Dead Reign

by T. A. Pratt

“Master Viscarro sent me to offer my assistance. I’m one of the researchers here.”

  Ayres laughed. “Viscarro sent you to make sure I didn’t fill my pockets with stolen loot, you mean. As if there’s anything of value here, apart from the mummy.”

  The man shrugged. “I just do as he says.”

  Ayres frowned. “Did you say John Wilkes Booth? Lincoln’s assassin?”

  The lackey nodded. “We don’t have proof, but that’s the mummy that was exhibited as the corpse of John Wilkes Booth in carnival sideshows. Whether it’s truly the assassin’s body, well, we haven’t done any tests to find out yet.”

  “I thought Booth was burned alive in a barn in Virginia by manhunters.” Ayres didn’t know much about the assassin, but he was fairly certain mummification didn’t enter into the story.

  “That’s the official account. Some years later, a man out west told his lawyer, a fellow named Finis L. Bates, that he was actually John Wilkes Booth, claiming the man killed in Virginia was part of a cover-up. The ‘real’ John Wilkes Booth died in Oklahoma in 1903. Bates claimed his body, had it mummified, and toured it around the country as the Booth mummy. He even wrote a book about Booth’s miraculous escape, to publicize the show. The mummy dropped out of sight, passed through various private collections, and ended up here years ago. As to whether the man was really John Wilkes Booth, or just a liar, or if the lawyer made up the whole thing, opinions vary.”

  Ayres grunted. “Should be easy enough to find out—dig up the body in Booth’s grave and test the DNA to see if it’s a match. Surely there are clumps of the assassin’s hair and flesh still preserved?”

  “Yes, and many have suggested such tests, but the family and the courts refuse to allow exhumation. The possibility that Booth escaped and eventually became this mummy…it’s a fringe idea. Most historians don’t take it seriously.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Ayres mused. “Though more likely things happen far more often.” He knelt to look at the mummified corpse. “Whether you were an infamous assassin or not, you’re just dried meat and sinew now. I won’t hold it against you either way. Whether you were a king or a pauper in life, you’ll be my servant in death.”

  “Couldn’t you…summon up his spirit?” the lackey asked. “Find out if he’s really Booth?”

  Ayres shrugged. “I could, though it wouldn’t prove much. Spirits can lie as well as the living, and if he claimed to be Booth when he was alive, he might well make the same claim now, true or not. When I raise the spirit of a murder victim, they’re usually happy to tell the truth, if it means they’ll be avenged. Otherwise, the dead are no more trustworthy than you or I. Besides, I’m not here to satisfy your curiosity, only my own needs.” Ayres was well over a hundred years old, and though he could still get around all right, he got tired easily. The mummy would ease his burdens, and wrapped in a simple glamour, it could even pass for human. Ayres had had better luck with life extension than Viscarro, but magic could take you only so far without inflicting serious psychological damage. He could try to make himself immortal—he knew the rituals, and though the success rate was low, it wasn’t impossible—but true immortals all went insane eventually, and deep down he wondered if his Cotard delusion was the result of the steps he’d already taken to extend his life.

  Like all necromancers, Ayres feared nothing more than death itself. He’d called on the lord of the underworld for help countless times, and owed the old dark god many favors, which would surely be called in during the afterlife. And now it was time to beg a boon of that god again. “Stand aside,” Ayres told the lackey, and bent to chalk the final lines and diagrams on the floor. The design was his own—every necromancer had personalized rituals—but it incorporated vèvès from Vodoun, Gnostic imagery, and so-called Angelic symbols (though the beings men called angels were usually far more bizarre things). The markings were mere lines on a floor now, but when activated, they would become both a gate and a cage for a denizen of the underworld—or, at least, an underworld; some necromancers claimed there were many such places, catering to different types of the dead. Ayres could compel such creatures to do his bidding, and animating the corpse of a mummy was the least of their abilities. Being a necromancer was not really about being the master of the dead, it was about being the master of entities who were masters of the dead.

  Once upon a time, a couple of dogs’ worth of blood would have been enough to spark this ritual to life, even for a corpse this old, but Ayres had gone over fifteen years without casting a spell, and he wanted to buy his way back into the good graces of the underworld, which meant offering a larger gift.

  Ayres rose, puffing, and leaned on his walking stick. He wobbled a little, cursed, and started to fall. The lackey rushed over and caught Ayres, stepping into the chalk design on the floor as he did so. “Thank you,” Ayres murmured, and shoved a knife deep into the lackey’s belly. The man’s eyes went wide and he stumbled back, reaching down to stanch the wound with his hands. “You…I…Viscarro…”

  “Viscarro sent you here for this very purpose. You must not be valuable otherwise. But don’t worry. You’re serving your master.”

  The bleeding lackey started to move out of the chalk design, which was no good, so Ayres cracked him across the face with his stick, breaking the man’s nose. The lackey dropped to the ground, stretched out prone and unmoving, and the chalk on the floor began to glow. Ayres wiped his brow with a handkerchief—murder was exhausting—and listened to the distant howl that heralded the opening of a passageway. He’d always wondered if the howl was the sound of three-headed dogs bellowing, or souls in torment, or long black trains hurtling through tunnels beneath the universe. None of the denizens of that realm had ever cared to tell him. Ayres stared down, watching the floor turn to the blackness of deep space, bound by glowing chalk lines.

  “Another dead man. Just what we need.”

  Ayres lifted his head. A young man, clean-shaven and lanky, sat on a crate next to the mummy that may or may not have been John Wilkes Booth. “Get out!” Ayres said. “This is delicate work, and you’ll spoil it!” He assumed the stranger was one of Viscarro’s men—he was pale enough—though upon closer examination he was dressed in an expensive-looking tailored suit, and was handsome enough to belong on a billboard somewhere, selling underwear or cologne. He wore eight rings, each glittering with a different gemstone, and when he stood and took a step closer to the glowing design on the floor he suddenly seemed wreathed in a dark aura of clotted shadows surrounding him, like the afterimage that hangs in your vision after looking too long at a bright light.

  Ayres whimpered. He’d seen such auras before. This was a being from the underworld, but any summoned denizen should have appeared inside the chalk design, bound there, unable to escape. Had he drawn it incorrectly, or was there a break in the chalk, or—

  “Nice work.” The man nodded at the design. “I was passing by, and saw you trying to snatch one of my servants. I thought I’d come see you instead. I presume you’d like a boon?”

  “You…claim to be…what?” Ayres said.

  “I claim nothing. I am Death.”

  “I have met Death,” Ayres said, and indeed he had, long ago, during his initiation into the mysteries of necromancy. “He did not appear as you do now.”

  “Ah,” the man said. “An older fellow, beard black as coal, forever sitting on a throne carved from a single enormous gemstone?”

  “So he seemed to my eyes,” Ayres conceded.

  “Yes, well, he’s out,” the man said blithely. “Surely you know there are seasons in Hell. His season has passed. Even Death may die, little wizard. He was the old Death. I am the new Death. Some call me the Walking Death, for I am not content to molder in a throne room, attended by alabaster shades. I prefer to travel the vastness of the underworld, and occasionally venture above.”

  Ayres believed him. He knew power when he saw it. He dropped to his arthritic knees. “My lord. I meant no disrespect. I knew your…”r />
  “My father? Yes, well, in a way he was my father. Such a term is good enough for convenience.”

  Ayres had heard of such things, of incarnations of Death passing into some other state, dissolving or finding an afterlife of their own, and of new gods rising to take their places. Gods of death were tidal, seasonal, bound to the cycle of life and death and rebirth in fundamental ways. But Ayres had not expected such a changing of the guard to happen in his lifetime. “I dedicate myself to you, my lord, and ask—”

  “Ask me nothing, old man. I’m not interested in granting you anything. Just because you were one of my father’s lapdogs doesn’t mean I want to scoop your shit or take you for walks.”

  Ayres looked up, frowning. “I have given many years of service, and sent many down to your dark lands. I deserve—”

  “Oh, yes, because if there’s anything we’ve got a shortage of in the underworld, it’s dead people.” Death rolled his eyes. “Well done. You mortals place such emphasis on death. I understand. It’s important to you, and my father was happy to accept little gifts like this dead fellow on the floor. But from my point of view, well, I’m very young, as my kind go. I’m in no hurry. You’ll all come to me eventually, and I don’t care if you’re hurried along at the hands of sorcerers or not.” He flicked his fingers. “Find a new line of work. I don’t trust anyone who was loyal to my father anyway.”

  “I can prove my usefulness,” Ayres said desperately. Death could cut him off, steal his powers, prevent his subjects from obeying Ayres. He had to earn the new god’s trust. “Please, if you don’t want sacrifices, then what? What can I offer?”

  Death chuckled. “Nothing at all.”

  “I know many powerful people, and much lore. I have contacts, resources. Please, is there nothing I can offer?”

  “Oh, very well,” Death said. “There is one thing. I doubt you can assist me, and it’s only a small matter, but it’s something I’ve been meaning to investigate. Death once had a terrible sword, which dripped venom. It’s said the blade can cut through anything, even memories, and lies, and abstractions. The sword was lost long ago by my predecessor in a game played with a sorcerer. It’s only symbolic, that sword—I don’t need it to call your spirits to the underworld when you die—but it would be nice to have it back in the family. I think I’d look dashing with it on my hip. I don’t suppose you know where I can find that sword, do you?”

  Ayres had heard legends about Death’s lost sword, but had never really believed the stories, and he had no idea where such a thing might be found. “I’m afraid…” He paused. “Sir. My lord. I think…I may be able to find out. If you could give me a little time?”

  Death lifted one eyebrow. “Oh, I’ve got nothing but time, old man. But that doesn’t mean you should feel free to waste it.” He tossed a small silver bell to Ayres, who fumbled and almost dropped it. “Ring that if you find my sword, and, perhaps, I’ll grant you a boon or two, and let you into my good graces. But don’t ring it otherwise, or you’ll find there are things worse than death—namely, pissing Death off.” Death stepped into the glowing design on the floor, vanishing from sight, and all the magic in the room fled.

  Ayres released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He grasped the silver bell tightly in his fist, afraid to ring it accidentally.

  He hurried back to Viscarro’s office, and the undead sorcerer scowled at him. “I need one more favor,” Ayres said.

  “You presume too much. I gave you a mummy, and a sacrificial victim I had better uses for, and some of my valuable time. I grow tired of your antics.”

  “Then I’m glad you’re in no position to negotiate or retaliate. Listen: they say you know more about artifacts than any sorcerer on earth or under it.”

  “They speak truth, in this case.”

  Ayres lowered himself into the chair. “Have you ever heard of Death’s sword? Supposedly won long ago by a sorcerer in a game?”

  “Yes,” Viscarro said. “I’ve heard it was a chess game, most often; at other times I’ve heard dice or cards. It’s a potent weapon, though of limited use in ignorant human hands. The legends say the sword could kill anything, even abstract concepts—that it could be used to cut holes in time and space itself, to slice apart hope, to carve out memories. But most of those powers could only be accessed in the hands of a god, or someone with the knowledge of a god. When wielded by men or sorcerers, it’s rather less impressive, though still a useful tool. Why?”

  “Do you know where I can find this sword? Do you have it locked up here in your vaults, perhaps?”

  Viscarro’s mouth narrowed to a hard line. “You begin to tread in dangerous territory, Ayres. Asking for my material resources is one thing. But you’re prying at my secrets now.”

  “This…this will be the last thing I ask of you under that particular threat,” Ayres said. “I will swear the same in any circle of binding you care to draw, with any penalties. Help me find Death’s sword, and I will never tell Marla Mason you are undead.”

  Viscarro considered the offer. “Fine. It is agreed.” He rummaged around in a drawer until he found a thin glass vial, which he smashed on the surface of his desk. The walls of the office began to hum like a Tibetan prayer bowl. “This whole room is a binding circle, and now it is active. Breaking an oath made here, now, will lead to great torments, of the betrayed party’s choosing. Agreed?”

  “Yes.” Ayres had made such contracts before. They were almost as common among sorcerers as paper contracts were among ordinary businessmen, though the penalties for violation were far more steep. “I swear I will keep the secret of your unlife from Marla Mason—”

  “You will keep the secret from everyone, and never speak of it again,” Viscarro interrupted.

  “I will keep the secret of your unlife from everyone, and never speak of it again, in exchange for knowledge of the whereabouts of Death’s sword.”

  “It is agreed.” Viscarro smiled a terrible smile. “For all the good it will do you. Marla Mason has the sword.”

  “What?”

  The room stopped humming, and Viscarro’s dry laughter was loud in the sudden silence. “Her dagger of office. The artifact passed down from chief sorcerer to chief sorcerer since Felport’s founding. It’s the sword of Death, disguised as a mere dagger. In human hands, it keeps its edge forever, and can cut through flesh and ghosts and stone and demons, but none of the chief sorcerers knew its true capabilities, though I’m sure some suspected its provenance. I only know because, well, it is my business to know.” Viscarro shrugged. “You have the knowledge now. Do with it what you will. Our business is done.”

  Ayres was stunned. When he told Death that Marla Mason had his sword…This could turn out very well. “May I use your storage room for another few moments? To finish raising my mummy?”

  Viscarro sighed. “Go ahead. But when you’re done, leave, would you? And don’t come here again. Maybe you don’t believe you’re dead anymore, but I can make you wish you were.”

  3

  A yres rang the bell.

  Death sauntered in from a shadow. “Oh. It’s you. I’ve given out half a dozen of those little bells, most to rather fetching young women with a preference for black eye shadow and ankhs and unearned widow’s weeds. Just my luck it would be you instead of one of them.”

  “Death is a great seduction for some, I understand.” Ayres bowed over his walking stick. A Death who consorted with the living was very peculiar, quite a change from the habits of the old Death. But he supposed everyone, even young gods, was most fascinated by what they lacked. No wonder Death was drawn to life.

  Death regarded him with interest, as if he were a talking dog or something equally improbable. “I believe I told you not to ring the bell without sufficient cause. Or are you so enamored of my father’s—of my—realm that you wish to rush to the underworld?”

  He is new. Ayres smiled. In his younger days, that smile had been enough to send street toughs fleeing in terror for their souls.
His vigor had been sapped by years of confinement and illness, but he was beginning to feel a bit of his old power and certitude return. “I have tasted death, my lord, and am content to push that plate away for now. No, I have information for you. But I wish to set the terms of our bargain. You said you would grant me a boon or two, and allow me into your good graces. I wonder if you might care to provide me with a more formal offer.”

  Death laughed. He sat on Booth’s coffin again, turned to the lifeless mummy, and said, “Do you believe this? The lapdog tries to bargain! Everyone tries to bargain eventually. It’s all part of the grieving process. But I don’t do bargains.”

  “The average grieving man has little to offer. But I can tell you where to find Death’s terrible sword.”

  Death twisted a ring on one of his fingers. The gem flashed with an inner emerald light. “Well. That would be worth a bit of parley. I suppose, if you did have such information, I might be willing to make an arrangement. What would you like? Jewels? Your youth? Some of those dark-haired young women I mentioned?”

  “No, thank you, my lord. I wish only to be the greatest necromancer who has ever lived.” It was true. Ayres had never wished for anything else.

  Death yawned. “May as well wish to be the greatest dogcatcher that ever lived. The greatest garbageman. It’s ambition, I suppose, but of a puny sort.”

  “I want direct power. I don’t want to…mess about with all this.” Ayres gestured at the chalk lines on the floor. “I want the ability granted to your servants in the underworld—to call the dead, and bind them, and raise corpses to do my bidding. I wish to wield this power directly. Without making sacrifices, without all the ritual.”

  “Ahhh,” Death said. “Slightly more ambitious. If you can tell me where to find my lost family heirloom, I will agree to grant you this, on my honor.”

  Ayres nodded. He didn’t ask for assurances. The gods could be treacherous, but they were also trustworthy in their way, and he did not doubt Death would do as he said. Fire burned, rain fell, wind blew, and gods honored their promises. It was ever thus. “Your sword is in the hands of Marla Mason, chief sorcerer of the city of Felport. The sword appears in the guise of a dagger, and has been passed from hand to hand over the generations, from one ruler of Felport to another.”