Ghost Shadow

  Jonathan Moeller

  Contents

  Description

  A brief author’s note

  Ghost Shadow

  The End

  The GHOSTS Novel Reading Order

  About the Author

  Description

  Caina is a Ghost nightfighter, a spy and assassin of the Emperor of Nighmar.

  When a fellow nightfighter goes missing, Caina is the logical choice to find him.

  But the enemies of the Ghosts are waiting in the shadows...

  Ghost Shadow

  Copyright 2020 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media.

  Some cover images copyright Photo 81487308 © Bezimeni Bezimenkovic | Dreamstime.com.

  Ebook edition published November 2020.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Created with Vellum

  A brief author’s note

  This story takes place between the events of the novels GHOST IN THE FLAMES and GHOST IN THE BLOOD.

  Ghost Shadow

  Caina slowed her horse’s pace as the afternoon gave way to dusk over the Imperial Highway.

  It had been a splendid day, clear and sunny, warm but not humid, but the weather along the Bay of Empire was often pleasant. To Caina’s left, she saw the rippling mass of the Bay of Empire, the sea a dark blue in the fading sunlight. To the right, she saw the rolling hills and grasslands that marked this portion of Nighmaria, the ancient heartland of the Empire. The Imperial Highway stretched south before her, following the coast towards Caer Marist and the Caerish provinces.

  Ahead was a small fishing village that occupied a small peninsula jutting into the sea. The village’s name, Caina knew, was Torvinium, and it was a common stop for smugglers. The customs inspectors of the Imperial capital of Malarae to the north, while not immune to bribery, were sufficiently vigilant that it was sometimes cheaper to land goods in the fishing villages and smuggle them into Malarae via wagon.

  And sometimes far darker cargoes moved through the fishing villages than wines and furs and silks.

  For now, Caina ignored the village and turned her attention to the inn that stood on a low bluff outside Torvinium.

  It was a fine house of whitewashed stone, and Caina suspected that it had once been the residence of some minor noble or another. Most rural villas in Nighmaria only stood one story over extensive grounds, but this house rose four stories tall, its roof covered in tiles of fired red clay. A low stone wall encircled the grounds, and within Caina saw two stables, a small barn, and an extensive vegetable garden. She knew this place was called the Centurion’s Rest Inn and that it was a common stop for travelers making their way to Caer Marist from Malarae and back again.

  Caina also knew that people had been disappearing here.

  She knew that because a week ago, another Ghost nightfighter named Craxius had vanished at the Centurion’s Rest Inn.

  “I want you to go to the Centurion’s Rest,” Halfdan had told her. Halfdan was a circlemaster of the Ghosts, the spies and agents of the Emperor of Nighmar, and he was the man who had recruited Caina into the Ghosts eight years ago. He was a burly man in later middle years with a thick Caerish accent. “Craxius was supposed to have returned by now, but he hasn’t. Find out what happened to him, but don’t take any risks.”

  “You know me,” Caina had answered. “I never take any risks.”

  Halfdan laughed at that. “I can tell you’re making a joke because you’re a better liar than that, child.”

  “What was Craxius looking for at the inn?” said Caina. She had met Craxius a few times, and he was a dour middle-aged man with a former Legionary’s dark sense of humor. He looked like a tavern thug and was capable of killing a man without changing expression. Halfdan used Caina when something subtle needed to be done. When he needed a blunt weapon, he dispatched Craxius.

  “We’ve heard rumors that people have been disappearing from Torvinium,” said Halfdan. “Not the sort of thing that we concern ourselves with, usually, but the Emperor wants the Istarish slavers swept from the Bay of Empire.”

  Caina nodded, her expression hardening. “And Torvinium is precisely the sort of quiet place where Istarish slavers can smuggle people out of the Empire.”

  “With Lord Haeron Icaraeus dead,” said Halfdan, “the slavers have lost their chief protector. We’re still looking for his son Naelon, and maybe we’ll find him at Torvinium.”

  “Or Craxius got drunk and passed out in a gutter someplace,” said Caina.

  “You’ve met Craxius. Does that seem likely?”

  “No.” Whatever Craxius’s flaws, drunkenness was not one of them. “Or he found a whore he likes.”

  Halfdan hesitated. “That’s more likely.”

  Three days later, Caina steered her horse towards the front gate of the Centurion’s Rest Inn.

  Caina was nineteen years old, and while the region of Nighmaria around Malarae was probably the safest portion of the Empire, it still wasn’t terribly wise for a woman of any age to travel alone on the Imperial Highway. Especially, if as Halfdan feared, Istarish slavers still prowled the coasts of the Bay of Empire, seeking for captives to sell in the slave markets of Istarinmul.

  She was disguised as a man, as she had done so often since Theodosia had taught her the arts of disguise. Specifically, she wore the garb of an armed courier, chain mail and a leather jerkin and a green cloak, her black hair tied back in a tail. Every morning she stopped to apply a dusting of makeup that gave her an illusion of stubble, and she looked like a thirty-year old man. Twin saddlebags held her supplies, including some specific tools that a courier would not carry.

  Caina steered her horse into the courtyard, and a surly-looking man in the dusty clothing of a groom emerged from the stable to take her horse.

  “You’re staying at the inn?” he said, given her a sullen look.

  “Aye,” said Caina in a gruff voice with a Caerish accent, passing a silver coin to the man. His disposition improved somewhat. “Just for a night. There’s a room here?”

  “Should be,” grunted the groom. “Talk to the landlord. His name’s Antonio, you’ll find him in the common room this time of day.”

  Caina nodded, dismounted, took her packs, and walked to the inn proper. A few steps led up to the double doors, and Caina pushed one open and stepped inside, the packs thumping against her back. The room beyond looked like it had once been the hall of a Nighmarian lord, with a mosaic of a forest covering the floor, the walls of paneled stone. Wooden tables and benches had been installed, and flames crackled in a large hearth along one wall.

  It looked pleasant, even cozy, and right away, something caught Caina’s attention.

  Four Istarish men sat at a table, drinking beer and playing a dice game. They wore the robes and turbans common among men of their nation, sheathed scimitars at their belts. It was not uncommon for Istarish merchants to trade in Malarae and the towns of the Bay of Empire, but it was a peculiar occurrence for four Istarish men to be at the Centurion’s Rest soon after Craxius had disappeared.

  “Welcome, sir, welcome,” said a voice with a Nighmarian accent. Caina turned as a portly man in an innkeeper’s apron approached from the stairs on the far side of the common room. He looked like a Nighmarian commoner, with thick black hair and dark eyes over a beak of a nose. Caina thought he sort of resembled an overfed bird of prey. “Welcome to the Centurion’s Rest. I am Antonio, the master of the house. How might I serve?”

  “My name’s Septimus,” said Caina, taking care to maintain her disguised voice. “Courier on my way to Caer Marist. Do you have a room? I would prefer not to spend another night under the open sky.”

  “Certainly,” said Antonio. He looked Caina up and down, a quick, assessing glance. The Istarish men remained focused on their dice game, but Caina saw them glance her way as well. “If you can pay, of course.”

  Caina passed him another silver coin. “My lord pays me well to carry his messages.”

  “And I am glad to hear of it,” said Antonio, making the coin disappear. “Please, follow me.”

  Caina followed him up the stairs to the top floor of the inn. The stairs were very well-maintained, she noted. No chance that they would creak or groan. Antonio opened the door to a room in the corner, with a window overlooking the courtyard. The window also had a good view of the Imperial Highway and the Bay of Empire beyond. The room’s furnishings were modest, with a narrow bed, a wooden table, and a wooden chair. No place to hide anything. Still, everything was clean and free of vermin as far as Caina could see.

  If, as Caina suspected, Antonio was in league with Istarish slavers, at least he kept a clean inn.

  “Will this serve?” said Antonio.

  “Quite well,” said Caina, setting her packs on the floor near the window.

  “I invite you to dine in the common room,” said Antonio. “The cooks of the Centurion’s Rest make the finest fare on the Imperial Highway. If you do not mind the question, master Septimus, what lord do you serve? We see so many couriers moving up and down the road.”

  “Lord Titus I conias,” said Caina, picking a name of an Imperial lord at random as she looked over the window’s shutters. “A question for you, master innkeeper. My lord has a man in his service named Craxius.” She was watching his face from the corner of his eye, and she saw the faint flinch before Antonio controlled himself. “He was traveling on my lord’s business to Caer Marist, and he ought to have returned by now. Do you know what became of him?”

  “I fear not,” said Antonio. His eyes flicked down and to the left before he smiled at her. Not everyone looked down and to the left when lying, but it was a common enough indicator. “There are many men in Nighmaria named Craxius, and we must have seen a hundred of them this year alone.”

  Caina shrugged. “Thought I’d ask. I’ll be down for supper in a moment. Thank you, master innkeeper.”

  “Of course,” said Antonio. “May your rest with us be pleasant.”

  He left, closing the door behind him.

  “Yes,” said Caina to herself. “I’m sure.”

  She did a quick look over the room but found nothing amiss. That done, Caina crossed to the window and looked out. A ledge stretched below the window, circling around the upper level of the house. It wasn’t too wide, and no one in their right mind would try to use it to move from room to room, but Caina had made harder climbs than that.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if she actually planned to climb out the window.

  Not yet, anyway.

  She took one of her packs, the one holding her tools, and set it on the ledge below the window. One of her daggers, jammed into the stonework, provided an excellent anchor for the pack’s straps. It would be invisible from the courtyard below, especially as night fell, and while Caina didn’t think Antonio would search her room yet, best not to be cautious.

  That finished, Caina descended to the common room. No one else had come for the night, and the Istarish merchants still sat at the table, playing their dice game. All four of them looked up as Caina approached and then turned their attention back to the dice. Antonio himself brought out Caina’s dinner, a bowl of hot stew and a cup of wine, and she seated herself and ate and drank. The stew was good, the wine pleasant, though Caina did not generally care for wine.

  About halfway through her stew, one of the Istarish men rose, crossed to her table, and joined her.

  Caina’s eyes flicked over him. He was the oldest of the men, somewhere in his forties, his bronze-colored skin creased with fine lines. His eyes were like black wells beneath his turban, and he had a black beard streaked with gray. She noted the thick knuckles and faint scars on his hands. This was a man accustomed to fighting, to beating his foes with his bare hands.

  Or, she suspected, disciplining slaves with his bare hands.

  “Greetings, sir,” said the Istarish man. He spoke good Caerish. “Travelers upon the road should always get to know one another, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for an answer but kept speaking. “My name is Mithat, a merchant of Istarish glass.”

  “The name’s Septimus,” said Caina. “I’m a courier for Lord Titus Iconias, carrying his lordship’s messages to his men at the port of Caer Marist.”

  “Then you travel alone?” said Mithat, raising his eyes in polite surprise.

  Caina’s suspicions hardened further.

  She gave an indifferent shrug. “The roads are safe enough. Nighmaria isn’t like the eastern provinces, where you have to worry about Kagari horsemen. Or the Imperial Pale beyond the mountains, where the barbarian tribes come out of the mountains to make trouble.”

  “This is indeed a pleasant land,” said Mithat. “Your Emperor does well to keep it so orderly. Come, let me buy you a cup of wine, and we shall drink in honor of the Emperor.”

  “If you’re paying,” said Caina.

  Mithat smiled. “I insist. Landlord!”

  At once, Antonio emerged from the kitchen, carrying two cups of wine. He had already poured them, Caina noted. As if he had expected Mithat’s call at any moment. Antonio set the cups of wine before them and bustled away, and Mithat lifted his.

  “To the Emperor Alexius Naerius!” said Mithat. “Long may he reign.”

  “Long may he reign,” said Caina, lifting her own cup and taking a quick sniff.

  She had to concede that it had been done well. She caught just the faintest dusting of powder around the edges of the clay cup, and the wine had been spiced heavily enough to almost conceal the scent. Almost, but not quite enough. If Caina hadn’t been expecting to find it, she would have missed it. But she nonetheless recognized the faint odor of the drug Istarish slavers commonly used to knock people unconscious.

  Caina feigned taking a long drink.

  “Gods,” she said. “That’s good stuff.” She pretended to take another drink. “Suppose I’m drinking too much, but Lord Titus doesn’t appreciate my work.”

  “Indeed not, my friend,” said Mithat with a thin smile. “Perhaps you should consider a new business.”

  “Why? You hiring?” said Caina, and she laughed, letting herself sway on the bench. “Gods. That wine is strong stuff. My brother always said I could never hold my liquor. I…”

  She swayed forward, making an expansive gesture, and tipped over the bowl holding her remaining stew. It splattered across the table, and Mithat jerked back to avoid getting any on his robes. Caina cursed and reached for the bowl, letting herself drop the drugged wine as she did.

  “Oh, damn it!” said Caina. “I spilled on you. Did I spill on you?”

  “No, fear not, my friend,” said Mithat. The door to the common room opened, and two more Istarish men came into the common room, glanced at Mithat, and joined the others at their dice game. “Though you may have had too much to drink. Perhaps you should lie down?”

  “Yes,” said Caina, getting to her feet with a wobble. Theodosia would have been proud of her performance. Not overdone, just enough to convey the impression that she was confused and drunk. “Yes, I will go lie down. Have to leave tomorrow. Better,” she let out a hiccup, “better be ready for it.”

  “Indeed,” said Mithat. “I daresay you will have quite a busy day tomorrow.”

  Oh, he had no idea.

  Caina lurched across the common room and climbed up the stairs. She maintained her drunken walk, expecting that Mithat or one of the men would follow her, and indeed she heard the faint rasp of their boots against the stairs. Caina reached her room, let herself inside, and closed and locked the door behind her, listening for a moment at the crack between the door and its frame. She heard faint footsteps and then someone descending the stairs.

  Good. Likely they would wait a little while to make sure the drug took full effect. The cautious slaver didn’t want his prey fighting back, and this group of slavers seemed very cautious.

  But Caina didn’t have much time.

  She crossed to the windows and threw open the shutters. Night had fallen while she had been eating dinner, and moonlight flooded over the land, covering the Bay of Empire in a silvery gleam. Caina seized her second pack and drew it into the room, and then stripped off her clothes in haste.

  Then she donned the garments she had hidden within the second pack.

  Caina pulled on black trousers, black boots, and a black jacket lined with thin steel plates to deflect knives. Gloves went on her hands, and a mask concealed her face, hiding everything except her eyes. A belt went around her waist, holding throwing knives, a coiled rope and grapnel, and other useful tools. More throwing knives went into sheaths on her forearms, and Caina thrust daggers into concealed sheaths in her boots.

  Last of all came the shadow-cloak.

  It was one of the secrets of the Ghosts. The cloak was lighter than air and blacker than the night, and Caina donned it, pulling the cowl up to shadow her face. While wearing the cloak, neither divinatory spells nor mind-altering sorcery would work on Caina. Since she didn’t think the slavers had any sorcerers among them, that would not matter. But the cloak also blurred and merged with the shadows, which would no doubt soon prove useful.

  Caina took her packs and discarded clothes, arranging them beneath the blankets to create the illusion that someone was lying in the bed. With that finished, she went out the window and scooted a few feet to the left on the ledge, bracing herself against the stonework. Beneath the eave of the roof with her shadow-cloak hanging around her, she would be almost impossible to see from the ground, and no one within the room would see her.

 

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