Smythe hesitated. ‘Far be it from me to gainsay you. I believe it’s been made abundantly clear that your expertise is worth far more than mine. Only … I can hear some sort of undead creature in there. It’s been there for some time.’
Ree started to pack books into her satchel. ‘We can wait it out. No-one’s going to maintain a minion in some forgotten library for long when they have no reason to believe we’re here.’
Smythe still looked tense, however.
What must it be like, to have come into these ruins full of hope for his future, and to be chased out under threat of death? Ree was reasonably certain she could convince the townspeople to spare her once he was gone, but for Smythe, meeting anyone in this crypt other than Ree would mean certain death.
And he was so … nice. It wasn’t a descriptor she’d ever thought to apply to anyone. It wasn’t even something she’d felt was lacking in her life. But there was something about Smythe and his chatty amiability that made her want to be nice, too.
Certainly, he didn’t deserve death by blood sacrifice.
She pointed into the corner. ‘If you’re worried, there’s actually a peephole over there. It looks through one of the bookcases.
‘Bookcases?’ Smythe hurried to follow her point and pressed his eye through the peephole.. His shoulders drooped; his entire posture relaxed. ‘Oh, it’s only Larry!’ He went to pull the lever to release the secret door.
‘Wait!’
The lever thunked home just as Smythe started to turn. Ree’s breath seized in her chest. The door ground slowly open.
‘Hide!’ she hissed. Smythe feinted left then right in a futile search for an adequate hiding place, before diving under a table.
Ree walked up to the slowly opening door. She breathed in, shoulders rising. She pulled up her hood and patted it into place, and smoothed the creases from the front of her robes. Her fingers dug into the pouch on her belt, though it would do her little good if a necromancer went straight for a curse.
Then she strode through the gap, frantically assembling a plan in her mind.
Larry was in the reading room, walking repeatedly into a bookcase. Every time he bounced off it, another book fell to the ground. Ree stifled a sigh; only an idiot would let Larry into a library where, given enough time, he would doubtlessly gnaw through priceless texts. As she approached, he stiffened and swung around, arms swinging like pendulums. He groaned, yellow eyes rolling back into his head.
‘Hello Larry,’ she said. He shuffled toward her, but she ignored him, scanning the corners of the room while the door rolled closed behind her.
Larry was not a minion, or at least, not in the truest sense. Whoever had animated him centuries before was long since gone, though somehow their power lingered and kept him whole. No magic guided him, so on base instinct, he was drawn to the living.
Larry would not have left the town unless he was following someone.
Larry bumped into her shoulder, gargling; Ree shushed him and walked on, peering into the main library. No-one.
Ree’s heart thumped painfully in her chest, but she walked sedately to the door, as if nothing were amiss. She didn’t want to abandon Smythe, but she’d have to if she were to lure away whoever hunted them.
She approached the steel door, now ajar, and swallowed hard. She stepped through the door, drew her key, and made to close the door behind her.
Usther seized the door from the other side. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ She bared her teeth.
Ree spun, but Usther seized her by the back of her collar and yanked her back, sending her sprawling across the floor.
Ree scrambled to her knees, but Usther slammed the door and leaned against it. She gazed at Ree dispassionately. ‘I suppose you’re hiding him in that secret room of yours?’
Ree got up into a half-crouch, ready to sprint free at the earliest opportunity. ‘How do you know about that?’
Usther sighed and examined her nails. ‘I follow you, sometimes, you know. I’ve seen you disappear into this room more than once, and then I hear that terrible grinding noise. I set a watch, and sometimes you are in there an abominably long time. Even you surely can’t be sustained by only books. I knew you were going somewhere. Now. The upworlder.’ She curled her lip at the word.
‘I got him to the surface,’ Ree said. She willed her expression to smoothness. She refused to give anything away. ‘I got him most of the way, set him on the path, and led the pursuit away from him. He’s long gone by now.’
Usther stood up and flexed her spidery fingers. ‘Now Ree,’ she said. She tapped her foot. ‘You don’t expect me to believe you let that clumsy idiot find his own way to the surface, after everything you’ve done to protect him? The man’s utterly moronic. He’d be ghoul-food by sunrise.’
‘Believe what you like,’ Ree said. Her mouth was dry; she cleared her throat. ‘But he’s gone. So unless you intend to capture me, I suggest you get out of my way.’
Larry bumped into Ree’s shoulder, knocking her forward. She scolded him and nudged him out of the way, keeping her eyes on Usther.
Usther snorted. ‘Or what? You’ll look me to death? Or cower until I submit? No.’ Usther straightened and in two long strides, she was in Ree’s face. ‘You know what I think? I think I could bring you in right now, and there’s not a thing you could do about it. The council would thank me; the town is in uproar.’ Her pale-eyes bored into Ree, stark against her dark skin, almost a mindsnare all on their own. ‘Everyone’s wondering what to do about the wayward daughter of Igneus and Arthura, the girl who refuses to obey our laws or lifestyles, and also refuses the courtesy of just getting the hell out and joining the world above.’
‘I don’t belong in the world above.’ Ree matched Usther’s glare with her own. She put all her anger into it, all her resentment at being forced to live as an outsider, at her motives being questioned at every turn. That they dared to try and curse her, when she was more a part of this place than any of them. She’d been the first child ever born in the crypt. She mapped its paths, travelled farther than any other denizen. She knew its heart and its rhythm better than any necromancer.
Usther bared her teeth. ‘And I suppose you think you belong here? Not. Without. The Craft.’
Ree started to retort, but Usther swept back to the door, crossing her arms and leaning against it. ‘But as luck would have it, I’m not here to capture you, or the upworlder, or even to suffer through dull conversation with you. I’m here to help you get your idiot to the surface.’
Ree froze. She struggled to draw air into her suddenly thin lungs.
Usther rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t gawp at me like a minion, Ree. A thank you will suffice.’
There was no way that she could trust this. Usther was standing just to the side of the door now; if Ree was quick, she might be able to escape and draw Usther off. ‘Well, that’s very generous of you,’ she replied with more than a bite of sarcasm. ‘But he’s gone, and I don’t much fancy your company.’ She subtly shifted her stance, trying to judge the best path through the door.
Usther pressed a hand to her heart. ‘You don’t trust me.’ Her tone was wounded.
Ree resisted the urge to roll her eyes. ‘Well, as my mother would say: nightshade is nightshade. Don’t drink it in tea just because it blooms prettily.’
‘How ... trite.’
Ree shrugged and inched to one side, letting Larry amble past to pester Usther. The moment was coming, she could feel it.
‘Look.’ Usther crossed her arms. ‘I can see that you’re still upset with me for some reason, but you’re not thinking this through. I have the approval of the council, the town is in chaos — I have everything I want. Do you know how many people’s sanctums I raided today? Three! Three sanctums, and one of them even had a half-decent ritual going. Nobody is about to guard them. By the end of the week, I’ll know what everyone in this town is up to and the council will owe me a favour.’
Ree stopped her slow edge toward the door.
Usther’s words were making sense — Usther never wanted anything so much as to spy on the other denizens and steal their secrets — but Ree couldn’t see why she wouldn’t still want the prestige of catching the runaway upworlder. ‘So what, Usther?’
‘So? So I’ve got everything I want. So I want my friend back now. If I help you save your upworlder, you’ll drop whatever ludicrous grudge you’re building and the whole “betrayed you to the council” thing will just be water under the bridge. So you should just get Smith out from your secret room and we can get started. Face it: you’ll struggle to make it to the surface safely without necromantic intervention.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But I’ll leave if you want me to. Begging is unbecoming of a woman of my power.’
Ree was stunned. That Usther could think what she’d done was a small matter she could easily patch up. That she considered helping Smythe a necessary inconvenience in the name of maintaining Ree as a useful contact. That Usther could possibly think Ree would surrender Smythe to her after all she’d done.
But as she studied her, her disgust diminished. Usther was trying to act nonchalant, but her shoulders were tense and her eyes were worried. Her eyes weren’t shadowed with magic but baggy from lack of sleep. She looked like she was trying, with every fibre of her being, to pretend that she didn’t care whether Ree accepted her help.
Ree blinked at her. A hundred responses crowded on her tongue, waiting to be spoken, but what Ree actually said was: ‘It’s Smythe, not Smith.’
Usther shrugged. ‘I’m not hearing a difference.’ Her crossed arms didn’t look so much casual as like she was hugging herself.
‘I want my friend back now,’ she’d said. Maybe she meant it.
Ree went back into the reading room. She walked up to one of the bookcases and peered through the hole in the back of it. A bright brown eye blinked back at her, then, with a click, the door depressed and slid open.
Smythe emerged, wringing his hands. ‘Are they gone?’ His eyes moved to Usther. ‘... Oh.’
Ree placed herself so that she could jump between Smythe and Usther if she had to. ‘Usther’s going to help get you to the surface.’
Smythe’s eyebrows raised. ‘Oh?’
Usther glared at him.
‘Oh.’
Ree elbowed him in the ribs.
He jumped. ‘Right. Sorry. Erm … pardon me for asking, but I don’t suppose you happen to have any food?’
Usther fished in her pack and produced three withered apples, some cheese, and a loaf of bread. ‘Good enough.’
‘Hmm,’ said Smythe. Ree nudged him again; he looked not unlike Larry when he was about to bite.
They took Usther back into the secret room and closed the door behind them. While Smythe read and Larry tried to bite him, Ree and Usther argued about the best path to take Smythe on. While Ree knew the tunnels and passageways of the crypt better than most, Usther knew the dead and their habits better than Ree — and claimed to know the minds of the other denizens.
‘If we take him past Rictus Eij’s tomb, he’ll certainly be caught,’ Usther said hotly. ‘It’s a prime ritual spot and the dead there are very tame — you could leave a toddler there unattended. It’s far too popular.’
Ree gritted her teeth. ‘First, only a complete monster would leave a toddler in Rictus’ tomb. Second: it’s the most direct way into the eastern catacombs. So what if there’s one location of danger — there’s hardly going to be someone there all day!’
Usther pointed a long finger at Ree. ‘You will waste no time blaming me when he gets scooped up the moment we set foot through Eij’s wards. If you weren’t so prideful of your little map-making hobby, you’d realise that I’m giving you useful advice and —’
‘Ree?’
Usther and Ree both looked around. ‘WHAT?’ they snapped.
Smythe blinked. ‘Terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just stay quiet, shall I? Right. Sorry.’ He clasped his hands and stared into his lap. His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.
Usther turned to Ree. ‘As I was saying —’
Ree waved her silent. She hated snapping at Smythe. Somehow, making him feel small made her feel even smaller. ‘Go ahead, Smythe,’ she said, as gently as she could.
Smythe glanced up at her, then back into his lap. He spun his thumbs thoughtfully. ‘It’s only that I’ve been thinking,’ he started.
‘Dire state of affairs,’ Usther muttered, but silenced at Ree’s glare.
Smythe took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think I want to go to the surface,’ he said. ‘But — now hold on a moment! I know I can’t go back to town either. At least, not as things stand. Andomerys seemed jolly enough, and Usther, you seem, er, amiable —’
Ree seized Usther’s wrist before the older girl could curse him, and nodded for him to continue.
‘It’s just — perhaps, maybe — I want to learn the Craft.’
Ree could only stare as the sound of Usther’s laughter filled the reading room.
They say that necromancy is a sister to my art, but today I cannot see it. They are all so petty and competitive, spying and sabotaging and plotting against one another. Even the King, though I hesitate to write it, sees me as a tool to get the edge over his rivals.
Is it a prerequisite for learning their craft? Or does the magic itself do this to them, the way wearing a skin for too long makes it hard to remember a human shape?
I have no answers. I only know I long for the masters and the tribe that taught me. There, we were a true pack — not pretenders, like these.
But I cannot find my tribe, and I hear I am the last.
I do not want my magic to end with me, but even less do I like the burden of the end of my culture.
~from the journal of Wylandriah Witch-feather
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MORE CURSE THAN CRAFT
‘No.’ Ree shook her head, then shook it again. ‘No, no.’ The thought of Smythe trying to hide out in the crypt was bad enough. The idea of him learning the Craft was beyond ridiculous. It was incongruous. Smythe was a cheerful, somewhat bumbling upworlder. His world was one of lecture halls and academic papers. He had no concept of the dangers of necromancy, or the toll it would take from him.
Usther had stopped laughing now. She wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Oh, yes.’ She started to circle Smythe, who stood ramrod straight, as if he expected her to leap at him with claws drawn at any moment. She looked at Ree. ‘Oh, can you imagine it? This chatty idiot elbow deep in intestines as he completely butchers the learner rituals?’
‘In — intestines?’ Smythe visibly gulped. ‘And that’s quite necessary, is it?’
‘It’s necromancy.’ Usther reached into her belt pouch and held out a palmful of bloody teeth. As Smythe recoiled, she rolled her eyes. ‘You can hardly expect it to be daisies and sun rituals. We deal with the dead. It’s a higher calling.’
‘Forgive me, I just … is there something less, um, smelly to start with?’
Usther sneered. ‘Shall we all just sit around over a cup of tea and discuss the theory of it? Don’t be pathetic. If you can’t get your hands dirty, then you don’t have what it takes.’
Smythe sat down at the little research table, his shoulders hunched and his gaze low.
Ree came and took the other seat. ‘Smythe.’ She reached out to take his hand, then withdrew at the last moment. The movement caught his eye; he looked up, startled, his cheeks aflame. ‘Why do you even want to learn the Craft? You already have your calling. Third Rank Historian at the Grand University, the youngest to ever achieve that rank.’ She tried to smile encouragingly, though the expression felt strange on her face. ‘You already have a place in the world. You don’t need to hide away in ruins.’
Smythe’s eyes wavered; he glanced at Usther, then dropped his gaze. ‘Perhaps that’s why I want to learn. What historian could pass up the opportunity to learn the past from the dead themselves? Or to live among the history he studied? Direct sources are terr
ibly hard to come by in my field — if you take my meaning.’ He looked sidelong at Ree. ‘I’d rather not leave, if it’s all the same.’ His voice was small. ‘Learning this Craft of yours seems the best of all available options.’
Ree wasn’t sure ‘not wanting to leave the crypt’ was a good enough reason for learning the Craft. This whole conversation was making her very uncomfortable, and she didn’t know why. She liked the Craft. It was a perfectly reasonable line of work. Nearly everyone she had ever known practiced it.
But none of them were like Smythe, and she could not shake the feeling that for him, necromancy was more curse than craft.
‘“Learning from the dead themselves.”’ Usther ran spidery fingers over her lips. ‘Sounds like you want to learn summoning.’
Ree twisted her skirts between her hands. ‘So it’s no good then,’ she said quickly. ‘You’re not a summoner, so you can’t teach him —’
‘Oh, please. I can teach him the basics and he can learn the rest himself.’ Usther started to pace, hands clasped behind her back. ‘The gods only know, you’ve got enough books on the subject to satisfy even the most dreadful bookworm, and not many of us ever had the luxury of a teacher.’
Smythe looked between the two of them, his brow furrowing as if he were missing some essential clue. ‘You must pardon me for asking, but — summoning?’
Usther flapped a hand. ‘Soul summoning. You know, talking to people from the great beyond, tethering their tortured spirits to this realm.That sort of thing. Dull stuff, and primitive too, I might add. But it is necromancy. Perfect, given the subject.’
Smythe nodded. ‘I believe I’m following but—’ He frowned. ‘Am I the dull, primitive subject?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Right, just checking.’ He looked mildly put out, but ploughed on, ‘So where would one start? You know, with this “soul summoning” business.’
Usther bared her teeth. ‘Intestines.’
Her eyes invited Ree to share in the joke, but Ree’s own intestines cinched tight with unease.
Books & Bone Page 12
