Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 07 - Ghost in the Ashes (11 page)

She could wed Corvalis, with her own name. 

And that thought was compelling. 

Caina had thought she would never marry, both because of her inability to bear children and her place among the Ghosts. But Corvalis did not care about children, and she loved him.

“That is,” said Caina at last, “that is a very interesting idea.”

“Oh, child,” said Theodosia. “After all you have suffered, all the people you have saved, I think you deserve a little joy in your life. Why…”

The door swung open, and Marcellus stepped inside, blinking.

“Marcellus,” said Theodosia, “what have we discussed about knocking?” 

“Oh,” said Marcellus. “Is this your daughter?”

“I have two sons, Marcellus,” said Theodosia. “No daughters.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Marcellus. He frowned for a moment. “Which opera are we singing tonight?”

“Look at your costume,” said Theodosia.

Marcellus looked at his elaborate armor, and then nodded. “Oh, yes, of course. The origins of House Maraeus. Ah. I think intermission is almost over.” He looked alarmed. “We should return to the stage!”

“Indeed we should,” said Theodosia. “I will join you shortly.”

“Good,” said Marcellus. “It was nice meeting your daughter.”

He left the dressing room.

“A dear man,” said Theodosia, “but I swear if the city burned down around our ears, he wouldn’t notice until the maids failed to bring his wine. And why does he think you were my daughter? We looking nothing alike.”

Caina touched her hair. “I suspect the dye has something to do with that.” 

Theodosia laughed. “You miss your proper color, don’t you? Well, consider this. If you declare yourself openly, you can go back to it. And speaking of that, you ought to get back to your assassin and that great hulk of an emir.” She paused. “Be careful.”

“You, too,” said Caina.

“I’ll send a maid to escort you back to Lord Titus’s box.”

Caina grinned. “No need. I think I know the way.” 

She left the dressing room, climbed the stairs back to Titus’s box, and seated herself next to Corvalis. Titus and Tanzir were deep in a discussion of the opera. Corvalis gave a slight shake of his head when she looked at him. 

There had been no sign of the Bostaji or of other assassins. 

Perhaps Caina had been overcautious. Perhaps the Bostaji would not make an attempt on Tanzir’s life tonight, and perhaps the burglary had been nothing more than a simple attempt at theft.

But Caina hated coincidences, and she would stay vigilant.

The lights dimmed, and the opera resumed. 

Caina listened as Marcellus and the chorus sang of storming the barbarians’ stronghold, complete with a stylized battle and copious amounts of stage blood. Theodosia sang of love and longing and hope and despair. At last they sang a duet together as Maraeus rescued his lost love, the barbarians defeated.

And then the opera was over, and thunderous applause filled the theatre. Lord Titus rose to his feet, clapping, and the less influential nobles looked at him and followed suit. Tanzir heaved himself to his feet with a sigh, though he applauded no less enthusiastically. Caina looked around the theatre. If someone was going to attack Tanzir, this would be the perfect moment, when the singers and chorus took their bows.

But the singers and the chorus departed from the stage, the applause faded away, and no attack came. 

“I thank you, my lord Titus,” said Tanzir. “That was…that was a remarkable experience. Again it is a pity we have no opera in Istarinmul, only blood sport and chariot racing.”

“Well, it is a refined taste,” said Titus. Around them the commoners started to move for the exits, the murmur of conversation filling the Grand Imperial Opera. “And we…”

There was a flash of light from a nearby box, and a plume of thick gray smoke erupted towards the ceiling.

A stunned silence fell over the theatre. Corvalis reached for his sword, and Caina’s hand slipped into her sleeve for a throwing knife.

Three more flashes went off, throwing columns of gray smoke up, and the air in the theatre grew hazy.

“Fire!” screamed a man’s voice. “Fire! Fire! Fire!” 

“Fire!” said a woman. 

“No,” said Caina, “no, that’s not fire. That’s…” 

“Run!” screamed someone else, and the sound of panicked chaos filled the theatre. The light from the globes threw eerie beams through the swirling smoke.

“The theatre is on fire!” said Titus. “We must get out of here at once. We…”

“No, my lord!” said Caina, grabbing his arm. 

Titus looked at her, affronted. “Do not presume to touch…”

“That isn’t real smoke,” said Caina. “It’s stage smoke. Someone’s creating a diversion. My lord, the assassins are coming for Tanzir.”

The emir made a strangled noise. 

“Well, they shall find a stern reception if they do,” said Titus. “Imperial Guards! Prepare to…” 

Something clinked at Caina’s feet.

She saw a glass bottle, its interior filled with a boiling gray fluid.

Titus hurried out of the box, the Imperial Guards falling in place around him, while the Immortals stepped forward. 

“Watch out!” said Caina, and she felt Corvalis seize her shoulders and pull her back, putting himself between her and the bottle.

She covered her eyes, and there was a brilliant flash and a crack. When Caina opened her eyes, gray smoke filled the world, and she could not see more three feet in front of her. 

“Are you all right?” said Corvalis.

“Fine,” said Caina. “We’ve got to find Tanzir…”

“Here!” said Tanzir. He staggered forward. “I’m…”

A whistling noise cut through the sound of the panic, and a blurring shape slammed into Tanzir. The emir screamed and toppled to his knees, and Caina saw the leather cord of a bola pinning his arms to his torso, the lead weights bouncing off his chest. 

A man jumped upon the railing of the box, clad in the fine coat and polished boots of a successful merchant. A short sword gleamed in his hand, and his eyes fixed upon Tanzir.

A Bostaji.

Chapter 11 - Ropes and Ladders

The Bostaji jumped from the railing, sword angled to plunge into Tanzir’s back. 

Caina flung a throwing knife. The Bostaji was moving too fast for her to aim well, but the knife clipped his shoulder and sliced into his coat. The Bostaji staggered and lost his balance.

Corvalis attacked, sword in his right fist. The Bostaji tried to meet the attack, but Corvalis ripped his sword across the assassin’s throat and shoved, and the Bostaji toppled backwards over the railing and landed in the neighboring box.  

“What is happening?” said Tanzir, struggling against the bola.

“The Bostaji,” said Caina, yanking her ghostsilver dagger from its sheath, “are trying to kill you.” She cut the leather cord, and Tanzir staggered back to his feet. There was no sign of Lord Titus. But there was no sign of anyone, despite the screams and shouts filling the theatre. The smoky haze kept Caina from seeing more than a few paces in any direction. 

“Go,” said Caina, pushing Tanzir away from the aisle and towards the railing of the box, “right now. Over the railing.”

“Why?” said Tanzir.

“Because,” said Corvalis, “the Bostaji know where you are, but if you move, they’ll have a hard time finding you in this haze.” 

“Ah!” said Tanzir, his face brightening with comprehension, and he heaved himself over the railing into the next box.

The trap had been perfect. Tanzir had remained in Lord Titus’s box throughout the opera, giving the Bostaji time to distribute the smoke bombs. Then when the bombs went off, they knew exactly where Tanzir would be, allowing them to strike at once. 

If Caina and Corvalis had not been there, Tanzir would be dead. 

Caina vaulted over the railing and landed next to Tanzir.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Corvalis. 

“The exits,” said Tanzir, pointing. “We…”

“No,” said Caina. “They’ll be waiting at the exits. We’ll go towards the stage. They might not expect that.” And Caina knew the maze of passages and workshops below the Grand Imperial Opera’s main stage. With luck, they could lose the Bostaji there and escape into the streets. “This way.”

The haze had not thinned, but Caina had spent months serving wine and food at the Grand Imperial Opera, and she knew how to find her way around in the dark. She made her way to an aisle, Corvalis and Tanzir following, and headed towards the stage. The sounds of panic grew softer as they drew closer to the stage. Most of the audience had likely escaped through the main entrances. She hoped no one had been trampled in the chaos.

Though as more people escaped, that would make it easier for the Bostaji to find them.

Armor clattered, and a dark shape appeared behind them.

Caina whirled and saw an Immortal step towards them, the blue light from the depths of the skull helm painting the smoke with an eerie glow.

“You!” said Tanzir. “Assist us! The Bostaji are attempting to kill…”

The Immortal raised his scimitar and advanced at Tanzir, and Caina remembered Halfdan’s warning about the Alchemists. Tanzir stumbled back in terror, his boot coming down on the hem of his ornamented robe, and that alone saved him. The emir stumbled, and the Immortal’s scimitar blurred through the air his head had occupied an instant earlier. 

Caina sprang forward, ghostsilver dagger in hand, and stabbed. Chain mail and plate covered the Immortal’s head and torso and arms, but there was a gap in the armor above the boots. Her dagger bit into flesh, drawing blood, and the Immortal bellowed in fury. The soldier whirled to face her, scimitar blurring for her head, and Caina just barely got out of the way. 

She dodged to the left, and the Immortal pivoted to follow her. Yet the movement put the Immortal’s weight onto his bad knee, and the soldier stumbled. That gave Corvalis all the opportunity he needed to act. He drove his shoulder into the Immortal, and the soldier fell upon the floor, his black armor clattering. Corvalis sprang forward, his sword flashing, and drove the blade into a gap in the black armor.

The Immortal shuddered and went still.

“Mercy of the Living Flame,” said Tanzir, his voice quavering, “my own bodyguards are trying to kill me.”

“They’re not your bodyguards, but Sinan’s,” said Caina. “Go.” 

They had to keep moving. The haze blocked sight but not sound, and the Immortal’s death had been loud. Tanzir stumbled along, and Caina urged him forward, her ghostsilver dagger in her right hand. The stairs to the workshop were next to the stage. From there, it would be easy enough to escape …

“Look out!” shouted Corvalis. 

Caina shoved Tanzir to the side, knocking the emir onto one of the commoners’ benches. A thrown dagger flashed overhead, so close that Caina felt the breeze of its passage. Another Immortal sprang out of the smoke, the glow from his eyes reflecting on the steel of his scimitar. Corvalis met his attack, sword clanging in his hands. The Immortal growled and bulled forward, and Corvalis gave ground. 

Caina darted forward and stabbed, and the Immortal blocked her attack, moving with the unnatural speed granted by the sorcerous elixirs in his blood. Corvalis landed a blow, but his blade rebounded from the Immortal’s black armor. Caina snarled a curse. The longer they delayed, the more likely it was that more Immortals or the Bostaji would find them. 

If they did not get away now, they were dead. 

Corvalis launched a flurry of blows, his strikes ringing against the Immortal’s helmet. The Immortal backed away, trying to regain his footing, and Corvalis thrust again. But the Immortal’s left fist lashed out, the punch catching Corvalis in the chest. The sheer power of his blow knocked Corvalis off his feet, and he landed with a grunt. 

Caina threw herself at the Immortal, angling her dagger for a gap in the side of his breastplate. The blade bit into flesh, and the Immortal threw her aside. She struck the floor with a bone-rattling thump, the pain stunning her into immobility. 

“Die!” spat the Immortal, raising his scimitar for a two-handed blow. 

Corvalis surged forward, leaping to his feet in a single fluid motion, and drove his sword into the Immortal’s exposed armpit. The elite soldier staggered, and Caina jumped to her feet and thrust her dagger into the eye hole of the skull helm.

That made a mess, but the Immortal dropped to his knees, and then fell on his face. 

“Are you all right?” said Caina. Corvalis nodded, and she helped Tanzir to his feet. “And you?”

“Not particularly,” said Tanzir. 

“Get moving,” said Caina, giving him a push. “Or you’re going to be worse.”

“I can see that,” said Tanzir. “This is…”

“There he is!” 

The smoke had begun to lift, drifting towards the ceiling, and she saw a pair of men in the clothing of merchants standing in Lord Titus’s box. 

Bostaji.

The assassins pointed, and beyond them Caina saw several blue lights glimmering in the thinning smoke. More Immortals appeared, and even as she looked, the black-armored soldiers raced down the aisles. 

“Run!” said Corvalis.

Caina hurried to his side, and Tanzir ran as fast as he could manage, which was not very quick. Caina shot a glance behind her. They might reach the stairs before the Immortals, but that would not matter. They would be trapped on the stairs, and either the Immortals or the Bostaji would cut them down.

Unless…

An idea came to Caina. 

“Onto the stage!” she yelled. 

“The stage?” said Tanzir, panting. “Are we to be opera singers now?”

“Listen to her!” said Corvalis, tugging the emir towards the stage. “Go!” 

Caina scrambled onto the stage, and Tanzir grabbed the lip and heaved himself up, rolling onto his knees. Corvalis jumped up, and together they hauled the panting emir to his feet and ran across the stage, the planks thumping beneath Caina’s boots. Her eyes scanned the boards, her mind racing. 

Yes. There.

The Immortals surged past the lords’ boxes and into the commoners’ benches. 

“Stop!” said Caina. “Right here, stop!” 

She yanked the dagger from her left boot and reversed her grip, the blade tucked between her fingers. Her eyes swept over the sides of the stage, at the intricate mass of ropes and pulleys that controlled the curtains and the scenery. The rope, where was the damned rope?

The Immortals jumped on the stage, scimitars drawn back to kill. Four Bostaji followed them, short swords in their right hands, bolas dangling in their left. 

And Caina still couldn’t find the rope.

She needed a distraction.

“Stay back!” she roared, drawing herself up in a commanding pose. “Do you worms truly think to threaten me?” 

The Immortals paused, and the Bostaji looked at her with cold eyes. 

“This man is under my protection!” said Caina, gesturing with the dagger as her eyes traced the maze of ropes hanging along the wall. “For I am a sister of the Imperial Magisterium, and sorcerous powers are mine to command! Yet I am merciful, and will give you one chance to save your lives. Turn and flee now, fools, while you still can.”

For a moment no one said anything. Caina felt sweat trickle between her shoulder blades, soaking into the cloth of her gown. If she did not find that rope, she was going to die along with Tanzir and Corvalis. 

Odd that in all her musings about the future, she had never considered that she and Corvalis might die together.

“She’s lying,” said one of the Bostaji in a flat voice. “Kill them all.” 

Caina spotted the rope, and the Immortals started forward.

“You had your chance!” said Caina, and flung the dagger with all the strength and accuracy she could manage. For a dreadful instant, she thought she would miss, but the spinning blade sheared through the rope.

“You missed,” said Tanzir, voice faint.

“Actually,” said Caina, “no.”

There was an ominous creaking noise, and then the floor fell away beneath her boots. 

An instant of spinning, wrenching disorientation, and Caina slammed into something soft and yielding. An enormous stack of old pillows, piled to catch the actors and chorus singers who dropped through the trapdoor. She looked around and saw that she was in the workshop, the stage fifty feet overhead. Caina heaved herself to her feet, saw the Immortals staring down at her, and raced across the workshop before the Immortals realized they could jump after them.

She yanked another rope dangling from the wall, and the trapdoor swung shut with a bang. 

Corvalis staggered back to his feet, laughing. “That was clever.”

“Clever?” said Tanzir, standing with a groan. “Clever? We could have been killed! What if we had missed those pillows?”

“Then we would be dead,” said Caina, looking around the workshop. “Of course, if we had stayed up there, we would be dead anyway. Let’s go. We don’t have long before those assassins figure out how to get down here.” 

“Sonya!”

She saw Theodosia hurrying towards them, still clad in her stage costume.

“What the devil is going on?” said Theodosia. “I came down to my dressing room for some wine, and the next thing I know the theatre is filling with smoke and the audience is running in every direction.”

“The Bostaji made smoke bombs,” said Caina, gesturing at Tanzir, who stood gaping at Theodosia, “and tried to kill the emir in the chaos.”

“Dreadful,” said Theodosia. She sniffed. “At least they had the good taste not to do it during the performance.”

“Yes, that was my chief worry as well,” said Caina. 

“Don’t be snide,” said Theodosia. “Well, let’s get you out of here before the assassins catch up to the lord emir. They’ll be watching the main doors, but I doubt these Anshani thugs thought to guard every exit from the Grand Imperial Opera. This way.” 

She led them from the main workshop to the maze of smaller shops, the only light coming from the occasional enspelled globe set into the stone walls. Caina followed, her eyes scanning the shadows. The Immortals wore heavy armor, and she would hear their approach. But the Bostaji knew how to move with stealth, and might be unable to take them unawares…

“I do not understand,” said Tanzir. “We are following an opera singer?”

“An opera singer?” said Theodosia, not looking back. “My lord emir, I shall have you know that I am the leading lady of the Grand Imperial Opera, and that I have sung before the Emperor himself upon multiple occasions.”

“Er…yes,” said Tanzir, “but…but I appealed to the Ghosts for help! For protection! Now I am skulking through the darkness with an opera singer…”

“Leading lady,” said Theodosia, stopping before a door.

“And a coffee merchant and his mistress!” said Tanzir. “Do the Ghosts have nothing better to offer?”

“Not really, no,” said Corvalis with a laugh. 

“We’ve kept you alive so far,” said Caina. “You can go back and take your chances with the Immortals…or you can come with us. If you come with us, you might die, yes. But if you go back, you will certainly die. So. Which shall it be?”

Theodosia opened the door, and Tanzir sighed.

“You sound like my mother,” said Tanzir.

“If your mother is anything like mine, I certainly hope not,” said Caina. 

“It seems I have little choice,” said Tanzir as they walked through the opened door. “I don’t want to be here. I never wanted to come to Malarae. Gods, I don’t even want to be the emir. Why couldn’t they have just left me alone in the library with my books?” The room beyond was a small vault, sacks piled up against one wall. 

“They could have, but they didn’t,” said Caina. “You didn’t want to be the emir, but you are. Now shut up and do what we tell you. You might want to lie down and die, but the Emperor needs you alive, so by all the gods we are going to keep you alive.”

Tanzir opened his mouth, closed it again.

“You are,” he said, “a lot like my mother.”

“Here we are,” said Theodosia, pushing one of the bricks in the wall. There was a low grinding noise, and a portion of the wall slid aside to reveal a stone stairwell spiraling into darkness. “This leads to the old catacombs beneath the original city. The way is marked, and the exit opens near the Imperial Market. You can get the emir to safety from there. Don’t stray from the marked path. The magi buried their failed experiments in the catacombs, and some of them might still be down there.” She pushed aside some of the sacks and passed Caina a lantern. “Good luck.”