by Sam Gayton
“You’re right, he was. But Blüstav is useless at alchemy. His potions leak away and quickly wear off. He had changed back from the pile of coins months ago. I met him in an underground dungeon in Port Xanderberg—this was way back in Worsen, the second time Sir Klaus caught me. Blüstav was chained up for stealing alchemy books. Boasted he’d thieved whole libraries full of books—starting with those from the Duke of Madri’s treasure chamber when he first turned back into a man. Claimed he’d borrowed those. Ha! But he’d been caught by the Czar’s men in Xanderberg. He’s a crafty old man, and a liar and a crook, but he gave me an idea. I freed us both, and promised to become his apprentice.”
Amna frowned. “I thought he was a fraud,” she said.
“I know he’s a fraud,” said Teresa. “But he’s useful too. I needed a place to hide, and a way to practice alchemy, and Blüstav has his own laboratory in Albion. He’s got more alchemicals than I can mix together, and more recipe books than I could ever read. I’ve been studying them from dawn to dusk.” She jabbed her thumbs at all the alchemicals tinkling from her grappling hooks. “Look at all the alchemy I can do now!”
Pieter gazed at the bottles, feeling a little jealous. Bloom and Swoon and many a moon ago, alchemy had been something he and Teresa had done together. Did she no longer need him anymore?
“I’m surprised he didn’t sell you back to the Czar as soon as he found out who you were,” said Amna.
“He would’ve,” said Teresa craftily, “if I wasn’t so good at lying. I never told Blüstav about the real aim of Operation: His Royal Whiskers. Made up some other story. Besides, my alchemy is making him rich. Blüstav sells it to rich customers and pretends it’s his own.”
“A very bad-mannered man,” said Amna, shaking her head.
Teresa shrugged. “He even had the Czar request a flea-lotion for Alexander.” She pointed at one of the nozzle-spray bottles swinging from her suit. “I told Blüstav I’d take it personally to the docks, then sailed back here on a rescue mission!” She smiled. “I gave him a potion of my own making so he’ll sleep until I’m back.”
Pieter looked down at his lack of a body. “You’re a bit late anyway.”
Teresa slumped her shoulders, crestfallen. “I know. I was halfway to Port Xanderberg when I heard the Czar had been murdered. When I finally got back here, I found Amna with her charms taken, Alexander with his heart broken, and you—” Her voice cracked. She picked up the priest robes, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose. “Oh, Pieter, I’m so sorry.”
Pieter didn’t feel sad, only bewildered. “I really thought you’d done this somehow,” he told her. “I thought you’d stopped death, just in Petrossia, using alchemy or magic or something. . . .”
“This didn’t happen because of me,” Teresa said darkly. “It’s happened because of him.”
“Who?” said Amna, but even as she asked, Pieter knew the answer.
“Holy Sohcahtoa,” he gasped. “Not the Czar?”
Teresa nodded. “The Czar.”
There was a low, loud hiss above them as Alexander bared his saber teeth.
“But it can’t be.” A shiver ran up Pieter’s neck. “The Czar is dead.”
“That’s exactly why it has to be him,” said Teresa. “Didn’t he always boast he would do it? He’s gone and conquered Death.”
7
The Psycho and the Psychopomp
Was Teresa right? Had the Czar really conquered the land of the dead? Pieter wasn’t sure. He liked to check and recheck an answer—particularly if it was a terrifying one.
“We can’t know that for sure,” he insisted.” Only Alexander was there when the Czar died. And he was asleep!”
Teresa nodded back at him. “You’re right. At first, I only had my suspicions. But I knew I was right. Death stops working, on the very day the Czar dies? It’s too much of a coincidence! What are the odds?”
Pieter opened his mouth to tell her, but she pressed a finger to his lips.
“So,” she continued. “Traveling back toward the Winter Palace, I started looking for proof. If the Czar really had conquered Death, then surely there’d be evidence? Maybe even a witness. I looked all over, but it was hopeless. The whole country is in a mess. Barbarians fighting in the west, Prince Xin rampaging in the east . . . It would have taken me a thousand years to find what I needed. Luckily, I had help.”
“Help?” Pieter frowned. “Who from?”
Teresa grinned. “An expert.”
Pursing her lips, she whistled a tune up at the rafters. One of the blackbirds roosting there sang the same melody back at her, and dived down toward them.
In its claws, it held a little leather pouch. On its beak, it wore a tiny string bridle and reins. And on its back, it carried a small white rider.
Before Pieter could cry out, before Amna could swat the mouse with her broom, before Alexander even spotted him at all, Sir Klaus the Spymaster swooped down on his blackbird steed and landed on Teresa’s shoulder.
But instead of drawing his venomous sword, he doffed his hat and bowed. “Your Majesty,” he said into her ear. “I am your humble servant.”
Pieter looked at Teresa, dumbfounded.
She just blushed, and shrugged.
“I caught Princess Teresa twice,” explained Sir Klaus in his quiet and solemn voice. “But the third time we met, she captured me.”
“With cheese?” asked Pieter.
“With the truth,” Sir Klaus said severely. “Once I discovered that Princess Teresa was rightful heir to the Iron Crown, I took a solemn oath to serve her the moment she returned to Petrossia. She commanded me to learn how the Czar had conquered Death.”
“And you did find out,” said Teresa, pulling on her gloves. “Without you, we wouldn’t know the truth.”
Sir Klaus’s nose flushed pink, and he bowed. “My Patra. I only hope that I can make amends for some of the wrong I did in the service of the Czar. There was no honor in following that tyrant. I was a fool.”
“Just remember what I told you,” said Teresa, taking the little leather pouch from the claws of the blackbird on her shoulder. “Your oath is to serve the Petrossia folk, not any king or queen.”
Sir Klaus tipped his budgie-feathered hat, and hopped back onto his blackbird. “Then I fly north,” he said. “To the Waste. And from this day, I swear to do all I can to keep the people of Petrossia safe. Maybe in that way, I can redeem myself. Fare thee well.”
“Fare thee well,” said Teresa to the solemn little creature, as one gloved hand began to loosen the drawstring pouch he had brought to her.
“Careful, my Patra,” Sir Klaus warned, hand on the pommel of his sword. “It is accursed. Everything it touches drops down dead. I had to chop it into pieces.”
Then he spurred his blackbird into flight, flitted away through the open doorway, and was gone.26
Amna began to chuckle. “What an alchemist, my Patra is! She somehow changed the Spymaster!”
Pieter started to laugh too, but he soon stopped when Teresa cupped one gloved hand, and carefully upended Sir Klaus’s leather bag. Out into her covered palm, she poured twenty-seven bones (Pieter counted exactly), no bigger than pebbles.
If he had still had a heartbeat, it would have been racing. Beside him, Amna gasped softly. Alexander’s growl rumbled around the room. Instantly, Sir Klaus was forgotten.
Because the little white bones were twitching in Teresa’s gloves. They were alive.
“Evidence,” Teresa said, as one by one she popped the bones back in place. “Proof that this is the work of the Czar. Sir Klaus said he found it on the rooftop, scuttling around the gutters. Who knows how it managed to get up there?”
Teresa clicked the last bone back in place, then plucked the skeleton’s hand up by the wrist and held it out for them to see. It wriggled in her grip like a five-legged tarantula.
“The Pale Traveler,” Amna quailed, touching her hair for a charm that was no longer there.
Pieter stared at the ske
letal hand.
“When Sir Klaus first brought it to me,” said Teresa, “I tied a stick of charcoal to its fingers, and set it down on some paper.” With her free hand, she took a wad of pages from a pocket, and held them up for everyone to see. “And look what it scribbled down.”
Pieter and Amna stared at the hand’s writing. It was messy, and jumbled, and written in a long spidery scrawl that went upside down and diagonally and all over.
But if you looked carefully, you could just make out the story.
The story started in the Hall of Faces on Yuletide morn, when the Czar woke to find a skeleton looming over him. It leaned down and offered a bony hand at the exact moment he opened his eyes. In its eye sockets, two pupils glowed a warm and friendly yellow.
Hello! it said, grin wide. Please vacate your body!
The Czar never obeyed orders, especially not polite ones. He leaped up to fight the skeleton—then found he had done exactly as he had been asked. His soul billowed darkly in the air like a thundercloud, while his body lay at his feet in Alexander’s fur.
“You must be Death,” said the Czar, quickly recovering from his initial shock. He looked down at his corpse, then up at the skeleton’s black cloak and scythe. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Oh, I’m not Death, corrected the skeleton. I just work for him. I’m a psychopomp—it’s my job to guide you to the land of the dead. Name’s Grimaldi the Most Wise. But most people call me Grim.
He held his hand out for the Czar to shake. The Czar gripped it and squeezed. Hard, until something went pop.
That’s quite a handshake, said the skeleton, cracking his knucklebones back into place.
“And that,” said the Czar, pointing above Grim, “is quite a scythe.”
It was milky white and curved, like the end of one of Alexander’s claws. Leaning closer, the Czar could actually hear the wicked invisible edge. A faint tinny roar, like putting your ear to a seashell. It was the sound, Grim explained, of phatoms screaming as they drifted onto the blade, were sliced in half, and fizzed away into nothingness.27
The Czar smiled when he heard that.
Not in a nice way.
“Sounds sharp,” he said.
Grim nodded. Sharp enough to cut through Time and Space. Every psychopomp in the world is given a soul-blade like this. Makes my job a lot easier. I mainly use it for shortcuts. Just two slashes and a slice, and I can make a doorway that will lead anywhere. The skeleton patted the scythe proudly. The handle also has a compass attached.
The Czar raised his eyebrows. “Ever tried cutting bone with it?” he asked innocently.
The skeleton’s spine clicked as it straightened. Wow, he said. That’s a bit of a creepy question.
“Sorry,” said the Czar at once, grinning sheepishly.
I mean, you know you’ve crossed the line when the living skeleton is scared.
“I apologize,” said the Czar, holding up his hands. “I’m not myself. I just wasn’t expecting this. I had so much still to do.”
If you have any unfinished business back in the land of the living, Grim said stiffly, you’re welcome to put in a request for a haunting. Otherwise, we should probably head off.
“Yes,” said the Czar, stroking his mustache and thinking. “Head off. My thoughts exactly.”
This way then, said Grim. It’s a long journey.
“Why don’t we take that shortcut?” asked the Czar, pointing behind the skeleton.
Grim fell for it.
What shortcut? he said, turning.
With a well-aimed karate kick, the Czar sent Grim’s skull soaring off his bony shoulders.
I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING CREEPY ABOUT YOU! Grim’s head roared as it plonked down at his feet.
The Czar’s grin of triumph was almost cut short. Very short indeed. Headless, Grim swung his scythe blindly, slicing off the glowing blue tip of the Czar’s mustache. It flew off his cheek like a firework and dissolved into a thousand tiny sparking phatoms. That was a sharp blade: so keen it could cut your soul. It only made the Czar want it all the more.
Now he was careful, and took his time—with a series of vicious punches, he dislocated every joint in Grim’s body. Pop! Pop! Click!
Ouch!
Gerroff!
That tickles!
Grim’s arm bones fell from his rib cage, his legs fell from his hips, and just like that the skeleton collapsed into a heap of bones that rattled together like a creepy xylophone.
This is a clear violation of rule #129 of the Mortal Code!
The Czar tilted his head at Grim’s mention of rules, and the suggestion that he ought to obey them.
Put me back together! I’ve got other souls to collect! Grim’s eyes flared a panicked pink. Hey, don’t touch that!
There was a snapping sound as the Czar broke off the top of the scythe, and carefully twisted the bolted-on soul-blade upright, until he held it like a sword.
Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? Grim cried. Vandal! Hooligan!
“That,” said the Czar, picking up the skull, “is no way to speak to your new king.”
Grim, staring up at the Czar’s mad gaze, did what almost everyone who fights the Czar does eventually.
He ran away.
In a dozen different directions.
Off went his bones, scattering left and right: feet hopping, knees hobbling, spine wriggling like a great ghoulish caterpillar. The Czar tied up the furry corners of Grim’s cloak into a sack, then went hunting through Alexander’s fur until he’d gathered the skeleton back up.
Only one hand managed to escape. It scuttled across the hall, fingertips clacking on the flagstones, and climbed up the chimney out of sight.
“Where were you going?” the Czar asked the skull. “I’m waiting.”
Grim’s jaw was clacking with fear. His pupils were shaking in their empty sockets.
Waiting? What for?
“For you to do your job,” said the Czar, his smile glinting like the soul-blade. “Show me the way to the land of the dead.”
Now at last, Pieter understood why Grim hadn’t arrived to collect his soul—why Grim hadn’t arrived to collect anybody’s soul—the Czar had broken him up like a jigsaw, and stolen all but twenty-seven of his pieces.
“The Czar is the problem,” Teresa said with utter certainty, putting Grim’s story down before Pieter could read any more. “What’s the solution, though?”
Amna spoke up. “Rescue the Pale Traveler from the Czar,” she said. “Give Petrossia back its guide between life and death.”
“Ignoring the fact that we’ve tried and failed twice now to defeat the Czar . . .” Teresa said. “How do we mount a rescue mission to bring back a living skeleton from the land of the dead?”
Pieter sighed. “That’s the impossible part,” he said.
“But only a little bit impossible,” Amna said.
“Totally impossible,” said Pieter, adamant. “We need a guide to lead us to the land of the dead. That’s the whole reason I’m stuck here.”
“You don’t need a guide,” Amna said, looking at Grim’s skeletal finger twitching. “All you need is a hand to lead the way.”
* * *
26. Sir Klaus kept his oath. He flew out of this story and into many others, and always upheld his promise to keep the people of Petrossia safe. Forming a band of Mousketeers around him, he guarded the last vial of Black Death plague, sealed deep inside the Czar’s northern fortress. He did so for such a long time, it was even rumored that the Pale Traveler, who leads souls to the land of the dead, kept conveniently “forgetting” to collect Sir Klaus, on account of the work the mouse was saving him by keeping the Black Death from killing everyone.
27. Phatoms are phantom molecules that the majority of the spirit worlds are made of. Not to be confused with fatoms, which make up the majority of cakes.
PART FIVE
Ever After
“Mr. Emperor, your sword won’t help you, Sceptre and c
rown have no power here.”
—DEATH, IN HEIDELBERG’S TÖTENTANZ
“It is very true,” said the Poodle, with austere dignity, “that I am small; but, sir, I beg to observe that I am all dog.”
—FANTASTIC FABLES, AMBROSE BIERCE
We only part to meet again.
—BLACK-EYED SUSAN, JOHN GAY
1
Crossing the Gray Sea
The fire burned hot beneath the starry sky. It threw up orange embers and long yellow flames from its fierce red heart. Shadows on the courtyard floor danced to its crackle and throb. Smoke curled up into the night, smudging the moon from Pieter’s sight, and Amna’s voice was clear and bright as she sang her spell of safe return.
“Bind you to the fire, it will,” she told them as she drew the last hieroglyphs in the air. Teresa lay down in Alexander’s paw with Pieter in her lap. “We’ll keep it burning as long as you are gone. No matter where you are, you’ll always see its glimmer in your eye. Just follow it if ever your soul is lost. It’ll lead you back to us.”
Pieter closed his eyes. The spell really did work: the fire’s image was a bright beacon burning behind his lids. He hoped he’d still see it in the land of the dead. How else would they find their way back to their bodies?
“Take good care of us while we’re gone!” Teresa hugged Amna fiercely. She would stay here while their souls went wandering, and make sure Teresa’s body was warm and well fed, and that Pieter’s head didn’t start to go moldy.
“One word of advice,” Teresa added. “Don’t feed me cabbage. It’s you who’ll suffer.”
“And one last advice for you,” Amna said. “A great journey lies between you and the Czar. Miles beyond even a Tallymaster’s counting. By the time you return, you’ll both be older than Babapatra. I have told you all we wildfolk know of the way to death. Still, my old heart shudders when I think of the dangers you might face. But I know you will pass them if you do so together.”
