The Witness for the Dead

by Katherine Addison

  I woke up later and emerged from the storeroom to find Vera and Valta playing cards at the kitchen table, while Valta’s elven wife worked around them on a meal that turned out to be supper, their wide-eyed infant watching everything from the sling against Sanaro’s shoulder. “Othala!” she said, smiling welcome. “Are you well?”

  “I am, thank you,” I said. “I hope I am not putting you out?”

  “Of course not,” she said, lying staunchly as she was bound to do, just as I was bound to ask.

  “Othala,” said Vera, “we have seen Sherzar and Othala Perchenzar safely buried in the New Town Cemetery, and Athru promises he will keep an eye on the graves.”

  “They will have gravestones by next week,” said Valta.

  I nodded. “Does anyone know anything about Hiriän Balamaran?”

  “Osmer Thilmerezh did not recognize the name,” said Vera.

  Valta added, “But he himself says he knows very little about the trappers and the independent miners who choose not to live in town.”

  “Then we have no way of determining where her grave was or whether her husband was too much Vikhelneise for a marker,” I said. “Or whether there are other graves.”

  “Everyone will be racking their memories,” said Vera, “and someone must know something.”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking now of Arveneän and Inshiran as well as Hiriän. “Someone must know something.”

  Vera hesitated, then said, “Othas’ala Deprena is going to ask you to stay.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I thought I had misheard him.

  “To replace Othala Perchenzar.”

  “That’s a question for the Archprelate,” I said stiffly.

  “The othas’ala said the Archprelate won’t interfere with an agreement that’s already in place,” said Valta.

  I was dubious about that proposition, but said only, “My calling is not in Tanvero, and truthfully I am not much more politic than Othala Perchenzar was.”

  “The othas’ala thinks that because you quieted the ghoul, people will be more likely to accept you,” said Vera.

  “That’s a terrible basis for a prelacy,” I said. “Unless the othas’ala expects there to be a ghoul every year or so—people forget quickly.”

  “We won’t,” said Vera with a shudder.

  “Don’t go making Othala Celehar think you want him to stay against his calling,” said Sanaro.

  “No, of course not,” said Vera.

  “We just wanted to warn you, othala,” said Valta.

  “I appreciate it,” I said.

  They went back to their card game, a northern variant of pakh’palar whose rules I could not follow. I sat and thought about the irony: this was the first time an othas’ala had ever wanted me to stay. The othas’ala in Lohaiso had barely noticed me. The othas’ala in Aveio had hated me long before I disgraced myself. The Amal’othala in Amalo had no use for me. I did not share Othas’ala Deprena’s delusion that I was the solution to his problem. With Vikhelno’s teaching so prevalent in his parish, he needed a strong and charismatic prelate, which I was not.

  Sanaro said, “Move aside, boys. Supper is ready.”

  Valta and Vera both moved with considerable promptness, and Sanaro set a pot of barley and beans and vegetables on the trivet sitting in the middle of the table. She produced a ladle and a stack of bowls and said, “Help yourselves. Othala, will you join us?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, for I was starving. Valta ladled me a generous bowlful.

  There was not a great deal of conversation over supper, which suited me very well. We were nearly done when Vera said, “Othala, is there a way to tell if a grave is…”

  “If a ghoul is getting ready to rise?” Valta finished.

  “Not that I know of,” I said. “Untended graves are a danger, and graves without a legible stone are the worst. But there aren’t any signs of a ghoul waking—at least, not any reliable ones. Some Ulineise Witnesses claim they can feel the ghoul in the ground, but they’re not really any more accurate than you’ll be if you look at the headstone and make a good guess.”

  The twins looked a little daunted. That was good; it might keep them from doing something stupid. If I closed my eyes, I knew I would see the mauled remains of Othala Perchenzar.

  Sanaro said, “There are many cemeteries around Tanvero, othala, as I’m sure you have noticed, and Athru is only one man. What would you suggest?”

  “Make a list of all the cemeteries you know about,” I said promptly. “Get Osmer Thilmerezh to help. Ask the trappers and the miners. Then you need a roster of volunteers. Make sure every cemetery is being checked regularly and weeded and properly maintained. Make the town pay for repairing and replacing gravestones. It isn’t a matter anyone can afford to be stingy about.”

  Sanaro nodded. “My grandmother used to say that if you get one ghoul, you know you’ll get more. Like a disease.”

  There was a horrid thought. “Not quite that bad,” I said. “It’s more that where one grave has fallen into disrepair, there are likely to be more. And of course a ghoul’s victims are more likely to be ghouls in turn. But a legible stone and a properly maintained grave will keep them down.”

  “Well, that’s some comfort,” said Sanaro. “A contagion, we could do nothing about. Weeding, even a child can help with.”

  “That is very true,” I said.

  There was a knock at the door. Valta answered it and said with some surprise, “Osmer Thilmerezh! Come in, please, you honor our house.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Valta,” said Osmer Thilmerezh. “We have come to speak to Othala Celehar, if that is possible.”

  Valta, Vera, and Sanaro all looked at me. I stood up and said, “What may we do for you, Osmer Thilmerezh?”

  Osmer Thilmerezh hesitated—the first sign of uncertainty I had seen in him.

  “The storeroom will be private,” said Sanaro.

  “Thank you,” said Osmer Thilmerezh. “Privacy is desirable.” He followed me to the storeroom, where I lit the lamp before shutting the door.

  “What may we do for you?” I asked again.

  Osmer Thilmerezh said, “We would ask you to bear a message.”

  “A message?”

  Osmer Thilmerezh looked even more uncomfortable. “We are a stranger to the young lady, and we fear she would merely discard the letter if we were to send it through the post.”

  I stared at him, and he blushed as delicately as any elven maiden. “She is our granddaughter, but we never knew her mother because we were exiled before she was born, and her mother wanted nothing to do with us. She married another man, and Veliso was raised as his child. We kept track of her as best we could, and we thought when she married an airman and moved to Amalo that we might have the chance to write to her. But she died in childbirth with her daughter Amiru. Amiru is nineteen now and old enough to be told the truth and decide for herself. We are determined not to let this second chance elude us.”

  It took me some time to find the words to answer this remarkable story. Finally, I said, “We will carry a letter. And we will vouch that you are a real person and not, as best we can judge, a liar. But—”

  “That is all we ask!” Osmer Thilmerezh said quickly. “We could not reasonably ask more. We mean the child no harm. She is the only family we have left, and we should like to know her. That is all.”

  “We will bear your letter,” I said, and he beamed at me.

  “Splendid! Truly, we cannot thank you enough. Here.” It was a fat document, carefully sealed, and as I watched, he wrapped it in oilskin and tied it with a long leather lace.

  “You will not forget?” he asked.

  “We will not,” I said, choosing to take the question as a sign of his anxiety rather than as an insult. Almost reluctantly, he handed me the packet, which I stowed carefully in the inside pocket of the terrible mustard-yellow coat, where it barely fit.

  “Thank you, othala,” said Osmer Thilmerezh. “You relieve us of a great burden of
indecision.”

  In the kitchen, everyone was trying to look as though they weren’t curious in the slightest. Osmer Thilmerezh wished us all a good evening and departed.

  “It is Osmer Thilmerezh’s business, not mine,” I said into the hopeful silence. “Now, I need to find the caravan master—at least, I trust they haven’t departed already?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” said Vera. “I can take you, othala. Valta has a little one to put to bed.”

  Sanaro, nursing the still wide-eyed infant, laughed and said, “The little one would rather go run around the streets with you. I dread the day she learns to walk.”

  “She will be a terror like her mother,” said Valta.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” I said formally to them both.

  “We could do no less,” said Sanaro, which I recognized as a formal Barizheise phrase.

  “Our house is open to you, othala,” said Valta. “I do not like to think about how many people would have died if you had not come.”

  “It is my calling,” I said, as Coralezh had said to me.

  * * *

  Tanvero had no street lights. I was possibly still a little rattled by the ghoul, for I found myself following Vera so closely that I was almost treading on his heels, but he only laughed when I tried to apologize.

  There were two hotels in town, one patronized by caravan masters and one patronized by guards and drivers. Vera took me to Elsanesmee, where the caravan masters stayed, and said, “If you need anything, othala, ask for me. Valta and I do repairs for most of the buildings in town, so everyone knows us.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “It is kind of you.”

  He looked at me oddly, then smiled and said, “If you come to Tanvero again, I hope it is not for ghouls.”

  Inside Elsanesmee, I was recognized immediately and disconcertingly as the prelate who had quieted the ghoul. The desk clerk offered me a chair behind the desk (which I was glad to take, for I was still fatigued) and a boy was sent running to fetch Mer Malhanar. I was intensely uncomfortable, especially as I knew I was being watched from the servants’ corridor that ran behind the desk and under the main staircase. The mustard-yellow coat felt like a blazing torch.

  Mer Malhanar appeared with what I supposed was flattering promptness and professed himself delighted to see that I was well and capable of returning to Amalo in the morning. He seemed nervous in my presence, and I suppressed the ridiculous urge to reassure him that I had not torn the ghoul apart with my bare hands. He was also delighted to find me a bed for the night, and I was equally pleased with the tiny single room up under the eaves. It was intended for a merchant’s edocharis, but even if there was some subtle insult intended—which I felt confident there was not—I did not care. The door had a lock and the bed could be slept upon and Mer Malhanar had my valise sent up so that I was able to change into my nightshirt and sleep in comfort.

  Despite my half prediction to myself, insomnia did not plague me, and if I dreamed, I did not remember them in the morning.

  * * *

  At dawn, when I walked to the town square, the caravan wagons and mule teams were there. So was the mayor of Tanvero.

  “Othala Celehar!” he cried, seizing both my hands before I knew what he was doing. “We cannot tell you how grateful we are!”

  “We follow our calling,” I said.

  “You have saved Tanvero!” the mayor said.

  That was an exaggeration, although certainly the town would need to build a crematorium in a dreadful hurry.

  “Can we not convince you to stay? Othas’ala Deprena—who is with a sick parishioner this morning, or he would be here, too—would welcome you, and the whole town would be grateful.”

  “We are not suited to the ulimeire of a small town,” I said, and managed to get my hands back. “But we thank you for the invitation.”

  “Then can we not do something else to thank you? Anything? We would be glad to give you a better coat.”

  My face burned, but I was about to say yes when Csano yelled, “Othala! If you’re coming, you’d better come now!” I realized the wagons at the head of the train were starting to move.

  “Thank you very much for the offer,” I said to the mayor, then turned and ran for the wagon, mustard-yellow coat and all.

  * * *

  When we reached the Glassmarket, there was another of Prince Orchenis’s couriers waiting for me. I recognized two of the three elven men standing beside him: Goronezh of the Amalo Arbiter and Thurizar of the Evening Standard. The third had to be a newspaperman for the Herald of Amalo.

  I liked Goronezh and Thurizar well enough—they didn’t go out of their way to cast me in a bad light, neither as a fraud nor as a halfwit, and although Goronezh in particular was cynical about the inner politics of the Amalomeire, they were both respectful of the gods.

  This new man was younger, fox-faced, and wore his hair in a sleek knot at the nape of his neck. He made me intensely aware of the mustard-yellow coat.

  In the chaos of unloading, I barely managed to shout good-bye to Csano before I was being unsmilingly helped in a two-wheeled carriage, the courier climbing in after me.

  The newspapermen were shouting questions:

  “Othala Celehar, did you find a ghoul?”

  “Othala Celehar, is it true that the prince threatened to throw you out of Amalo?”

  “Othala Celehar, is there any truth to the rumors about the Duhalada will?”

  It was a good thing I was already sitting down. If the newspapermen knew about the Duhalada, the Amal’othala either did or very soon would. And if it was in the papers, he would be obliged to notice it whether he wanted to or not. I had a terrible feeling about the reason Prince Orchenis needed to see me so urgently. I pulled myself together to protest to the courier, “I can’t go before Prince Orchenis like this!” The mustard-yellow coat was practically flaunting disrespect, both for the prince and for my calling.

  The courier barely glanced at me. “The prince will not be offended.”

  That cold, hard knot in my stomach got worse.

  I was taken to the Cinnabar Room again, where Prince Orchenis and his secretary were waiting. Prince Orchenis’s frown was even deeper, and I bowed to him with my heart pounding and my hands ice-cold.

  The prince said, “The Amal’othala has been forced to take notice.”

  My knees nearly buckled; it was the thing I had most feared. “How?”

  “Mer Nepevis Duhalar,” Prince Orchenis said with the precision of distaste, “in his panic to avoid the judgment of fraud, which he must know is inevitable at this point, took his concerns directly to the Amalomeire.” Even more dourly, he added, “And then the newspapers got hold of it.”

  My heartbeat pounded frantically against my ribs, and my ears were down flat. It took an effort to ask, “What has gotten in the newspapers?”

  “So far, only that there is some irregularity with Nepena Duhalar’s will and that you spoke to Mer Duhalar on his sons’ behalf. They haven’t printed any of the more scurrilous rumors yet.”

  That was not terrible, although also not good. “What has the Amal’othala said?”

  “He is most displeased, and he does not like any better than we do being dictated to by Mer Duhalar. Still, as you have observed, it is impossible to prove a negative.”

  “We swear,” I said through numb lips, “we had never met any of the Duhalada before that day.”

  “Not the point,” said Prince Orchenis, “although in all fairness we must admit we believe you. The Amal’othala says that, as you have been accused of profaning your calling, it must be Ulis who proclaims your guilt or innocence.”

  Incredulity made my voice squeak and break: “Trial by ordeal?”

  “Trial by ordeal,” agreed Prince Orchenis. “It is the only way.”

  He would not say that at the Untheileneise Court, but I caught myself before I said anything so obvious and so foolish. I realized my hands were shaking, hopefully not so that Prince Orchen
is would notice.

  “What is the ordeal of Amalo?” I said.

  “That,” said Prince Orchenis, “is up to the Amal’othala.”

  * * *

  I insisted and was grudgingly allowed to return to my apartment long enough to change my coat. I left the dreadful mustard-yellow coat in a heap on the floor. I chose a waistcoat and then put on my coat of office. Once properly dressed for an audience with the Amal’othala, I joined the courier in the two-wheeled carriage for the drive south to the Amalomeire where it was carved into the living rock of Osreian’s Spur. We left the prince’s carriage at the foot of the stairs and climbed endless switchbacks, damp with the nearness of the Zhomaikora. The trick, as I knew from my only other audience with the Amal’othala, was never to look down and never to look back, even when one stopped to rest in one of the elaborately carved, copper-roofed turrets.

  Finally, we reached the top of the cliff, where two somber-faced canons were waiting for us. One went one way with the courier; the other bowed to me and said, “Come this way, othala, please.”

  I followed her through the grounds of the Amalomeire. Unlike other palaces and prelacies I had seen, the Amalomeire had no trees, no flowers, just the stark rock out of which the palace was carved. We entered the Amalomeire from its roof.

  Inside, it was a true warren, millennia old, the stone beneath our feet worn smooth and convex with the passage of thousands upon thousands of feet. Everywhere there were elaborate stone lattices, carved to look like vines or lace. We passed canons and novices in the halls, all of whom seemed to know who I was; I saw fear in the quick glances they gave me, as if the Amal’othala’s disapproval was contagious. I wanted to ask my guide how many people the Amal’othala sentenced to trial by ordeal, but I didn’t trust my voice and I wasn’t sure she would answer me. I saw Othalo Zanarin in hushed colloquy with two canons, doubtless pursuing some matter on behalf of Dach’othala Vernezar. She glanced up as we passed, but stared straight through me.

  The Amal’othala was at devotions in his private chapel. I sat on the bench carved into the rock while the canon stood in front of me as if she were blocking any attempt at escape.