Corbould. 

Caina hurried forward, her skirts gathered in her hands. She couldn’t kill the Kindred in front of all these people. Nor could she stop Corbould from drinking the wine. At best, he would think her mad, and at worst, he would forbid Theodosia from performing for Lord Khosrau again. 

She gripped her skirts tighter, wishing to be rid of the damned things so she could run faster.

Then the answer occurred to her. 

The assassin bowed before Khosrau and Corbould, lifting the tray of wine.

“Ah,” said Khosrau. “Splendid. Our refreshments are here. Some wine, my lord Corbould?”

Corbould grinned. “Caerish or Disali?”

Khosrau snorted. “Caerish, of course. I cannot abide Disali wine. Far too bitter.”

“A man after my own heart,” said Corbould.

The assassin lifted the tray, and Corbould reached for a glass.

Caina brought the toe of her boot down onto the hem of her skirt and stepped forward.

And as she expected, she lost her balance toppled into the assassin.

The assassin fell with a startled yelp and Caina landed atop him. Glasses of wine shattered around them, red liquid pooling on the white marble. The assassin hissed and slammed his elbow in Caina’s gut, and she rolled off him as the breath exploded from her lungs. The Kindred scrambled to his feet, murderous rage filling his black eyes, and Caina saw him reach for a hidden weapon beneath his slave’s tunic…

“What the devil is the meaning of this?” thundered Khosrau.

“It was his fault, my lord Khosrau!” said Caina, climbing to her feet. “I was going to attend to my mistress, and this stupid slave spilled wine all over my dress!”

“The girl tripped into me, my lord,” said the assassin, his voice hard and cold. The voice of a Kindred assassin - how could these fools not hear it? “I came with wine for your guest, my lord, and this bitch stumbled…”

“Watch your tongue,” said Khosrau. “A serving girl she may be, but she is a free woman and you will address her as such.”

The assassin looked at his feet, as if suddenly remembering his disguise. “My lord. I am sorry, my lord.”

“I did see it, father,” said Armizid, approaching with a scowl. “The opera singer’s girl lost her balance and fell onto the slave.”

Caina looked at Armizid, at Khosrau, back at Armizid, and then started crying. 

It was a useful skill, Theodosia had told her, to be able to cry on demand. Embarrassed contempt flashed over Armizid’s face, but Khosrau’s expression became almost grandfatherly. A crying woman sometimes had that effect on a man, especially an older one.

“Now, now, my dear,” said Khosrau. “It was a simple accident, and nothing more. No harm done.” He gestured at the white expanse of his robes. “You didn’t even splatter on me. And spilling wine on the Lord of House Asurius would indeed be a grave scandal.”

Corbould chuckled.  

“But I got wine on my dress, my lord,” said Caina, sniffling, looking at the bloodstains on her sleeves. 

“This is unseemly, father,” said Armizid. Caina wondered how many times a day he said that. “The domestic disputes of the slaves are beneath our notice.”

“True enough,” said Khosrau without rancor. He pointed at the assassin. “You, clean this up.” He patted Caina on the top of her head. “And you, my dear, go attend to your mistress, and we’ll speak no more of this.”

Caina gripped her damp skirts and did a deep curtsy. “Thank you, my lord. My lord is kind.” She hurried past the lords, feeling the assassin’s stare as she passed. He was not going to forget her, and she suspected he would kill her at the first opportunity. Was he bright enough to figure out that she was a Ghost? 

A moment later she passed the nobles and reached Theodosia, who stood beside a pair of harpists and a man with a flute. 

“Well done, fellows,” she said. “The Grand Imperial Opera is always in need of musicians. Present yourselves to the seneschal tomorrow, and perhaps he will find a place for you.” 

The musicians bowed their thanks, and Theodosia joined Caina.

“What was that all about?” said Theodosia in a low voice.

“That slave,” said Caina, looking at the assassin. The Kindred hurried towards the doors. “Kindred. He poisoned the wine. The only way I could think of stopping him was to trip, so I did.”

Theodosia laughed. “Clever.” 

“And that cloaked man with the tattoos showed up,” said Caina. “Apparently his name is Corvalis Aberon.”

“Aberon?” said Theodosia, startled. “As in the First Magus Decius Aberon?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “He says he has no interest in Corbould Maraeus. To prove his good faith, he offered to help me stop the Kindred here. But then Sicarion showed up, and he and Corvalis fought. I don’t know what happened to them.”

Odds were that the victor had escaped, and the loser’s corpse had been hidden somewhere in the Palace. Caina suspected that Sicarion had won the fight. She felt a twinge of guilt. Corvalis had fought for her and gotten himself killed. Of course, he seemed to hate Sicarion, and would have fought him anyway. But why?

Another mystery. 

“Sicarion?” said Theodosia. “What was he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina.

“Are you sure the wine was poisoned?” said Theodosia.

“Yes,” said Caina. “Look.”

Theodosia looked at the puddle of wine and her eyes widened. 

A faint wisp of smoke curled from the marble flagstones.

The wine was eating into the stone. 

“Gods,” said Theodosia. “So was the poison for Corbould or Khosrau?”

“Maybe both of them,” said Caina. “I don’t know.” She frowned. “I intend to find out. We…”

Her throat went dry, and she could not get the words out. 

“I…” Caina managed. “We…we need to…”

Her hands started to shake.

“Marina?” said Theodosia. “What’s wrong?”

Caina looked at her hands, at the bloodstains on her sleeves and the droplets of wine on her fingers.

At the droplets of poisoned wine on her fingers. 

A poison that could be absorbed through the skin?

Her head throbbed, the Gallery spinning around her like a child’s toy.

“Marina!” said Theodosia, grabbing her shoulder.

“No,” rasped Caina, trying to pull away. “No, don’t touch me, the poison…”

Her legs collapsed beneath her, and darkness swallowed her before she hit the ground.

“For one so young,” said the Moroaica, running a finger over the spines of Sebastian Amalas’s books, “you have such tortured dreams.”

Caina stood in her father’s library, watching her younger self weep over Sebastian Amalas. In a few minutes, she knew, her mother would enter and confront her. And then Caina would kill her mother. She hadn’t meant to do it. But she would do it nonetheless. 

“Eleven years old,” said Jadriga, stepping to Caina’s side, “and already you knew such pain.”

“Yes,” said Caina. 

The world blurred, and she stood in Maglarion’s lair, watching herself scream as the necromancer extracted her blood for his experiments.

“His methods,” said Jadriga, “were ever crude.” She leaned forward, her black eyes watching the screaming girl. “That sort of pain should have broken you, shattered you into a thousand pieces.”

“How do you know,” said Caina, “that it didn’t?” 

“Because it made you stronger,” said Jadriga. “It let you understand the true nature of the world, as I do.” 

Again the world blurred, and Caina saw the Great Market in Marsis once more, saw thousands of people fleeing in panic as the Istarish attacked the city, Andromache’s lightning ripping down from the clear sky. Caina saw herself running with Nicolai in her arms, trying to get to safety.

“You see the world as it is,” said Jadriga. “That it is broken, a prison made to torture us.”

“If there is pain in the world,” said Caina, “it is because there are men and women like you in the world. I saw what you did under Black Angel Tower. How many other people have you killed over the centuries? How many other lives have you ruined?”

“Life is the acquisition of power,” said Jadriga, “and when I have enough power, I will destroy the world and remake it. I will break the circle and assemble it anew. I will reforge the world so there will be no more pain, no more suffering.”

“That’s mad,” said Caina.

Jadriga smiled. “It is only mad if I do not have the power to do it. And I will, soon.”

The world dissolved into nothingness.

###

Caina blinked awake, sunlight stabbing into her aching eyes.

Someone thrust a wooden bucket into her hands.

“You’re going to need this,” said Theodosia, “in another three seconds.” 

Caina sat up. She just had time to realize that she was in Theodosia’s suite at the Inn of the Defender. Then her stomach clenched with agony, and she doubled over and threw up everything she had ever eaten into the bucket.

Or at least it felt like it.

After the spasms passed, Caina spat, blinked the tears from her eyes, and looked up.

“Why am I not dead?” said Caina. 

“Because,” said Theodosia, “the poison in the glass was something called baneroot. It is absolutely lethal if ingested. But if absorbed through the skin, it merely induces unconsciousness and delirium. You were talking in your sleep for most of the night.”

Caina winced. “How did you explain it to Lord Khosrau?” 

Theodosia smiled. “I told him you fainted from embarrassment.” She passed her a cup of wine. “This will help.”

Caina nodded, swished the wine around her mouth, and spat it into the stinking bucket. “How long was I out?” 

“About sixteen hours,” said Theodosia. “It’s past noon now.”

Caina set aside the bucket and stood, taking a few cautious steps. She felt lightheaded, but not dizzy, and had no trouble keeping her balance. 

“Corbould and Khosrau are still alive?” said Caina.

“Aye,” said Theodosia. “The Kindred made no further attempts on them.” She sighed. “Though I fear they suspect we are Ghosts now. Still, you could not have done otherwise.”

“Corvalis,” said Caina. “Any sign of him? Or of Sicarion?” 

“None,” said Theodosia. “Marzhod has spies among the slaves of the Palace, and they did a search. There was a bit of a stir when they found those dead mercenaries, but they found no trace of either Corvalis or Sicarion.” 

“How did they explain the dead mercenaries?” said Caina. 

“Thieves,” said Theodosia, “who fell to fighting over the spoils.”

Caina snorted. “A likely story.” 

“But they believed it,” said Theodosia with a shrug. “A pity we couldn’t capture that Kindred. Or find out which wine glasses were poisoned. It would help us figure out who hired them.”

“Maybe all the glasses were poisoned,” said Caina, stretching as she worked out the knots in her back and neck. “Maybe someone hired the Kindred to kill Corbould, Khosrau, and Armizid in one fell swoop.”

“Wouldn’t that be a delightful mess,” said Theodosia. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” said Caina, stretching. “Lightheaded. I don’t think I can keep any food down yet, though.” 

“Good,” said Theodosia. “We’re going to pay another visit to Marzhod tonight. Perhaps he will have learned something useful.”

###

“It sounds,” said Marzhod, “like you made a thorough botch of it.” 

Caina and Theodosia stood in Marzhod’s workroom at the Painted Whore, the sounds of revelry coming from the common room beneath their boots. Marzhod sat slumped at his desk, glaring at them. Saddiq stood behind him, oiling the blade of his massive scimitar. 

“Oh?” said Theodosia, lifting her eyebrows. Disguised as a Sarbian mercenary, the expression made her look villainous. “And what, dear Marzhod, would you have done differently?” 

“Taken that assassin alive, for one,” said Marzhod. 

“He wouldn’t have known who hired the Kindred,” said Theodosia. 

“No,” said Marzhod, “but we could have gotten other useful information out of him. Like the location of their Haven, for instance. Or perhaps the names of higher-ranking Kindred.”

“We had to take matters in our own hands,” said Theodosia. “You certainly were no help.” 

Marzhod’s hand curled into a fist. “Because my best men have all been turned to statues. I ask for help, and Halfdan sends me an opera singer and a girl who drops wine trays. If I ask for a sword and a shield, will he send me a flower and a marshmallow?”

Theodosia stared to look affronted. “I remind you, master Marzhod, that Halfdan…”

“Don’t threaten me, woman,” snarled Marzhod. “I rule the shadows in Cyrioch. If you disappear and I tell Halfdan that the Kindred killed you, do you think he will disbelieve me?”