Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone (21 page)

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“Hold,” growled the militiaman. “Hippodrome’s full. Lord Corbould paid for the races, and unless you’re one of his friends, the tickets went to the free citizens of Cyrioch. You don’t have a ticket, do you?” 

The hippodrome of Cyrioch rose above them. Unlike the Amphitheatre of Asurius and the Ring of Valor, the hippodrome was built of Nighmarian concrete and baked brick. Evidently none of Lord Khosrau’s ancestors had enjoyed chariot racing as much as gladiatorial combats or Imperial opera. Despite its simplicity, it was nonetheless a vast structure, with a thirty foot wall of brick stretching away in either direction. Caina guessed that the long oval could hold nearly as many people as the Ring of Valor, if not more. She heard the cheering roars of thousands rising from within the hippodrome. 

“Fellow,” said Corvalis, drawing himself up. He now spoke Cyrican with a heavy High Nighmarian accent, and his every word dripped affronted arrogance. “I will have you know that I am a close friend of the honorable Lord Corbould Maraeus, and he personally tasked me with arranging the grain contracts to feed the Legions that even now assail the foes of our glorious Empire. And as a reward for my weal service, the honorable Lord Corbould has invited me to attend the chariot races in honor of the noble Lord Khosrau.” 

Caina blinked in surprise, then remembered to keep her own mask of arrogant hauteur in place. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the militiaman, now marginally more polite. “But I have my orders. No one gets into the hippodrome without a ticket.”

Corvalis drew out a scroll. “I trust this will suffice?”

The scroll was an official document in High Nighmarian, drawn up by Lord Corbould’s own scribes. Caina had no idea how Theodosia had managed to obtain it. The document granted the bearer the right to sit at a place of honor at the chariot races sponsored by Lord Corbould. 

The guard squinted at the scroll and gave Corbould’s elaborate seal a hesitant tap. Caina suspected he did not know how to read Cyrican, let alone High Nighmarian.

“Aye,” said the militiaman, “move along.” 

“Thank you,” said Corvalis, tucking the scroll into his robe. He hooked his arm through Caina’s and led her up the concrete ramp into the hippodrome. 

“You are very good,” murmured Caina, “at playing the supercilious rich fool.” 

“It’s useful,” said Corvalis in his usual cold voice. “Rich fools might not see servants, aye…but after a while, the servants forget to see rich fools. And…ah.”

They stepped into the sunlight. Caina saw thousands of Cyrican commoners packing the hippodrome. A long, narrow oval, perhaps two hundred yards long, lay at the center of the hippodrome, divided by a stone rail. Here four teams of charioteers would race, fighting to win the prize. It was less bloody than the gladiatorial games…but many charioteers often met their end beneath the steel-shod hooves of their rivals’ horses. 

“There,” said Caina. 

A row of boxes waited at the edge of the oval, offering a superb view. Lord Corbould and Lord Khosrau sat in the largest box, Lord Governor Armizid with them. Caina was not surprised to see Theodosia at Khosrau’s side, laughing at one of his jokes. 

“Your circlemaster,” said Corvalis, “has a knack for charm.”

“That she does,” said Caina. “It helps that Khosrau likes opera.” 

A slave scurried forward, and Corvalis presented the scroll. The slave led them to a private box that had a clear view of Corbould and Khosrau. A tray rested between a pair of seats, holding a carafe of wine and some sliced sausage, cheese, and bread. 

“This is pleasant,” said Caina as the slave hurried away.

Corvalis snorted. “You should see the boxes for Khosrau’s closest friends. Roast pigs, sides of beef, rare fruits…” He snorted. “Though I wonder if any of it is poisoned.” 

“They tried poison,” said Caina. “During that ball at the Gallery of the Well.” 

Corvalis glanced at Khosrau’s box. “Won’t work this time. He’s brought a slave with him. Tasting all his food. And the Kindred won’t try poison again. The higher ranking assassins prefer not to bother with it. They’ll use something more…elegant.” 

“Such as?” said Caina.

Corvalis shrugged. “It depends. I know one assassin who spent weeks stuffing grain dust into the crawlspace below a target’s house. After seven weeks, he lit the dust on fire and blasted the house, and the target, to charred coals. Another assassin infiltrated the civic militia of Artifel, recalibrated one of catapults on the city’s walls, and shot a barrel of burning pitch into the target’s house.”

“I doubt they’ll try to smuggle a catapult into the hippodrome,” said Caina.

He almost smiled at that. “No. Too many witnesses. They’ll try something more subtle. Be watchful.”

He fell into silence, his eyes roving over the crowds. Caina settled into her seat, watching for anything unusual. This was almost pleasant, coming to the chariot races in the company of a handsome man. Certainly she had not done anything like this for years. 

She reproached herself for the sentiment. She was a nightfighter of the Ghosts, and she would never have a family…

Caina turned her head. 

“Corvalis,” she said, voice low. “Ranarius is here.”

The preceptor strode with calm dignity through the aisles, Nicasia trudging at his side, her blindfolded eyes downcast. Corvalis’s eyes narrowed to hard green slits, almost as hard as the jade collar around Nicasia’s neck. 

“Wait,” she said. “Mhadun is with them.”

The Cyrican master magus strolled after the preceptor, expression amused. His black beard had been trimmed with precise lines, and oil gleamed in his hair. 

“You told me he was Kindred,” said Caina.

“He is,” said Corvalis. “And he is high-ranking. High enough that he would know where the Kindred Haven lies hidden.”

They shared a look. 

“High enough,” said Caina, “that the Kindred would send him to kill the nobles?”

“Yes,” said Corvalis, voice grim. “The Kindred use their sorcerers to…solve problems. To dispose of targets the lower-ranked assassins cannot handle. He’s here to kill Khosrau and Corbould, I’m sure of it.” 

Ranarius stopped before the Lord Governor’s box, exchanging pleasantries with Khosrau, Corbould, and Armizid. Mhadun waited a respectful distance away, looking like a man enjoying a well-earned holiday. Then Ranarius settled in a box a short distance from the Lord Governor’s, Mhadun still at his side. 

“Do you think there are any others?” said Caina. 

Corvalis grunted. “Maybe. But Mhadun is powerful enough to handle this by himself. If he starts casting a spell at the nobles, we might just have to kill him and run.”

“We need him alive,” said Caina. 

Corvalis scowled. “That might be…”

“Citizens of Cyrica Urbana!” thundered a voice, booming over the hippodrome. 

Caina saw Corbould’s herald standing before the Lord Governor’s box. A junior magus stood beside him, using a spell to amplify the herald’s voice. Caina felt the faint tingle as the magus focused his will and power into the spell. 

“Lords and ladies of the Empire!” boomed the herald. “Merchants of the collegia, brothers and sisters of the Imperial Magisterium, and free citizens of Cyrica Urbana! I bid you welcome to the Great Hippodrome for this exhibition of manful courage and skill! The finest four chariot teams of the Imperial capital shall race for your approval, and the victor shall be crowned with glory and triumph!”

The crowds cheered.

“I think,” muttered Corvalis, “that the victor would rather be crowned with gold. It spends better than glory.”

“Lasts longer, too,” said Caina. 

“These challenges of skill and horsemanship,” said the herald, “have been generously financed by the honored guest of our noble Lord Governor, Corbould, Lord of House Maraeus.” 

Corbould stood, stern in his black armor, and the crowd cheered. Caina swept her eyes over the ascending rows of seats, wondering if a hidden archer lurked there, but she saw no sign of any Kindred.

Mhadun watched Corbould, his expression bored. 

“Citizens of Cyrica Urbana!” said Corbould, the junior magus enhancing his voice. “In the name of our Emperor, I declare these games to be open! In the name of our Emperor, I have brought the four finest chariot teams of Malarae to your city, so that they might display their skill and prowess for your approval, a reflection of the glory of our Empire!”

A flour of trumpets rang out, a portcullis on the far end of the track rattled open, and the chariot teams rolled into the hippodrome. Four horses pulled each of the racing chariots, and every driver wore a tunic of a different color – red, blue, green, and gold. Matching colors decorated each chariot, and a small troop of handlers surrounded each team, checking the traces and the wheels.

“The Reds, the Greens, the Golds, and the Blues,” said Caina. “The four best chariot teams of Malarae.” 

“They’ll probably try the assassination during the height of the race,” said Corvalis. “When the crowd’s attention is on the chariots. It will be something subtle. Something that will give them time to escape before anyone notices.” 

Caina glanced at Mhadun and frowned. “Do you think he’ll use sorcery to kill them?”

“He might,” said Corvalis. “But sorcery isn’t terribly subtle. It would be fairly obvious if he uses a spell to kill the nobles. And Ranarius would sense it, along with any other magi here.”

“Mhadun has some hold over Ranarius,” said Caina. “And I doubt a low-ranking magus would question the orders of his preceptor and a master magus.” 

“Gods,” muttered Corvalis. “I wish Claudia were here. If Mhadun tried something, she would shut him down in a heartbeat.”  

“I do not,” said Caina. “I would prefer to deal with this without the aid of a wielder of sorcery.”

Corvalis’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “You would rather she remained stone?” 

Caina met Corvalis’s gaze without flinching. She had seen too much harm wreaked by sorcery, and those who wielded it were not to be trusted under any circumstances. Claudia might not have deserved to be transformed into a statue, but she was still a magus, still a sorceress. That alone was reason enough not to trust her, to kill her if necessary…

Wasn’t it?

A tiny thread of doubt flickered through her mind.

“No, of course not,” said Caina. “I agreed to help you free her, and I shall. But I have seen sorcery. I have seen the harm it does. She is your sister and you love her, aye…but I do not trust sorcery or those who use it.”

Corvalis snorted. “Fair enough. I’ve seen enough cruel sorcerers to understand.” His eyes flickered towards Ranarius. “But Claudia…no, Claudia is nothing like Ranarius.” He flashed a brittle smile. “She’s nothing like us, Ghost. You and I, we are killers. We’re good at it. She’s never killed anyone. I don’t think she could bring herself to hurt anyone.” He gazed at the chariot teams. “I don’t remember what that feels like.”

“Nor do I,” said Caina. 

She wondered what her younger self would think of her now. As a child, she had wanted to marry and have children of her own, to be a better mother than Laeria Amalas had ever been. She had never dreamed that she would become a Ghost nightfighter, a spy and an infiltrator.

A killer.

The thought made her sad, and she pushed the emotion aside. This was neither the time nor the place for such musings. 

A blast of trumpets rang out, and the chariots surged forward, the horses galloping. A mighty cheer rose from the spectators, drowning out the rumble of the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the chariots’ wheels. Caina watched as the chariots thundered past the nobles’ boxes and followed the curve at the far end of the hippodrome. 

“An accident,” said Corvalis.

“What do you mean?” said Caina. 

“Sooner or later one of the charioteers will have an accident,” said Corvalis. “One of the horses will throw a shoe, or an axle will crack, or the charioteer will fall and get trampled. Every eye in this hippodrome will be watching the race, and that’s when the Kindred will strike.” 

Caina nodded and settled in to wait, glancing at Mhadun from time to time.

The chariots did lap after lap, and soon the horses bore a lather of sweat. The charioteers gripped their reins with grim determination, their clothing rippling in the wind. The Red chariot had the lead, with Blue and Gold fighting for second, and Green trailing behind. The constant roar from the crowd did not diminish. In Malarae, Caina knew, rival gangs supported the different chariot teams, and sometimes rioted and fought each other. But since Cyrioch’s own charioteers were not racing, the crowd seemed relatively calm. 

Though a riot would give the Kindred an excellent opportunity. 

“It looks like Red is going to win,” said Corvalis. “I should have placed a bet.”

Caina laughed. “A poor idea.” She saw Marzhod’s Sarbian mercenaries circulating through the crowds and collecting wagers. “You’ll end up with broken kneecaps.”

“Let them try,” said Corvalis. He sat up straighter. “Mhadun’s moving.”

The master magus rose from Ranarius’s box and made his leisurely way up the stairs. He had a look of a man who had drunk too much wine and needed to visit the hippodrome’s public lavatories. Halfway up he turned and looked at the racing chariots, as if hesitant to leave the race.

In the sleeve of his robe, Caina saw his hand gesture, and she felt the sudden surge of arcane power.

A lot of arcane power. 

“He’s casting a spell,” said Caina. “A strong one.”

“Are you sure?” said Corvalis. “He’s just standing there.”

“I can sense the presence of sorcery,” said Caina.

“You can?” said Corvalis. “How?”

“Long story,” said Caina. “We’ve got to stop him.” 

She started to rise, and Corvalis’s fingers closed about her forearm.

“Wait,” he said. “He’s not casting a spell at the lords.”

He was correct. Mhadun was gazing at the chariots, his head turning to follow their movement. Specifically, he was staring at the Green chariot. His eyes grew wider, and he made a short chopping motion with his left hand.

Caina’s skin crawled as she felt the burst of sorcerous power.