The Necromancer's Rogue

by Icy Sedgwick

  “With any luck, you shall get the opportunity to do so yourself.”

  Jyx sat in the armchair beside Validus. The vacant Wolfkin served him a portion of porridge, studded with dried fruits and slices of lemon. Jyx wasn’t used to fresh fruit, especially in the Underground City where any fruit that could be found was often soft or mouldy. Still, he wasn’t going to question where Wolfkin sourced their food. They seemed to have an entire network of their own alongside the Twin Cities. Who knew what else they could do?

  Or would do?

  “I have to ask, why are you being so nice to me?” asked Jyx after the first spoonful of porridge. It tasted of honey.

  “How do you mean?” Validus held a peg of wood in his lap and whittled it with a large knife.

  “Well, it was because of me that some of the Wolfkin died, and it’s my fault Eufame is in the House of Correction, so if we can’t get her, it could be my fault the Underground City gets cleared out. But you’re giving me new clothes and telling me all of this stuff that you probably don’t want humans to know about you. You shouldn’t be so nice to me,” replied Jyx.

  “I cannot speak ill of my mistress, Master Faire, but if she had not arranged events the way that they did, much of what happened would not have transpired, and the Crown Prince would have used the Coronation Parade to manoeuvre her into some form of marriage alliance.”

  “Then she would have had to give up her job.”

  “Exactly, Master Faire. While many in the City Above would have rejoiced at her removal from a position of power, those of the Underground City would have felt the loss of her influence most keenly. However, we did not expect Neferpenthe to act, and raise so many of her kind herself, and therefore we did not anticipate the deaths of the Wolfkin, so you cannot be blamed for that. It was chance, and nothing more,” replied Validus.

  Jyx ate the rest of his porridge in silence. Only the sound of his spoon scraping his bowl, and the knife carving the wood, could be heard in the chamber.

  Eventually, Validus spoke again. “It is fair that you should feel suspicious. You did indeed make many mistakes through your over-ambition and inexperience. However, my mistress did think well of you, and she expressly told me to take care of you before she was arrested.”

  “She couldn’t stand me,” replied Jyx.

  “She hid you from the Crown Prince, as well as your family. My mistress does not act unless she has a reason for doing so, even if we do not always know, or understand, those reasons. Yet I must also be honest – we are nice, as you put it, because we need you.”

  “I’m nobody.” Jyx gazed at the floor, thinking of the mess he’d caused in the vault. Visions of the blind pterosaur lurching around the room, smashing shelves and releasing rare enchantments into the air, swam before his eyes. He should never be allowed to use magick again.

  “I told you yesterday that I need you to help me locate her in the House of Correction. When she set up the Perpetual Death, she left a tiny sliver of herself in you to keep the spell going without her needing to be present. That sliver will lead you to her.”

  Jyx stared at Validus. “You want me to go into the House of Correction?”

  “I do.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “I’m sorry, Master Faire, but you really have no choice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you don’t help me retrieve my mistress, then you are of no further use to me, and I can return you to the Perpetual Death.”

  Jyx gulped. Bastet jumped up into his lap and fixed him with a meaningful look. Jyx tried not to gaze into her eyes, but the warmth of her weight was reassuring. A purr rumbled in her throat, and Jyx’s resolve softened at the edges.

  “How can Eufame stop them from clearing out the Underground City? Surely if we get her out of the House of Correction, they’ll just arrest her again. They won’t give her all of her positions back on these boards you mentioned just because we helped her escape,” said Jyx.

  “A valid point,” replied Validus, and Jyx thought he detected a sigh of relief in his voice. “However, there is an older force within the City which stands for different values, and my mistress holds more sway with that force than the council does. This force controls more than the council ever could. We need my mistress to remind them of that.”

  Jyx stroked Bastet and let his gaze roam across the carvings in the wood panelling above the fireplace. They depicted scenes in City history, but Jyx didn’t know the stories. He’d never paid attention during history at the small school run out of the temple, and the Academy only taught history if it was applicable to magick. One carving caught his eye, of a beautiful woman holding a spear aloft, heading what looked like an army of thousands.

  “Do not worry, Master Faire. You will not venture into the House of Correction alone. As we speak, one of my kin has found you a powerful companion, and I myself will go into the House with you. Your part in this will be brief.”

  “What happens once we’ve gotten her out?”

  “We will defer to my mistress’s judgment. I do not doubt that she has already formulated several plans, and one of them will be based upon our effecting her escape. My only concern at the moment is securing her liberty.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” replied Jyx. For all he knew, Eufame would condemn him once more to the Perpetual Death, or she might just turn him loose in the Underground City, a once-promising magickian with no prospects and little future. Or he might end up in the House of Correction, never to see freedom again.

  “We do not get to choose our path in life, young one. We must merely ensure we are properly prepared for the adventures that will happen as we walk along it. But time is of the essence. There was a sound earlier, something like a crack, and to my people such noises are rarely good omens,” replied Validus. He left the chamber, and Jyx looked at Bastet.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Bastet gazed into his eyes. There was something vaguely human about her stare, and Jyx looked away. A sliver of his mind wriggled, and a voice echoed in his head. It was female, harsh and cold, yet indistinct. He couldn’t make out the words, but the guttural cry was one of frustration – and desperation.

  Jyx could not ignore a summons like that if it came directly from Eufame Delsenza.

  8

  Chapter 8

  Mr Gondavere and Monte reached the temple after what felt like hours of aimless walking. Navigating the Underground City was hazardous at best, and they’d wasted a much time by doubling back on themselves or taking blind alleys to evade those Mr Gondavere was sure were following them. Monte saw no one suspicious, or at least more suspicious than usual, but Mr Gondavere saw assassins and thieves in every shadow.

  The Underground City had no official religion, and as such, the inhabitants were free to pray to whichever deity best served their interests. Many citizens chose to worship nothing but commerce, others simply thanked “the universe” for freedom. Despite the poverty, poor sanitation and lack of sunlight, many believed the Underground City to be freer than the City Above. They had no council to rule their affairs, simply neighbourhood dons who regulated crime and imposed basic order.

  Monte was not one of the ‘godless masses’, but being a gravedigger meant he prayed exclusively to the Lords and Ladies of Death. Monte actually knew very little about them, and much of what he believed he’d invented to fill in the gaps. There were no priests to ask, and their temples had been destroyed years before. Still, he liked to believe that the nameless and numberless mass of spectres looked after the spirits of the dead. He thought they watched over the living, punishing those who took life, as it was not theirs to take. He suspected there was more to it than that, given the persecution of the cult if followers became too brazen. Hatred of the Lords and Ladies ran deep in the Underground City. Followers met in the sepulchres of the overcrowded graveyards at the lowest point of the City, and his association with them made him uncomfortable in the temples of other faiths. B
eseda’s Shrine, in particular, provoked a cold sweat and violent shudders if ever he ventured near it.

  The temple that Mr Gondavere headed for was not that of Beseda, but rather a generic, catchall building comprised of a range of smaller chapels dedicated to various deities. It also housed a small school for the street urchins and aimless youth of the City. The faithless officials of the temple were the closest people to priests, but they served no deity in particular, preferring to dish out advice, comfort and hospitality to all who visited. Even hardened criminals hated to take advantage of these gentle, sweet souls managing the temple.

  They entered the temple, and Monte shivered. The only faith not represented was his own, and he didn’t think they’d have much space for the Lords and Ladies of Death, or their macabre congregation. He’d heard a rumour they once had their own chapel here, but if they did, he didn’t know where it had been.

  The central courtyard was a busy, noisy place, lit with vast yet ancient chandeliers, with a stream of clean, cold water running through it from east to west. The chapels led off the courtyard and stalls stood around its perimeter. Well-meaning folk from the trade districts dished out simple food and mended clothing for those in need. A tall woman clad in white led a lesson on the far side of the courtyard, surrounded by small children from neighbouring houses. Monte remembered those lessons and mentally thanked the temple for teaching him to read.

  “Who are we here to see?” he asked.

  “There is a devotee of Ethelburga who lies on his death bed. He hopes his patron might alleviate his suffering, but given the size of the growth in his stomach, he is not long for this world.” Mr Gondavere peered at the names inscribed above the chapel doorways. Monte forced down the cold bundle of panic that blossomed in his stomach at such an intimate knowledge of what ailed a man he had not even met.

  They spotted the name Ethelburga chiselled into a stone arch on the other side of the courtyard. Mr Gondavere plunged into the crowd and made his way towards the chapel. Monte trailed in his wake. He couldn’t stop looking at the makeshift school. What had happened to his old teacher, Miss Babblethrop? Had she been swept up by the City Above’s purges? Had the city guard bundled her into one of their sacks? Did she languish in poverty or worse – the asylum?

  Monte tapped himself on the side of the throat, the automatic habit of a Lords and Ladies follower when thinking of a loved one in need. He’d reached the chapel, and stepped inside. It was less austere than Monte expected. Candles burned behind stained glass panes set into the wall, casting colourful paintings of light onto the stone floor. Devotees sat in small niches below the panes, their heads bowed in silent prayer. A statue of Ethelburga stood on a plinth at the end of the long, thin room, her stone hands clasped at her chest, her eyes facing towards the ceiling. Torches burned in braziers set around her so that fire blazed behind the statue. Monte stared at Ethelburga, expecting her to move.

  “Excuse me, I am told that you have one who is not long for this side of the Veil?” Mr Gondavere stopped one of the chaplains who wandered around the room. She looked at him with large, wet eyes, and nodded. Without saying a word, she led him to the back of the chapel, behind the statue. Rows of wooden cots lurked in the darkness beyond the braziers. Nurses leaned over the dying, mopping foreheads and clasping hands, while chaplains said prayers over the dead.

  The chaplain brought them to a cot near the back. An old man, more bone than flesh, reclined on the straw mattress. No family lingered to offer aid, so Monte knelt on the floor and took one of his hands. A weak pulse fluttered beneath the skin, stretched so thin it looked like paper. Monte bit his lip.

  “Are you here for me?” The old man’s voice struggled even to whisper.

  “We are, sir.”

  “I’m not long for this world, am I?”

  “I fear not, sir.”

  “I asked Ethelburga…she never replies.” Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes. Mr Gondavere produced a handkerchief and handed it to Monte. He dabbed at the old man’s face.

  “We are here to ease your passage,” said Mr Gondavere, keeping his voice low. Monte had never heard it sound so soothing before. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

  “I haven’t got any family,” said the old man.

  “Tell me about your life then. Let us know about your history,” said Monte.

  “Before I go?”

  “If you like.”

  The old man shifted on the cot, and Mr Gondavere perched on the empty one behind him, balancing the large book from his case in his lap. Monte squeezed the old man’s hand.

  “I was a historian. Worked in the Archives. Oh, the things I knew!”

  “What did you know?” Mr Gondavere had a sharp edge to his tone.

  Monte threw him a dark look and nodded for the old man to continue.

  “I specialised in old lore, forgotten things…fairy tales to most, but I knew they were true.”

  “I’m sure that was fascinating to learn about,” said Monte.

  “Oh, it was, it was. We did a lot of research for the House of the Long Dead. The necromancer general…she prizes knowledge.”

  Monte frowned. That didn’t sound like he would be much help at all.

  The old man chattered away about particular cases, reeling off names Monte didn’t recognise. Mr Gondavere coughed, and Monte turned to him, shrugging. He couldn’t tell the old man to be quiet, could he?

  “You said you’d looked into a lot of fairy tales,” he said, hoping to divert the old man back to something useful.

  “I did, I did.”

  “Did you ever come across anything about the Heart of the City?” Mr Gondavere’s tone was razor sharp now, and Monte even winced to hear it. The old man’s expression didn’t change; he faded so fast Mr Gondavere’s impatience was lost on him.

  “Oh that…once or twice. No one ever found it. If it did exist, it is well and truly lost by now,” he replied.

  “Do you think it really existed?” asked Monte.

  “I always thought it was real, but there was no proof.”

  Mr Gondavere let out a short, sharp exhalation of exasperation and Monte sighed. The old man’s eyes rolled backwards, and he took a laboured breath.

  “Sir?”

  “I can hear singing.”

  “Rest now. The Lords and Ladies of Death will take care of you and ease your passage,” said Monte, patting the old man’s hand.

  “They’re here! I can see them!” The old man jerked in the cot, his gaze falling on Mr Gondavere. Fear burned in his clouded eyes, his mouth open in a silent scream. The old man pointed at Mr Gondavere, but Monte gently guided the pointing hand back to the cot.

  “Do you have any last words?” Mr Gondavere leaned forward, anticipation shining in his eyes.

  “The wizard knows, the wizard knows,” whispered the old man, his voice cracking.

  Mr Gondavere entered the words into his book. The old man’s grasp on Monte’s hand turned slack, and he rolled away on the cot. One of the chaplains squealed and scurried across to him. She shooed Monte and Mr Gondavere away from the body.

  “Did that help?” asked Monte as they left the chapel.

  “I need to ruminate on it. My, what a vexatious man. I really thought he might be useful,” replied Mr Gondavere.

  “What did he mean about seeing the Lords and Ladies of Death? He seemed terrified.”

  “Oh, he was dying. I expect humans see visions as their life leaves them,” snapped Mr Gondavere. He hurried across the courtyard and Monte ran after him. What did he mean, humans?

  Mr Gondavere waited for Monte in the crowded street outside. People veered around the tall man in the hat on their way into the temple, and Monte had little trouble making his way towards his new employer.

  “I am most displeased, Monte. Most displeased indeed.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “It’s not your fault. I just really thought he’d tell me what I needed to know.” Mr Gondavere opened his case and s
lid the book back into it. “Come along, we need to regroup.”

  He walked away along the street and Monte followed. What might their next move be?

  9

  Chapter 9

  Validus returned to the room, carrying the red robe of an apprentice. Jyx hesitated before putting it on, remembering the destruction he’d caused last time he wore it.

  “Come along, Jyx. You must hurry. Time is not on our side.”

  “What’s wrong?” Jyx adjusted the belt at his waist.

  “I knew it would not be long before the council attempted to exercise their power. They are here,” said Validus.

  “Who’s here?”

  Validus frowned and left the room. Jyx looked at Bastet, but she simply mewed. He shrugged and hurried after the Wolfkin. He followed Validus through the vault, focusing on his flicking tail instead of the broken slabs on either side of his path. They reached the doorway and ascended the spiral staircase. Validus stopped him at the top and peered into the atrium.

  “The coast is not clear,” said Validus.

  Jyx flattened himself against the wall and peeked around the edge of the archway. A veil of magick hung before the doorway, and looking into the atrium was like gazing through a window streaked with rain. The bodies had been cleared away there. No trace of blood remained, although Jyx’s gaze lingered on the skeleton embedded in the marble floor, a sign of Eufame’s displeasure with an earlier apprentice. More vacant Wolfkin lingered in the hall, wearing the insignia of the council on their leather armour.

  Two overweight men stood in the centre of the room. One held a bottle of Eufame’s midnight wine, and the other gnawed on a hunk of bread. Both wore the blood red uniform of the council guards, and armbands around their upper biceps marked them as members of the DWS group. Jyx shuddered. The DWS were virulent enough in the Underground City, but the excess cruelty of the City Above chapter was legendary.

  “You see, Master Faire? Already the council attempt to oust my mistress. It won’t be long before they attempt to bring the last of my Kin within this House under their sway.”