Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 07 - Ghost in the Ashes (17 page)

“Very well,” said Muravin. “I will do as you command. If I am to be a Ghost, I suppose I should start accustoming myself to following your orders.”

“Wise man,” said Caina. “Arm yourself, and be ready to depart at sundown.”

Muravin nodded and went to rejoin his daughter. 

Caina watched him go. He might die tonight, she knew. Or she might die, or Corvalis. 

But they would stop the Kindred and the Bostaji tonight, one way or another.

Chapter 17 - Blood and Steel

Corvalis returned with their gear, and Caina prepared herself. 

She donned her nightfighter garb, the black boots, trousers, gloves, and jacket lined with thin steel plates to deflect knife blades. A belt of throwing knives and other useful tools went around her waist, and daggers into the hidden sheaths in her boots. Her curved ghostsilver dagger went into its scabbard at her belt. A black mask hid everything but her eyes, and her shadow-cloak went around her shoulders. 

Her father’s worn gold signet ring, the only heirloom she had of his, hung on a leather cord around her neck.

She squeezed the ring once and then tucked it beneath the black jacket.

Then Caina tugged on a brown cloak and cowl, disguising the shadow-cloak, and slipped through the back door of the mansion, unseen by the Imperial Guards patrolling the corridors.

Armed men waited outside, hundreds of them, clad in chain mail and the red tabards of Malarae’s civic militia, the city’s guards and constables. Corvalis waited at their head, a dark shadow in his leather jerkin and shadow-cloak. At his side stood a man in his late twenties clad in the cuirass and plumed helmet of a militia tribune. The tribune grunted as Caina approached, pulling off his helmet to reveal a strong face beneath close-cropped blond hair. 

Theodosia looked a great deal like her eldest son.

“Well,” said Tomard, “here we are again, Ghost.”

“Tribune,” said Caina, using her disguised voice. “You’ve come up in the world since we last met.”

“So I have,” said Tomard, “though I’m still hunting scum in the docks. Such is the fate of a militiaman, I suppose.”

“You shall do as we ask?” said Caina.

Tomard shrugged. “Don’t I always? Mother would be disappointed if I did not. Do you have a plan?”

“Aye,” said Corvalis, stepping forward. Like Caina, he used a disguised voice. “We will need to surround the Serpents’ Nest. The street can be blocked in two places. The Kindred and the Bostaji will try to flee, and we cannot allow any of them to escape.”

“Shall we try to force them to surrender?” said Tomard.

“That would be best,” said Caina, “but we doubt it. The Bostaji and the Kindred are not the sort to surrender. If any of them give up, bind them at once and take their weapons. But if they do not, kill them.”

“What about sentries?” said Tomard. “I know the Serpents’ Rest – I have men there every other week trying to arrest thieves. The tavern has a good view of the surrounding streets, and clever men would post at least one sentry on the roofs of the nearby buildings. There’s no way I could sneak that many armed men past a sentry.”

“Leave the sentry,” said Caina, “to us.”

She told Tomard the rest of the plan.

###

A short time later Caina and Corvalis stood in the shadows of the Serpents’ Rest, looking up at the tavern. Light and the sound of carousing came from the tavern’s common room, but most of the windows of the upper floors were dark. 

Yet even in the darkened window, she glimpsed the shape of the sentry on the top floor.

“He’s still watching the street,” said Corvalis.

“Aye,” said Caina, keeping her voice low. “And the man on the warehouse roof is still there.”

“Sloppy,” said Corvalis. “He should have moved.” He shook his head. “Well, he’ll pay for it now.”

Caina nodded, discarded her brown cloak, beckoned Corvalis forward, and they moved silently into the alley behind the warehouse. She scrutinized the wall for a moment, then stepped back and unhooked a coil of slender, strong rope from her belt, one end tied around a collapsible steel grapnel. She tossed the rope, felt it catch on the clay tiles of the warehouse’s roof, and gave it a few tugs.

The rope was secure.

Corvalis went up first, crouched at the edge of the roof, and beckoned for her to follow. Caina went up hand over hand, pressing her boots against the wall for traction. And as she did, a memory flashed through her mind. She remembered climbing onto the roof of Khaltep Irzaris’s warehouse in Catekharon in hopes of discovering where Mihaela had built her secret Forge. But that had been a trap. Corvalis’s half-brother, the battle magus Torius Aberon, had been waiting for them, and they had barely escaped with their lives. 

Both Torius Aberon and Khaltep Irzaris had been dead for ten months, but the memory lingered in Caina’s mind. 

She crouched next to Corvalis and saw the dark shape of the sentry watching the street. Caina gripped Corvalis’s shoulder, leaned close, and whispered Torius’s name into his ear. She felt him tense, and then saw him nod as he understood. 

Corvalis glided forward, drawing his sword from its scabbard without a whisper of sound. Still the sentry did not notice them. Corvalis made his way across the clay tiles of the roof, weaving his way around the skylights. Caina followed, a throwing knife ready in her hands, her gloved fingers wrapped around the blade to hide its gleam. 

Corvalis reached the sentry, drawing back his sword for a stab.

And as he did, a dark shadow rose from one the skylights. Another Kindred had been lying there, keeping watch, and Caina saw the man’s mouth open to raise the alarm.

She slammed into him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her left hand slapping over his mouth, and her right hand ripping the throwing knife across his throat. The man went rigid, clawing at her, and then his legs collapsed just as Corvalis stepped forward to stab. 

The sentry whirled, drawn by the noise of the collapsing assassin, and yanked his sword from its scabbard. Corvalis thrust his blade, but the sentry caught the attack on his own weapon. Caina kicked free of the dead assassin and threw her bloodstained knife. It hit the sentry in the leg, and the man staggered. 

Corvalis wheeled, his sword a steely blur, and drove his blade through the assassin’s gut. The sentry folded with a groan, and Corvalis yanked a dagger from his belt and plunged it into the assassin’s neck.

The man collapsed upon the clay tiles. 

“So much for doing this quietly,” said Corvalis, tugging his sword free. 

Caina pulled a flask from her belt, stepped to the edge of the roof, and flung it into the street. The flask shattered with a dazzling flash, bright enough to throw stark shadows in the nearby alleys and streets.

And bright enough to be visible from a distance. 

The blast of trumpets rang out, and Caina heard the shout as the men of the civic militia charged towards the Serpents’ Nest.

The sounds of carousing from the tavern ceased.

“Let’s go,” said Caina. “Nalazar isn’t going to sit still after that.” 

They hurried down the rope and into the alley, and returned to the street just as a century of the civic militia marched to the Serpents’ Nest, Tomard at their head. Muravin walked with him, wearing chain mail, a pair of scimitars at his belt and his faithful trident in his left hand. A masked steel helmet concealed his face.

If he was to be a Ghost, he would need to keep his identity secret. 

“Ghosts,” said Tomard. “We’ve got them surrounded.”

“And the sewers?” said Caina.

Tomard nodded. “I sent some men down there. Doesn’t look like Cornan Bascaii has a bolt hole, which is odd. But if he does, I’ve got steady lads watching the tunnels. If the Kindred get desperate enough, they might try to crawl down the latrines.” He snorted. “I might owe my men some extra pay after that.” 

“Unless they heard us coming and fled,” said Muravin, glaring at the tavern.

“No,” said Corvalis. “They had two men watching the street from the roof of that warehouse. The Kindred would not waste men guarding an empty tavern, not after the losses they have already taken.”

“Then we go in and kill them?” said Muravin.

“Most likely,” said Tomard. “First we do things properly, give these fools a chance to surrender themselves.”

He took several steps towards the tavern, and Caina followed him, looking at the windows overhead. 

“In the name of the civic militia of Malarae,” boomed Tomard, his voice echoing off the walls, “and by the authority of the Lord Prefect of the city and the Emperor of Nighmar, I command the assassins of the Kindred and the Bostaji to lay down their arms and come forth at once! Surrender, and I…”

Caina saw a flicker of motion in an upper window.

“Down!” she yelled, and shoved Tomard to the side. A heartbeat later an arrow hissed down and bounced off the cobblestones. Two more arrows shot down in quick succession, shattering against the street. The civic militiamen shouted and hurried forward, shields raised to protect the tribune. 

“Those rats!” said Tomard. “Well, you can’t expect anything better from assassins. Centurion!” He turned to the waiting militiamen. “Begin the attack. Break down the door, spare anyone who surrenders, and kill anyone who resists.”

The centurion bawled commands to the militiamen. A half-dozen men raced for the front door, carrying an iron-topped ram. More militiamen screened them, shields raised to ward off any archers. The ram met the door, again and again. Bascaii had a thick, solid door on his tavern, but the wood splintered beneath the ram’s iron head. Behind the door another century of militiamen braced themselves, shields raised as they prepared to storm into the tavern.

“Shall we stand here and watch other men do our fighting?” growled Muravin. 

“No,” said Caina. “Wait until the militia breaks into the common room. Then we’ll circle around back and head upstairs. The Kindred might have something useful. Documents or papers they’ll try to destroy before we come. Something that might tell us who hired the Kindred to come after your children.”

The crack of splintered wood filled her ears, and the tavern’s door collapsed.

“Forward!” shouted the centurion. “In the name of the Emperor!”

The militiamen yelled and charged for the broken door, and Caina heard the hiss of arrows and the clang of swords and spears.

“Go!” said Caina. “Now, while they’re distracted!” 

She raced for the alley, Muravin and Corvalis at her heels. Caina circled to the back of the building, where another squad of militiamen waited, ready to catch any Kindred or Bostaji who escaped through the back door.

“Ghosts,” said the centurion in command. “The tribune said we were to do whatever you commanded.”

“Stay here,” said Caina in her disguised voice. “If anyone other than us comes through that door, give them one chance to surrender. If they don’t, kill them.”

The centurion nodded.

“Muravin,” said Caina.

Muravin growled, raised his leg, and put his armored boot to the door. Four hard kicks later, the wood near the lock shattered, and the door swung open with a groan. The sounds of fighting came from the common room, screams and shouts and the moans of dying men. 

No sound at all came from the tavern’s upper floors.

Caina glided forward, dagger in her left hand, throwing knife in her right. Corvalis followed, sword in hand, Muravin at his side, trident raised to throw like a Legionary’s javelin. Caina climbed the stairs, her boots making no sound against the splintered wood. Muravin made rather more noise than she would have liked, but she hoped the cacophony from the common room would mask their footfalls. 

“The top floor,” whispered Caina, and the men nodded. If anything valuable was to be found, it would be up there. They moved to the second floor, then the third, the corridors silent and deserted.

Then she heard someone thundering down the stairs. Caina raised her weapons, as did Corvalis and Muravin.

The fat landlord, Cornan Bascaii himself, ran around the landing and came to a halt, his eyes wide with alarm. He held a heavy leather sack over one shoulder. No doubt it was filled with valuables.

“You,” growled Muravin, “you harbored these murderers.”

He raised his trident.

An instant of fear flickered over Bascaii’s bearded face, followed by a flicker of calculation.

Then he started to bawl like an infant.

“Oh, thank the gods!” he said. “Thank the gods you have come. Oh, I thought this nightmare would never end. The Kindred and the Bostaji threatened me, they…”

“Shut up,” said Caina. “I’m not interested in killing you. I’ll let you surrender to the militia outside, but only if you answer some questions.”

Bascaii stopped crying. “Very well. What do you want to know?”

“Where is Nalazar?” said Caina. 

“Nalazar?” said Bascaii. “That name is not…”

“Play dumb,” said Corvalis, “and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

“He’s upstairs,” said Bascaii at once. “In the best room. He kept all his weapons and equipment there. Some papers, too, locked in a strongbox. I think he’s planning to burn them.”

“Go,” said Caina.

“And thank you,” said Bascaii, “for saving my life. It has been an ordeal, simply for ordeal…”

“For the gods’ sake,” said Caina. “Save it for the magistrate. Go.”

Bascaii hastened down the stairs and vanished. 

“You should have killed him,” grumbled Muravin. 

“Why?” said Caina. “If he lives, he might know something useful.” Muravin had no answer for that. “Let’s go.” 

They crept up the remainder of the stairs and came to the top floor. It looked much as Caina remembered. But the door to the room where she had heard Nalazar stood open, light spilling into the gloomy corridor. She heard the sounds of metal clanking and muttered curses from the room. 

Caina peered around the edge of the opened door, gesturing for the others to wait.

The room beyond had a shabby carpet and a sagging bed against the wall, a pair of heavy, tarnished bronze lamps hanging from ropes. A long worktable ran the length of the room, holding tools, weapons, and several different glass jars of chemicals. A hearth crackled in one wall, and a man in leather armor stooped over it, throwing handfuls of paper into the flames. Another man in similar armor stood at the table, gathering the weapons. Nalazar himself waited by the window, his thin face hard with a scowl as he stared at the street below. 

“Hurry,” he snapped to the other two Kindred. He held a crossbow loaded with an odd combination of a winch, a grapnel, and a coiled rope. Caina realized that he intended to fire the grapnel at a nearby building and escape over the rope to an adjoining rooftop.