Ward Against Death (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer)

by Melanie Card

  Ward held it up, his hand trembling. He didn’t know who was more surprised—Celia or himself.

  “Are you having fun yet, necromancer?”

  “Fun?” His voice cracked. “You’re mad.”

  “Yes. I’m told it runs in the family.” She squeezed his shoulder, her eyes bright with either excitement or insanity—Ward couldn’t decide which. She crawled toward the door beneath the cover of the barrels. Forearm over forearm and legs spread, lying low to the floor, she skimmed the tiles with her belly. She reached the edge of the barrels in four quick pounds of Ward’s heart, and peeked around the corner. Then she dashed the last two feet to the door, threw it open, and flew out, her bloody dagger held tight against the length of her forearm.

  Ward gulped, trying to make himself stand and run.

  Someone shouted.

  What awaited him beyond that door? His death? Celia’s death—again? It was so much easier when he didn’t see how a person died, when the individual was a lifeless body on a table, his soul across the veil within the bosom of the Goddess.

  He ground his teeth, and glanced over his shoulder at the body behind him. Some necromancer he was. He wasn’t even able to control his own zombie, or whatever she was. Maybe he should have paid closer attention to the necromancer’s obligation to maintain the balance between life and death. The false life he’d given her was claiming real lives in an attempt to correct the imbalance.

  But her death was false, too. Someone had murdered her, and she had a right to find justice before she crossed over. It was more than most murder victims received.

  It also didn’t matter if she was crazy or not. She was still defending herself—and him, for that matter. He had it within his power to help her and prevent more people from dying. He was Edward de’Ath the Fourth, eighth-generation necromancer. His family could raise the Prophets of Aawabaen—or at least Grandfather could. What untapped powers did he possess? He’d successfully performed the Jam de’U with improvised components, a fraction of the time in meditation, and thugs banging on the door. If he called on the spirits of the Ancients, would that be enough to scare off whoever was on the other side of that door? Another shout made him jump. This one sounded more like a guttural command.

  No, calling the Ancients would be too difficult. He didn’t even know if they were on the other side of the veil. Better to stick with something easier, like a reverse wake. Well, he wasn’t entirely sure how easy it was, but he’d performed so many regular wakes before, how much harder could it be to push out someone’s soul instead of calling it back?

  He looked at his bloody hands. He didn’t even have to go out of his way to find blood—Celia had seen to that.

  He swallowed hard and ran for the door, skidding to a halt before he reached it and ducking behind the barrels. It would be better if he could support his plan with a means of escape as well. He turned his gaze to the stalls across from him. The horses snorted and pranced, their eyes wide at the fighting and scent of blood.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d shoved a bridle on a nervous horse—just the first time he’d done it to save a noblewoman who happened to be the daughter of the Dominus, and who also happened to be an assassin. There wasn’t a person alive—or dead—who’d believe it if Ward told them this story.

  Another shout and a scream made Ward jump. He ran to the nearest stall, grabbed the bridle from the hook by the door, and opened the gate.

  The horse whinnied and shied away, the whites of its eyes bright in the dim light.

  Ward sucked in a quick breath, held it, and reminded himself he needed to appear calm.

  It whickered and shook its head.

  “Yeah, I know,” Ward said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The horse shook its head again.

  Ward stepped closer, trying not to add to the horse’s fear, but still move as fast a possible. He eased his left thumb into the corner of the horse’s mouth, slipped the bit in, and fastened the bridle at the top and nose. With one fluid motion, he swung onto the horse’s back.

  A crossbow bolt glanced Ward’s hip, ripping his shirt. The horse bucked and leapt from the stall. Celia was right. They were either bad shots or they didn’t want him dead. He tried to form a coherent thought, figure out why he was still alive, but he couldn’t settle on anything. His mind was a whirl of ideas, images, and memories, all racing with his wild pulse, screaming for him to flee.

  He spurred the horse through the side door into the courtyard beyond. Men held Celia, one at each arm, while a third, a massive man with swarthy skin and wild braided hair, faced her. To their right, three men lay in a pool of blood.

  Ward closed his eyes and raised a bloody hand, drawing on his family’s ancient power. He imagined it shooting through the men before him, forcing their souls from their bodies.

  For a heartbeat, there was silence.

  He did it! He couldn’t believe it. He’d actually cast a reverse wake.

  But then he opened his eyes. Nothing had changed. Everyone remained standing, and everyone stared at him. Soulless bodies didn’t litter the ground. No one looked affected in any way. Not even sleepy.

  Crap.

  Celia slipped free and jerked the man on her right over her hip, tossing him to the ground. She turned to the other man, twisted her arm under his, broke his elbow, and rammed her fist into his temple. Yanking him around, she tossed him toward the swarthy man. With a pivot, she grabbed Ward’s arm and swung up behind him.

  “You are full of surprises,” she said.

  She almost sounded impressed, but probably wouldn’t remain so if they stayed. He squeezed the horse’s ribs with his knees. That was all it needed, and it raced through the crowd and out the arch into the street.

  They galloped, zigzagging through the maze of streets. The wind caressed his face, and heat from Celia’s arms around his chest and her breath in his ear simmered through him. The heat pooled low in his gut again—

  “Stop.”

  —and he could almost pretend they weren’t running for their lives.

  “Stop here.”

  “What?”

  She grabbed his hands and pulled the reins. The horse slowed and stopped.

  “This is our stop.” She hopped down.

  “But...?”

  She seized his arm and pulled him close, making him struggle to keep his seat.

  “They’ll be following the horse.”

  “How can they follow? We’ve lost them.”

  “You forget you’re dealing with the Gentilica.”

  “But I thought... Isn’t this the Guild?”

  She narrowed her eyes and he dismounted. Word traveled so fast in the Gentilica, most believed it was some kind of magic. Why not the Assassins’ Guild as well? With his luck, all eyes were now watching for two people riding bareback through the city.

  Celia slapped the horse’s rump, and it took off down the street.

  As soon as it was out of sight, she headed along a narrow lane lined with three-story structures pressed against one another. They were in a poor section of the fifth ring, likely near the wall of the sixth and by the docks. At the end of the row sat a larger corner house with a recessed front door painted dark red. The shutters were closed, even in the pressing summer heat, but curls of smoke and the roar of a crowd seeped from between the cracks. Celia opened the door and entered. Ward glanced up and down the street and followed.

  A gray haze filled the room, stinging his eyes. Before him sat a stout wood railing that ringed a large hole in the center of the floor. Below, two dozen people danced to the music of a four-piece band. On his level were tables and chairs, and people standing, sitting, dancing, talking, yelling, drinking, eating—

  “Ward.”

  He spun around, looking for Celia, who stood halfway up a flight of stairs, tapping her foot again.

  “Come on.”

  He sucked in a breath, choked, coughed, and climbed with her to the third balcony. Celia chuckled, and he glanced up.<
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  Just in time to see Solartti grab Celia’s arm and spin her into his lap.

  Ward stumbled to a halt, bumped into a serving girl, and was doused in ale. The lukewarm liquid soaked the front of his shirt.

  Both Celia and Solartti laughed.

  So, it was all a game. Everyone was playing with poor Ward.

  Then he noticed Celia’s dagger pressed against Solartti’s ribs.

  The assassin tipped his head up. “It’s open.”

  Ward followed his gaze. Above the table was a trap door, a thick dowel set along one side for a ladder with hooks to allow the owner access.

  “You’re too kind,” Celia said.

  Solartti shrugged. “It’s the least I could do.”

  “No, the least you could have done was not tell the Master where I was.”

  “The Master was nowhere to be found.”

  Celia glared at him, and he laughed.

  “Well, I know how much you love a challenge.”

  She stood, her dagger pointed at Solartti’s eyes. “I doubt this had anything to do with me.”

  Solartti placed his hands on either side of the blade. “No. I wanted to see how fast your new boy could run.” Then, faster than Ward thought possible for a man his size, Solartti pushed aside Celia’s dagger and planted a heavy kiss on her lips. “Happy hunting.”

  Celia flashed him a sultry smile that made Ward’s stomach churn, leapt onto the table, and grabbed the dowel. She swung up, kicked open the door, and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  Ward climbed onto the table, eyeing Solartti. If the assassin was going to do something, this was the perfect time, but Solartti sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, grinning like a maniac.

  Ward grabbed the edge of the opening and, with his face pressed against the dusty attic floorboards and his legs thrashing with the effort, hauled himself up. Still panting, he reached for the trapdoor.

  “Don’t bother. If they followed us here, Solartti will tell them where we went.”

  “So much for trust.”

  “That all depends on your definition of the word.” She led him in the near darkness between uneven mounds covered in gray sheets and thick layers of pale dust to a round window, the shutters open to the elements.

  “I trust Solartti will do his best to maintain his position in the Guild. I also trust his curiosity will get the better of him and he will want to solve the mystery of my murder as well.”

  Ward shook his head. “You have an odd definition of trust.”

  She sat on the window ledge, her feet hanging over the side. Below, a few feet down and a few away, stood the wall of the sixth ring. Beyond lay three more of the city’s rings. Moonlight reflected on the slopes and peaks of ceramic tiles, copper and silver weathervanes and flagpoles, and, farther beyond, like liquid silver at the edge of the city, the Bay of Tranaquai.

  “That’s the only definition you can count on,” she said, her voice soft. “Either that, or you’ll be dead.”

  TEN

  Celia couldn’t decide if she wanted to hug Ward for surviving the night’s antics, or throttle him for not really doing anything. Since she wasn’t sure if they had lost Bakmeire and his men—which meant she shouldn’t make any unnecessary noise, like the shriek of surprise or pain either action would elicit—she chose to do neither. The thrill of breaking into the records room, getting caught, and racing away still pounded in her veins, painting everything in crisp details. She could even see the veins in the witch-stone.

  Easing the door to the cavern shut, she made sure she the latch clicked before sitting on the smooth floor and tugging off her boots. It wasn’t that Ward didn’t do anything, but she should have known better than to give him a dagger and expect he’d know how to use it. He hadn’t even raised it to fight. All he’d done was sit there, one hand up with his eyes closed.

  Which wasn’t true, either. He had done something, she just couldn’t figure out what, exactly. Perhaps everyone had just been shocked to see him.

  Probably... maybe... but that didn’t explain the strange sensation that had pulsed over her the moment Bakmeire and his men no longer seemed to be there. Sure, their bodies had been there, but it was like they’d all started daydreaming. Just for a heartbeat. Long enough for her to break free.

  It still didn’t excuse the fact that Ward hadn’t tried to defend himself when the strange moment passed—it didn’t even seem as if he realized he’d done something. Regardless, he should have at least waved the dagger in the direction of the most immediate danger. Even an apprentice assassin could do that much.

  And really, why did it upset her so much? So what if he got himself killed? The strong survive and the stupid get killed. But that didn’t make sense anymore. She hadn’t been killed because she was stupid. She wasn’t stupid and neither, really, was Ward. He had thought of grabbing a horse to aid their escape. That was pretty smart.

  She glanced at him. He leaned against the wall and gazed up at the multi-hued ceiling, dark shadows visible under his eyes, his nose and jaw perfect, delicate lines. He looked like a sculpture. A tired, handsome sculpture.

  “Tell me we at least got something out of that fiasco.”

  Celia chewed on her bottom lip. This was not the conversation she’d hoped he’d start. She didn’t know which conversation she wanted, but this wasn’t it. She’d gone through all of the latest entries in the ledgers and there was nothing. No indication as to who had been assigned her murder. It was foolish of her to think the Master would dare keep proof of an assignment on the Dominus’ daughter, just like Solartti said.

  “It was worth a try,” she said.

  “Worth a try?” Ward’s voice cracked, and he returned to looking like the scarecrow she’d first met, with arms and legs a little too long and his brown hair sticking up in all directions. “We were almost killed!”

  “You were almost killed.” She pushed up to her feet. “I’m already dead, remember?”

  She headed down the hall, not sure where she was going. She just needed to move, take action, not sit and listen to Ward. Especially since he was right. She supposed she could use that to help manipulate him, but she didn’t have the heart for it at the moment.

  His boots thudded to the floor behind her and his bare feet slapped against the stone as he raced to catch up to her. His hand brushed her shoulder.

  “I just thought the night would be more helpful.”

  “So did I.”

  Thankfully, he didn’t reply.

  They took the stairs to the third level and wound their way through the maze of halls to Celia’s study. Without a word, Ward sat on the cleaned chair and leaned back. She supposed it was her move. This was her problem, in her world and not his.

  The question was, what next?

  She sat on the stool behind the desk and wished the Ancients had used fireplaces instead of vents from the volcano for warmth and witch-stone panels for light. It was warm enough for her, almost too warm, but she missed the comforting glow of a fire, the flickering flames in the hearth, and the dancing shadows on the walls.

  “There is no assignment.” She said it more to herself than Ward.

  “Well, you didn’t find evidence of an assignment. That doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Things are not always as they appear.”

  She closed her eyes, imagining the roar of a fire before her. Would she still feel it, even though she was dead? Strange, those shivers hadn’t appeared since Ward had done the Jam de’U. She didn’t feel stiff or sore any more. Was this how the spell worked? Wouldn’t she have at least felt... different? With her luck, the shivers wouldn’t come when the spell was over this time. She’d just fall over, dead. She pushed that thought away. “I don’t have the patience for cryptic necromancer sayings.”

  “I didn’t mean—” He cleared his throat. “What I mean is, assignments or contracts come in a variety of ways. I didn’t have a written co
ntract with your father to wake you. Actually, I’ve never had a written contract for a wake, but I did have an implied verbal contract.”

  “The Guild always keeps a record of who’s given which assignments. I’ve never known it not to. It’s how assassins are rewarded in the Guild.”

  “And they’re always kept in the records room?”

  She cracked open one eye to look at him. He sat perched like a strange bird in the chair, his feet on the edge of the seat, his arms across his knees, and his chin pressed against them. “Yes.”

  “Even if it’s an assignment for the Dominus’ daughter?”

  “Ye—” She bit her lip. She didn’t know if the Master would take an assignment for the Dominus’ daughter, or if it would even be written up. The Guild and the Gentilica did a lot of things together, but they were like siblings: members of the same family while still separate entities. It wasn’t as if the Master didn’t know her real identity. Guild law stated she could keep her identity hidden from all but the Master. She also didn’t know if the Master had some special, secret hiding place for his most sensitive information. And since she’d never seen the Master, nor been able to discover his true identity, she couldn’t search his house.

  What she did know was that her father kept his secrets on paper, in a rare magic book, handed down from Dominus to Dominus. Or, more aptly, from Keeper to Keeper. Only the memory sphere was handed to the Dominus. Every week, or month—or however often time could be spared—the Dominus touched the sphere, brought it to life, and wrote, or rather thought, of recent events. Without a doubt selective thoughts, since some of the Dominus’ secrets were too dangerous to share even after his death.

  She’d only seen the memory sphere in use once, when her father first became the Dominus. Everyone had thought her asleep in bed, but she’d been thirsty and had crept to the well for a drink. She couldn’t have been past her tenth summer, but she remembered it as if it’d been yesterday—of course she’d been dead yesterday and didn’t remember much of it.