Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 09 - Ghost in the Surge Read online

  He only blinked.

  Caina frowned, and gave his hand a gentle jab with the point of her dagger.

  Again he only blinked.

  Caina sniffed his breath. Had he been drugged? She knew of a few drugs that could induce a peculiar, trance-like state, though she could not imagine why the Lord Governor might have taken them. Perhaps the dead people on the floor had taken some sort of drug and gone berserk, killing themselves in their mania…

  Caina smelled nothing but wine and expensive cheese upon his breath, but she felt a sharp, crawling tingle. She put one hand upon his forehead, and the tingle sharpened.

  Sorcery.

  As a child she had been scarred by a necromancer, and ever since then she had been able to sense the presence of active sorcery. The ability had become only more acute as she grew older, and now she could often distinguish between the degree and intensity of spells.

  Someone had put a spell upon Nisias. A mind-controlling spell, unless she missed her guess.

  Suddenly the corpses upon the floor made a great deal more sense. Certain forms of sorcery controlled the minds of its victims, forcing them to fight in defense of the sorcerer.

  Or to cut their own throats.

  Nisias flinched as Caina straightened up, and she felt the sharp tingle of the spell intensify.

  “The door,” rasped Nisias, and he pointed at the wall.

  Then he went limp, his arm falling to the bed.

  Caina turned and saw a faint glimmer of light in the wooden paneling of the bedroom wall.

  A secret door.

  Caina examined the wall and found the trigger. The hidden door swung open without a sound, revealing a set of stairs spiraling into the depths of the mansion. It was not unusual for a noble’s mansion to have at least one or two hidden passages. The stairs might lead to an escape tunnel, or it might lead to a hidden vault beneath the mansion, where Nisias kept his treasures…or where he could carry out activities unobserved.

  Given the corpses upon the carpet, Caina suspected the latter.

  But since Nisias lay trapped within a spell, perhaps someone else was carrying out secret activities in the vault.

  She returned her dagger to its boot sheath and drew a throwing knife with her left hand. With her right she pulled her curved ghostsilver dagger from its scabbard. Ghostsilver was proof against sorcery, and had the power to penetrate defensive spells.

  Caina thought she might need the dagger sooner rather than later.

  She went down the stairs, moving without sound against the rough stone steps. Enspelled globes had been embedded into the curved wall at regular intervals, throwing their harsh glow over the stone. The walls grew cold and clammy as Caina descended beneath the earth.

  Then the stairs ended in a large stone vault, and Caina stepped into an abattoir.

  And a dark scene from her memories.

  Six steel tables stood throughout the vault, and upon each rested a corpse in various stages of dissection. Shelves held books, scrolls, organs floating in jars of brine, and knives and scalpels caked in dried blood. A wooden worktable stood at the far end of the vault, laden down with more books and scrolls and papers covered with arcane diagrams.

  Oberon Ryther stood before the worktable, smiling at her.

  “Ah,” said Ryther. “I see my trap has caught a fly. A nasty, buzzing little fly.”

  “Then it was you,” said Caina, using the rasping, disguised voice Theodosia had taught her. “It was you all along. The slavers, Nisias, everything. You…”

  “Oh, don’t bother with the stage voice,” said Ryther with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know exactly who you are, Caina Amalas. A Ghost nightfighter and a woman of many disguises…and the whore of the First Magus’s miserable bastard son.”

  Caina’s alarm sharpened. Only a few people outside of the Ghosts knew who she really was, and even fewer knew that Corvalis was Decius Aberon’s son. And there was no way that Ryther could know that, no way at all.

  Unless…

  “I see you met the Moroaica,” said Caina, using her normal voice, cold and hard.

  “Getting closer,” said Ryther. “Yes, I’ve known the creature called the Moroaica for some time. Probably longer than you have been alive. A cruel mistress, to be sure, but she has taught me many useful things.”

  “She will destroy you,” said Caina. “Her disciples are tools. She keeps them so long as they are useful, and then casts them aside in the end.”

  Ryther’s smile was chill. “I know this, Caina of the Ghosts. Far better than you. But you should know this by now. For we know each other very well, do we not?”

  “I have never seen you before coming to Mornu,” said Caina, but a suspicion started to form in the back of her mind.

  “Come, come,” said Ryther. “The mistress thinks you are so very clever. I have my doubts. I think you are merely a whore who has gotten lucky too often. First in Cyrioch, and then in Calvarium and Caer Magia, and…”

  “Ranarius,” hissed Caina.

  Oberon Ryther – or, rather, the creature that had stolen Oberon Ryther’s body – smiled at her.

  “So you do understand,” he said.

  Caina had faced him twice before. The first time in Cyrioch, when he had almost awakened a greater earth elemental and destroyed the city. The second time had been in Caer Magia a few months past. The Moroaica had put his spirit into the body of Maena Tulvius, a beautiful young woman, and wearing that body Ranarius had almost taken the Ascendant Bloodcrystal.

  At least until Corvalis had buried his sword blade between Maena’s shoulders.

  And now it seemed the Moroaica had put Ranarius’s spirit into yet another new body.

  “I am surprised,” said Caina, “that Jadriga did not put you into the body of another woman.”

  Ryther smirked. “I served the mistress well in Caer Magia, and she rewards loyalty.”

  “But not success, apparently,” said Caina, “since we destroyed the Ascendant Bloodcrystal.”

  Ryther laughed. “Think what you like, Ghost.”

  “I think,” said Caina, “that this is pathetic.”

  “Oh?” said Ryther, and Caina saw the flicker of rage go across his face. In his original body, Ranarius had been indifferent to mockery, but Maena Tulvius had flown into a rage at the slightest provocation. One death had not been good for Ranarius’s sanity, and Caina suspected that a second had not improved it.

  If she could goad him into a mistake, she might get out of this alive.

  Or, even better, learn why he had come here.

  “Because,” said Caina, gesturing at the bloody vault. “When I met you the first time, you were trying to raise a greater earth elemental and enslave its power. A fool’s plan, but at least it had some vision. The second time, when you were Maena Tulvius, you tried to claim the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and become a god. If you had been able to run a little faster, it might have worked.”

  His smirk widened. “Do you really think so?”

  “But this?” said Caina, sweeping her ghostsilver dagger over the carnage. “Butchering peasants in a rural province?” She kept her voice cold, keeping the fury out of her words. Ryther would pay for their blood, if Caina could find a way. “Utterly pathetic. The plan of an expelled fourth-year initiate of the Magisterium, trying to murder enough peasants to harvest a few feeble scraps of necromantic power from their blood.”

  “You think that is what I was doing?” said Ryther. “Pitiful child. My mastery of the necromantic sciences ensures my immortality. And my skill with summoning and binding elementals is without equal. I have no need to drain the blood of Szaldic vermin to augment my power.”

  “Then why are you doing this?” said Caina. “To amuse yourself? To fulfill the Moroaica’s bidding?”

  Ryther smiled. “Because of you.”

  “Me?” said Caina.

  “You want to know why I killed those commoners?” said Ryther. “Why I enspelled Lord Nisias and forced him to do everythi
ng I commanded?” His smirk widened. “Why I ordered those slaves to cut their own throats, to give you a proper welcome? I didn’t need to do any of it. But I knew it would draw you here. Caina of the Ghosts, so righteous, so eager to mete out righteous justice to slavers and sorcerers.”

  “Is that what this is about?” said Caina, not bothering to hide her disdain. “Revenge? You murdered all those people to get at me?”

  “Yes,” said Ryther. “I admit revenge was most of it. But the mistress wants you dead. She’s about to undertake her great work of vengeance against the gods, and she doesn’t want you interfering. So she has commanded us to kill you.” He sighed with pleasure. “I even wagered Sicarion that I would find and kill you before he did. It appears I have won.”

  “You haven’t,” said Caina. “Not yet.”

  “I disagree,” said Ryther, and he made a chopping gesture.

  She felt power blaze through the air.

  Symbols of warding and entrapment burned upon the wall, and Caina felt unseen force closing around her like iron hands. Caina took a running step forward and flung the throwing knife in her left hand. Her aim was true, and the blade slammed into Ryther’s face.

  Or it would have, had it not bounced away in a spray of sparks.

  Ryther had warded himself against weapons of steel.

  Her ghostsilver dagger was not balanced for throwing, and Caina started to sprint forward. But Ryther beckoned again, and the invisible force lifted Caina into the air. She jerked and twisted, trying to rip away from the spell, but Ryther’s power held her fast.

  She cursed herself. Ryther had set a trap for her, a blatant and obvious trap, and she had blundered into it like a blind fool.

  “Ah,” said Ryther with a long sigh of pleasure. “I am going to enjoy this.” He gestured, and Caina floated through the air towards him. “Once I get that shadow-cloak off you, I’ll be able to reach into your mind and twist your thoughts into whatever shape I want. Perhaps I’ll have you cut off your fingers one by one while I watch.” His eyes glittered with malicious pleasure. “Or I’ll keep them and give them to Sicarion, to show the little rodent that I killed you before he did. Perhaps instead I’ll force you to march to the dockside taverns and offer yourself to every sailor you see.”

  Caina wrenched against the invisible force, but it was like fighting the air. Ryther’s psychokinetic spell was insubstantial, but it held her like iron bands.

  Yet she could still move her arms and legs.

  “I cannot believe the mistress thinks that you are so very clever,” said Ryther, walking closer. He examined a row of scalpels on one of the steel tables, nodded, and picked up a blade. “You ought to start screaming now.”

  Caina floated past the rows of shelves, the glow from the enspelled globes glinting off the jars of brine-preserved organs.

  They were just out of reach.

  She doubted Ryther had bothered to ward himself against weapons other than steel. The man who had been both Ranarius of Cyrioch and Maena Tulvius had fought her twice now, and knew what kind of weapons she preferred to use.

  He had no reason to ward himself against weapons other than steel.

  Caina pulled off her belt, looped it around her hand.

  Ryther laughed. “You think to fight me with a belt? A belt?” He laughed again. “Perhaps that’s all I’ll permit you to wear when I send you to the docks. I…”

  Caina lashed her belt around a glass jar and pulled. The jar fell from the shelf, and she just managed to catch it, the glass squealing against her leather gloves. She lifted the jar over her head, arms taut with the effort.

  “Oh, please, continue,” said Ryther, gesturing with his scalpel. “This is intensely amusing. You ought…”

  Caina flung the jar with all her strength, and it slammed into Ryther’s face with a hideous crack. Ryther shrieked as his head snapped back, brine soaking his robes and pickled organs rolling down his chest. He fell upon his back, his mouth a bloody ruin.

  And as his concentration wavered, the invisible force holding Caina weakened.

  She twisted and broke free of the spell. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her ghostsilver dagger, and she took a running leap across the vault.

  The weapon’s handle grew hot beneath her gloved fingers, and the blade sheared through Ryther’s warding spells and plunged into his chest. The reincarnated magus screamed in shock, and Caina ripped the blade free and buried it between his ribs once more.

  Ryther shuddered, eyes filled with hate, and slumped against the stone floor. For a moment Caina remembered Ranarius screaming within the Palace of Splendors as one of his enslaved earth elementals turned upon him, remembered Maena’s final groan of pain as Corvalis’s sword found her heart.

  “You aren’t,” said Caina, twisting the dagger, “very good at this kind of thing.”

  Ryther hissed in pain, flecks of blood flying from his lips.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The Moroaica has given me the power to claim whatever body I wish. I will find you, Caina Amalas of the Ghosts. Strike me down again and again, and I shall be reincarnated. I will find you. I will kill the First Magus’s bastard in front of you. I will…I shall…”

  Caina yanked the dagger free and cut his throat, the weapon growing hot as it pierced his protective spells. Ryther shuddered, the hate and the fury fading from his eyes as the breath fled from his lips.

  She straightened up with a grunt, wiped her ghostsilver dagger clean upon his robe, and looked at Ryther.

  He was dead.

  For the third time.

  Yet his words remained heavy in her thoughts. He would never stop hunting her. He would never forgive her for his deaths at her hands, and she had just added another to the tally.

  And if the Moroaica had ordered her death, that would give Ranarius all the more impetus to kill her.

  But that did not alarm Caina nearly as much as the other things he had said.

  The Moroaica’s great work, her mad quest to wage a sorcerous war against the gods in revenge for the sufferings of mankind. Ryther had said Jadriga was almost ready to unleash it. Caina had seen the devastation Jadriga had wrought in Marsis, the chaos and bloodshed her disciples had worked, the sheer destructive might of Rhames and the Ascendant Bloodcrystal.

  And all that had been in preparation for Jadriga’s great work.

  What horrors would the Moroaica create when she began the great work in earnest?

  Caina had to bring news of this to Halfdan at once.

  She retrieved her belt, returned her weapons to their sheaths, and hastened from the vault.

  ###

  Nisias Druzen had recovered himself by the time Caina returned to his bedroom.

  “No!” he said, backing away, hands raised to shield off any blows. “You are…you are a specter conjured by that vile sorcerer Ryther! Stay away. Stay away! I will not…”

  “Ryther is dead,” said Caina in her disguised voice. “You’ll find his corpse in the vault. There is enough evidence there to prove that he was practicing illegal arcane sciences, that he took control of your magistrates and forced them to sell slaves to the Istarish. Go at once and rouse the town’s militia.”

  Lord Nisias frowned. “But you…who are…”

  “No one,” said Caina. “I am no one, and you shall forget that I was ever here. Tell me what I have commanded you to do. Now!”

  “I will summon the militia,” said Nisias, shuddering. Caina felt a pang of pity for him, but if he did not act at once, he might find himself arrested for the murders. “Ryther’s corpse is in the vault, along with proof that he forced us to…that he forced us to do these terrible things.”

  “Good,” said Caina.

  She started for the solar.

  “But…you killed Ryther?” said Nisias.

  “Aye,” said Caina.

  “Thank you!” said Nisias with a sob. “Oh, thank you, Ghost. He reached into our minds, forced us to lie and smile and do the most horrible thi
ngs. Thank you, Ghost, thank you…”

  “Remember!” said Caina. “There are no such people as the Ghosts. They are only a tale told by fools and singers. And you will do as I say.”

  Nisias Druzen nodded, weeping as he babbled his thanks, and Caina slipped into the solar.

  ###

  A few moments later she joined Corvalis in the gardens.

  “That took longer than I expected,” said Corvalis. “I thought I would have to set something on fire.” He paused. “What’s amiss?”

  He knew her well enough that he could tell when something troubled her, even through the mask and cloak.

  “Over the wall,” said Caina. “There’s about to be an uproar in the Lord Governor’s mansion. The sooner we’re back at the Rusalka’s Kiss, the better.”

  They went over the wall and slipped through the misty streets back to the inn. Caina saw the lights appear the mansion’s windows, heard the clatter and the cry as militiamen began running. Caina and Corvalis went up the rope they had left in place behind the inn, and soon were secure in their rooms.

  “Good thing the innkeeper saw us retire for the night,” said Corvalis. “If anyone becomes suspicious, we can claim we were here during whatever uproar you just started.” He pushed back the cowl of his shadow-cloak and his mask. “What happened?”

  “Ranarius,” said Caina, her voice tight.

  “Ranarius?” said Corvalis, his hands dropping to his weapons. “We killed him at Caer Magia. Again.”

  Caina shook her head. “His spirit possessed Oberon Ryther. It must have happened right after we killed Maena Tulvius. He was controlling Nisias and using him to kidnap slaves and kill them.”

  “Why?” said Corvalis. “Some necromantic spell?”

  “No,” said Caina. “Me.”

  “You?” said Corvalis.

  “Ryther didn’t care about the slaves, and he wasn’t trying to work a necromantic spell,” said Caina. “It wasn’t some grand plan to conquer the Empire or make himself into a god. It was about me. He did it all to draw me here so he could kill me.”