Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 08 - Ghost in the Mask (7 page)

“It does not trouble you,” said Kylon, taking the other cup, “to have slaves in the room during the…act?”

“Well, if they were men, certainly,” said Thalastre. “But a lady must have attendants. And you do not mind, Clymene, do you?”

“Indeed not, my lady,” said Clymene. “Why, I have six sons myself, so I am no blushing maid. And we are proud to serve the Lord Exarch. He made two of my sons his freedmen, and part of his personal bodyguard.” 

“You see?” said Thalastre.

Kylon took a sip. “The water isn’t chilled, though.”

She grinned. “That is my lord’s own fault, for taking so long. But it is easily rectified.” 

Thalastre murmured a song under her breath, and Kylon felt the stirring of her sorcerous strength. The water shivered in its cup, and Kylon felt it grow cold beneath his fingers.

“A useful little trick,” said Thalastre. “Not as useful as sheathing a sword in frost and wielding against the foes of the city, but still useful.”

Kylon smiled at her. “Indeed.” 

His smile faded. He sat in luxury, a beautiful woman in his bed, slaves waiting, even eager, to obey his commands. 

What would the Ghost woman think, he wondered, if she saw him like this? Would she kill him for all the slaves House Kardamnos and House Ixionos owned?

Thalastre’s expression cooled. “You are thinking about her again, aren’t you?” 

He had forgotten that she also had the sorcery of water and could sense his emotions. 

“Yes,” he admitted. Sometimes he regretted having told Thalastre about Caina. 

“I should be offended,” said Thalastre, “that you would think about another woman after what we just did.” 

“Not like that,” he said. Oh, Caina was lovely enough, when dressed as a woman, though only an idiot would admit that to his betrothed. Of course, there were flowers that were lovely, too…and the slightest touch of their poisoned thorns brought agonizing death. “I do not desire her. I fear her.” 

Thalastre titled her head to the side. “Kylon Shipbreaker fears a woman?”

“This woman, yes, and I admit that without shame,” said Kylon. “You do not understand, my lady. She is not a warrior or a sorceress. But she looks at you and all your secrets are laid bare. She would know what streets you walked by the dust upon your sandals, what merchants you favored by the jewels in your ears, what you had eaten by the crumbs upon your sleeve…and from those secrets she would somehow fashion weapons. She slew Rezir Shahan before his soldiers, and the Szaldic peasants proclaimed her the Balarigar, the slayer of demons, the breaker of chains.”

The story of the Balarigar was well-known in New Kyre, for the ashtairoi returning from Marsis had whispered tales of the emir’s shadow-cloaked slayer. But House Kardamnos had its own spies, and Kylon had put them to work. They brought him other tales about the Balarigar. How the Balarigar had freed the Szaldic slaves below Marsis, bringing them out of the darkness. How the Balarigar had stopped a revolt in Cyrioch, keeping the Cyrican provinces in the Empire. A mad Alchemist in Malarae, slain by the Balarigar, frightening the Padishah into making peace with the Empire and turning against the Kyracian people. All exaggerated, Kylon was sure.

But all holding a kernel of truth. 

“Why do you fear her?” said Thalastre.

“I fear she is an instrument of the wrath of the gods,” said Kylon, “sent to punish the proud for their hubris. Perhaps that is the fate of New Kyre. We have held too many slaves, and the Balarigar will come to free them and throw us down.”

“You…you would not free us, would you?” said Clymene, alarmed. “My lord, we have nowhere else to go, I would be put out on the street, I…”

Thalastre raised a hand. “Do not speak out of turn, Clymene. And do not fear. How could I possibly manage without you?” The older woman sighed in relief. “And I think I know, my lord, why this woman disturbs you.”

Kylon raised his eyebrows. 

“Because you were certain of yourself, as young men are, before going to Marsis,” said Thalastre. “I thought you seemed much older than your years. Watching your sister’s defeat and nearly losing your life to this Ghost aged you. Before you saw the world in black and white, but now everything is gray. All paths lead to ruin, and you do not know which to choose.”

“You are,” said Kylon, “wiser than I expected.” 

Thalastre smiled. “Because I am young and fair, I am to have an empty head as well?”

“Plainly not,” said Kylon. 

“Come, my lord,” she said, reaching for him. “Let tomorrow worry about itself.”

He let her lower him back to the bed. 

He would worry about tomorrow when it came.

For he feared it would have evil enough.

###

The next morning Kylon strode into the Agora of the Archons, the massive tiered bulk of the Pyramid of Storm rising a thousand feet over his head. He wore his gray leather armor, his sword of storm-forged steel at his side, a sea-colored cloak hanging from his shoulders. Thalastre walked at his side, clad in a sleeveless stola of blue-green silk, her expression serene. 

The Assembly of New Kyre awaited them, seated upon the tiers of the Pyramid, every citizen with a sufficient amount of property to vote. The nine Archons stood at the base of the Pyramid, solemn in their crimson robes of office. Kylon took his seat among the other thalarchons of the fleet, while Thalastre went to join her father, the grim-faced Exarch of Kyrant. 

Below the Archons’ dais, the priestesses of the Surge completed the ritual sacrifices, imploring the gods of sea and storm to guide the Assembly with wisdom. Once they finished, the Archon in the center, an old man with a silver beard, stepped forward. In theory the Archons were a college of equals. In practice one Archon was elected Speaker of the Assembly, and Tiraedes of House Cyrsalos had been elected Speaker every year since Andromache’s fall. 

“Citizens and magistrates of New Kyre!” said Tiraedes, a stormsinger’s spell amplifying his voice to boom over the Agora. “By my authority as Archon of the city, I have summoned the Assembly to discuss the war against the Empire of Nighmar. The arms of our ashtairoi and the skill of our sailors have won victory after victory against the Empire, yet we are still in danger of defeat.”

Tiraedes gestured, and another Kyracian noble stood. Alcios of House Kallias was middle-aged, stern, and utterly humorless, yet he had served valiantly at Kylon’s side during the battles against the Empire and the chaos in Catekharon.

“Citizens,” said Alcios, “I come with dire news. The Emperor has persuaded the Padishah to close the Starfall Straits against us. Many of you, I am sure, have keenly felt the loss of trade, but I fear the situation will grow worse. The Emperor’s emissaries are negotiating with the khadjars of Anshan, and they are trying to convince the Shahenshah to stop selling grain to the city. If they are successful, our situation will become dire. We will lose the means to feed the population…and risk revolts and upheaval.” 

Kylon’s eyes strayed to the edge of the Agora. A lean, unshaven man in a ragged gray robe stood there, watching the Assembly. The Assembly conducted its business in public, and poorer citizens, foreigners, and even slaves gathered to watch. Indeed, a crowd surrounded the Agora, kept back by a line of waiting ashtairoi. 

Yet something about the thin man in the gray robe grated on Kylon’s senses. 

“This is a grave matter,” said Thalastre’s father. Sirykon of House Ixionos, the Exarch of Kyrant, was a doughy man, the folds of his robe taunt against his belly. Thankfully, Thalastre had not gotten her looks from her father. “Anshan has long sold us grain. Surely the Shahenshah would not risk such a lucrative business in exchange for the Emperor’s empty promises?” 

The man in the gray robe walked towards the ashtairoi. 

“I fear the Emperor offers more than empty promises,” said an old woman in an Archon’s robe. It was rare for the Assembly to elect a female Archon, but Andromache had managed it, and so had Agamena of House Iconikas. “His servants have offered massive bribes to the Anshani khadjars, more than enough to make up the loss of the revenue from the grain trade.”

Tiraedes scowled. “Such a sum would beggar the Empire for years.”

“Yet it would succeed,” said Alcios, “for the Empire has greater resources. Citizens and lords, our course is clear. The Empire threatens us with ruin, and we must threaten them in turn. The time has come for our stormsingers to combine their powers and divert the rain away from the Empire’s provinces. Let us unleash a famine such as never been seen upon the Empire. Once the Legions can no longer be fed, the Emperor will lose interest in turning them against us.”

“Such a course,” said Sirykon “is fraught with peril. A famine of that magnitude will only harden the Emperor’s determination to destroy us. Worse, the effects of the spell may go beyond our reach. If it alters the weather over Anshan or Istarinmul or the free cities, we may well coerce our enemies and our allies to join together against us. We…”

Someone started shouting at the edge of the Agora, and Sirykon stopped with a scowl. 

The man in the gray robe confronted one of the ashtairoi…and suddenly Kylon remembered him.

“Ephaltus,” he muttered, getting to his feet. Ten years ago, Ephaltus had been one of Andromache’s chief political rivals, thinking to seize House Kardamnos’s holdings for himself. Like so many others, he had underestimated Andromache, and found himself banished from New Kyre for the rest of his life. 

“My lord Speaker!” shouted Kylon. “That man is Ephaltus, once the High Seat of House Trakos. He was banished for crimes against the Kyracian people, and forbidden to return upon pain of death.”

So why had Ephaltus returned, and come to the Agora of the Archons, of all places? Surely he had known he would be caught.

“Kylon of House Kardamnos!” roared Ephaltus. He held a black dagger clutched in his right hand, and Kylon sensed something…odd about it. “Do you remember me?”

“I do,” said Kylon, focusing his arcane senses on the dagger in Ephaltus’s right hand. “You tried to steal the holdings of House Kardamnos, and Andromache made you pay for it. Given what my sister usually did to her rivals, you should count yourself fortunate that you still breathe.”

An amused laugh went through the Assembly. 

“The bitch met her fate in Marsis,” sneered Ephaltus. Four ashtairoi surrounded him, their ashtair swords in hand. “I would send you to join her, but I have chosen to be merciful.”

“Indeed?” said Kylon, and the Assembly and the Archons laughed again. 

But he did not laugh with them.

There was something…off about the dagger in Ephaltus’s right hand. From a distance, Kylon saw a faint green glow coming off the weapon. And he sensed something within the dagger, some kind of sorcerous power.

Perhaps Ephaltus was not mad. Perhaps he knew something the rest of them did not.

“And what mercy is this?” said Tiraedes. 

“A new power is rising to the east,” said Ephaltus, “and it shall sweep all before it. Nations and kingdoms shall be overthrown, and a new order will arise. You might have cast me out, but New Kyre is still my homeland, and I would see my city spared destruction. I have come to offer you an alliance with this new power, rather than destruction at its hands.” 

“I am disappointed,” said Tiraedes. “You speak of the Empire, I assume? You were banished, but no true son of Old Kyrace would ally with the Empire of…”

“Not the Empire!” shouted Ephaltus. “The Kingdom of the Rising Sun!”

Stunned silence answered him, and then the Assembly erupted into a gale of laughter. 

“Indeed?” said Alcios. “And shall you march against our walls with an army of dust and bones? For that is all that remains of old Maat.”

Sirykon shook his head. “I often had my disagreements with Andromache, as you well know. But this is a farce.”

“We must thank you, Ephaltus, for this moment of levity,” said Tiraedes. “But you were banished from New Kyre under pain of death. Ashtairoi! Take him outside the city walls and behead him immediately.”

The ashtairoi moved to take him, and Ephaltus sprang into motion. He lashed out with the dagger, catching the first ashtairoi on the hand…and the soldier collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.

A strange gray smoke billowed from the corpse, and Kylon sensed a surge of sorcerous power. From the murmur of alarm from the stormsingers and the other stormdancers, he knew that they had felt it as well. 

The ashtairoi backed away, weapons raised, and Ephaltus grinned, the gray smoke swirling in a ring around his feet.  

“What is this?” thundered Tiraedes. “You dare to spill blood before the sacred Pyramid of Storm?” 

“Fool,” said Ephaltus. All around the Assembly men drew their weapons, stormdancers lifted their swords, and stormsingers summoned their powers. “I have heard the prophet of great Anubankh speak, and seen his might. The Empire shall fall, Anshan shall burn…and the Kingdom of the Rising Sun shall be reborn in might and splendor. I will save New Kyre, and lay it before the prophet’s feet. And to do that, I shall have to kill you short-sighted fools.”

Kylon lifted his sword, the blade whitening with frost as he drew upon his sorcery. He sensed the power in Ephaltus’s strange dagger growing stronger…and he also sensed power in the gray mist swirling around the exile’s feet. 

And he remembered where he had felt that power before.

It was a form of necromancy, different from the kind that Andromache and Scorikhon had wielded, different from the strange, mechanistic sorcery Mihaela had used to build her infernal Forge. Yet it was still necromancy.

“My lords!” said Kylon. “Beware! His weapon is infused with necromantic power!”

“He speaks the truth!” said Thalastre, her rich voice ringing over the chaos. “I sense it as well!” 

“Necromancy within the walls of New Kyre?” said Tiraedes. “Will you leave none of our sacred laws undefiled, Ephaltus? Men of New Kyre! Slay this lawbreaker at once!” 

A score of stormsingers began spells, Kylon and a dozen other stormdancers strode forward, and Ephaltus laughed and waved the black dagger over his head.