The House at Divoro

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘Finally,’ said a voice, and Konrad jumped. Again.

  ‘Tasha,’ he growled. ‘I wish you would stop doing that.’

  The inspector’s assistant shimmered into view, though her best manifestation still consisted of naught but a ghostly outline etched upon the air. He could still detect her grin, though. ‘Sorry,’ she said, without a trace of compunction.

  ‘Lead on,’ said Konrad, and Tasha shot away at once, soaring forth into the tunnel’s depths at such speed he struggled to keep up with her. He made no effort to slow her down, however. She was right to be in a hurry; there was need.

  He soon lost track of the route they took, for it was a winding way, past many a branch in the tunnel, down many a fork in the road. It was an inhabited space, that much was evident, for the passage was more than tall enough for even Konrad to walk upright, its walls and floor carefully smoothed. Moreover, there was light: iron torches were embedded into the walls at regular intervals, and though the glow they cast was not strong, it was more than enough to illuminate the way. Konrad spared a thought to wonder by what means the torches remained lit, for the light that burned there was not fire. It did not flicker, the way fire ought; it was steady, serene. Did the torches ever go out?

  At last, Tasha slowed and came to a halt. Nanda, dashing along directly in her wake, did not stop in time. Had Tasha been corporeal, the two would have collided; as it was, Nanda and Tasha merged for a moment into a peculiar two-headed creature, half woman and half ghost, until Nanda hurriedly backed up again. Her face suggested that the experience had felt at least as strange as it had looked. ‘Sorry,’ Nanda said, but Tasha only shrugged, unperturbed.

  ‘Around this next turn,’ whispered Tasha, as Nuritov and Konrad caught up. ‘We are below the house, though some levels deep. It was empty in there earlier, but let me first make sure we are still alone down here.’

  ‘But the serpents said—’ Konrad began, but Tasha ignored this. Before he could finish his sentence, she was gone.

  Konrad folded his arms and waited, with poor grace. He shifted on his feet, too restless and uneasy to keep still. ‘I do not like this,’ he said, very softly. ‘Why is it so empty down here?’

  ‘You would think they would post a guard at the tunnel’s mouth,’ Nuritov agreed.

  ‘Where are your serpents?’ Nanda put in, and that was a very good question, too.

  Eetapi? he called silently. Ootapi?

  Their twin voices answered him at once, to his relief. Master?

  Where are you?

  In the caves, said Eetapi helpfully.

  Yes, but where in the— He broke off, because Tasha had reappeared and was beckoning furiously. Never mind.

  He went forward, trying to ignore the sinking feeling of impending doom that uncoiled within. Tasha would not draw them into a trap.

  Not knowingly, his mind whispered. Irritably, he shushed it.

  ‘You need to see this first,’ Tasha said softly.

  Steeling himself, Konrad followed her around a corner. The tunnel opened out into a large chamber — an ancient cave, by the looks of it. The floor, the walls, and the ceiling were all dark, smooth rock, much of it swallowed by deep shadows. The light was concentrated upon the far side, where a dais had been raised. It was a graceless thing, little more than a slab of fallen stone, but its halo of light gave it an air of importance.

  Cautiously, Konrad approached. He felt dangerously exposed traversing that wide, open cavern, for there was nothing behind which he could hide if anyone approached, and the only exit he could see was back the way he had come. He crossed in haste, therefore, all his senses alert for signs of danger.

  Nothing happened. He made his way to the dais uninterrupted, Nanda and Nuritov but a step behind him.

  It was only once he had arrived at the dais, and climbed the rough steps that rose before it, that he could see what it held.

  A man lay there, unquestionably dead. His dead skin was drawn tight across the sharp-boned features of his face, yellowish and waxy and traced with fine blue veins. Grey hair swept back from a high, proud forehead. He was dressed in fashions which had vanished centuries before: a sumptuous and ornate velvet coat, deep black, and a fine white shirt, with lace at his cuffs and his throat. Black breeches, pale stockings and elegant silver-buckled shoes completed the ensemble. The effect was sombre, but impressive, and the quantity of silver embroidery declared that here was a man of some wealth and standing.

  The silence that accompanied their perusal of this still figure was more confused than anything else. Who was this man, that he was given so hallowed a position in so secret a place? Why was he kept here?

  ‘How is he so… well preserved?’ said Nuritov softly.

  Konrad had been wondering the same thing. The clothes suggested that he had been dead for a long time, but he looked as though he might have died only yesterday, or perhaps this morning. Was the outfit some kind of costume? He did not think so, though he could not have said what it was that gave him this impression. The man looked like he fitted the clothes, somehow. They suited him.

  Nanda spoke, in a whisper. ‘It feels wrong in here.’

  ‘Wrong how, Nan?’ Konrad asked.

  But she shook her head. ‘I do not know. I cannot explain.’

  A hint of colour caught Konrad’s eye, a tiny anomaly in the midst of the stark black and white of the dead, still figure. It was a note of red, dark as wine, smeared upon the elaborate fall of lace at the man’s throat. Konrad leaned closer to look.

  ‘How,’ he murmured, ‘did any blood get there? And recently, too.’ For though it was dried, it did not have the black, rusty appearance of old blood. Konrad would guess that it had appeared upon the lace no more than a day ago.

  He exchanged a look with Nanda. She swallowed, her face very white and her eyes wide. ‘You don’t suppose…?’ she said.

  Konrad just nodded. ‘Oh, I do.’

  Neither of them moved. It was Nuritov who, with a swift sigh, applied himself to the unhappy task of unfastening the dead man’s velvet coat and opening his shirt.

  Carved deeply into his torso was a long, straight line, running from his throat to his navel. No old wound, this, inflicted while he lived and duly healed. Someone had cut him open after he had died, and carefully stitched the incision closed again afterwards.

  Konrad should recognise the signs. It was a duty he was too often called upon to perform himself.

  He did not imagine, though, that the motive in this instance bore any resemblance to his own. Why might somebody have wanted to gain access to this man’s torso? What had they done to him?

  ‘Alen Petranov’s heart,’ whispered Nanda.

  Oh.

  ‘Kati Vinter’s lungs,’ said Konrad, with a grimace.

  ‘And who knows what else,’ said Nuritov softly. ‘Are they trying to — to rebuild him?’

  Perhaps. Konrad was more than familiar with the arts necromantic, of course. They were sometimes engaged in by The Malykt’s Order, albeit sparingly, and in accordance with their Master’s strictures upon such subjects as those.

  Dealing with unlicensed, unregulated and unscrupulous necromancers was a duty which sometimes fell to his fellows among the Order. It did not usually form any part of his daily doings, save on rare occasions. Those who turned to necromancy were usually those who had lost a loved one, and could not bear it. They strove to return life to those dead friends, lovers or family members, always unsuccessfully.

  Almost always.

  Reanimating dead flesh was no simple task, and the longer the person had been dead, the more difficult it became to reinvigorate the body’s separate parts into a coherent, living whole. It was virtually impossible, in fact; the only known successes occurred within, perhaps, an hour of the subject’s decease.

  This did not stop people from trying, of course. Konrad had met a few would-be necromancers in his time with the Order, but this… this was something else. He had never heard of anybody trying to bring bac
k someone so very long dead as this man was — if his attire was to be believed. He would have said it was impossible, and it was; the man’s organs were too long dead, too far deteriorated. They were meat, now, had long since forgotten what it was to know the rush of blood, the energy of life.

  But if they were replaced with organs much more recently deceased… would that work? Could it work?

  Was that what all this was for? Were operations like those upon Eino Holt merely a sideline, or some kind of test, all intended to aid in bringing this man back to life? For if a heart could be successfully transplanted into a living man and persuaded to function, who was to say that the same could not be true of a dead host? It was the kind of witchery Konrad had rarely heard of, let alone encountered, and his skin crawled at the prospect. Yes, Eino had been given life when he would otherwise have died… but at what cost? Who else had died, that Eino might live? For he was under no illusions as to the scruples of those involved.

  ‘Who is this man?’ Konrad muttered. Someone cared very deeply about bringing him back, and why?

  ‘I have seen him, I think,’ murmured Nuritov. ‘Not in life,’ he hastily added, as Konrad and Nanda both looked sharply at him. ‘A portrait. It hangs in the rear hall, in the house.’

  Nanda gasped. ‘I know the one you mean. Yes, it is very like him.’

  Konrad had not noticed any such portrait, but he was oblivious to art at the best of times. ‘Did it indicate his identity?’

  Nuritov shook his head. ‘His name was not marked, but the painting was prominently positioned, and in a most ornate frame. I guessed, at the time, that it depicted a former head of the household, perhaps.’

  ‘Or the head of the family,’ Nanda put in.

  Was that the way of it? By all accounts, the Vasilescu family’s fortunes had deteriorated to nothing over the past century. ‘Do they think that bringing the family founder back will somehow reverse their misfortunes?’ Konrad mused. ‘Not that it matters, for it will never work. They may do what they like to his organs, but the spirit is gone; without it, the body can never revive…’

  A terrible thought occurred to him as he spoke. He took a breath, reached for his spirit-vision—

  —and Nuritov screamed and sprang back, Nanda with him.

  Konrad felt like screaming himself, for the corpse’s eyes had snapped open. The man lay there, as dead as ever save for the fact that his eyes looked straight into Konrad’s own and saw him.

  His dead lips stretched into a grotesque semblance of a smile.

  Konrad took a prudent step back, moving slowly despite the frightened pounding of his heart. Rarely had he encountered a sight so chilling; the more so once he let his spirit-vision swamp his regular sight, turning the cavern into bright, white light starkly etched over deep shadow. There: a ghost lingered, a pale outline overlaying the dark figure of its once-living body. Much was amiss with that dead presence; its shape writhed and roiled in ceaseless turmoil, laced through with so much darkness Konrad wondered that it could survive at all.

  Konrad took another breath, and a second, and gathered himself. Serpents! he called. To me, and at ONCE.

  ‘Konrad?’ Nanda spoke from a little way behind him. ‘What is it that you’re doing?’

  ‘The spirit is here,’ he replied. ‘He is, in effect, haunting his own body. Is that not remarkable?’

  ‘Quite impressive,’ she agreed, her voice only slightly shaking. ‘What do you propose to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing very much,’ he murmured, only half his attention upon Nanda’s words. The rest focused upon the rapid approach of his serpents. He sensed them, shooting through the winding caverns and growing every moment nearer.

  ‘Specifically?’

  Konrad gave a smile to match that of the corpse. ‘I believe it is my turn to be terrifying.’

  He let his guard fall, releasing all the iron control that hid The Malykt’s influence upon him. He shed Konrad Savast like an old coat and became the Malykant, a being neither alive nor undead, but somehow both. The Malykt’s terrible power blazed from him, dwarfing the miserable spirit before him.

  WHO ARE YOU? he cried, and the ghost shuddered under the impact.

  Jakub Vasilescu, whispered the corpse, but the soul was not quiescent; it fought him, desperate to flee, and Konrad welcomed the entrance of his serpents when they came streaming in moments later.

  Bind him, he told them, and they fell to the task with a ferocious glee. The spirit’s roiling torment stilled, grew quiet at last.

  Jakub Vasilescu. Why do you linger?

  My family, whispered the corpse, and smiled. They feed me fresh life, replace my poor, lost body piece by piece… They need me. They say I shall rise, one day, to lead them once again.

  Why do you suppose that they need you?

  Look what has become of them! Weaklings! Fools! The Vasilescu has lost its place, and none now live who can restore it.

  What place is that?

  The place we ought to hold, in this world and in the next. A place at the forefront of all society! Who is to mend my poor Vasilescu, if not me? There is no one.

  In this world and the next? Konrad frowned, disturbed, but before he could enquire further, Jakub Vasilescu fell into a frenzy. His spirit resumed the tumult in which Konrad had found him, only intensified; he screamed his rage and frustration, and the corpse screamed with him, screamed and thrashed and wept blood. Those anguished howls echoed off the dark cavern walls, growing larger, louder, more piercing, and Konrad winced.

  Shut him up, he ordered his serpents. Quickly.

  They tried, but Vasilescu was strong in all his rage, and he fought violently.

  Master, gasped Ootapi. We weaken.

  ‘Tash?’ said Konrad to the air, for he had long since lost track of where she was. ‘Care to help?’

  ‘Gladly,’ she replied, and he could hear the grin that accompanied the word.

  The fight was over rather quickly after that. If old Vasilescu had ever encountered the lamaeni before, Konrad would be surprised. This first experience was not a pleasant one for him. Tasha-as-spirit leapt upon him with the ferocity of a rabid wolf, and all but tore him to shreds. She took a vicious delight in it, too; Konrad could hear her laughing as Vasilescu tried, without success, to free himself from her inflexible grip.

  When she was finished, the corpse lay once more inert, divested even of its withered semblance of life. Vasilescu’s ghost hung limp in Tasha’s grip, wound tightly about by the serpents. His ghost-light had faded almost to nothing, and he was silent.

  ‘What do you want done with him?’ Tasha asked. She had stopped laughing, much to Konrad’s relief.

  ‘The serpents will deal with him,’ Konrad answered, and silently he ordered: Take him to The Malykt.

  Yes, Master.

  The trio of ghosts faded away, leaving only Tasha behind. She looked strange in his spirit-vision, far more vibrant than a spirit had any right to be. She grinned at him, swept a bow, and vanished.

  Konrad let his spirit-sight fade, and stood panting for breath. That kind of work took a heavy toll upon him, and it never really got any easier.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So that’s that. Next problem?’

  Nanda and Nuritov stood pale and silent, staring at him with identical expressions of shock. Was there horror layered somewhere in there, too? Yes, there absolutely was. Konrad did not believe in lying to himself (or not too much, at least). Better to face the horrible truth. Was it the screaming corpse that had unsettled them? Undoubtedly, yes, but it was more than that.

  His friends were horrified by whatever they had just seen in him.

  He tried a smile, but feared that it was about as reassuring a sight as that of the smiling corpse. ‘Vasilescu has gone. The serpents took him away. The body shouldn’t pose a problem from here on.’

  Nanda blinked, and shook herself. ‘Good work,’ she said, sounding more like her old self. She, at least, had seen such displays from him before.

&
nbsp; Nuritov took a little longer to recover his composure. ‘Excellent,’ he finally said, his smile tremulous. ‘Um, next problem. Yes. Druganin?’

  ‘Did we find him yet?

  A shake of the head from Nuritov and Nanda. Konrad sighed. Could these murderers never make it easy on him? He was only bringing them exactly what they deserved. They had earned his attention.

  He did not like to think too hard about where Druganin might have been all this time, or what he might have been doing. Nothing good, he feared.

  ‘It’s my belief,’ offered Nuritov, ‘that when he returns, he will find his way back to the house. To his room, most likely.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Konrad, and checked his pocket-watch. Time marched on, as always, and he was more than ready to be finished with this particular escapade. ‘Shall we await him there?’

  ‘Let’s,’ said Nanda, with an unpleasant smile.

  ‘Tash,’ Konrad called.

  Let me guess, she replied the silent way. You have more work for me.

  You are a working woman now, he admonished her. This is what it means to be an adult.

  I am not an adult! Look at me!

  She proved her point by manifesting once again, reminding Konrad of her youthful appearance.

  You might appear to be about fourteen, but we both know you are not.

  There are all sorts of advantages to looking fourteen.

  No doubt, but this is not one of them. Please keep an eye on Eino and Mrs. Holt, until we have taken care of Druganin? I fear for their safety.

  Yes, Master. She hissed a bit as she said those words, serpent-like.

  That cheek will get you into trouble, someday.

  I look forward to it. With which words Tasha took her leave. He wondered briefly where she had left her body throughout all of this chaos, and thought better of asking.

  Another two hours passed before Denis Druganin returned to his cousin’s house, time which Nanda and Nuritov and Konrad spent in a fever of impatience. The longer Druganin absented himself, the poorer the prospects for whatever he had been doing. It chafed Konrad miserably that they had no means of following him. He could be anywhere within a radius of about twenty miles.