Read Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 09 - Ghost in the Surge for Free Online Page A

the Ghosts, and the Emperor.
    Odd that he had once been the penniless son of a drunken tavern keeper of Caer Marist, a boy who ran away to join the Legion. 
    Life was strange.
    “What do you think?” said Muravin again. 
    And now, it seemed, one of his responsibilities was to help a former Istarish gladiator find a husband for his daughter.
    Life was indeed strange.  
    “I think,” said Ark, “you should let the girl make up her own mind.”
    They walked along Malarae’s Via Triumphalis, the noon sun shining overhead. Traffic filled the street, men and women going about their business for the day. Horsemen in the colors of various lords rode back and forth, carrying messages. Here and there the coach of a wealthy merchant rattled past. In the distance Ark saw the gray shapes of the mountains, the white towers and walls of the Imperial Citadel occupying an outthrust spur. 
    He remembered the first time he had come to Malarae, marching with the Eighteenth as it headed north to the Imperial Pale. The size and scale of the city had awed him, and it still did. Malarae was the largest city in the world, and men from every nation came here to buy and sell. 
    Muravin made a grumbling noise. “She may make a poor choice.” He was about ten years older than Ark, with iron gray hair and weathered bronze skin. He wore chain mail beneath a jerkin of black leather, an Istarish scimitar riding at his belt, a trident slung over his shoulder. 
    “She may,” said Ark, “but that seems unlikely. Mahdriva has a solid head on her shoulders. Suffering teaches wisdom.”
    “Aye,” said Muravin with a sigh, “and my poor girl has known more suffering that I would wish.”
    They left the Via Triumphalis and made their way to the blacksmith’s district, where massive foundries turned out an endless supply of arms and armor for the Emperor’s Legions, and pots and pans and knives to sell across the provinces. The air here smelled of smoke and coke and hot metal. The foundries were quiet now. Most of the smiths preferred to work in the evenings, after the heat of the day had faded. 
    “True,” said Ark. Caina had told him about Mahdriva, how Ibrahmus Sinan had hunted her, hoping to use the blood of her unborn son to make himself immortal. That had not ended well for Sinan. 
    Caina had seen to that. 
    “I am an old man,” said Muravin, “and I do not know when death shall come for me. I want to make sure Mahdriva and my grandson are provided for when I am dead.”
    “Quintus is the best choice, I think,” said Ark. “He’s a Legion veteran, and he’s a solid worker at my foundry. He’ll be able to provide for Mahdriva, and he’ll look after Sonyar. He had a wife and child when he was still in the Legion, but a fever took them.” 
    Muravin grumbled. “I would prefer a younger man for her. And perhaps one of Istarish birth.” 
    Ark laughed. “Then you should have stayed in Istarinmul. And Quintus is older, steadier, and wealthier. He can provide for her and any other children they have.”
    “True,” said Muravin. 
    “And from what Tanya tells me,” said Ark, “Mahdriva is fond of him. Every time he visits, she asks him to come back as soon as he can manage.”
    Muravin grunted. “Did not your wife introduce Quintus to Mahdriva?”
    “Aye,” said Ark.
    The former gladiator laughed. “Then it is out of our hands, Master Arcion. Mahdriva shall wed Quintus. Likely your wife has arranged the entire thing from the beginning, and we are all merely puppets dancing upon her flings.”
    “Strings,” said Ark. Muravin’s Caerish was improving, but he was still prone to the occasional malapropism. “And you are likely right.” Tanya was good at that kind of thing.
    “Yes, strings,” said Muravin. He snorted. “If I wed again, perhaps I shall find one of these blue-eyed Szaldic women. They seem to make good wives.” 
    “I agree,” said Ark.
    They arrived at his foundry, a massive, fortress-like structure