Ghost Shadow, page 2
part #7.50 of Ghost Night Series
Until she wanted to be seen.
Caina settled in to wait, flexing the muscles in her arms and legs to keep them from cramping.
It was a short wait.
About a quarter of an hour later, the door eased open on silent hinges, and two Istarish men entered the room. They were armed with scimitars, but their weapons remained sheathed at their belts. They did, however, carry ropes and a thick band of cloth that would likely serve as a gag. Caina wondered why only two of them had come and realized they assumed she would be unconscious and needed two men to carry her downstairs.
She had hoped for more, but Caina needed to start somewhere.
The two men crossed to the bed, and Caina slipped a throwing knife into her hand, the steel smooth and solid against her gloved fingers.
One of the men pulled back the blanket, and they froze when they saw the packs and discarded clothes.
“What the hell?” said the man in Istarish.
Caina moved.
She surged through the window, flinging the knife as she did. Her arm snapped back and then forward, the blade spinning to bury itself in the throat of the nearest man. It was a short throw, only a few feet, and the blade sank to the handle into his neck. His hands shot to his throat, the blood spattering against his fingers.
The second man whirled, reaching for his scimitar’s hilt. But his hands were caught in his own rope, and he couldn’t see his attacker. All he saw was Caina’s shadow-cloak, and before he could get his scimitar clear of the scabbard, Caina jammed a dagger behind his ear and into his brain. The slaver jerked and thrashed, and Caina eased him to the floor as his companion finished choking on his own blood. The metallic smell of blood filled the air, even through the mask, and Caina supposed she had spattered some on the sleeves of her jacket.
She looked at the corpses and felt…not guilt, not quite. The very first men she had ever killed had been Istarish slavers, and she didn’t regret their deaths. Nor did she regret the deaths of the men she had just slain. But part of her, the part of that remained the little girl who had loved quiet afternoons in her father’s library, was horrified at how easily, how casually, she could kill.
Caina ignored that part of herself. It wasn’t helpful right now.
The door was open, and Caina glided to it, listening for any shouts of alarm. But the slavers hadn’t made much noise as they had died, and it seemed that no one yet knew that anything was amiss. That would not last long. Caina had a few moments in which to act, and she needed to use them.
She searched the dead men in haste. They had swords and money pouches carrying a few coins, which she ignored. But one of the men had an iron key, and Caina took it and secured it in a loop on her belt. With that finished, she retrieved her blades, cleaning them on the dead men’s robes, and crossed to the window.
It was a long way down to the courtyard, but Caina had made harder climbs and in worse weather. She removed the coil of slim rope from her belt and hooked the grapnel to the stonework. The coil of rope fell to the courtyard, and Caina scrambled down the wall, her feet braced against the stone, her arms holding the rope, the gloves protecting her hands from the cord.
She reached the ground and looked around, pleased that she wasn’t even breathing very hard. Her morning practice sessions with the unarmed forms of the Ghosts had gone a long way to keeping her fit.
Caina circled around the base of the inn. She spotted the cellar doors, considered them, and kept moving. The kitchen door was a short distance away, and Caina eased it open. The kitchen of the Centurion’s Rest was large, with two long wooden tables and a fire crackling in a fieldstone hearth. A cauldron of stew bubbled over the flame, no doubt from which Antonio had drawn her supper. Caina eased towards the door to the common room, which stood open a few inches. Firelight spilled from the crack, and Caina heard voices.
She stopped a pace from the door and listened.
“How much longer will it be?” said Antonio, his voice thick with tension.
“Mmm, not long,” said Mithat. At first, Caina thought they were talking about the men sent to capture her, but then Mithat kept speaking. “Tomorrow, the day after that at the latest. A ship is on its way from Istarinmul. You needn’t fear, master innkeeper. The Brotherhood is very eager for new slaves to sell. The price of slaves of late has begun climbing rapidly. I confess I am not sure why. The rumors say the Alchemists have been digging new mines in the Desert of Candles and have needs of strong backs to swing picks and carry rubble. Though that is not my concern.”
“If we are caught…” started Antonio.
“We won’t be caught,” said Mithat. “Or, at least, you won’t be. No one can escape from the cellar. And once the ship arrives tomorrow…”
“Or the day after,” said Antonio.
“Or the day after,” agreed Mithat, “then we will load the new captives aboard and depart. There will be nothing connecting you to anything, and you shall be a richer man.”
“But that courier,” said Antonio. “Septimus was asking after Craxius. Someone must be getting suspicious.”
“So what?” said Mithat. “Even in the heart of the Empire of Nighmar, travel is a dangerous business. Such a large country, with so many places for bandits to hide, and so many places a man can simply disappear without a trace. Maybe Septimus is looking for Craxius, but they can spend the trip to Istarinmul chained together in the hold. And if someone comes looking for Septimus, tell the truth. He came, he stayed the night, he disappeared without a trace. He even left his horse in your stable, which you can sell at a good profit.”
“It all sounds so reasonable when you say it,” said Antonio, “but you’re not the one with a dozen captives locked in your cellar.”
A dozen? That was more than Caina had expected.
“And tomorrow, or the day after, there will be no trace that anyone was ever in your cellar, save for some extra coins in your pocket,” said Mithat. He laughed. “I shall be the envy of the other Collectors. Now, come. Bring us some more wine.”
“You shall drink away all my profits,” grumbled Antonio, but Caina heard his heavy footfalls as he headed towards the kitchen.
She turned, glided across the kitchen, and slipped out the courtyard door. Caina listened for a moment, but she heard no shouts of alarm, only the sighing of the night breeze and the distant crash of waves against the shore. She needed to hurry – too much longer, and Mithat would start wondering why his men had not yet overpowered a single courier.
Fortunately, Caina had an idea.
With the iron key in hand, she came to the cellar door, which lay at an angle against the ground. Caina eased it open and hurried down the damp stone steps. Flickering light illuminated the gloom ahead, and Caina crept into a large cellar built of brick and flagstone. Thick pillars supported the ceiling, and barrels and sacks were stacked against one wall.
A row of iron bars ran down the center of the room, dividing it in half, and on the other side of the iron bars were a dozen men. All of them had been chained to the wall, with just enough slack to reach the privy bucket in the center of the cage, which filled the air with its reek. Most of the men had the look of minor merchants and caravan guards, and they were all asleep.
Caina spotted Craxius sitting against the far wall near the bars. He was likewise asleep, his head bowed against his chest, an iron shackle and chain holding him against the wall. Caina hurried across the room, went to one knee before the bars, and reached between them to grip Craxius’s shoulder.
His eyes shot open, and his hand reached up to seize her wrist. If he had wanted, he could have crushed the bones of her wrist like they had been made of clay. His bloodshot eyes took in her shadow-cloak and mask, and then they widened in surprise.
“You’re one of us,” he murmured.
“Craxius,” rasped Caina in the disguised voice she used while masked and hooded. “What is going on?”
“That dog Antonio is working with the Slavers’ Brotherhood of Istarinmul,” whispered Craxius. “He has a deal with a Collector named Mithat. Antonio drugs travelers when he can get away with it and sells them to Mithat, who smuggles them back to Istarinmul for the Brotherhood. Did the circlemasters send you?”
“Aye,” said Caina. “I killed two of Mithat’s men. He’ll realize it soon enough. Listen to me.” She rose, crossed to the door in the cage, and unlocked it with the iron key. “Get everyone up and out. I’ll find a way to distract Mithat and his men.” She passed Craxius the key through the bars.
“Just how the devil are you going to do that?” said Craxius, though he began unlocking his shackle at once.
“I’ll think of something,” said Caina.
Her eyes fell on one of the lanterns, and she grabbed it and ran back up the stairs, wrapping her shadow-cloak around it to conceal the light.
She returned to the courtyard and had taken three steps when the shouting came to her ears. Caina shot a quick look around, but the courtyard was still deserted. No, the shout had come from one of the upper windows. It seemed that Mithat had found his dead men, and he was going to find Caina’s rope and grapnel.
She changed direction, running past the stable to the small barn. Caina kicked the door open and looked around. The barn held no animals but instead stacks of hay bales for the guests’ animals. Which was perfect for what she had in mind.
Caina shattered the glass pane on the lantern and cast it into the hay. It caught fire at once, spreading faster than she would have expected, and soon the flames spread into the dry boards of the walls. She darted into the courtyard and pressed herself against the wall of the stable, concealing herself in the shadows there. The flames in the barn grew brighter and hotter, and the horses in the stable began to whinny in fear, thumping against the sides of their stalls.
A few seconds later, the doors to the common room burst open, and Antonio, Mithat, and the remaining three Istarish men ran out. Antonio took a few steps forward, saw the barn burning, froze in surprise, and then began bellowing at the top of his lungs. The stable hands roused themselves, and some of Antonio’s workers emerged from the building. Mithat and his men and ran towards the cellar doors them as Antonio and his workers scrambled for buckets.
Caina cursed, grasped a throwing knife, and ran forward. She flung the blade and sent it spinning, and one of Mithat’s men went down, the blade jutting from his throat. Mithat and the remaining two men spun to face her, drawing their scimitars, and hesitated. In the flickering shadows from the growing fire, her shadow-cloak would make her look monstrous, a hooded specter come to torment them.
She took advantage of their hesitation to fling another knife, the blade flashing in the firelight. Her target saw the knife coming and dodged, but the weapon sank into his stomach. The man stumbled back with a scream, and Mithat and the remaining man charged at her with yells.
Caina yanked the daggers from her boots and retreated. She parried several blows from the scimitars, the blades ringing together, but she had made an error. A swordsman would have a better reach than a fighter with a dagger, and Mithat and the remaining uninjured man were backing her towards the courtyard wall. As soon as Caina ran out of room to maneuver, she would be in trouble.
Right about then, Craxius and the rest of the captive men burst from the cellar and charged out, yelling. Craxius had armed himself with a club made from a broken table leg, and the caravan guards and merchants had equipped themselves with similar weaponry. Mithat turned, starting to raise his blade, and Craxius struck him alongside the head with the improvised club.
The Collector fell dead, a visible groove in the side of his head. Mithat wasn’t dead yet, but he would be soon.
The freed prisoners killed the remaining Istarish slavers in short order, and the flames from the burning barn rose high into the night.
“And that was that,” said Caina a few days later.
She had returned to Malarae and sat on a stool in the dressing room of Theodosia, leading lady of the Grand Imperial Opera. When Caina stayed in Malarae for any length of time, she tended to disguise herself as Marina, Theodosia’s maid. Of course, it was an effective disguise because she really was Theodosia’s maid. Theodosia might have been one of the Ghost circlemasters of Malarae, but she was also the Grand Imperial Opera’s leading lady and getting her into and out of her costumes and makeup took a great deal of work.
Theodosia sat before her cosmetics table, scrutinizing her reflection, while Halfdan leaned against the wall, wearing the robe and cap of an Imperial wine merchant. Outside came the bustle from the scenery shop as the carpenters swarmed over the sets, preparing them for the evening performance.
“Craxius and the other captives had Antonio arrested and handed over to the nearest magistrate,” said Caina. “They warned the militia of Torvinium. The Istarish ship realized that something was wrong and didn’t dock, alas.”
“Still,” said Halfdan. “You did well. One fewer Collector of the Brotherhood is always a gain.”
“And I am impressed, dear child,” said Theodosia. “Didn’t I teach you the value of theatricality?”
Caina grinned. “I cannot disagree.”
“Though I notice you burned down yet another building,” said Halfdan.
Caina shrugged. “Well, it’s not like a plan to make a habit of it.”
The End
Thank you for reading GHOST SHADOW.
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The GHOSTS Novel Reading Order
A common question from readers is the proper order to read the Caina novels. Here is the order of all twenty-five novels as of this writing!
1.) Child of the Ghosts
2.) Ghost in the Flames
3.) Ghost in the Blood
4.) Ghost in the Storm
5.) Ghost in the Stone
6.) Ghost in the Forge
7.) Ghost in the Ashes
8.) Ghost in the Mask
9.) Ghost in the Surge
10.) Ghost in the Cowl
11.) Ghost in the Maze
12.) Ghost in the Hunt
13.) Ghost in the Razor
14.) Ghost in the Inferno
15.) Ghost in the Seal
16.) Ghost in the Throne
17.) Ghost in the Pact
18.) Ghost in the Winds
19.) Ghost in the Ring
20.) Ghost in the Glass
21.) Ghost in the Amulet
22.) Ghost in the Tower
23.) Ghost in the Vault
24.) Ghost in the Council
25.) Ghost in the Vision
About the Author
Standing over six feet tall, USA Today bestselling author Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.
He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works. His books have sold over a million copies worldwide.
Visit his website at:
http://www.jonathanmoeller.com
Contact him at:
jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com
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Jonathan Moeller, Ghost Shadow
