The Necromancer's Rogue

by Icy Sedgwick

  Vyolet cried out as she stepped out into the morning sunshine. The bright light hurt her eyes, and she clapped a hand over them. Buildings leaned into the cobble-lined street, and the Wolfkin hurried her into the shadows beneath a bakery’s upper floor. Passers-by cast curious glances at the massive guard that seemingly gestured at nothing in the darkness.

  “Welcome to the City Above, Vyolet,” signed the Wolfkin.

  “The light hurts my eyes. I’m not used to daylight,” replied Vyolet.

  The Wolfkin handed her a pair of goggles, much like the ones the DWS wore to penetrate the shadows and see her kind. She put them on, and the sunlight faded through the purple-tinted lenses.

  “These should help. Now come along. We have much to do,” signed the Wolfkin.

  “Are we going to the House?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  The Wolfkin strode down the street, keeping close to the buildings so Vyolet could skip through the shadows and remain hidden. The inhabitants of the City Above were even more hostile towards the Shadowkin than those of the Underground City, seeing them as nothing more than rogues, thieves and spies. There were even rumours of a sister group to the DWS above, who made the activities of the DWS look like a children’s picnic. Vyolet shuddered to think of encountering one of their members, even if a Wolfkin accompanied her.

  The close confines of Edge Street gave way to the elegant Canal Quarter. Ribbons of blue-green water carved the Quarter into a grid, the waterways lined with white buildings that gleamed in the sunlight. The tell-tale scent of magick hung heavy in the air, and flashes of coloured light behind the shutters indicated the presence of mages. The Wolfkin pulled a dark tabard over its armour and Vyolet started to see the insignia of the Magick Academy emblazoned on its chest.

  “I cannot be seen displaying the insignia of the House at the moment. It is not safe,” explained the Wolfkin.

  “Why not?”

  “I will explain everything soon. For now, we must get through this quarter as quickly as we can. It is many hours until twilight.”

  They sneaked through the narrow streets, crossing more bridges than Vyolet could count, passing through wide squares and along leafy boulevards lined with grand palazzos. The Wolfkin did not sign at all, not wishing to draw undue attention, and once or twice Vyolet crept into the shadow between its back and its false tabard. They paused for lunch in a garden square, where the Wolfkin bought sandwiches from a street seller who asked no questions. They lurked beneath the trees, watching the citizens scurry to and fro, until the noon sun shifted and the shadows lengthened.

  Vyolet knew much about the layout of the City Above from her various assignments, and the missives she intercepted often mentioned names or places, but she couldn’t remember ever visualising what it looked like. She was certain anything she had pictured wouldn’t have looked like the city in which she now found herself. She’d never seen it during the day. The familiar city of shadows bore little relation to the bright world around her now. She tried to be observant and to remember as much as she could, thankful for the goggles that helped to indulge her curiosity.

  She first realised they were not heading for the House of the Long Dead when the Wolfkin turned left along the border between the Canal Quarter and a severe neighbourhood made of sandstone named Giltville. The jewellers and goldsmiths of the City Above lived there, surrounded by the courtiers who snapped up their wares to buy favour with the council. Vyolet knew the long road to the House led north through Giltville, not west along its boundary. The Wolfkin paid her little mind, striding along the canal path, but she decided to ask where they were going when they reached the edge of Giltville.

  A narrow park separated Giltville and the next district, the Justice Quarter. The only place that lay beyond the Justice Quarter was the House of Correction, a terrifying slice of hell that swallowed up rogues by the hundreds. Few Shadowkin ever ended up there, and those who did soon escaped as the dark, gloomy prison was not designed to hold beings essentially made of shadow. Still, Vyolet had heard the same tales as everyone else, and she didn’t think it would be long before DWS found a way to incarcerate Shadowkin there.

  Vyolet tapped the Wolfkin on the shoulder. He pulled into the shade beneath a vast oak tree and faced away from the path. There were a few couples in the park, enjoying the opportunity to promenade in the fading afternoon light, but they ignored the Wolfkin, too intent upon gaining the attention of their fellow peacocks.

  “Where are we going?” signed Vyolet.

  “I see you have guessed that we do not make for the House of the Long Dead.”

  “Yes, I have! The road to the House leads north. We’re heading west. So I have to ask again, where are you taking me?”

  The Wolfkin sighed, and looked at the ground. Vyolet glanced back at the path, estimating how many shadows lay between her and possible escape. The buildings of the Canal Quarter cast their own shadows across the canal, and Vyolet could always make her way back towards Edge Street. She didn’t think the Wolfkin could run across water like she could.

  “I told you that my mistress needs your help, and she does. She has been arrested and taken to the House of Correction. I need your help to get her out.”

  “Why?” Vyolet frowned and planted her hands on her hips. Her smoky skin turned black with anger. An observant passer-by might have noticed a darker stain within the shade of the tree.

  “Only a Shadowkin would be able to navigate the prison undetected, and remove a prisoner.”

  “The cells are enchanted. Lock-picking isn’t one of my strong points.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself with that. One of my kin has a magickal practitioner who will aid you. You merely need to cloak my mistress until she is out.” The Wolfkin drew closer to the tree as another couple sashayed down the avenue towards the canal path. Most humans saw Wolfkin as little more than servants, but seeing one lurking in a Giltville park might give someone pause.

  “Why not just wait until her trial and spring her from the House of Justice?”

  “She will not get a trial. The Crown Prince will not allow one, and there are already members of the council who seek to move into her position of power. But that is not why we need to aid her escape.”

  The Wolfkin growled, and Vyolet turned to see a militia guard approaching. Unlike the city guard underground, the militia in the City Above didn’t wear goggles to spot the Shadowkin, but they were armed with enchanted flintlocks whose bullets would seek her out with ease. She dissolved into the shadow of the tree, and placed her hand on its solid trunk to stop herself from shaking.

  “Hey, you there, what are you doing?”

  The Wolfkin turned towards the city guard and spread his paws in a gesture of defeat.

  “Who do you work for?” The guard reached them and grabbed at the Wolfkin’s tabard. He peered at the insignia. “What are you doing all the way down here?”

  The Wolfkin produced a slip of paper and handed it to the guard. His brows knitted as he read the note, and Vyolet tried to peer over her companion’s shoulder. All she saw was the insignia for the Academy before the guard crumpled the note in his fist.

  “You’re on an errand, eh? Well if Dean Whittaker wants something from the Justice Quarter, I suggest you hurry, instead of lingering here!”

  The Wolfkin took back the crumpled note and nodded. His ears and tail drooped, and a tiny whine escaped his muzzle. He hurried away from the tree towards the avenue that led down to the canal path. Vyolet held her breath and pressed herself against the trunk – she couldn’t leave the safety of the shadows until the guard was gone.

  The city guard watched the Wolfkin leave the park, and head along the path. The trees on the other side of the avenue swallowed him up, and Vyolet suppressed a whimper. Surely he wouldn’t just leave her here?

  After what felt like a lifetime, a food seller at the top of the avenue called out a list of wares and the guard wandered off in search of a snack. Vyolet waited unti
l he was out of sight, and passed from shadow to shadow until she reached the gates of the park. She thought again about the way the guard had spoken to the Wolfkin, and felt a surge of kinship towards the dog-headed creature. The human had treated him as badly as he would treat a Shadowkin, seeing nothing but a beast he didn’t understand. Vyolet growled to herself. The necromancer general mustn’t be like these humans if she inspired such loyalty in the Wolfkin. If she treated them so well, perhaps she could do the same for the Shadowkin.

  6

  Chapter 6

  Monte stood at the back of the darkened room. A man lay on a narrow bed in the attic of the pub, his skin waxy in the flickering candlelight. His mouth hung open and his breath came in fluttering rasps. A woman sat to one side of the bed, clutching his hand and stroking his thin white hair. The man with the jagged teeth sat to the other side, his book open in his lap.

  “Oh can’t you save my ’usband, mister?” cried the woman, her eyes wet with unshed tears.

  “I am not a doctor, my good woman, and I fear that your husband is far beyond the reach of mortal medicine.”

  The pub landlord had spoken to Monte before they entered the sick room. There was nothing wrong with the man, a retired stone carver named Phelps, except old age and exhaustion with life. The landlord asked in a low voice if the man with the jagged teeth meant to cure him. Monte replied that he didn’t know, but he wasn’t sure what cure there was for old age. He didn’t add that the only cure came courtesy of the Lords and Ladies of Death – the pub landlord didn’t seem like a fellow follower.

  Mr Gondavere’s blunt reply prompted another hysterical outburst from Phelps’s widow-to-be, and he looked at Monte. Mr Gondavere rolled his eyes and shook his head. Monte knew his new employer felt no compassion or empathy with the dying man or his wife, yet it was not his place to tell him he should feel otherwise. Mr Gondavere had his quest, and Monte would be paid well. That’s all he needed to know.

  And yet…

  Monte moved forward and knelt beside Mr Gondavere. He took the dying man’s hand.

  “Lords and Ladies of Death, I humbly beseech you as your loyal servant to be merciful in your treatment of this man. Help ease his passage, and comfort his spirit.” The words came unbidden to his lips, and while he didn’t know where they came from, he knew it was the right thing to say. He stole a glance at the widow-to-be. She wore no outward sign of following the Lords and Ladies, but a quiet smile bloomed on her grief-stricken face. A combination of amusement and displeasure wafted from Mr Gondavere.

  The dying man gasped twice, and his eyes swivelled to look at Monte. His mouth moved though no sound came out.

  “Do you have any last words?” asked Monte.

  “No…heading home…no broken heart.” The dying man forced the words between his chapped lips, and the widow-to-be clutched his hand so tightly her knuckles turned white.

  Mr Gondavere pursed his lips and wrote the last words in his book in a jagged, spiky script. The dying man took a final breath, squeezed his wife’s hand then lay still. The room was silent, except for the scratching of Mr Gondavere’s pen.

  “Is ’e…gone?” asked the widow.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Monte disentangled his hand from the dead man’s grasp and stood up, resuming his post at the foot of the bed.

  Mr Gondavere returned his pen and ink to a small black case and closed the book. “I am sorry for your loss, madam,” he said, voice tight and eyes pinched shut, and left the room. Monte nodded once and scurried after his master.

  He found Mr Gondavere downstairs in the pub. He stood by the bar, tapping his foot, and making a show of repeatedly checking his pocket watch.

  “Was that useful?” asked Monte. The man had said ‘heart’, after all.

  “Not in the slightest. Before we go any further, I must ask, what exactly did you think you were doing? Did I give you leave to speak, or to intervene in any way?” Mr Gondavere fixed Monte with a penetrating stare.

  Monte gulped. “It just felt like the right thing to do, sir.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I won’t do it again, sir.” Monte stared at the floor, seeing the money he would earn evaporate into thin air. Myrtle would kill him, if he ever told her. He slipped his fingers into his pockets to feel for the coin he’d been paid earlier.

  “On the contrary. I think that you lend my experiment a certain air of humanity, you might call it. Perhaps people will feel more comfortable around you than they do around me. They may be more likely to be honest in their final words.”

  Monte looked up at Mr Gondavere. His master ignored him to gaze at the drunken patrons of the pub with a mixture of disgust and fascination. Monte wondered how Mr Gondavere could be certain he hadn’t already found the person who knew the whereabouts of the Heart, and that they’d simply not told him.

  “Can I ask you a question, sir?”

  “I have no doubt that you have the ability to ask a question, and therefore can, but what remains to be seen is whether you may ask me a question.” Mr Gondavere wrinkled his nose.

  “May I ask a question?”

  “You may.”

  “How do you know the person you’re looking for hasn’t already died? Wouldn’t you need a necromancer to talk to them?”

  “That is surprisingly a good question, my good man,” replied Mr Gondavere, raising one eyebrow. “I have no real basis for knowing they haven’t already died. I simply feel sure, and you are correct that I would need a necromancer to speak for them if they have. However the only necromancer in the City Above is currently held in the House of Correction, and is therefore useless to me.”

  Monte didn’t know whom Mr Gondavere was talking about as he kept himself as ignorant of City affairs as possible. His master opened his small case, and lifted his book of last words into it. Given the tiny proportions of the case, Monte was shocked to see the large tome slide inside with so little effort. The clasps snapped shut and Mr Gondavere put on his hat, a simple creation of black felt with a large brim to hide his face.

  “Come along, Monte. We have work to do.”

  Monte followed him out into the hustle and bustle of the street. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the Underground City quiet. Even during the early hours of the morning, the alleys and closes rang with noise that echoed between the tall buildings. The eternal night that accompanied living underground made time a more abstract concept. Monte often suspected the inhabitants only kept up the pretence of time to make trade easier.

  “Where are we going now?” asked Monte, trotting to keep up with his master’s brisk pace.

  “I believe we shall be needed at the temple.”

  Mr Gondavere didn’t explain how he knew such a thing, and Monte didn’t think he wanted to know. He simply followed his master.

  7

  Chapter 7

  Jyx woke to find Bastet hunched on his chest, peering into his face. She mewed a greeting and sniffed his nose when she saw he was awake.

  “Hey, Bastet. I’m glad you’re not still mad at me.” Jyx scratched the cat behind the ears, and she purred. “Are the Wolfkin still here?”

  “We are indeed, Master Faire.” The voice echoed in his mind but Validus’s paw-like hand rested on the arm of a chair by the fireplace. Bastet climbed down from his chest and jumped off the bed, padding across the chamber to the fireplace. Jyx threw back the covers and rolled out of bed. A clean tunic and hose were laid out on a table near the bed, along with new leather boots and a belt.

  “Are these for me?” Jyx ran his fingers over the soft wool of the tunic. The tunic and hose were both black to match the boots. He sank his hands into the rich fabric, a far cry from the threadbare garments he was used to. The new clothes bore no sign of having been mended, or passed from student to student.

  “They are for you. We will have a busy day today, and you will need to be warm and comfortable, as well as properly attired,” replied Validus.

  The vacant Wolfkin busied itself with anot
her pot over the stove. This time the air smelled of porridge and fruit. Jyx threw off his old clothes, dropping them on the floor when he realised he’d died repeatedly in them, and pulled on the new outfit. The tunic and hose fit perfectly, and his feet breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled on the boots. They were lined with thick, warm felt.

  “These are brilliant,” he said.

  “We Wolfkin have many abilities. One of our number is a master leatherworker. Or should I call her a mistress leatherworker? I am unsure of the correct terminology.”

  “A girl Wolfkin?” Jyx paused. He’d always thought of the Wolfkin as being ‘it’, despite their masculine forms. He’d never stopped to question the existence of female Wolfkin. His ears burned as he turned red with shame.

  Validus laughed, a rich baritone rolling around inside his head. It reminded Jyx of tolling bells at the temple.

  “Yes, we have female Wolfkin too. Do not trouble yourself, Master Faire. Few if any humans ever see our beautiful female folk, so it is scarcely strange that you would be surprised to learn of them.”

  “Why have I never met one?” asked Jyx. He thought of the Wolfkin at the Academy, and the ones he’d met at the House but they were all male.

  “Our women are scholars and academics. They guard our knowledge, our lore, and our legends. Few of the council recognise their existence because they keep themselves well hidden. Humans legislated us into servitude due to our size – can you imagine what they’d do to our females?”

  Jyx shuddered in response. He ran his fingers around the delicate patterns tooled into the leather belt.

  “Mara made those for you. She excels in the study of arcane lore but she enjoys practising crafts as well when she has the opportunity.” Validus gestured to the boots.

  “They’re wonderful. You’ll have to thank her for me,” said Jyx.