Child of the Ghosts by Jonathan Moeller Page A

“No matter. The Ghosts would have found us here sooner or later anyway. After all, my dear, how many times have we moved over the centuries? One more is no great inconvenience.” 
    He started towards the stairs. 
    “The enemy may still lie in wait for you,” said Ikhana. 
    Maglarion laughed. “Then pity them.”
    Something halfway between a grin and a feral snarl flickered over Ikhana’s features, and she followed him. 
    The dark energies of recent death grew stronger as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The enspelled glass spheres still glowed on their iron pedestals, bathing the vaulted chamber in pale blue light. Motionless forms littered the floor. 
    The Istarish slavers Maglarion had hired.
    Dead to the last man.
    “Pity,” murmured Maglarion.
    Finding new hirelings was always such a bother. 
    The Ghosts, undoubtedly. Maglarion wondered how they had accomplished it. He prodded one of the corpses with the tip of his cane. The dead man’s head turned, his features already starting to swell with decay. 
    Black foam stained his lips and mouth.
    “Poison,” said Maglarion. “Clever, indeed. The Ghosts must have seen the slavers buying supplies in town. Rather than risk a direct confrontation, they poisoned the wine. Very clever.”
    Ikhana hissed. “Drunkards always come to a bad end.”
    Maglarion lifted an eyebrow. For a woman addicted to stolen life energies, Ikhana took a dim view of any other vices. 
    It still amused him, even after all these years. 
    “Come,” said Maglarion, “let us see if any of my students survived.” 
    He found the magi near the table, slumped in their chairs or prone upon the ground. Like the slavers, they all had black foam on their mouths. Maglarion cast his eye over the table, saw a pewter goblet still half-filled with wine.
    He took it, lifted it to his mouth, drank. 
    “Ah,” he murmured, tossing the goblet aside. It clattered against the floor and rolled into the darkness. “Yes. Blackroot extract, distilled and refined. A most potent poison. Two drops into a cask of wine would be enough to kill anyone who drank from it.”
    Poison had long since ceased to trouble Maglarion. Much to the dismay of the Ghosts, no doubt. 
    “Then it was the Ghosts,” said Ikhana. “They are the only ones in the Empire who use blackroot extract.” 
    “Along with a few other assassin bands,” said Maglarion. “But then they have no reason to wish me dead. I always pay on time, do I not?” 
    “The Ghosts know you are here,” said Ikhana. 
    “Perhaps,” said Maglarion. “Or perhaps not. Dear little Laeria mentioned that her husband was an idealistic fool. If he realized that Laeria played at necromancy, he might have sent a coin of Cormarus to the Ghosts. Or we may have drawn the attention of the Ghosts in other ways.” He sighed. “I really shouldn’t have let you burn the Amalas villa to the ground.”
    “It was necessary,” said Ikhana, “to conceal our presence.”
    “Or it drew the attention of the Ghosts,” said Maglarion. He sighed again, thumped his cane against the floor. “No matter.”
    “Then our task here was a failure,” said Ikhana.
    Maglarion lifted his eyebrows. “Not at all.”
    “It was not?” said Ikhana.
    “No,” said Maglarion, turning from the table of dead men.
    “What of your students?” said Ikhana.
    “Useless fools,” said Maglarion. “And our trip to Aretia was not a failure. I found exactly what I came here to claim.”
    He kept walking, past the corridor leading to the cells. 
    “What of the prisoners?” said Ikhana.
    “I don’t care,” said Maglarion. “The Ghosts rescued them. Or they starved to death.” He thought for a moment. “If any of them are still alive, you may have them.”
    Ikhana vanished down the corridor, black dagger flashing in her hand. 
    Maglarion chuckled, stopped before the stained metal table, and whispered a spell. One of the flagstones shifted, revealing a hidden compartment below