‘No, I didn’t say that —’
‘You should never have brought him here,’ said Tarantur.
‘He knows too much,’ said Kylath.
Ree looked from Kylath to Tarantur to Bahamet, seeking sympathy, patience, the tiniest hint of support, but she found none. At last, she turned to her father. ‘He saved my life.’
The words hung in the air a moment. Even Bahamet stirred, turning shadow-pit eyes to focus on her.
Ree’s father’s face clouded. He leaned forward. ‘Explain.’
‘There was a greater dead,’ Ree said. She tensed as Usther slithered from the barrel, but refocused on the council. ‘I was unprepared. I was caught in a mind snare. If he hadn’t arrived, I’d be dead now.’
She saw the effect her words had on her father; the way he closed his eyes, the way his jaw tightened. ‘A mind snare,’ he said quietly, and she could almost taste the scorn on the air, bitter and cold.
‘A shame you never learned the Craft.’ Usther started to pace the room. She had all the presence of a cobra. ‘You might not have needed rescue from an interfering upworlder if that were so.’
Ree’s eyes flitted to her father, then away. Her chest tightened at the shame writ so clearly across his face. It was the Lich! she wanted to say. Not one necromancer in ten could resist a mind snare that powerful, and I still got away! But if they found out that Smythe had disturbed the Lich — let alone Ree — then he would certainly be killed, if only to appease it.
She pressed her lips together and looked at her feet. ‘He isn’t a danger to us.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ said Kylath.
‘It’s not worth the risk,’ said Tarantur.
‘Usther was telling us about this upworlder.’ Her father’s tone was flat. ‘He’s a greater danger than you’re letting on. Speaks unguardedly, knows nothing about our ways, and he’s well-known in the world above.’
‘A historian,’ said Usther. She stopped next to Ree and made to lean on her shoulder; Ree elbowed her in the ribs. ‘He intends to write about us for his disgusting establishment.’ She flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I’m sure it would make him a name among his peers: the man who found a community of freaks and delinquents, living in a city of the dead. Quite the headline.’
‘That’s a terrible headline,’ said Ree. ‘And he’s not like that at all. He just wants to learn, and explore. He’s not — not dangerous! He’s just curious. Like —’
‘Like you?’ Usther raised an eyebrow. Ree’s stomach twisted and heat rose to her face. There had been many times in her life when Ree had thought she hated Usther, but just then she would have struck her across the face if the council weren’t there to watch.
‘A decision must be made,’ said Tarantur. ‘And in light of this information —’
‘Excuse me, but — don’t I get a say?’
Ree went cold. The door creaked open. Smythe nodded and smiled as he entered, missed a step, and staggered into Ree. She steadied him as he straightened his glasses. Larry lumbered in behind him.
For a moment, the room was silent but for the sound of Larry gently whining.
Smythe, for his part, looked almost undead as he considered the room of necromancers before him. She had never seen him look so ashen, or so shocked. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said into the silence. ‘The tavern keeper kindly pointed me this way. I hope I’m not intruding.’ He gave Larry a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘There there, it’s not so bad, old chap — argh!’ He barely managed to snatch his hand away as Larry’s teeth clicked shut.
‘Smythe.’ Ree’s voice was barely more than a shrill whisper. Her throat was tight; her heart thumped painfully against her ribs. ‘I thought I told you to stay in my room.’
‘I know, but I wanted to help —’
Pressure built up in the room. The temperature chilled. The air thinned. Ree could see Smythe’s breath clouding in the air. Her eyes flicked to the assembled council members, all standing, and acted on instinct. She stepped between Smythe and the necromancers, throwing her arms wide and backing him into the wall. ‘You are not going to hurt him!’ she said, throwing up every mental ward her parents had ever taught her. Her eyes met her father’s. ‘Pa, please!’
His nostrils flared. The pressure in the room continued to build, but no spells were cast. Ree held her breath, praying that she hadn’t angered the other council members enough for them to risk going through her to get to Smythe.
‘Fine!’ Her father snatched his staff from the table and slammed it down onto the ground. Shadowy tendrils swirled around him. His voice boomed, shaking dust from the ceiling and echoing around the tomb: ‘All denizens to the town hall. Now!’
The magic faded. He jabbed a finger at Ree. ‘Don’t you let him out of your sight for a second.’
‘This is a bad idea, Igneus,’ said Tarantur. ‘We ought to deal with him ourselves.’
‘She says she owes him her life —’ said her father.
‘You do?’ Smythe whispered.
‘— it’s out of our hands.’
The council members filed out of the room, until it was just Ree, Smythe, Usther, and Larry.
‘Excellent work, Ree.’ Usther cocked her head to one side. ‘Really, some truly bronze-level ideas there. Now he’ll be killed by a mob instead of a council; much more entertaining.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I have to ask why you are putting so much effort into trying to preserve a man who is clearly destined for lesser minion-hood. Why must you insist on saving him?’
‘Because I like him!’ Ree stalked up to Usther, meeting her gaze for gaze. ‘Because we shouldn’t kill people just because they’re different.’
‘And why not?’ Usther sneered down at her. ‘That’s what his kind would do to us, isn’t it?’ Then, sharply: ‘You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like up there.’
That’s what it always came back to. All the other denizens had been driven here. This was Ree’s home town, but it was Usther’s only refuge. If Ree really wanted, she could live up there. She wasn’t a practitioner; there was nothing about her for the upworlders to detest.
But she knew, in her gut, that she belonged here. More than being born here; more than her mother and father being part of the fabric of the town. Her destiny was here, and it was waiting for her to find it.
Usther was still staring at her, all scorn and indignation. Ree shook her head and spun away from her. She tore her hands through her hair, scattering pins across the floor. ‘If the only people allowed to live here are necromancers, then what does that mean about me?’
The sneer faded from Usther’s face. Her lips pressed together; the spark left her eyes. She brushed past Ree. ‘Come on. We shouldn’t be late for the council.’ She left the room without looking back.
‘Ree?’ Smythe looked at her. His colour had returned with a vengeance; he was red-faced, and wide-eyed, and trembling. ‘Are, um — are they really going to kill me?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ree kicked aside a chair and sank to the floor, robes pooling around her. She looked at him; so alive, so confused. She shook her head. ‘I should never have revealed myself to you. You might never have come across another denizen; you’d be safe now.’ She opened her hands and stared at her grey palms. She’d just been so curious. She’d never seen an upworlder her own age, never heard one talking about the things she was interested in. She’d been charmed by his constant chatter. She’d wanted to know him.
And now he was going to die.
‘I don’t know about all that,’ he said. He knelt beside her, staring at his lap. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be necromancers, but I suppose that very old chap might’ve done for me —’
‘The Lich,’ Ree murmured.
‘—yes, that’s the one. Or any number of undead creatures.’ He pulled his iron sarakat from around his neck and considered it. ‘I don’t suppose this would have been as much help as I first thought.’
Ree’s lips quirk
ed in spite of herself. ‘None at all.’
Smythe scooted tentatively closer. ‘And I wouldn’t have met you, or Larry, or seen this incredible town —’ He stopped, and took a shuddering breath. Hand quivering, he touched his fingertips lightly to her hand — warm, tingling, and utterly strange.
Ree startled. Her eyes leapt to his.
‘What I’m saying is: I’m glad you corrected me in the embalming room.’ He hesitated. ‘And … I’d rather not die.’
Larry made a gargling sound and leaned over Smythe’s shoulder. Smythe gave him a friendly pat. ‘No offense, old chap.’
Blood sacrifice. The first recorded instance was three years after founding, when a witch hunter tracked a young acolyte, Namura, into the crypt. He burned her alive. The murderer was captured, and the council voted that his blood would be used in defense of the town, in Namura’s memory.
Though the blood sacrifice has dark roots, its tradition has become a festive one. Those who mean the town harm are sacrificed for the good of its denizens, and everyone sings along with the ritual spell and shares a hot cider afterwards.
Namura’s ward, from a necromantic perspective, protects the town from scrying and amplifies the powers of those who practice within its bounds. But far more importantly, from a sociological standpoint, it is a beloved bonding experience between denizens that usually live and work in isolation.
~from A History of Tombtown by Emberlon the Disloyal
CHAPTER TEN
IT TAKES A VILLAGE
‘I suddenly feel quite unwell.’
‘Smythe …’ Ree wanted to reach out to him, but though her fingers twitched in sympathy, her hands remained at her sides.
They stood outside the tall black iron doors of the town hall. Everyone she knew was already inside. Waiting.
She took in the sweat beading on Smythe’s forehead, the tremble in his chin, his wavering eyes. Again, he seemed fragile to her. He was bright and lively and unsuited to her world.
But she’d dragged him into it anyway.
She didn’t really know what to say. She had no comfort to offer. If the town voted to kill him, she would hardly be able to stop them. ‘Are you ready?’ Her voice was small; it seemed a woefully inadequate response to his fear.
He nodded, then nodded again. ‘Yes. I … yes. I’m ready. Of course I’m ready.’ He took a shuddering breath.
Ree leaned on one of the tall black doors. It swung slowly open under her weight.
She flashed him a sad smile, hoping it was less than half-grimace. ‘Welcome to the Old King’s Tomb.’
They were bathed in golden light as the door opened, reflected from the treasure piles mounting the walls and falling through the cracks in the artworked ceiling. The room itself was largely built of an austere black marble, a low hall climbing up to a raised dais on which the Old King’s sarcophagus rested. The council stood at the sarcophagus, as if at a wide lectern, talking among themselves. It was a room at once too grand and too fine for its current use, eclipsing the rows of rickety seats regimented below the dais.
Ree’s father stamped his staff on the marble floor; a boom rebounded from the marble walls. He pointed his staff at Ree and Smythe. ‘The upworlder arrives.’
The chamber erupted. Denizens leapt to their feet, shouting and arguing, their words incomprehensible in the chaos. Beside her, Smythe blanched and stepped back. Ree grabbed his sleeve and pulled him onward. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, leaning in close. Her eyes skipped over the angry faces; she needed to be strong for Smythe, ‘You’re with me, you can —’
Someone yanked him from her grasp.
‘Uh — Ree! Ree, what’s happening —’
Ree spun; two minions had him by the arms and were shuffling him toward the dais. Ree looked up at the council. Tarantur waved a lazy hand, conducting his minions from above.
She gritted her teeth. If she were powerful, like her father, no-one would dare insult her this way. But Ree was always a safe person to snub, the person even the acolytes could look down on. She could no more put Smythe under her protection than she could put the council under a spell. Nevermind that Smythe had done nothing wrong; nevermind that Ree had vouched for him — Ree, who created their maps and provided their books, Ree who was more at home here than anyone.
She clenched her fists at her sides. ‘It’ll be okay!’ she called to him, trying to believe her own words. ‘Don’t struggle!’
It wouldn’t always be this way.
‘Hey, now.’ Emberlon appeared at her side, tall and grim-faced. He took her by the shoulders, easing her into a seat. ‘Don’t let them eat at you. Nothing will be done until a ruling is reached.’
She realised she was trembling, literally shaking as her veins filled with hot flame.
‘There’s no need!’ She almost spat the words. She raised a quivering hand to point at the council. ‘They have no reason to manhandle him like that. He’s terrified!’
Emberlon sat beside her, folding his hands in his lap. ‘Don’t let your anger stop you from paying attention.’
Ree bit back a retort. How could she possibly look away from this? But Emberlon’s expression was pointed beneath his usual melancholy, and he’d never steered her wrong before.
Ree gripped the edges of her seat and glared at her father, standing dark and stoic behind the sarcophagus. The minions ascended the steps, dragging Smythe between them.
Mazerin the Bold, a weedy necromancer with thin white hair and shadowed eyes, sat on Ree’s other side. He elbowed Ree in the ribs. ‘Look at that, eh? A live upworlder! How long’s it been since we had a proper ritual sacrifice? Three years? Five? Normally they get eaten up by the ghouls in the lower levels before we get hold of them!’
‘We’re not sacrificing him, Maz,’ she said. She shied away from him, scooting closer to Emberlon. Mazerin wasn’t very powerful, but he was one of the more temperamental necromancers. She’d once seen him literally curse a child for knocking over his bone stall.
The parents had extracted their vengeance from him in blood, of course, but it still made her nervous.
Mazerin’s grin dropped. ‘Aren’t we? Why?’ He looked Ree up and down. ‘You didn’t have something to do with this, did you?’
Ree’s chest tightened. She kept her eyes fixed on the dais.
Mazerin leaned closer to her. She could feel his breath on her cheek. ‘Did you —’
Ree’s father banged his staff again. Mazerin straightened in his seat. All eyes snapped to the dais as the echoes died out.
Kylath placed her hands on the sarcophagus and leaned forward, red eyes sparking. ‘We’re here to deal with this intruder, an upworlder named Chandrian Smythe, found wandering the eastern tunnels.’
One of the acolytes, a girl Ree’s age called Symphona, yelled, ‘Blood sacrifice!’
A cheer went up.
Ree seethed in her seat, crossing her arms so tightly that her chest ached.
Tarantur waved the crowd quiet. ‘In due time.’ He smiled to one side.
Kylath continued, ‘He was dutifully brought to our attention by Usther the acolyte, whose concern for —’
‘Is that true?’ Emberlon murmured to Ree, looking askance as Usther stood up a few rows ahead and took a bow. She received no applause, and Ree could imagine her secret fury at being referred to as an acolyte rather than a full-blown practitioner.
Ree inclined her head. ‘I think she’s planning a power grab.’ Her eyes were not on Usther, but on Smythe.
Emberlon stroked his chin. ‘Aren’t they all?’
‘I’m not,’ said Ree while Tarantur stepped forward to list all the reasons it would be better to kill Smythe. ‘You’re not.’
Emberlon’s eyes took on a faraway look. His mouth tightened. ‘Some of us have already had more than enough of power grabs.’
Ree looked at him sidelong, blindsided by the rare nugget of personal information. She remembered the rumours about Emberlon, and about the missing king of the upworlder kingdom o
f Sirennia, and wondered again exactly how much she should believe.
If only all the rumours were true. Perhaps the denizens would listen to an actual king — provided that king was also a necromancer.
‘— so I think that about covers it,’ said Tarantur. His fingers were steepled and he wore a punchable smirk. ‘Now all that remains is to decide the method of punishment —’
‘Blood sacrifice!’ Symphona yelled again, to more cheers. Ree’s eyes went to Smythe, still dangling between two large minions. He looked very small, and his eyes were very wide.
Ree considered replacing Symphona’s map with a very special map full of ‘surprises’. She’d never liked the older acolyte, who seemed to think Ree was some kind of servant, and she liked her flippant calls for Smythe’s death even less.
Ree’s father stepped forward. ‘Not yet. Is there anyone here to speak in defence of the upworlder?’
Ree stood up, twisting her skirts between her hands. Her anger was lost among the churning in her gut. She stared resolutely up at the dais, ignoring the feeling of eyes crawling over her. She’d never made a spectacle of herself like this; she’d always kept her head down, always been in the background. ‘Better not to draw attention to yourself,’ her mother had warned her once. ‘Until you practice the Craft, you will have no respect from them.’
‘You don’t practice the Craft,’ said Ree. She’d been sulking in her room; her father had forbidden her to come with him on a journey into the sealed sectors of the crypt. ‘Andomerys doesn’t. Nobody cares.’
‘I am a priestess of our Lady of Unlife,’ said Ree’s mother. ‘The nectar of her power is like water to me, and to anger me is to risk her displeasure. And Andomerys is a very powerful healer. When someone’s ritual explodes in their face, they’re glad to have her to stitch it back on again. You have no magic and no place. You need to avoid drawing attention to yourself.’
It had been strange to be told she had to fear the people she’d grown up with. The neighbours who’d given her knuckle bones to play with while they babysat her, the elders who’d pinched her cheeks and told her she’d be a fearsome dark wizard one day. But she had a place now. She was apprentice Archivist, the keeper of their most valuable knowledge. And she would have to risk raising her head if she wanted Smythe to have any chance at all.
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