Ward Against Death (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer)

by Melanie Card

  She stepped into the hall to hide her growing discomfort. There was a slight possibility that someone, her father or one of her brothers, had taken offense to her latest assignment with the Assassins’ Guild. It was, after all, for an under-lord. But they all knew family was family, and work was work. Didn’t they?

  Ward shuffled into the hall beside her. While she wanted nothing to do with him, she had to admit he might prove useful. If her murderer was a family member, or even in the Guild, she’d have difficulty obtaining information without being detected, but not everyone knew Ward. If he avoided her father and her father’s right-hand man, Bakmeire, he might even be able to search her house. Not to mention that she didn’t know how long the Jam de’U would last.

  Great. Now she had two reasons to keep him around.

  She grabbed his wrist and dragged him down the hall. If she had to, she could always kill him later.

  A slow, repetitive squeak, a sure sign people were coming up the stairs, stopped her. She glanced down the staircase. It was Bakmeire, followed by four men.

  Not good. She shoved Ward back to the room. Perhaps she was being paranoid. She had no proof the murderer had poisoned her in her father’s house, and she had no reason to suspect her father, or Bakmeire. But, damn... She had no reason to trust them, either.

  She eased the door closed and placed Ward against it. “Lean there for a minute. I need to think.”

  “Think?”

  “Yes. The inn is swarming with my father’s men. What did you do during the day while I was... unconscious?”

  “Swarming?” He pressed his shoulder to the door. “I needed components for the Jam de’U. I had to go to the market.”

  “You went shopping?”

  “People just don’t rise from the dead on their own, you know. Spells like that need a little help.”

  Beyond the door, the soft thump of hardened leather soles on the floorboards drew closer. Bakmeire wasn’t even trying to keep his approach a secret. He must have assumed silence meant the success of his companions. Well, she had a surprise for him, particularly if he thought her dead and believed only Ward waited for him.

  She strode across the room through the center of a red octagon—was that blood?—and looked out the tiny window, the next most-obvious exit. She’d been right. Below lay a knacker’s yard, the pile of bloody, unusable animal bits sitting under the window. If she jumped right, she might be able to land beside it. It didn’t really matter. She’d need a bath before she carried on anyway. An assassin was no good if her smell alerted everyone in a hundred-foot radius she was there.

  The door rattled in its frame.

  Ward squeaked. “What now?”

  “We jump.”

  “We what? We’re on the second floor.”

  “There’s a”—she glanced at Ward and tried to smile—“manure pile below.”

  His eyes widened. She hadn’t thought it possible for someone’s eyes to open that far. Goddess help him if he knew what was actually down there.

  “It’s just like the sewers.”

  He didn’t move.

  “We’ll find a bath.”

  Something thumped against the door, and Ward stumbled forward. He threw his weight back against it and swallowed.

  Celia stepped out of the way. “You first.”

  He locked gazes with her and in that moment, much to her surprise, she realized he’d done something like this before. He blinked, and the moment was gone. With a quick breath, he ran across the room. He climbed out the window, hung from the sill, and fell.

  The door burst open and Bakmeire stood on the edge of the threshold, his expression grim, and his long braids wild about his head.

  Celia sat on the windowsill and flashed him a toothy grin. His mouth opened, the only indication he was surprised to see her. She let herself drop backward. A flashy exit, one she shouldn’t have considered but couldn’t resist.

  One quick summersault, and she landed in a crouch, clear of the pile of animal parts. Beside her, Ward staggered to his feet, his right leg and hip covered in dark, sticky blood. He looked pale, even in the dim moonlight.

  “You’re not going to throw up are you?”

  He rolled his eyes. He still looked green, but he didn’t vomit. Perhaps there was a little more to him than she’d first thought.

  Still, if they wanted to stay alive—more or less—they had to move. Now. She glanced at the window but didn’t see anyone. Bakmeire and his men were probably rushing down the stairs, looking for a way into the knacker yard.

  “You said manure.”

  “I lied. If we don’t go now, our parts will join that pile.”

  He coughed, the only sign he fought a rebellious stomach, but started to jog, leaving a bloody trail behind him. It should have occurred to her he’d leave a trail. She must be losing her touch.

  No, not true. She had never worked with a partner before, and she would never have started with one so inexperienced in everything martial. The only logical answer was the sewer. Bakmeire and her father’s men could follow them to the grate, but if Ward stayed in the sewage they wouldn’t be able to follow his trail. Now all she needed was a place for them to clean up, and then it would be her turn to do some hunting.

  §

  After a nerve-wracking run from the knacker yard into the sewer through a grate on the far side of the street, Ward stopped to throw up. A foul mix of bile and ale burned his throat and made his stomach ache. He swore to the Goddess and Her two Sons he would never drink beer again, but his eyes still watered and his stomach threatened to expel another batch.

  He wanted to weep with frustration, but forced himself not to, though he couldn’t fathom why. He couldn’t possibly look more pathetic in front of Celia. Clumping around when they had to be quiet, hesitating to jump out of a window… It was only the second floor. If anything, he would have just broken a bone or two. What was that compared to his life?

  Nothing really. He had just never done anything like this. He read books, studied medicine, solved problems. He suspected Celia’s version of solving a problem involved stabbing it in the heart.

  He forced himself to move before she could scold him.

  She jogged in silence, leading him to who-knew-where for what seemed like an eternity. He had no way of telling time in the dark tunnels with their eerie white witch-stone glow, so dim he wasn’t sure if it was real or imagined. All he knew was his stomach had stopped trying to expel the only thing he had digested in a day and his side shot jagged spikes through his chest every time he sucked in a breath. He wasn’t aware he’d gotten lost in thought again until he bumped into Celia.

  Beyond her lay a perfect circle divided into starlit sky and gray-capped waves.

  “One bath, as promised.” She took off her cloak, wrapped it around one arm, and stepped from the pipe into ankle-deep water.

  Ward gripped the obsidian edge of the pipe and peered out. There was no sign of the city. No lights, no boats, only the rush and hiss of waves washing over black sand that sparkled in the moonlight.

  Celia balanced her cloak and rucksack inside a crevice in the black stone beside the sewer and leaned toward him. “It’s all right, Ward.”

  Her soft voice sent waves of heat through him. She brushed his jaw with a finger, and he jerked back. It wasn’t safe when she was nice to him.

  “It really is all right.” She stepped away and opened her arms. “Welcome to the Bay of Veknormai.”

  “You mean The Cursed Bay of Veknormai?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re superstitious.”

  “I’m a necromancer. Superstitions are merely forgotten truths.”

  She shrugged and backed up until the water reached her knees. “This is your only safe chance to bathe. I suggest you take advantage of it.”

  She stretched out and disappeared under a wave. Was she leaving him? He should be so lucky. No, that wasn’t really luck, no matter how much he wanted it. It would only make his life more difficult.

>   She re-emerged farther from shore, scrubbing her hair with her hands—not that she was the one covered in sewage and blood. A lump formed, cold and hard, in his throat. He had blood and waste splattered all over him, on his clothes, under his clothes, in his pores.

  His stomach threatened another revolt, and he switched his train of thought. Kittens, puppies, flowers; cute and calm. A cursed bay, or a bath? Right now, his stomach could handle a curse from the Ancients, but it couldn’t handle the gore.

  He stepped into the water. It pulled at his breeches and the bottom of his cloak, weighing them down. He sloshed his way out until it swirled around his waist. The salt burned the incision in his arm, but he refused to cry and give Celia more fodder to prove he was as dumb as he felt.

  He ran his hand over his coat, brushing the bump of his glasses in his breast pocket and the lump of the wig stuffed inside. He pulled the glasses out. The lenses were cracked and the frame bent. They had been expensive. He’d saved for a whole year to afford them. If he really wanted, he could probably sell the frames, but who knew if he’d be able to hold onto anything until the mess with Celia was over? It was better to let them go, give them back to the Goddess, and pray She accepted his sacrifice.

  He let them fall into the water and ran his hands over his coat again with more of an effort to clean it, but didn’t dislodge the filth. It would take more than a dip in the sea to clean his clothes. He needed a miracle.

  Celia swam to his side, as graceful in the water as she was on land. Wasn’t there anything she couldn’t do?

  “Strip down.” She reached for him, but he shied away. Her expression darkened for a moment, then changed so fast he wasn’t sure he’d seen it. Now she appeared fine, if a little worried. Which, he supposed, could be expected. He certainly was worried.

  “I’ll be back in a bit.” She waded out of the water and stepped into the sewer pipe.

  “Sure, I’ll just run around naked. It couldn’t be any more embarrassing than the last two days.” He sank into the water until it reached his chin, reveling in the fire in his arm and the pull of his engorged clothes.

  Toward shore.

  Away from shore.

  Toward and away and always down to the coarse black sand below.

  He snorted. At least he was still alive. Bathing in a cursed bay, but still alive. He gathered his thoughts and took stock. The jacket and cloak would have to go. They were beyond hope, but his shirt might be salvageable. His breeches would have to do until he could acquire a new pair. There was no sense in getting arrested for something as silly as indecency. And while the salt water would ruin his leather shoes, they would still be able to carry him out of Brawenal and away from her.

  Admittedly, Celia had said she’d return, but he didn’t really believe her. How could he? She’d lied to him about her father murdering her. She probably had countless people who wanted to kill her. Heck, if Ward hadn’t taken the Physician’s Oath, he’d probably try to kill her.

  He stripped off the cloak and coat, the ruined wig still half stuffed in an inside pocket, and let the waves take them away. A physical representation of his life, completely out of his hands. Above, the moon illuminated him in all his pathetic misery. As if someone like Celia needed his help. He was such a fool, letting her seduce him with her desperate innocence.

  Tears threatened to spill, burning his eyes, and he blinked them back. He’d indulged in enough self-pity. He’d started his life over once before. He could do so again.

  He eased back, letting the waves carry him to shore, to the Black Cliffs of Veknormai, a gigantic frozen lava flow looming over the bay. At the top, from the edge of the cliffs to the mouth of the volcano, sat the Holy City of Veknormai, a white sandstone cemetery that glowed like a beacon when touched by sunlight, calling to whatever gods the Ancients had worshiped.

  “Time’s up,” Celia said. “We’ve got to go.” She stood in the mouth of the sewer pipe with a bundle in her hands. “I thought I told you to undress.”

  “If I said take your clothes off and then left, would you?” He scrubbed at the filth in his hair.

  “No, I suppose not.” She smiled. Was it a genuine smile? Or was she still toying with him?

  He unbuttoned his shirt, dropped it in the water, and waded ashore. “My clothes.” He held out a hand.

  “Your breeches.”

  “I have very little dignity left.” He didn’t want to beg, but would if it meant maintaining his modesty. He couldn’t bear it if she laughed at him right now.

  She sighed, but handed the clothes over. Then she grabbed her rucksack and cloak and stepped into the shadows of the sewer pipe.

  “So, what now?” Amazingly, she’d not only provided a simple linen shirt and coarse cotton pants, but a pair of leather boots that might actually fit. He dragged the new shirt over his head, making sure not to brush his bandaged wrist. The bandage was filthy and might cause an infection, but he couldn’t remove it without having a fresh one ready.

  “Now, I need to think,” Celia said.

  Ward wedged the boots in the crevice where Celia’s stuff had been, and wrapped the pants around his neck. Unhooking his belt, he placed that around his neck as well. “And where do you plan on thinking? Here?” He yanked off his ruined shoes and peeled away his wet breeches and hose.

  “Of course not.”

  He pulled on the new pants and boots, and ran his belt through the loops. “Of course.” Nothing was going to be simple with Celia Carlyle.

  SIX

  Ward marched after Celia through the sewers for hours, avoiding the stream of sewage as best he could. Then, for no apparent reason, she stopped and ran her hands against the slimy walls. They were in between access pipes and had just passed a worker’s alcove. There was no logical reason to stop and feel the walls.

  Maybe the fumes had finally addled her mind. If he didn’t breathe fresh air soon he would surely lose his. “Are we taking a break?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then don’t pay any attention while I catch my breath.”

  “If you wait a minute, you won’t have to catch it from the sides of your mouth.”

  Sides of his mouth? So that’s how she could stand breathing air rank with urine and feces without gagging. It would have been nice if she’d mentioned something earlier, before his nose had finally given up and stopped registering the smells.

  Something clicked and part of the sewer wall swung inward, revealing a bright light. “We’re here.” She stepped into the light and disappeared.

  Ward grabbed the edge of the opening and peeked in, but it was too bright to see clearly. He sucked in a quick breath through the sides of his mouth.

  Celia’s face appeared before his. “In or out? I don’t know where Bakmeire is, and I really don’t want my family to know about this place.”

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he stepped through the portal into a place with warm, sweet air. He wished the actions that seemed so simple to Celia came easier to him. Close the door behind you. Take cover. Blend in. Were they too simple for his mind to register? Or had his mind taken refuge somewhere in his skull and refused to come out? All he could focus on was how he ached with exhaustion.

  The door clicked shut behind him.

  “Boots off by the door.”

  “Sure.” When he could see, he’d gladly put his boots beside the door.

  Two soft thumps were followed by the gentle slap of bare feet on a hardwood or stone floor as she padded away, leaving him alone, blind, and unable to move without incurring her wrath since he couldn’t see the aforementioned door. Didn’t she ever wait for anyone?

  Probably just not him.

  He cracked open one eye. It watered in the light at first, but finally cleared. He opened the other eye, blinked back the tears, and looked around.

  Before him sat an obsidian railing shaped like tree limbs. To either side, a path circled a vast cavern carved, like the sewer pipes, from obsidian. The ghostly hint of smoke caught within the vol
canic glass shimmered in the light. It was amazing. Beautiful. He’d never seen anything like it.

  He pulled off his boots and placed them beside hers. Warmth from the floor seeped into his muscles, making them ache even more. He ran his fingers along the railing. Perfect, polished glass, a trademark architectural feature of the Ancients’ structures. Above him, almost within reach, was a ceiling made of witch-stone, shining streams of colored light into the cavern. Since heat made witch-stone glow, he could only guess it was either some strange magic the Ancients had possessed, or a steam vent from the volcano beneath them. Below, the cavern extended into darkness with landings ringing the edge every twelve or so feet.

  “Are you coming?”

  Celia stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, tapping her foot like an impatient wife. Did she have any idea how she looked? Probably not. She didn’t seem the type to notice things like that. She was more likely to notice how many daggers someone carried, even the hidden ones, or how someone walked, and whether they carried themselves with the confidence that came with martial training.

  She headed to a staircase, and he rushed to catch up. As she led him down the stairs to the second level, his gaze locked on the gentle swing of her hips. Her balance shifted from one foot to the other, creating a perfect curve to her buttocks with every step. The memory of her hand on his cheek and the tears in her eyes filled him with yearning. If only she wasn’t dead...

  There still wouldn’t be any chance to be with her. She came from a different world, a world Ward could never recreate, no matter how successful a necromancer he became. On top of that, she was dangerous—and not just a daughter-of-a-wealthy-man kind of dangerous. It had something to do with how fast she’d killed those men, or how she’d jumped from the second-story window, somersaulted, and landed on her feet beside the pile of animal parts.

  His stomach clenched at the thought and he shoved it aside before he could throw up again. “So, ah... how long have you known about this place?”

  “Just over a year.”

  “You do know what kind of discovery this is.”