Old Man's Ghosts (18 page)

‘Do you know how it is done?’ Narin persisted. ‘How it might be done?’

‘I do, but I will not attempt such a thing.’

‘But is there equipment you might need? Ingredients for a potion? Certain conditions?’ He gestured around at the snow-laden roofs. ‘Clearly this isn’t a case of the city becoming so hot the border between realms blurs.’

‘Equipment? No. A staff to channel energies, certainly, but nothing exotic they would need to purchase. As for conditions – height is good, a tower with air all around would be best. As far from earth, stone or water as possible, for their realms are shadow and flame.’

‘Anything more?’

Geret shook his head. ‘I must meditate on this, consider the ritual. You are Rhe? I will send word if I think of more.’

Rhe inclined his head. ‘Lawbringer Cailer at the Palace of Law will know of our whereabouts. I thank you for your time.’

As the pair returned to ground level, Narin waited until they were on the stairs and out of sight of anyone who might hear them. ‘You’ve a plan, then?’

‘A next step,’ Rhe said with a small shake of the head. ‘We have a trading ship and a merchant house mentioned there – the Ren archipelago appears to be at the heart of their rumours. It is thin, but what else presents itself for investigation?’

‘These people needed to get to the city somehow,’ Narin agreed, ‘so why not use one of your own trading ships when sneaking in someone you wouldn’t want noticed? It’s winter, the arrivals at the docks cannot be so great that we can’t narrow down a list of trading houses based in the Ren archipelago. It’s not close, so there shouldn’t much traffic at this time of year.’

‘Which gives us one or two names, while the city records will list holdings of those trading houses and their affiliates. Safe-houses that might be employed by mercenaries using the trading house as the front. A reported power struggle backs up the theory; control of a minor trading house would be simple to arrange with such unnatural means at your disposal.’

Narin forced a smile as he pulled his coat tighter around him. ‘Indoor work at least, it could be worse.’

‘And then you remember you are a hunted man.’

That wiped the smile from his face. ‘Aye, then there’s that. Thank you, Lawbringer. Just what I needed to hear right now.’

‘You are welcome. Come.’

In Ghost District, a vigil began. For all that House Ghost’s lands were more than a thousand miles from the Imperial City, their sovereign territory in the city was a bustling affair thanks to the long, arch-festooned avenues that led through the district and out of the city. Sat on high ground above the shore surrounding the Crescent, Ghost District harkened back to the mist-wreathed mountains and valleys of its home thanks to an uneven range of nine half-natural edifices punctuating the landscape.

Channels had been dug around natural rises and rocky outcrops to enhance their height, then spiral paths had been carved around them and the interior carefully excavated to produce both exclusive markets and grand eccentric palaces for Ghost’s nobility. Walkways, aqueducts, decorative arches and twisting stairways connected the five largest – producing a strange treetop community for the lower classes while the high castes enjoyed all manner of delights on two separate tors, all adorned with a garish variety of lanterns, banners and signs. The last two structures were the linked stronghold of the local triumvirate, millennia of Ghost tradition dictating that cooperating factions governed their people.

To a man such as Enchei, long apart from a land he barely called home any more, it was a powerful reminder of all he’d left behind – of the nation he had once loved and the family that had meant more to him than life. Despite the marshalled force of memories, he skirted the grand view and found himself a vantage point of a modest, high-end importation house well away from the jewels of Ghost District. It was a quieter corner, as it had been decades before when he’d once walked freely into the four-storey house he now watched from a distance.

Little about it had changed – a fresh coat of black paint on the doors and shutters perhaps, but the invisible wardings laced into the brickwork and humming through the lead muntins in the windows were as strong as they had ever been. Enchei kept well clear, knowing what would happen should he stray closer than a dozen paces, and instead talked his way into a lodging house three doors along from it.

Drugging his bemused, unwilling host ensured he would be left alone and from a darkened upper room, through shutters that had seen better days, he settled down to watch faces and gaits, fashions and attitudes, for as many hours as might be required. Barely moving – barely awake, by some measures of the word – the few remaining hours of daylight dragged past his window like a procession of the condemned. Fragments of memory occasionally drifted to the surface of his mind as he waited, prompted by some tiny detail or the idle wandering of thoughts.

The exploits of his only real career, now decades past, rose to scrape at ill-healed scabs of memory. The taste of the smoke-spiced air of Sight’s End as he followed a minor target through that city’s madcap tangle of alleys, and once-divine screams that ripped both earth and sky asunder in what became known as the Fields of the Broken. Then the soft slimy kiss of mould and moss on his skin as he lay for hours in a pagan temple – his cracked skull ringing with the screams of comrades dying because of his impetuousness.

That last was stronger and had been for days now – the turning point, the moment where his blunder could have brought ruin down upon the entire Empire. The thought still chilled Enchei. Quite beyond the fact his daughters would have been the first casualties in any such war, there was the sheer horror of what might have been unleashed on the world, had some ambitious Astaren doctor discovered what had happened to Enchei in that temple.

Old and young went into the house. Craftsmen caste standing aside for nobles at the tall black door, occasional porters carrying boxes wrapped in bands of white silk and under guard from Ghost warrior castes hired to protect their wares. Some were entirely innocent to Enchei’s practised eye – others appeared innocuous yet were screaming
Astaren
for the quiet, lethal grace they avoided others with, or all-too-brief glances that most likely inspected the streets and houses around them in unnatural detail. He saw everything and nothing from his darkened room, surmising what he could from the numbers he saw and the legitimate trade pursued by the house.

What he hoped for, however, was akin to what the religious might consider a sign from their favoured god. And it didn’t come. Night arrived in its place, swift and sharp, as the temperature plunged and the fleeting light of the Gods illuminated the hard sparkle of frost on every edge. Before long the darkness deepened, heavy cloud rolling in and covering the sky.

Away to the left, had he craned to see them, were the many hundred lanterns of the nine tors that shone with fierce defiance of winter, but there were only two sights he craved – the opening of shutters on the upper floor ahead of him, or an older figure who walked with the assurance of a king through that night-sky doorway.

Still, neither came. No face he recognised, no man or woman who might command here. With so little having changed in this place, Ghost’s Astaren maintaining a modest presence in the city, Enchei could picture close enough the sort he was looking for – the sort he had once reported to – but no close candidate revealed themselves and as dusk became a cold memory, he was about to abandon his post for the day when something quite unexpected happened.

Without warning, his head was filled with voices. First one, then two, three and four – calls, warnings, commands, he had no idea. The words were garbled and unintelligible, beyond his power to understand, but they told enough of a story that he was preparing to flee with his weapons ready when a far bigger surprise came.

Another voice, this time a man’s and not garbled in any way, as though the man was standing right beside Enchei and using his natural voice. No elliptical code or uncertainty, no measures of precaution such as any Astaren might use as a matter of course. Just a few brief words, bursting through the night air like a hasty songbird’s call.

But even more than that, it was a voice he knew. A voice not heard for twenty years, a voice he had never thought to hear again. Even with the chilling words it carried, Enchei felt a flush of warmth at the crisp tones of a man he had once loved as a brother.

Then sense reasserted itself and he reacted to the words that, given they were sent without code or artifice, could only be offered to him out of some similar brotherly affection.

‘Hellhounds have tripped our outer wardings. You know what you must do.’

Enchei bolted. Confusion and surprise filled his mind, but the old instincts were stronger. Away from the window, one step and reaching for the door. Weapons ready and every nerve singing, he pushed on through to the darkened corridor beyond.

At the back of his mind he heard a jangle of voices, disguised and incomprehensible. The Ghost Astaren calling orders, summoning their defences. Then, at last, distant howls – lingering, lupine voices that shuddered between worlds as they cut through air and stone alike. One, then a second, then he could not tell how many. It didn’t matter, Enchei realised. He was hunted – they had his scent and were closing in.

He paused at the stairs, light flickering in his eyes as his mage sight searched for traces of his hunters. He sensed nothing, nothing out of place and the air still on his skin. From outside there came a faint rumble of thunder and wind shuddered against a window pane. He looked out at the night beyond and saw sleet falling, heard the faint drum of sleet on the building’s roof.

Through the slashed air he made out a slanted roof, bowed with age and layered with broken snow. Beside it a grander building – a covered terrace looking out over the roof between them. He opened the window to clear a path for himself and looked out, down at the ground. All seemed clear, the streets emptying as the slushy downpour grew.

Why was I warned? What game’s being played here?

Enchei let the questions hang unanswered at the back of his mind, focusing on the jump ahead of him. A short run-up and he was through the window, landing heavily on the roof below. He punched down as he struck, driving an armoured fist through the slates to anchor himself on the slippery slope. A gust of wind whipped across his face, soaking his grey-seamed hair to the darker shade of decades past.

Four steps to the neighbouring building, one short hop to grab the ornate iron rail and haul himself up. Enchei barely broke stride as he crossed the terrace and put his shoulder to the narrow door on the far side. Bolts burst under the impact and he barely made out the shape of the room before he was through it and down a stairway to the room beyond. A woman’s cut-off cry accompanied him across the room to the long drape-covered balcony door.

He hauled it open, ignoring the panicked movements from the bed behind him, and dropped over the rail into an alley beyond. It was fenced ahead of him, seven feet high, but Enchei never slowed – planting one boot hard on the neighbouring wall as he scrambled over. Then he was in the street, the red-tinted glow of the triumvirate tors shining in the distance. There were no gas lamps on the streets of Ghost District and only a handful of bronze door lanterns illuminated a street crisscrossed with arches.

Up above there was the stutter of lightning sheeting across the sky, one great flash followed by two others. In its light he saw a figure clearly defined against the sky, crouched on an archway and watching him. A long coat flapped madly in the lesser flashes that followed; grey like an Investigator’s, grey like a Ghost noble caste. Just as he was about to turn and flee, more howls cut through the dulled rumble of thunder – this time behind him.

Enchei bolted left, away from both dangers and sprinting down the street. A sense of the district unfolded in his mind, the narrow maze of streets that might lead him to safety. There were sanctuaries he could cross, tangled streets through which they would struggle to track him. Whatever scent they had, temples or waterways would interfere with it – places sacred to other beings whose power eclipsed Enchei’s own and would mask him.

He jinked down a short set of steps and into a narrow side-street. The rain continued to fall as he skidded around one corner, vaulting a wall and crossing a deserted garden to get on to a tree-lined avenue. Empty branches in the gusty wind waved him madly on, but Enchei sprinted only a short way down it before cutting through once more. The river lay ahead, a natural destination but a choke point too. An old shrine to Lord Monk, Ghost’s favourite son, might provide a hidden place to turn and, if not, he would find good ground to fight on – anything that might provide him with an advantage.

‘
You have him, sister?’

‘I do.’

‘And the others?’

‘Following close.’

‘Show me.’

An image appeared, a frozen glimpse – a man, fire-lit and fleeing down a street – accompanied by a sense of movement, a vertiginous lurch compelling travel south-east.

‘I have it.’

‘Be ready for when I strike.’

The howls came unexpected and louder – closing in as Enchei reached the shrine. Six pillars supported a dome open to the elements on all sides – but every direct approach to the kneeling stone statue in the centre was blocked by an array of short, slanted walls inside and outside the shrine. The entire array was thirty yards across, but would involve double that to wind a path through. Enchei ran within and headed south, skirting round the outside rather than head straight. He emerged a quarter-way round the circular shrine, darting between carved monuments to the God-Empress and into a cramped side passage between houses.

Out the other side he sensed movement and instinctively slew away. Something flew forward at him from the other direction, a figure edged in boiling shadow and flame, and he turned his weapons towards it before it crashed home. Silvery darts were swallowed by the darkness and barely slowed it. A lance of distorted air slashed across it and cut the flame. Still it came and Enchei was forced to kick out. The figure slammed into his boot and Enchei felt ribs crunch under the impact.

Possessed by a hellhound? Oh screaming fuck.

The impact drove them apart, Enchei fighting to keep his balance as he turned his baton towards the first movement. Before he could fire, another figure of shadow and flame pounced with a monstrous snarl, slamming Enchei back against a wall. For a moment they were face to face – the contorted features of a Wyvern warrior caste with huge canine teeth straining to reach Enchei. He brought his knee up into its ribs with all the strength he could muster and again felt bone break under the impact, but the twisted parody of a man barely shuddered.

Blood-red threads of light exploded from the Wyvern’s eyes and for one long moment Enchei stared straight into the glowing eyes of a hellhound as it prepared to strike. The pressure on his arms was immense – at the back of his mind Enchei realised the possessed man’s muscles must be tearing apart – but he had other concerns. Mantras sang at the back of his mind in a crazed cacophony – magics buried there by the mage-priests of Ghost. A bitter-tasting fluid filled his mouth and Enchei wasted no time in spitting it into the Wyvern’s eyes. The light twisted and writhed as the acid struck and now the possessed man screamed, the hellhound’s control wavering as his eyes began to burn.

It was all Enchei needed to break the grip holding him and he raked forward with his left hand – steel-clad fingers ripping through the Wyvern’s exposed throat while darts erupted into his open mouth. As blood poured from the man’s wounds the aura of fire seemed to intensify, the darkness surrounding them deepening to chilling howls from all directions.

He twisted the man around and threw him back in the direction of the other, the body of the possessed man collapsing backwards while his aura of shadow remained – grew even. Enchei looked for the other and felt a spark of panic as he couldn’t find it. Before he could do anything the street suddenly exploded into blinding white light – a pure burst that seemed to cut through the smoky mess coalescing ahead of him.

Under the assault the hellhound was ripped asunder and cast back into whatever realm it came from, leaving Enchei panting and blinking alone in the street. He moved on instinct, keeping himself from becoming a stationary target even as he tried to wipe the after-glow from his mage-sight and fathom what had happened.

The sleet continued to fall, but beyond that curtain there was sudden stillness in the street. No voices or howls, no threads of light or shadowy trails. He was alone and where the second possessed man had gone, Enchei couldn’t fathom.

‘But who cares?
’
The aging warrior growled. ‘Ain’t staying to find out.’

He broke into a sprint down the street, ready to defend himself but covering the ground as fast as he could. The street remained empty long after he was gone and only the brutalised figure of a Wyvern nobleman remained.

A crackling collar of light seared the second warrior’s throat as she silently writhed and snapped at the leash holding her. Blackened blisters appeared on her dark skin, her red caste collar already torn and ruined, but she paid them no heed. Her contorted, deformed jaw worked furiously, but to no avail, as the leash held her securely out of reach of her captors.

Both wore long grey sleeved cloaks against the rain, sheltering their faces from the Wyvern at their feet. After a moment of consideration, the shorter of the two crouched and reached out a hand towards the Wyvern.

‘You’re going to banish it?’

‘You’ve another suggestion?’

‘Not yet.’ The taller figure cocked its head a moment, considering. ‘Send it back with a message?’

‘What message will they listen to?’

‘Perhaps none, but you cannot tell for certain.’

‘What it can report isn’t worth the slim chance they’ll listen.’

‘I suppose so. Kill her then.’

The deed done, the shorter figure straightened and looked its companion straight in the eye. ‘And the old man? What do we do there?’

‘There’s nothing to do there – yet. We continue to watch.’

‘Caution,’ the shorter sniffed scornfully. ‘Always bloody caution.’

‘Always,’ the other confirmed. ‘That is our life. Don’t worry, when the time for reckless abandon comes, the lead is yours – that I promise.’

Kesh idled in the doorway, watching the Wyvern knight, Myken, do press-ups on the empty bedroom floor. Along with her long dreadlocks, Myken had shed her tight-fitting tunic and trousers. Despite the chill in the air, she wore only her small-things as she exercised and a thread of sweat beaded the line of her spine.

‘What do you want?’ Myken said at last, not breaking off from her efforts.

‘Just trying to work out what you’re doing,’ Kesh replied. ‘Is this how the warrior caste relax? Kill time?’

‘A true warrior maintains their every weapon, of which the body is one.’ Myken paused. ‘But in truth – I’m bored. This inaction does not suit me.’

Kesh snorted. ‘Was life so exciting as bodyguard to a noblewoman?’

‘No, but there was purpose. My role wasn’t to merely stand beside her. The best bodyguards anticipate danger – root out threats before they reach the principal.’

‘Did you ever find any?’

Myken slowly stood and Kesh became very aware of the woman’s height and muscles. That her guns were on the floor to one side, out of reach, was little reassurance. ‘You have a point to make,
servant
caste?’

Kesh touched the white scarf around her neck, such a ubiquitous item of dress for all people in the Empire she’d put it on that morning without even thinking – unnecessary as it was unless she left the house. ‘Oh, don’t take the warrior caste with me, woman,’ she sighed. ‘Right now we’re equals and you’re relying on me. You want to risk going outside later, be my guest.’

‘Insolence towards a high caste remains punishable, even within the Imperial House.’

‘Not in this house,’ Kesh said. ‘You could shoot me in the head if you like, but you wouldn’t live long to enjoy it. Narin you might be able to take, but once Irato or Enchei got home you’d be as good as dead.’

The two women stood facing each other for a moment before Kesh shook her head. ‘Come on, let’s make some tea. You’re not in the barracks any more, no place for pissing contests here.’

She turned and headed down the stairs towards the kitchen, not leaving Myken time to reply, but before she had set the kettle on their small stove, Kesh sensed the woman at the door.

‘The strictures of our society are not a pissing contest,’ Myken said at last. ‘These strange circumstances are no reason to give them up.’

‘As good a reason as any,’ Kesh countered. ‘Come on, take a seat and just talk to me like a woman, not a warrior.’

The suggestion seemed to startle Myken into silence, but eventually she did just that and sat straight-backed in one of the chairs. Kesh fetched a battered porcelain pot and spooned grey flakes of tea into it before taking a seat herself.

‘How did you stand it?’ she asked quietly, looking up at the taller woman.

‘What?’

‘The boredom. The years of nothing but watching a woman live in a gilded cage.’

‘It is – was – my lot in life, the Lady Kine’s too.’

‘But Lord Vanden’s hardly a powerful man or a threat to the other noble families in the city. She can’t have ever been in much danger.’

Myken’s lip twitched. ‘She is a beautiful, passionate woman. There were other dangers.’

‘Ones you failed to stop,’ Kesh pointed out. ‘Or didn’t it look like Narin would count?’

‘Lawbringer Narin,’ Myken began hesitantly, ‘was a man entranced by her. He was not the first and will not be the last. I can identify an assassin in a crowd, but my training failed to include identifying my principal falling in love too. Their friendship was good for her and it is not my place to interfere – and then it was too late to interfere. She was in love and her heart was set. The choice was hers, and I am her servant.’

‘So now what? Where do you go from here?’

‘Wherever she wishes,’ said a voice from around the door jamb.

Kesh and Myken both jumped up, but in the next moment Kine’s drawn face appeared in the doorway.

‘Wherever you wish, Siresse Myken,’ Kine repeated, walking gingerly in. ‘I owe you that much at least. I hope the jewellery you had the presence of mind to rescue with me will be put to good use there.’

‘My Lady,’ said Myken, reaching for Kine’s arm, ‘you should sit and rest.’

‘I will stand. I have been abed long enough that a few minutes on my feet will be a blessing.’