Books & Bone

by Victoria Corva

  As for the Lich’s trance-like state, it is unclear whether this is a side-effect of its advanced age, or merely boredom.

  ~from A History of Tombtown by Emberlon the Disloyal

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CONVALESCENT CONVERSATIONALIST

  Ree tried to make her mouth move, but somehow couldn’t. Smythe was alive — alive and talking, and though the curse still marked him in subtle ways, there was a wry twist to his mouth and an embarrassed flush in his cheeks.

  She glanced at Andomerys for help, but the healer was sitting in the corner of the main room with an embroidery circle in her lap and didn’t so much as look up.

  Smythe didn’t seem put-out by her inability to articulate. ‘I think Andomerys also mentioned something about getting ceremonially lynched by the town. So that’s two reasons to thank you. Well — three, I suppose, as you did identify those remains rather brilliantly —’

  She got control of her mouth and managed to say: ‘They hardly ever do that. The lynching, I mean.’ Although that was largely because no upworlders ever came to town. Adventurers were usually killed by the Lich, if not by the various undead, and new practitioners were told the rules and sent to turn a tomb into a tombhome. Smythe was the first upworlder she’d heard of that wasn’t here either to kill them or to join them.

  She couldn’t quite believe the situation. It was all so surreal — standing in Andomerys’ house, talking to an upworlder as politely as if she were shopping at the Bone Market.

  But he didn’t belong here. Even after the lengths she’d gone to, to save his life, she’d never really thought about what would happen after. And now there was a boy on a padded pallet on Andomerys’ healing table and it was all her fault.

  Her chest tightened. She’d never been responsible for another person before. Nor had she ever done anything more controversial than delaying her education in the Craft.

  This was a big deal.

  This could be a problem.

  Smythe sat up, wincing. ‘Even so, the possibility, you know.’ He shrugged, as if to say ‘I’m just not too keen on ceremonial lynchings’, but he didn’t look all that concerned. His brows pinched together, suddenly, and he said, ‘Are you … quite all right? You’ve got some dust —’ he started to point on his own face, hesitated and said, ‘Well … everywhere, really.’

  Ree’s cheeks heated. She was profoundly glad that the dust would hide it. ‘I’m fine. I’ve just been travelling. Not a lot of opportunity to —’ she cut herself off as she considered what she must look like to him. Coated in tomb grime, dust and cobwebs, unwashed and sticky-haired from a night sleeping rough in one of the lesser tombs while Usther’s minions kept watch. Then she’d spent the night with parchment and ink on Andomerys’ floor, and she hadn’t bothered to bathe at home.

  She would definitely do that now ...

  Her mouth dried as she cast about for something normal to say. Whatever she might look like, she definitely didn’t want to discuss her hygiene habits with him. She turned to Andomerys instead. ‘The healing went well, then?’

  ‘Going.’

  ‘What?’

  Andomerys rolled her eyes. ‘The healing is going well. Don’t get up,’ she added without lifting her head.

  ‘I beg your pard-aahhh!’ Smythe’s knees gave out and he slithered to the floor, desperately clinging to the healer’s table. His skin greyed, his eyes hollowing.

  Ree hesitated, hands twitching at her sides, uncertain of whether she should help or stay out of the way. Andomerys stepped past her and braced Smythe, helping him back onto the bed.

  ‘You know he’s alive,’ said Andomerys, once he was settled. Her magic glowed faintly around him as his eyes closed. ‘You should come back in a few days. He needs to rest.’

  Smythe’s eyes cracked open. ‘You will come back, won’t you?’

  Ree tucked a stray hair behind her ear. She found the earnestness of his gaze unnerving, but couldn’t quite look away. ‘I’ll come back,’ she promised.

  The next few days were a misery of worry. She stopped her mother every time she came through the door. ‘Do the council know about —?’

  ‘No. Nobody knows. Morrin, in her wisdom, is shielding him.’

  Personally, she thought it was more to do with Andomerys shielding him than anything, but she held her tongue. She didn’t want her mother — or Morrin — to catch her blaspheming.

  Emberlon gave her archive work closer to the town, and never asked any questions about the mysterious emergency book request. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew, though. Something about the measuring look in his eyes … she was probably being paranoid.

  The additional benefit of the work was that it kept her away from Usther, who seemed determined to track her down. Ree wasn’t sure what it was that had made her so suspicious, but she had no intention of giving away Smythe.

  When she finally stood again on Andomerys’ doorstep, she wore her best robe (which rather than black was just a really dark red) and her hair was carefully pinned. She’d washed that morning in a fresh trough of river water and she still couldn’t feel her toes.

  Andomerys opened the door and walked away without so much as a greeting. Ree followed her in, hating the way her heart clenched and her pulse jangled. She wasn’t used to this desire to impress, and she didn’t much like it.

  Smythe sat at the spindly table, with a ceramic mug steaming in his hands. He looked brighter, fresher, the warm colour returned to his skin. As she walked in, he fumbled the mug to the table and lurched to his feet.

  ‘Ree!’

  Ree wasn’t sure what expression she was meant to wear. She flushed as he beamed at her.

  ‘I’m so pleased you came back! I realise you said you would, but even so you must be very busy, necromancing and what not —’

  Andomerys cleared her throat and Smythe faltered. ‘Oh. Um. Anyway, I’m all better now.’

  Ree looked to Andomerys. The healer was embroidering again, what looked like tiny suns on the sleeves of her robes. ‘He’s really better?’

  ‘Yes.’ Andomerys carefully pulled the needle through the silk and pulled the thread to its extent.

  ‘No complications?’

  ‘No.’

  Ree glanced at Smythe, who was staring at his lap. ‘I may have slightly ... somewhat … overstayed my welcome.’

  Andomerys’s eyes flicked up, then back to her work. ‘You talk a lot,’ was all she said. There was an air of long-suffering and barely contained temper about her.

  Smythe looked at Ree and shrugged. Now he was blushing, his face positively glowing with embarrassment. Nobody in Tombtown blushed like that. None of the necromancers or their children could, and though Andomerys’ healing magic fended off the effects of the nearness to death, Ree doubted Andomerys was capable of embarrassment.

  Ree twisted her skirts in her hands. ‘Well … as you’re better, I suppose I’d better take you back to the surface.’

  Smythe eyes widened.

  Andomerys sighed. ‘Please do.’

  ‘Please don’t!’ Smythe leapt to his feet and took Ree’s hands in supplication — Ree flinched out of his grasp. ‘Oh — sorry.’ He looked sheepish a moment, but then his hands curled at his sides. ‘Madam, I have gone to some considerable effort to get here and — well, I’m not ready to go back.’ His jaw set in a firm line. ‘I’ve spent my life in pursuit of history, a history that you live among every day. I don’t know how you could — I mean, I’ve seen it! I’ve seen the tombs and — and the tunnels! I could spend the rest of my life here exploring and studying and never waste a day in boredom.’

  ‘And there’s the libraries,’ said Ree, almost without thinking.

  He smiled tentatively. ‘Libraries?’

  ‘Several of them.’ She didn’t know why she felt the need to sell him on her home when he would be leaving as soon as he was physically able, but she couldn’t seem to resist. Maybe it was the memory of his shock and pity at learning she had been born
here. ‘I’m actually one of the town archivists — there are books here that are hundreds of years old, from many different cultures.’

  ‘Fascinating!’ His eyes glowed with enthusiasm. ‘And where might one find these librar —’

  Andomerys cleared her throat.

  ‘Oh, um. I beg your pardon.’ Smythe ran a hand through his hair. ‘I didn’t mean — I just get a little over-enthusiastic sometimes and …’ he trailed off.

  Ree hesitated, teetering on the edge of a bad idea. Looking at him now, so keen to explore the world she loved, it was hard to imagine sending him away. But if he didn’t go, and go quickly, she would have saved his life for nothing. She knew her neighbours: they would kill him if they got the chance. They would do it out of fear for themselves, and of the danger of Smythe telling others of their secret home, but they would do it nonetheless.

  ‘You need to leave.’ The words came out gentle. ‘The necromancers here … they’ll kill you. And the town council will back them up if they do. You have to leave before they know you’re here.’

  She’d thought her words would elicit shock, or concern. Or perhaps dithering, as he seemed a dithery sort of person. But instead, his mouth firmed into a hard line. ‘I have only just arrived.’ He raised his chin. ‘I have barely scraped the surface of this place, and already I know this is a site of historical significance unlike any other. I know — look, I realise you must think me a bit strange as I didn’t grow up with bones under my feet, but I’m not weak. I’m very — I’m determined. I didn’t survive the ridicule and constant sabotage of my peers at the University just to run away from a fight.’ His gaze was flinty for a moment. He coughed, then smiled at her hopefully. ‘So, uh, who do I speak to about staying here? Is there some sort of permit I can get? And somewhere to stay — an inn, perhaps?’

  Ree wrung her skirts between her hands, torn between frustration and shock. ‘Did you not hear me say that they’ll kill you?’

  ‘I heard you but I must respectfully disagree.’

  Andomerys watched Smythe with raised eyebrows. ‘They might not kill him. They didn’t kill me.’

  ‘They couldn't kill you!’ Ree felt close to tearing out her hair. ‘Pa says all seven founders hit you with a curse and you shook it off and threatened to break their minions with your magic!’

  ‘Ah!’ said Smythe, while Andomerys shrugged. ‘So they can be reasoned with!’

  Ree pressed her fingertips to her temples. ‘I wouldn’t call that reason.’

  ‘Look,’ said Smythe. He clasped his hands in front of him and gave her a look so earnest that it made her uncomfortable. ‘I do hear you. You know this place. You’re — you’re so knowledgeable. So competent. And you casually rediscovered a lost art of healing to help me. But I can’t leave. I couldn’t if you dragged me away.’ His eyes were bright. ‘This discovery is my life’s work. I must see it through.’

  The words pierced her. She knew too well the irresistible pull of passionate study. The sense of destiny around every breakthrough.

  She feared for him. But she couldn’t make him leave, and now she knew that she couldn’t convince him to.

  ‘Well,’ she said, wondering if she was dooming him with these words. ‘My father is on the town council. I’ll help you make your case to him.’

  Smythe’s eyes widened. ‘Really? Oh, that would just be jolly of you!’ He seized her hand and pumped it up and down. ‘Just excellent, thank you!’

  Ree was torn between shock and nerves. She wasn’t used to being touched by strangers, and only rarely by her parents. Was it always this warm? Did it always tingle? Her breath came short and her face flushed even hotter. Carefully, she extracted her hand.

  Worse was the feeling that he was thanking her for delivering him to his executioners.

  ‘It’s no problem, really,’ she said. She also couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disappointed not to be touching any more. She clasped her hands behind her back so that it wouldn’t happen again. There was too much going on right now for her to sort through. ‘Um … come with me, I guess?’

  She looked at Andomerys, but the healer had gone back to ignoring them.

  ‘Excellent!’ Smythe started fussing around the table, shoving sheafs of paper and various writing implements into his worn leather satchel. ‘Andomerys, is it alright if I borrow —?’

  ‘Just go.’

  Smythe raised the book he’d been reading, grinning cheerfully. ‘I’m inexpressibly grateful.’

  Ree paused in the doorway on her way out. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

  Andomerys inclined her head. Then, as she closed the door, she caught the faint advice: ‘Try not to let him die.’

  A task that was looking more difficult by the minute.

  Ree led Smythe down from Andomery’s hut, sneaking guilty glances at him. He was so strange and out of place, and after a week spent worrying about whether he’d live or die, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he might vanish at any moment.

  Fortunately, Smythe was too preoccupied to notice her furtive study of him. ‘Gosh, it’s dark out here, isn’t it? I hadn’t realised.’

  It wasn’t dark to Ree, but she let it pass. She would have to find him a torch or something if they were to explore, but a small amount of light filtered through the cracks in the domed ceiling of the town where it touched the surface.

  ‘So this entire town is built inside an enormous tomb?’

  Ree nodded and looked away from him, twisting her skirts between her hands. ‘We call it the Central Mausoleum. It’s a collection of smaller tombs connected to a much larger one.’

  ‘A king?’

  Ree nodded. ‘We call him the Old King. We aren’t sure which one.’

  Smythe stopped and turned to face her, his eyes alight. ‘I accept!’

  Ree blinked. ‘What?’

  Smythe grinned at her, one cheek dimpling. ‘Of course I’ll put my research skills to the task of finding out which King is in your grand tomb —’

  ‘I mean, we don’t really call it that —’

  ‘— I am the youngest Third Rank historian in over two hundred years, you know, and the foremost burial scholar in the southern reaches —’

  Ree didn’t like where this was going. ‘— Smythe —’

  ‘— Let’s see, I’ll need some tools and two assistants with steady hands —’

  ‘Smythe.’ Ree fixed him with her father’s ‘if you interrupt me again, so help me, I’ll feed you to the greywraiths’ look.

  Smythe stopped mid-sentence, his hands in the air. He lowered them and cleared his throat. ‘Uhm. That is … quite the stare. I can’t quite remember my train of thought.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter which king it was,’ Ree said firmly. She would need to watch him carefully, she realised. Not because he meant any harm, but because he was so headstrong and enthusiastic that he would plunge into danger with a wave and a grin.

  She had never been like that herself. Her parents worried that she was defenseless without the Craft, but she was ever-cautious. She crept and climbed and bided her time. She balanced the risks and always erred on the side of safety.

  All except once.

  Smythe was still frowning at her. He looked quite pale. ‘How did you do that … thing … with your eyes?’ He pointed at her face with a trembling hand.

  Her eyes did something? Interesting. She’d have to try the look in a mirror sometime, if she could find one that wasn’t cursed ...

  She exhaled through her nose. ‘Smythe. Focus.’

  ‘Right. Sorry. You were saying … it doesn’t matter which king it was.’ He deflated as he said the words. ‘I’m ever so sorry, madam, I know I can be a real wretch sometimes when I get excited.’

  He stared at the floor, shoulders hunched and jaw clenched. He looked so forlorn that Ree relented. ‘Look, you’ll get to see it soon anyway.’

  Smythe straightened. ‘Really?’

  Wandering Larry, who had caught Ree’s scent on her
way up, stumbled up toward them. He leaned in to bite Ree’s shoulder. She gave his shoulder a shove, sending him tumbling back downstairs.

  ‘At the town meeting to decide your fate.’ She gestured for Smythe to follow her. Not many people climbed these stairs unless they needed Andomerys for something, but the longer they spent outside, the more likely it was that Smythe would be spotted.

  She wished there was another way, but she couldn’t see it. She couldn’t hide Smythe from her father, or from anyone else if he was so determined to remain. She’d just have to approach the council and plead Smythe’s case — get them onside before the rest of the town weighed in. It would be so much easier if he was a practitioner, but it took no more than a quick glance to tell that he’d never cast a necromantic spell in his life. He just looked so healthy. In an upworlder way, anyway.

  ‘At the town meeting!’ He repeated, delighted. His eyebrows pinched. ‘At the town meeting?’

  A better reaction would be fear, or the growing sense that he’d made a terrible mistake, as Ree had. If they couldn’t get the town on Smythe’s side, they would kill him to preserve their secrets.

  But threats to his life didn’t seem to dissuade him much, so Ree only said: ‘We use the tomb as a town hall.’

  ‘Splendid!’ he said, though he looked more puzzled than pleased.

  It wasn’t long before he seized on something else to query. Ree somehow towed Smythe downstairs amidst cries of ‘What’s that limping fellow doing over there?’ (it was a minion, watering Zamia’s fungus garden) and ‘Why does everyone wear black?’ (it was traditional and hid bloodstains a treat) and ‘Is that little girl’s dog missing half a jaw?’ (obviously). Larry lolloped after them, gargling happily. Ree gritted her teeth through all of it.

  When she finally shunted Smythe through the back door of her family’s tombhome, shooed Larry away and slammed the door closed behind them, she could hardly bear it when Smythe opened his mouth to ask another question.