Free Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone by Jonathan Moeller

enforcers. They’re not loyal to anyone in the city, so as long as he pays them, they’ll do whatever he wants.” 
    Theodosia approached one of the Sarbians.
    “You want a drink,” said the mercenary in accented Cyrican, “then talk to one of the slave girls.”
    “Why do the tyrants fear the shadows?” said Theodosia in High Nighmarian.
    The mercenary blinked, once. 
    “For there are Ghosts in the shadows,” said the mercenary, likewise in High Nighmarian. His pronunciation was atrocious, but the words were clear enough.
    “And let the tyrants beware the shadows,” responded Theodosia, still in High Nighmarian.
    The Sarbian gave a single sharp nod. “The boss said he expected…visitors tonight,” he said, switching back to Cyrican. “Go upstairs. Third door on the right. Talk to Saddiq - he will take you to Marzhod.” 
    Theodosia nodded, crossed the common room, and climbed the stairs. Caina could not help but admire how perfectly Theodosia had disguised herself as a Sarbian nomad. Her every step extruded confidence and danger, and even the drunken sailors made sure to stay out of her way. 
    They climbed the stairs to the second-floor hallway. It stank of rot and mildew, and Caina heard muffled grunts and groans coming from behind some of the doors. They went through the third door on the right, and stepped into what looked like an armory. Swords hung on racks from the walls, along with crossbows, short bows, spears, and axes.
    One of the largest men Caina had ever seen sat at a table in the center of the room, polishing an enormous two-handed scimitar. He was Sarbian, and wore chain mail beneath his tan robes. His dark eyes flicked to them, and a half-smile appeared on his bearded lips.
    “Ah, you are here,” he said in perfect High Nighmarian, rising with a bow. “You must be Marzhod’s…guests. I am Saddiq, Marzhod’s associate.”
    “And enforcer?” said Theodosia.
    White teeth flashed in Saddiq’s dark face. “You are perceptive as you are lovely, mistress Theodosia.”
    “Oh, you recognize me?” said Theodosia with a hint of irritation. “How did you see through my disguise?”
    “I did not,” said Saddiq. “But Marzhod was most wroth when he learned the high circlemasters had sent you. So either you or the young man at your side would have to be the redoubtable Theodosia.”
    Caina hid a smile at that. 
    Theodosia laughed. “I see what Marzhod lacks in charm he makes up for in an ability to find clever associates.”
    “This way,” said Saddiq, rising from the table and returning the enormous scimitar to its sheath over his shoulder. “Though I should warn you that he is in a foul mood.” 
    “When is he not?” said Theodosia.
    A corner of Saddiq’s mouth curled in a smile.
    Saddiq opened a door on the far side of the armory. Beyond was a room that looked like a jumbled mixture of a scriptorium, an apothecary’s shop, and a locksmith’s workroom. Shelves held a variety of jars and vials, while ledgers stood heaped upon the tables. Caina saw a variety of weapons hidden around the room. Evidently Marzhod expected foes to fall upon him at any moment. Which, since he was a Ghost circlemaster, was entirely possible.
    Marzhod glared at them from behind a table.
    He was in his middle thirties, with thick black hair, icy blue eyes, and a gaunt, pale face. He would have been handsome, if not for the dark circles beneath his eyes and the constant sneer on his face. 
    “Saddiq,” he said, his voice thick with a Szaldic accent, “why have you let these vermin into my study?” 
    “They knew the proper countersigns,” said Saddiq, “and you wanted to be informed when the Ghosts from the capital arrived.” 
    Marzhod got to his feet. He wore clothes in the style of a northern lord, boots and trousers and coat, but the clothes were dusty and worn. A sword hung at his belt, and Caina noted more knives inside his coat. 
    “I wrote to Halfdan,” said Marzhod, “telling him