The Necromancer's Rogue

by Icy Sedgwick

  Pain blossomed in her ankle when she fell, but she forced herself upright, and pushed away from the wall. The DWS agent ranted and railed at the twin Dreadguards. With their attention fixed on the ridiculous little man, Vyolet broke into a lopsided sprint and left them behind.

  21

  Chapter 21

  Jyx pulled his robe around himself and glanced from side to side as he hurried along the street towards Grieg Close. He couldn’t sense any unwanted attention, and the sparks of his mirror enchantment still flickered in his peripheral vision. So far, so good.

  The street rounded a bend and the Eufame splinter in his mind screamed a warning. Jyx threw himself sideways into a shop doorway without understanding why. He paused to calm his racing heart and he peered around the doorjamb. He muttered a curse under his breath. Two tall, hooded figures stood on the corner of Grieg Close, facing away from him. He might have mistaken them from Wolfkin in disguise if not for Eufame’s warning. How could he get past them? No mirror spell would be strong enough to fool Dreadguards.

  A siren stood a little way down the street, staring at the skeletal figures. Her red hair rippled across her shoulders like a river of copper and her wide green eyes sparkled in the gloom. Shoppers on the busy street cast her disapproving looks but she ignored their whispers and rude stares. She wore simple clothes of cream and brown, meaning her voice earned her more money than her looks did. She was perfect.

  Jyx shoved his hands into his pockets and rooted through their contents for anything he could press into service as payment. His fingers closed around the pouch of sand. He pulled it out of his pocket and peered into the small purse. It would have to do.

  He drew a sigil in the air over the purse, turning its contents into the most potent sleeping sand he knew how to make. He pulled its drawstrings as tightly as they’d go – he’d had an accident with sleeping sand once before, putting Bastet into a deep sleep in his room, and he had no intention of using it on himself.

  Jyx positioned himself in the doorway so that the jamb hid him from the view of the Dreadguards should they turn around, but the siren remained in sight. He snapped his fingers several times, whispering an incantation over them while willing the siren to ignore the mirror enchantment and look his way.

  “Respice ad me, oro te, respice ad me.”

  Her emerald gaze slid across the street and she locked eyes with him. For a moment, Jyx couldn’t move, his mind held in her thrall, his body rigid and no longer under his control. Before he could move towards her, the Eufame splinter wiggled, and Jyx swore he heard her warning tone in the furthest reaches of his consciousness. Able to control himself once more, he beckoned to the siren.

  She sashayed across the street towards him, naked curiosity stamped across her angelic features. Jyx knew of their fearsome reputation, and the sharp tongues they hid in those cherubic mouths, but he’d never spoken to one before. Jyx gestured for her to stand in the doorway with him. She linked her arm through his and gazed up at him.

  “You don’t look at me the way they do, but then they’re not looking at you at all,” she said.

  “It’s all right. No one ever notices me, but I’d like to avail myself of your services, actually,” replied Jyx.

  She took a step backwards, withdrawing her arm from his, and moved as far away as the doorway would allow her. A dark cloud passed across the siren’s face, and lightning flashed in the depths of her green eyes. Shadows gathered behind her, and the temperature dropped.

  “How dare you, I –”

  “Not like that, my lady, honest! No, I need your singing talents.”

  The threat passed as quickly as it arrived and a wide smile broke out, turning the siren from a fearsome thunderstorm into a sunny summer’s day. She slipped her arm back through his, and Jyx shivered to feel her cold flesh brush the back of his hand. At least Vyolet’s hand wasn’t cold.

  “You do? Oh, that is marvellous. I do so love to sing. What would you have me do?”

  “I need you to distract those two, and preferably lead them away so I can get down that close without them seeing me.” Jyx gestured along the street to the two figures. They still held watch along the other end of the street. At least they didn’t know he’d been to Mr Rosemary’s yet, although Bastet might warn the old bookseller if they found out.

  “They are Dreadguards, are they not?”

  “They are.”

  “And why would you avoid them so?” The siren narrowed her eyes and cocked her head on one side, as though she could peer into the deepest recesses of his heart. Jyx suddenly wished he’d learned to use the mirror spell in smaller doses for specific targets.

  “Well, I’ve made a few enemies in high places, but I’ve got a friend who’s even higher, if only I can help her out.” Calling Eufame a ‘friend’ after everything she’d done still felt strange, and the word sounded hollow in his mouth, but he couldn’t think how else to describe her.

  “That’s all right, you have your secrets, and I shall have mine.” The siren cuddled into him, nudging his side with her elbow. Jyx’s face burned with the blush that spread upwards from beneath the collar of his robe.

  “Thanks, but can you do it?”

  “It won’t be easy. Dreadguards are not so susceptible, but I have a song I think they will enjoy. But this is a difficult task, what is in it for me?”

  “This.” Jyx handed her the pouch of sand. She peeked inside and grinned even more.

  “This is very strong stuff, Mr Stranger.”

  “I know. I don’t care what you use it for, as long as it’s not on me, but it’s all yours, if you can get them away.” Jyx peeked along the street again – the Dreadguards still weren’t looking.

  “Why not use the sleeping sand on them?”

  “Dreadguards don’t sleep.”

  The siren weighed the pouch in one hand and peered at him again. The Eufame splinter vibrated in his mind and a thin frost spread across the edges of his consciousness. The siren scowled and looked away.

  “Very well. I will do this, but only as you have been so nice.”

  She pursed her lips and stalked away, hips swaying as she went. She made a beeline for the Dreadguards and positioned herself in front of them. Their hoods moved, inclining towards one another, but before they could stop her, she opened her mouth. Pure music poured forth, diving and swooping through a tumbling cascade of notes. The song was entirely tailored to the Dreadguards, and while Jyx’s magickal hearing gave him the ability to listen, the passers-by simply gave her a wide berth and muttered to one another about the “undesirables” of the district.

  The siren took a step backwards and the Dreadguards followed. Her song altered their mood, evoking the melancholy of dusk, experienced even in the Underground City. She took two more steps backwards, mirrored by the Dreadguards’ two steps forward.

  Jyx watched the unlikely dance continue, with the siren continually adding layer upon layer to her mournful song. Her throat worked itself into a frenzy, issuing notes that bubbled and frothed as they hit the cool air. She kept walking backwards, leading the Dreadguards around the bend in the street until they disappeared from sight.

  Jyx seized his chance and darted forward. He hugged the shopfronts as he edged along the street, hurrying into Grieg Close before the Dreadguards realised what was happening. He broke into a run and sprinted along the narrow residential street, keeping his eyes open for Holst Alley. Housewives watched his progress as he passed them, and he realised his mirror spell must have worn off.

  He stopped running when he found the turn-off and pressed his back against the wall. He pulled ragged breaths into his lungs and pressed his hand to his chest to feel the thump of his heart. All of this exertion was no good – one of the attractions of magick was the low emphasis on physical exercise. If he’d wanted to run about the place he’d have become an errand boy, not an apprentice.

  When his pulse slowed, Jyx consulted the address scrawled on his hand. He needed building number ten, thr
ee doors down to his left. If Eufame’s directions meant anything, his mother and siblings occupied a flat on the third floor. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed – while he’d hated his freezing garret in Green Dragon Close, he’d enjoyed being up high, looking down into the gloom from his lofty window.

  A guard gargoyle perched on the wrought iron gas lamp above the black front door. No larger than a kitten, it fluttered down to hover in front of Jyx. Chips of obsidian served as eyes in its stone face and it pursed its rocky lips.

  “You seem familiar to me.” Its voice sounded like rusting metal scraping on pitted stone.

  “I’m Jyximus Faire. My mother lives here.”

  A smile broke out on the gargoyle’s face, and Jyx winced at the expression, so unexpected for a guard.

  “That’s why I know you! You look a lot like her. Go on up, Master Faire.”

  It moved aside, and Jyx opened the front door.

  The hallway inside the building was dark and led to a central stairwell. Old oil paintings of Underground City luminaries, flickering candles in niches and small windows took up most of the walls. Jyx paused when he spotted a state portrait of Eufame halfway up to the first floor. Judging by her bored expression, she’d hated the experience of sitting for a painting. The windows cast barred shadows across the pale floorboards, but the glass was too dusty for Jyx to see into the street outside.

  He climbed the stairs up to the third floor. Only one doorway led onto the narrow landing. His mother and siblings had the floor to themselves. He knocked on the door then tugged his unruly hair into some semblance of order. He just hoped his mother would be pleased to see him.

  22

  Chapter 22

  Mr Gondavere led Monte to a cottage on the edge of Canalsditch. It clung to the crumbling brick of a tenement building in the neighbouring district, squatting in its shadow. A scrawny cat, more bones than fur, skittered away from the front door at Mr Gondavere’s approach.

  “I believe our final client may be of some definite use.” Gondavere knocked on the door, and Monte bent down to pet the cat. It rubbed its head against his leg, turning its gaze away from Mr Gondavere.

  “How do you know this stuff?” asked Monte.

  “I have my sources.” Mr Gondavere smiled and tapped the side of his nose. Monte looked down at the cat so his employer wouldn’t see the naked distrust on his face. There was something very ‘off’ about Mr Gondavere, although Monte couldn’t tell if his newfound dislike of the man was founded upon Myrtle’s apparent acceptance of him.

  The door opened, and a woman peered out into the gloom. Pinched features and watery eyes dominated her thin face.

  “Hello, my good woman, my name is Mr Gondavere, and this is my associate, Mr McThwaite. I believe your mother is unwell.” Buttery tones slid from Mr Gondavere’s usually sharp voice.

  “She ain’t just unwell, she’s dyin’, yer parasite, an’ I’ve got no time fer the likes o’ you!” The woman tried to slam the door shut, but Mr Gondavere stuck his foot in the way. She glowered at his shoe.

  “We’re not undertakers, nor surgeons, madam. We are here to console with her,” said Mr Gondavere.

  The woman looked up and narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “We don’t believe that anyone should fear the passage to the other side, and we would help ease her voyage, if we may,” replied Mr Gondavere.

  Monte stared at his employer. What had provoked such a change in approach?

  “What’s ’e for?” The woman jabbed her finger towards Monte.

  “I provide comfort, madam,” said Monte.

  A rattling cough erupted inside the cottage. Mr Gondavere pushed on the door and nudged aside the woman. Monte followed him inside.

  A pot hung from a hook over the fire. Its contents bubbled and frothed. A narrow bed stood on the far side of the single room and an ancient woman lay huddled beneath the threadbare sheets. Blood spattered the pillows beside her mouth. Monte frowned.

  Mr Gondavere made his way across the room and took up a position on a small stool at the foot of the bed. Monte perched on the edge of the bed and folded one of the old woman’s hands into his warm grasp. Her eyelids fluttered, and she peered at them.

  “What are ye? Devils? Demons? Are yer ’ere to take me off?” She rasped the words, punctuating each question with a hacking cough.

  “We’re here to offer you comfort,” replied Monte. He stroked her hand. Her pulse fluttered beneath her thin skin.

  “I’ll be dead soon enough,” said the old woman.

  “We know, that’s why we’re here.”

  “Am I to be dissected? Am I corpse bait?”

  “Not at all. We merely wish to record your final words to preserve your memory once you are gone.” Mr Gondavere tapped the cover of his book, now resting in his lap.

  “I have no final words.” The woman broke into a cough again and peppered Monte’s hand with a fine red mist.

  “I told yer to go!” The younger woman grabbed at Monte’s arm and tried to pull him away from the bed, but her mother clamped his hand in her vice-like grip. Monte stared at her withered hand in amazement.

  “They’re ’ere to help me.”

  “They’ll take yer away and sell yer to the necromancer.”

  “We have nothing to do with the necromancer, and as it happens, she is incarcerated in the House of Correction for her part in the treason against the Crown Prince.” Mr Gondavere glared at the younger woman.

  “No she ain’t. Word is she broke out. She’s somewhere down ’ere. How do I know yer ain’t workin’ for her?” The younger woman planted her hands on her skinny hips.

  Mr Gondavere spluttered, his face red with fury. Monte hurried to reply before his employer could say something that would get them ejected from the cottage.

  “I can assure you we aren’t working for Eufame Delsenza, madam. We’re just simple historians, and we’d like to make your mother feel comfortable and capture her last words. For posterity, and so on,” said Monte.

  “Yer bleedin’ parasites.” The younger woman stomped across the room and flung herself into a seat in the corner. Monte bit his lip – after all, they were depriving this stranger of her final moments with her mother, all to pursue an archaeological artefact. He thought of his wages, left with Myrtle, and grimaced.

  “You’re ’ere about ’er, aren’t yer?” The old woman coughed again.

  “Who?”

  “The Heart. When I was a novice for Beseda, me ol’ mistress told me yer would come to ask questions,” replied the old woman.

  “Why did you not say so before?” asked Mr Gondavere.

  “I was ’opin’ you might leave afore then.”

  “Yer don’t ’ave to talk to ’em, Mum!” The younger woman threw a disdainful look at Mr Gondavere.

  “I might as well, now they’re ’ere. See the Heart of the City had ’er own name once, only no one remembers it, and yer gonna need to know it if yer want to ask ’er for help. She knew ol’ Beseda too, and it was my patron saint what hid ’er away when she died,” said the old woman. “So yer might as well stop lookin’ and start livin’. Especially you.” The old woman tossed a meaningful stare in Monte’s direction.

  “Why would Beseda hide the Heart of the City?” asked Mr Gondavere.

  “She’s the patron saint of wronged women, ain’t she? No more way to be wronged than gettin’ killed defending a city wot betrayed yer,” replied the old woman.

  “Who betrayed her?” Monte had never heard that part of the story before.

  Mr Gondavere spoke over him. “You’ll tell me her name.” His pen nib hovered above the page of his open book.

  “I don’t know it, and if I did, I wouldn’t be tellin’ you.”

  Mr Gondavere leaned forward, his eyes blazing and his brows furrowed. Monte held him back with one arm and shook his head. Mr Gondavere pursed his lips and sat back.

  “Who does know the Heart’s name?” asked Monte.

  “I ain’t sayin
’ nothin’ more.”

  The younger woman stood up and bustled across the room. She reached out to grab Monte, but he rose, holding up his hands in apology. She narrowed her eyes and reached towards Mr Gondavere.

  “You two need to get out!”

  Mr Gondavere closed his book and slid it back into the case. He snapped it closed and got up, his expression grim. The temperature around him dropped several degrees, and the younger woman shrank away from him.

  “I can assure you we are leaving, madam.” Mr Gondavere swept across the room in a flurry of black cloth and wrenched open the door. The rectangle of darkness swallowed him up.

  “You want to get away from that ’un,” said the old woman. She nodded twice and Monte nodded in reply. He hoped she might give him an escape route of sorts, but she simply lay back against her pillow. Another coughing fit seized her, and the younger woman elbowed him out of the way. Monte slipped out of the cottage and closed the front door behind him.

  * * *

  Mr Gondavere stood on the doorstep. Monte expected him to be furious, or cold, but instead he grinned, displaying that mouth full of cruel fangs.

  “Well I think we know where to go to find the Heart!”

  “But we’ll never get into Beseda’s Shrine. We’re men.” As the patron saint of wronged women, Beseda inspired loyalty from few men, although Monte had heard rumours that she was popular among trolls, both male and female. Their perverse grasp of honour led them to see slights against them at every turn.

  “You’re right. We’re men, but your lovely wife isn’t.” Mr Gondavere’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, which glittered like explosive diamonds. A threat laced his words, and Monte dropped his gaze.

  “You can send Myrtle into the Shrine if you want, but how will we get into the catacombs? I don’t think there’s a back door she can go in and open for us.”

  “You would be surprised, my good man. We shall stop at your dwelling to collect her, and sally forth to the shrine.” Mr Gondavere walked up the path away from the cottage. He cocked his head to one side, lips moving in silent conversation with an invisible companion. Monte stared at him. Exactly what manner of creature was his employer?