Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts) (22 page)

“You misunderstand me,” said Andromache, her voice distant. “You remember the weeks after our parents were murdered? You were too young to understand, but House Kardamnos almost fell. Enemies encircled us. I could only rely upon myself, and I was certain I would fail. And then the Moroaica came to the Tower of Kardamnos.” A faint smile touched her lips. “She needed a...sanctuary, a place where she could rest without fear of attack. I offered her to let her stay, and in exchange, she made me her disciple. And I learned many things from her.”

“Such as necromancy?” said Kylon.

“Hardly,” said Andromache. “I am not a fool, brother. She taught me how to enhance my spells, to wield the sorcery of wind and wave to far greater effect. You have seen the results. And the Moroaica promised me one other payment.”

“What?” said Kylon.

“The Tomb of Scorikhon,” said Andromache.

“Why? What in that tomb could possibly be worth all this death?” said Kylon.

Sicarion snickered. Kylon glared at the scarred man, and Sicarion met his gaze, his mismatched eyes glinting beneath his hood. 

“Power,” said Andromache. “Scorikhon was a skilled adept of the Red Circle, the school of necromancers destroyed by our ancestors of Old Kyrace. Yet his power remained, sealed within that Tomb. The Magisterium has never been able to claim it.”

“Why not?” said Kylon. “Marsis has been part of the Empire for centuries. Surely they should have been able to break the wards around the Tomb.”

“Because,” said Andromache, “the Moroaica herself sealed the Tomb. Scorikhon was one of her disciples. After he perished, she preserved his power, intending to bestow it upon someone more worthy.”

“You,” said Kylon.

“Me,” agreed Andromache. 

“All this death,” said Kylon, “for more power?”

“Yes,” said Andromache. “It is necessary, brother. I require the power. Everything I have done, I have done it to secure House Kardamnos against our enemies. Already I am an Archon, but I need more power. With the power from the Tomb of Scorikhon, no one will be able to challenge me. No one will dare assail House Kardamnos ever again.” She reached over and took his hand, her fingers cold and thin against his. “Your children, Kylon. One day you will wed and have children, and those children will never fear as we have. Is that not a noble goal?”

Kylon nodded. 

“Good.” She released his hand. “Do you sense anyone nearby?”

Kylon reached out with his water sorcery. Other than Andromache, the mercenaries, and Sicarion's strange, blurred sense, no one was nearby. He shook his head.

“Sicarion?” said Andromache.

“We are alone, mistress,” said Sicarion. “And I am a devoted servant of the Moroaica. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“How very splendid,” said Andromache. “Assuming you can ever find the Moroaica, that is.” She turned to face Kylon. “We may have to abandon Rezir Shahan and the Istarish.” 

“Why?” said Kylon. 

“Taking the city of Marsis was never my goal,” said Andromache. “A bonus, to be sure. But hardly necessary.” She looked at the Citadel. “I came for the Tomb of Scorikhon, not the city. If Rezir manages to secure the gates, well and good. If not...we should seize the Citadel ourselves.”

“Just us?” said Kylon.

“Yes,” said Andromache. “My powers and yours, combined, shall be enough to overwhelm the Citadel's defenders, if we act carefully. And then I know how to enter the Tomb of Scorikhon.” She scowled. “The Moroaica could have simply dissolved the wards with ease, had Sicarion been able to find her. But she showed me how to release the wards myself, if necessary.”

“Do not give up hope, mistress,” said Sicarion. “I will find the Moroaica.”

“All you found was that spy who claimed to have slain the Moroaica,” said Andromache, voice sharp. 

“She could have done it,” said Kylon, remembering how the Ghost had come within a heartbeat of burning him alive. “If anyone could have slain the Moroaica, that Ghost would have found a way to do it.” 

“Regardless,” said Andromache. “Will you aid me in this, brother?”

Kylon hesitated. “You are exhausted, sister.”

“I am,” said Andromache. “But if I meditate for a few hours, using the techniques the Moroaica taught me, I shall recover my powers. I will have more than enough to deal with the defenders of the Citadel. Will you aid me, brother?”

“Of course,” said Kylon. “I always have.”

“Good,” said Andromache. She looked at Sicarion. “You have prepared things as I instructed?”

“I have indeed, mistress,” said Sicarion.

Andromache nodded. “Then let us proceed at once.”

She strode with renewed purpose along the Avenue of Governors, Kylon following. Everything Andromache had said made sense. Yet still his doubts lingered. The Moroaica had been a necromancer. Her student Scorikhon had been a necromancer.

What kind of power awaited Andromache in his Tomb?

Chapter 16 - Sacrifices

The eastern sky brightened as Caina prowled the edges of the Great Market.

Thousands of bound captives filled the Market. The Istarish had simply rounded them up, herded them into the Market, and left them there. Caina doubted the Istarish had bothered to plan adequate food and drink for their captives. Certainly they had not troubled themselves with sanitation. Already the smell was considerable. 

If the Istarish did nothing, very soon their slaves would start dying of thirst or disease even before they were loaded upon the slave ships.

Rage flooded through Caina, and her hand curled into a fist...

Later. She could think of a way to help the captives later. Right now she needed to find Nicolai. She would not leave anyone in the clutches if the Istarish, not if she could help it, but she had to find Nicolai. 

But first, she needed a way into the Great Market. Her nightfighter clothes were excellent for creeping through the shadows. But dawn was not far away, and the shadows would soon vanish. 

Once the sun came up, a black-clad figure wearing a shadow-cloak would be rather conspicuous in the Great Market.

She would have to try a disguise again. It had not worked so well the first time, but now Caina had her shadow-cloak. With any luck, it would keep Kylon and Sicarion from using their sorcery to locate her. 

Her target came into sight, and Caina ducked behind a barrel.

An Istarish soldier, an older man with a slight limp. Rezir Shahan had left his older and wounded soldiers behind to guard the captives. The soldier wore the typical scale mail of the Istarish infantry, a spiked helmet sitting upon his head. Behind him walked a younger Istarish soldier with a bored expression. 

“You shouldn't go wandering off alone, Ibrahim,” said the younger man in Istarish. “I heard the others talk. There's some hooded black shadow prowling about, snatching our lads into alleys and drinking all their blood.”

Caina permitted herself a grim smile behind her mask. 

“Fool's talk,” said Ibrahim, continuing his halting walk down the alley. “Next you'll tell me that there are efreeti and djinni hiding among the slaves. Bugger off so I can piss in peace.”

The younger soldier shook his head and walked back to the Market. Ibrahim stopped before a brick wall and undid his trousers. Caina straightened up and glided forward, boots making no sound against the ground. Ibrahim finished and sighed in relief.

Caina seized the spike atop his helmet, wrenched his head back, and opened his throat. Ibrahim went rigid, and Caina kicked his legs out from beneath him, forcing him to his knees so the blood would not stain his armor.

She felt a pang of conscience as he died. Had he deserved to be murdered in an alley as he relieved himself?

But she remembered the shackled captives in the Market and her conscience fell silent. 

She dragged Ibrahim's corpse to the doorway of a nearby tenement. After a moment's work she concealed the body and began stripping off the armor. She tugged on the shirt of scale armor over her cloak, letting the bottom of her cloak hang beneath it. Caina removed her mask, rubbing dirt and sweat over her cheeks to simulate stubble, but she didn't dare lower the cowl of her cloak. If she did, both Kylon and Sicarion would sense her presence. 

So she put the spiked helmet on over her cowl.

The result was...passable, if hardly ideal. But some of the Istarish soldiers wore black cloaks, and she doubted Rezir had assigned his most observant men to guard the slaves. If she was careful, she could move unnoticed through the Market.

Caina took a deep breath, stepped over Ibrahim's corpse, and walked into the alley. She took care to walk with the bored, slow strides of the guards.

A moment later she entered the slave pens of the Great Market.

The younger soldier that had been speaking with Ibrahim looked her up and down as she approached. Caina kept her expression bored, watching the soldier for any sign of alarm. 

“You see old Ibrahim?” said the soldier.

Caina hid her sigh of relief.

“Aye,” she answered, speaking Istarish. “I think he found a jar of wine, went to drink the entire thing.”

“Devils of the sand,” cursed the soldier. “You know what the emir ordered. Forty lashes for any man caught drinking. And impalement for any man who abandons his post.” 

Yet the soldier did not move. Caina nodded and kept walking, relieved. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that the man remained at his post, expression still bored. Clearly Rezir Shahan had not set his best and brightest to watch over the captives.

And there were so many captives.

Caina walked past hundreds of slaves. Women and children, mostly. Caina supposed the Istarish must have killed anyone who resisted to prevent future trouble. The women sat with numb, blank looks on their faces. Some wept in silence. Some of the children shrieked, their cries ringing over the Market, while others huddled against each other. The stench of sweat and fear and waste hung over everything.

It was a far cry from the festive atmosphere that accompanied Lord Governor Corbould when he came to greet the Lord Ambassador.

Her disguise worked. Most of the women averted their gazes as she passed. A few stared at her, eyes filled with hatred and loathing. One small girl rocked back and forth, keening, as her mother desperately tried to hush her. No doubt she feared a beating from Caina. 

“Hush, my angel,” said the mother. “Hush. The Balarigar will save us. As he saved the slaves from Black Angel Tower. You will see.”

Caina felt her cheeks flush with shame. She would find a way to help the captives, she vowed. Some way to rescue them from the Istarish. Even if she died in the process.

But first, Nicolai. Ark had saved her life so many times. She owed him his son's life. 

Assuming she could even find Nicolai.

The captives had not been organized by any method Caina could determine. Most likely the Istarish had herded the slaves into the Market, intending to sort them out once they had control of Marsis. Had they divided some of the slaves by sex, or separated the women from their children? Slavers sometimes did that to break the spirit of their captives. 

Caina decided to take a risk.

She put some briskness into her stride and walked to the northern end of the Great Market. Nearby stood the burned warehouse and the damaged watchtower where she had fought Sicarion and escaped from Andromache, the banners of the Padishah of Istarinmul and of New Kyre flying from the tower. Rezir Shahan and Andromache and the stormdancers were gone, no doubt butchering their way toward the Plaza of the Tower. But two Istarish guards stood at the foot of the watchtower, speaking in low voices.

Caina marched toward them and stopped, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Where are they?” she said, keeping her voice low and gruff.

The soldiers blinked at her. “Who?” said the one on the left.

“Nine devils of the desert!” spat Caina. “The boys, fool. Are you as stupid as you look?” 

The soldier sneered. “Don't give us orders, you...”

Caina backhanded the soldier. The blow sent a shock of pain all the way up her left arm, but the soldier staggered. 

“You'd question a messenger from the emir himself?” said Caina. “I should report you to your khalmir. Perhaps having a sharpened stake rammed up your arse would teach you a respectful tongue.” 

“Sir,” said the soldier on the right, obviously the smarter of the two. “We didn't receive any orders about any boys.”

“The boys,” said Caina. “One of the Immortals in the emir's guard has a taste for boys.”

“Sick devils,” muttered the first soldier, wiping blood from his mouth.

“Watch your tongue,” said the second soldier. “Our orders were to watch the captives, sir, and kill any that caused trouble. No one said anything about boys.” 

“Then the children were not separated from their mothers?” said Caina. 

“No,” said the second soldier, keeping his dark eyes downcast beneath his spiked helm. “No, sir. We thought about it. But keeping the women and their brats together calms them. We've only a few hundred men here.” He lowered his voice. “Enough of them get it into their heads to cause trouble at once...we might have a problem, sir.”