Chapter One
The
Ghost sat in the temple district of Argos staring at the Temple of Ares, the
god of war and of killers. Due to the disguise he now wore, people passed
without exhibiting the fear that his own features usually invoked. With the aid
of wax and cosmetics, he’d hid his numerous scars and remade his face in the
image of a Saloynan mercenary, a persona he’d never thought to assume again. He
pulled his cloak more tightly around him to protect against the chill. It was
mild for mid-winter, but still the cold was biting. Ares’s temple looming in
front of him deepened the cold. It was constructed of black marble and decorated
in blood-red stone with sharp lines and geometric shapes, conjuring images of
the horrors of the battlefield. He
looked from the red and black temple to his fingernails. During the three-month
crossing from Korthlundia to Saloyna—the rough winter sea making the crossing
take longer than usual—he’d succeeded in scrubbing the blood out from under his
nails, but it hadn’t been easy. When he’d been the world’s most notorious
assassin, he’d owned a brush specifically for that purpose. But after he’d
knelt at Sulis’s holy altar and made the vow never to kill again, he’d thrown
that brush away. He guessed he’d need to find a new one.
The Ghost rose abruptly. There was
no point in delaying any longer. He’d broken his vow, and it was past time to
admit that making it had been foolish to begin with, as if such a small act
could cleanse his blood-drenched soul. He’d long ago earned his place in the
seven hells. Now, he must embrace the fact that he had one skill and one
purpose—to kill those who needed to die. For a brief time he’d tried to forget
that, and because he hesitated to kill a monster, the man had nearly destroyed
his homeland and his daughter. Some people’s deaths were a thing to be
celebrated rather than mourned, and because he was forever tainted, forever a
killer, he should be the one to kill them. He hoped the high priest had an
appropriate target for him. Zotico was a ghoul, but he’d always been reliable
in ferreting out the fiends whose deaths were most needed.
As The Ghost entered Ares’s temple,
an oppressive presence settled over him. He seemed to be alone in the huge
sanctuary, but he knew the acolytes of Ares watched through hidden panels.
Rumors claimed they waited for someone with signs of weakness to enter. Then
they would pour forth, seize the unfortunate, and sacrifice him to their god.
The Ghost had found no evidence to support such rumors, but he knew that
animals and criminals were regularly sacrificed on Ares’s altar, bleeding out
their lives into the bowl at the foot of his statue. It was a hard death, both
the blood and the pain feeding the magic of Ares’s priests.
The Ghost knelt at Ares’s feet,
where the stench of blood was nearly overpowering. The altar was stained with
it, and the bowl at the god’s feet was full from a fresh sacrifice. The power
present in this place was undeniable—dark and forbidding, far from the peace
and serenity in Sulis’s temples. But he was no longer worthy of Sulis’s
blessing. The Ghost drew his dagger, held his left forearm over the sacrificial
bowl, and sliced a new cut alongside his numerous scars. As he bled into the
bowl, he felt the magic of the place coalesce around him. His blood sizzled as
it hit the bowl, and the wound on his arm healed instantly, signaling that The
Ghost truly belonged to the Saloynan god.
A door opened behind him, he stood
and faced the high priest. Zotico was completely bald and looked no older than
he had when The Ghost had first met him ten long years ago. He had small, beady
eyes and a typical Saloynan narrow nose. “Pandaros! How wonderful!” the priest
beamed, calling The Ghost a name he’d decided he must take up again. He could
no longer be either “Ahearn” and “Darhour”; they were both dead. “Rumors said
you were no longer among the living. Come in, come in.” Zotico gestured toward
the doorway. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.”
Zotico’s enthusiasm seemed excessive
even for him. Warily, The Ghost followed Zotico down the corridor to the high
priest’s office. It was large, the walls covered with instruments of war—swords,
shields, battle axes and plaques ornamented with what looked suspiciously like
human ears. The ears were new. Zotico caught The Ghost looking at them and
swept his hand over a plaque that contained five ears nailed side by side. “Do
you like the new decor? Sacrifices, all of them. I had them moved from our
private sanctuary so I could better remember the devotion demanded by the god I
serve.”
Zotico may not appear to age, but
his ghoulishness grew with each passing year. The Ghost carefully schooled his
features to avoid betraying any sign of revulsion.
In the center of the office was a large desk
with one chair behind it and two large, comfortable chairs facing it. Zotico
gestured The Ghost into one of the facing chairs. The Ghost sat, and the high
priest offered him a glass of oenomel, a sweet mixture of honey and wine.
Zotico poured himself a glass from the same pitcher and sat behind the desk.
“Pandaros, my friend. Why have you neglected your obligations to Ares?”
The Ghost waited for Zotico to take a
sip of his drink, then took one of his own. It was cloying in its sweetness.
“I’ve been distracted.”
Zotico smiled sadly. “A true
tragedy. There’s no one better with a blade.” The priest mimed drawing a knife
across his own throat. “I’ve had acolytes scouring the city more than once
looking for you, but I gave up years ago when not the slightest sign of your
whereabouts could be found. Tell me, my son, where have you been?”
“Away.” The Ghost had no intention
of ever letting Zotico learn anything about Samantha, who was both his daughter
and his queen. Because of his careful disguise, Zotico believed The Ghost was a
Saloynan.
Zotico laughed. “Long have I wished for the
power of Delphi to penetrate your secrets. Is there a person in the world who
knows even half of them?” Zotico looked expectantly at him, but The Ghost
didn’t answer. “I see my curiosity shall have to be contained. Ares is a harsh
master and not attentive to trifles. Still, I can’t tell you how happy I am
that you have now returned to his fold. His temple has truly felt your
absence.”
The Ghost grunted, “Do you have a
job for me?”
Zotico’s eyes gleamed. “Do I ever!
I’d nearly despaired of finding a capable assassin, but your fortunate arrival
proves that Ares will never fail those who serve his name.”
“Who do you want dead?”
“I think it would be best explained
by the one in need of Ares’s assistance, but I assure you it is your sort of
kill. May I tell the client you’ll meet?”
The Ghost nodded.
Zotico’s entire body relaxed. “Good,
good. The client would prefer not to be seen here. I’ve an arrangement with the
high priestess of Aphrodite. The two gods were lovers, after all. Enter the
goddess’s temple tomorrow morning and choose the acolyte wearing the pendant of
a vulture.” Zotico smiled broadly. “Pandaros, my friend, it is a great day for
you to have returned.”
“You are not my friend.” The Ghost
left with Zotico laughter ringing in his ears.
* * *
Desperately needing
the distraction, The Ghost went for a walk after his supper at the Green
Sandpiper, an inn that catered to mercenaries and other unsavory types. The
falling of night deepened the cold, but he didn’t cut short his walk. He
wandered the filthy streets of the poorer section of the city, thinking about
past kills—those in the distant past, not those connected with his daughter. He
couldn’t think of her ever again. The few short years he’d spent with her had
been the best in his life, but he hadn’t deserved them. The only thing he
deserved was to rot in the seven hells. He wondered how many had died at his
hands. Two hundred? Three? More? He’d never kept count.
Few of the street lights
were lit in this part of town, but that was no hindrance to The Ghost. When
he’d been the Saloynan king’s personal assassin, he’d had an enchantment
performed on his eyes, giving him the ability to see in the dark, even the
complete darkness of a cave.
Passing an alley, he heard
a commotion. He turned to see a young woman pleading with two men. “Don’t make
me go with him,” she begged. “He hurts me.” The Ghost recoiled when he heard
her Massossinan accent. He hated Massossinans.
The first man slapped
her across the face, and The Ghost saw the iron slave collar around the woman’s
neck. Her red hair confirmed her nationality. She wore a low-cut, red bodice
trimmed with black lace and an extremely short red skirt. She had to be
freezing in this weather. “You’ll do as you’re told and like it, or . . .” He
drew a knife and ran it across her right breast, drawing a thin line of blood.
The second man grabbed
the woman. “You know you like it rough.” He too drew a knife. “Maybe I’ll slice
you open when I’m through with you.”
“That will cost you
extra,” the first man warned.
The second man shrugged.
“I’m good for it."
He imagined his daughter
being similarly assaulted. He stepped into the alley. “Let her go.”
The man pulled the woman
closer to him. “You can have a turn when I’m done with her.” He grabbed the
woman’s breast, and she tried to squirm away. She looked older than he’d
thought at first, nearly thirty—old for a whore. Most didn’t live that long.
The Ghost drew his sword
and stepped forward. “I said let her go.”
The woman’s master stepped
between The Ghost and the other man. “Mister, you have no right to interfere
with lawful commerce. She’s mine, and I’ll do with her as I see fit.”
“Not tonight you won't.
Move aside.”
It must have been too
dark for the man to see the menace in The Ghost’s eyes. Few men dared stand up
to him after they’d gotten a good look at the coldness he held there. The slave
owner, however, crossed his arms. “Go away.”
The Ghost raised his
sword and struck the man on the head with the flat of his blade. He went down,
and The Ghost stepped over him and addressed the customer. “I said let her go.”
The man placed his knife
at the woman’s throat. “She’s mine, or she’s no one’s.”
The Ghost
surreptitiously palmed a knife with his left hand while he continued holding
his sword with his right. Even more than he hated Massossinans, he hated those
who preyed on women’s flesh. He looked
at the woman. “Your choice. Does he live or die?”
* * *
For an instant, Brigitta was too shocked by the stranger's actions
to answer. Saloynans were nothing but godless barbarians. She'd once been raped
in the street, and not a single Saloynan had done anything to help her. The few
men who had even deigned to notice merely did so to applaud her rapist and to
vilify her homeland. Still, if he was offering help, she wasn't about to turn
him down.
"Kill him,"
she hissed. Antero would not use her again.
She never saw the
stranger move, but Antero toppled over, taking her down with him. He rolled off
her, screaming and clutching at his face. She barely had time to notice the
knife in his eye socket before the stranger had moved again and plunged his
sword through Antero’s throat. Frigg
preserve me!
Fearfully, she scrambled
to her feet and glanced in her rescuer's direction, but she was too late to
call out a warning before her master hit the stranger from behind with a rusty
pipe. She cried out as the stranger fell to his knees, dropping his sword.
After Damien killed the stranger, he would punish her horribly. She looked
around for a place to run, but she knew it was useless. There was nowhere in
this savage land that her master couldn't find her.
To her relief, the
stranger survived the blow, and he somehow had another knife in his hand. He
twisted, and before she'd realized what was happening, Damien was on the ground
as well, his entrails exposed to the night air. The stranger's sword was next
to her foot. She grabbed the heavy sword with both hands and rushed the man
who'd made her life a living hell. Her rescuer rolled aside and allowed her
access to the ogre. She raised the sword over her head.
Damien flung up an arm.
"No, please!"
"You kidnapped me!"
she screamed, as she rammed the sword into his heart. She raised the sword and
plunged it over and over again. "You raped me! You made me a whore! You
left my children motherless!"
The stranger grabbed her
arm. "Enough. He's dead." He took the sword from her and wiped it on
her dead master's clothes.
He stumbled as he slid
it into its scabbard and put his hand to the back of his head where Damien had
hit him with a pipe. His fingers came away bloody. He tore off Damien’s shirt
and pressed it against his scalp. “Damned fool!” he muttered, seemingly to
himself.
Brigitta thought she
should offer her rescuer assistance, but she looked down and saw her master’s
blood covering her legs. Her legs
buckled, and she sank to the alley floor. Slaves who killed their masters were
subjected to the cruelest deaths. "I killed him," she whispered.
"I killed the bastard. Dear gods, what will they do to me?"
Her rescuer threw her
master’s shirt aside and held out his hand. "Come with me."
She scrambled away from
him and grabbed the knife from Antero's eye. She pointed it at the stranger.
"Stay away from me. Before you people made me a whore, I was an honorable
wife and mother. I'll die before being used again."
The stranger dropped his
arm. "I don't intend to use you."
But Brigitta knew
better. Saloynans were worse than the trolls that peopled the bard's tales of
her land. She got to her feet, her trembling hand holding the knife. "I'm
leaving now. Going home to my little ones. Move out of the way."
She knew the situation
was hopeless. She'd tried to fight when Damien's squad had invaded her hut, but
it had done nothing to stop them from raping her in front of her children. She
was certain that this stranger could disarm her without even trying.
“I can’t do that,” he
hissed through his teeth as if trying to convince himself of something. “You're
covered in blood. You're collared. You're dressed like a whore. You'll never
make it out of the city on your own, probably not even out of this
neighborhood. They'll capture you and torture you to death. I can’t let that
happen. I'll find a way to get you home, and I won't touch you without your
permission. I give you my word."
Brigitta laughed.
"And a Saloynan's word is worth ever so much."
Brigitta's mouth dropped
open as the stranger switched from Saloynan to her own language. "I'm not
Saloynan." The light was poor, and the stranger was wearing a large hood.
Was it possible that one of her countrymen was here in the heart of the enemy's
capital? Was there hope for her after all?
Her entire body trembled
as she lowered the knife and answered him in the language she'd despaired of
ever speaking again. "Do you swear on Frigg that you'll do as you
promised?"
"You have my word.
I'll get you home."
"May Frigg curse
you with barrenness if you lie."
The stranger took off
his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. She wrapped it tightly around
her, grateful for the added warmth.
* * *
The Ghost looked down at the Massossinan woman sleeping in his
bed. What in Sulis’s name have I gotten
myself into it? He’d been able to break into a blacksmith shop and use his
tools to remove the slave collar from the woman’s neck. He’d sneaked her up the
rear staircase of the Green Sandpiper, but she’d hardly stayed awake long
enough to wash off her master’s blood. She was still dressed as a whore and
unmistakably Massossinan. For Sulis’s sake, the very sound of a Massossinan
accent made his stomach heave. Without provocation, he’d come close to stabbing
the Massossinan prince who had courted his daughter. He rubbed his arms. They
felt as if insects swarmed over them. He’d been tortured, coated in honey, and
staked over an ant hill by a Massossinan officer, the same officer who’d eaten
Phelix’s heart. And he’d promised this woman to take her home to her husband?
Had he lost his mind? He’d come to Saloyna to be a killer again because it was
the only thing he’d ever really been good at. He’d barely set foot in the
country, and he was already acting like a knight in shining armor from the
worst of the bards’ tales, rescuing damsels in distress. Just how was he going
to keep his promise to both Zotico and this woman? He should know better that
to get involved in things like this. He was not a good man.
He groaned and collapsed
on the chair in front of the mirror. He picked up a poultice of crushed cabbage
leaves and parsley he’d made in the inn’s kitchen and held it to the back of
his head. Phelix would probably have had better advice on what to use to treat
the ridiculous injury. No, Phelix would have cursed him for brainless twit for
allowing an enemy to get behind him. He’d lost his edge.
He threw down the
poultice and turned to the mirror to remove the wax and cosmetics from his
face. As he did so, he revealed the extent of his facial scarring, horizontal lines
carved every inch from his forehead to his chin. The scars gave him a fearsome
look, one that Samantha said could make men piss themselves if he so much as
glanced in their direction. They also made him look far older than forty as did
his gray hair and beard. He wondered what the woman would do when she saw the
scars. Perhaps she’d run screaming from the room and relieve him of his
responsibility to her.
When he’d cleaned his
face, he looked back at the bed. The woman slept exactly in the middle, leaving
no room for him on either side, and he was sure the woman wouldn’t welcome his
company. He arranged his weapons and settled down on the floor in front of the
door with the poultice. He stared at the wall for a long time, holding the
poultice to his head and reminding himself that he was a killer, not some
knight errant hero.
* * *
Brigitta
woke in a panic, at first not remembering where she was. The weak light of
early dawn streamed through the window, and a male voice muttered in his sleep
in a language she’d never heard. She sat up and noticed that the weight of her
slave collar was missing. She put her hand to her neck, and the entire horrible
memory came back to her. She’d killed her master. If she was found, she’d be
tortured to death. Her children would grow up without a mother’s love, and she
knew how little they could count on their father’s. Worse yet, the man who
rescued her seemed to have lied to her about being a countryman. She couldn’t
see him well in the thin light, but the language he was speaking was certainly
not Massossinan. If he’d lied to her about that, what else had he lied about?
She heard her husband’s voice telling her how stupid she was, and it was true.
Only a true idiot would have gone with a man that had proven himself to be as
good at killing as the stranger obviously was.
To make things worse, he was
sleeping in front of the door, evidently to stop her escaping, but the his
sword rested on the floor near his hand. If she could get grab his weapon,
maybe she could force him to let her go. If not, well, she’d already killed one
man. She’d kill another if that’s what it took to get back to her children.
She slipped silently from the bed.
She tried to move across the floor without sound, but the boards creaked under
her weight. She froze, but the stranger continued to mutter without waking. She
crept forward more carefully. The stranger stopped muttering, but he remained
still and didn’t seem to be awake. Not even daring to breathe, she took the
last few steps and put her hands on the sword. She tried to draw it from its
sheath, but she’d forgotten how heavy it was. Before she’d cleared it more than
an inch, the stranger’s hands grabbed hers. How had he moved so fast?
“Let’s put that away before someone
gets hurt,” the stranger said.
As she pulled her hands free from
the stranger’s grasp, Brigitta wanted to cry. She was certainly no match for
this barbarian. The sun’s light streamed more brightly though the window, and
she gasped at the sight of the stranger’s face. Someone had carved it into
mincemeat. She backed away from the nightmare. “You’re not Massossinan. What
kind of monster are you?”
Brigitta expected the stranger to
sneer at her stupidity in believing him, but instead, he stretched, as if
shaking off the last of his sleep. “The worse kind of monster.” He got up from
the floor and towered over her. She’d always been small, and this man was huge.
“I’m also Korthlundian.”
She wondered if this were some kind
of demon she’d never heard of. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The stranger leaned against the
wall, keeping his distance from her. “Korthlundia’s a small country, a great
distance from here.”
Brigitta decided that where he was
from didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was standing between her and the
door.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said in a
gentle voice completely at odds with his appearance. “I haven’t even tried to
touch you.”
Brigitta had to admit this was true.
If he was going to do something to her, why had he slept on the floor? Still,
she shuddered at the horrible scarring. “Let me go.” She was ashamed that her
voice trembled.
For a moment, the stranger looked
like he was considering stepping aside, but then he shook his head. “You don’t
need to be afraid of me. Despite how I look, I’m a man of my word. If you trust
me, I’ll get you home.” He left his place by the door and sat at the vanity in
front of the mirror. He picked up some wax and began spreading it over his
scars. She inched her way toward the door, not believing he would truly let her
go. But he ignored her movements and continued to work on his face.
She opened the door, and he still
did nothing to stop her. She heard male voices speaking Saloynan coming from
the common room below. She closed her eyes and imagined what would happen if
she walked into that room alone, dressed as she was. She closed the door and
looked back at the stranger, who was applying cosmetics. He didn’t look quite
as frightening now, but how could she trust a man who killed so easily?
“Who are you?”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” He
said nothing more as he continued his transformation. She stared as the scarred
monster became a normal looking Saloynan man, just like the hundreds who had
used her against her will.
The stranger stood, got out his
purse, and handed her some coins. Her eyes widened as she saw the glint of gold
among them. It would take half a year on her back to earn this much for her
master. If the man had this much money, what was he doing staying in a dive
like this?
“I have an appointment to keep. If
you truly think you’re better off on your own, leave when I’m gone. But if you
have any sense, you’ll still be here when I get back. I’ll bring you some new
clothes, and we can make plans.” He buckled on his sword and stowed his knives
all over his body. She couldn’t see a one of them when he was finished.
When he was gone, she sank on the
bed. Please, Frigg, what should I do?
she prayed. My children need me. She
thought of the huge smile that had appeared on Elva’s face every morning when
she woke and caught sight of her mother. That smile had brightened Brigitta’s
entire world. But Elva had run to her and hid her face in Brigitta’s skirts
when her father came home drunk. Dear
Frigg, protect Elva and little Vigi until I can get back to them. She curled up in a ball, clutching the coins
in her fist and hugging the pillow to her. She was so tired of trying to be
strong.
* * *
The Ghost rubbed the back of his head
as he went down the back steps of the Green Sandpiper. It still hurt, but not
too badly, making it clear that he’d suffered no serious injury. Still, what
had he gotten himself into with the woman?
I tried to reform; it didn’t work. I’m a murderer. Nothing more. He had no
idea what he would tell Zotico about the job they’d discussed. If it truly was
his type of kill, should he turn it down to help a woman whose name he didn’t
even know? He saw Samantha’s face. He knew what his daughter would expect, but she’d
never the murderous depth of his soul.
He blocked her out of his mind and
focused on his surroundings instead. Five years had dulled his memory of the
horrors of the Saloynan capital. Beggars were everywhere—young children and old
men and women, emaciated and covered in running sores. In the poorer sections
of the city, sewage ran down the middle of the streets. Whores far younger than
his daughter plied their trade. A few bodies of those who’d frozen in the night
hadn’t yet been gathered up. The capital of Korthlundia was not without
problems, but poverty was nowhere near this widespread or abject. In Saloyna,
King Salome, like his father before him, cared nothing about his people. They
starved while he lived in luxury that would empty the Korthlundian treasury.
The Ghost was relieved to reach the
temple complex, which was kept clean and free of beggars. In sharp contrast to
Ares’s temple, Aphrodite’s shone a brilliant white with carvings of lovers
frolicking in every imaginable position. While The Ghost had seen Aphrodite’s
temple every time he visited Ares’s, he had never been inside. The only thing a
woman’s love had ever done for him was ruin his life and send him into exile
when he had been only eighteen years old.
When he entered the temple, he was
greeted by soft music and delicate perfume. Young women and men—acolytes of
Aphrodite—in sheer robes that concealed nothing danced in celebration of the
goddess. Worshipers watched the dance until they found an acolyte to their
liking. They gave the priestess the proper donation and disappeared with the
acolyte into one of the private rooms that lined one wall of the temple, where
they worshiped the goddess in a more intimate manner. Some of the acolytes
danced near him. He examined their necks until he saw the one wearing a vulture
pendant. He took the young woman’s arm and led her to the priestess. “I’ll take
this one,” he told her.
The priestess looked him over and
nodded. “Chrysante, make sure this gentleman receives our special treatment.”
Chrysante led him toward the rear of
the temple. She opened a door, and they entered a room with nothing other than
an altar. Climbing onto the altar, Chrysante purred, “Would you like to take
your pleasure on Aphrodite’s altar before meeting your guests? Ares’s high
priest said you might, and it will bring you luck with the young woman who
accompanies him.” Chrysante arched her back, making her breasts stand out
beneath the sheer fabric.
Embarrassed, The Ghost felt himself
harden. “I would not,” he snapped.
The acolyte paled and jumped off the
altar. Sulis curse it! It isn’t her fault
the Saloynan gods are twisted.
“Right this way, sir.” She scrambled to the
door on the opposite side of the altar and opened it. Following her, The Ghost
entered a corridor. She took him to the end of the corridor and stopped before
another door. “They await you in there. I’ll leave you now.” She fled back down
the corridor. He must have sounded even harsher than he thought.
When the acolyte had disappeared,
The Ghost knocked on the door, and Zotico’s voice bid him enter. Zotico
luxuriated on a sofa decorated with nymphs doing things The Ghost would rather
not imagine. Two easy chairs flanked the sofa, and a table in the middle of the
room was covered in breakfast food. A woman stood on the opposite side of the
room with her back to him. She was studying a tapestry. “Do you think this is
even possible?” she asked of the act the tapestry depicted.
Zotico waved his hand dismissively.
“I’m sure it is. Those who worship Aphrodite are quite talented.” The priest looked at The Ghost. “But
considering how quickly you arrived, I take it you didn’t avail yourself of
their expertise. I assure you, young Chrysante can—”
“I didn’t come here to ‘avail’
myself,” he snarled. “I came to tell you I may not be able to take the job
after all.”
“You what?” the young woman whirled
around, and The Ghost gasped and hurriedly bowed. Last time The Ghost had seen
her, Princess Acantha had been a gangly girl of fourteen with a fondness for
horses. Now, she’d filled in her womanly shape. She was tall, with dark hair
flowing around her head, deep set eyes, and an extremely narrow nose. “You
would refuse to do a service for your queen?”
The Ghost blinked. “I hadn’t heard
of your father’s death.”
“He’s not dead yet,” Zotico answered
for her. “But I’m sure shortly you will help spread the good news. The monster
has ruled for far too long, and at the rate he’s going, he soon won’t have any
heirs left. He had the last of his sons executed just last month.”
The princess glared at The Ghost.
“How long before he decides I, too, am a threat?”
“A true lover of his country
wouldn’t let such atrocities continue,” Zotico said. “Besides our land will be
plunged into chaos if he dies without an heir. We’d be completely vulnerable to
those heart-eating fiends.”
The Ghost sickened as he remembered
the sound of the Massossinan officer taking a bite out of Phelix’s heart. But
it wasn’t the thought of the Massossinan menace that moved him. He thought of
the children starving in the streets and of the Salome he’d known when he
worked as his father’s assassin.
You could tell a lot about a person
by the way they treated animals. When The Ghost had been the king’s assassin,
his cover was as assistant master of the horse. Salome had been brutal to his
horses. The Ghost had spent countless hours doctoring the injuries the prince
inflicted on his beasts and in calming their agitation after he’d ridden them.
But his most vivid memory of Salome involved the young stable boy, Paulos.
Paulos hadn’t been quite right in
the head. He was slow catching onto things and needed any order explained
slowly and carefully before he was sure what to do. But once he understood, he
was reliable, and he was always smiling. The Ghost had never known how the lad
had gotten a place in the king’s stables, but he assumed he was the bastard of
someone important.
The Ghost had been on an errand for
the king and had just finished cleaning the blood from under his fingernails.
As he was returning to the stables, Prince Salome and some of his
hanger-ons—Salome didn’t have any true friends—were leaving. Salome had
laughed. “That will teach him to obey his lord and master.”
The Ghost had assumed the prince was
referring to his stallion, who had developed an intense fear of Salome and
resisted all of Salome’s attempts to control him. But when The Ghost entered
the stables, it wasn’t Aquafire the others were gathered around. The Ghost
pushed through the stable hands to find Paulos staring sightlessly at the
ceiling with bloody stumps where his hands and feet used to be. Blood dripped
onto Paulos’s face, and The Ghost looked up. The missing appendages hung above
him.
“Dear Gods, what happened?” he
asked.
One of the stable hands lifted his
head from the carnage. His face was white, and his entire body shook. “You know
Paulos. He didn’t get the prince’s horse saddled fast enough.”
The Ghost had wanted to kill Salome
then and there, and he should have. Frare had been a horrible tyrant, but
Salome made his father look like a saint. He clenched his fists. Damn all of Massossina to the seven hells! I
don’t owe her anything.
He berated himself for his initial
hesitation to take the job. He’d hesitated when he should have killed his
daughter’s enemy, and he couldn’t bear to think of the pain that had caused. He
wouldn’t fail another young woman who should be sitting on a throne. He’d keep
his promise to the Massossinan woman, but she could wait a day or so. And who
knew, maybe he’d be lucky, and she wouldn’t be there when he got back.
“When do you want it done?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Tell me your father’s habits, as
thoroughly as you can.”
Zotico gestured to the table.
“Please, let us do this over breakfast.”
The Ghost and Acantha seated
themselves in the easy chairs on opposite sides of the breakfast table.
Princess Acantha poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it as she detailed
her father’s routine. She ate nothing. “He has everything tasted before he eats
or drinks. He wears amulets protecting him for all kinds of magic, and he has
guards with him constantly, except at night when he sleeps with two large
boarhounds. They’d tear a man to shreds at the slightest provocation.”
Excitement built in The Ghost as he continued to ask
questions and a plan formed in his mind. “I’ll need the livery of a palace
servant,” he said. He closed his eyes and savored the rush. If he was destined
to be a killer, he might as well enjoy it.
* * *
After
leaving the temple district, The Ghost went to a nearby apothecary. The man
behind the counter looked at his weapons warily. “Can I help you?”
The Ghost nodded and rattled off a
list of ingredients.
The man frowned. “There’s only one
thing you could be making with that lot—Uttvos serum.” Uttvos serum was a
powerful sleeping potion, one The Ghost had made frequent use of. He preferred
to kill no one but the target.
The Ghost put menace in his eyes.
“Is that any concern of yours?”
The man shrugged. “No, but I could
save you the trouble. I have some already made up.” The man took out a vial
containing a thick liquid. “First class quality. Knock out your strongest
stallion so you can castrate it without the least fuss.”
The Ghost nodded in acknowledgment.
“I prefer to make my own.” Only in that way could he ensure the proper
strength.
The man shrugged and assembled the
ingredients.
Next, The Ghost went to a
second-hand clothier and bought two gowns for Brigitta. He thought he could
guess her size, but he was unsure what colors and style to choose. Just what
class had Brigitta been in before she’d been enslaved? He settled on two wool
dresses—one a midnight blue and the other an emerald green, both with minimal
embroidery. He also bought a black cloak with a large hood and a veil like
those worn by all respectable women in Saloyna. He hoped Brigitta liked his
choices. He’d never purchased clothing for a woman before.
When he returned to the Green
Sandpiper, the Massossinan woman was asleep in the bed. He set the package
containing his purchases beside her and quietly began making the serum over the
fireplace. He made it extra strong on account of the boarhounds. As he stirred,
he played over in his mind his intended trek through the palace and King
Salome’s death at his hand. Part of him thrilled at the idea of Salome’s life
in his hands. The rest of him knew his excitement meant his soul was forever
lost.
He’d come back to
Saloyna to take up his former profession because it was the country that had
turned a simple stable groom into an assassin whose reputation spanned the
world. Still, he wondered, Holy Sulis, Mother of us all, could
Ahearn have taken a path that didn’t leave a pile of corpses in his wake? Or
was the choice taken from him when a naïve young queen chose him as her lover?.
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