Child of the Ghosts (18 page)

Then Lucien’s right hand came to rest on her left breast, his left digging into the waistband of her skirt, and the warm feeling went away.

The reflexes Akragas had drilled into her took over, and both her hands clamped about Lucien’s right wrist. Before he had a chance to shout, she twisted his right arm behind him, put her foot in the small of his back, and slammed him into the stone wall. Lucien toppled to the floor, eyes wide, blood pouring from his nose.

And he started to cry.

Caina stared at him, attraction dissolving into incredulous contempt. She hadn’t even hit him that hard, certainly not hard enough to break his nose or loosen his teeth. And he was crying over it? She had been hit much harder than that. 

She had been hurt much worse than that.

“You hit me!” said Lucien, gazing up at her in bewilderment. “Why?”

“It’s nice to be asked first, you know,” said Caina, and left without looking back.

Lucien left her alone after that.

###

“Tonight, we shall disguise ourselves as men,” announced Theodosia. 

Caina blinked. “We shall?”

Theodosia opened the closet next to her mirror, dragged out a heavy brass-bound chest. “You’ve been keeping an eye on Lord Macrinius for me.”

“I have,” said Caina. Lord Macrinius was a powerful Restorationist noble and a friend of the Magisterium, second only to Haeron Icaraeus in prominence. He also enjoyed the Grand Imperial Opera, attending almost every performance. Caina had been keeping very close watch over him. Macrinius invariably met with several Istarish merchants during the operas, and usually left with them. 

“Haeron Icaraeus,” said Theodosia, opening the chest, “has been smuggling slaves into Malarae. We don’t know what he’s doing with them, or why.”

“He’s working with Maglarion,” said Caina, shivering at the memory. “I can guess what he’s doing with them.”  

“Whatever he’s doing with them,” said Theodosia, “we’re going to stop him. Lord Macrinius has many friends in Istarinmul, and contacts among the slavers’ brotherhood. He’s buying slaves in the Istarish markets, and smuggling them into Malarae.”

“Can’t the Harbormaster stop him?” said Caina.

Theodosia rummaged through the chest. “Macrinius is smart enough not to bring his slaves into the city’s harbor. He brings them ashore at one of those little towns along the Bay of Empire that turn a blind eye to smugglers. Then he has them transported via wagon to the city.”

“How do we stop him?” said Caina.

“Simple,” said Theodosia. “We find proof, irrefutable proof, that he purchased slaves and brought them into the Empire. We then make sure that proof just happens to find its way before the magistrates. Lord Macrinius then flees the Empire, if he’s lucky…or loses his head, if he’s unlucky. And if we’re very lucky, we find the proof we need to bring down Lord Haeron, as well.” 

“And that, I assume,” said Caina, “is why we have to dress like men.”

“Exactly,” said Theodosia, pulling clothing out of the chest. “I have a contact in Lord Macrinius’s household. One of his clerks. The man’s a spineless worm, but he hates Macrinius. For the right amount of gold, he can give us the proof we need. We’re going to meet him at midnight in one of the dockside taverns.”

“This is like the plot of the ‘Queen of Anshan’,” said Caina. 

Theodosia grinned. “Precisely. Though I doubt I should sing an aria in the tavern. That might draw attention.”

They dressed as caravan guards. Hundreds of merchant caravans came to Malarae, and caravan guards were a common sight. Caina rubbed sweat into her black hair, let it fall in greasy curtains over her face. Then she applied makeup to her jaw and chin, giving her face a coating of rough stubble. She dressed in a ragged tunic, dirt-stained trousers, and heavy, worn boots. Over her clothes she put on a coat of leather armor with steel studs, a threadbare green cloak, and a belt with short sword and dagger around her waist. 

She barely recognized herself in the mirror. She looked like a man. A smallish man, but a man nonetheless. And Theodosia’s transformation was even more dramatic. She looked like a grizzled veteran of a hundred battles, hard-eyed and capable. 

“How do I look?” said Theodosia, her soprano voice a shocking contrast to her appearance.

“Terrible,” said Caina.

“Splendid!” said Theodosia. Her voice changed to hissing rasp. It sounded as if she had been stabbed in the throat. “Let us visit the tavern.”

Caina concentrated, and answered in a new voice of her own, a snarling growl. “Aye.”

###

A short time later they came to the Hanging Pirate. 

The dockside taverns all had colorful names; the Hanging Pirate, the Captain’s Wife, the Grey Fish Inn, the Grief Reef. No doubt each one had an amusing legend behind the name. But they all had the same crowds of drunken sailors and caravan guards and laborers, the air heavy with the smells of sweat and beer and ringing with laughter, argument, and off-key song. The only women were serving maids, or prostitutes.

And yet Caina strolled unnoticed through all of them.

Part of her mind wondered at that. But most of her mind focused on maintaining the disguise. On walking like a man, with a confident swagger. On glaring at anyone who looked at her wrong. And it worked. She looked like any other caravan guard looking to get drunk.

No one looked at her twice. 

“You there!” said one of the prostitutes, stepping into Caina’s path. The woman was haggard, her eyes shining with a feverish light. “You looking for a good time? You seem like a handsome lad.” 

Caina was so surprised that she almost forgot herself, but practice kept her expression indifferent, her stance amused. “Aye? What’re you charging, then? I won’t pay more than a clipped copper.”

The prostitute took offense. “A clipped copper! Scoundrel! I’ll…”

“Enough of that,” snarled Theodosia. “We’ve business. You can tumble the local ladies later.” 

She led Caina through the tavern crowd.

“I’m offended,” murmured Theodosia into Caina’s ear, speaking in her normal voice. “No whores propositioned me.”

“Perhaps I look nicer,” said Caina.

“That must be it,” said Theodosia. “Do you see our friend?”

Caina scanned the Hanging Pirate’s common room and nodded. “That has to be him.”

A nervous-looking man sat at a table in the corner, huddled over a clay mug of wine. Unlike the rest of the men, he did not look as if he had ever raised his fist in anger. His clothes were clean and neat, and ink stained his narrow fingers.

He would probably get robbed on his way home. 

“Aye, that’s him,” said Theodosia, returning to her disguised voice. “I wonder why the fool wanted to meet in the Hanging Pirate, of all places.” 

“Let’s find out,” said Caina.

They crossed the room. Theodosia dropped into the chair opposite the man, slouched and confident. Caina stood over them, keeping an eye on the crowd.

“I’m waiting for someone,” said the man, fidgeting. 

“Well, we’re someone,” said Theodosia. “See, I heard a funny rumor. They say there’s a clerk who works for Lord Macrinius, a man named Otton. That he’s tired of his lord treating him like a slave, wants to see his lord pay. But Lord Macrinius is powerful and rich. So the clerk looks around for someone who can bring Macrinius to ruin.” 

Otton licked his lips, stared at them for a moment. He looked around.

At last he leaned forward. 

“You’re…you’re Ghosts?” he whispered. 

“The Ghosts are a fool’s tale,” said Theodosia. “But we’re no friends of Macrinius, I tell you true. So if you have something we can use against him…aye, we will use it.” 

“I can’t do it,” said Otton, shaking. 

For a moment Caina thought Otton would leave, but he kept talking.

“I can’t do it any more!” said Otton, burying his face in his hands. He shuddered for a moment, then looked up. “Lord Macrinius…Lord Macrinius is buying slaves. At first I didn’t care, thought it nothing more than another cargo. But then I saw one of the…the ‘shipments’…the children crying…gods!” 

He buried his face in his hands again. 

“Here, man,” said Theodosia, picking up the clay mug. “Drink. It’ll clear your head.”

Otton nodded and drank. “I…I can’t do it any more. I can’t sleep. I hear the children crying all the time, even in my dreams. I can’t live like this. I have to do something. Here.” He reached into his coat, drew out a book, and shoved it at Theodosia. 

“What’s this?” said Theodosia.

“A copy of a ledger,” said Otton. “My master is a very frugal man, and keeps track of every copper coin. This is the record of his slave dealings. The ships they came on, the number of slaves, the amount he paid for them, where he stored them. All of it.”

“You’ve put yourself at great risk, doing this,” said Theodosia, paging through the ledger. “This could ruin Lord Macrinius. If he finds out about this, he will have you killed.” 

“I know that,” said Otton, rubbing his face. “And if he kills me…well, he kills me. At least I’ll face the gods with a clean conscience.” He shoved away from the table and stood. “Do what you will with it. I’m done.” 

He left.

Theodosia sat in silence for a moment. And then she said, “That man near the door, do you see him?”

Caina nodded, taking care not to stare. The man leaned against the wall, watching the crowd with a cool eye. Lean and clean-shaven, he looked as if he knew how to handle a weapon.

He was obviously not a sailor or a mercenary guard. 

“He’s been watching Otton,” said Theodosia. “Macrinius probably hired him to keep an eye out for disloyal servants.” 

Caina took a deep breath. “I think he’s a Kindred assassin.” 

Theodosia cursed. “You’re sure?”

Caina watched as the assassin touched the dagger in his belt. “Pretty sure.” 

The assassin stretched, finished his mug of wine, and left.

“Let’s go,” said Theodosia. “Or else Otton’s going to meet the gods even sooner than he thought.” 

They hurried across the Hanging Pirate’s common room.

“The two of us can’t take a Kindred assassin in a straight fight,” murmured Caina.

“Of course not,” said Theodosia. “Which is why it’s not going to be a straight fight.” 

Caina nodded. She approved. 

They stepped into the narrow dockside street, the cobblestones slick, the air heavy with the scents of gull dung and dead fish. Otton walked with his hands in his pockets, his head down. The Kindred assassin followed, making no effort to conceal his movements. And why bother? Caina doubted a man like Otton would notice a herd of rampaging elephants in his path. 

“Otton,” called the assassin. 

Otton stopped, turned. 

Caina started running.

The assassin drew his dagger, and Otton’s eyes bulged. “Lord Macrinius knows well to how to repay disloyalty.”

Caina snatched a throwing knife from her sleeve and flung it.

The blade buried itself in the assassin’s bicep. The man spun with a bellow, and sent his dagger hurtling at Caina’s face. She twisted to the side, boots skidding on the damp cobblestones, and the blade clattered against the ground. The assassin yanked another dagger from his belt and lunged at her, ignoring his wounded arm. Caina jumped back, the dagger blurring past her head. The Kindred assassin kept coming, slashing and hacking. 

So he didn’t see it when Theodosia stepped behind him and buried a dagger in his back. 

The assassin shuddered, back arching in agony. Theodosia ripped her blade free and slashed it across his throat. The assassin toppled, landing facedown in a pool of his own blood. 

She handled a dagger well, for an opera singer. 

“Just as well we’re near the harbor,” muttered Theodosia, cleaning the dagger on the dead assassin’s pants. “Easiest way to dispose of corpses.”

“You…you killed him!” said Otton.

“Aye,” said Theodosia. “There are some loose bricks against that wall. We’ll need them to weigh down the body.” 

Caina nodded and started collecting bricks. Fortunately, the street remained deserted, save for Theodosia, Otton, and the dead assassin. 

“That man was a Kindred assassin,” said Theodosia, speaking in her normal voice. 

Otton looked ill.

“Macrinius probably hired him to hunt down anyone who might betray him,” said Theodosia. 

“Then Lord Macrinius knows,” said Otton. “I’m finished.”

“No,” said Caina, dropping the bricks on the corpse. Like Theodosia, she spoke in her own voice. “You’ll disappear with us, and we’ll dispose of the corpse. Lord Macrinius while realize that something is amiss, but he won’t realize how serious. Until it’s too late.”

Theodosia gave her an approving nod. Then she stripped off her cloak and wrapped the corpse in it, pausing for Caina to add the bricks.

“You’ll go into hiding with us,” said Theodosia. “Safer that way. Less chance Macrinius will track you down.”

“If…if you say so,” said Otton. He blinked. “Wait…you’re both women?”

Theodosia grinned. “Welcome to the Ghosts.”

“But you’re women!” 

“Then I’m glad we have a strong man like you along,” said Theodosia, “to help carry the corpse to the harbor. Now grab his damned feet and lift.”

Otton sighed, but helped lift the dead assassin.

Chapter 18 - Downfall

“I have no head for figures,” said Theodosia after they returned to the safety of the Grant Imperial Opera. “Go through this ledger. Tell me if it has anything useful.”

So Caina did. She spent the entire next day reading the ledger, with Otton explaining the more obscure parts of it to her. The poor man was frightened of her, but he kept orderly records. 

Then Caina looked over the final page. Her eyes widened, and she ran to Theodosia’s room. 

“This is it,” said Caina, pointing at the ledger.

Theodosia looked up from her mirror. “This is what?”

“How we’re going to get Lord Macrinius, and maybe even Lord Haeron, too,” said Caina. “See this entry, this one here?”

Theodosia squinted at the page. “Macrinius paid ten thousand denarii to the Istarish slavers’ brotherhood for three dozen slaves.” 

“But that’s not the important part,” said Caina. “He’s already paid for the slaves…but they’re not going to arrive for another three days.”

Theodosia blinked, several times…and then a pleased smiled spread over her face.

“That’s…that’s good?” said Otton, hovering in the doorway. Caina might have frightened him, but he seemed downright terrified of Theodosia. 

“My dear fellow,” said Theodosia, “that’s very good. Everyone knows that Lord Macrinius dabbles in slave trading, but there’s never been any proof. But if we find a score of slaves chained in his cellar, then there’s no hiding it. No amount of bribery or political influence will save him then. He’ll be finished, and if he’s lucky he’ll flee the Empire before the Emperor has him beheaded for slave trading and treason.” 

“So…you’re going to catch him in the act?” said Otton.

“Precisely,” said Theodosia. 

“How?” said Caina.

“We’re going to give him some bait that he cannot resist,” said Theodosia. Her smile widened. “Me.” 

###

Riogan arrived the next morning.

Caina saw him as she practiced her unarmed forms alone in the deserted workshop. She finished an unarmed throw, and she turned, she saw Riogan leaning against a pillar, watching her. He looked much as she remembered; the same close-cropped blond hair, the same cold eyes, the same dark clothing and weapons ready at hand.

For a moment they stared at each other. 

Then Riogan stepped forward, his hand blurring. His arm shot forward and sent a throwing knife hurtling for her face. But Caina saw the movement coming, and she sidestepped, the knife whirring past her. Her hand dipped into her sleeve, drawing a throwing knife of her own.

But Riogan did not move, save to laugh. 

“You’ve gotten better, girl,” he said, his eyes bright with mockery. “A few years ago, that knife would have torn your throat open.” 

“I’ve been practicing,” said Caina, watching him for any threatening movements. “What are you doing here?”

“Killing people who need killing,” said Riogan. “And carrying messages for Halfdan. Though I came at the right time. You could use my help.” 

Caina nodded. Riogan did not like her, but that was unimportant. He was very good at what he did. And if Theodosia’s plan was going to work, they would need all the help they could get. 

“Probably,” she said at last.

“A shot at Lord Macrinius,” said Riogan. “An idea to warm the heart, it is.”

“I suppose you have a grudge against him?” said Caina.

Riogan laughed. “Hardly. But he’s one of Haeron Icaraeus’s strongest lieutenants. And anything that discomforts Haeron Icaraeus is a fine thing.” 

###

Three nights later, Theodosia sang upon the Grand Imperial Opera’s stage, singing the lead of “The Hunter’s Marriage”, a romantic story full of bawdy songs and innuendos, and it seemed to Caina that Theodosia sang her arias of passion and lust right into Lord Macrinius’s box. 

Macrinius watched her, enraptured. For once he did not plot and scheme. Instead he simply sat and watched Theodosia sing. He accepted the trays of delicacies that Caina brought him, and the glasses of wine, but he never took his eyes from Theodosia. 

And he kept drinking the wine. Specifically, the wine laced with a powder Komnene had taught Caina to prepare, a powder that inflamed the passions of anyone who consumed it. It had a bitter taste, but the wine masked it, and Macrinius was so enraptured by Theodosia’s performance that Caina supposed she could have given him a glass of vinegar and he would not have noticed. 

The opera concluded, and Macrinius surged to his feet, applauding. 

“You,” he said after a moment, pointing at Caina. “Girl. Come here, now.”

Caina did a curtsy and approached, head bowed. “Yes, my lord?” she said, speaking with a thick Caerish accent. “Do you wish something?” 

“Theodosia of Malarae,” he said, sweat standing out on his forehead. “Do you know her?” He began scribbling onto a piece of paper. 

“Why, of course, my lord,” said Caina. “She’s the finest singer in all of Malarae, all the Empire, and the jewel of the Opera, so she is.” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Macrinius, folding the paper and shoving it into Caina’s hand. “Give her that note. If you bring back a message from her, you’ll get a denarius. Go!”

Caina did another curtsy and ran. 

###

She returned with Theodosia herself, still clad in her stage costume. 

Macrinius gave Caina a denarius and promptly forgot about her.

“My lord Macrinius,” said Theodosia. 

Macrinius rose to his feet, smiling. “You came yourself?”

“Of course,” said Theodosia. “How could I ignore a message from so noble a lord? And your letter was so…fervent.”

“How could it not be?” said Macrinius. “Your performance was magnificent. Splendid beyond words. I simply cannot describe it.”

Theodosia laughed and did a polite little curtsy, one that gave Macrinius a look down the front of her costume. 

Macrinius started to sweat some more.

“My lord is too kind,” said Theodosia.

“I hope you will not think me too forward,” said Macrinius, “but would you care to accompany me to my townhouse for some…refreshment? That performance, that magnificent performance, must have been most draining.” 

“Oh, it was, my lord, it was,” said Theodosia. “I shall be most happy to tell you about it, in private.”

Macrinius took her hand. “My coach awaits us, my dear.” His voice was almost a purr.

“Oh, but let me change first,” said Theodosia. “And let me take two of my servants. The girl,” she fluttered a hand at Caina, “and my footman.”

Macrinius frowned. 

Theodosia laughed. “I may not be a lady, my lord, but surely you cannot expect a woman to travel without her servants?” 

Macrinius blinked. “Well…that seems reasonable. Do not take too long, my dear.” 

“I shouldn’t dream of it,” said Theodosia, beckoning to Caina. “Come along, Marina. I want to change clothes, and quickly.” 

“Yes, madam,” said Caina, following Theodosia from Lord Macrinius’s box. 

Riogan leaned against the wall outside the box, clad in the livery of a footman. 

“It’s time?” said Riogan, falling in step alongside Caina.

She nodded.

A cold smile spread over Riogan’s face. 

###

So Caina and Riogan hung on the outside of Macrinius’s elaborate coach as it rattled through Malarae’s streets. The coach rolled through Macrinius’s gates, past well-armed and vigilant guards, and stopped at the foot of Macrinius’s ornate mansion, its walls studded with reliefs and statuary. 

Theodosia let Macrinius guide her from the coach and into the mansion’s opulent entrance hall, Caina and Riogan trailing after them, along with Macrinius’s own servants and bodyguards. 

“Such a large house you have, my lord,” said Theodosia, looking around with wide eyes. 

“Why, this modest little hovel?” said Macrinius with a disparaging gesture. Caina took Theodosia’s cloak, folded it over her arm. “It is nothing. Merely a place to sleep when I have business in the Imperial capital. You should see my villa in Cyrica. In summer, when the crops are ripe, and the fields are like seas of gold. Ah, now that is a magnificent sight.” He smiled, took her hand, and kissed it. “Though not so much as you, my dear.”

Theodosia gave a little laugh. “You flatter me, my lord.” 

“Why, it hardly counts as flattery if it’s the truth,” said Macrinius. 

Theodosia kept smiling as Macrinius led them through the mansion, pointing out statues and armor and various historical relics from House Macrinius’s history. Soon Lord Macrinius had one arm around Theodosia’s shoulder, and she leaned against him, laughing at his jokes. 

Finally they reached Macrinius’s bedroom.

“Leave us,” said Macrinius, looking at his bodyguards. “All of you. Now.” 

The bodyguards bowed and escorted Caina and Macrinius down the stairs, to a small room near the kitchens. The room had some cots, and a small fireplace, but was otherwise bare. 

“You two will stay here tonight,” said one of the bodyguards. “His lordship will probably be finished with your mistress by tomorrow morning. One of us will come for you then. Don’t leave, and don’t wander about the mansion. We catch you outside this room, you’ll get a beating. If you’re lucky.”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled Riogan, not meeting the man’s eyes. “You won’t have any trouble from us, sir.”

“See that we don’t,” said the bodyguard.

He left, locking the door behind him.

Caina’s lip twitched in amusement. 

“Now?” she said.

“Not yet,” said Riogan. “They’ll check on us at least once. Count to a thousand.”

Caina nodded and started counting in her head.

She had gotten to six hundred and ninety-four when she heard the rasp of a footstep outside the door.

“Do you think his lordship will marry our mistress?” said Caina in her thick Caerish accent. “That would be ever so grand, aye? Our mistress would become a lady, and wear silks and jewels and furs, and we would get to live in this fine house…”

“Shut your yap, girl,” said Riogan in the same accent, “and let me get some sleep, or you’ll feel the back of my hand.” 

The footsteps faded away.

“I have to say,” murmured Riogan in his usual cold voice, “you are the most annoying serving girl I have ever met.”

“Thank you,” said Caina. “Shall we get on with it?”

Riogan nodded.

Caina climbed to her feet and stripped off her serving maid’s dress. Beneath she wore loose-fitting black pants, a long sleeved black shirt, and black boots. A belt around her waist held throwing knives, a coil of rope, a collapsible grapnel, and a few other useful tools. From her belt she drew out a black mask, tugged it over her face, and a pair of black leather gloves. Riogan tossed aside his servant’s livery, revealing similar clothing. 

“This way,” said Riogan, crossing to the window. He raised a dagger, lifted the latch on the shutters, and pushed them open. He had prowled around Macrinius’s mansion last night, scouting out the grounds and the buildings, and knew where the slaves were held.

Or so he claimed.

Riogan jumped out the window, and Caina followed. It was a short drop to the ground, only seven or eight feet, and Caina landed besides him, her legs buckling to absorb the force of the fall. Riogan led her around the mansion’s bulk, their boots making no sound against the earth. From time to time a patrolling guard came into sight, and they ducked into concealment until the guard passed. 

Then they came to the cellar doors. 

Gardens ringed Macrinius’s mansion, dotted with bushes and trees and statues and small bubbling fountains. In the middle of a garden lay a pair of doors, no doubt leading down to a cellar. Nobles often built such cellars on their grounds to keep wine and cheese and meat cool in the heat of summer. 

But to judge from the two guards keeping watch over the doors, Lord Macrinius stored something other than cheese in his cellar.

Slaves, most likely.

Caina crouched behind a bush, Riogan waiting besides her. The guards stood talking with each other, making no effort to keep watch on their surroundings. Obviously, they did not expect trouble. 

Riogan watched them for a moment longer. Then he gestured, pointing at the man on the left, and made a slashing motion with his other hand.

Caina understood.

Riogan circled around the cellar doors, moving like a shadow. Caina did the same, keeping herself behind the guards. She remembered training with Halfdan at the Vineyard, remembered creeping up to touch the other Ghosts on the shoulder before they noticed her presence. It was just like that.

Except Macrinius’s guards noticed her, they would kill her.

Best not to think about that. 

Caina stopped behind the guard, drawing a dagger from her boot. 

In one smooth motion she straightened up, clamped one hand over the guard’s mouth, and ripped the dagger across his throat. Blood spurted across her gloved fingers. He screamed into her hand, but she sawed the blade back and forth, and soon he choked on his own blood. Caina eased him to the ground, so his fall would not make any undue noise. 

She shivered. She had killed before. The thugs at the tavern in Kaunauth. The Kindred assassin in the street. Her mother. But never before had she killed in cold blood. 

She didn’t like the feeling, not at all.

But she could worry about it later. 

She heard a faint thump as Riogan levered his own guard to the ground. He rummaged through the dead man’s belt for a moment, then pulled free a long iron key. A moment later he undid the lock on the cellar doors. The door swung upward to reveal a dark staircase descending into the earth.

Torchlight glimmered in the depths. 

“Pull the corpses onto the stairs,” murmured Riogan into her ear. “Less chance someone will stumble across them.” 

Caina nodded, dragged her dead guard onto the stairs as Riogan did the same. Then Riogan closed the cellar doors behind them, and they descended, boots making no sound against the cold stone. 

The stairs ended in a gloomy, vaulted cellar, similar to the place where Maglarion had held Caina captive years ago. Half the chamber had been cordoned off with iron bars, and behind those bars huddled fifty or sixty naked women and children.