Ghost Rage, Episode 8a- Vote Now!

You produce a gold coin and show it to Moresti.

“You work for me now,” you say. “Do as I command, and you’ll see more of this, before we’re done.”

Moresti’s bloodshot eyes widen. He takes the coin, bites it, grunts, and makes it disappear into his belt.

“Moresti good mercenary,” he says. “Very reliable.”

“Good,” you say, risking another glance at Korthion. “Now do exactly as I say, or that magus is going to kill us both.”

You yank the kerchief from your head, letting your hair fall loose around your shoulders. You put your left arm around Moresti’s waist, put his right arm around your shoulders, and rest your face against his shoulder.

He doesn’t smell at all good.

“Moresti…is confused,” says Moresti.

“Sing!” you hiss. “Now!”

Moresti blinks, and begins belting out the drinking song in Szaldic again. You risk a look through your hair, and see Korthion, Cenorix, and the militiamen hurry past you. Korthion glances at Moresti, sneering a bit, but doesn’t see you at all.

Hiding in plain sight is the best place to hide, after all.

Soon your pursuers vanish around the curve of the Hippodrome.

You disentangle yourself from Moresti before he can get any ideas, and order him to follow you. You hasten to one of the stables near the Hippodrome, let yourself into the Ghosts’ bolt-hole, and tell Moresti to wait outside.

Then you change your disguise, donning the leather armor, heavy boots, brown cloak, and rough trousers of a mercenary guardsman. You rub sweat into your hair, letting it fall in greasy tangles over your face, and some carefully applied makeup creates the illusion of stubble. With the short sword and dagger at your belt, you look like any other male mercenary wandering the capital – albeit a smallish one.

Moresti doesn’t recognize you when you emerge, and flinches when you command him to follow you.

“Gods,” he rumbles, shaking his head, “you are not woman, you are…you are water devil. Frostmaiden.”

You know the word. It is a Kyracian legend, about spirits who lurk below the waters of the frozen north, spirits who take the form of beautiful women and have ice and brine running in their veins, spirits that lure men to their doom.

You smirk, and beckon for Moresti to follow you.

A short walk takes you to the magnificent stone pile of the Temple of the Hearthmother, all gleaming columns and marble statues. The priestess of the Hearthmother are uniformly plump, matronly, and arrogant, and you’ve never cared for them much. Fortunately, they’re cooperative.

“We’re couriers,” you tell one of the priestesses, who looks at you disdainfully, “and we’ve a letter for the betrothed of Lord Julian Trimogena.” Moresti seems surprised at how effectively you can disguise your voice, but you’ve had a lot of practice. “Trouble is, noblewomen are a dozen a denarius in this city, and we can’t find the lass, whoever she is.”

The priestess sniffs. “Lord Julian pledged his troth to Lady Chrysana, of House Karbonos, in this very temple not four days past.”

Only four days? He’d only been made Lord Commander of the Eighteenth Legion in the last week.

You thank the priestess and depart. House Karbonos is not a major House, but it is wealthy, and Lord Karbonos maintains a townhouse not far from the Temple of Markoin on the Via Triumphalis.

As you walk, you question Moresti further about the “mavrokh.” Unfortunately, his Kyracian vocabulary is not up to the task of describing the mavrokh, whatever it is. He tells you that the mavrokh is bad, that it is evil, that it kills people. Mothers tell their children that the mavrokh will get them, if they misbehave.

Moresti does manage to say that the mavrokh is invisible. If a “mavrokh” indeed killed Lord Julian, that would explain how his killer entered the Rose Inn unseen.

You arrive at Lord Karbonos’s townhouse. It is small by the standards of Malarae, which means only five stories, and an inner courtyard.

“What does the Frostmaiden command?” says Moresti.

“Let me think,” you say, considering the best way to approach Chyrsana Karbonos. She might not know anything about Julian’s death. She might not even know that he had died. On the other hand…

A shrill scream cuts into your thoughts.

An old woman in a maid’s dress bursts from the townhouse’s door, eyes wide, face white with horror, and runs into the street. From inside the townhouse you hear more screams – horrible, wrenching screams – full of despair and horror.
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